The Devouring

by James R Benn

  “Shut up,” I said, wishing we’d dumped him in the river. But now I wanted to get Victor his money back, not to mention the photographs. It was the right thing to do, no matter how Victor handled his personal life. I knew the Nazis were sending homosexuals to concentration camps, along with all the other groups that didn’t fit the Aryan bill. That alone should have been enough for me not to sit in judgment of him and Henri.

  “You left before the killer struck?” Kaz said to Victor.

  “Yes. I would always get up before dawn and leave by the rear stairs, to avoid suspicion. I left a little after five o’clock that morning. I went back to my place, and then mailed the package. I came back to Henri’s apartment. Usually we’d go out for coffee before work. But instead I found him dead.” He buried his face in his hands. The room went quiet. Even Hannes.

  Then came the pounding at the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Fists hammered against the downstairs door. I rushed to the window and saw two black cars marked Polizei in the street and guys in raincoats banging against the entrance. Kaz was already at the door, checking the hall. He shook his head. No way out.

  The knocking stopped, and in seconds the stairway was filled with pounding feet and shouts in German. Hannes leaned back in the bed and held out his bound hands. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised.

  “The landlady,” I said as the cops burst into the room. Hannes nodded, admiring of his own forethought. I raised my hands in surrender.

  We were searched as Hannes was untied. A big guy with beefy jowls took my revolver and held it on me, jabbering in German. Kaz was getting the same treatment, and he translated. They wanted the contents of our pockets on the table.

  “Keep to the same story,” I said, nodding my head as if in answer. I tossed my wallet next to the cigarette case, still on the table. Then they patted us down. One of the uniformed cops gathered up the wallets and the silver case, which brought Hannes to his feet, pointing and claiming the case was his.

  Given our situation, there wasn’t anything left to say. The cop politely handed it to him.

  The three of us were roughly bundled downstairs as one plainclothes detective stayed with Hannes, doubtless taking a statement. We passed the landlady in the sitting room, wringing her hands and muttering. I wondered how much Hannes had paid her to call the cops if he ever showed up in trouble. Or maybe she was another loyal SVV auxiliary.

  I was stuffed into the rear seat of one their cars, in between a young kid in uniform and an older detective with a florid face and breath smelling of schnapps. The midnight shift was often populated by rookies and cops no one else wanted to work with, and I saw no reason for things to be different in Bern. The detective took a half-smoked cigar out of his pocket and lit up, puffing it to life. I knew an old-timer at the Boston PD who’d do the same thing. He’d knock the glowing ashes off a stogie and stuff it in his pocket for later. His nickname was Pockets since he burned so many holes in his. He worked the late night shift as well.

  It was a short ride to police headquarters. This time we didn’t go through the front door. The cars drove around back and parked too close to the morgue for my taste, but pretty soon we were hustled through an entrance and down a dank hallway to the holding cells. The three of us were tossed into the same cell, inhabited by a snoring bum and a bucket he’d been sick in.

  “Delightful accommodations,” Kaz said, looking at the single wooden bench with the sleeping form stretched out on it.

  “Keep to the same basic story,” I said to Victor. “Hannes is a pal, he got nasty drunk, we tied his hands for his own good and brought him home.”

  “They didn’t seem terribly surprised to find three armed men in his room,” Kaz said, leaning against the bars. “Nor do they seem to care that since we are together, we can get our stories straight.”

  “If Hannes had an arrangement with his landlady, he could have given her a specific name to ask for, an SVV contact, perhaps,” Victor said. “Or simply a man he bribed.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, grasping the iron bars. “They could let us out in ten minutes, and it wouldn’t change the fact that Hannes is out there, with the invoice. And his money.”

  “We do have one advantage,” Kaz said.

  “What? We don’t even have our own bucket.”

  “Hannes will make contact with Huber,” Victor said, faster on the uptake than I was.

  “Right,” I said. “And soon. I bet he’s nervous after his close call. If I were in his shoes, I’d make a quick sale to Huber, take my loot, and clear out.”

  “We won’t be the only ones thinking that,” Kaz said. “If Hannes has contacts with the police, Krauch is also certain to as well. He will find out where Hannes was hiding, and that he has the invoice.”

  “Hmmm,” I said, slipping down to the cold tile floor and slumping against the bars. “Maybe we can work it to our advantage. If we could get Krauch and Hannes in the same place, we might be able to take both of them.”

  “And get the invoice back, if we time it right,” Kaz said, joining me on the floor.

  “Not to mention his cash,” I said. “If he was in cahoots with his landlady, he might have had it stashed somewhere in her place. But he’d probably move it, now that we know about it.”

  “Perhaps not,” Kaz said. “Where would he hide it? I doubt he’d use a bank. Too many people know him.”

  “If I were in his shoes, I’d pack up my luggage and check it at the railroad station. Then sell the invoice and skip town on the next train,” I said. “Although Krauch may have the station watched.” Actually, if I were Hannes, I’d clear out right now. But he was greedy; I knew there’d be no way he’d pass up making a quick profit.

  “I know someone on the Red Cross staff,” Victor said. “He may be willing to alert us to any contact by Hannes.”

  “He’d have to be a trusted confidant to have that information,” I said. “You sure about this guy?”

  “Remember the guy I was looking for at the reception? That’s him. Vadim Fournier has Huber’s trust and is one of his top money men. But I happen to know he has gambling debts. He’s a lot more careful with other people’s money than he is with his own. If I suggest we might be able to intercept Hannes without turning over the cash, he may be amenable.”

  “Meaning he’ll expect to pocket the proceeds,” I said. “Which is fine, except that we don’t plan on turning over the invoice to Huber.”

  “One problem at a time,” Victor said.

  “We could also bring in Krauch,” Kaz said.

  “We grab the invoice, let Krauch take Hannes, and let Victor’s pal snatch the cash? Inspired,” I said. “Except that lets Krauch off scot-free.”

  “No, we will figure something out,” Victor said, pressing his head against the cold iron bars. “It’s Krauch I want, for killing Henri. Then the invoice, to finish the work Henri began. You can have Hannes.”

  “We’ll get them,” I said. “I promise. For Henri and all those whose lives Hannes destroyed. And you’ll be there, Victor. Count on it.”

  “I will,” he said, moving to the corner of the cell, grasping the bars until his knuckles turned white. He stayed upright, tears falling to the tiles at his feet. We laid our heads on our arms and left him to his grief.

  “Wake up, my friends, and follow me.” Inspector Emil Escher stood outside the cell, motioning for a guard to unlock the door. I got up stiffly, giving Victor a hand to do the same. Kaz stretched, as if he’d had a good night’s sleep. Bloodstains dotted Victor’s shirtsleeves, where his bandages had fallen away. He hurriedly put on his jacket, wincing but waving off my offer of help.

  The door opened, and we filed out, the original occupant trailing behind us. The guard pushed him back in, but I gave the bum points for trying. Escher led us to his office, where a carafe of coffee awaited. The man knew how to o
rganize a jailbreak.

  “No charges are being pressed,” Escher said as he poured. “Which means you are free to go.”

  “Our pistols?” Victor asked.

  “My, my, Victor, I thought you were a financial man, not a spy,” Escher said. He opened his drawer and set the three weapons on his desk.

  “It comes from associating with these two fellows,” Victor said, his tone lighthearted. For the first time, I wondered at the price he had to pay to hide his true feelings. Escher was kidding around, but Victor had to play a part to hide what he felt. It would have torn me apart. I can’t pretend to fathom what makes a guy want to roll in the hay with another guy, but I did grasp the desire for revenge when a loved one was harmed. More than most, actually, and I suddenly found myself feeling protective of Victor, his secrets, and his great loss.

  “You know what’s been going on?” I asked Escher. Nice and open-ended, so we didn’t give anything away.

  “I know everybody wants something. You want some document. So do Krauch and Hannes. I guess you came close last night but Hannes managed to get the police involved,” Escher said, dropping a cube of sugar into his coffee.

  “Do you know Hannes is wanted by the Gestapo?” I asked. “Krauch is after him. Apparently they tumbled to his scheme to enrich himself. The Nazis like to steal gold, but don’t take kindly to one of their own stealing from them.”

  “No, I did not know that,” Escher said. “Although it explains why Hannes is nowhere to be found.”

  “Your people are searching for him?” Victor asked.

  “No, since we have no hard evidence of a crime. The officer who took his statement went back this morning, and Hannes was gone. The woman who runs the pensione said he left before dawn with bags packed.”

  “She was in on it,” I said. “He must have paid her to call the police if it looked like he was in trouble.”

  “Interesting,” Escher said. “Do you think he killed Henri Moret?”

  “No,” Victor said. “I am certain it was not him. Krauch did it. According to Hannes, he easily loses his temper.”

  “I get the impression you all know much more about this mysterious document,” Escher said.

  “You may not want to know,” Kaz said. “That way no one can pressure you.”

  “I may already be in trouble for letting you go, not to mention returning your firearms. But I have no need of additional trouble, so please finish your coffee and then Lasho will pick you up out front. I took the liberty of notifying Herr Dulles. He was most anxious to speak with you,” Escher said, draining the last of his coffee.

  “I bet,” I said. “But first, a change of clothes and a shave.”

  “You may want to bathe,” Escher said, sniffing the air. “Dulles seemed mad enough already.”

  Lasho was waiting in the Peugeot out front, which was a big improvement over our arrival at the rear entrance last night. We dropped Victor off at his place, warning him about how it had been tossed. He planned to call his pal at the IRC and gauge his interest in our scheme. He’d meet us at a café near Dulles’s office once he got that squared away. At the Golden Eagle, Kaz and I washed up and changed, then grabbed a couple hours’ shuteye. Time was tight, but we had to have our wits about us. After more coffee and food, I felt almost human. We walked to Dulles’s place, taking the vineyard path to the discreet back door.

  As I laid my hand on the latch, the door opened and a tall man with his hat brim pulled down and his coat collar turned up nearly barreled into us.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Hans Bernd Gisevius said, in his precise German accent. He held open the door for us, his finger to his lips in a gesture of secrecy.

  “What is the German vice counsel doing visiting Allen Dulles?” Kaz asked as the door closed behind us. “It was odd that he was so friendly with that Jewish lawyer we met at the reception, and this is odder still.”

  “Odd is the order of the day in Switzerland,” I said, taking the stairs to Dulles’s office.

  “The prodigal children return at last,” Maureen Conaty said from her usual perch on Dulles’s desk. She slid off, tapping her cigarette on a cut-glass ashtray. “We were wondering what trouble you’d get into next.”

  “The quiet kind, I hope,” Dulles growled. “Not another Wild West shoot-out. Have a seat and tell me what’s happened. The short version.”

  “First,” I said, sitting on the comfortable couch and hoping to stay awake, “we saw Captain Bowman at Wauwilermoos. It’s a pit. Americans are treated miserably, and unfortunately there’s no chance of a breakout. There are too many guards. It’s situated out in the open, on wet marshy land. You can barely walk without sinking in up to your ankles; a tunnel would be impossible, and there’s no cover outside the wire for a hundred yards.”

  “Is anyone doing anything about it?” Kaz asked. Dulles looked like he was unused to being asked such a direct question.

  “I’m in touch with the US military attaché at our embassy,” he said. “But there’s little we can accomplish. The Swiss do have a legal basis for placing escaped internees in a penal camp.”

  “The commandant is a sadist, and his second-in-command isn’t much better. Pro-Nazi to the core,” I said.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Dulles said. “I was hoping there was a chance to organize an escape, but that seems ill-advised.”

  “Why don’t you ask your German pal, Gisevius?” I said, watching for a reaction. Dulles gripped his pipe so tightly it quivered between his teeth. Maureen raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

  “Don’t ever mention that outside this room,” he said, pointing at both of us. “If you do, you’ll cause a good man great harm.”

  “Boys, you do realize we run a spy outfit here,” Maureen said.

  “Okay, sorry,” I said, holding up my hand. “It was hard to leave those guys in that camp. The food package we brought never got to them, and you should see the barracks. Open latrines in the same room where they sleep.”

  “Understood,” Dulles said. “Now, catch me up on the rest.”

  I told him about our visit to Doctor Moret, and the Gestapo agent Ernst, who told us about Krauch’s hangout, the Altes Keller. I sort of apologized for letting Ernst live, but Dulles was fine with us keeping the body count low. He’d already heard about the Gestapo arrest warrant for Hannes, and I didn’t ask how.

  I reviewed our trip to Alpthal and finding evidence of Victor having been taken prisoner. He asked how Hannes had known about the hideout, and I said someone must have tipped him off. No reason to go into Hannes’s previous trip with a camera. I went over spotting Hannes with Victor at the hotel, how Victor had broken free, and the late-night chase in the rain. I was embarrassed to admit how Krauch had gotten the drop on me, but left that topic quickly and described Lasho’s snatch and grab.

  Dulles had heard the cops brought us in, but didn’t know the whole story. I filled him in on Hannes’s ruse with his landlady and that Escher had sprung us a few hours ago.

  “Do you still have this document everyone’s been after?” Dulles said, leaning forward. “What’s in it?”

  “We don’t have it. Hannes does. It was stashed in a silver cigarette case, and he claimed it was his as the cops were dragging us away. They weren’t in a mood to listen to us and they let him keep it. Right now he’s in the wind, on the run from everyone. But we have an idea how to get it back.” A rather vague idea, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “Damn it, man! What’s in the document?” Dulles thundered.

  “It is an invoice. For slave labor in the form of two hundred Ukrainians, purchased by Alusuisse from the SS. Max Huber, as president, has his name on the invoice,” Kaz said. “They were delivered to the Alusuisse factory in Singen, southern Germany.”

  “My god, the head of the International Red Cross, buying slaves from the Nazis,” Maureen said, for onc
e at a loss for a snappy comment. “No wonder the Gestapo called in the cavalry.”

  “And no wonder Henri was murdered for taking it,” I said.

  “He wasn’t happy with the treatment his uncle received,” Maureen said, lighting another smoke and admiring her red nail polish as she blew out the match. “This would do nicely as revenge, wouldn’t it?” Her eyes were on Dulles, waiting for a reaction.

  “Hannes has the invoice and is looking to sell it back to Huber?” Dulles asked, his tone not giving anything away.

  “Yes,” I said. “We have an idea about how to intercept him. Victor has a friend on Huber’s staff who may be able to give us information about when Hannes is going to deliver. We’ll be there.” I didn’t want to go into details, since we didn’t have any.

  Dulles knocked the dead ash out of his pipe and filled it with fresh tobacco. He lit a match and puffed at it like a locomotive building up a head of steam. After he got it going and released a stream of smoke, he finally fixed his attention on us.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t be there. Don’t interfere in any manner. That’s an order.”

  “You want Hannes to get away with this?” I asked, not believing what I was hearing.

  “I hope Georg Hannes gets hit by a bus, right after he returns that invoice to Huber,” Dulles said, leaning across his desk and pointing at us with his pipe. “We’re not in the business of embarrassing one of Switzerland’s luminaries. We’re in the business of winning this war, and right now, Operation Safehaven is a big part of ensuring that the Nazis aren’t left with enough resources to start another war in twenty years. Or did you forget why you were sent here?”

  “Two days ago, we were worried about the Germans coming after you, like they went for Henri,” I said. “Safehaven is one thing, but matters escalated when they killed Henri.”

  “No, matters escalated when Henri Moret stole that document for personal reasons. Understandably so, but he unleashed this chain of events. Events, I might add, that may conspire against the success of Safehaven.” He relaxed back into his chair and motioned for Maureen to jump in and explain the obvious.