Curtain of Death Read online

  “I understand,” Kellogg said, his face and tone making it clear that while he understood, he didn’t like being told it was none of his business.

  Then he stood up.

  “I’d better get over to the scene,” Kellogg said. “The post commander by now has heard of the shooting and is liable to be there. What do I tell him?”

  “That DCI-Europe has taken over the investigation, and you have been told the less said about it, the better.”

  Kellogg nodded at Cronley, and then walked out of the room without saying another word.

  “I think he’s pissed,” Ziegler observed.

  “Can’t be helped,” Cronley said, and added: “I’m used to people being pissed at me.”

  He looked at Hessinger.

  “Get dressed, Freddy, and go with Ziegler and bring our Claudette home.”

  “What about Sergeant Miller?” Hessinger asked.

  “If she’s been sedated, she’s better off in the hospital. When Max gets here, I’ll have him send people to sit on her.”

  “You ever hear of the 711th MKRC?” Ziegler asked.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Right next to the ambulance with the bodies was another one, red crosses painted over, with those bumper markings.”

  “And what did Miss Colbert tell you about that?” Cronley asked.

  “All Miss Colbert said to me—again and again—was that she wasn’t going to say a thing—actually she said ‘a fucking thing’—until you were either in the room or on the telephone.”

  “It stands for 711 Mess Kit Repair Company,” Cronley said. “Or did, until Freddy, who has no sense of humor, changed that to Mobile Kitchen Renovation Company. It’s our version of a police unmarked car. I’d say Claudette drove it over there.”

  “And I would say,” Hessinger put in, “that either the NKGB or maybe the Odessa Nazis have seen through your clever subterfuge. It looks to me like they followed Claudette over there from the garage in the basement here.”

  “Take notes, Ziegler. Freddy is much smarter than he looks.”

  “One final off-the-wall question,” Ziegler said. “How did you know she carried a .38 in her bra?”

  “She told me. Boy Scout’s honor and cross my heart and hope to die, I have never seen Miss Colbert in her underwear.”

  I’ve said, and think, that he’s a smart cop.

  Will a smart cop sense that is exactly the opposite of the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

  [ FOUR ]

  Interrogation Room Three

  Military Police Station

  Heinrich-Heine-Strasse 43

  Munich, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  0335 24 January 1946

  The MP captain sitting across a small desk from Claudette Colbert looked up in annoyance when he heard the door behind him opening. When he turned to see who was coming in, his expression changed to one of mingled annoyance and curiosity.

  Hessinger, now wearing officer’s “pinks and greens” with triangles on the lapels, walked into the room, followed by Augie Ziegler.

  “Ziegler,” the captain snapped. “When that light over the door is on, it means that no one is to go through it. You should know that.”

  “Captain, this is Mr. Hessinger of Central Intelligence,” Ziegler said.

  “What the hell is Central Intelligence?” the captain asked.

  Hessinger held out his credentials folder to the captain, who examined it carefully.

  “DCI is taking over the investigation of this incident,” Hessinger announced. “How are you doing, Miss Colbert?”

  “Not too well,” she said.

  Hessinger nodded. He could see evidence on her uniform that her attempt to clean up after the shooting had not been entirely successful.

  “‘Taking over the investigation’?” the captain parroted. “Two questions. What exactly does that mean? And what’s the provost marshal got to say about you taking over our investigation?”

  “What it means is that you will conduct the same kind of investigation of this incident you normally do. With the following exceptions: You will not give information to, or request information from, any other agency regarding this incident unless, in every instance, DCI tells you that you can.

  “Further, any information you gather, any evidence, will be classified Secret, and held—separate from anything else—until DCI decides what should be done with it.

  “As far as Colonel Kellogg is concerned, Captain, he is not only fully aware of our involvement in this incident but has loaned us Mr. Ziegler to assist in our investigation and, of course, to serve as liaison between us and the provost marshal.”

  “Interesting,” the captain said.

  “You are advised, Captain, that what I just told you is classified Top Secret–Presidential and is not to be shared with anyone without the express permission in each instance of the DCI. Do you understand what I have just told you?”

  After staring at Hessinger for a long moment, the captain turned to Ziegler.

  “You’re sure Colonel Kellogg knows about this?”

  “Yes, sir, he does,” Ziegler said. “We just left him.”

  “Did you understand what I just told you, Captain?” Hessinger pursued.

  The captain nodded, and belatedly added, “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Hessinger said.

  “I guess I’m dismissed, right?” the captain said.

  “It would be helpful, Captain, if you assisted Mr. Ziegler in gathering up all the paperwork, the photographs, et cetera, everything the Military Police has generated so far with regard to this incident so that I can take it with me. More than likely it will be returned, but tonight—this morning—the chief wants a look at everything.”

  “Does that include the shooter’s weapon, sir?” Ziegler said.

  “Including the shooter’s weapon,” Hessinger said. “All weapons. I understand that knives were involved?”

  “Yes, sir. There were knives,” Ziegler said.

  “Additionally, Captain, please advise your men at the 98th that our security people are en route to the hospital, where they will take responsibility for security. I would be grateful if you would leave your MPs there to assist them.”

  “Certainly.”

  “They and everybody else involved has to be told that the investigation has been assigned to another agency—please don’t mention the DCI—and that all details are classified Secret—just Secret, not Top Secret–Presidential, as that would arouse their curiosity.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Two more things,” Hessinger went on. “Presuming you still have men at the scene of the incident?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please advise them that I will be taking the ambulance parked next to the ambulance where the shooting took place.”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, on the subject of ambulances, the one in which the shooting took place was stolen from the 98th General Hospital’s motor pool sometime today—I mean, yesterday.”

  “Mr. Ziegler, you will look into that?” Hessinger asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The other ambulance, sir, the one with the red crosses painted over, is a questionable item.”

  “How so?”

  “The bumper markings say it’s from a unit, the 711 MKRC, that’s not on the USFET list of organizations.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s ours. That’s why I’m going to go pick it up,” Hessinger said.

  “Can I ask what MKRC stands for?”

  “It’s not important.”

  And as soon as I get it in the Vier Jahreszeiten garage, that will be changed to something else.

  My God, I can’t do that! Cronley’s Nazi cousin swallowed that Mobile Kitchen Renovation Company story whole!
r />   “The second thing I want you to do, Captain,” Hessinger said, “in case the men looking through that one-way mirror . . .”

  He pointed to a large mirror mounted flush on the wall.

  “. . . didn’t hear what I said in here, is make sure you tell them. Before you get them out of there.”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain said, then saw that Ziegler was smiling and gave him a dirty look.

  Hessinger went on: “And hurry it up, please, Mr. Ziegler. I want to take Claudette home as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ziegler said.

  The captain’s face told Ziegler that the captain had picked up on Hessinger’s “take Claudette home” remark and was puzzled by it. Ziegler smiled.

  The captain saw the smile and glowered at him.

  Ziegler thought: I’ll pay for those smiles when my TDY with these DCI people is over.

  So what? It was worth it to see Hessinger cut Captain Chickenshit off at the knees.

  And maybe I can arrange to stick around this DCI for a long time.

  —

  As soon as the door to Interrogation Room Three closed, Claudette started to get out of her chair.

  Hessinger shook his head and held up his hand, signaling her to stay put.

  Thirty seconds later, he walked to the wall and put his back to the one-way mirror, completely covering it. Confident that he could not be seen if anyone was still on the other side of the mirror, he signaled Claudette to come to him.

  She went to him. He opened his arms and embraced her.

  “Oh, Freddy!” she said, and then began to sob.

  He patted her back comfortingly.

  “There’s a reason you’re upset,” Hessinger said. “It’s to be expected. Killing someone isn’t easy.”

  She pushed herself away from him far enough so that she could look up into his face.

  “What I’m upset about is that I’m upset. If I hadn’t shot those bastards, they’d have killed me. And Florence. What’s happened to her?”

  “She’s been taken to the 98th. She had to be sedated. MPs are sitting on her, and as soon as Max can get his people over there, they’ll sit on the MPs.”

  “And Jim Cronley?”

  “I think right now he’s on the telephone to Wallace, telling him what we know.”

  “What I need right now is a bath and clean clothes,” she said. “I didn’t know that heads really explode when you put a bullet in them.”

  She pushed herself farther away from him and looked at his body.

  “And some of what landed on me is now on you. Sorry, Freddy.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “And after . . . before I get out of my clothes and into the shower, I need a drink.”

  He reached into one of the pockets of his tunic and came out with a leather-covered flask.

  “Cognac,” he said, as he handed it to her.

  “Freddy, you’re amazing,” Claudette said, as she unscrewed the top.

  “I know.”

  She giggled, then took a heavy pull on the flask.

  [ FIVE ]

  The WAC Non-Commissioned Officers’ Club

  Munich Military Post

  Munich, American Zone of Occupied Germany

  0415 24 January 1946

  Claudette sat in the front seat of Ziegler’s car, a 1941 black Ford sedan, and watched as Ziegler watched Hessinger drive the ambulance past the MPs and Polish security guards at the gate.

  Then he trotted to the car, got quickly behind the wheel, and started out after the ambulance.

  “Miss Colbert,” Ziegler said, “Mr. Hessinger introduced me to you as ‘Mr. Ziegler.’ My name is August. My friends call me Augie.”

  He put his hand out to her, and she shook it.

  “My name is Claudette, and my friends call me Dette.”

  “Hello, Dette.”

  “Hello, Augie.”

  He smiled, then reached inside his Ike jacket, came out with a short-barreled Colt “Detective Special” .38 Special caliber revolver, and handed it to her.

  She looked at it, saw lead bullets in its cylinders, and then opened the action to see how many of its five cylinders contained cartridges, and then closed it.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” Claudette asked.

  “You can borrow it,” he said. “Mr. Cronley told me to get your snub-nosed back to you, but I don’t want to do that until the lab in Heidelberg establishes that the bullets in the dead people—and the bad guy still alive—came from your gun.”

  “Dotting the i’s?”

  “And crossing the t’s.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve got a .45 in the safe in the office, but . . .”

  “That .45 will be easier to carry?”

  “You’re right. Thank you for this. I’ll take good care of it.”

  She put it in her purse.

  “I used to be a cop in Reading, Pennsylvania,” he said.

  Why am I telling her this?

  For that matter, why am I loaning her my gun?

  “My father, who is also a cop in Reading, gave me that .38 when I passed the detective exam.”

  “Really?”

  “I never got to be a detective. When I missed the cut for detective, I got pissed and told the draft board they could have me.”

  “Missed the cut?”

  “Four detective vacancies. I scored fifth on the test.”

  “Oh.”

  “So here I am, a CID agent in Munich, loaning my .38 to a good-looking blonde.”

  “And if she knew, what would your wife think about that?”

  “No wife. And no girlfriend, either.”

  Neither said another word until they were in the basement garage of the Vier Jahreszeiten, when she said, “The elevator’s over there,” and he said, “I know.”

  When they got to the elevator, Augie remembered his manners.

  “After you, Dette.”

  She smiled at him and got on the elevator. As he got on after her, Hessinger trotted up, got on, and after examining the bloodstains and brain tissue on his tunic in the light provided by the elevator, said, “Scheiss!”

  II

  [ ONE ]

  Suite 507

  Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten

  Maximilianstrasse 178

  Munich, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  0415 24 January 1946

  Augie Ziegler saw that Cronley had dressed, more or less, while he and Hessinger had been bringing Claudette home. His bathrobe had been replaced with a sweatshirt—also bearing the logotype of Texas A&M—and olive drab (OD) trousers. He was still wearing the battered Western boots.

  With him were two other men, one a muscular blond whom Augie judged to be in his late twenties. He was wearing ODs with triangles. His Ike jacket was unbuttoned, and Augie saw that he had a Secret Service High Rise Cross Draw holster supporting a .45 on his left hip.

  The other was an enormous, very black captain, whose OD uniform lapels carried the crossed sabers of cavalry. Augie decided he was probably in his late twenties or early thirties.

  Augie decided the captain was not the sort of person one wished to meet in a dark alley, and not only because he, too, had a .45 in a Secret Service holster.

  “You all right, Dette?” the black captain greeted her. He had a very deep, melodious voice.

  “I need a shower and a change of clothes,” she said.

  “What the hell is that mess on your tunic, Freddy?” the black captain asked.

  “You don’t want to know,” Hessinger said.

  “Can you hold off on your shower and give us a quick after-action report?” Cronley asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Claudette said.

  She then delivered a concise report
of what had happened.

  “What language were these guys speaking?” Cronley then asked.

  “English. Foreign accent. Could have been German or Russian. Or something else.”

  “Was their ambulance there when you got there?” Cronley asked.

  “No,” Claudette said. “I remember seeing an empty space beside us when we parked. The lot was just about full.”

  “That suggests they followed you there.”

  “Could be.”

  “Go have your shower, and then go to bed,” Cronley ordered. “Wallace said he’ll take off as soon as he can in the morning, which should get him and the general here about half past nine. Be prepared to be grilled then.”

  She smiled and said, “Yes, sir.”

  Augie wondered: Who is Wallace? Take off from where he’s been? Where’s that? And what general?

  “What about Florence?” Claudette asked.

  “My people tell me,” the big man in the uniform with triangles said, “that her sedation will have mostly worn off by morning—”

  “Your people are sitting on her?” Claudette interrupted.

  Augie thought: Who is this guy? He sounds like he’s an Englishman.

  “Eight of them,” the man said. “On her and the chap you popped. At the moment, he’s out of surgery, in stable condition. Would you be distressed to hear that you tore up his shoulder joint to the point where he’s in great pain and can look forward to having a somewhat immobile right arm for the rest of his life?”

  “Not at all,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Unfortunately, the palliatives they have given him for his discomfort will keep us from talking to him until sometime this afternoon.”

  “I don’t suppose we could talk the hospital into not giving him any more palliatives for his pain?” she asked.

  Cronley laughed.

  “Go to bed, Dette.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Freddy, when you’re cleaned up, you come back. We’re going to go over what the MPs have turned up before Wallace gets back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Claudette and Hessinger left the office.