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“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.”
