The Shadowboxer (22 page)

“Look, if you want to steal Kittermaster's thunder, do it anyway you like, but just keep me out of it. I'm finished with the camps. Through. I shouldn't have gone in the last time. I'll never go in again.”

“And your apparatus, Erik? All your little devices and techniques, are you just going to let them sit and rot?”

“Yes.”

“Erik, I've always meant to ask you this. Just what is your relationship with Jean-Claude? Is it that he's the last human being on this earth you feel an obligation for?”

Spangler rose. “I've had enough of you—enough to last a lifetime.”

He walked quickly from the dining room, stopped at the desk, woke the clerk and bought a roll of throat lozenges. He bit off the top of the wrapper and sucked two into his mouth.

“What the hell are you doing now, boy, following me?” Kittermaster's voice blasted out. “Never figured you for the poor sport. After all, you had your shot at her and muffed.”

Kittermaster was grinning down at him from the staircase, holding a small valise. Hilka had stopped two steps above. She gazed at Spangler, turned sharply and continued climbing.

“You were her first choice, boy,” Kittermaster said evenly. “No doubt about it. You were number one, but you just weren't up to it—just couldn't cut the mustard. So why ruin another fellah's good time, eh? Why should we have any hard feelings over a dizzy Kraut cunt? Just you stay off my turf and I'll keep clear of yours, okay?”

Julian swayed half hidden just inside the dining-room doors. He watched Spangler stare blankly up after the ascending colonel, turn away slowly, check the time and half run from the hotel.

Julian made his way down the hall, pulled open the door on his third try and squeezed into the telephone box. He hiccupped, placed a long-distance call and finally managed to deposit the required coins.

“Yes,” a voice answered in a clipped British accent.

“This is Peppermint,” Julian said thickly. “You remember Peppermint, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“You wouldn't happen to know if Freddy was still in town, would you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Freddy is in town.”

“Then put the silly bastard on.”

“Freddy isn't here. Could you leave a message?”

Julian paused, sighed and closed his eyes. “You tell Freddy I've changed my mind. You tell him I'm willing to sell the merchandise he wants. Tell him the object he wants is definitely for sale. But tell him he has to bring his own tobacco—I haven't any. He knows where to contact me. And you tell him he'd better make contact bloody damned fast—or I might change my mind again.”

Julian hung up, leaned forward and rested his forehead against the coin box.

35

The back of the hand caught Hilka flush in the mouth and tumbled her backwards over the bed. Kittermaster raised her up by the hair with one hand and waved the postcard before her eyes with the other.

“Who is he,” he shouted as he slapped the card across her face. “Who? Another boy friend, is that it? Trying to meet Spangler here on the sly isn't enough for you? Got to have another one, too? Got to have a whole stable, is that the story?”

The hair was gripped tighter and twisted. Hilka shrieked.

“Who is Rudi?”

“No—no one …”

Hilka jerked away, dashed to the door and began screaming and pounding. His fist smashed into her ear. She spun around against the wall. The second blow drove into her cheek. Hilka slumped to her knees and dropped sideways onto the floor.

Kittermaster raised her by the wrists and hurled her onto the bed. “Admit it,” he said, slapping her cheeks to revive her. “Admit it. I want to hear—”

The pounding on the door was heavy and authoritative. “All right in there, open it up. Constabulary here. Open it up.”

Kittermaster scooped Hilka in his arms, hurried her into the bathroom, laid her on the floor and turned the water on full. He could hear the pounding grow more insistent.

He unlocked the door and pulled it open. The constable entered. The trembling desk clerk remained in the hall.

“All right, what's going on in here?”

“Just an argument, officer,” Kittermaster said, sweeping a hand through his hair. “A lovers' quarrel.”

“And where's the lady?”

“Taking a bath. She always takes a bath after we—after we've had one of our little go-rounds.”

“Let us have your identification.”

Kittermaster produced his ID card.

“A colonel?”

“Yes.”

The constable took out his book and jotted down the information on the card. “And where are you quartered?”

“Westerly.”

“Oh, one of them, are you?”

“I'm the commander.”

“Are you. Well, a fine example you're setting for your men, wouldn't you say?” The constable put away his pad and glanced about the room. “Is the lady all right?”

“Yes, she's fine. She'll take her bath and have her cry and then be fine. That's how it always is,”

“And we'll have no more trouble from you?”

“No more trouble. On my word.”

“And I'll take your word, Colonel. But if there's any more trouble, I must warn you, in you go. They run a quiet place here.”

“We're known for our quiet,” the clerk added from the hall.

“I'll be quiet, you can bet. And thank you, officer, for your kind consideration.”

“Constable. I'm no officer by a long measure. I'm a constable and proud to be.”

“Thank you,
Constable
.”

Kittermaster closed the door, locked it and hurried back to the bathroom. Hilka lay motionless. He leaned over and put an ear to her mouth. She was breathing. He turned off the water and carried her to the bed. He knelt beside her and began massaging her wrists. “Everything's going to be okay now, I mean it. Just don't you worry. Everything's going to be dandy. Do you hear me? Hear that? Why, you can go and write to whoever you want, even him. Sure. I tell you what. If you want to see Spangler at Westerly, then you go right ahead. It won't ruffle me the slightest. Do you hear me? Hey, do you hear? Ah, come on, I didn't hit you that hard. You know I didn't. What are you trying to do, scare me? Don't do that to me, honey. Come on, will you, cut it out. Do you hear—”

The knocking on the door was sharper than before.

Kittermaster made no move.

The pounding continued.

He stood up as a key turned in the lock.

Two men in double-breasted dark-gray pinstripes entered. One carried a black leather satchel.

“Police inspectors, Scotland Yard,” said the tall one in a clipped accent. “Don't mind if we see your identification again, do you? Been some trouble with forged papers lately. May I?”

Kittermaster reached for his wallet and brought out the card as the short man closed the door in the room clerk's face.

The tall inspector studied the identification and then handed it to his companion. “What do you think, Harold?”

The short man glanced from photograph to Kittermaster and back to photograph. “Seems proper to me, Freddy.”

“Better check the list,” the tall detective replied. Then he snapped his fingers and pointed to the bed. “Well, well, well, what have we here?” he said, stepping toward the motionless Hilka.

“She's—she's just sleeping,” Kittermaster said nervously. “She fell down—and now she's sleeping.”

Kittermaster stepped back as Harold joined Freddy at the bed. “She's damn near dead,” Harold said without overmuch concern.

“She is, isn't she?” Freddy commented casually. “Better see what you can do for her, Harold. See if you can bring her round.”

Harold opened his satchel, poked about inside and came out with a can of pipe tobacco. He reached further in and withdrew a hypodermic syringe.

“Getting back to your identification card,” said Freddy. “Is Lamar your Christian name?”

“Yes,” the colonel answered, watching Harold pull the syringe out of Hilka's arm and change the needle.

“Lamar Buford Kittermaster?”

“That's right,” he said, turning back to the tall man.

“Are you sure it isn't Spangler?”

“Spangler?”

“Erik Spangler.”

“Say, who the hell are you?”

“Friends of friends—
Herr Erik Spangler
.”

“What—why—Now, just a minute, you've got—”

Kittermaster's arms were jerked behind his back.

“Why, that treacherous little bastard,” the colonel half laughed, “that little bastard Julian. Julie put you up to this, didn't—”

Freddy ripped open Kittermaster's shirt.

“Hey, you fellows just had a good one pulled on—”

The hypodermic needle drove into Kittermaster's heart. Death was instantaneous.

The corpse was laid on the floor and photographed repeatedly. Fingerprints and a blood sample were taken.

Harold slid the tobacco can between Kittermaster and the bed. The men locked the door after them as they left the room. They had driven almost half a mile before they heard the explosion.

36

The documents were signed and sealed and copies given to Julian. The secret inquest conducted by the coroner and three local officials was terminated. The casket was loaded onto a guarded truck and driven off toward the R.A.F. airfield, where a special bomber would be waiting to fly it to the United States.

Julian followed the coffin as far as the first village before turning off onto a side road and pulling in behind the remains of a fire-gutted barn. He got out of the car, lifted the trunk door and reached in for his priest's clothing. He was changed and driving on within five minutes.

The fishing smack was moored to the jetty with its engines idling. Von Schleiben sat in the stern, dressed as a bishop. Freddy and Harold moved in behind him as Julian descended the steep path leading down to the isolated cove.

“Sorry to have missed Spangler's final benediction,” von Schleiben called out cordially, with a wave of his ribboned miter, “but I find death slightly obnoxious. That is why I have never set foot in a camp. Did you know that, Peppermint? It is true. If the Fuehrer himself refuses to view a bombed German city, why should I sicken myself with carnage? Come aboard, Peppermint.”

Julian stopped at the stone wall and tossed a manila envelope down into the boat. “These are the inquest papers, as well as Spangler's service record,” he called, as Freddy opened the packet and spread the pages on the deck. Harold took out his camera and began photographing.

“The service record is sparse,” Julian continued, “but that's the procedure with agents of Spangler's category. Activities and assignments are never reported. But it does include a photograph, fingerprints, blood type and other physical identification.”

“Come aboard, Peppermint, come aboard,” von Schleiben urged.

“I prefer it up here.” Julian slipped one hand under his cassock.

“Don't you trust me, Peppermint?”

“Not with the engines running, I don't.”

“But I've found some new prospects for you. How can you make the selections if you don't come aboard?” von Schleiben asked, displaying a typewritten list.

“Read them to me.”

“Our understanding doesn't cover my reading off names.”

“It doesn't cover my coming aboard, either.”

Von Schleiben scowled, paused, then snapped his fingers and removed a list from his pocket. “There are two categories of prisoners to choose from—those being held in prisons and those in concentration camps. Those in prison can be delivered quickly and easily. The camps present a different problem.”

“Start with the prisons,” Julian said.

Von Schleiben held the paper out under his glasses and began reading. “Goetz, Speigle, Drosset, Stroud, Werner, Mandelbaum.”

“No good. Who is on the other list?”

“Those I once offered you in France: Hauller, Brome and Tolan. You can also have Kapska or Boeck.”

“What happened to von Rausch and Bengl? They were in the original offering.”

Von Schleiben recalled, “So they were, Peppermint, so they were. That seems so far back now. Von Rausch and Bengl are no longer with us. Acute pneumonia.”

“I'll take Kapska and Brome.”

Von Schleiben turned to Harold. “Where are we holding them?”

“Kapska's at Sobibor, Obergruppenfuehrer, and Brome is in Grossrosen.”

Von Schleiben shook his head. “Ach, Peppermint, I hope you are in no particular hurry? It will take time to get them out.”

“How much time?”

“Six to seven weeks for Brome. Kapska? Perhaps two to three months.”

“I need them faster.”

“Impossible. And you have no one to blame but yourself. Had you given me Spangler when I first requested, the prisoners would not have been moved around. All the names on the camp list had to be moved—because of you. Now they are more closely watched by Totenkopf security. It is very complicated to arrange for their disappearance without creating suspicion.”

“I must have Kapska and Brome within three weeks.” Julian insisted.

“Harold,” von Schleiben snapped, “where are the others?”

“Hauller's at Treblinka, Obergruppenfuehrer,” Freddy replied, leaning over von Schleiben's shoulder and examining the list. Tolan's at Birkenau and Boeck at Plazow.”

Von Schleiben considered. “You could have Hauller in three weeks and Tolan in four.”

“I don't want Hauller or Tolan. They're no use to me. I must have Kapska and Brome—and quickly.”

“No one else will do?”

“No.”

Von Schleiben shrugged. “Harold, get down to the radio room and contact Zieff. Tell him that Kapska and Brome are to be immediately executed.” He turned back to Julian with satisfaction. “No reaction, Peppermint? You disappoint me. When I was outwitted in exactly this fashion, I was livid with rage. I lost several good men because I was naïve enough to let another enemy know my requirements.