Spoils of Victory by John A. Connell

her mouth. “Where all those people were killed?”
    â€œThe very same,” Winstone said.
    Mason shot Winstone a look of irritation.
    â€œSorry, old man,” Winstone said. “I didn’t mean to spill the beans.”
    â€œYou were injured,” Adelle asked Mason, looking at Mason’s bandaged temple.
    â€œMostly my pride.”
    â€œAnything come of your interviews?” Winstone asked.
    â€œThey were all tight-lipped. But it all made me think about your theories.”
    â€œYou two aren’t going to talk about work, are you?” Hilda said. “With two young and charming ladies to entertain?”
    Winstone flashed a serious look as if he wanted to tell Mason something, but the moment passed a heartbeat later, and he became Mr. Jovial once again. “Of course, darling.” He looked at his watch and said, “It’s almost eleven. Why don’t we move the festivities to my place?”
    Hilda and Adelle agreed, but Mason hesitated. This meant Mason and Adelle would be forced together in an intimate setting. He liked to pick the time and place to be with a woman, not be coerced into it, no matter how seemingly innocent the gesture. Usually this was when he would bow out. But the last thing he wanted to do was go back to his place, where he’d think too much about Laura, and have another sleepless night. Right then he needed the touch of a woman.
    Mason agreed, and they left the restaurant, Mason taking Adelle in his car and following Winstone’s Porsche. Adelle talked about skating at the Casa Carioca with Hilda. Mason listened as he wondered how a CIC agent could have acquired a Porsche sports car, even with the enormous buying power of the almighty American dollar on the black market. It would have still taken an awful lot of dollars or cigarettes or whatever he traded to wrench that beauty from the clutches of its hapless owner.
    Winstone drove east, through town, and up a winding hill that rose above Garmisch. They entered an elegant neighborhood where mansions disguised as Alpine chalets lined both sides of the streets, each on a sprawling lot and surrounded by walls. On the final turn, they cleared the trees, which revealed the city below. Mason assumedWinstone used this street to get to whatever humble billet the CIC had found for him. Something certainly more humble than the neighborhood they were passing through. But Winstone pulled up to an iron gate in a six-foot wall that surrounded a palatial estate. He opened the gate, and they proceeded up a long driveway to a side portico.
    When they all piled out, Mason said, “This is your place?”
    â€œCourtesy of the CIC. I told them I needed something private to conduct my investigations, and they gave me this. The owners fled to Switzerland or some such place. Now, if you’d stayed in intelligence, you might have had one of these babies.”
    A short, bald, barrel-chested man greeted them as they entered the side door. He wore a white suit and black bow tie. He bowed as they passed, and Mason noticed that he’d barely refrained from clicking his heels.
    â€œOh, come on, John,” Mason said. “You actually have a butler?”
    â€œThis is my chef and butler extraordinaire,” Winstone said, and while he introduced Otto Kremmel, Otto’s facial muscles never moved, but his eyes said plenty: He would bear the indignities of serving people far below the status of his former employers, and Americans to boot.
    â€œI prepared an evening meal, sir,” Otto said. “Which I could reheat, if you like.”
    â€œThat won’t be necessary,” Winstone said.
    Otto’s eyes were quite adept at showing his displeasure. “Do you require anything else this evening before I retire?”
    â€œNo, thanks. In fact, why don’t you take the rest of the night off? Go home and see your wife.”
    â€œIt’s rather late, sir. I appreciate the offer,