Spoils of Victory by John A. Connell Page A

but—”
    â€œNonsense, Otto. I insist.”
    Otto bowed mechanically and nearly clicked his heels again.
    Mason hesitated, tempted to learn more about Otto and his background, but instead, he followed the group through a large foyer.
    Winstone leaned in to them to avoid Otto overhearing. “I don’t want him lurking around while we have fun.”
    Winstone took Adelle and Mason on a tour of the villa, as Winstone called it. Even through the haze of alcohol, and with the distraction of Adelle on his arm, Mason wondered if the CIC had really arranged this life of luxury for Winstone, and if not, what exactly Winstone was mixed up in to acquire all this: the Porsche, with a Mercedes touring car in the garage, Persian rugs, porcelain china, crystal, silver. Mason didn’t know a Titian from a Picasso, but the paintings on the walls looked expensive. If the previous owners had fled, surely they would have taken anything valuable they could carry.
    Adelle squeezed his arm against her breast and said under her breath, “I can see you thinking like a cop. For a night, forget. For a night, be enchanted.” She gave him a peck on the cheek.
    Mason smiled and resolved that he would try.
    Winstone took them through ten rooms: a massive living room with a carved marble fireplace, a dining “hall,” a sunroom, a library, an expansive kitchen, then the five bedrooms and three bathrooms upstairs. All the rooms were king-sized, all with antique furniture, intricate architectural details, and wooden or marble floors.
    They returned to the living room. Winstone retrieved four bottles of vintage French wine from the cellar. They spun 78s on the gramophone. They danced and flirted. They smoked cigars and ate caviar.
    At least two bottles of wine later, Mason had sunk deep into the plush sofa cushions, his legs and arms splayed out, his body warmed from the fire that crackled in the enormous fireplace. His head lay back on the rear cushion, and he puffed on a cigar as he studied the intricately carved ceiling and listened to a bouncy French tune on the phonograph. Adelle and Hilda had just left to go upstairs to the bathroom, leaving the men in silent reverie.
    â€œI could get used to this,” Mason said.
    â€œYou could stay, you know,” Winstone said.
    Mason lifted his head. “What do you mean? Live here?”
    â€œWhy not? It’s a big house, and it’s just Hilda and me.”
    Mason found the proposal extremely appealing, that little voice prodding him along, saying it was about time he indulged in luxury and pleasure. And it surprised him that the notion would actually cross his mind. It unsettled him how easy it would be for him to fall for the temptation and embrace this lifestyle. He shook his head. “Nah, I might get to like it too much.”
    â€œYou don’t think you deserve a little luxury?”
    Mason sat up and leaned on his knees. He studied Winstone as the man blew smoke rings at the ceiling. He’d seen his friend revert back to the old Winstone over the course of the evening, the frank, amiable, and humble guy he once was. But Mason was concerned that this kingly lifestyle had already seduced his old friend.
    Mason said, “Look, I’m all for a man getting what he deserves—”
    â€œBut you keep thinking that all this isn’t courtesy of the CIC,” Winstone said. He sat up and flicked his cigar ashes in a crystal ashtray. “The owners left in a hurry and were forced to abandon a lot of what you see. Some of the art and the cars were confiscated from Nazis by the CIC and consigned to me. They’re all registered and destined to be sent to Frankfurt’s central repository when I’m done with my investigation.”
    â€œThe wads of cash, vintage wines, the caviar?” Mason asked. “What does that have to do with investigating ratlines?”
    Winstone shrugged. “If they see you as corrupt, you’re less of