Woody tried to laugh. For some reason, he thought of the Belgian with the French accent who had asked for directions a few days earlier and then just happened to stop by Pudge’s that very afternoon. There was something intriguing about him but Woody knew it was just fanciful speculation, engendered by Prof. Humboldt’s research.
HUMBOLDT’S BRIEF HISTORY of the Brandenburg Commandos was correct, as far as the time constraints on his cursory research would allow. Had he delved deeper, he would have discovered that the group had performed a number of spectacular missions on several fronts which were critical to Germany’s early war successes.
In one foray, Siegfried Fuettener took part in the recapture of the island of Kos, off the coast of Turkey. In another, his regiment was transported by glider to destroy British supply routes in North Africa. That raid was a disaster and Fuettener was one of the few paratroopers who survived and made it back to Germany. The truth was that the SS hierarchy, all racial purists, were jealous of the Commando’s success and used their prejudice to get the unit merged into their own intelligence operation.
Fuettener was what might be considered a typical Commando. Born in Western Pomerania, now present-day Mecklenburg, in the city of Schwerin, his family’s roots went back to what were original known as the German Vikings, a Slavic heritage that the Nazis despised and were diligent in suppressing.
Fuettener grew up near the Baltic Sea and still dreamed of his youthful years running on the white sandy beaches of Usedom Island. He was a patriot but never understood the German mysticism for racial superiority and why it was so important to the maniacal clique that had seized dictatorial power after the suspicious Reichstag fire. He had served and risked his life for his homeland. He had followed orders, but was still looked down on as an unworthy, second-class citizen. As the war neared its climax, his loyalty to the fatherland died, along with the disbanding of the Commandos.
Fluent in several languages and adept at donning the many disguises that were essential for serving in the Commandos, Siegfried used forged documents to cross the border into Belgium as the Allies tightened their grip on Germany. He settled in the city of Charleroi in the Walloon region near the French border and assumed the name of Andre’ Mathieu. There, he honed his talents in the coal and iron industries.
In the years after the war, there was a wave of migration to the Belgian Congo, almost doubling the white population of the African colony. A Belgium government in exile had been set up in the Congo during the war even though the country had surrendered to the Germans. The Colony supplied the allies with gold, uranium, rubber and other precious raw materials. Congolese troops even fought alongside allied forces in various campaigns.
Siegfried Fuettener, now Andre’ Mathieu, joined the exodus to the Belgian Congo in 1950 and settled in Leopoldville, its capital. He found work with one of the mining companies and his innate talents and intelligence helped him prosper. However, as he observed the rioting and growing unrest among the native Congolese, he knew that the days of Belgian colonialism were numbered. It was time to either head to South America or take his chances in the United States.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:
Willoughby Gets The Nod
AS WOODY AND Pudge were getting educated about German war commandos, Willoughby steeled himself for his second confrontation with Lt. Thorne in one day. While the man was unpredictable, Willoughby felt confident that he could frame his argument in a way to appeal to his boss’ ego.
“Bud, I’m going to give you that notch you asked for this morning. In fact, it might be worth two or even three notches if we handle this opportunity the right way.” Willoughby paused and could see that he had Thorne where he wanted him. If the lieutenant had been a bulldog staring at a Porterhouse steak, drool would be forming in the corners of his flabby jaws.
Willoughby took out the old Dumont photographs and plopped them on Thorne’s desk. It would take some time and repetition to make everything intelligible to Bud Thorne and Willoughby would be patient. It reminded the detective of something a wise old cop had told him years ago when he was trying to explain a basic fact to an obstinate, thick-headed contrarian. “I told him, Hank”, said the wise man, “Listen Joe, I can explain it to you but I can’t make you understand it.” As Willoughby looked at Thorne, he had to wonder if this was one of those moments.
“So, what am I looking at again, Hank? Help me out here.” Thorne was annoyed by his own confusion, still thinking about those notches that Willoughby had promised him. The detective methodically walked through the story of the stolen photographs a second time, and how they had eventually ended up in the hands of the bartender. He then explained how they would pretend to auction them off to the archivist that very evening.
When Thorne’s face finally brightened, Willoughby decided it was time to show him the newspaper with the pictures of Barrington Dumont. Thorne’s brow darkened and Willoughby knew he wasn’t being obtuse, just slow. Gradually, he folded the newspaper over to one of the pictures of Barrington and put it on Thorne’s desk next to the photograph of Helga with the German soldier. He then ran his index finger back and forth between the photographs until Thorne’s face lit up. “Lord love a duck!” Thorne exploded, quickly putting his hand over his mouth in a rare moment of embarrassment.
“But Scatcherd’s death – what’s the connection?” asked Thorne, almost pleading for more. “As I said, Bud. Tonight should be revealing. This Bellows guy, the archivist, will most likely make an offer for the photographs. What he says will help clarify what happened to Scatcherd. Maybe his death was an accident but, if not, wouldn’t you like your team to be the one that sought and discovered the truth if, by chance, it was murder? We need to record the conversation and then, if I’m right, you’ll have your notches before long.”
Thorne hesitated. “Maybe I should –” but Willoughby quickly interrupted. “Bud, this is your moment to step up. Powerful people want these photographs to disappear. They want Scatcherd buried and forgotten. Don’t let them steal your day in the sun, Bud. You know that Virginia has a one-party consent rule for recording telephone conversations and I already have the bartender’s permission. I just need the help of a few technical boys to execute our plan.” It pained Willoughby to keep referring to Thorne by his puerile nickname but the detective knew it was for a worthy cause.
Willoughby stared at Thorne, daring him to say no. “Okay, Willoughby. It’s a go. But if this damn thing blows up, you proceeded without my knowledge and it all comes back on you.”
As Willoughby was leaving, Thorne said, “Hey, why didn’t those Torpedo Factory guys contact us for help when those damn photographs went missing in the first place?” Willoughby smiled and said “CYA, boss. They didn’t want their secrets and their incompetence aired in public.”
Thorne nodded his head in agreement, missing the irony in Willoughby’s parting comment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:
Willoughby’s Penultimate Gambit
BELLOWS WAS APPREHENSIVE as he drove to the Dumont estate. Helga’s tone on the telephone had been especially imperious of late even though they were closer than ever to recovering the photographs. He yearned to upbraid her for the disrespectful way in which she had been treating him. He was a blueblood, for god’s sake, whose family could trace its roots back to the House of Lords in 15th Century England. He was not some backroom, scheming plotter used to dealing with seedy characters like Leonard Scatcherd. He had shown consistent loyalty to the Dumont family throughout the affair, at least with respect to the photographs. He consoled himself with the thought that everything would be harmonious between them as early as tomorrow if Augustus came through with the money. He even allowed himself to dream that Lucy Dumont would soon see him in a more favorable, even heroic, light once she understood what he had done to preserve the family name. He had heard that she was in Europe and he would make a concerted effort to woo her upon her return. For Lucy, he could even tolerate as his mother-in-law this commonplace, overbearing Kraut who had somehow inveigled herself into the Dumont family.