The Shadowboxer Read online

  It was the Gestapo which made the most expansive and calculated gesture for the comfort and favor of SS Obergruppenfuehrer von Schleiben—the salon.

  All six Gestapo sections gave, and gave generously. One result was a bedroom reverberating in reds. The carved walnut four-poster boasted burgundy silk sheets, magenta cashmere blankets and a claret satin canopy. The walls were upholstered in scarlet velvet, which blended perfectly with the five-ply carpet.

  It was with the bathroom that the Gestapo had hoped to outdo itself—and outshine its competitors. Carrara marble, ivory white with slight bleedings of pink, covered wall, ceiling and floor. The sunken rose-marble tub was adorned with golden spouts, golden drain top and five solid-gold faucets. Two of the handles controlled bath water, two the shower, and the fifth steam. With the flick of von Schleiben’s wrist the marble room could be converted into a steam bath.

  WVHA, the camp security group, had reached into its meager coffers and managed to have the exterior of the Chariot sprayed a rich vermilion.

  The reason for all this concern and expense was a much-discussed secret: as director of the Council for Extreme Security, Hugo Thomas von Schleiben was one of the most powerful men in the Third Reich’s maze of police and intelligence networks. Every major organization was only too eager to contribute to the general’s private transportation.

  It surprised no one and delighted all that the Chariot became von Schleiben’s most prized and guarded possession. No one but the general himself and the maintenance staff had ever set foot, let alone ridden, in the vermilion railroad car.

  Now, for the first time without von Schleiben aboard, the Chariot had been dispatched to the Belgian border for just one purpose: to transport Helmuth Webber, a mere colonel, back to Munich. The trip was classified Reich top secret.

  The washcloth steamed. Webber held it tight to his face. He preferred Berlin water. You could always wash better in it. It improved your skin. Lather spread. Von Schleiben’s gold straight razor, a gift from Heinrich Mueller of the Frontier Police, deftly sliced away the two-day stubble. He replaced the monocle over his left eye. The triptych mirrors were wiped clear of steam. Webber examined the three-quarter profile of aquiline nose, sunken cheek, arched forehead and thin lips.

  “You know, dear fellow,” he confided to his triple image, “it was there all the time. Just waiting there, right in front of them—but we were the only ones to see it. We were the only ones to make sense of it.”

  Helmuth Webber was a member of SD-Ausland, one of Germany’s most elite and effective foreign-intelligence services. Seldom, if ever, did SD-Ausland demean itself with problems of a domestic nature, such as concentration-camp security.

  Escapes from concentration camps were a different matter. Even though the basic jurisdiction for such events fell to WVHA or, in more critical instances, to the Gestapo, there was always the possibility that some Allied operation had penetrated the Reich’s borders and had brought out not only prisoners, but information as well. Information concerning camp activities was a rather sensitive issue among Reich officials. Thus, SD-Ausland had always kept a watchful, though semiofficial, eye on these situations. As the incidence of assisted escapes began to accelerate, SD-Ausland had become more directly involved.

  Webber slid into the hot water. The wall table was lowered over him, and a tray bearing gold dishes and a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne was set down. The covers were lifted. Malossol caviar. A vol-au-vent. Real butter. He began eating.

  … ensuing confusion caused by explosions and subsequent blackout (second power failure), prisoner Vetter escaped from the compound through a hole cut in de-electrified west fence and fled to wooded area half kilometer beyond. Escape took place at approximately 0100 hours 9 January 1944.

  (NOTE: Vetter is believed to have had one or more accomplices to this point. Investigation now in progress.)

  On reaching tree line Vetter followed series of cloth markers which led him to truck believed to be driven by SPANGLER.

  Tire tracks reveal truck followed a northwesterly route across open field, turned due west along goat path and continued on path until reaching stream. Truck followed along stream bank in southerly direction for 2.2 kilometers, crossed at shallow point, turned due east, skirted wheat field and started parallel along hillside.

  At this juncture Exterior Guard Patrol (EGP) VII spotted vehicle and radio-reported its position. EGPs IV and XI moved into area and deployed. Patrols commenced firing, overturning and destroying truck.

  Webber was a patient and meticulous researcher. His initial approach to the camp escape situation was simply to review every conceivable bit of information available. The Spangler file had been of no particular interest on first reading. Webber had noted, however, that no physical identification of Spangler had ever been made—even after the Gestapo had reported him dead.

  What had attracted Webber from the outset was the Rag Man situation. Assassins were his hobby, but one who went to the trouble of freeing camp prisoners only to murder them later was even more intriguing. He had asked von Schleiben for jurisdiction over the case. It had been granted, in spite of Gestapo’s objections. Now, less than two months later, he had stumbled upon the solution, had found the key.

  Webber restrained a smile as he visualized the faces of other officers—especially Platt of Gestapo—when he announced his findings at the emergency Council meeting. He could see Platt blanch, then turn red, when he learned that not only were Spangler and Rag Man one and the same, but so were Tan Man, Willy Tanner and Eric Tannen. How would Platt react to that? What would he do when he realized that five men they had been trying to identify and capture for over two years were really one—that the five tails the Gestapo had been chasing all belonged to a single dog? Platt would be stupefied, immobile. And what about the final bit of information? What about the ultimate solution? Would Platt hemorrhage or simply have a coronary?

  Webber poured himself another glass of champagne and reconsidered. Why bother with Platt and his Gestapo rabble in the first place? Why bother with any of the agencies at the Council and their petty rivalries? After all, Webber assured himself, I have solved a major case, haven’t I? Put it together with remarkable brilliance? Even offered a final solution? What do I need with any of them?

  He pondered. Why not release the revised Spangler Dossier immediately? Von Schleiben wouldn’t object. Then when the meeting begins, Webber chuckled, toasting himself, I’ll let loose with the real fireworks.

  Webber dried his hands, placed the Spangler Dossier on the table and adjusted his monocle. He thumbed quickly to the final pages, found the last two reports and began reading.

  … Fuel-tank explosion and ensuing fire prevented guards from approaching vehicle for fifteen minutes. Examination of smoldering remains revealed no persons inside. Vehicle had presumably been unoccupied for most of its journey around wheat field. Steering wheel was found to have been fixed in place by wires, and a charred piece of wood stuck to dashboard is believed to have been used to wedge the throttle. Badly burned clothing found in back of vehicle is believed to be discarded prison uniform of Vetter.

  On discovery that vehicle was unoccupied, EGPs sealed off area and instituted intense search. No trace of SPANGLER or Vetter could be found.

  General consensus of KRIPO and Gestapo officials is that SPANGLER and Vetter left vehicle at or near stream and set truck off in an easterly direction while they continued on along or in stream in a southerly direction until reaching a heavily wooded area. There is no evidence to substantiate this theory other than the logistics of the situation.

  Webber turned a page.

  RSHA NO.

  AC–14 78–0042 (Summary, SIPO-SD Report

  AC–14 3321–Z, 15 January 1944)

  OBJECTIVE:

  SPANGLER, Erik

  ALIASES:

  TANNEN, Eric

  TANNER, Willy

  TAN MAN

  RAG MAN

  RECEIVED:

  16 January
1944

  FROM:

  SIPO-SD

  On 13 January 1944, at request of Gestapo-L5, SIPO-SD technicians initiated investigation of 9 January 1944 explosions at Concentration Camp Gusen.

  Laboratory analysis indicates chemicals used were similar to, if not identical with, LUFTWAFFE Research Center’s experimental liquid explosive TDL.

  (NOTE: On 18 December 1943, Luftwaffe Research Center reported small quantity of TDL and of TDS—experimental solid-state explosive—lost in transit.)

  Technicians believe TDL-like substance was added to kerosene tanks of emergency lanterns used in guard towers during first power failure. This assumption is reinforced by laboratory analysis of wick fragments taken from wreckage. Tests show that usual lantern wicking had been replaced by slow-burning cord fusing which possessed thickness and texture similar to original wicks’. Lighting of these fuses is believed to have acted as twenty- to thirty-seconds-delay detonator to explosive in fuel tank below.

  Investigation revealed camp protocol requires guard-tower emergency equipment, including lanterns, to be serviced or alternated in ten-day cycles. Camp records show that all lanterns in destroyed or damaged towers had been replaced on 6 January 1944, three days prior to explosions. Tower IX, the only structure not to have suffered an explosion, had neglected to exchange its lanterns of 6 January 1944. During blackouts it lit its aid lantern with no adverse effects.

  Examination of maintenance shops which service lanterns within Concentration Camp Gusen reveals that facilities are supervised by two Totenkopf guards, but operated by some 150 prisoners on rotating shifts. The particular area in which lanterns are tended is under no special security and is quite accessible to personnel other than those assigned to the maintenance shops.

  The cause of the first power failure prior to explosions has not yet been determined.

  Investigators disagree with Gestapo reports AC–14 77–418, establishing time of escape at 0100 hours, 9 January 1944. Re-interview of guards reveals a tendency to expand explosion times and general chaos. All technical evidence indicates electrical system back in operation by 0500 hours 9 January 1944. SIPO-SD analysts believe escape occurred sometime between 2345 and 2355 hours, 8 January 1944.

  Webber relaxed. He dried himself, wrapped his rosy body in a toweling bathrobe and made his way to the bedroom, carrying the dossier with him. Donning a pair of flaming-red silk pajamas, he climbed into bed.

  A hidden victrola was playing Debussy. He lifted his briefcase onto his lap, snapped open the cover and brought out two folders. To the right was his plan of capture, the Webber Proposition. To the left was the evidence he had amassed to argue his case. Both would have to be presented to the Council the next afternoon. He was tired. A decision would have to be made. The evidence file was the thinnest. He put the Webber Proposition back into the case and lowered it to the floor. He opened the manila envelope and looked down at the crossword puzzle. The solitary pink shaded night light over his head was insufficient. He scanned the room in vain for other lamps.

  Annoyed, he searched around him for light switches. He finally found a panel on the night table and slid it back. A line of six unmarked buttons lay revealed. He pushed the first.

  Debussy stopped. Four amber pin spots beamed down as the night light faded. Two Renoir nudes were illuminated on his right as a Vivaldi record began to play. Webber heard a rustling noise. He looked directly overhead. A horizontal curtain drew back, exposing a full-length mirror attached to the inside of the bed canopy.

  He pressed the next button. The room went black. The Vivaldi ended. A moment later it was replaced by war whoops and thundering hooves. Galloping Indians flashed on a screen facing the bed. The camera cut to close-ups of their painted, bloodthirsty faces, then to straining horses’ heads, then to a long shot of a stagecoach trailing dust over the Arizona plains, stark in black and white. The savages were drawing closer. Gary Cooper climbed up beside the stage driver, raised his rifle and fired back over his shoulder. A redskin bit the dust. Then another and another. Calmly Gary Cooper reloaded his Winchester and once more began his deadly fire.

  The sound went off, but the movie continued. It wasn’t, however, the same movie. This one was in color. Three breech-clothed Mongolian-looking savages were tying a girl to a post within a tepee. The girl was obviously a white woman, a blond Brunhilde type with braided hair, her features not unlike Jean Arthur’s.

  The savages left. The girl struggled at the post. Three more savages entered the tent. They were larger, fiercer, better painted and more Mongolian-looking than their predecessors. One of them whispered something in her ear. She shied away in mortification. Rebuffed, the savage lifted his loincloth and exposed himself. A close-up caught the full terror of her shriek. An even tighter frame magnified the cause of her distress. The camera moved back to catch the full impact of the Indian, now pointing his erect penis in her direction.

  It was the second savage’s turn to whisper. The girl’s eyes opened wide and glazed. She shook her head violently. His hand reached across and ripped open her blouse. The camera moved in close on her more than ample bosom.

  The third and most awesome native moved forward. Obviously the leader of the trio, he did not demean himself with whispers. Legs firmly planted, he pounded on his chest as his wet determined lips shouted their silent demands. The maiden twisted and squirmed in a series of agonized noes. The chief stepped firmly forward and jammed his right hand up her buckskin skirt. The camera darted to her face as the eyeballs rolled to white. She fainted. There was, however, an enigmatic curl to her unconscious lips. A curl slightly upward. The chief stepped back in disgust. Thumped his chest and pointed. Two stark-naked Indian maids, their skin glistening with oil, darted forward and revived the less defiant white woman.

  The captive’s arms were lashed to a board behind her neck, and she was led out past an assortment of drum beaters, assorted bonfires and random dancers. Again the chief pointed. Even the Indian maidens balked momentarily, then dragged her into the largest of large tents.

  The interior was more a circus ring than an Indian sanctum. In the center was a wooden railing about two feet wide and four feet from the ground. The white woman blinked as the chief’s face moved into the frame. Nose to nose, he made his final demand. Lips quivered, eyeballs darted from side to side. She spit in his face.

  The chief stepped back, gave a placid, knowing native glance and clapped his hands. The two Indian girls dashed from the tent and returned with three more maidens as naked as themselves. With them was a largish pony.

  The white woman was led to the rail in the center of the ring. Her head stiffened in defiance as her clothes were ripped off and her hands untied from the board. She was forced to lean over the railing and her outstretched hands were manacled to iron rings in the dirt. A perfectionist, the chief gave another order. A pillow was inserted between the rail and the maiden’s stomach, forcing her naked buttocks higher in the air. Two braves grabbed her legs and forced them open; the camera moved as close to the thighs as its optics would allow. The unmistakable fingers of the chief slid up into the victim and began rotating. A cut to the girl’s tearful face revealed a certain excitement. Once more the chief shouted his conditions. The upside-down head shook sideways in somewhat regretful defiance.

  The chief clapped twice. The pony was trotted around the ring by the naked Indian maids, then brought to a spot where the upside-down Brunhilde could see the animal clearly. The Indian girls reached down for its genitals and began exciting them manually and orally. The prisoner’s eyes opened wider than ever before, in horror and interest.

  Webber pushed another button. The movie switched off, and drapes drew across the screen. Two reading spotlights shot down. Webber began examining the crossword puzzles. He started to make notes in the margin until his concentration ebbed. He closed the file and dropped it on the floor. He would arise earlier, he told himself, as he studied the buttons on the night table. He selected the middle one. He had pick
ed correctly. The lights went off and he settled down to sleep. For the first time he was aware of the wheels clicking on the rails below. He lay in the darkness, wondering just where the train was at the moment. He knew Germany could not be too many hours away. But was not all Europe German now? His hand reached out and pushed the bottom button.

  The Indian girls were fitting the pony’s massive organ into the spread-eagled Brunhilde. A close-up caught every intricacy of the insertion. The camera panned to the anguish and pain on the pretty blond face. The camera trucked back as the Indian maidens pushed the pony back and forth to establish the rhythm. It was a very smart pony. Within seconds he had the idea and was enthusiastically on his own. The camera moved back to the captive’s face. She bit her lip. The animal’s appetite increased. Her face went from tears to a reluctant smile. The pony’s fornication grew more frantic. The girl began to respond. Her buttocks raised high and pressed back, quicker and quicker, in time to the pony. Her face tensed with expectation. Her breathing quickened, her eyes closed, her lips opened, her nipples rose: she screamed. Her climax was obvious and monumental. Then came a second. Then a third.