Free Spoils of Victory by John A. Connell Page A

opportunities for profiting off a broken country were often too hard to resist. And no other town in occupied Germany offered as much temptation as Garmisch.
    Mason spotted Agent Winstone entering the establishment with a beautiful blonde on his arm. He nodded to a few people he knew, but didn’t stop to talk. Though he and the woman both made the effort to smile, neither came off as genuine. If Winstone wanted to make a show of his trophy date, he was making a bad sell of it.
    Winstone spotted Mason and waved. As they came up to the bar, they sported more genuine smiles, like two winners relieved at crossing the finish line.
    â€œHey, you came,” Winstone said. “Where’s your girl?”
    â€œIt turns out she’s not my girl anymore.”
    Winstone grimaced his sympathy. “Sorry to hear that, pal. Still, I’m glad you came.” He slid sideways to present his companion. “Allow me to introduce Hilda Schmidt.” He said to Hilda, “Mason is a top-notch detective with the military police.”
    Hilda bowed slightly and shook his hand. “How do you do?” she said in accented English. She looked to be twenty-three or twenty-four, and while not having movie-star looks, she could have been cast as the enchanting girl next door, with her full figure, round face, prominent cheekbones, and broad forehead that framed sage green eyes.
    â€œHilda is a world-class ice skater and dancer,” Winstone said. “She performs at the Casa Carioca. You must have seen her there.”
    â€œI’ve never been.”
    â€œYou’ve got to go sometime. Great place.”
    An awkward moment passed between them. Mason had met Winstone’s wife in London when she and her daughters had come to live with her husband. She had stayed only a month before deciding she couldn’t tolerate the “foreignness” of England and she returned to the States.
    Winstone squeezed Hilda’s arm as a way of telling Mason that their coupling was more than a financial transaction. “I hope you still want to have dinner with us.”
    â€œThat’s why I’m here,” Mason said as cheerily as he could.
    Winstone gave Hilda a sideways glance. Hilda displayed a polite smile. “I’ll be right back.”
    â€œWe’ll find a table,” Winstone said to Hilda, and she headed for the restrooms.
    â€œI don’t see one available,” Mason said.
    â€œNo worries. I know the proprietors.”
    And sure enough, after Winstone arched his eyebrows and snapped his fingers at the manager, two waiters brought out a small table and chairs and made room in a corner. When he and Mason sat, Winstone ordered a bottle of champagne. “And forget the menus, Franz. We’ll take three prime rib dinners with the works.” He turned to Mason when the waiter left. “This is all on me.”
    â€œMaybe I should screw up more of your investigations.”
    Winstone laughed as if he didn’t have a care in the world. They stood when Hilda came to the table. She gave Winstone a knowing smile as she settled in her seat.
    â€œSeriously,” Mason said. “I appreciate the drinks and dinner. What’s the occasion?”
    â€œA renewed friendship. And word is, you don’t get out much. But that’s all going to change, as of now.”
    The champagne came, and they toasted to good health and good friends. And by the time the prime rib dinners arrived, the bottle was empty. Winstone ordered another. All the while they made chitchat, or shared war stories about this bizarre foreign agent or that asshole commander. Mason learned that Hilda had been skating and dancing most of her life. She was even in Garmisch-Partenkirchen for the 1936 Winter Olympics as a young teenager and used in a Nazi propaganda exhibition showing off future athletes of the Third Reich. She traveled in ice shows all over Germany and Nazi-occupied territories during the war, and