Ruins of War by John A. Connell

had to spin their wheels tracking down dead leads on the train robbery case—per Colonel Walton’s orders. A couple, laughing, arm in arm, already a few hours into the drinking part of the evening, staggered past him and entered the officers’ club. The warm light, the odor of food, and the sounds of Benny Olsen’s Big Band came out onto the street for a moment, contrasting with the scene of ruins all around. The door closed, and Mason was in the calm darkness again. He looked to his right and across the street at the dark opening of the orphans’ shelter, the hole in the wall where he had left food two nights before. Kurt sat just outside the hole. Mason waved and Kurt waved back.
    Mason was about to cross over when he heard an army sedan’s horn honk as it rushed up to the club. The car skidded to a halt directly across the street. Wolski jumped out of the driver’s seat, ranaround the front of the car, and opened the passenger’s door. He then bowed like a chauffeur. A young woman emerged and took his arm. Wolski beamed as he led the woman toward the club’s entrance. That made Mason smile; Wolski was smitten.
    They met Mason at the top of the stairs. Wolski introduced his girlfriend, Anna. Anna smiled sweetly. No more than nineteen, she had a soft, round face. Not beautiful but pretty, the kind of
Mädchen
face
Life
magazine would put on its cover to portray the rosy-cheeked future of Germany. After all she must have been through, all the horrors of a dictatorship and war, she’d managed to hold on to her aura of youth and innocent charm.
    “Didn’t you bring a date?” Wolski asked.
    “I’m fresh out,” Mason said.
    “I can’t believe you came to a dance without a girl. A couple of packs of cigarettes will get you a willing fräulein.”
    Anna playfully slapped Wolski on the shoulder, though Mason could tell she was embarrassed by the remark.
    “I don’t believe in buying a young lady with cigarettes,” Mason said.
    “Maybe the girl of your dreams is waiting inside.”
    “Let’s go in and find out.”
    They all entered the club. Light, warmth, and the band playing “Drum Boogie” greeted them. The officers’ club had taken over what had been a German dance club. It was of open design with several descending levels leading down to the large dance floor full of uniformed men and ladies in gowns, then a stage accommodating the thirty-piece band. Many of the high-ranking officers and military government officials had brought their families over for the holidays. And because the club was hosting a pre-Christmas bash, anyone above the rank of master sergeant had been invited. The place was packed. The couples on the dance floor looked like a school of sardines trapped in a fishing net, hopping to the beat, shoulder to shoulder, back to back.
    Then, like a glint off that roiling sea, Laura McKinnon caught Mason’s eye. The reporter and her partner danced near the center of the crowd. She had exchanged her uniform for a black lace-back, floor-length evening gown and looked stunning. Then he noticed that she was struggling to keep her dance partner, a gray-haired colonel, at arm’s length, but either he or the crowd kept pushing them together.
    “Go ahead and get a table,” Mason said to Wolski. He descended the three shallow steps, penetrated the wall of dancers, and excuse-me’d his way toward the center. As he got closer, he could see Laura getting more agitated by the colonel’s aggressive hands. Her face lit up when she saw him breaking through the final layer of dancers.
    Mason positioned himself behind the colonel and tapped on the man’s shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?”
    “Beat it, mac,” the colonel said with an icy glare.
    “Sir, I would appreciate if you could be a gentleman and allow me to cut in.”
    “She’s with me, so go take a hike.”
    “I was trying to avoid this. . . .” Mason pulled out his CID badge and held it up for the colonel. “Colonel, this lady is under