Cronley thought both that it was the first time the general’s lady had smiled since she’d walked into the dining room and also that Frade’s face showed that he had no idea what the Blue Danube was.
Cronley did: Tiny Dunwiddie had told him what had happened to the private trains used by Nazi bigwigs. The Army Transportation Corps had gathered them up and assigned Hitler’s and Goering’s to Eisenhower and U.S. High Commissioner for Germany John J. McCoy.
The other super-luxury private trains had been given to General George S. Patton and other very senior American officers. Except for one. While other deserving three-star generals had been scrambling for trains for themselves, that one, Tiny had told him delightedly, had been “lost” by an old 2nd Armored “Hell on Wheels” officer in Bad Nauheim. When Major General I. D. White returned to Germany to assume command of the U.S. Constabulary, it would be “found” with Constabulary insignia painted all over it.
What was left of the first-class cars and the best dining cars had been formed into trains and put into Army service between the six hubs of American forces in Europe — Paris, France; Berlin, Frankfurt, and Munich in Occupied Germany; and Salzburg and Vienna in “liberated” Austria.
The Paris — Frankfurt luxury train was dubbed the Main-Siener, making reference to the rivers that flowed through those cities, and the Berlin-Frankfurt-Munich-Vienna train the Blue Danube.
“Then it’s settled,” Frade said. “We’ll all meet in Munich the day after tomorrow.”
I’ll be damned, he did know what the Blue Danube was!
No. He just decided that if Mrs. Greene wanted to “take the Blue Danube,” whatever it is, she was unstoppable.
“And now,” Frade announced, “because Captain Cronley and I are going flying as the rooster crows tomorrow morning, I must beg that we be excused from this charming company.”
Before Cronley could stand, Rachel’s foot gave his instep a final caress, and when he shook her hand to say good night, she said, “Well, I guess we’ll see each other soon.”
[TWO]
As they entered the lobby, Clete said, “Don’t even look at the bar. We have more to talk about.”
“Oh, boy, do we.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Wait until we’re someplace no one can hear us.”
When they were in Clete’s room, he pointed to an armchair and then the bottle of Dewar’s.
“Sit,” he ordered. “And go easy on that.”
“Yes, sir, Colonel, sir.”
Clete smiled tolerantly.
“You ever notice, Jimmy, that when you really need a drink you can’t have one? God knows, after that goddamned dinner we’re both entitled to drain the bottle.”
Clete went to his luggage and pulled out a zippered leather envelope. He took from it an inch-thick sheath of papers, walked to Jimmy, and handed it to him.
“Sign where indicated.”
“What the hell is this, Clete?”
“On top is what they call a Limited Power of Attorney. It gives former Kapitän zur See Karl Boltitz of the Kriegsmarine the necessary authority to do all that he has to do to manage certain property of yours in Midland County, Texas.”
“What the hell are you talking about? My father has my power of attorney to run all the property I own.”
“I know. But as soon as the probate judge of Midland County, Texas, is satisfied that you were in fact married to the former Marjorie Ann Howell, you’ll own a lot more.”
Jimmy looked at him for a long time before replying, his voice on the edge of breaking, “I don’t think I ever knew it was ‘Marjorie Ann.’”
“It was. And under the laws of the Sovereign State of Texas, upon the demise of the said Marjorie Ann Howell Cronley, all of her property passed to her lawful husband, one James Davenport Cronley Junior.”
“Oh, shit!”
“Said property — the details are in those papers — includes two sections of land, including the mineral rights thereto, in Midland County, plus some cash in the First National Bank of Midland, including about two hundred and sixteen thousand dollars, representing her most recent quarterly dividend from the Howell Petroleum Corporation. And of course her Howell Petroleum stock. And some more. It’s all in there.”
“I don’t want any of it,” Jimmy said.
“You don’t have any choice.”
“Oh, God!”
“When the Old Man handed this to me, he said to tell you two things.”
“Really?”
“He said to tell you that everyone who matters knows you’d much rather have the Squirt and two dollars than this inheritance, but that’s the way the ball has bounced. And he said to tell you never to forget that for every dollar a rich man has, there are at least three dishonest sonsofbitches plotting to steal it from him.”
Jimmy wiped a tear from his cheek with a knuckle.
“That sounds like the Old Man,” he said, his voice breaking. Then he said, “Where does Boltitz fit in all this?”
“Very neatly. For one thing, he’s about to be your brother-in-law.”
“He’s going to marry Beth?”
Frade nodded.
“Yeah. You saw them. We can’t keep throwing cold water on them.”
Jimmy laughed.
“The Old Man told Beth they should take a page from you and the Squirt and elope. I thought Mom was going to kill him. What they’ll probably do is have a quiet wedding in Midland, and fuck what people say. Or a big one in Argentina — that’s what Dorotea was trying to sell when I left. Anyway, he’s going to be family, and since he’s out of a job, there being no demand for U-boat skippers, he’s going to need one. The Old Man is impressed with him and he told me — privately — that he’s thinking of putting him in charge of his tanker operations.
“In the meantime, Karl can learn about the family business under the watchful eyes of Mom, Beth, and your dad. Understand?”
“Makes sense.”
“The Old Man wants me to take over Howell Petroleum. The problem with that is I’m going to have to learn how to do that. And I can’t learn how to do that as long as I have Operation Ost to worry about. I promised Souers I’d stick around until the new Central Intelligence Directorate, or whatever the hell they’re going to call it, is up and running. And then there’s El Coronel, Incorporated, I have to worry about.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Everything I inherited from my father. And I have already learned that what the Old Man told me to tell you is true. For every peso a rich gringo like myself has, there are at least three dishonest Argentine sonsofbitches trying to steal it.”
Jimmy chuckled.
“So are you going to sign that power of attorney or not?”
Jimmy didn’t reply. He instead poured Dewar’s into two glasses, gave one to Clete, and then signed the paper. Then he wordlessly touched his glass to Clete’s, and they took a healthy sip.
Jimmy gestured to the power of attorney: “When I signed the one for my dad, it had to be notarized. What are you going to do about that?”
“The Old Man’s lawyers thought of that, too. They found out that a commissioned officer, such as myself, can witness the signature of someone junior to them, such as yourself. I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Captain Cronley.”
“I’ll be damned,” Jimmy said, as Frade scrawled Witnessed by C.H. Frade, LtCol, USMCR and then his signature below Cronley’s signature on the power of attorney.
Clete put the document in his luggage and then took the leather envelope and handed it to Jimmy.