by James R Benn
“I understand,” I said, as I followed her into a large office. There were two desks and a wall filled with file cabinets. Beautiful four-drawer filing cabinets. “Security.”
“Always,” she said, plopping the stack of folders down on her desk, right next to a telephone. She handed me a pad and pencil.
“I hear that Major Snow is strict about rules and regulations,” I said, while I wrote out a brief note to Robinson, telling him how much better I felt and thanking him for his help.
“Do you now?”
“Sorry,” I said, folding the note and handing it to her. “Just making conversation.”
“It’s not encouraged,” she said, the hint of a smile playing across her face. British humor and understatement, all rolled into one.
“Sorry I’m late, Clarissa,” another woman said, scurrying into the room and throwing herself into a chair behind the other desk. “The line in the dining hall was beastly long.”
“Security breach,” I whispered. I gave Clarissa a wink and walked out, chancing a sideways glance at the two tall windows filling the room with light. The latches would be within reach, barely. The window frames were ancient, decorated with peeling paint and spiderwebs. They looked like they hadn’t been opened in decades. But they did look out on the entrance. Did Clarissa and her office mate hear the body hit? Look up and scream in horror? Maybe see someone running away? I’d have to come back and poke around. Right now, I had to find an easier way in.
I stood in the foyer, looking down the hallways that radiated in three directions. I was about to explore, preparing a cover story about forgetting where Robinson’s office was. A lost, harebrained patient wouldn’t seem out of place. Then I spotted the figure of a limping man through the glass window in the main door. Major Basil Snow himself, coming up the front walk. I moved quickly, making it to the door before he did. I opened the door and held it for him, standing aside on the front step.
“Major Snow,” I said, giving him a salute.
He returned it, then halted, an irritated look on his face. “We don’t bother with that here. Not with patients. No rank, only last names. Surely you understand that by now?” He hesitated, and I could tell he was searching for my name.
“Boyle, sir. Sorry, force of habit. It’s not easy setting aside what the army drummed into my head.”
“Quite all right,” Snow said. He had dark eyes set above pudgy cheeks, his face finished off with a heavy mustache that hid his upper lip and seemed to have designs on the lower. “Boyle? You were the fellow here the other day, busying yourself with the poor chap who ended it all.”
“Yes. Again, force of habit. I was a policeman back in the States.”
“You seem to be a man of steady habits, Boyle. How are you getting on here?”
“I’m feeling much better, Major. I did the Sleeping Beauty routine with Dr. Robinson.”
“Sleeping Beauty? Oh, his sleep cure, you mean,” Snow said, offering up a chuckle to show he took my Yank patter in stride. “It seems to work well. Usually. What kind of police work did you do, Boyle?”
“Detective. Homicide, mostly.” I didn’t bother mentioning I’d made the grade right after Pearl Harbor, which didn’t leave much time to actually work the job. And that I’d passed the written test with a bit of assistance. Well, a lot, maybe. Details. He wasn’t from Boston, so he wouldn’t understand.
“Really? Do you have a few minutes to spare, Boyle? I’d like to hear your opinion of what you saw,” Snow said.
“Sure,” I said. “Glad to help.” Plus, my arm was getting sore holding that door for him. I followed Snow to his office. He took the right hallway off the foyer and got out his keys to open a door kitty-corner from the entrance to the clock tower. No wonder he was Johnny-on-the-spot.
“I shouldn’t be doing this, Boyle,” Snow said as he gestured toward a chair, then took his seat behind the desk. It was a long, narrow room. Bookshelves filled with medical texts that hadn’t been dusted in decades took up one wall. Behind him, French doors led to a garden thick with weeds and a few brave flowers that arched their stems toward the sunlight. “I don’t want to tax you during your recovery, even though you seem a damn sight better than you did a few days ago.”
“I understand, Major. I won’t tell Dr. Robinson.”
“Very good, Boyle. You obviously have a sharp mind. Wouldn’t do for me to interfere with the medical treatment here. I’m the security man, that’s all. But you can see how Holland’s death would be a concern.”
“I can, Major. If you had any reason to think it was not suicide or an accident. Do you?”
“I have a reputation for following regulations and being rather strict about it,” Snow said. “Probably deservedly so. It’s my job to enforce the rules and keep everyone here safe from the outside world until they are ready to leave. Not a job for the kindhearted, I must say. But here I am, bending, if not outright breaking, my own rules by asking you, a patient, for help. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes and no,” I said. “Which leaves you a lot of room for maneuver and me very little.” I watched his eyes as he held me steady in his gaze. Narrow and pinched, they were the last thing you noticed about his face after taking in the almost comical mustache.
“See, I knew you were a smart chap. That’s it exactly. I can’t have word get out that I’m playing favorites with the patients. But perhaps I can help move things along once Robinson decides you are fit enough. You do seem well, Boyle. Are you? Or are you about to go stark raving mad on me?”
“I feel surprisingly better, Major. But tell me, what exactly do you want me to do?”
“Oh, nothing drastic. And certainly nothing in an official capacity, mind you,” Snow said, wagging his finger at me. “Ask around, see what people think. You can start with Sinclair. I don’t know if he and Holland were close, but I did see them walking together on occasion. Use your investigative skills and let me know if you think anything warrants opening up an official case.”
“You must have some reason to think it wasn’t suicide,” I said.
“Let’s say I appreciate caution and skepticism,” Snow said, his fingers steepled as he leaned back and studied me. “Did you notice anything untoward when you inspected the body?”
“Not that I recall,” I said. “I wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders that day.” No reason to let on to my suspicions so soon. We were just getting to know each other.
“Certainly,” Snow said, sitting up straight and slapping his hands on the desk. Interview concluded.
“Okay. But answer one question,” I said as I stood. Snow nodded his assent. “How many keys are there to the clock tower door?”
“I have one, and there’s another in the clerk’s office in the foyer. They have a whole collection of keys,” Snow said. “But there could be others. We had a devil of a time sorting things out when we moved in here. We found keys hidden away in drawers and filing cabinets. No telling how many are still floating around. Some doors were never unlocked, but there are more rooms than we’ll ever need. God willing.”
“Thanks. Anything else you can tell me?”
“You said one question, Boyle. That is all.”
I got the message and beat feet. I walked past the clerk’s office and saw Clarissa and her pal working away, the furious clack of typewriter keys following me as I turned and headed for the door to the clock tower. It was locked. But now I knew that Clarissa’s office was unattended on occasion and a key was stashed in there. Locked in a drawer, or out in the open? I’d have to find out.
Right now, I needed another walk. I needed to think about Snow and why he’d recruited me. And if he’d grease the skids if I came up with anything.
But what if it was murder, or even an accident? That might not put the head of security in the best light. Which might put me in a dark hole somewhere with no light at all.
Chapter Nine
Kaz wanted me to investigate this murder. Now Snow did too. By the end of my walk, I had to admit Holland’s death bothered me. If he did jump, what demons led him to take that leap? If he was pushed, what did the killer have to gain? Why was a dead Holland necessary to the murderer? The guy was a mute, but perhaps that had been about to change? Who would be privy to that knowledge, and who would be frightened by it?
I needed more information, and that’s why I engaged in a little reconnaissance on my way back inside. There was plenty of dope in the clerical office files, but the door would most likely be locked at night. I moved down the central hallway, checking doorknobs. Locked, locked, locked.
Until I got to the door opposite Dr. Robinson’s office. As I closed my hand on the knob and turned it slightly, I felt it move. The door looked like it once had a window, maybe frosted glass by the small pieces still embedded in the frame. Bare wood covered the opening. I thought about knocking, but blundering in seemed the better choice.
I opened the door. It was a wide room, with two sets of French doors overlooking a patio with weeds growing between the paving stones. At a desk between them sat Major Cuthbert Hughes, the head medical honcho, scribbling away.
“Oh, sorry,” I said, doing a good imitation of a double take. “I thought this was Dr. Robinson’s office. Guess I got turned around.”
“Across the hall,” he snapped, his pen poised on paper and his eyes riveted on me.
“Right,” I said. “I don’t mean to bother you, Dr. Hughes—”
“Then don’t,” he said, making a twirling motion with his finger, like I should do-si-do my way out pronto.
“I wanted to ask him about my pal. Baron Kazimierz,” I added quickly, counting on the British affinity for titles to distract him from calling the guards.
“Ah, yes. The baron. Charming fellow. Unusual for a Pole.”
“The charm or the title?” I asked, taking a tentative step into the room, leaving the door open for a quick exit.
“The title, of course,” Hughes said. “You’re Boyle, aren’t you? The fellow who thought he was a policeman when Holland tumbled from the tower?” He gave a sharp laugh as he tossed his pen onto the papers. I figured he’d indulge me for a minute or so.
“Force of habit,” I said. “I was a police detective before the war. When I saw all of you tromping over the crime scene, it just came out.”
“Crime? Well, yes, suicide is a crime,” Hughes said, his eyes narrowing as he studied me. “It was suicide, don’t you think?”
Suddenly everyone wanted my opinion on the subject.
“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I never met Holland, so I don’t know why anyone would want him dead. What do you think? I do have a cop’s curiosity, I have to admit.”
“I thought you wanted to know about the baron?” Hughes said, picking up his pen and smiling. The guy was enjoying this.
“Listen, Doc, there’s not a lot to occupy my mind here, now that I’ve had a good stretch of sleep and I’m not hallucinating. It wasn’t fun, but it did tend to keep my mind—what there was of it—occupied. So, forgive the intrusion,” I said, finally executing that do-si-do.
“Come back, Boyle,” Hughes said, waving in the general direction of a chair. “Have a seat. You do seem to have taken to Robinson’s sleep cure. Myself, I prefer to cut into a problem, fix it, and then stitch it up. The mind is an enigma, and I don’t pretend to believe in all that Freudian mumbo jumbo. Still, in your case, Robinson has done well.”
“Not so much with Holland?” I asked, settling into the visitor’s seat.
“I imagine it’s difficult to work with a patient who cannot communicate,” Hughes said. “Or will not. Some of the mutes may simply be hiding something. Cowardice, perhaps.”
“It would be a way of dealing with a secret too terrible to tell,” I said. “What brought Holland here? I assume there’s no confidentiality when it comes to dead patients.”
“That is not the issue, Boyle. It’s the Official Secrets Act. Hush-hush from on high. But I can say that some cases are simply presented to us with little background, other than that the poor soul was recently brought back from an experience in occupied Europe.”
“A poor soul such as Holland?”
Hughes shrugged and spread out his hands. Yes, then.
“As for the baron,” Hughes said, “I understand you were with him when the French doctor rendered his diagnosis.”
“Yes. Mitral stenosis, I think it was.”
“Correct. Baron Kazimierz listed you as next of kin in the absence of any living family. Were you aware of that, Boyle?” Hughes leaned back, hands folded across his chest. He seemed to enjoy dangling bits of information, just enough to keep my attention focused on him. But he was the chief surgeon in this joint, and that meant he probably thought the world revolved around him. I didn’t mind playing along, especially if there might be a payoff.
“No, but I’m not surprised. His family didn’t survive the Nazi occupation, and we’ve grown close,” I said. Kaz probably saw no reason to list Angelika as a contact, especially while he was a guest at Saint Albans. The SOE might be suspicious of anyone who had a relative in Nazi-occupied Europe. Or possibly held by the Germans, as Diana was. It would be a tempting double-agent setup. Feed the Krauts information in exchange for leniency or even freedom.
Hmmm.
“Well, I suppose he would allow this much to be said,” Hughes went on. I realized he’d been talking while I mulled over the need to keep silent about Angelika and Diana. Especially Diana, who I knew was already in Gestapo custody.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said, trying to stay focused. All I could do was think about Diana and worry if I’d already said too much when I was off the deep end.
“There is little to be done, I’m afraid,” Hughes said. “With the narrowing of the mitral valve, blood cannot flow properly into the main chamber of the heart. This abnormality produces the symptoms the baron exhibited in Paris, no doubt brought on by the strenuous nature of whatever it was you were doing there.” He waved one hand leisurely, as if encompassing the enormity of the fighting and death we had witnessed. Casually, as if it was of little interest.
I decided I didn’t like this guy. But I needed his good graces.
“Is it going to kill him?” I asked.
“Mitral stenosis can have serious complications,” Hughes said. “If he avoids stress on his system, further damage to his heart may not occur. He will most likely continue to have fatigue and shortness of breath, but there is a chance he could live a long life. However, not one filled with exertion and excitement.”
“There’s nothing you can do? I thought a chief surgeon would have a few ideas. You can’t fix it?” I tried to look incredulous, like I thought he was a god. Which is how a lot of surgeons thought of themselves. But a bit of sarcasm might have crept in, since he pursed his lips in silence before he finally answered.
“We do not operate on the heart. It is far too delicate to be handled. It would do more harm than good, of that I am certain,” Hughes said.
“Kaz—the baron—can still be of use in the war effort,” I said. “When I first met him, he was working at headquarters translating documents. He could manage that, couldn’t he? It’s his field of study.”
“Perhaps so, but that is not for us to decide. Fit for service or unfit for service, that is what we are mandated to decide. I have no interest in telling the government how to employ our patients. I have paperwork enough,” Hughes said.
I rose.
“When it comes to Baron Kazimierz, the British government should be glad to have his services, even if it’s at a desk. Please give that some thought, Dr. Hughes. A recommendation from you would carry a lot of weight. Kaz would be in your debt,” I said, my eyes straying to the latches on the French doors behind Hughes.
“I appreciate your concern, Boyle, but I have no need for indebtedness from a Pole, even one of slight nobility. England is full of displaced and penniless foreigners,” he said, picking up his pen and signaling we were done. “Please ask Miss Williamson to come in, will you?”
“Sure,” I said, taking in the rods locking the French doors tight. “Well, if you want to follow up on the baron after he’s released, drop by the Dorchester the next time you’re in London. He keeps a suite there. Permanently.”
“Really?” The pen never made it to paper.
“Yeah. Has since I met him in ’42. Nice place. Ask any of the staff when you visit, they’ll bring you right up to Kaz. They’re tremendously loyal. The baron’s a generous guy, you know. Who’s Miss Williamson, anyway?”
“Perhaps I will, Boyle, perhaps I will,” Hughes said, the wheels of greed turning. A quick scribbled line in exchange for the largess of a titled noble? Why not? I saw his eyes wander as he did his calculations, then focus as he remembered my question. “Oh, the young lady in the clerical office, by the main entrance. I need her for dictation.”
“Okay, I’ll tell her,” I said, mustering a smile Hughes didn’t deserve.
“And Boyle, if you hear anything untoward about Holland’s death, do tell me. We can’t have any improprieties here, you understand?”
I nodded my understanding. As if a dead agent wasn’t impropriety enough.
Chapter Ten
I knocked on the open door to the clerical office. Clarissa was at the rear of the room, a stack of folders in one hand and file drawers open to receive them.
“If you’re Miss Williamson, Dr. Hughes would like you in his office for dictation,” I said, taking a step into the room.
“Does he now?” Clarissa said, finishing her filing and carefully locking the drawers. She was a stickler for security, but she also had a subtle streak of sarcasm, which I liked. She took her time walking to her desk and gathering up a notepad and pencil. The keys to the filing cabinet went into her top drawer, which she locked with a key tied around her wrist. “And what were you talking to the chief surgeon about?”
