by James R Benn
Two hospital orderlies jogged across my path twenty yards ahead, their voices a murmur of aggravation and resignation. No one likes getting rousted for a night search, and they weren’t exactly giving it their all.
I passed by one of the smaller outer buildings, and then I saw them. A bit of a wind had kicked up, and now the damn white sheets were swaying in the breeze. Fairly calling out for attention.
I ran the last few yards, figuring if anyone spotted me now, they’d see the sheets for sure, so what did it matter? I grabbed the dark trousers first and went up hand over hand, shinnying up the fabric rope until I was on the windowsill, tipping over into my room, the mattress cushioning my headfirst fall.
I heard voices in the hallway. They were doing a head count.
I pulled off my boots at the foot of my bed. I whipped off my jacket and untied the trousers from the sheets, throwing the clothing into a corner. Then I began to work on the sheets. The knots had been pulled tight, and I tried to dig my fingers in to pull them apart.
The door flew open.
Sergeant Jenkins stepped in and took one look at me, his face softening.
“Oh, lad. So that’s what you meant when you said you were going to leave this place. Come on, there’s no need for drastic measures. That’s the coward’s way out.”
He beckoned for an orderly, who appeared at his side, shaking his head sadly.
I looked at the knotted sheets and the open window.
I laughed. First a quick ha ha as I realized what he meant. I tried to put on a solemn face of contrition, but another round of laughter burst out as the absurdity of it all hit me square between the eyes.
I laughed like crazy.
Chapter Thirteen
The only thing worse than waking up in a padded cell was waking up in a padded cell that hadn’t been fumigated since the turn of the century. With nothing else to do but bang my head against the fetid, stinking cushions, I shut my eyes and tried to come up with a good story.
I couldn’t come up with a damn thing, so I fell asleep.
I awoke to an orderly standing over me and saying Dr. Robinson wanted to see me. I might have slept ten minutes or two hours. It was hard to say. Especially since they’d confiscated my watch. I understood why they’d taken my belt and shoelaces, but what did they think I was going to do with a wristwatch? Stab myself with the minute hand?
The orderly took me by the arm and hustled me down the corridor. We went into a vestibule that led to another locked door and finally the stairwell. He held me by the arm the entire way down from the third floor. It was nice that he didn’t want me to throw myself down the staircase, but it was irritating at the same time.
“Not what I expected from you, Boyle,” Dr. Robinson said as we took our usual seats. That statement was a reminder of the principal’s office, so it was easy to come back with a tried-and-true answer.
“It wasn’t what it looked like.”
“Sergeant Jenkins said it looked like a suicide attempt,” Robinson said, narrowing his eyes as he studied me.
“I’m sure it did, Doc, but it was all a misunderstanding. Hey, I can see how he thought that, so I don’t blame the guy.”
“Explain, Boyle. And make it snappy, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.”
“I’ve been curious about Holland’s death,” I said, trying to spin this story so it held together. “We’ve talked about it, right? Well, I couldn’t sleep, and I got to wondering how many ways Holland could’ve killed himself. Easier ways.”
“Easier than the fall from that tower?” Robinson asked.
“The fall is easy. Taking the leap is the hard part. I’ve pulled back jumpers who were scared out of their wits, too scared to move much less jump,” I said. True enough.
“Okay, I can see that,” Robinson said, granting me a brief nod.
“So, I got to thinking about hanging,” I said. “Holland didn’t have a belt, since his trousers had a pair of suspenders. Not good at all for making a noose. And shoelaces don’t seem all that reliable, or quick.”
“You’d be surprised,” Robinson said. “It all depends on how desperate you are to leave this earth.”
“Well, you’d know if Holland was desperate or not,” I said, watching Robinson for any reaction. His stone face revealed nothing. “He sounded even-keeled to me, even with his mute routine.”
“You were saying?” Robinson glanced at his watch. He was impatient, and that impatience might get me thrown back into the soft-sided hoosegow.
“I wanted to see if a guy could hang himself with those sheets. First, I tried twisting them like a rope, but there wasn’t enough length after that. Then I got the idea to tie them together and toss them out the window.”
“And you weren’t going to actually test that out?”
“Hell no, Doc. I could see it’d work. One length of sheet tied to the bedstead and then out the window, using the second sheet as a noose. That way you have a chance for a snap of the neck as well as strangulation.”
“You want me to believe you were up before dawn testing out suicide methods?”
“What else would I be doing with those sheets?” I asked, summoning all the virtuous innocence I could muster.
“You didn’t leave your room?” Robinson said, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.
“Not until they took me to that padded cell. Listen, Doc, that place needs to be fumigated.”
“You didn’t try to make a telephone call?”
“Doc, this ain’t the Ritz. I don’t have a telephone in my suite.”
“Tell me again about your interest in Holland’s death,” Robinson said, leaning back in his chair. Something had shifted. Maybe he’d bought my story. Or maybe he figured Holland wasn’t the type to kill himself and had his own suspicions. If so, that made three after Snow and Hughes. Three guys who had their doubts about suicide, but none worried enough to put anyone on the case except for me, their own local head case.
I filled him in on my brief career as a detective with the Boston PD, and how when I was a patrolman my dad brought me along when homicide got the call to investigate a stiff. I’d been brought up on murder, which was an odd thing to admit to a psychiatrist. But it was true enough in my family and not so unusual for the Boston Irish. We’d made the police our own territory and controlled it like a fiefdom in the old country. Detection of crime was our stock-in-trade, and I’d been trained to sniff it out at an early age.
“You’re Dick Tracy in khaki, then,” Robinson said with a quick snort of laughter, when I’d finished the tale of my time in blue.
“Glad you find it funny, Doc.”
“Not at all. I’m a big fan of Dick Tracy. Don’t you read the funny papers?”
“Sure. I just didn’t think an educated guy like you would,” I said. “So, it’s a compliment?”
“The highest. But watch out. If someone murdered Holland, you could end up more like Fearless Fosdick.” Fearless was a parody comic strip, poking fun at straightlaced Dick Tracy with the square-jawed detective Fearless Fosdick, who routinely got shot through with cannonball-sized bullet holes. Funny stuff, a laugh riot of mayhem and murder.
“If?” I asked. I got the sense Robinson knew more than he was saying and was using the funny-papers routine to warn me of something real and dangerous.
He didn’t reply. Which said a lot. Instead, he got up and went to his desk, opening a drawer and taking out my belt and shoelaces.
“Here, Boyle,” he said, tossing them to me. “In my professional opinion, you’re not the sort to kill yourself. Certainly not with a couple of bedsheets, anyway. Sheer stubbornness, maybe. Go get yourself some breakfast.”
“Thanks, Doc. For that first part, anyway,” I said, lacing up my boots. “How can you tell?”
“About suicide? There are a lot of warning signs. Like when someone does
n’t seem to be on an even keel. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I do,” I said, standing as I put on my belt. I’d just described Holland as being on an even keel, even though he was a mute. “You don’t have my watch, do you?”
“No. Check with Jenkins, he brought these to me. One more thing before you go,” Robinson said, walking me to the door. “Who do you know in London?”
“General Eisenhower, of course,” I said, leaving before I let loose with Uncle Ike.
That had been the most instructive therapy session I’d ever had. Robinson had told me that I wasn’t about to kill myself—always nice to hear—and that Holland hadn’t been the type either. He knew I’d been the one who tried to make the phone call to London, but he’d let that slide. Plus, he warned me about an unknown person who might fill me with holes at any time.
All without saying anything directly, except for some chatter about the comics. I wondered how much trouble he could get into for even spilling that much. Or if Major Snow might be risking his neck by asking a patient to investigate a possible crime. Also, was Dr. Hughes going to do Kaz the favor I asked in return for the future payoff I’d hinted at?
An odd bunch, all around. Now I wished I’d taken the time last night to read their files. There was always tonight. The window was still unlocked, far as I knew, and Robinson, at least, had no objection to my nighttime rambles.
The window. Unlocked.
Damn.
I stopped in my tracks and patted my pockets.
There it was. The key set from Clarissa’s desk. I’d put it in my shirt pocket when I went for the telephone. When I had to skedaddle, I’d forgotten all about the small keys tied with a piece of faded blue ribbon.
I had to get them back to her. If she discovered the keys missing, there would be a full-scale search and shakedown. A patient getting to a telephone was bad enough. A patient getting into the files was a catastrophe.
By the growl in my stomach and the scurry of staff through the corridor, I knew the workday had started. I put the keys in my left trouser pocket. No reason to risk a shaky right hand fouling things up, even though it was steady enough right now.
I strolled into the file room, trying for cheery and nonchalant. The place was crowded, Clarissa and her office mate moving chairs while several of the Home Guards shoved desks to the side of the room.
“Cleaning day, Clarissa?” I asked, stepping aside as two of the Home Guards dragged a desk across the floor, narrowly missing my toes.
“I don’t have time to chat, Mr. Boyle, not today,” she said, sorting through a pile of file folders laid out on a table. “I’ve lost something and must find it.”
“We’ll be in a world of trouble, Clarissa,” her friend whispered, worry lines wrinkling her forehead.
“Can I help?” I asked, approaching the table.
“No, you may not,” Clarissa said. “You shouldn’t even be here. Sorry to be rude, but you must leave.”
“We’ll come back later and move these desks back, Miss,” one of the guards said. “Sarge’ll miss us if we’re gone too long.”
“Yes, thank you,” Clarissa said, brushing an errant lock of hair back from her eyes.
“Are you sure I can’t help?” I asked, leaning on the table. “I know how to keep my mouth shut. I can see you haven’t reported it yet.”
“Not officially, no. Those boys offered to help,” Clarissa said.
“Just like me. Now, what did you lose?”
“Really, I can’t say, and you can’t stay. I can tell you’re a decent sort, but you’ll only get me in more trouble. You must leave.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, shoving off from the table, raising my hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Good luck.”
“We need it,” her friend said as they returned to flipping through files.
They got it. Not a minute down the corridor, I heard the shriek of relieved surprise.
Now they were left to wonder how those keys ever got dropped into that file folder.
Chapter Fourteen
I showered and shaved, washing away the lingering moldy odor of the rubber room. A fresh set of olive drabs and I felt like a new man, although I would have preferred the feel of freedom. I hit the dining hall and got my fill of coffee, fried Spam, and powdered eggs.
I sat back and surveyed the room. No Miller, which was good. He’d been irritating, but now that I knew his secrets, I felt guilty about how angry I’d gotten with him. Since I couldn’t let on I knew what had really happened, I’d have to act like I still despised him. Tough to remember when you know the guy is crushed by guilt himself.
I got up as Sinclair entered, in the company of the two young ladies from yesterday’s confrontation with Miller.
“Ah, Boyle,” Sinclair said as we drew closer. “Have you met these two lovelies? Faith and Iris, this is Boyle.” Sinclair chuckled like an older uncle at a family gathering.
“I’m afraid Faith is the silent type,” Iris said, shaking my hand. Iris was the one with curly hair who’d taken a butter knife to Miller. The one I called Shirley Temple.
“First names for women, is it?” I said, returning the briefest of nods from Faith. She sat at a table, fidgeting and glancing about as she pulled the worn sleeves of her sweater.
“Of course,” Iris said. “We’re sent to face torture and death, but the doctors here seem to think we shall swoon if called by our last names. Treating us as mere girls makes it easier for them, perhaps.”
“Guilt?” I said, returning to that familiar theme.
“Likely,” Iris said. “Especially those here who have never been in the field. It upsets their vision of how the sexes should behave. Or maybe they can’t abide the notion of a woman who could kill them seven different ways. I don’t care; I simply want to get out of this place.”
“I know the feeling,” I said, as Iris crossed her arms and shivered. Although she bore no obvious marks, I figured she’d been imprisoned, or perhaps been in hiding for so long she lost what weight she’d had. But I knew enough not to ask questions.
“Apparently someone tried an escape last night,” Iris said. “Lots of noise and lights in the early morning hours. I hope they got away.”
“I for one enjoy myself here,” Sinclair said. “Fine accommodations and no pressure. No problems with magnetic fields here, you know. And the food is better than at the Weston installation, although that is not saying much. Excuse me, Boyle.”
“Magnetic fields?” I said, as Sinclair toddled off to fill his plate. I was glad to leave the subject of last night’s escapades behind. “He must really be off his rocker.”
“Rumor is Sinclair literally cannot keep a secret,” Iris said. “He’s a scientist of some sort, so perhaps it’s not so strange to be working with magnetic fields at a naval base. That’s what Weston is, up in Somerset.”
“We all have our stories, don’t we?” I said. Iris seemed to know things, so I decided to press her with a few questions. I laid my hand on her arm as she turned to go. She flinched, turning with a start.
“Sorry,” I said. “I only wanted to ask a question. A minute ago, you said something about people here who hadn’t been out in the field. You meant the staff, right? Have any of them seen action?”
“Basil, for one. Major Snow. He was wounded on a mission in Italy. Common knowledge within SOE,” she said.
“His limp?”
“Yes, I think so. That’s why he’s behind a desk now. I don’t know about any of the others,” she said, turning away.
“Any idea what was behind Holland’s death?” I asked, keeping my hands to myself this time. Iris stopped.
“They claim he jumped,” she whispered. “Faith isn’t certain he did.”
“She told you that?”
“She shook her head when she heard. In the negative,” Iris add
ed. “Faith and Holland would sit at the same table, never saying a word. No apparent communication, but there they’d be the next day. Going through the motions of eating or drinking tea, seemingly oblivious to each other. Certainly, to the world around them.”
“What do you think? About Holland?” I asked.
“I think it’s awfully odd that you have so many questions. Sinclair’s your man for that. As I said, there’s no secret he hasn’t told, if the gossip is to be believed. Good day, Boyle.”
With that, Iris left, patting Faith’s shoulder and whispering to her before heading to the growing line for breakfast.
I’d overplayed my hand. Now Iris was suspicious. Or maybe she thought asking questions was my particular brand of crazy. Sinclair and his answers, me and my questions, what was the difference? At least mine made some sort of sense. To me anyway.
I made my way through the foyer, waving to Clarissa at her desk, everything back to normal in the filing room. Outside, I stopped to button my collar against the wind. One circuit around the place to clear my head, then I’d pop in on Kaz.
I had to wait by the main gate as they opened it for a staff car to enter. A British Austin 10 with two men in the back seat, one an army officer, the other a gray-haired civilian. As the vehicle drove slowly by, its tires crunching on gravel, the officer looked at me, his eyes narrow beneath the brim of his service cap.
He didn’t look happy. But who would be, entering this place?
Well, Angus Sinclair was happy here. No magnetic waves and plenty of grub. The doctors were doing the same jobs they’d have in a regular military hospital, so they were hard to judge. Dr. Robinson had plenty of interesting cases, so this place had to be heaven for a psychiatrist.
Maybe the Home Guards liked it. It gave Sergeant Jenkins and his men something to do, a way to contribute to the war effort. Now that fears of a German invasion were gone, the Home Guard wasn’t needed as much as it had been. It was a volunteer outfit, so these fellows were here of their own accord. It was in addition to their regular occupations, but they got to wear the uniform, carry a weapon, and have a night out now and then. Yeah, they probably saw this place as a plus.
