The Red Horse

by James R Benn

  “Can’t. Robinson took him away for a sleep cure. He’s out cold by now.”

  “Convenient,” Kaz said. “Isn’t it?”

  “Maybe. But Sinclair was worked up. He could’ve gotten into a lot of hot water for grabbing that rifle and firing off a few rounds, even if it was in the air. Robinson made it sound like he was doing him a favor.”

  “Perhaps,” Kaz said. “By the way, it was good of you not to mention Cosgrove’s death to Harken. I think it would be disappointing to the good doctor to hear his surgical work had been rendered superfluous by a spike bayonet.”

  “That’s what I thought. But mostly I didn’t want any of them worried about a homicidal maniac on the loose,” I said.

  “Which there is.”

  “Details. Hey, did Big Mike show you the postcard?” I said, keeping my voice low.

  “Yes. It contained a warning,” Kaz said, leaning closer. “From an organization called das Rote Pferd. The Red Horse. It seems to be meant for a Nazi Party official, suggesting he hang himself before the German resistance or the Russians get their hands on him.”

  “The Red Horse is a German resistance group?”

  “That would be the logical conclusion,” Kaz said. “The card appeared to be ready to mail. The stamp looked genuine, but SOE could easily have forged sheets of them.”

  “Mailed from where?” I wondered.

  “It would need to be from within Germany. Censors would check foreign mail and spot the postcard in a second,” Kaz said. “This affair involves the SOE’s German Section, so ask Colonel Blackford.”

  “Not quite yet,” I said. “I need to think this through. I assume Big Mike has the card with him in London. Is he coming back soon?”

  “Right after Walter opens his safe. Dr. Hughes has been gracious so far, arranging this room for me. But he has dropped heavy hints about changing his mind if a gratuity is not forthcoming.”

  “I thought you might not need to go that route with Cosgrove putting things in motion, but with him gone, you probably do,” I said.

  “Yes. Bribes do have a way of binding people together. Do you have any suspicions about Hughes?” Kaz asked.

  “Yeah, I’m suspicious he’ll want more money,” I whispered. “As for the rest, he’s the coroner here. So I guess I have to trust him, for the moment. I’ll check in the morning and see what he came up with.”

  “Why not now?” Kaz asked.

  “I’ll keep you company,” I said. “You hungry?”

  “No solid food for me. Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you are, Billy. I know you.”

  Kaz was right. I was hungry. I scrounged a sandwich and brought it back. We sat together as the light faded, daylight mingling with dusk, until the night sky drove the day to ground under the distant horizon. We talked of many things. Small things, important things. Daphne. Diana. Angelika. His princess friend in Rome. That mysterious woman on Tulagi.

  I told Kaz about growing up in South Boston, playing stickball in the streets, getting into the kind of trouble a cop’s son craves. Just bad enough to prove he’s not a Goody Two-shoes, but not so bad that he can’t sit down for dinner.

  We talked about plans for after the war. These were more imaginary, since neither of us could come up with a clear vision of what things would be like. Kaz talked about where he and Angelika might settle. I suggested Boston. He preferred Rome.

  An orderly brought him some soup. Nothing but clear broth the night before surgery, along with a pill to help him sleep. Kaz got into bed, and I took the comfortable chair, keeping up a friendly chatter that had nothing to do with murderers. Kaz dozed, and I got up to stretch. I pressed my face to the window, the glass cool against my cheek. I wondered if Kaz would be here for the sunset tomorrow, or had he already launched a journey to that far horizon?

  “When I was a boy, I used to marvel at snowflakes,” he said, his voice raspy and distant.

  “Yeah,” I said, returning to my seat. “I liked catching them on my tongue.”

  “I would remove my gloves and let them land in the palm of my hand,” Kaz whispered, his voice catching. “Each one was so beautiful. Unique.”

  “No two alike, they say.”

  “Like lives, Billy. Each one a marvel and a mystery. And so fleeting. A snowflake allows only the briefest glimpse of itself before melting in the warmth of a hand. Then it becomes part of you. I never understood that until now.”

  “Me neither,” I said, placing the palm of my hand on his. “Me neither.”

  Kaz slept, his breathing shallow, small gasps escaping like the faintest of words, whispering secrets of what was in store for us, and for Diana and Angelika. I couldn’t hear the words, but each syllable became a part of me, fragments of indecipherable phrases charting our destinies, as intermingled as the air we breathed.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I awoke to the clatter of a gurney and hushed voices. Marty was helping Kaz out of bed under the watchful eye of Blond Shirley, who took Kaz’s pulse once he was laid flat. Kaz managed a half smile, but I could tell he was groggy. His eyelids fluttered, then stayed shut.

  “We’ll take good care of him,” Blond Shirley said. “It will be a while. Come back around noon.”

  “Don’t worry,” Marty said. “Doc Harken’s the best.” He wheeled Kaz out, leaving me in an empty room. I didn’t want to think about the next few hours. I didn’t want to think about Kaz never coming back to this room. I went to the window, lifting my eyes to the heavens and sending a prayer to Saint Camillus, the patron saint of physicians and nurses. Then to the archangel Raphael, known for his healing powers. Never hurts to ask the angels as well as saints. If sinners could lend a hand, I’d enlist them too.

  As if the devil had heard my prayer, I immediately ran into Dr. Hughes in the hallway. I asked if he would be joining Harken and Dr. Powell in the operating theater.

  “No,” he said, with a sharp shake of his head. “They can experiment if they wish, but I’ll have no part of cutting open the heart. The baron is extremely foolish to have requested this, if you ask me.”

  “His choice,” I said. Not to mention his cash. “Have you completed the autopsies, Doctor?”

  “Yes, I have,” he said, taking me by the elbow and steering me back into Kaz’s room. “Are you still looking into these killings?”

  “I am,” I said, truthfully enough. With or without Snow’s permission.

  “Major Cosgrove was killed with an expert thrust,” he said. “Nearly instantaneous. The cardiogenic shock from this heart wound would have knocked the major out immediately. Loss of blood pressure resulted in death within seconds.”

  “It would have taken a good deal of strength, wouldn’t it?”

  “I said expert, Boyle. The thrust went in at just the right location. It was also an excellent choice of weapon. The shape of the spike made it perfect for an entry that avoided the ribs. A flat blade can be deflected easily. Not so with a spike.”

  “Could a woman have done it?”

  “Perhaps. The angle of the wound suggests it was an upward thrust, so anyone with the element of surprise and a degree of strength in their arm could have accomplished it,” Hughes said. He eyed me with a new curiosity. “Why do you ask?”

  “Trying to narrow down the potential suspects,” I said, as I watched heavy clouds tumble low along the horizon. “What about Densmore?”

  “You may not know this, Boyle, but breaking a man’s neck is not easy,” Hughes said, glancing at the open door and lowering his voice. “It is easy to do a great deal of damage, but a clean killing break? That requires knowledge. Or an extraordinary amount of luck.”

  “Medical knowledge?” I asked, as fat raindrops began to splatter against the glass.

  “No,” Hughes protested, working at avoiding my eyes. “Well, perhaps.”

/>   “A physician would know the best route to the heart, right? And the location of the right vertebrae?”

  “Yes, certainly,” Hughes said, nodding his head. “The C2, commonly called the hangman’s vertebra, for obvious reasons. And before you ask, a woman could do this as well, especially if Densmore was seated. It would have negated his height advantage.”

  “If?” I asked.

  “I cannot speculate on the location of his murder,” Hughes said. “He could have been killed while standing, then dragged to the chair. I am not a detective, Boyle, but I do see the advantage. Anyone opening the door might think him asleep in that armchair.”

  “That’s true, Dr. Hughes,” I said. “Did you notice anything else about the room? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. Please see Major Snow if you have any further questions, Boyle,” Hughes said, heading for the door as the wind whipped up and the sky darkened, turning the room dim and gray.

  “What about my release?” I said. “Snow said he had to call a meeting about it.” A rumble of thunder rolled across the sky.

  “He hasn’t,” Hughes said, looking out the window, distracted. “Patience.”

  Thunder hammered the air, followed by a sharp crack of lightning. Bright white light flashed and vanished, replaced by deep grumbles of thunder and another lightning strike turning the sky electric.

  The lights went out.

  “Where’s the operating room?” I said to Hughes, wondering about Kaz being prepped for surgery. Hughes directed me to the front of the south wing. I raced through the halls and scampered down the stairs, emerging onto the main floor as the lights flickered briefly and then went out, leaving the whole floor in inky darkness. There were shouts and questions all around me, but nobody seemed too worried. Of course, none of them were getting their chest split open.

  I saw lights at the end of the hallway and heard the muted hum of a generator coming from deep within the building. The frosted glass in the operating room door was luminescent. As I approached the operating theater, I could hear voices from inside, calm and deliberate.

  I stuffed my shaking hand in my pocket and stumbled off in search of coffee. Then Griffin and his notebook.

  I found them both in the north wing dining hall, bright enough from the large floor-to-ceiling windows. Griffin in the open was a rare sight, but here he was, working through a plate of Spam and powdered eggs. I was hungry enough that it looked good, but I didn’t want him to bolt on me, so I poured myself a quick cup of joe from the urn and sat down across from him.

  “How’ve you been, Griffin?” I asked, letting the still-hot java seep into my bones. “Haven’t seen you around.”

  “Alreet,” he said, shoveling a load of pinkish meat into his mouth.

  “Where are you from?” I asked, wanting to get him talking.

  “Up Northumberland way,” he said. “Why?”

  “Just curious about your accent. I’m from Boston, myself.”

  “That why yor accent is all radgie?”

  “Radgie?”

  “Mixed up. You sound funny.”

  “So I’ve been told,” I said.

  “Come on, mate, I don’t mean nowt by it. Only havin’ some fun, enjoyin’ the sound of home,” Griffin said, giving a little snigger. “I can speak BBC English or sound like a toff as well, Boyle, have no fear. I’m told my French is also quite good. How about you?”

  “I’m strictly Bawston,” I said, exaggerating for effect. He smiled, for a moment.

  “You’re not an agent, then,” Griffin said, his voice suddenly serious. “You’d never make it through a German checkpoint.”

  “Not like SOE or OSS,” I said. “No. How about you?”

  “I need more training, they tell me. The war will be over before I finish, at this rate,” he said, dropping his fork onto his plate as the lights came back on. “Lekky’s back.”

  “I can tell you’re the observant type,” I said, speaking more loudly to be heard over the murmur of voices as the lights flickered, but held. “You watch people.”

  “Reconnaissance and surveillance. Very important. You ought to know that,” Griffin said, eyeing me as he smirked, a cackle of laughter escaping his lips.

  “You must have picked up something about the strange things happening here. First Holland goes off the tower, then these two murders.” I drank my coffee, eyeing him over the upturned rim.

  “What about you, Boyle?” Griffin said, pushing away his plate and leaning closer. “I’ve seen you snooping around after curfew. You must have friends in high places, eh? Do the high and mighty let you roam about every night?”

  “What are you talking about?” I said, playing dumb. Maybe he’d spotted me sneaking in and out of my room the other night, or maybe he was fishing.

  “Come on, I saw you out and aboot the last two nights,” Griffin said, wagging a finger in my face as he snarled at me and fell back into his north country accent. “Easy to spot a profile in the dark, especially with you wearin’ that Yank field jacket and a wool cap.”

  “Two nights ago?” When Cosgrove was murdered.

  “Don’t play the fool, Boyle,” he said, leaning forward across the table. “Though it suits ‘ee.”

  “What time did you see me two nights ago? It could have been someone else,” I said, folding my arms across my chest and smiling a challenge his way. I knew it was the kind of thing he couldn’t resist.

  “I’ll tell you to the minute,” Griffin said, taking his notebook from his pocket and flipping pages. “Five past midnight, exactly. I caught sight of you along the interior wall of the south wing, keeping to the shadows. Maybe it was you who killed that major. Was it?”

  “That’s it? A figure in the shadows, at night? Not much of an identification, Griffin.”

  “Best I could do, bein’ under lock and key,” he said. “Your build, your uniform. Logical conclusion, I’d say. And the night before last, it was you for sure. Walkin’ ‘round like you owned the place. Good move, that. I saw two Home Guards pass within yards and not give you a second look.”

  “Feel free to borrow my technique. You are observant, I’ll give you that,” I said, uncrossing my arms and placing my hands flat on the table. Steady as a rock. “Did you see anything unusual around the time Densmore was killed?”

  “What time was that?” Griffin shot back at me. I shrugged. “Never saw much of him, not directly, anyway. Passed him in the corridor one time and he kept his eyes to the floor. Not much for conversing, that one.”

  “What do you mean, not directly?”

  “His room has a nice big window. I’ve seen him standing there, looking out. Several times. He was crying. Not a gentle weep, either, but havin’ himself a good gusher,” Griffin said, standing and pushing his chair in. “Now I’m done with the debrief, Boyle. I’ve got things to do. Useful things, unlike you and your endless questions.”

  Griffin gave that creepy laugh again and shoved off. I had to admit he had a point. I was damned useless, sitting here while Kaz had his heart sliced open, and Diana went through unimaginable hell in a Nazi concentration camp.

  He was also right about my questions. They were all I had. Even as I watched Griffin leave the dining hall, I thought of more. The way I saw things, Densmore was the main reason for Blackford coming to Saint Albans. But had he come before? How often? And was it to speak with both Densmore and Sinclair?

  Had Griffin really spotted an American out the night Cosgrove was killed?

  If Densmore had been suffering from overwork and had gone through the sleep cure, what was still bothering him? What did he see as he looked out his window?

  Finally, what had he done that still brought him to tears? And who had he done it do?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I still had a couple of hours to kill before I checked on Kaz. I was ti
red enough to sleep, but I didn’t dare close my eyes. I had to be there when he woke up.

  He had to wake up.

  I went out to walk the familiar path around the buildings and tried not to think about a world without Kaz in it. It was a soggy and windy day, the gray scudding clouds heavy with the threat of rain. I shoved my hands in my pockets and wondered who had taken a stroll two nights ago at midnight. If the guard posted at the guest quarters had been taking a smoke break under the tree, it would have been easy to enter Cosgrove’s room. But as soon as the guard returned, our killer was stuck in there. The rear-window escape was the perfect solution.

  I passed the clock tower where this all started. I hoped Holland was at peace, wherever he was. I tried to see that scene again in my mind, replaying the flash of movement and the color of the uniforms. It was too far away, and it happened too quickly. I wasn’t expecting Holland to go over the edge, so I hadn’t focused on what was going on up there. Not that I’d been able to focus on much of anything at the time.

  Was it a fellow Yank in the tower with Holland? Was it a Yank who snuck over to the guest quarters and killed Cosgrove?

  I picked up my pace as I approached the south wing. I sent up another prayer and tried not to look at the windows or think about Kaz on that table.

  I shook off the surgical visions and hurried along. As I turned the corner, I decided there was no way to know if the person Griffin had seen had been an American. The hospital had to have stores of US Army uniforms. It would be easy for anyone to swipe a jacket and wool cap. Disguise complete.

  There were real Yanks here, Robinson and Miller among them. I’d spotted a couple of other uniforms back when walking was my full-time occupation, but I hadn’t seen those guys lately. The Brits had a few years on us when it came to operations in occupied Europe, and it showed in their population of patients suffering from both physical and mental wounds.