by James R Benn
“Yes. It looks like some sort of black propaganda project aimed at Nazi Party officials,” he said. “Before we drove up, we dropped in at Scotland Yard and asked Inspector Scutt to do us a favor and check it for fingerprints.” Horace Scutt was a detective with the Metropolitan Police, well beyond retirement but still in harness to fill in while the younger men went off to war. We’d worked with him on a case several months ago, and he knew what he was doing.
“That’ll take a few days to process,” I said. “And a lot longer to check against their files.”
“Scotland Yard has access to fingerprint records of all SOE personnel. Part of the security check they run. I told him to start there, given the card was found within a secure SOE facility.”
“That’ll help,” I said. “There’s something else. Have you ever heard of a squirt transmitter? Or a means to tamper with a parachute so it will malfunction without looking like it was tampered with?”
“Negative on both counts,” Harding said. “Why?”
“Colonel John Blackford came here with Cosgrove. Blackford’s director of the SOE German Section, and he was pressing a fellow named Angus Sinclair about designing a transmitter that would store and send out compressed bursts of messages, if I understood correctly.”
“That would be helpful in avoiding German radio direction finding,” Harding said. “But I’ve never heard of it. What’s the idea with the parachutes?”
“I don’t know. He wanted a way to rig them so it would look like an accident if anyone investigated. Sinclair is some kind of wizard professor who had a nervous breakdown. I got the sense he’d done work for Blackford before. He’s one of the wheezers and dodgers.”
“Ah. Churchill’s madhouse inventors,” Harding said. “Does this have anything to do with the murders?”
“Well, both victims were involved with the German Section. Holland, the guy who was pushed from the tower, must have had some connection as well. I just don’t know what it is yet. But I do have a plan,” I said. “Once you deliver my release papers to Major Snow, he’s agreed to let me stay in the guest quarters tonight. So I can check on Kaz in the morning.”
“Hello,” Kaz croaked as he approached us, walking solo with Harken and Dark Shirley close on either side.
“You’re looking good, Kaz,” I said. He did have a bit of color back.
“My chest is sore, and I am tired, but I do feel better. Like I can breathe again,” Kaz said. “But now I must rest. Are you staying long, Colonel?”
“I have some business with Lieutenant Kanski,” he said. “I’ll see you later.” Kaz smiled and allowed himself to be steered into bed.
“It doesn’t seem to me that you need to check on him in the morning,” Harding said. “What’s going on?”
“Do you want to know, Colonel?” I said, my voice hushed as an orderly passed us by.
“No, never mind,” Harding said with a heavy sigh. He bowed his head, rubbing his temples. I’d never seen him like this. He seemed defeated. “I owe you an apology, Boyle.”
“For what?”
“For all this. For the baron, for Miss Seaton, and the trouble you got into with the Kraut drugs. I should have planned better, gotten you out sooner, I don’t know. I’m sorry,” he said, looking me straight in the eye.
“Colonel, Kaz would have had a heart attack sooner or later. Having it sooner meant he got to be treated by an expert, maybe cured for life. That’s good, isn’t it? As for me, I’m fine now, and it was my own fault for overdoing it. Kaz and I both knew what we were getting ourselves into.” That last bit wasn’t exactly true. No one could have foreseen the situation in Paris, rife with sudden violence and betrayals.
“I feel responsible for Miss Seaton,” he said, his voice barely audible. It seemed to pain him to say the words.
“Cosgrove told me about the release,” I said. “One hundred prisoners, to be turned over to the Swedish Red Cross. Diana’s name is still on that list, isn’t it?”
Harding stood and walked to the end of the corridor where a tall window looked out over the front pathway.
“Sorry,” I said, following him and huddling against the glass, away from the flow of people in the hall.
“Yes. She is,” Harding said. “Feliks told me about Angelika. I’m sorry, Boyle, there’s nothing I can do. It’s not a string I can pull.”
“Kaz can’t know about this. At least not until he’s fully recovered,” I said.
“I agree. There’s no reason for him to know it was even a possibility,” Harding said. We both were silent for a moment, staring out the window and making believe we didn’t feel like bums.
“There’s something else going on here,” I whispered. “If you’re ready to deliver my release to Major Snow, I’ll tell you about it on the way over.”
Harding agreed. We stopped in at Kaz’s room. He was in bed and being fed spoonfuls of soup from a steaming bowl by one of the Saint Albans nurses. He did look better than he had before the surgery. Surprising, after having his chest cut open.
Big Mike returned and told Kaz Dr. Hughes was on his way. When the nurse finished up and left, Big Mike slipped Kaz a thick envelope. Harding pretended he didn’t notice and told Kaz we’d be back soon. I took Harding along the pathway to the rear of the main building, giving us time and space to talk.
“I think they’ve bugged some of the rooms,” I told him. “There’s a restricted area on the third floor of the north wing. I saw wire recorders and men with headphones, three or four of them. They were so busy taking notes they didn’t notice me.”
“They let you into a restricted area?” Harding asked as we approached the guest quarters.
“No. I snuck in to speak to Densmore. He was a bit of a recluse. But I found him dead, so I got out fast, after I erased the red horse drawn in his own blood on the window.”
“Okay, I understand why you took the postcard. Having it fingerprinted was a good idea. But why get rid of the picture on Densmore’s window?” Harding asked as he looked up at the dark, imposing building to our right.
“The red horse is important to the killer. He wanted people to know Cosgrove and Densmore were guilty of something connected to it. By removing it, I thought he might make a mistake when he showed it again.” I filled Harding in on Robinson and the drawing found in his Italian magazine.
“Do you think your psychiatrist is the killer?” he asked.
“He does have freedom of movement. And one of the patients said he saw an American on the grounds after curfew. But I think it’s more likely something was said to him in a session and overheard by SOE.”
“Snow and his security team,” Harding said, sticking his hands into his pockets.
“Yes, they would have been the first to see any mention of sensitive information. But I’d guess anything suspicious is passed on to SOE headquarters in London. Is there any way you can look into how they operate, Colonel?”
“I had to call in a lot of markers for Gubbins to sign your release order,” he said. “Getting a secretive bunch like SOE to open up about their own internal security is hopeless. Worse than hopeless, since it would reveal what we know, and we’d get nothing in return.”
“I guess,” I said, pointing out the guest quarters where Cosgrove had stayed, and where I hoped to be tonight. “Do you think Blackford would receive reports if someone here talked too much about the German Section?”
“If the person was a real security risk, sure,” Harding said. “Section heads have top-level clearances. But if you’re looking at Blackford as a suspect, I’d worry about any agent he was sending into Germany.”
“You mean the parachute rigging?”
“Yes. I can understand him pressing Sinclair on the design of a radio transmitter that would compress messages. That would save lives and play hell with the German radio detection units. But the parachute tampering sound
s like a method to dispose of one person.”
“But why go to all the trouble of making it look like a malfunction if the agent fell into Kraut territory? Maybe he was thinking about sabotaging parachutes for the Luftwaffe, especially if they were made by slave labor.”
“I doubt it,” Harding said. “Pilots and paratroopers don’t take anything for granted when it comes to their parachutes. Someone would notice. No, I think he’s after a way to dispose of a single person. Might be worth looking into.”
“I’d been considering Blackford as a potential victim,” I said, stopping in my tracks. “He and Cosgrove, along with Snow, were so chummy I didn’t consider him as the killer. I was more worried about protecting him.”
“It would fit,” Harding said, surveying the grounds and outbuildings. “He gets a report and heads here. Two people connected to the German Section die. He leaves. If I were a German Section agent about to board a Lysander, I’d be worried.”
“I wonder if we can get a list of their agents and see if any have a connection to Holland,” I said.
“Impossible,” Harding said. He was right. SOE would never divulge those names. “But why are you curious about Holland? He was French Section.”
“Holland has to play a part in this. And I know I saw someone throw him from that clock tower, which was before Blackford arrived,” I said.
“Boyle, you were imagining things when you were first brought here. Lots of things. You have to accept the possibility you were mistaken. From what Big Mike said, you just settled down recently. After Holland’s death.”
“Okay, okay,” I said as we resumed our walk. “I wonder if Vera Atkins might have any insight to offer?”
“She’s a smart lady,” Harding said. “If there was any scuttlebutt, she’d be sure to pick it up. As for sharing it with you, doubtful.” Vera Atkins was the head of intelligence for the SOE French Section. I’d met her before, and I was sure she’d at least hear me out.
“I might give it a shot when I get to London,” I said. As we walked, I spotted Griffin dart from a building to the cover of a thick tree trunk. We were apparently his surveillance targets for today.
“You’ve mentioned Robinson and Blackford. Any other suspects?” Harding asked.
“Too damn many, Colonel. That’s the problem with this place, it’s chock-full of people trained to kill. Not to mention the corrupt Dr. Hughes,” I said, moving on quickly before Harding could put two and two together. “Then there’s Dr. Fielding, who wanted to practice some kind of electric shock therapy on me. Major Basil Snow, who operated an SOE network behind the lines in Italy. He was wounded and has a pronounced limp. I don’t think he’s crazy about this job. But fieldwork is out of the question, so it’s probably the best he can hope for. He’s in over his head.”
“And he can’t call in the local police or even Scotland Yard,” Harding said.
“Right. Which is why he asked me to poke around.”
“Okay, who else?”
“An American OSS agent named Miller. Talks a lot about his violent tendencies, but it’s all talk. They scrambled his brain with the electric treatment, so he’s not much help. Then there’s the fellow stalking us, Griffin.”
“Behind that tree,” Harding said, crooking his thumb behind us. “What’s his story?”
“Washed out of a mission at the last minute,” I explained. “He’s convinced himself this is a specialized training facility. He’s honing his skills.”
“Which would include assassination,” Harding said. “Who else are you looking at?”
I told him about Iris and Faith, and Faith’s connection with Holland. Even Sergeant Jenkins, who I’d thought was a commando back when I was sleepless and confused.
“Faith might be taking her revenge,” Harding said. “In some way we don’t understand.”
There were many things I didn’t understand about this place. But there was one thing I did know for sure as we passed beneath the clock tower. Harding held my ticket out of here.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
We found Snow at his desk. He looked weary as I did the introductions, and Harding handed over the release order.
“There’s certainly no arguing with this, Colonel Harding,” Snow said, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Captain Boyle, you are free to go. If you still wish, you may stay in the guest quarters tonight, next to Colonel Harding and his sergeant.” He opened a file with my name on it and stuffed the order inside. I was surprised at how thick the folder was.
“I’d like a receipt for that order, Major,” Harding said. “In case the captain has to prove he’s been released. I wouldn’t want an orderly or guard to get in trouble for detaining him.”
“Good point, Colonel. As you can imagine, we don’t get many people eager to extend their stay,” Snow said. “Well, none at all until today.” He wrote out a statement on Saint Albans letterhead, signed and stamped it. It looked official. Maybe I’d have it framed. It was nice to have written proof I wasn’t a lunatic.
“Anything new on the search, Major?” I asked, glancing at the pile of contraband on his table, the red horse sketch still at the top.
“Nothing helpful, I’m afraid,” he said, waving a hand over the accumulated contraband. “Have you come across anything?”
“Other than wondering about Colonel Blackford, no,” I said.
“Well, he’s safe enough. I spoke with him by telephone not an hour ago,” Snow said. “He was eager for any news. He worked closely with Densmore, and, as you know, he and Cosgrove were close. We all were.” He tapped his pen and looked away from my eyes. Stiff upper lip at all times.
“If he’s in London, he should be safe,” I said. “All the potential killers are still here.”
“Or will be, until you leave, Boyle,” Snow said. “Not that I suspect you, but as a policeman I’m sure you’d understand a wide net must be cast.”
“Well then, what about Blackford? You haven’t suspected him at all? Two people close to good old Blackie are killed and he leaves for London. Isn’t your net wide enough for him?” I asked, acting as if I hadn’t just thought about Blackford myself.
“Ridiculous! I would never let friendship get in the way of my duty,” Snow said, throwing the pen down on his desk. Then he gave out a sigh and leaned back in his chair. “But perhaps you have a point. This has all been a shock, and I may have let my assumptions get the better of me. Don’t they say most people are murdered by someone close to them? Or is that only in detective stories?”
“It’s true enough,” I said. “Especially if murder is the primary focus of the killer, not robbery or some other lesser crime. People who are on intimate terms with each other have more cause for friction. Arguments, disagreements, that sort of thing. My Uncle Dan is a homicide detective, and he always told me, ‘Familiarity breeds attempt.’”
“Perhaps I should question Blackie,” Snow said, drumming his fingers on the desk. “I’ll ask the sergeant in charge of the military police to come along and make it official. I don’t want anyone to think I’m playing favorites. Unless you wish to volunteer your services, Captain.”
“He doesn’t,” Harding said. “I have plenty of work waiting for him, and it’s time he moved on. Good luck, Major Snow.”
“Sorry, Major, but you have the right idea,” I said. “Talk to Blackford if only to eliminate him as a suspect. While you’re at it, you might want to ask why he was after Sinclair to design a parachute failure.”
“What do you mean?” Snow asked, obviously taken by surprise.
“When Sinclair went off his rocker, Blackford had been asking for his help on a new transmitter design and a method to sabotage a parachute so it wouldn’t look like it was tampered with,” I said. “You were there, right?”
“Yes, but all I heard Sinclair going on about was the transmitter. Are you sure?”
“Abso
lutely. Sinclair told me about it in the dining hall afterward. Right before Dr. Robinson took him away for a long nap.” Of course, I realized. Snow hadn’t been in the dining hall.
“I did not know that,” Snow said, his brow furrowed. “A despicable notion, if Blackford indeed intended it for one of his own. I shall pursue this, Captain Boyle. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” I said, once the office door shut behind us. “I sure as hell didn’t want to be part of Snow’s investigation. He’s right to be worried about playing favorites, but I think mainly he wants to put on a good show and save his job. Although he did seem genuinely upset about the parachute tampering.”
“It doesn’t impress me as much of a job,” Harding said, looking up and down the looming corridor. “Security officer in an asylum must be a letdown after being in the field with SOE.”
“Someone said it was temporary, while he recuperated from his leg wound. Maybe he’s expecting a promotion and wants to impress his bosses.”
“Or is he covering up his own involvement?” Harding asked as we stopped in the foyer outside Clarissa’s office.
“It’s possible. He knew Cosgrove from way back, but not Densmore as far as I can tell. But I’m sure Holland is the link to the killer. I’d like to know more about how he connects to everyone,” I said, my voice lowered to a whisper.
“Whatever you do, be careful. Listen, I have to get back to Skory,” Harding said, glancing at his wristwatch. “But first, come with me.”
We walked to the staff car parked by the south wing. He opened the trunk and took out a small valise. I opened it and was rewarded with the sight of neatly folded clothes, including one of my olive drab wool shirts, complete with captain’s bars and SHAEF shoulder patch.
“Big Mike thought you might want some decent clothes,” Harding said. “He asked Walter at the Dorchester to pack a bag for you.”
“Thanks,” I said, running my hand over the fine fabric. It felt wonderfully strange, from another time and place. “It’s hard to believe I’ll be back there soon.”
