by James R Benn
“Tomorrow,” Harding said. “Provided you don’t get in any trouble tonight. Skory is recovered enough to travel, and we’re taking him to the Rubens Hotel in London first thing in the morning. We’ll drop you at the Dorchester after that.”
“I’ll be ready,” I said, and gave Harding a proper salute. He snapped one back and hurried inside the south wing. I usually didn’t put much effort into saluting, but something about those shiny captain’s bars and the deep chocolate-brown wool shirt brought out the army in me.
Doesn’t happen all that often.
I went inside, toting my suitcase and feeling upbeat. Except for the killer on the loose, I was coming up aces. Kaz was in good shape, Harding was in on the prisoner exchange caper, and I would be lounging in a first-class hotel this time tomorrow.
Maybe tonight I’d find something helpful in the files. Then I had to work on getting Angelika on the prisoner release list. As I approached Kaz’s room, I banished those thoughts from my mind. I couldn’t look him in the eye and think about Angelika being left behind.
I stood aside while Dr. Hughes exited Kaz’s room. As he walked down the hall, I saw him pat the pocket of his white lab coat. An unconscious gesture, making sure the envelope was snug and safe.
“Hughes looked happy,” I said to Kaz. He was alone in the room, sitting up in bed and wearing his silk robe. “How are you doing?”
“Tired and sore, but well,” he said, in a voice still scratchy and strained. “Thankful.”
“Everything okay with Hughes?”
“I will be released within the week and cleared for a return to active service,” Kaz said. “The two Shirleys have already had me up for another stroll. Dr. Harken is doing remarkable work. Hughes was grudging in his assessment of my operation but had to admit it was successful.”
“I’m surprised at how much better you look so soon after the operation,” I said.
“Harken said it is due to the heart muscle doing its job properly. At long last, I must say. Now, tell me why you come bearing a valise. Are you leaving?”
“Big Mike brought this back, courtesy of our pal Walter. My own duds. I’ve got my walking papers, so I can leave this joint in style. I’ll be at the Dorchester tomorrow, and I’ll come back for you when you’re ready,” I said, grasping his hand.
“Why wait until tomorrow?”
“To see you in the morning,” I said. Then I leaned in closer and whispered. “I’m going into the file room tonight. I want a deeper look at Holland’s file.”
“Be careful,” Kaz said. “I will feel much better when we are both rid of this place.”
“You and me both, buddy,” I said. We sat together quietly, looking out the window at the fading sunlight. Kaz was alive, and I wasn’t off my rocker. We were still partners. The war had treated us roughly and played with the lives of people we loved.
But we were still in the fight.
The guest quarters had names on three doors. Me, Harding, and Big Mike. The fourth, Cosgrove’s room, was thankfully empty. I hung up the uniform Walter had packed for me and sorted through the fancy toiletries he’d sent. Saint Albans had never seen such luxury. I washed up and stretched out on the couch for a catnap. I hadn’t changed into my uniform yet. If things went south tonight, I didn’t want a SHAEF shoulder patch front and center. The worn and faded fatigues I wore were perfect for a midnight skulk.
There was no sign of Harding and Big Mike at suppertime, so I ate alone in the dining hall, counting myself lucky that this would be my last brush with mutton stew. Miller was there but kept to himself. I wondered if he’d been cured, or his brain was permanently fried. Iris and Faith drifted in as I was finishing up. They both had plates of unidentifiable fish surrounded by boiled potatoes and carrots.
“We hear you’re leaving us, Boyle,” Iris said as they sat across from me.
“Word travels fast,” I said.
“Gossip is even faster,” Faith said.
“Speaking in public already? Nice recovery,” I said. “But why do you say gossip?”
“Release order signed by Gubbins?” Iris said. “That’s like a communiqué from God himself. You do have friends in high places, Boyle. Why are you still here?”
I gave them the rundown on Kaz and explained I was bunking in the guest quarters. I recalled they were friendly with Clarissa, and she may well have filed away my release paperwork. I asked if they’d drop in on Kaz tomorrow and check on him. They agreed, more enthusiastically when I reminded them he was a baron.
“About time we got a higher class of inmate around here,” Iris said.
“I wish you both luck,” I said. “I hope you get out soon.”
“I’m ready enough,” Faith said, picking at her fish. “I’m dying for a decent meal.”
“I volunteered for the sleep cure, if only to pass the time,” Iris said. “It’s so boring here.”
“They took Griffin away an hour ago,” Faith said, lowering her voice. “For the long nap. Clarissa said they had to wait until he returned to his room. They couldn’t find him anywhere.”
“That’s a testament to his skills,” I said. “I hope the treatment helps.”
“Goodness knows I’ll be glad to be free of him for a while,” Iris said. “He’s harmless, but it is disconcerting to have him dart from one bush to another when you least expect it.”
I said goodnight and walked upstairs to my former quarters. I showed the guard my note from Snow, but he’d already heard as well. I told him I wanted to grab a few things from my room and went in that direction. Not that I wanted a keepsake, but I did grab my wool cap, a shirt, and the Dopp kit I’d been issued.
Then I went down the hall and checked over my shoulder. The guard wasn’t watching. I slipped into Griffin’s room. I went through his clothes and looked in the bedsheets. There weren’t too many hiding places, so it took less than a minute.
His notebook wasn’t here.
Did he take it with him? Or had he tumbled to the setup and stashed it somewhere safe? He was paranoid about secrets, and I didn’t see him handing it over easily. I left the room, retracing the steps Griffin would have taken on his way in. First stop was the communal washroom. A row of sinks, the porcelain discolored, the faucets pitted and rusting. Bare pipes underneath. Showers with cracked tiles and dripping fixtures. The toilet stalls had no doors, the ancient plumbing on full display. Nowhere to hide a notebook, unless he had a waterproof container. Possible, but retrieving it from a toilet water tank would have been time-consuming and difficult without privacy.
My eye was drawn to a cabinet bolted to the wall, probably used to store cleaning materials and toilet paper. I tried the handle, but it was locked tight. As I did, the cabinet wiggled a bit, so I checked the side. There was a gap where one of the bolts had worked loose from the wall.
There it was, wedged in the gap near the top of the cabinet. A quick and easy hiding place. I grasped a corner of the notepad and pulled it loose. Sticking it in my wool cap, I carried it out in a pile with the other stuff from my room.
I didn’t risk a look until I was back in the guest quarters. I sat on the couch and began to leaf through the pages, hoping to find a clue, perhaps something Griffin had seen without realizing its importance.
But I couldn’t make head or tail of it. The whole damn thing was written in some sort of code, a combination of letters and numbers that made no sense. The question was, had they made sense to Griffin?
There was only one thing left to do. I hotfooted it back to Kaz. He was a fan of code breaking. He could do the Times crossword in pen. Me, I couldn’t understand half the clues.
“Kaz?” I said as I knocked gently on the door to his room. He was asleep, and Dark Shirley was seated in a chair by his bed looking half-awake herself. She put a finger to her lips, but it was too late. Kaz stirred, opening his eyes slowly.
“Billy,” he said, his voice groggy but without the harsh rasp he’d had earlier.
“Sorry,” I said, acknowledging Dark Shirley’s frown.
“Your friend needs his rest,” she said.
“Just a couple of minutes, I promise. I have to leave in the morning, and I wanted to say goodbye.”
“You have as long as it takes me to powder my nose, and that’s it,” she said, glancing at Kaz who smiled graciously. His look turned quizzical as soon as she was out the door.
“What is it?” he asked.
“This,” I said, taking the notebook from my jacket pocket and handing it over. “It’s Griffin’s. He’s off for the sleep treatment so I nabbed it. I thought he might have noted the movements of the killer.”
Kaz fumbled for his eyeglasses on the nightstand. I handed them to him, and he opened the notebook. He began to leaf through the pages, his brow wrinkled as he studied the strings of letters and numbers. I could see his eyelids flicker behind his glasses. He looked ready to fall asleep, and I felt bad about bothering him so late.
“It is a combination of code and cipher,” he said, closing the notebook.
“A code is where each word is replaced with a code word or symbol, right?”
“Yes. That is where the numbers come into play, most likely. For instance, Saint Albans could be represented by the number 191, which I noticed in several places. S being the nineteenth letter and A the first. It is most useful for words that are often repeated. Mixing a code with a cipher complicates breaking both.”
“And a cipher is where each letter is replaced with a different letter,” I said, recalling that Kaz had explained all this to me once before when he broke a code. Or cipher, I guess.
“Exactly. It could be as simple as a substitution cipher, where each letter is replaced by another a fixed number of positions down the alphabet. If this is more of a personal diary, it may not be difficult to decipher. But if it requires a matching text, then it will be somewhat harder.”
“Like the page of a certain book,” I said.
“A book that we do not possess,” Kaz said. “I am sorry, Billy, but I cannot concentrate at the moment. They gave me something to help me sleep, and I am about to surrender to it.” He laid the notebook on the nightstand and removed his glasses, setting them on top of it.
“Take your time, pal,” I said, my hand on his shoulder. He was already asleep, his breathing steady and rhythmic.
I hoped everyone would sleep as soundly as Kaz did tonight.
Chapter Thirty
After midnight, I eased open the door and stepped out onto the guest quarters porch. I stood still, listening for the sound of anyone patrolling nearby. Except for the faint snores coming from Big Mike’s room, the night was silent. No light shone in Harding’s quarters. They’d both come in a couple of hours ago while I lay awake with the lights out. Now it was time to move.
I walked slowly, sticking to the shadows and keeping an eye on the guards’ canteen. It was a lot easier not climbing down a bedsheet ladder and worrying about someone spotting it. I was a free man, and no one had told me to abide by a curfew. That was my story if I was stopped.
I came to the corner at the front of the main building and knelt, scanning the walkway in each direction. I heard the scuff of shoes on gravel from my left and shrunk back into the shadow cast by the partial moon behind drifting clouds. Two guards appeared in the dim light, their rifles slung and murmuring voices low. I waited until they disappeared, then waited some more.
It was a quiet night at the insane asylum.
I headed for the clerical office window, praying that no one had locked it since my last visit. I craned my neck to check on the upper floors. There were a few lights on, but none directly above me. I got a foothold on the sill and hoisted myself up. If anyone happened by, I’d find myself back in the padded cell, signed release from Gubbins or not.
I pushed on the window frame. It creaked and groaned, the old wood swollen from the wet weather. But it moved. I forced it up enough to give me room to slip inside. I winced at the noise as I shut it, but no guards came running. That’s the advantage to an old, dilapidated building. People get used to the sounds of it settling.
I took careful steps to Clarissa’s desk, using the moonlight filtering in through the windows. I found her letter opener and popped the desk-drawer lock. Simple.
I felt around inside the drawer for the keys.
Nothing but paper clips, rubber bands, and pencils. No keys strung together with ribbon.
Damn. She must’ve found a more secure spot after losing track of them, courtesy of yours truly. But where? I squinted, trying to see more clearly in the dark and spot another locked drawer or cabinet. The other desk? Maybe, but Clarissa seemed to be in charge. I doubted she’d hand over responsibility to someone else.
Her other desk drawers weren’t locked, so that ruled them out. I checked the drawer I’d opened again, pulling the office debris to the front. I stuck my hand all the way back and felt a piece of silky ribbon brush my fingertips. Shoving my hand in farther, I grasped the keys, pulling the ribbon off a small nail at the end of the drawer. Clarissa must have hung them there to keep them out of sight. Relieved, I grasped the key set tightly in my right hand.
Which did not shake one damn bit. My luck had turned. All I had to do was remember to put the damned keys back.
Now came the tough part. I didn’t have the blackout lantern, but I had taken the stub of a candle from my quarters. I couldn’t light it yet and risk anyone seeing the flame. Instead I went to the G-L filing cabinet, found the Hs, and rummaged around until I found Holland’s file, his last name and initial clear enough to see.
I crawled under Clarissa’s desk, lit the candle, and prayed the light wouldn’t give me away. I went to the selection board report. I glanced at the photograph of Holland, then the one with him and his buddy Georg in Paris, 1938. Smiling and carefree, like much of Europe before the Nazis started grabbing real estate.
Why was this photo included in his file? Was Georg part of SOE? I hadn’t thought much about him before, but perhaps he played a role in all this. This wasn’t a scrapbook of Holland’s life. It was an official SOE file.
I read on. There was discussion about Holland’s character. Steady nerves. Ability to carry on under stressful conditions. A willingness to take risks and accomplish the mission, no matter the cost. The perfect SOE agent.
His fluency with French and German was noted. Reference was made to the perfect accent his German-Jewish mother had imparted to him as well as his high marks in language courses at the Sorbonne. His mother had been investigated by Scotland Yard. A sensible precaution, given her place of birth and her son’s service with SOE.
I glanced at Robinson’s assessment again and noticed another mention of Holland’s mother. He’d asked Holland if he wanted to talk with her. No dice. He wouldn’t even break his silence for his own mother.
Then I saw it. The first clear link between Holland and SOE’s German Section. Holland had volunteered for any mission available into Nazi Germany. Admirable, the notation said. Request denied, the next line said.
This agent is too valuable.
Made sense, I guess. If working in occupied France was high-risk, an assignment within Nazi Germany itself had to be ten times as dangerous.
But wasn’t that what SOE was all about? Missions that could get you killed?
Holland had brought up the name of his friend, Georg Markstein, touting him as a native German speaker who was also ready for a mission to the Reich. Markstein was a fellow SOE trainee, a German Jew born in Berlin whose family had fled to England as soon as Hitler came to power. Smart people. Markstein was now known as George and spoke English as perfectly as he did German, according to Holland’s enthusiastic recommendation.
Refer Markstein to German Section. Candidate for Operation Periwig.
Apparently, George Markstein was not as valuable as Holland, but enough of an agent to be considered for a drop into Nazi Germany. Would he survive Operation Periwig, whatever that was?
Holland’s selection board report concluded with a recommendation for further radio operator training and then deployment by SOE Section F into occupied France. I already knew what happened next. But I’d learned two things.
First, there was a definite link between Holland and the murders connected to the German Section of SOE.
Second, no one involved had mentioned it. Cosgrove had taken that knowledge to his grave, and Blackford had sloughed off Holland’s connection to his Section as nothing but routine procedure. Yet here their signatures were, scratched boldly on the last pages of a report documenting Holland’s eagerness for a mission with the German Section, and his volunteering of a fellow trainee for the same thing. Densmore had been there as well, his signature below his boss’s.
What secret were Cosgrove and Blackford protecting?
What made Holland too valuable to risk sending him into Germany?
Why was Markstein better suited to the German Section?
And finally, was George Markstein a possible suspect?
I took the photograph of Holland and Markstein and stuck it in my pocket. I doubted anyone would be consulting the file of a dead agent, and even if they did, one missing photo might not be noticed. I didn’t know where this link would lead, but I knew there was a good chance I’d need to show those faces around.
I returned Holland’s file to the cabinet and looked through the M drawers. No Markstein. Whatever happened to him, he hadn’t been through Saint Albans. First order of business when I got back to London would be to ask Blackford about Markstein, assuming no one killed Blackie before I got there.
I searched for Robinson’s file. I didn’t have any reason to suspect him, but, even though it had probably been a plant, the drawing had been found in his room. Add to that the fact that he was the first to hear everyone’s deep, dark secrets, and maybe he should be higher on my list. It took me a while to locate, since staff files were in their own cabinet. I grabbed Robinson’s, Snow’s, and Hughes’s files and crawled back under the desk.
