“All right,” Bourke said. “Now, what’s this all about?”
“We’re interested in a military operation that occurred in December, 1944, near—”
“What kind of operation?” Bourke growled.
“OSS, sir. It was—”
“Young man, I was a command officer assigned to Omar Bradley. I don’t remember some goddamn spy operation that occurred thirty years ago. What do you think I am, a military encyclopedia?”
“No sir, but—”
“There were probably a hundred OSS operations during the time I was in Italy. Quite frankly, I was too busy trying to win the war to be bothered with those spooks.”
“Yes, sir. Perhaps if I told you—”
“Eureka! There it is. Right beside the fairway. What luck.” He pulled up and got out of the cart and looked down the fairway toward the green. “A straight shot to the pin. Look at that. Bloody good shot after all.” He looked at Sharky and winked. “Have to take that club over to Ordnance and have the boys take that hook out of it, eh? Heh, heh.”
“General, is there anybody on this base who might remember the incident?”
Bourke looked at him for a few moments more, then turned to the caddy. “Gimme that five iron, caddy,” he said. He held out his hand and waited for the caddy to put the club in it. “Martland. Martland’s your man. If anybody can help you, it’d be Martland.”
“Martland?”
“Colonel Martland. A bird colonel waiting for his star so he can retire. He was in intelligence and he was in Italy during the war. I believe he lives on K Street.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”
“Young fellow?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Colonel Martland has a mind like a razor, particularly about World War Two. In fact, he’s a goddamn bore about it. There’s one thing. He’s a little whacko, if you know what I mean. His wife died about two years ago and he’s been somewhat out to lunch ever since.”
“Oh.”
“He has his moments. I’m not saying he’s a goddamn loony bird. He’s just, uh … a little loose in the attic. What I’m saying, son, is it may take a little patience. So be kind to him, all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t get hit by any goddamn golf balls. I don’t want to be sued by the police department.”
_____________________
It was a tidy street with tidy lawns trimmed neatly to the sidewalk and tidy white frame bungalows, each one a replica of the one next to it, each one sitting exactly the same distance back from the road. The only distinction among the houses was the landscaping, an obvious attempt by the officer tenants to bring some individuality to their homes.
A white Cadillac, several years old but in mint condition, sat in the driveway. They waited for several minutes after ringing the bell before the door was opened by a wiry little man, trim and erect, with pure white hair and a white mustache which might have been elegant had it not been trimmed slightly shorter on the right side than on the left. He was dressed in a tight-fitting Army jumpsuit with a white silk scarf at his throat. He was also wearing a baseball cap, tennis shoes, and held a riding crop in one hand.
“Yes?” he said, squinting out through the screen door.
“Colonel Martland?” Sharky said.
“I am Colonel Martland.”
“Yes, sir. I’m Detective Sharky and this is Sergeant Livingston.”
Martland stared from one to the other. “Yes?”
“From the Atlanta Police Department, sir. Sergeant Weinstock called about us?”
“Oh, yes. Weinstock. Of course. Well, won’t you come in?”
He held the door and they entered a house whose walls were barren of paintings or photographs. There was little light inside. He led them into the living room, a room so bleak, so obvious, that Sharky immediately felt burdened by its sadness. Propped against the mantelpiece was an oil painting of a woman in riding clothes with a smoking volcano in the background. That and a chintz sofa were the only furnishings in the room. No tables, no lamps, no chairs, only unopened crates shoved into the corners.
Martland pointed to the sofa and then sat down on the edge of one of the crates, his knees together, the riding crop resting on his thighs as he held it at each end.
“You must forgive the place. I don’t entertain much anymore. Not since my wife, Miriam”—and he turned and looked up at the painting and smiled—“went away,” he said. “I really must … do something….” and then the words died as he stared around the oppressive room. He looked back at Sharky and stared at him.
Sharky said, “Uh, Colonel, if you have a few minutes, we’d like to ask you some questions.”
He continued to stare at Sharky and frowned. “Is it something to do with the car? Did somebody hit the car?”
“Oh, no, sir, it hasn’t got anything to do with, uh, this isn’t a personal matter. It, uh, we’re conducting an investigation.”
Martland did not change his expression. He continued to stare at Sharky.
“What it is, sir, we, uh, this relates to some things that happened in Italy during the war.”
Martland still did not speak.
“You were in Italy during the war, weren’t you, sir?”
“Is that World War Two?”
“Yes, sir, World War Two.”
“Oh, yes.” And he stopped again, staring past Sharky now, frowning for perhaps a full minute before a smile spread over his face.
“North Africa, Sicily, Italy. 1942 through 1945. Then we were in West Germany for three years and then on to Schofield Barracks. That’s in Honolulu, you know. We lived there for ten glorious years, my wife and I.” He looked back up at the painting and smiled again. “I believe the years in Hawaii were the best years in our career.”
And he stopped and stared again.
“Do you remember during the time in Sicily and Italy, meeting a man named Scardi? Angelo Scardi? He was a civilian who was there in some kind of advisory capacity.”
Another frown. Another blank stare. Martland stared past Sharky into a dark corner of the room. A full minute crept painfully by, then suddenly he almost bellowed:
“The American racketeer!” And began laughing. “Dom, that’s what he preferred to be called. For Dominic, his middle name. Hah! Haven’t thought about that rascal for years. Quite a fellow, you know. Very tough. And courageous, oh, yes, particularly for a civilian. Knew him well. Told some shocking stories about the underworld. He was assigned to an intelligence unit commanded by one of my junior officers. Lieutenant McReady. John Sisson McReady from Virginia. Killed at Cassino. Bloody shame. But then …”
He stopped in mid-sentence, as abruptly as he had started, his mind searching back in time for other memories.
“Uh, what did this Scardi do? In Sicily I mean?”
Another minute or two crawled by as Martland stared and frowned, stirring through the mass of time and dates and places. And then, once again, the words came in a rush.
“He was a native of Sicily. Let me see … Siracusa, a little town on the southeastern tip of the island. We made a beachhead there during the invasion. Scardi knew the place like the seat of his pants. Every road, every footpath, every stone wall. He went in a month or so before the assault, scouted the entire area, radioed information every night. Set up little pockets of resistance to badger Jerry.”
And that was it again. It was as though he were turning a switch in his brain on and off.
“What was, uh, Gela-Pachino-Calta—”
“Caltagirone. Towns in southern Sicily. A little triangle. After Sicily fell, Dom Scardi was the civilian liaison between the military government and the locals. Our objective was territory, gentlemen. Geography, not people. The sooner they returned to self-government the better. That’s what Scardi did, helped them get back on their feet. And kept them out of our hair.”
He stopped again, but this time as Sharky started to ask another question he cut him off. There was a
touch of anger in his voice when he spoke.
“They were going to deport him, the Justice Department, did you know that? Undesirable alien, that’s what they said. Well, he acquitted himself admirably. Unless I’m mistaken he became an American citizen after the war.”
Livingston looked at the floor and muttered, “Great!”
Sharky ignored him, pressing on. “Later on, after Sicily, Scardi went to Italy, didn’t he?”
Another long pause. More frowns, followed by the customary burst of information.
“He worked with the guerrillas, behind the German lines. They were Communists, of course, been fighting the Germans since the beginning of the war. Totally disorganized. Scardi scouted them out, got them supplies, money, medicine. He had an idea to try and bring them all together so they’d be more effective. A dangerous thing to do. He was a civilian involved in espionage. If the Germans had caught him, bang! Would’ve been shot, just like that, on the spot. No ceremony.” And he stopped and after a few seconds, almost reflectively he repeated the name, “Dominic Scardi,” and it lingered in the dreary room like a mention of the plague and Sharky felt the furies building inside him, thought about Domino and a man, humiliated in death, tossed away in a garbage dump without any face or hands. Dominic Scardi. How could this possibly be the same man who Martland regarded as a hero?
Finally Sharky said, “Do you remember something called Opstitch?”
Martland reacted immediately, turning and looking straight at Sharky.
“I believe that information is classified, sir,” he said.
“Colonel, that was thirty years ago.”
“Classified nevertheless.”
“Sir, this is important. We’re investigating a murder case involving people Scardi knew. Anything you give us could be helpful.”
Livingston finally spoke up. “It might prevent innocent people from getting hurt,” he said.
“Humph,” Martland said and snorted through his nose. He struggled with the question, balancing it. Then he began to nod vigorously.
“Bureaucratic folderol!”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Bureaucratic folderol. Utter nonsense. No reason really for Opstitch to be classified. It was a snafu. That’s all, plain and simple, a snafu. Opstitch was Operation Stitch, for ‘a stitch in time.’ A bit obvious, of course, but then nobody ever accused the army of being subtle. Stitch was Scardi’s idea. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. I’m sure you know very little about the Italian campaign. God knows, few do. The forgotten war. And a bitter one. This was in the autumn of ’44. The war in Italy had gone badly. Terrible terrain. Incessant rain. Very costly. Every inch paid for dearly. So, that fall the Americans and Germans were face to face in the Po Valley. A stalemate. Three months it went on like that, neither side giving up a foot.
“Scardi had gone on reconnoiter up in the northern section around Lake di Garda. There were dozens of guerrilla outfits up there. The most effective, according to Scardi, was led by a resistance fighter who called himself La Volte. The Fox. Had a price on his head. Scardi suggested that we provide him with the money and supplies to consolidate all these bands into a single strike force. Hit Jerry from behind while the American and British troops would launch a massive frontal attack at the same time. And it could have worked to break the deadlock. So … that was Opstitch.”
Martland stopped and smiled, as though he were proud of himself. He ran his tongue between his teeth and his upper lip, smoothed his mustache with his fingers, and looked back at the painting of Miriam Martland.
“Did Scardi pull it off?”
“Oh, no, no, no. No, sir. Scardi got sick. Intestinal malaria I believe was the diagnosis. That was in October. The mission actually was carried off in December. Two weeks before Christmas, as I recall. I was in Rome at the time. A major named Halford took over the assignment. Moody fellow. Killed in the Orient some years ago. He sent a bright young officer named Younger in several times to make arrangements with La Volte. It was Younger who actually took the mission in. But Scardi had nothing to do with it by then. Been back in the States for two or three months.”
“And what happened?”
Martland drummed on his crop with nervous fingers. His forehead wrinkled and he shook his head in short jabs several times before answering.
“A disaster. Younger and three men parachuted in. The next night the air force dropped supplies, weapons, and four million dollars in gold bullion. The Germans overran our position, killed Younger and two of his men. The other one was wounded and hid out in an Italian village until it was liberated. After the war Younger and his men were found buried near the lake. The gold was never recovered.”
“How about this other man, the one that got away? Do you remember his name?”
He stared out the window, almost entranced, and said, “An Irish name … Lonnigan … Harrigan … ah, I’ve got it. Corrigon. That was it, Corrigon.”
“You wouldn’t have any idea where he is today, would you, Colonel?” Livingston said.
Martland nodded slowly. “In prison. Federal prison. Courtmartialed. Accused of murder and grand theft, tried, and convicted. I was there. Sketchy evidence really. Mostly circumstantial. Never would have held up in a civil court, y’know. But in courts martial a man is guilty until he proves his innocence.”
“And the four million in gold?”
“Yes?” Martland said.
“What happened to it?”
“Oh, God only knows.”
“You mean the army just wrote it off?”
“It was wartime. Four million dollars was … really nothing at all. I should guess … hmmm … probably charged off to the operational budget of the OSS, although military intelligence might have had to split it. I was gone before that was all settled.”
The room was quiet. Martland seemed to be drifting away from the conversation.
“I have one more question,” Livingston said, but Martland did not answer. “Colonel?”
“Ah, yes?”
“How were the other Americans identified after all those months?”
“Dog tags. Personal belongings. No question about it. Ah, and one other thing. A Thompson gun issued to the man Corrigon was found in the grave. It was the most damaging piece of evidence against him.”
Sharky said, “Can you think of anything else about Scardi?”
Martland reflected a few moments and said, “Oh, it was exciting, having an American gangster there with us. He was quite a celebrity. Quite a celebrity.” Then he fell silent again and this time his gaze became almost glassy.
Sharky stood up. “Well, thank you, sir. You’ve been a great help.”
“I did well, then, eh?”
“Yes, sir. You did well.”
Martland turned to the portrait. “Hear that, Miriam. My memory’s just as good as ever. Takes a while now, but it all comes back, my dear. It all comes back.”
And he sat on the crate, his shoulders beginning to sag, his gaze fixed on another time, the memories reflecting in his faded eyes, a time of mirror-shined shoes and white gloves, of chin straps and marching orders echoing through the barracks and tattoo in the late afternoon.
_____________________
They drove for ten minutes without speaking. It was Sharky who finally broke the silence.
“It was like turning on a tape recorder, listening to someone dictating his memoirs. All of a sudden it would just pour out, like rote.”
“He’s probably told that story a thousand times in the last thirty years, all about the wonderful American gangster.”
“Yeah, and probably word for word.”
“I feel sorry for the old coot,” Livingston said. “The Army’s all he’s got left and it ignores him, letting him hang around long enough to make general, so he can get a few more bucks in a pension he’ll probably never spend. Shit.”
“What about Scardi? This Opstitch thing?”
“Anybody thinks Angelo Scardi didn’t have a hand i
n a four-million-dollar ripoff ought to be committed.”
“But why wasn’t that obvious to the army?”
“You heard what the old boy said. Four million in gold was just a piss in the ocean. All they needed was a fall guy so they could close the book on it, charge it off on some budget. Jesus!”
They drove another block in silence and Livingston said, “Go down Spring and turn into Carnegie Way.”
“Where we headed?”
“The public library. Best place I can think of to get a photograph of Scardi.”
Sharky waited in the car while Livingston went inside. He was gone for almost half an hour and when he returned was carrying a large manila envelope. He got into the car and took out a photograph and laid it in Sharky’s lap.
“There’s the face to go with the name,” he said.
Sharky stared down at it. It was a copy of a newspaper photo of a man seated at a table surrounded by reporters and photographers, his hands splayed out in a gesture of innocence. But the look was there, in the vapid stiletto face, the hawk nose, the dead eyes, the humorless grin on thin, cruel lips, the slick black hair. It was a face that was easy to hate and Sharky’s anger welled up anew, stirring his lust for retribution, an almost perverse passion that overwhelmed him, swelling in his groin, churning in his stomach. At that moment Sharky could easily have killed Scardi with his bare hands.
Livingston took Xerox copies of several clippings from the envelope.
“I ain’t gonna bore you with a lot of details,” Livingston said, “but I thought you might like to get a taste. This creep’s got a pedigree you won’t believe. When he was fourteen he had to leave Sicily because he slit a neighbor’s throat in some kind of family squabble. He lived in northern Italy for five years before he came over here. His uncle was Lupo the Wolf, the son of a bitch who started the Black Hand movement…. Came here in ’35, arrested the next year for extortion and kidnapping … Christ, here’s an article says he was suspected of killing over fifty people. You know where he got the nickname The Undertaker? He supposedly invented the double-deck coffin, to get rid of hits.”
“And when did he supposedly die?”
Livingston checked through the sheaf of Xeroxed clippings. “Here’s his obit. February 16, 1968. Cancer.”
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