“RAF has a team coming to deal with the nose. We’ve got the tail.”
Maggie was well aware this would be the first time an attempt was being made to render safe and remove a No. 37 pistol complete with its antiremoval device from a bomb. “Well,” she said, pulling on leather gloves. “Let’s go.”
It took six hours for Maggie and Albert Cora to remove the complete pistol from the bomb. They used a rocket wrench and metal Catherine wheel clamped to the pistol, and communicated only in profanity. Later, washed and changed into clean clothes, Maggie and Cora toasted each other with an apple-scented whiskey.
One of the sappers entered, chewing on the stem of an unlit pipe. “Can’t believe we got called in for one of our own,” Christopher Bowman said. He was tall and thin, and had pale, freckled skin stretched taut over high cheekbones.
“How’s the pilot doing?” Maggie asked.
“They say he’s in critical condition. Poor bastard—what’s he going to tell his grandchildren? That he almost accidentally bombed the home team?”
“I think he has bigger things to worry about,” Cora said.
“True, true.” Bowman helped himself to whiskey and sat down in front of the fireplace with Maggie and Cora. “To surviving today,” he said, putting down the pipe and raising his glass.
Maggie and Cora raised theirs as well. “To surviving today.”
They drank in silence, the mood darkened by the near miss until Bowman spoke. “Now, ‘Hoist with your own petard,’ ” he began. “Is that about explosives or farting?”
“To be hoist with your own petard is to be blown up by your own bomb,” Cora said.
“A petard was a medieval engine of war,” Maggie explained, “consisting originally of a bell-shaped metal container filled with explosives, used to blow in a door or a gate or breach a wall. But the word petard comes from the French word peter, meaning to break wind. So…” She leaned back with her glass.
“It was Polonius who used the phrase,” Cora said.
“Hamlet!” Bowman interjected. “Yes!” He picked up his pipe and began chewing again.
There was a knock at the open door; it was Colonel Salter. “Anyone care to go out again?” As though he’s asking us to go for a walk in the park, Maggie thought. Still, she could use another shot of adrenaline.
“Our shift’s over, Colonel,” Bowman replied, taking a swig of whiskey.
“I’m afraid we have a place to fill.”
Cora frowned. “Someone’s gone missing?”
Maggie felt a wave of fear. “Who?”
“Carmine Basso,” he said.
She sat up straight. It had been nearly two weeks since Basso had gone to see his dying father in the internment camp. “He should be back from Orkney by now—he still hasn’t called in?”
“Not even once, the blighter. Better believe I’ll give him a good what-for when he finally arrives.”
Maggie’s stomach cramped around the whiskey. “Has anyone telephoned?”
“I did call—his wife didn’t seem particularly worried.”
She was not reassured. “Do you have his address?”
“Ninety-five Farringdon Road, in Clerkenwell.”
She went to the telephone, picked up the receiver, and dialed. After being put through to a number of offices, she reached Durgin’s secretary. “Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin. Yes, I’ll hold.” She exhaled as she waited, blushing at the memory of his rebuff the night before.
“It’s Maggie,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended, when he picked up. “No time for pleasantries, I’m afraid. One of the men of the Hundred and Seventh is missing. Carmine Basso. His address is ninety-five Farringdon Road in Clerkenwell.”
There was a pause. “Meet you there?” Durgin said.
“Yes.” She hung up, then crushed out her cigarette in an overflowing ceramic ashtray and went to get her handbag.
“Where are you off to, Miss Hope?” the Colonel asked.
“Clerkenwell. To see Mrs. Basso.”
“I’m sure it’s just hard for him to travel—” Cora began.
“Have any of you received any white feathers?” she asked sharply.
“White feathers?” Bowman looked confused, the pipe nearly falling from his mouth. “No, why?”
Because you could be marked for death, that’s why. “If you do, tell me. Write up some kind of memo, telling anyone who’s given a white feather to come and talk to me. Please.”
“Does a white feather have something to do with Basso?” Cora stood. “For the love of God and King, what’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t say at the moment,” Maggie said, walking to the door. Her hands were balled into fists, her nails cutting red crescents into her palms. She called over her shoulder, “Please, though—do let me know if anyone receives a white feather.”
* * *
—
At a bench across from the Farringdon Tube station, Maggie met Durgin, his expression uncharacteristically gentle and apologetic. “I’m sorry. I hope it’s just all a misunderstanding and he’s safe and sound in Scotland.”
Maggie nodded, lips pressed together so what she really wanted to say wouldn’t somehow burst out. Together they consulted a slip of paper with an address and a street map, then walked through Clerkenwell to Carmine Basso’s flat. Maggie had never been to this London neighborhood before; it reminded her of Boston’s North End. They walked past bustling restaurants and cafés, as well as stores selling plaster Madonnas, Sacred Hearts, and Sant’Antonios. Somewhere down the street, Maggie could hear a group of young girls chanting:
I charge my daughters every one
To keep good house while I am gone,
You and you and especially you,
Or else I’ll beat you black and blue.
Durgin stopped halfway down Vine Hill, then consulted the spiky writing on his notes. “Here we are.”
Maggie looked up at the red-brick apartment building. She took a deep breath. “All right, then. Let’s go.” She pressed the buzzer for Apartment 3; the door was eventually opened by a petite, dark-haired, bright-eyed woman wearing a blue dress printed with RAF planes. Maggie guessed she was somewhere in her early thirties. She wore a necklace with a St. Christopher medal.
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Durgin, ma’am, and this is my associate, Margaret Hope,” Durgin said, showing his badge. “We’re here about Carmine Basso.”
“I’m Renata Basso,” she said, in heavily accented English. “Carmine’s wife. Is—is he in any trouble?” she asked, her face pale.
“No, Mrs. Basso,” Durgin said. “May we come in?”
“Of course.” She ushered them through the cramped lobby.
“I work with Mr. Basso,” Maggie offered, as Durgin removed his hat. “At the Hundred and Seventh.”
“Ah—the bombs.” She made a disapproving sound.
“Yes,” Maggie said, as they followed her up steep stairs. “But he was due to return from Orkney some time ago and come back to work. We’re concerned.”
“Ah,” Renata exclaimed. She looked relieved. “He was home last night.” She opened the door to her flat on the third floor and ushered them in. “We had dinner together,” she said, gesturing for them to sit on a small sofa, which they all did. “Then he went out. He’s always going out,” she explained, with a wave of one hand. “He has a card game with some of the other men from the neighborhood—they play Terziglio.”
The room was comfortable, with sturdy furniture covered in doilies and a reproduction of Raphael’s cherubim over the fireplace. The two chubby young angels rested on their elbows looking heavenward.
“How did he look?” Durgin asked.
“Fine,” Renata replied, not meeting his eyes.
“Was he upset?”
Her face was as inn
ocent as those of the angels in the picture. “He was just as he always is. Tired.”
“But normally Mr. Basso would be home for the night?” Maggie pressed.
Renata shrugged. “Sometimes, sometimes no. Sometimes in the early morning. I don’t ask questions.” She smiled. “We’ve been married for over ten years now, after all.”
“Did you hear him come in at any point last night?” Durgin asked.
“No,” she answered. “Really, it’s not so unusual.”
“It is unusual for Mr. Basso to miss work, though. Before he left for Orkney, he’d never missed a shift.” Maggie tried her best to lift the corners of her mouth. “It’s probably nothing—but…”
“Honestly, I expect him to come home any minute, asking for his tea.”
Maggie and Durgin exchanged glances. “Would it be possible to see the bedroom, Mrs. Basso?” Maggie asked.
Renata appeared tense for a moment, then her face relaxed. “You’re a good girl,” she proclaimed. “A good friend to my Carmine.” She led them down a narrow hallway to a small bedroom, and motioned they could go inside. The double bed was neatly made with a faded quilt. There was a framed picture of Jesus with a dried palm frond tucked behind it over the headboard. A stack of books on the bedside table included Robert Graves’s Good-bye to All That, Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front, and Aldous Huxley’s Ends and Means. Maggie looked at the doily-covered dresser. There was a framed black-and-white photograph of a silver-haired couple. “Who are they?” Maggie asked.
“Carmine’s parents,” she said. “They lived with us before—”
“Before?” Maggie prodded.
“Before they went away.”
“Oh,” Maggie said, realizing she meant to the internment camps. “So they were both sent to Orkney?”
“Yes.” Renata spat. “Orkney. Isn’t it a horrible-sounding word? Scottish is not musical, like Italian.”
Durgin stopped himself from commenting. “Are they still there?”
Renata crossed herself. “His mother died a month ago. His father just last week. ‘Old age,’ we were told. But they were only seventy and healthy as horses. Walked every day, up and down the hills of the Quarter.”
“I’m so sorry,” Maggie said.
“To the best of your knowledge,” Durgin interjected, “is anything missing?”
“No, no,” she said without looking.
“Does he own a suitcase?” Maggie asked.
“He—he keeps it under the bed.”
Durgin peered under the bed and then looked up at Maggie with a shake of his head. There was no suitcase.
Maggie’s stomach dropped. “Mrs. Basso, was your husband planning a trip at any point? Did he say anything about going away?” They could hear the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves on the cobblestone street below, and a man bellowed, “Arrotino! Knife sharpening! Knife sharpening!”
“No, no!” She smiled with embarrassment. “Probably got drunk at the card game last night and is sleeping it off.”
“Pretty late in the day,” Durgin offered.
“Have you ever seen your husband with any white feathers?” Maggie asked.
Renata nodded. “Those feather girls—so mean. But he pays them no mind.”
Maggie was confused. The woman didn’t seem at all worried, not even with her husband missing and a suitcase gone. “I—I’m sorry to have to ask this, but it’s for the file. Has Mr. Basso had any dental work done? Cavities filled? Anything unique about his teeth?”
“Two cavities,” Renata said. “Top back—the big ones—what do you call them?”
“Molars,” Maggie supplied.
“Molars. Both sides. And done in silver, too. England, not Italy.” Then, “You don’t think…”
“Just for our records, ma’am,” Durgin assured her. They made their way out of the room. “If—”
“When,” Maggie corrected.
“When he shows up, you’ll telephone us?” He gave his card to Renata. “Let us know?”
“I will,” she assured them. “Thank you. You are very kind, good friends. Grazie for coming by.”
Maggie turned at the door, studying the woman holding the door open. Her relief at their leaving was palpable and it unsettled Maggie. Why aren’t you worried about your husband? she wondered. “Mrs. Basso, we’ll do everything in our power to find your husband—if he’s indeed missing. As soon as there’s any news on our end, we’ll let you know.”
“Dio vi benedica e vi protegga,” Renata said. “Bless you.”
* * *
—
Outside, the air was thick and the clouds low and dark. “So, what do you think?” Durgin asked.
“I think there’s something else going on, something she’s not telling us.”
“Obviously.”
“And he’s received white feathers.”
“Yes.”
Maggie clenched her fists, then said in a calm voice, “If the Met Police had warned people about the white feathers, we wouldn’t be here.”
“You may be right. But we’d lose whatever slim lead we have in this case.”
“Carmine Basso might be dead! His bones could be in the next suitcase washing up on the banks of the Thames!”
“It was good you asked about the dentistry. I’ll cross-check the skulls when I get back to the Yard.”
“James, this isn’t just a skeleton—Carmine is a human being. He tells terrible jokes and drinks shandy. He crosses himself and says the Lord’s Prayer in Latin every day before going out with the Hundred and Seventh. He’s a person.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “I know.”
They walked in silence, then Maggie took his hand. “I know you have your reasons for doing what you do. But I can’t support them.”
“Understood. And it was good of you to come—I know you didn’t want to be involved with this Greenteeth mess.”
“Well, Jimmy Greenteeth seems to have found me now.”
Durgin clapped his hat back on his head. “Since we’re already in Clerkenwell, how about paying a call on Giacomo Genovese’s Aunt Silvana?”
Maggie bit the inside of her cheek. “Why not?”
* * *
—
Durgin had the address: 37 St. Cross Street, which was a black door between a junk shop and a pharmacy. A delivery truck stood at the curb across the street, the elderly donkey munching from a bag of oats. Maggie sidestepped a pile of dung and rang the bell.
A few moments passed, then a woman in her mid-fifties answered. She was short and plump, dark hair pulled back into a circle of a bun, a distinguished streak of white at one temple. Seeing them, the woman hesitated, suspicion settling over her features. “Good afternoon?” she said in lilting, accented English.
“Hello—are you Mrs. Silvana Genovese? I’m DCI James Durgin, with Scotland Yard. This is my associate, Miss Margaret Hope.”
Silvana’s eyes darted back and forth between them. “What is all this?”
“We’d like to speak to you, about your nephew Giacomo Genovese’s missing violin.”
She crossed her arms over her ample chest. “I don’t know anything about that.” Then, “How do I know you’re really a detective?”
Durgin pulled out his identification and handed it over. She examined it at length, squinting. “Did you find the violin?” she asked in a tight voice as she passed it back.
“No,” Maggie replied. “But we met with Mr. Genovese and he remembered you’d been there the night of the theft.” Silvana’s mouth flattened.
Durgin noticed a few faces at the glass of neighboring windows. “Perhaps it would be better to discuss this in private?”
Silvana’s eyes swept up and down the street, then she nodded. “Va bene.” The older woman led the way upstairs. Durgin re
moved his hat and let Maggie go first, following behind.
The flat at the end of the hall was dark and cramped, with heavy furniture and thick curtains over taped glass panes. There were framed photographs of Giacomo and his violin everywhere, as well as of a much younger man with similar facial features. “Please have a seat,” Silvana said. “Would you like an espresso? Chicory, I’m afraid.”
“No, thank you,” Maggie replied as she and Durgin perched on the edge of a sofa. “You were there, at the Wigmore, the night the violin was stolen.”
Silvana sat in an overstuffed chair, her hands restless. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t asked to.”
“Why didn’t you offer to speak to them?” Durgin pressed. “Where were you while they were questioning everyone?”
She waved one hand, frowning. “I left.”
“You left?” Durgin’s professional façade looked in danger of slipping, and he muttered something that sounded to Maggie like Scottish Gaelic.
“No one notices a woman in black, Detective,” she said. “And I was tired. It was hot and crowded. I wanted to go home. I couldn’t help the police with anything, after all.”
Maggie smiled. “Can you describe what happened that night?”
“I went to the concert, to see our Giacomo play. He was wonderful, as always. I went backstage to see him and thank him for the ticket. He was surrounded by people, mostly young women. Then I left.”
“You went to the Wigmore alone?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see anyone in Giacomo’s dressing room you recognized?”
“There were a lot of people. Drinking fizz and laughing. I didn’t stay.”
Maggie looked at one of the photographs of a younger man on the fireplace’s narrow mantel. “Who’s this?”
Silvana folded her hands in her lap and began twisting her wedding band. “That’s my son,” she replied. “Francesco. They call him ‘Frankie.’ ”
“Does Francesco live in London?” Maggie asked.
“No, he’s…away.”
“In the military?” Maggie asked, even as she noticed the young man wasn’t in uniform.
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