by James R Benn
“G-2, third floor, quadrant two,” he said, and then went back to his paperwork. The diagram showed all five floors and four sections of the building, each with its own courtyard. I figured out where I was and spotted the rooms allocated to Fifth Army Intelligence. I took the staircase, got lost a couple of times, tripped over communications wire strung across a hallway, watched a rat scamper out of an empty room, and finally found a door with G-2 painted above it. I knocked and entered. The room was cavernous, with a row of deep-set windows at the far side. Maps were mounted on the walls, desks pushed together in the middle, telephone line strung like a clothesline above my head.
There were three noncoms in the office. One staff sergeant and a master sergeant ignored me, leaving it to a corporal to handle stray officers. The corporal looked at me, one eye squinting against the cigarette smoke that drifted from the butt stuck in his mouth. He went back to the photograph he was studying through a magnifying glass, looked up again a few seconds later, and finally spoke when it was apparent I wasn’t going away. “Help you, lieutenant?”
“I’m looking for Major John Kearns.”
“What’s your business, sir?” The corporal leaned back in his chair as he spoke, while the two sergeants stood and moved to opposite sides of the room, one of them resting his hand on the butt of his automatic.
“That’s between me and the major, who asked me to come here. Ease up, fellas, I’m not carrying a fifty-card deck.”
“You’ll have to excuse us, Lieutenant Boyle,” said a voice from a narrow hallway at the far end of the room. “The boys are a little overprotective these days. Come on in.” I caught a glimpse of a tall, lean figure as he disappeared into the shadows. The noncoms relaxed, but watched me in a way that made me nervous to show them my back.
The hallway was dark, paneled in wood that gave off a musty smell of rot and centuries of dust. It opened into a large room with a fireplace big enough to stand in and windows ten feet high. Marble pillars flanked the windows, and the arched ceiling was painted with scenes of Roman soldiers and pudgy women in white flowing gowns.
“Quite a place, isn’t it?” Kearns said, gesturing for me to sit. He had high cheekbones and close-cropped hair with a hint of gray creeping in. He wore a. 45 in a shoulder holster and looked like he was on friendly terms with it. He took his place opposite me at a long table strewn with maps and glossy black-and-white photographs, a confusion of shorelines, mountaintops, and gun emplacements. I didn’t think the question really needed an answer, so I nodded and waited for him to explain things.
“How’s Sam?” he asked.
“Fine, Major. You know him well?”
“Sam Harding and I were in the same class at West Point,” he said, holding up a hand to show me the West Point ring. “We were roommates.” He went silent, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.
“How did you come to ask for me to be sent here, sir?”
“Sam and I got together a few times in Naples, when he was still in Italy. He told me about you. Said you weren’t half bad at snooping around.”
“That’s not something I’ve heard from him very often,” I said. Never was more like it.
“No, you wouldn’t. But like I said, we go way back. Even though he had a few drinks in him, I knew he meant it. Tell me he was right.”
“Snooping is easy. Finding a murderer is another thing, especially when there are thousands of guys within a few miles, all heavily armed and trained to kill.”
“I need you to find this guy, Boyle. Find him and stop him.”
“What about the military police? CID? I’d think the new Criminal Investigation Division would be all over this one. Solving it would make the guy in charge a hero.”
“Make, or break. There’s no guarantee CID can close the case. I want someone on the job who’s got nothing to lose. Find the guy or not, you go back to London when it’s over. Work with CID, but you get this killer before he deals another card.”
“How is G-2 involved? Is this an intelligence matter?”
“Everything is, until I understand what’s behind it. Right now, I don’t know if this is a German agent, a stay-behind Italian Fascist, or someone who wants a promotion the easy way. And I don’t like not knowing. CID is not under my jurisdiction, but you are. Understood?”
“Sure, Major, I understand that. What I don’t get is what’s so damned important that you needed to pull me in. Do you have any reason to believe you’re next?”
“We have more majors here than we know what to do with, Boyle. As a matter of fact, I worry more about some trigger-happy major plugging the next poor slob who taps him on the shoulder to ask for a light. But that’s my worry. I’ve got two things I want you to worry about.” Kearns leaned forward, folding his arms on the table, his head inclined so that he stared at me with his eyeballs nearly rolled up. I waited ten, fifteen seconds, and then knew it was up to me to ask.
“What two things, sir?”
“One, finding the killer. Two, what I’ll do to you if you ever again suggest that I called you here for my personal protection.” He nodded toward the hallway. “Corporal Davis has your billeting information and will tell you where CID is. Ask for Sergeant Jim Cole. Now get out.”
I did, thinking that he and Harding must have gotten along well at West Point.
The corporal gave me billeting papers and directions to CID. Quadrant one, second floor. As I climbed the stairs, I wondered about Kearns and his attitude. Not that I didn’t care about anybody- major, private, or civilian-being murdered. But there were murders everywhere, not to mention deaths in combat, and the mass killings going on in occupied Europe. All over the continent, people were being shot, strangled, gassed, knifed, bludgeoned, and poisoned. Some because of who they were, others because of the uniform they wore, and often because someone they loved-or once had loved- lost his or her temper in a rage of jealousy and possessiveness. Death was everywhere, commonplace. So why was I here? Kearns didn’t impress me as the kind of guy who needed a bodyguard flown in, and I knew Harding wouldn’t have cooperated if that were what he’d wanted. Maybe he wasn’t too worried about dead majors or even dead colonels. Maybe it was the ace of hearts that kept him up at night.
As I navigated the maze of hallways and descended a marble staircase, I counted officers. By the time I found CID, I’d given up counting majors after a dozen. There’d been six lieutenant colonels and four full bird colonels, three brigadier generals, and one major general. All within five minutes. Brigadiers were the lowest-ranked generals, and there were probably plenty within Fifth Army HQ, as well as those with the divisions and brigades. A major general, with two stars, was just below the exalted level of three-star lieutenant general. The only one of those I knew around here was General Mark Clark, Fifth Army commander. And maybe his boss, 15th Army Group commander General Harold Alexander, but I wasn’t certain of his exact British rank.
As I entered the Criminal Investigation Division office, I considered the possibility of an operation aimed at assassinating Clark or Alexander. It would have answered the question of why Kearns and G-2 were involved, but it didn’t make much sense otherwise. If it were a German plot, why would they announce their intention by starting with junior officers? It didn’t add up, and I decided to wait until I learned what Sergeant Cole had dug up before I tried out any theories.
CID had a string of rooms, connected by a passageway running along the outer wall. Each was decorated in a different color, the paint peeling and curling off the walls. The first room housed military police, and one of the snowdrops-so named for their white helmets-sent me two rooms to the right. I shivered as I walked past the tall windows, feeling the damp cold seeping through. Rain splattered against the glass, which rattled as the wind gathered up and blasted the casements.
The next room was long and narrow, with two rows of desks facing each other. On the walls, mirrors in fancy frames were set into panels, reflecting what light there was into each other, except for the
gaps where the glass was missing or shattered. With his back to a busted mirror, a sergeant stood over a desk covered in playing cards. He wore his field jacket buttoned up, probably against the breeze that seemed to run through the high-ceilinged room. He scratched absently at his chin, appearing to be lost in thought.
“Sergeant Cole?”
“Jesus!” His eyes widened in surprise as he took a step back, then recovered. “Sorry, Lieutenant, I guess I didn’t notice you walk up.”
“You are Sergeant Cole, CID?”
“Yes sir, I am. You must be Lieutenant Boyle? Major Kearns said to expect you.” Cole sounded worried, as if I were here to fire him. His eyes darted about the room.
“That’s me. What have you got here, Sergeant?” I pointed to the cards on the desk, but kept my eyes on Cole. He was jumpy, and I had to wonder if he was hiding something, or hiding from someone.
“Do you know the details of the case, Lieutenant? How the bodies were found, with playing cards?”
“Ten and jack of hearts,” I said. “I read the files.”
“These are the originals,” he said, opening a drawer and taking out a small manila envelope. “No fingerprints, and they seem brand new.”
I slid the cards out onto my palm and studied them, lifting each by the edge. They were crisp and clean all right. No soft edges from repeated shuffles, no bend in them at all. The backs were red, the usual swirling vines pattern that you never paid much attention to. I put them back and handed the envelope to Cole.
“Trying to match them?”
“Yes sir. As you can see, it’s a common deck. I was able to buy the same kind, with blue or red backs, at the post exchange in Naples, and get them for free at the Red Cross center or at the hospital.”
“The same hospital where Captain Galante was stationed?”
“Yes, the 32nd Station Hospital. Why do you ask?”
“How long have you been in CID, Sergeant?” I asked as I took a seat. He lit a cigarette and sat, taking his time with the answer, fiddling with his lighter.
“I’m fairly new. About a month.”
“Were you an MP before?”
“No.”
“Cop before the war?”
“No.”
“Fair to say then that you’ve got a lot to learn. Let’s start with this: Asking why I want to know something is a waste of time. An investigator needs to know everything about a case, everything that has the slightest connection. You never know when something is going to fit in later on. So explore every angle. Don’t ask why, because I don’t know why. By the time we know that, the investigation will almost be over. Make sense?”
“Yes sir, it does.”
“You have any problem working with me on this, Sergeant Cole?”
“No sir.”
“How about your commanding officer?”
“Captain Bartlett, sir. He’s in Naples, working on a black market case. He said to cooperate with you.” Cole looked at the doorway, as if he expected Bartlett to return and check on him.
“Okay, good.” It sounded like Bartlett was not eager to dive into this one. He was giving me a rookie and leaving it in my hands. If I failed, it was all on me. If not, as soon as I was gone he’d claim the credit. Cole seemed oblivious. “What else do you have?”
“Not much, sir. Landry was well liked by his men. No trouble from that quarter. He took good care of them, if you know what I mean.”
“Unlike some other officers?”
“I don’t mean any offense, sir.”
“Don’t worry, Cole, I’m not all that big on officers above lieutenant myself,” I said with a smile that was meant to put him at ease.
“Some officers, you know, they look out for themselves first.”
“So I’ve heard. What about sergeants?”
“Harder to get away with it,” Cole said. “Everyone sees what a sergeant does. His men, his superior officers. If he screws up, it makes his lieutenant look bad, then his captain, and before too long he’s in big trouble.”
“Landry’s sergeants are a good bunch?”
“Sure. Steady guys, you know?”
“Any of them make Landry look bad? Did he make life miserable for any of them?”
“Lieutenant Landry wasn’t like that. He got his guys out of scrapes when they had too much to drink, and in the field he was always up front with them.”
“Sounds like a stand-up guy,” I said.
“So why would someone want to kill him?”
“Good question, Cole. Any of his men have a theory?”
“No, nothing.”
“What about Galante?”
“What about him? He was a doctor, he helped people. Killing him makes no sense.”
“Unlike Landry?”
“No, I didn’t mean it that way.” Cole shook a fresh cigarette out of a pack and lit it from the stub of the other one. His hand shook, the faintest of tremors sending ash onto the playing cards on the desk. I sat back and waited as he crushed the first butt out in an ashtray. A wisp of smoke curled up from it, but Cole didn’t notice. He inhaled deeply, and blew smoke toward the ceiling, his politeness a good cover for not looking me in the eye. I didn’t speak.
“What I meant was, why would anyone kill a doctor? There are plenty of captains around here. Why pick one who actually helps people?” His voice had a tinge of panic to it, as if the thought of anyone who’d murder a doctor was too much for him to bear.
“Sergeant Cole, what did you do before you were assigned to CID?”
“I was with the Third Division. Squad leader, after Sicily.”
“Been with them long?”
“Since Fedala,” he said, and brought the cigarette to his lips with his left hand. The right sat on his lap, out of sight. Fedala was the invasion of North Africa, fourteen months ago. That had been a long haul, being shot at by the Vichy French, Italians, and Germans along the way.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You got your stripes because you were the only one of the original squad still standing.”
“You learn something by staying alive, can’t deny that,” Cole said, as if he were confessing a mortal sin. “All the other guys-killed, wounded, captured. I lost track of dead lieutenants, and saw four sergeants killed before they promoted me. Replacements kept coming, most getting it pretty quick. Not much I could do about it either. They’d panic, forget everything I told them, run around when they should stay put, stay put when they should advance. They weren’t ready.”
“Were you? At Fedala, fourteen months back?”
“Hard to remember. That was a lifetime ago.” He lit another butt, unable to hide his shakes. He gripped his left arm with his right hand, over the stripes, as if he’d been wounded.
“After Sicily they made you squad leader. Then Salerno.”
“Then Salerno. Then the Volturno River crossing. That’s where I got hit. Shrapnel in my leg.”
“Not a million-dollar wound,” I said. Not bad enough for a stateside ticket on a Red Cross ship headed westward.
“Nope.” Cole smoked with a determination that was impressive. He didn’t talk with smoke flowing out of his mouth like some guys. He savored each inhale and exhale, as if the burning tobacco held the kiss of an angel.
“Anything else I should know?”
“Nope. What are you going to do next?” Cole was a cross between nervous and relieved. Relieved that I was here to tell him what to do, and nervous that he might have to do it. Buying up playing cards seemed to be his limit.
“Find where I’m billeted, dump my stuff, and get some sleep. I’ve been in the air more hours than I care to count.” I wanted to meet Einsmann and see what he’d found out, and there was no reason to take Cole away from his cards and smokes. I handed him my billeting papers and asked him how I could find the place I’d been assigned.
“On the Via Piave?” he said when he looked at the address. “Jesus, that’s Captain Galante’s apartment!”
CHAPTER SIX
K
earns had apologized, saying that the corporal was supposed to have told me. Space was at a premium, and his idea had been that I might as well be given that bunk, where I could talk to the two doctors who shared the apartment. It did have a certain logic, but I wondered what Galante’s pals would think of it. Their feelings weren’t high on Kearns’s list, so I headed out of the palace to meet my new friends and interrogate them.
I swung the jeep out of the parking area and onto the Via Roma, watching for the turn Cole told me would take me to the Via Piave, a side street of relatively intact structures, two- and three-story stone buildings, most closed off by large iron gates or strong wooden double doors leading into a courtyard. Halfway down the street, two homes were destroyed, heaps of blackened rubble still spilled out onto the roadway. The rain was falling harder now, and the smell of charred timbers and ruined lives filled my nostrils. Through the gap where the houses had been I saw a row of B-17s lined up, their giant tail fins shadowed against the darkening sky. Except for when weather like this grounded them, it was going to be a noisy neighborhood.
I found the building, its masonry decorated by a spray of bullet holes. Most centered around one window on the upper story where hinges held the remnants of wooden shingles. A sniper, maybe, drawing fire from every GI advancing up the street, as they edged from door to door, blasting at any sign of movement, not wanting to die from the last shot of a rearguard Nazi. Or a curtain fluttering the breeze, catching the eye of a dogface who empties his Garand into the window as the rest of his squad joins in, excitement and desperation mingling with sweat and noise until all that remains is the smell of concrete dusk and nervous, jumpy laughter.
I parked the jeep in the courtyard and turned off the engine. Rain splattered on the canvas top, reminding me of distant machinegun fire. I took a deep breath, telling myself this was way behind the lines, and there would be no snipers lurking in third-story windows. Wet as everything was, I swore I could smell concrete dust in my nostrils. Shaking off the memory, I grabbed my duffle and took the stairs up to the main door. I was about to knock when it opened and a short, stout, gray-haired Italian woman unleashed a torrent of language at me, beckoning me in with one hand and pointing to my feet with the other. I didn’t need to understand Italian to get it. I wiped my wet boots on the mat and hung my dripping mackinaw on a peg. She must have decided I passed inspection, and led me down a hallway into a kitchen, allowing me on the tile floor as she pointed to another room beyond. I wanted to linger and savor the smells coming from the pots on the stove, but the old woman had her back to me, busy with whatever was cooking.
