by James R Benn
“Can you still fly?” I asked.
“Not in combat, no,” David said. “With only one decent eye, my depth perception is off. I wouldn’t last a minute in a dogfight. I can still fly a fighter, although I doubt they’ll let me. I need to do something useful.”
“You mentioned a doctor’s appointment in a few weeks. Won’t Doctor McIndoe help you out?”
“It’s not up to him, unfortunately. The RAF medical section rules on return to duty, and so far it hasn’t been promising. It’s not the burns—I know of badly burned men who’ve been given desk jobs. But one bum eye combined with the burns seems to have them in a quandary.”
“Perhaps you should wait and see what this doctor decides,” Kaz said.
“If he invalids me out of the RAF, my chances are dashed,” David said. “I thought if you could put in a word for me now, there might be a place for a bright Oxford chap on someone’s staff. They took you, Piotr.” David stopped and glanced at me, then back at Kaz. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. I think I’ll go mad if I have to sit around Ashcroft on Sir Rupert’s charity any longer.”
“Don’t worry, David. Billy knows about my heart condition. We have no secrets.”
“Good, I was afraid I’d said too much. Well, what about it?”
“David is fluent in several languages,” Kaz said, looking to me. “He’s fit enough to sit at a desk, wouldn’t you say?”
“As well as any staff officer,” I said. What else could I say? “I’ll talk to Colonel Harding and see what he can do. No promises, though. There might be nothing. Or it could be a job as a glorified file clerk.”
“I don’t care,” David said. “I’ve had my time in the air. I’ve got five victories, which makes me an ace, you know. Three Germans and two Italian aircraft. I can be proud of that, but I don’t think I can stand being given my walking papers. I want to see this thing through in uniform. Perhaps I can help with translations, or photographic interpretation. I did a bit of that before North Africa. My good eye still has perfect vision.”
“We will do our best,” Kaz said, resting his hand on David’s shoulder. I was glad to see Kaz happy to help out his pal. But there was something else driving David’s desire to stay in the service, I was sure of it. Not being stuck at Ashcroft would be at the top of my list.
Our food came. First was fish chowder, then smoked haddock with carrots and parsnips. Root vegetables were big when it came to English cuisine under wartime rationing. Easy to grow and store, they were on every menu.
“Not quite the same as fresh peas,” I said.
“But no Great Aunt Sylvia to rap your knuckles,” David said.
“Is she always so outspoken?” I said.
“From what I’ve seen,” David said as he took a drink. “As I understand it, Ashcroft belonged to the Pemberton family for hundreds of years. As Sylvia mentioned, she lost both her husband and her son in the last war, so no heirs there. She was the sister of Lord Pemberton, Louise Pemberton’s father. Louise being Sir Rupert’s deceased wife. Louise had a brother, but he died in the influenza outbreak after the war. That left Louise as the only heir. She inherited the estate when Lord Pemberton died.”
“And Great Aunt Sylvia comes with the inheritance?” I said.
“Yes, exactly,” David said. “Lord Pemberton put a clause in his will stipulating that Sylvia—she’s entitled to be called Lady Pemberton—be provided for at Ashcroft for the remainder of her life. I don’t think anyone thought she’d be around so long. She turned ninety last winter.”
“Who owns the place now?” I asked.
“Sir Rupert. He inherited it from his wife, and is required to maintain Sylvia in the same manner. I don’t believe he begrudges her, but she never passes up an opportunity to mention how well the Pembertons maintained the estate before the Sutcliffes came along. Of course with all the new taxes, it is much harder these days.”
“Did you find out anything useful today, Billy?” Kaz asked, after a momentary lull. He was giving me an out in case I didn’t want to discuss it in front of David, but this wasn’t exactly classified. I didn’t want Fraser’s name to get around as a stool pigeon, so I left him out of the story.
“There’s a gangster by the name of Charles Sabini,” I said. “He’s been big in gambling and extortion for years, and since he’s half Italian, the government interned him at the start of the war. Put a crimp in his business. He did some time after that, too, but lately he’s been rebuilding his criminal organization. He has a reputation for violence.”
“Where is he?” Kaz asked.
“He works out of the racetrack at Newton Abbot,” I said.
“I was there once,” David said. “Nice place, overlooks the river.”
“The River Teign,” Kaz said. “A tidal river.”
“Oh, right,” David said. “You thought your dead chap may have gone in and out on the tides. The River Teign would do it. It turns tidal close by the racecourse.”
“Do you have any reason to connect this gangster to the killing?” Kaz said.
“Apparently a competitor felt Sabini was encroaching on his territory and sent an assassin after him. This was three months ago. But Sabini must have turned the tables, since the killer was never heard from again.”
“That fits,” Kaz said. “The timing and the reason why no one filed a missing persons report.”
“Everything points to it,” I said.
“You don’t sound terribly convinced,” David said, whispering as he checked to see if anyone was listening. He was definitely enjoying himself. Dinner at Ashcroft was never half as exciting.
“I think it’s likely,” I said. “But we need to check it out. I’d like to hear Sabini’s side of the story to see if it matches up with what my contact told me. And I want to see exactly where the tides start in the River Teign, to be sure we have a reasonable case.”
“He’s not going to confess, do you think?” David asked.
“I don’t need him to confess. That’s up to Inspector Grange,” I said. “Our assignment is to make certain we know who the man on the beach was.”
“How are you even going to get him to talk to you?” David said.
“That’s where you come in,” I said. Kaz raised his eyebrows inquisitively. I told them about Sabini’s son Michael in the RAF and how he’d been shot down and killed. “Do you think you could come with us, and give your condolences? Tell Sabini you knew his son?”
“If it would help, certainly,” David said.
“Are you sure?” Kaz said. “It could be dangerous. This man has killed before.”
“So have I, Piotr,” David said. “I have sent men crashing down from the sky in a ball of fire. I am the very face of death.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I’VE BEEN TOLD plenty of times by the English that Americans don’t know how to make tea, or even drink it properly. I don’t disagree. But try explaining to a Brit that the thin brew they serve as coffee is truly horrible, and nine times out of ten they’ll say it tastes just fine and look at you with faint bemusement, as if a desire for strong joe, cold beer, or tea without milk was a testament to colonial depravity.
So I said the java was fine when Meredith inquired at breakfast, saying she understood Americans were particular about their morning coffee. As if the English were nonchalant about tea.
“Was your day successful?” she asked as she spread marmalade on her toast.
“Yes, I think so,” I said. “We might be close to wrapping up the case, for our purposes, anyway. We’ll turn over our findings to Inspector Grange when we’re done.” I’d called the inspector and briefed him on what we’d found. He hadn’t sounded impressed, but he’d agreed to allow Constable Quick to accompany us. He was from Newton Abbot and would know the lay of the land. If Sabini was so overcome by remorse that he confessed his guilt, we could make an official arrest. Mostly, I was curious about Tom Quick.
“At least the victim’s family can be thankful his body w
as recovered,” Helen said from across the table. “It’s terrible to think of him floating about in the Channel for so long. Do you think the fishermen were right, about the tides carrying him out?”
“It seems likely,” I said, trying to be polite but hoping for a shift in the morning’s conversation. I was trying to enjoy breakfast. I was in no hurry to get to Newton Abbot; in my experience, criminal bosses weren’t early risers. “David told us about the Guinea Pig Club last night. It sounds like Doctor McIndoe is a remarkable man.”
“Guinea pigs?” Helen said. “Whatever do you mean?”
“At the hospital,” I said, then realized he must never have told her. Or she didn’t want to know. “Never mind, it was only a joke.”
“It’s nothing to joke about,” Helen said in a small voice as she studied the crumbs on her plate.
“Oh, Helen, really!” Meredith said. “At least you have a husband who’s done something positive. All Edgar ever did was cause trouble for everyone, and now he’s more useless than ever. Don’t be such a twit.” She bit into her toast like it was a piece of raw meat.
“Good advice all around,” Great Aunt Sylvia said, gliding into the room and taking a seat.
“Good morning,” I said, standing. “I hope to see you all later this afternoon.”
“No need to leave on my account, Captain,” Great Aunt Sylvia said, gracing me with a wrinkled smile.
“Crime doesn’t wait,” I said, giving her a wink to see how she’d react.
“I think it can wait a very long time, Captain Boyle. Good luck to you.”
I strolled outside looking for Kaz and David. Three disconcerting women so early in the morning made the grey misty sky seem inviting. I shivered as I sat in the jeep, the mist turning to raindrops that splattered and popped on the canvas top. My shoulder holster dug into my side; I hadn’t worn it when the tailor measured me for my Eisenhower jacket, and now I was paying the price for clean lines.
By the time Kaz and David dashed from the house, the rain was lashing, and they had to clutch their caps to their heads. They piled into the jeep and brushed the water from their coats, dripping like wet dogs. By the time we arrived at the police station, the rain lessened, drops splashing intermittently into puddles.
“Need a tour guide, do you?” Constable Quick said as he climbed into the rear of the jeep. Kaz introduced David to Quick, who seemed cheerful enough, not missing a beat at the sight of David’s burn-scarred face.
“We’re going to speak to Charles Sabini,” I told Quick. “I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have the law along.”
“Actually, it well might,” Quick said. “What makes you think he’ll talk to you?”
“Flight Lieutenant Martindale knew his son in North Africa. He was killed there. That’s our entree.”
“His son’s death is common knowledge, as is Sabini’s temper and hatred of the government. Quite a coincidence,” Quick said, glancing at David, “you finding a chap who knew Michael Sabini.”
“Listen, all we need to do is have a word with Sabini. We’re not here to arrest anyone, or even gather evidence. I want to confirm, even if it’s off the record, the information I’ve been given about the body on the beach.”
“I’m game,” David said. “I know all sorts of dead chaps. It won’t be hard to convince this fellow.”
“So you didn’t know him?” Quick said.
“I was far more likely to shoot down a Sabini than to know this poor sod,” David said. I was beginning to like this guy.
“We thought it might be best for you and me to wait outside,” Kaz said. “To back up Billy and David, and to avoid antagonizing Mr. Sabini.”
“All right,” Quick said. Then to David, “Spitfire pilot, I’d guess.”
“Hurricanes first, then Spits in North Africa. How did you know?” David asked.
“Your attitude says you’re a fighter pilot. Your burns say Spitfire. I was on a Lancaster until we got shot up. One of the gunners had his legs badly burned. They sent him to a special hospital up in Sussex.”
“That’s where I was,” David said, and they fell to talking about flying, aircraft, friends alive and dead, as easily as if they were old pals. David was a different man away from Ashcroft. And Tom Quick had forgotten about his limp; I’d noticed when we picked him up.
Tom’s directions got us to Newton Abbot in half an hour. We passed a medieval tower stuck in the middle of the road at the town center, then crossed the River Teign and drove to the racecourse. The place was deserted except for a few automobiles, the stands empty, and the track itself quiet. A solitary horse was being taken through his paces, kicking up clods of mud as he passed.
David and I walked ahead, looking for some sign of life. Kaz and the constable trailed behind, keeping tabs on us from a distance. Stables and outbuildings stretched on beyond the track, the faint whinny of a horse echoing between them. The ground was muddy and wet, and the lingering rain fell lightly on our shoulders.
“Where is everyone?” I said, whispering in spite of myself.
“Look,” David said, pointing to an open door at one end of a row of stables. A sign above it read SABINI ENTERPRISES. A line of footprints in the mud led inside. None came out. I held David back with one arm and motioned the others forward with my other.
“This doesn’t look right,” I whispered. “Kaz, you stay here with David.” David was the only one of us who wasn’t armed. Quick had traded his rifle for a revolver which he un-holstered as I drew my .38 Police Special. While Kaz is deadly with his Webley, I wanted a cop at my back. An open door in a rainstorm and one-way footprints are not a good combination. And if whoever left the door wide open had gone out the back, Kaz would be ready.
We went in.
I smelled it before I saw it. The metallic scent of blood and death.
Pools of congealed red gore.
Two men sprawled on the floor, gunshot wounds to the chest. More than enough.
One man seated at his desk, his head hanging backward, a gaping slash at his neck. Spurts of blood decorated the wall, where it had gushed from the carotid artery before the heart stopped pumping. Flies buzzed around all the men’s wounds. A feast.
I pointed to another open door, leading into the stables.
“I’ll check,” Quick said. “But these men have been dead for some time. The blood’s coagulated, and the flies didn’t just show up.”
“Yeah,” I said. I went to the doorway and told Kaz and David what we’d found, retracing my steps and being careful not to step in the blood. A quick glance told me the killers had been pros. Two of them, I figured, imagining how it could have been done quickly. They walk in, shoot the bodyguards, and the first guy holds a gun on Sabini. The second guy walks behind Sabini and lifts his chin. Sabini sees the first guy step aside, perhaps understanding it’s to avoid the spray of blood. Then lights out.
Revenge.
“It looks like someone succeeded this time,” Kaz said.
“Yeah, they smartened up and sent at least two guys,” I said, watching for Quick to reappear.
“Could this have anything to do with the man you saw yesterday?” Kaz asked, still keeping Fraser’s name mum.
“No. They’ve been dead since yesterday, I’d guess. Somebody planned this in revenge for Sabini slitting his competitor’s throat.”
“Which tells us that the theory of the hit man being our corpse on the beach holds water,” Kaz said.
“Like a cast-iron pot,” I said. “Where’s Quick?”
“I thought he was with you,” David said.
“He went through the stables,” I said. “You two go around front. I’ll circle around back, and we’ll meet up.” I wasn’t worried about the killers still being there, but Tom should have been back by now. I moved around the building, keeping close to the wall, my revolver held by my side. I got to the corner and took a quick peek. The rear of the stables faced a road with a row of houses on the far side—or what had once been homes. Piles of brick l
ined the street, and except for a few soot-covered walls, everything else had been cleared away. Two craters stood between the remaining buildings, marking the spot where German bombs had hit and taken out six brick row houses.
Tom Quick stood at the lip of one crater, his revolver limp in his hand. I went up to him and looked in the crater, wondering if he’d found something. A body or a clue to the killing. But it was filled with rainwater, and the edges of the blackened soil crumbled beneath our feet.
“Tom?” I said, as Kaz and David came up behind me. “Tom, is there something here?”
“No, there’s nothing,” he said. “You drop a five-hundred-pound bomb on a house, and there’s nothing left. As you can see.”
“It looks like this happened a while ago,” I said, trying to edge around him and see his face. His eyes were unfocused, seeing nothing, remembering everything.
“A lifetime ago,” Tom answered. “So many lives ago.”
I slowly curled my fingers around his revolver and took it from him. He didn’t notice.
“We usually dropped thousand-pound bombs, fourteen at a time,” he said. “Can you imagine?”
“No,” I said, trying to comprehend the devastation the moment these bombs hit.
“Blockbuster bombs too,” Tom said, his voice rising in pitch. “A four-thousand-pound bomb. Do you know why they call them blockbusters? Do you?”
“No.”
“Because they destroy an entire city block. And blow off roof tiles from the surrounding buildings. That’s why we drop incendiary bombs, small ones, at the same time. They start fires better that way, you see? They have professors who figure all that out, but they stay at home. Wouldn’t it be funny if one of them lived here?” He laughed, a short, harsh spit of derision.
“Okay, Tom,” I said. “We need to go to the local police station and report this. Can you show us where it is?”
“Of course I can,” Tom said, turning on me as if I was an idiot. “If you’ll tell me why the death of three vile criminals means anything. Who will answer for this? Who will hang for this?” He pointed at the blasted houses; the stacks of brick awaiting rebuilding; the wet, muddy holes in the ground; as if the bombers were still circling overhead, high in the same sky where, hundreds of miles away, his Lancaster loaded with fourteen thousand pounds of high explosives had once flown over cities and towns, cratering neighborhoods and ending lives, bringing retribution to the nation that had started this terrible war.
