Evil for Evil: A Billy Boyle World War II Mystery

by James R Benn

  I told him the date of the theft, described Jenkins's truck, and asked him if he'd noticed anything that next morning.

  "Jenkins, you say? Sure, I remember that truck. It sat parked in back all that night."

  "What? Are you sure? Who drove it here?"

  "Course I'm sure. Had the man's name painted along the side. Andrew Jenkins, it was. My nephew, he works for me, and he drove it onto the ferry the next morning like the fellow paid him to do."

  "What fellow? What was in it?"

  "Can't say. His name, that is. But I know what was in it."

  "What?"

  "Nothing. It was empty. This fellow had come by a few days before, saying he had to get this truck delivered to a mate over in Omeath and that he knew he'd miss the last ferry so could he leave it here and would someone just drive it onto the ferry the following morning. Said it would be worth a crown to save him staying overnight. I let Samuel have the job; he's used to driving tractors. We live above the shop so he kept an eye on it during the night."

  "When did this man bring the truck?"

  "Oh, I'd say maybe three o'clock in the morning. We'd arranged that he'd knock on the back door and give the key to Samuel. I heard the knock but paid it no mind. I did hear the clock strike three before I went back to sleep."

  "Did he give you his name?"

  "No, that was a bit odd. Said he didn't want it getting back to his boss--Jenkins, I took that to be--that he'd left the truck unattended. Said it would be better if we didn't know his name so we could truthfully say we didn't know who'd left it."

  "Did you ask why anyone might come around asking?"

  "Well, when you put it like that, perhaps I should have. But I saw no harm. That lorry was examined on our side and then again across the water. Clean as a whistle, it was. He even paid my boy to wipe down the dashboard, told him not to leave any smudges anywhere."

  "Can you describe him?" I said, realizing that was why no fingerprints were found.

  "Sure. Going bald, dark brown hair, worn a trifle long. Had a quick laugh about him, you know the kind of fellow? Puts you at your ease."

  "Yeah. The kind of guy who enjoys life."

  "There you go! That's him. Made me trust him straightaway. Has he done something wrong?"

  "Murder. Two that I know of, not to mention stealing fifty automatic weapons for the IRA."

  "Jesus! And Samuel took his money and did his bidding. He fooled me. Thanks for telling me about this, Lieutenant Boyle. That other Yank just showed me a picture."

  "What other Yank?"

  "The one not in uniform. I didn't get his name either. Older than you, came in on a motorcycle."

  "Did you get a good look at him?"

  "He came right into my shop. Bought some food, asked some questions, then showed that picture. I'd say he was a tad taller than you, bit heavier, but in good shape, maybe about forty or so. Blue eyes, I think, now that I see yours. Anyway, I said yes, I'd seen the man. I thought it had something to do with his leaving the truck, and I didn't want to get him in trouble. I'm sorry I let him make a fool of me."

  "There's no way you could've known. And he might have harmed your nephew and you if you'd asked too many questions."

  "Think you'll find him?"

  "I intend to."

  "That's what the other Yank said."

  CHAPTER * TWENTY FOUR

  WHAT THE OTHER Yank said. I sat in the jeep, trying to figure out who the other Yank was, and what he was after. I thought he'd been following me but now it seemed he was one step ahead of me. He could be someone Pete Brennan had brought into his scheme with Jenkins. Or maybe he was a deserter.

  What I did know now was that the timing didn't add up. Pete had told me the truck left the base at about midnight. If it arrived in Warrenpoint only three hours later, and empty, that meant . . . what? It meant that it had to have been a trick to throw us off the scent. Finding it empty the next day, over the border in the Republic, was a ruse to make us think the weapons were out of our reach. But if Jenkins's truck had showed up here empty, then the weapons had been stashed somewhere between Ballykinler and Warrenpoint. A lot of ground to cover, to be sure, but it narrowed it down. A modest deduction but it made me feel I was making progress.

  I was alone on the street. Mr. McCabe had gone in to close up shop. The two boys who had been playing down by the water were running along the sidewalk, laughing as they raced each other along the seawall, their voices high and shrill, echoing against the stone. I closed my eyes and felt a remnant of childhood still within me, the thrill of play with dusk closing in, the rush to a warm house where supper was being put on the table as hunger drove me home, the daily routine that seemed it would always be, my child's view of time stretching no farther than the next holiday, or perhaps summer, if not too far off. I wished I had someplace to go where I'd find a friendly face, home-cooked food, and no dead bodies. I started the jeep, feeling adrift in a world of divided loyalties.

  I left Warrenpoint behind, taking the coast road to Annalong, almost full circle to Newcastle, where I'd started the day with news of Pete Brennan's death. The wind came in hard from the Irish Sea, and rain soon began to lash the jeep, drumming on the canvas top like Max Roach.

  I parked in front of the Harbor Bar, the pub where Major Thornton had told me he'd seen Eddie Mahoney quietly arguing with another man. I was hungry so it seemed like a good place to do some investigating. The rain came at me sideways as I ran to the door, holding my cap down with one hand. Fishing boats rocked at their moorings to one side, and on the other the gray granite buildings seemed to disappear in the foggy darkness. I pulled the door shut behind me and shook water off like a stray dog in a thunderstorm. I hung up my trench coat next to a line of fishermen's foul-weather gear and stood by a peat fire that glowed in the wide fireplace, rubbing my hands. I heard the murmur of conversation rise after the quiet as the locals eyed me for a long moment before returning to their pints and talk. There were booths along each wall, with the bar between them. Chairs and a bench surrounded the fireplace, but they were all empty. Eight or nine men, mostly fishermen, to judge by their clothes, were scattered about, smoking and drinking.

  "A pint," I said to the barman as I took a seat. He nodded and began the slow pour. A chalkboard on the wall announced the food choices were fish and chips, Irish stew, and boxty.

  "What's boxty?" I asked.

  "That's a pancake made from potatoes. My wife fries 'em up nice and crisp, she does. You can have 'em alone or with sausages. Or with the stew, it's all good."

  "With sausages," I said, the smells from the small kitchen behind the bar whipping up my hunger. A few minutes later I was sipping my Guinness while listening to the sizzle of a fry pan coming from the next room, and it almost did feel like home.

  "Not many Americans stop by here," the barman said as he busied himself with pulling another pint. It was good bartender talk; if I wanted to chat, I could expand on the subject. If not, the answer could be short and sweet without being rude.

  "Too bad," I said. "It looks like a nice spot, from what I could see of it."

  "It is indeed. Rough weather today, though; brought most of the boys back in."

  "Tough to fish when it's raining this hard?"

  "Raining? It wasn't raining," a voice boomed out behind me. "It was lashing and pissing, spitting, pelting, pouring, bucketing, and we came in stinking, dirty, soaked, drenched, saturated with seawater, cloud water, and fish guts. But it wasn't raining. Rain is that nice stuff what comes down straight and keeps your vegetables growing. This blow is more than raindrops from Saint Peter. Another pint, Colin."

  "Sure you're not too wet already, Emmet?"

  "Oh, now he's a funny one, he is! Right, Yank?"

  "I make it a rule never to take sides against the man working the bar," I said, pointing to Colin.

  "A fine answer, that, Yank. Emmet Kennedy's my name."

  "Billy Boyle," I said as we shook.

  "Colin there took the w
ise course a few years back. He sold his boat and bought this place. Stays dry most nights, and keeps us in the black stuff. The Guinness, if you don't get my meaning."

  "I got it. Sounds like you don't see many Americans down this way."

  "Every now and then," Colin said. "But not enough to help pay the bills. I hear up in Belfast they run out of ale some nights, there's so many coming through."

  "I'm based up in Newcastle, and there are GIs all over the place. Why don't they come down this way?"

  "Well, I've seen them on maneuvers, running around the Mournes, and some along the coast," Emmet said. "But I'd guess once they have a chance to get out, they go into Downpatrick or Newry. They're cities, this is a sleepy coastal village. This here is the evening's entertainment, as good as it gets!"

  "True enough," Colin said, as he worked on Emmet's pint.

  "I came on the recommendation of a Major Thornton. Know him?"

  "No, but I'm glad he spoke well of the place."

  "He said he saw this guy in here," I said, laying a picture of Eddie Mahoney on the bar. Colin and Emmet leaned in to study it.

  "What's this fellow mean to you?" Emmet said, his manner not quite so jovial as before.

  "Nothing much anymore. He's dead. Name was Eddie Mahoney."

  "Christ," Colin said, looking at Emmet.

  "You know him?" I asked both of them.

  "How sure are you he's dead?" Colin asked.

  "As sure as two bullets to the back of the head."

  They looked at each other a while. "You a copper?" Colin asked.

  "Not exactly. But I have been asked to look into it. By the U.S. Army, not the RUC. I mean, if there were any local laws broken here or there, it wouldn't matter to me." They seemed afraid, and I wanted them to know I wasn't after them.

  "That's not the problem," Colin said, tapping his finger on the photograph. "He's the problem. Bastard stayed here a week; we've two rooms upstairs. Started having visitors, and one night he has an argument with one, right there." He pointed to a corner booth.

  "Was there a fight?"

  "Aye, I saw it," Emmet said. "That one, the redheaded fellow, he and the other man came to blows but they stopped as soon as one of them dropped his pistol. Everyone saw it. Around here, that only means one thing. Or two, actually. IRA or Red Hand. But seeing as this is mainly a Catholic pub, it wasn't hard to figure."

  "We haven't had much trouble here," Colin said. "Most folks are friendly enough but keep to their own. On the main street, we have Protestant shops on one side, Catholic on the other. The Protestants have their pub up the road. So nobody wants the Irish Republican Army stirring things up."

  "What happened?" I asked.

  "The other fellow left straightaway. This fellow--he called himself Davies, though I doubt it was his real name--he comes up to Emmet and me, standing here as we are now, and says he'll have us killed if ever anything is said. A hard look he had in his eyes too, and I believed him."

  "You can thank the one who shot him for me," Emmet said, taking a long swallow from his fresh pint.

  "I'd like to meet up with him and do just that. What did the other fellow look like?"

  "He wasn't here long; I don't really remember. On the tall side. Losing his hair but letting what he had go long."

  "Aye," Colin said. "Dark brown it was."

  "That was Red Jack Taggart," I said. "Ever hear of him?"

  "Christ Almighty," Colin said. "Who hasn't? Himself?"

  "In the flesh," I said. "You're not ignorant of the IRA then?"

  "There's them who did what needed doing in the war against the British and came to know such names," Emmet said. "And some thought it best, finding themselves north of the border, to quietly return to the life they led before. I say this, hearing your name is Boyle, since I think you'll know what I mean."

  "I do, and I understand. I'd appreciate anything you can tell me, and it won't go any further."

  "Nothing much to tell, is there, Colin?"

  "No. Last I'd heard of Red Jack, he'd got himself a nice cushy job in Dublin, with the Irish Hospitals' Sweepstake."

  "The Irish Sweepstake?" I said. "Doesn't sound like the kind of job an IRA man would have."

  "Oh, don't be so fast, Billy," Emmet said. "A lot of those tickets make it to America, don't they?"

  "Sure. My dad always bought them."

  "And the money has to come back to Ireland. I hear that it was a regular practice to send the IRA money through the same channels so it could be hidden from the American authorities and the Dublin crowd that swallowed the treaty."

  "You're well versed in the ways of finance," I said.

  "A man who knows how to handle his boat in rough waters ends up learning a lot of things, and no more will I say on the matter. Understand, though, that Red Jack was well regarded by those on the IRA General Staff. You'd do well to watch your back if you're after him."

  "Do I need to watch my back when I leave this room?" I asked, feeling the tension flow from Emmet as he leaned in close to me.

  "No, no," Emmet said, shaking his head as if waking from a dream. "You've no worries from us, right, Colin?"

  "None at all. That's all behind us now. It's come down to the likes of this redheaded fellow threatening us, who have served the same cause. It's a miserable business now, I say."

  "Thanks. I'm trying to stop things before they go too far, that's all."

  "What has Red Jack done exactly?" Emmet asked.

  "Stole fifty automatic weapons from the U.S. Army."

  "That sounds like him, it does! Oh, what a grand scoundrel our Red Jack is, and no offense to you, Billy," Emmet said, slapping me on the back. "Reminds me of the old days, or at least the best of them."

  "It pays to forget the worst of them," Colin said.

  "Aye. Or to try," said Emmet, his eyes searching the floor.

  "Can I buy you both a whiskey?" I asked.

  "Well, sure you can, and we'll have a toast," Colin said, setting up three glasses and pouring the Bushmills. "To what?"

  It was Emmet who spoke. "To those who lived and those who died, whether they be right bastards, thieves, fishermen, bartenders, or Americans. All were brothers once." We touched glasses and drank.

  A voice called to Colin that my food was ready, and we locked eyes for a second, unwilling to return to the common world.

  "Eat hearty, Billy," he said, putting down the plate of sausages and boxty, which looked and smelled delicious, the meat crisp and glistening from the fry pan, the potato pancake thick and steamy.

  "If you come upon any next of kin of Mr. Mahoney, you tell them I have his things all packed up nice and proper."

  "What?" I said, dropping my fork.

  CHAPTER * TWENTY FIVE

  COLIN WAS AN honest man. Eddie Mahoney had left his wallet behind with four twenty-pound notes inside. A driver's license in another name--John Davies--and a few odds and ends made it look like he was a guy named Davies and not a feared IRA killer. He'd left all traces of identity behind when he went out on the heist, figuring to beat it back here for breakfast and then hightail it out.

  Of course, Colin could have been too afraid to take the money or maybe there had been more and he left some to divert suspicion. That's the price you pay, I guess, for being a cop. Everyone is suspect, even for apparent honesty. You start wondering what angle the guy's playing. Then, sooner or later, you start wondering why you've stayed honest so long--or at least what passes for honest--when everyone else is bent.

  I had my own definition of honest and it didn't include stealing a dead guy's cash, even if it had been left under an assumed identity and he was an outlaw. Those last two things tested me, but I left the money in the wallet. I tossed it aside and went through the rest of the stuff in the box Colin had stashed on a shelf in his storeroom. I moved the box to a small table under the single bare lightbulb that hung from a cord. There wasn't much to see. A shaving kit and a few toiletries. A roll of black electrical tape, a jackknife, and a f
ountain pen. A dog-eared paperback, Appointment with Death by Agatha Christie, waited for its reader to discover who the murderer was, a page toward the end folded down to mark where he'd left it.

  Some objects hold nothing once a person dies. I'd handled his wallet and his toothbrush, and they were just things. But that folded page still held the aura of his hand, the feel of his fingernail on the crease, the expectation of life going on, of another day, the sun shining, a cup of tea, and a paperback waiting to be finished. It was the kind of thing that got to me, more than the big stuff, since life was really made up of little things. The things you kept on your night table. The jackknife in your pocket. The photo you kept in your wallet. The book you were reading.

  I fanned the pages to see if anything was hidden but all I got was air. I stuffed the book in my pocket. Someone had to finish it.

  A crumpled pack of Senior Service cigarettes still held a couple of butts. He'd probably taken a fresh pack with him. A few hard candies showed he had a sweet tooth, and the stub of a pencil and a crossword puzzle from a month-old London Times told me he was bright but not bright enough to finish it. The only thing left in the box was a book of matches. I grabbed it and idly turned it in my fingers, eyeing the suitcase next. I opened it on the chance something might be stuck inside but all I found were three lonely matches. I closed it and made to toss it into the box but something caught my eye. It was so familiar I almost didn't realize how out of place it was.

  I held it under the light and stared at the picture of Warren Spahn, left-handed pitcher for the Boston Braves, our National League team. They gave out matchbooks with pictures of all their top players. They were a dime a dozen in Beantown but I never expected to see one east of Boston Harbor. Spahn had been in the news during his first season with the Braves in '42. He hadn't gotten along with their manager, a guy named Casey Stengel, and was sent down to the minors after refusing to hit a batter. Spahn had enlisted after that season, and for all I knew, he was somewhere in Northern Ireland. Maybe he'd left the matchbook in a bar and Eddie picked it up. However it got here, it was a little bit of home, and I tucked it away in my shirt pocket, thinking of Braves Field on a bright spring day, wondering how long it would be until I watched a game again.