by James R Benn
“A Colt .32-caliber automatic. I understand it is a model favored by American gangsters for its ease of concealment. I read that Al Capone always carries one in his jacket pocket.”
“Kaz,” I said, leaning over the table. “What is going on? Don’t give me that gangster riff, and tell me what the hell you need a piece for to go out to a London restaurant.” The waiter brought the wine, and Kaz went through his tasting ritual, acting like nothing was wrong.
“Welcome back to England, Billy,” Kaz said, raising his glass in a toast.
“Cheers,” I said, watching his eyes. We drank, and I set my glass down. “Spill.”
“It is difficult to explain,” he began. “You have heard of the Polish officers found in the Katyn Forest, yes?”
“Yeah, that was back in the spring, right?”
“April. The Germans broadcast the news that the bodies of ten thousand Polish officers had been found in mass graves deep inside the Katyn Forest, in Russia. Outside of Smolensk, to be precise. They had just taken that area, and the local peasants told them where to look.”
“I remember. It was in the newspapers. The Russians said it was Nazi propaganda, that the Germans had captured those officers when they invaded. It would be just like the Nazis to kill their prisoners and blame it on us.”
“Us?”
“The Allies. Us. The good guys.”
“Yes, well, remember that Poland was attacked by both Germany and Russia. That’s what started this war. It is not so easy for Poles to think of Russia as an ally.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re making like Al Capone.”
“Billy, we know it was the Russians. We have evidence that they murdered thousands of Polish officers, professors, and priests in 1940 while they were at peace with Germany. But the British government has sided with the Russians and their story of a German massacre, since it is easier than facing the truth. Your government has been silent, which is just as bad.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Mountains of it. I can tell you the whole story later. For now, please understand that this is very dangerous. No one wants to hear the truth, since it may break the Allies’ alliance. Poland is being sacrificed, once again.”
“And you don’t like the idea of being sacrificed.”
“No. Neither did General Sikorski. You know what happened to him.” It had been big news. Four months ago, General Wladyslaw Sikorski, prime minister of the Polish Government in Exile and head of Polish military forces, had died in a plane crash.
“Yeah. It was an accident. His plane crashed after taking off from Gibraltar, right?”
“Correct about Gibraltar. But what you don’t know, because the news was suppressed, is that a military aircraft carrying the Soviet ambassador and other officials was parked next to Sikorski’s plane before he took off. No explanation has been given for the crash, even though the pilot survived.” Kaz cocked an eyebrow, full of meaning.
“Wait, why would the Russians kill Sikorski?”
“Because he was the leader of a free Polish government, and he insisted upon making known the truth about the Katyn Forest murders. Which made him a very inconvenient leader, for all parties concerned. Gibraltar is a British base, of course.” He took a long drink of wine and set the glass down, hard. Tiny spots of red appeared on the white tablecloth.
“Kaz, have you gone crazy?” I tried to keep my voice in a whisper. “Are you saying the British worked with the Russians to assassinate General Sikorski?”
“What could I be thinking? The British government condoning murder? I must sound like an Irishman. A crazy Irish rebel.” He lifted his glass and drank again, a satisfied smile curling around the rim of the glass.
“Are you in danger?”
“It is war, Billy. I am fighting for my country.”
“What exactly does the Polish Government in Exile have you doing anyway?”
“Investigating the Katyn Forest Massacre. So we may reveal the truth about it.”
“And that means you need to carry a gun? In London?”
“General Sikorski probably thought his plane was safe from sabotage in Gibraltar.”
I didn’t know what to say. I did know what not to say: that I was in London to investigate the murder of a lone Russian. The fillets of beef came, and I tried to concentrate on eating and not think about the knot in my gut. I didn’t like keeping a secret from Kaz, but I had a bad feeling about our reunion. He sounded like he was on a collision course with the Brits. And I knew that Uncle Ike valued unity among the Allies above all else. Kaz and his Polish pals were aiming to throw a monkey wrench into the workings of the alliance.
But that wasn’t what had my guts in a twist.
It was that, deep down in my Irish heart, I knew Kaz was right to keep his automatic close at hand.
CHAPTER THREE
KAZ WAS ON the couch, the London Times scattered on the floor, drinking coffee and munching on toast from a room-service cart. He had a towel around his neck and looked like he’d been working out. Again. I pulled my bathrobe on and shuffled my way toward the aroma of coffee.
“Good morning, Billy. I thought about waking you to join me in calisthenics, but decided you needed a good sleep.”
“Kaz, it’s barely seven o’clock,” I said as I poured myself a cup and sat down. “What’s the news?”
“Heavy RAF and American bomber raids on Berlin. General Clark is approaching Monte Cassino, which overlooks the road to Rome. The Russians took Kiev, and held it against a German counterattack.”
“All good news.”
“Billy, Kiev is roughly two hundred miles from the Polish border. We are still eight miles south of Rome. Do you know what that means?”
“No, not before I’ve had my coffee, I don’t.”
“It means the Russians will take all of Poland before the British and Americans even get close to Germany.”
“I thought we called that liberating Poland,” I said, gulping the hot, black joe.
“I call it trading a Nazi master for a Communist master. The Nazis are the more bloodthirsty of the two, but neither will let Poland be free. And isn’t that what started this whole war? We were the first to be attacked, and Poles have been fighting ever since. In Italy, here with the RAF, and with the underground in Poland itself. I sometimes wonder what we are fighting for. Or who will fight for us, once the war is over and the Soviets occupy my country.”
“Would you go back after the war if the Russians ran the place?” I asked.
“Billy, I know what the Russians did to Polish officers. I think they would take even less kindly to Poles who had worn British uniforms. It would be a death sentence.”
“Isn’t that kind of harsh?”
“Harsh? I don’t think you understand, Billy, I don’t think you understand at all.”
“I don’t doubt you, Kaz. It’s just that General Eisenhower has been pounding Allied unity into our heads for so long, I have trouble criticizing the Russians. Hell, I even have trouble criticizing the Brits these days. And after all the propaganda stunts the Krauts have pulled, I have a hard time believing they’re aboveboard about the Katyn slaughter.”
“I know they are not to be trusted. I don’t mean to put you in a difficult position, Billy, but after what I’ve seen and learned, I’ve begun to question things. Everything has changed, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” I chewed toast and washed it down with coffee. “And it’s only getting started.”
“I must get to work,” Kaz said, standing up. “Can you come by and visit today? Perhaps I can show you the evidence I’ve been gathering. It may help to explain things.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself, Kaz,” I said.
“Thank you, Billy. But do come to the Rubens Hotel. It’s off Buckingham Gate, immediately south of the palace. Ask for me at the desk and they’ll take you up.”
“I’m busy this morning, Kaz, but I’ll try to stop by this afternoon.”
“Are you going to Norfolk House? It’s a short walk from there to the hotel.”
“Yeah, I have to check in, scout out the arrangements.” Norfolk House was in St. James’s Square, a stone’s throw from Piccadilly Circus. It was going to be Uncle Ike’s new headquarters.
“Is Major Harding here yet? Is Big Mike coming with you?”
“I forgot to tell you, it’s Colonel Harding now. And yes, Big Mike will be here with him, maybe tomorrow.” Corporal Mike Miecznikowski was an MP who had joined up with us after Sicily, where he’d gotten in hot water for helping me out. He was a former Detroit cop, and as the nickname implied, a really large former Detroit cop. He was handy to have around, and I wondered what his take on this Polish stuff might be.
“Why did they send you ahead?”
“I didn’t have anything to do,” I lied.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here. I didn’t mean to unload all my troubles on you, but it is good to have a friend to talk to.”
“It is, Kaz,” I said as he left to dress, glad he wasn’t watching me as I felt my face flush with betrayal. I sat alone, drinking the remains of my coffee, thinking how right he was and how guilty I felt at not being straight with him. I decided to come clean that afternoon, and get it out in the open. But first, I had an appointment at New Scotland Yard.
THE RAIL FELL in fat, slow drops, as if it couldn’t make up its mind, and it fit my mood. I pulled up the collar of my trench coat and set off from the Dorchester toward Westminster. It would be a straight shot on Park Lane, alongside Hyde Park, past Buckingham Palace, then down Birdcage Walk to Big Ben and Parliament. But I decided to reacquaint myself with the side streets of London. It had been a while, and I was in town to find a murderer. Backstreets and alleys might be useful.
I walked a few blocks through Mayfair, filled with neat, low brick buildings. Varnished doors with polished brass fixtures stood like sentries along the street. A few automobiles purred through the neighborhood, all shiny, low, and expensive. It was quiet, the kind of city quiet that money gets you. Black umbrellas hid faces from me, but I could’ve guessed: thin lips, narrow noses, bored eyes, all the marks of good breeding and high culture. It wasn’t my part of town.
The clouds finally cut loose and I ducked into a shop doorway, shaking myself like a soggy dog. In a minute the rain was gone and I headed south on Curzon Street to Half Moon, which I knew would take me across Piccadilly. On Curzon, where a row of houses should have been, there was nothing but stacked rubble. On either side of the cleared area, the buildings were boarded up and deserted. The rising trail of smoke and fire had left its trace around every window and door. Sooty black, each looked like the dark hand of death had marked that room, that family, for destruction.
I’d always liked Boston after a rain. It made everything seem clean, no matter how dirty it hadbeen. London was different. There was too much to wash away, even in the posh part of town. The gritty smell of coal smoke stuck in my nostrils, and the foul smell of burnt wood and charred family possessions rose from the brickwork. Rain always revived the memory of a fire, coaxing its odor out of blackened wood and scorched earth. The bricks were precisely stacked, cleaned of concrete, ready to be put up again, to form parts of new houses that would always smell a bit odd when it rained.
I went through St. James’s Square, eyeing Norfolk House, which stood in one corner, my future home away from home. It was taller than most neighboring buildings, seven stories. The windows started out large on the bottom floors, nearly vanishing into a series of tiny gables jutting out of the slanted slate roof. I guessed one of those would be mine, if I had a window at all.
I scooted around St. James’s Park, passing by the sandbagged War Rooms, where Churchill himself was probably growling into his special telephone, the hotline to the White House. Minutes later, I’d walked past Westminster Abbey, Parliament, Big Ben, the vaunted heart of the British Empire. Big Ben struck the quarter hour, the great bell still astounding me with its clear, deep tones. I’d heard it through static on news broadcasts hundreds of times, but when I heard it here, I thought of Edward R. Murrow reporting during the Blitz. We’d all gather around the radio, and the house would go quiet as we waited for his words.
This … is London.
I shivered. The damn place still gave me goose bumps. Or maybe it was the memory of Southie that it stirred up. I stood on the Embankment, watching the Thames flow dark and murky beneath me. For a moment, it was South Bay, and I was back walking a beat in the old neighborhood. But that seemed like so long ago, far more than barely two years. I tried to shake off the homesick blues, but it was getting harder as time passed.
Crossing the street, I craned my neck to take in the turreted white-and-red-brick headquarters of the London Metropolitan Police. New Scotland Yard. I went in and asked at the duty desk for Detective Inspector Horace Scutt. A uniformed constable showed me to the Criminal Investigations Department. Plainclothes. I walked into a room where any cop in the States would feel at home. Desks pushed together in the center, filing cabinets against the walls. A large city map on a bulletin board. Heavy black telephones ringing, and the low buzz of conversation, tinged with sharp frustration. The only difference was the tangy odor of stale tea leaves instead of coffee grounds.
“Excuse me,” I said, interrupting a detective who was perched on a desk, talking to an older man. The old fellow didn’t look like a suspect, more like a victim. His white hair was tousled, his cheek bruised, and dark brown stains on the front of his shirt marked where he’d bled. “Sorry, but I’m looking for Inspector Scutt?”
“Well, you’ve found him, lad. Now what do you want with him?” the older man asked.
“You’re Horace Scutt?” I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice. He looked ancient. Pure white hair and mustache, dark bags under his eyes, and the evidence of a beating added up to something other than a Scotland Yard detective. “Inspector Scutt?”
“Some days I wonder that myself. What’s your business here?”
The younger detective flashed a grin, but it wasn’t the friendly type. More like the kind you wear watching someone slip on a banana peel.
“Lieutenant Billy Boyle, Inspector. I was told to see you about the murder of Gennady Egorov, a Soviet Air Force captain.”
“Yes, we had a chap from the Home Office come by and instruct us to cooperate with you. So we must. Have a seat, Lieutenant, and we’ll go over the file with you.” Scutt nodded to the other detective, who went to gather the files.
“You have a rough night, Inspector?”
“Not as rough as it could have been. Half a dozen young ruffians escaped from the remand home at Wallington, then broke into the Home Guard armory at Upper Norwood. Got away with a couple of Sten guns and more ammunition than any sane man would want to carry around. Lucky for us, they fell out over who should have the guns and who were to be the ammo carriers.”
“Looks like they didn’t go down easy.”
“The young ones never do, Lieutenant, not if they’ve had a taste of incarceration.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, Inspector, aren’t you a bit too senior to be running around after armed kids?”
“I do mind, Lieutenant. Cosgrove told us we must cooperate with you, but that doesn’t mean I need to take any guff, now does it?”
“No, sir. Sorry, no offense intended,” I said. Scutt looked ready to jump out of his chair and go a couple of rounds. “Did you say Cosgrove? Big guy, big mustache? Stuffed shirt?”
“I’d say that fits the man,” Scutt said.
“He’s a major. MI5.” Military Intelligence, Section 5, was the British Secret Service, responsible for counterintelligence and security.
“I said he was no civil servant, guv,” the other detective said. “Didn’t I?”
“So you did, lad. Now, Lieutenant, what is your involvement with MI5?”
“As little as possible, sir. I had no idea Major Cosgrove would be in touch with you. I’m on General Eisenhowe
r’s staff, and he asked me to look into this for him.”
“Not the worst answer you could’ve given. Go on.”
“I was a detective myself, Inspector. In Boston, before the war.”
“A bit on the young side for a detective, I’d say.”
“I made the grade just before Pearl Harbor. I’d been on the force for a while, but I didn’t spend much time celebrating my promotion. Next thing I knew, I was working for General Eisenhower.”
“Well, Lieutenant Boyle, we won’t hold Cosgrove against you, unless you give us reason to.”
“All I need to do is review the case, and let the general know if there’s any possibility of trouble with the Russians. I won’t get in your way, I promise.”
“Possibility of trouble with the Russians? Did you hear that, Flack?”
“Quite the joker he is, guv.”
“I guess there’s trouble with the Russians,” I said, wishing I hadn’t sounded like a naive colonial.
“You’ll find out, soon enough. DS Flack will go over the details of the case with you. I’m going to get some fresh clothes and a few hours’ sleep. No rest for the wicked or the young, Flack.” Scutt rose with an agility that surprised me, given his age if not his injuries.
“Roy Flack,” the younger detective said, extending his hand. “Detective Sergeant.”
“Glad to meet you, Roy. As I said, I don’t want to be a pain. I know what we’d think in Boston if the FBI told us to cooperate with a stranger.”
“You’d think he was a troublemaker, looking either to claim the glory for himself if things go well or to find a scapegoat if they don’t.”
“You’ve given this some thought.”
“We’ve been handed a hot one, all right, and I don’t much like the idea of some Yank second-guessing our every move.” Flack leaned forward in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he studied me. All I could see were dark brown pupils, two little pebbles of suspicion. “So tell me the truth. Why are you here?”
“Is this why Scutt left? So you could give me the third degree?”
