Rag and Bone: Billy Boyle 05

by James R Benn

  “Oh no,” Sheila said again, a resigned sadness replacing the anger. Her hand went to her mouth to contain the sobs that were building. Her eyes were red, crusted with dried tears, and I knew there would be no more exclamations from her. Everything was lost now; she knew about Eddie, her bankroll was at my feet, and she was sure her neck was about to be broken by the Yank who’d slapped around her boyfriend, if not the giant standing behind him.

  I felt a warm, thin trickle inch its way down my cheek. Big Mike knelt to gather the contents of the handbag, and handed me the handkerchief. “Hold this to your cheek, Billy. And you, lady, inside.” He pointed to the interior, and she turned, seeming to understand from his tone that these might not be her last moments. She shuffled along with the certainty that they would not be among her best.

  Big Mike introduced us, told her to sit on the couch, pushed me down into an armchair, and told both of us not to move. We didn’t. He came back with a towel, bandages, and iodine, having raided the bathroom cabinet. Sheila dabbed at her eyes with a small lace handkerchief she took from her coat pocket. It was a plain utility coat, one of the government designs to reduce the use of rationed material. Sheila had tried to spice it up with a bright blue scarf, but drab was drab.

  “Ow! Easy on the iodine, Big Mike.” I jerked my head away.

  “I’m sorry,” Sheila said, in a timid voice.

  “Me, too,” I said. I looked around the room. It was furnished with the bare necessities—one floor lamp, the couch and chair, a radio, a side table, and a threadbare carpet. Dreary. A utility room. But a porcelain figure of a woman holding a vase was displayed on the side table. It was colorful, like Sheila’s scarf. Light streamed in through the bow window next to the front door, beneath which a large green plant with pink flowers—an oleander—sat on a low table, soaking up the sun. It was evident someone was trying to brighten up the place. “Did you see who killed him?”

  “No … how did you know?”

  “You weren’t at work. You’re here, rushing out of Eddie’s house with a wad of cash. Why else would you be on the lam? I don’t think you were playing him for a sap, were you?”

  “No, I…I loved him,” she said, breathing a heavy sigh. I guessed all the tears had dried up, first replaced by a determination to get away with what she could, and now by the futility of it all. She was ready to open up. People who get drawn into things, things beyond their own imaginings, are lost without the person who had involved them in the first place. Sheila was lost, and while we weren’t much, we were here, exuding uniformed authority, even as I winced over Big Mike’s first aid.

  “You found him dead in the alley, probably a little after eight o’clock,” I said.

  “Yes. It was awful. We were supposed to come back here, pack up, and leave. Eddie said he was going to be paid a bonus for his work, enough money to give us a new start.”

  “His work?”

  “That’s what he called it. He worked for our Allies, the Russians.”

  “Spying on our Allies, the Poles.”

  “It was all for the war effort, don’t you see? To be sure nothing got in the way of victory, that’s what Eddie said.”

  “What about your work?” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re an informant for Scotland Yard. You told them I beat Eddie senseless.”

  “I’m no informer, and you better not say so again,” Sheila said, her lips compressed into a thin line of lipstick the color of blood. “Yes, I pass on the odd tidbit now and then, plenty of people do. They wouldn’t pay if it wasn’t important, now would they?”

  “I can’t argue with that logic, Sheila. Did you see anybody or anything this morning, when you found Eddie?”

  “No, I saw that big knife sticking out of him and I knew he was dead. I didn’t wait around for whoever did it to take notice of me.”

  “So no one saw you there?”

  “No one from the hotel, if that’s what you mean. But I couldn’t take a chance, so I came back here, grabbed Eddie’s wages—I mean our money—and walked straight into you two. It is our money, you know. We were going away together, going to get married,” she said, her chin lifting her face into a profile of respectability.

  “Where did Eddie get the money?”

  “Some from the Russians, but they didn’t pay very well. Eddie had been a Party member a few years back, and they expected him to do it for the cause.”

  “The rest?”

  “He was being paid to keep a secret.”

  “He was blackmailing someone, you mean.”

  “It was part of his war work, he said. He’d found something out, and he said it was important. Eddie was smart like that, he could suss things out that no one else could.”

  “Did he tell you who?” I said, not pointing out the obvious fact that Eddie hadn’t been smart enough to suss out a bayonet to the chest.

  “No,” she said hesitantly, shaking her head, as if to rid herself of a bad memory. “He didn’t.”

  “Come on, Sheila,” Big Mike said, moving closer and looking down on her. “You two were partners in blackmail. Engaged to be married. Are you trying to tell us Eddie didn’t trust you?” He stood with his arms akimbo, the big bad cop.

  “He did. Eddie was a good man, he looked out for me! Don’t you dare suggest otherwise!”

  “I bet he did,” I said, mustering all the sincerity I could. “I’d guess he was protecting you, wasn’t he? If you didn’t know who it was, you couldn’t be hurt.”

  “That’s exactly what Eddie said.” Sheila looked up to Big Mike, flicking her head toward me. “Your lieutenant understands. A gentleman wouldn’t place his intended in harm’s way. That’s what Eddie called it. Harm’s way, and he wanted me to stay out of it.”

  “Did he say anything about what he’d discovered? Not who, but what?”

  “He’d give me a hint now and then. The way I had it figured, it was drugs.”

  “Somebody at the hotel was an addict? One of the Poles?”

  “He never came out and said it, but I always felt it was more that the fellow was a supplier.”

  “Why?”

  “Well,” Sheila said, leaning in and speaking in a whisper, as if Eddie might be listening in the other room, “one afternoon Eddie was late. We used to meet at work, when we could, in one of the empty rooms. I was angry, since I had only a few minutes left before they noticed me gone. Right angry with him, actually. So he told me he’d had to run over to Horseferry Street, to pick up this fellow’s drugs. I could tell right away he wished he hadn’t said it, but he had. I said he must be a terrible dope fiend, and Eddie laughed and said it wasn’t for him. That was all, he wouldn’t speak another word about it.”

  “Horseferry Street? You’re sure?”

  “I’m positive. Now I’d like my money back, please, unless you two are thieves and intend to rob me.”

  “You could always go to the police,” Big Mike said, “and tell them a couple of Yanks stole your blackmail money.”

  “You could go to hell, how about that?”

  “Listen,” I said. “This is evidence. I’m going to give it to Inspector Scutt at Scotland Yard. He’ll decide how much, if any, you’ll get back.”

  “It’s gone then, all gone,” Sheila said, tears rolling down her cheeks as she mourned the packet of pound notes. “Have some pity, will you? My man’s dead, I’m alone, and a killer may be after me. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Here,” I said, pulling four of the large white five-pound notes from the envelope. “Lie low for a while.”

  “What? You think a few of them five jacks will get me far? You must be mad, both of you.”

  “Listen, sister,” Big Mike said, squatting so he came face to face with her, “if it were up to me, I’d bring you and the money to Scotland Yard, and be glad to see you put in a cell. Lieutenant Boyle here is giving you your walking papers, and some ready cash besides. And you’re complaining?”

  “We had such
grand plans,” Sheila said, sniffling. “We were going to Shoeburyness together, today, as soon as he got home. It’s a lovely little town, right on the seashore. Eddie was going to bring me around to meet his mum.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Sheila,” I said, but I didn’t mean it. Eddie’s death saved her from being left behind, discarded at the last minute as he rode the train alone to Plymouth, almost two hundred miles in the opposite direction, far from London and Shoeburyness. She was just a chump, a girl Eddie used to fill his time while he accumulated his wages from blackmail and betrayal. I doubted she would’ve gotten even twenty pounds from him, so I figured she was ahead on the deal. A little cash, and a story that would undoubtedly turn into a tale of a secret agent killed in the line of duty, just as they were about to walk down the aisle. She had no idea how lucky she was.

  We waited for Sheila to put some things into a bag. I walked around the apartment, looking for anything out of place, anything that could remotely be considered a clue. There was nothing except a few traces of female domesticity that Sheila had brought to the place. The plant with bright green leaves, a few of which lay in the sink, and the remnants of baking were left in the kitchen. Unwashed bowls and rotting apple peels stood in the sink. A cutting board with flour still dusted over it, next to gardening gloves left on the kitchen table. An empty container marked SUGAR lay on its side, a line of white granules sparkling on the counter. Two cake pans, large and small, sat soaking in the sink. With sugar rationed at three ounces a month, she must’ve been baking something special. Home life interrupted by murder.

  Sheila came down the stairs and gave me the name and address of an aunt she was going to stay with, up in Birmingham, and I promised to give it to Inspector Scutt. I figured she was on the level, since she still hoped he’d see reason and hand over the wad of cash to her. I didn’t disagree, since it would keep her there in case I needed to talk to her again.

  Big Mike told her we’d give her a ride to Victoria Station, and we walked her to the jeep. A small dark blue sedan idled next to it, hemming us in. It was a Morris Ten, an old-fashioned, boxy-style vehicle with big front fenders and the headlights mounted on a bar attached to the grillwork, almost as an afterthought. A guy stepped out of the passenger’s seat, his right hand in his coat pocket. Big Mike took Sheila by the arm and pushed her in back of him. I spotted the second guy, leaning against a car behind us, smoking a cigarette. He flicked it away and walked toward us, his hands showing.

  “Just a moment, please,” he said, looking at Sheila. I caught Big Mike’s eye and turned to the guy who’d gotten out of the car. I pulled out my pistol, which was not exactly a quick draw as my overcoat was buttoned up. Big Mike had his .38 Colt police revolver leveled at the second guy before I cleared my holster.

  “Hold it!” Big Mike said. “Hands where I can see them.”

  “You,” I said, when I finally had my revolver centered on my guy. “Hand out of your pocket, slowly.” I heard Sheila crying, Big Mike pulling his hammer back, and my heart pounded. The street was quiet, a midday lull broken by tension and blue steel.

  “I have a warrant card here,” my guy said. “Police.” I glanced at the other guy, who stood silently with his hands open. They were calm, almost serene. I wondered why. I wondered how I’d react if two British soldiers pulled weapons on me in Boston. Nothing like these guys, and British cops didn’t carry guns, usually.

  “Who sent you?”

  “We’ve been looking for Miss Carlson there. Have a few questions for her.” His hand was still in his pocket, holding a warrant card, or a gun?

  “I didn’t ask whom you’ve been looking for. Who sent you?”

  “I don’t like being asked with that weapon in my face. You’re in enough trouble already, Lieutenant, drawing your weapon on members of the Metropolitan Police.”

  “It’s not in your face. It’s pointed at your chest. High, close to the heart. If it misses the heart, it’ll shatter your spinal cord. Or hit one of the big veins in your neck. That’s what I like about a high chest shot. So many things can put you down. Last time, who sent you?”

  “Lieutenant Boyle—” I stepped to one side to get a clear shot at the Morris. I pulled the trigger and shot out a tire, the retort echoing harshly against the buildings. The only sound after that was the air hissing out of the flat.

  “Billy?” Big Mike said.

  “They’re not cops,” I said. “No one knew we were coming here. So how could they know my name?”

  “Wilson,” the guy facing Big Mike said. “Sit in the car, please.” Wilson did, a look of shock still on his face. “Now, perhaps we can step inside and have a word.”

  “No dice,” I said, moving next to Big Mike. I holstered my piece, and Big Mike put his away as well. “We talk out here, in the open. Who are you?”

  “We have a mutual acquaintance. Major Cosgrove.”

  “Does MI5 carry identification?”

  “Yes, but you’ve seen through us, so it really doesn’t matter what’s written on our warrant cards. We came here to speak to Miss Carlson, and thought it best to wait and see who came out with her.”

  “You didn’t follow us here?”

  “No, not at all. We have some questions for Miss Carlson, that’s all. We are aware of your involvement, but this has nothing to do with you, Lieutenant Boyle, I assure you.”

  “Is it about Eddie?” Sheila asked, peeking from behind Big Mike’s left arm.

  “No, Miss Carlson. A tragedy, to be sure, but Scotland Yard has that investigation well in hand. I understand you, as well as Edward Miller, often worked on the Polish floor, as it was called, at the hotel.”

  “Yes, I did,” Sheila said, stepping out from Big Mike’s shadow. I could see her figuring the angles, calculating what there was for her in this, wondering if she could take over as a secret agent or whatever other role Eddie had sold her on. “Did you work with Eddie, if you know what I mean?”

  “Not our department, Miss Carlson. But I wonder if you might know where Captain Valerian Radecki is at the moment. You and Mr. Miller were acquainted with him?”

  “He and Eddie would chat now and then,” Sheila said. “But I can’t say he’d even know my name.”

  “You’ve no idea where he may be then?”

  “None at all. Is there a way I can get in touch with you if I find something out, Mister—?”

  “Brown. No need, Miss Carlson. Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch if we need you.” He touched the brim of his hat and headed for the Morris. Big Mike took Sheila to the jeep and I followed Mr. Brown.

  “Sorry about the tire,” I said. “I didn’t know who you guys really were.”

  “Hopefully it can be patched; there’s a terrible shortage of tires, you know.”

  “Didn’t you ask Major Horak where Radecki is?”

  “Yes, but the problem is, he hasn’t shown up there. Something about Station Number Eight, whatever that is. Horak wouldn’t say any more, except that Radecki was overdue.”

  “Why do you want Radecki?”

  “Routine, that’s all. You know how paperwork is with government security agencies. Never ending. Some form Captain Radecki has to complete. Well, good to meet you, Lieutenant Boyle. I hadn’t believed all of Cosgrove’s stories about you, to tell you the truth, but now I do.

  Good day.”

  “Good day to you, Mr. Brown. And Mr. Wilson.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “BROWN AND WILSON?” Big Mike said after we’d dropped Sheila off at Victoria Station and drove slowly down Victoria Street. “What’s that, the English version of Smith and Jones?”

  “Yeah, and about as subtle as a couple of G-men. You sure we don’t have another tail?”

  “Absolutely. Them two knuckleheads are probably still changing that tire, and no one else followed us. As long as Sheila gets on a train, she should be all right. Hey, Billy, how about lunch? I’m starved.”

  “Sure, if we can find a place to park,” I said.
We were only a block from the station, and the streets were clogged with parked cars, taxicabs, and trucks. I pointed to a J. Lyons tea shop on the corner, and Big Mike pulled over, right next to a no-parking sign. A constable walked toward us, shaking his head. Big Mike was out in a flash, his Detroit gold policeman’s shield held in his hand. The bobby studied it for a second before laughing at something Big Mike said. They shook hands, Big Mike crooked his thumb in my direction, and they laughed again.

  “All set, Billy,” he said as we entered the restaurant.

  “Should I ask what you said about me?”

  “No. There’s nothing like a pain-in-the-ass officer to make one flatfoot sympathetic to another. He’s watching the jeep for me.”

  “Great,” I said. No matter the color of the uniform Big Mike was still a cop at heart. He ordered a tongue sandwich and lemon barley water, cold. Apparently there was a choice. I went with a ham sandwich and tea.

  “What do you think Brown and Wilson were after, Billy?”

  “I’d say they were genuinely surprised to see us, so I think they were looking for Radecki, following a lead.”

  “Maybe he’s got a girlfriend somewhere.”

  “Maybe so, but why is MI5 looking for him? If it was about the murder, they’d let Scutt handle it, and keep themselves out of the picture.” I lowered my voice, glancing around at the nearby diners. An RAF pilot stared at me from a poster, looking daring in his flight jacket, the caption warning that Careless Talk May Cost His Life. The tables were close together, and the waitresses, all dressed in black uniforms with red buttons and white collars, moved swiftly between them, tending to their customers and pouring steaming cups of tea. Too swiftly to pay much attention, I decided.

  “You have any ideas?”