Rag and Bone: Billy Boyle 05

by James R Benn

  “But then what?” I said, not realizing I’d spoken out loud.

  “Huh?” Big Mike said as he downshifted and passed a couple of trucks. I held onto my hat with one hand and onto the seat with the other. Even with the canvas top up, the wind whipped around inside and almost blew my service cap out. Big Mike’s driving threatened to do the same with the rest of me.

  “If they don’t find Sidorov on the road, I don’t think they’ll find him at the house,” I said, shouting to be heard above the wind and road noise.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s most likely out of contact with Sheila. If anybody local saw him enter the house, they’d think he was a thief. Even if he got in, people would expect her to be there to care for him. If she’s not there, he probably has to hide out somewhere and wait. Somewhere close.”

  “We broke in,” Big Mike said. “No one called the cops or came at us with a shotgun.”

  “We didn’t have much at stake. We could’ve talked our way out of trouble, if it came to that. But Sidorov is wearing a German uniform, and he has everything to lose.”

  “OK,” Big Mike said. “He needs to hide out somewhere safe, until they can meet up. Wonder if they have a contingency plan?”

  “They’re both in the spy business. It would make sense.” I thought about it for a while. Big Mike was dead-on. Sidorov was NKVD, Sheila was MI5. Between them, they’d know the ins and outs of the trade. “There’d have to be two contingency plans, at least. One for getting together if something unexpected happened to either of them, like the move to Dover. And another in case of total disaster, like one of them being found out. That would be a whole different kettle of fish.”

  “Right now, they’re probably working under Plan A,” Big Mike said. “If they go to Plan B, we’ll never find them.”

  “Jesus, I hope Flack doesn’t ring up the Shepherdswell constable and tell him to walk up and down Farrier Street until he sees a Russian dressed up as a German.”

  “He didn’t strike me as thick-headed,” Big Mike said. “Stubborn, for sure. You know the type—arrest and conviction, that’s what counts. Some guys prefer a tidy closed case to a messy open one.” He laid on the horn, passing three trucks this time, and didn’t slow down.

  WE MADE IT back to Norfolk House in record time, and found Cosgrove in with Colonel Harding. We gathered around his desk, bringing them up to speed.

  “I’ve been in touch with Scotland Yard,” Cosgrove said. “They are skeptical of your theory, but have agreed to watch Shepherdswell carefully. Meanwhile, they have brought murder charges against Lieutenant Kazimierz. The death of Captain Sidorov, if that indeed is his body, tipped the scales against him, I’m afraid.”

  “What exactly are they doing in Shepherdswell?” I asked, now very afraid for Kaz.

  “They’ve sent a man down to stay at the pub, posing as a businessman. He has photos of both Sheila Carlson and Sidorov.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I’ve arranged for two WACs to visit Shepherdswell,” Harding said. “They have a three-day pass, and I figured they wouldn’t raise much suspicion. They can walk around like tourists. Mary Stevens, from the typing pool, and Estelle Gordon.”

  “Estelle? She’s back?” Big Mike piped up. “Sir?”

  “Yes, she came in after you two left for Dover. I figured it would give her something worthwhile to do.”

  “Well, OK, I guess she can take care of herself,” Big Mike said grudgingly.

  “Any other ideas, Boyle?” Harding said. “This whole thing is heating up. The Russians are screaming, accusing the Poles, the Poles are screaming about the Katyn cover-up, and both sides are screaming about postwar borders. We need to wrap this up, quickly and quietly.”

  “The only thing I can think of is to try Archie Chapman, and see if he can tell us anything. It had to be his gang that supplied Sidorov and Sheila with false papers and maybe even a stolen car. He might save us a lot of time.”

  “The same Chapman who you just cheated out of a truckload of Russian gold?” Cosgrove said. “I think he’d be more in the mood to slit your throat than to help you.”

  “I agree,” I said. “That’s why I need you to do me a favor.” After I told Cosgrove what I needed, he left and Harding told Big Mike to grab some chow. He got no argument.

  “ Ike’s back,” Harding said, after everyone had left. “Came in from the States yesterday. He wants to see you.” He ushered me into Uncle Ike’s office, one floor up.

  “William,” Uncle Ike said, setting down the telephone. “How are you?”

  “Holding my own, General,” I said, unaware of how much Uncle Ikeknew about what had been going on. “How was your visit home?”

  “It was great to see Mamie again. She sends her best wishes, by the way. Unfortunately, I spent more time with politicians than I did on leave. Sit down, William.” Uncle Ike sat on a couch, and I took the armchair opposite. He nodded to Harding, who left the room. “I’m sorry to hear about this affair with Lieutenant Kazimierz. I wanted you to know I called the commissioner at Scotland Yard and asked for him to be released into my custody. He said no.”

  “I’m not surprised. They seem to think Kaz is the answer to their prayers.”

  “That’s dangerously close to the truth, William.” Uncle Ike lit a cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “This is a tightrope we’re walking. On one side is our moral obligation to our Polish allies. Not to mention millions of Polish-American voters; FDR isn’t one to forget that. On the other side, there are the hundreds of Red Army divisions fighting the Germans right now.”

  “Did you discuss this with the president?”

  “What would be the point, William? If we openly side with the Poles, we cause a break in relations with our Soviet allies, just as we are beginning to plan the invasion. Do you have any idea what our casualties would be if the Soviets halted their offensive, even for a few weeks? The Germans could move a dozen more divisions into France.”

  “But we can’t side with the Russians on this, can we?” Uncle Ikesmoked for a minute, staring at the carpet, the view out the window, anything but my gaze.

  “No, you’re right. We can’t and won’t openly side with the Russians against the Poles.”

  “Which leaves nothing.”

  “Yes. We have offered to act as intermediaries, which the Russians have roundly and loudly rejected. So we wait for both sides to come to their senses, which may never happen. This entire matter may be settled by Russian tanks entering Warsaw, but don’t you ever repeat that, William.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But I’ll be damned if we let Lieutenant Kazimierz be Scotland Yard’s scapegoat, and don’t repeat that either. You find whoever is responsible for these murders, and get Kaz back to work for me. Can you do that, William?”

  “Yes, Uncle Ike. I can. I will.”

  “Good, good. Do you need anything?”

  “I’ve got Major Cosgrove organizing something that should help. I’ll let you know if I need a company of Rangers to bust Kaz out.” Uncle Ikesmiled and draped his arm over my shoulder as he led me to the door.

  “I wouldn’t mind leading them myself,” he said.

  THE SOUND OF a dozen pairs of boots running down the stairs in the enclosed space of the Liverpool Street Underground set up an echo that signaled lethal intent, which was the general idea. We tromped into Archie’s domain bristling with arms. The ten Royal Marines had Stenguns, and Big Mike carried a Winchester M12 shotgun. I satisfied myself with a .45 automatic at my side and a piece of paper in my hand. No one had a round chambered, but Archie and his boys wouldn’t know that. We were going to give them something else to think about.

  It was pelting rain outside, and with little chance of a Luftwafferaid, the population in the shelter was light, only those diehards who coveted their regular bunks. Plus Archie and Topper. We’d waited until we saw them go down for the night, gave them twenty minutes to get settled, then came on like gangbusters. Two je
eps and a truck, with an armed guard left to watch over our little convoy. Can’t fool me twice.

  “Topper Chapman!” I bellowed as we stormed into Archie’s shelter. It was tight going with the cots and bunks, but people scattered fast to let us through. First up was Charlie, the ex-boxer who stood guard at the entrance to Archie’s blanketed retreat.

  “Out of our way, Charlie. You don’t have enough newspaper for all the iron we brought.”

  “This ain’t right,” Charlie said, holding his ground. “You all stop where you are.”

  “Billy, hold this,” Big Mike said, handing me the shotgun. He put up his fists, and Charlie did the same, despite the fact that Big Mike stood a foot taller than he did. Big Mike pulled back his right fist, and Charlie moved his arms to block the punch, but Big Mike jabbed him in the stomach with his left, a quick punch that sent Charlie to his knees, gasping. I handed Big Mike the shotgun, and we all stepped around Charlie, who’d done his duty and lost only his wind.

  “Topper Chapman!” I said again, and heard the scamper of feet as more residents of the shelter fled the scene. “Time to serve king and country.”

  “What’s this then?” Clive said, open mouthed, as he peered out at us from behind the makeshift wall. Stanley pushed Clive forward, his hand in his jacket pocket. He took it out slowly, and empty, as he watched Big Mike’s shotgun aimed straight at his chest.

  “Down! Down on the floor!” The Royal Marine sergeant shouted, and with the snouts of several Sten guns to guide them, Stanley and Clivewere spread-eagled in ten seconds. Two more marines pulled down the hanging blankets, and Archie Chapman was revealed, sitting in his chair, reading a book, Poems from the Trenches. He carefully placed a bookmark between the pages, then calmly watched the proceedings. Topper sat in a hard-backed chair, his legs crossed nonchalantly, a drink in his hand. The Chapmans were a couple of cool customers.

  “Come in, Peaches,” Archie said. “I’ve been hoping to see you.”

  “I came to see Topper. To give him this,” I said, holding up the piece of paper. “His enlistment has been reinstated. Turns out your Dr. Carlisle has lost his medical license, which invalidates his diagnosis of whatever phony condition he cooked up for you.”

  “Bollocks!” Archie cried, throwing his book down. “You can’t do this, Yank.”

  “I’m just the messenger,” I said, handing Archie the paperwork. “These gentlemen are here to carry out the lawful order of your own government.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Topper said, but he knew I was. It was just something to say. He drained his drink, stood, and nodded to his father.

  “Come, Mr. Chapman,” the Royal Marine sergeant said, addressing Topper. “Everything’s in order. Let’s get to the barracks and get you kitted out.” He took Topper by the arm and as they left, I thought I saw a glimpse of what—excitement?—on Topper’s face. Joy, maybe. The Royal Marines had to be an improvement over life with Archie.

  The place cleared out quickly. Two marines remained at the entrance to the shelter to keep the denizens out. Big Mike took a few steps back and cradled the shotgun in his arms. I took Topper’s chair, pulled it close to Archie, and sat.

  “No poem for the occasion?” I asked. Archie frowned, a bitter, deep frown that pulled down the corners of his mouth as if he were caught on a fishhook. He looked at the paper, the stamp of the Crown, and the legalisms that had taken his son away.

  “You want praise for this maneuver of yours, Peaches? I think one of your own, an Irishman, put it best.”

  You say, as I have often given tongue

  In praise of what another’s said or sung,

  ‘Twere politic to do the like by these;

  But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?

  “That’s Yeats, but I doubt you know it. This maneuver is a fleabite. I’ll have Topper back in the time it takes to buy a politician, which is to say by dawn. What do you want with him? Have you taken him as a bargaining chip?”

  “I’d like some insurance against taking a bayonet over that business with the Russian gold,” I said.

  “So that was your doing? I thought perhaps. What a surprise that was. Armored cars, machine guns, not what we expected. A great fortune lost. And such a loss does build resentment, so you’re wise to have Topper at hand, at least for as long as you’re down here.”

  “Think carefully, Archie. Think about what it takes to get a doctor’s license revoked. Think about what pull it takes to get Topper into the service, without a question asked about his record. They weren’t picky, right after Dunkirk. But now, criminal associations should keep a guy like Topper out. But there it is, in black and white. The Royal Marines, no less. Maybe a commando unit. Think about that.”

  He did. His mouth went slack for a moment, then he clamped it shut. He reached for a bottle of gin, a couple of glasses, and poured. He downed his before I got mine to my lips.

  “Pass me that book,” he said, pointing to the volume he’d thrown to the floor. I did. “You won’t believe what I was reading when you burst in here. Isaac Rosenberg. Jewish lad, died at the Somme. Would have been a great poet, perhaps, had he lived. I was in the middle of ‘On Receiving News of the War.’ Listen.”

  In all men’s hearts it is.

  Some spirit old

  Hath turned with malign kiss

  Our lives to mould.

  Red fangs have torn His face.

  God’s blood is shed.

  He mourns from His lone place

  His children dead.

  “What do you think of that, Peaches?”

  “I think you did everything a father could do,” I said. “I know my dad did, but I’m still here. Fate has a hand to play as well.”

  “You could be right,” Archie said, letting the book drop to the floor. “So what do you want? It must be more than safe passage through Shoreditch should you come visiting.”

  “I want everything you know about Kiril Sidorov and Sheila Carlson.”His eyebrows rose, a sign of admiration.

  “So you’ve put those two together, have you? Regular lovebirds.”

  “I didn’t know if it was love or money,” I said.

  “The course of true love runs a lot more smoothly cushioned by cash. Still, they seem to be dedicated to each other. I’m giving no evidence here, understand. We’re just having a chat.”

  “About two people we both know,” I said, gulping gin.

  “And this chat will give the good doctor his medical license back? And Topper back to me?”

  “Yes,” I said, “if I’m satisfied.” I wanted to tell him to let Topper go, but I was a military detective, not a social worker.

  “I don’t know, Peaches,” Archie said, staring into his empty glass. “I can get another sawbones anytime. And maybe Topper should serve. He told me the other day how it might be hard for him to hold his head up high after the war. That some in the neighborhood might think badly of him.”

  “Really?” I cursed myself for giving Topper that line to get him steamed.

  “Really. If he’s thinking that way, then he’s weak and needs toughening. Once you start caring what others think of you, then you start living by their rules. Might as well get a proper job.”

  “I know some fellows in Boston who’d agree with you. They’d also agree that you should make that decision, not have it made for you.”

  “You’re leavin’ me with only bad choices, Peaches. I don’t like selling out a client. It isn’t good for business.”

  “Listen, Archie. Once we pick these two up, there’s going to be no public trial, no testimony. This is wartime, and they’re spies, pure and simple. If they’re not hung they’ll be thrown in a deep, dark hole far away from here. MI5 is backing me on this, and they’ll back you, too, if you want.”

  “You’re an interesting one, Peaches. A mere lieutenant who haunts the streets and tunnels of London, but who also can have Shoreditchdeclared off-limits, bring a squad of Royal Marines along as your own muscle, ruin my doc
tor’s practice, and at the same time cavort with the likes of MI5. They’ve shed their share of Irish blood, haven’t they? Don’t you feel hatred for them? Who are you really, Peaches?”

  “A mere lieutenant,” I said. “Who understands what family means.”Archie sighed, and refilled our glasses. We drank some more, but that sigh told me everything I needed to know. I relaxed, and Archie filled in the details, his mind clear even as his belly filled with gin. Names on fake identity papers and ration books. Make and model of the stolen car, plus stolen license plates. Dates and amounts of payments. Details on the split Sidorov would have received if the gold shipment had been taken. It was impressive.

  Sidorov had controlled security for the gold shipment, and had talked his superiors into the low-profile approach. Egorov had been suspicious from the get-go, and Sidorov thought he had gotten too close, so one night he led Egorov to Liverpool Street and gave him the Polish treatment, down to the hands tied with twine. He planted the map on him to draw suspicion toward Egorov as a victim of thugs, Poles, or both.

  Sidorov had traded information about the earlier produce shipment with Archie, to establish his bona fides and to put his hands on enough money to purchase the phony papers and rent the cottage in Shepherdswell, disguised as a crippled RAF pilot. That way, he’d be ready to pull his disappearing act once the gold was snatched and Archie supplied a body.

  “It was our good fortune Jerry came back,” Archie said. “I’ve got a stiff on ice, didn’t even have to kill the poor bastard. Concussion did him in. Sidorov had given me enough of his uniform gear over time that we got him all outfitted. Need a dead Russian, Peaches? Fire sale, you might say. Ha! Wasted effort, that was, with him going off to Dover, and you spoiling our grand plans.”

  “It was clever, the way you used a staff car to tail me,” I said, wanting to steer the conversation away from my monkey wrenching and on to how brilliant Archie was. “You didn’t have any other way to contact Sidorov?” I said it casually as I filled my glass for what I hoped was the last time. I didn’t want Archie to know how important this was. Otherwise, there’d be a price tag I might not be able to pay.