by James R Benn
The beehive continued to buzz as I stuck my hands in my pockets, whistled a low tune, and wondered how many of the people in this room would still be alive by the end of the war. I had never been so patriotic that I was willing to charge blindly into the jaws of death. As a matter of fact, I thought anyone who was needed his head examined. The brass was going to think up plenty of ways to get us all killed, while keeping themselves safe and cozy, sipping good brandy in comfortable quarters. I saw no reason to help them get me killed. I planned to do my best to get Mom’s oldest boy home again, safe and sound. I shook my head, like a drunk trying to get ahold of himself. I needed to watch out for this Norwegian liberation fever. It might be catching.
“Yes, Lieutenant Boyle?”
I was so lost in thought that I hadn’t noticed Jens hang up his phone. He was looking at me as if I were a door-to-door salesman. I stopped whistling. I could tell he was still steamed at having his claim to jurisdiction overruled by Major Harding and by my role in charge of the investigation. I didn’t blame him a bit. No cop would want an investigation taken away from him, and the head of security here wouldn’t feel any different. Didn’t mean I was going to cut him any slack.
“Captain Iversen,” I began in my best imitation of military formality, “I need to ask you a few questions.” I watched him carefully. There was no surprise on his face at being approached as a witness or perhaps a suspect. Instead of indignation, I saw resignation.
“Please, sit down.” He gestured at the chair facing his desk. I pulled it closer to his desk, sat down, and leaned forward so we could speak quietly. Jens moved aside a map, then thought about it and folded it up so I couldn’t see it. He was the head of security, after all.
“Captain, first let me say that I didn’t ask for this assignment. I don’t like interfering with your work here, but I have to follow up every lead that comes my way.”
“Lieutenant, I don’t like finding the dead body of one of my officials and then having the responsibility for the investigation taken away from me. This should be a Norwegian matter. But as a soldier I understand the need to follow orders, so ask your questions.”
He was hanging on to his dignity. Not only had the death of Knut Birkeland happened on his watch, but his authority had been undercut by Harding, and now here I was to question him. Part of me felt bad for him. Most of me liked it. It meant he was off balance, worried about his status and what it was I knew. It was all a good start for an interrogation. I leaned in even closer.
“Jens,” I said in a soft and friendly voice, “why didn’t you tell me where you were this morning?”
His eyes widened and he gave out a nervous little laugh. “What do you mean? I was with you.”
“No, Jens, before we found the body. Before he went out the window.”
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled deeply. He kept quiet, which was the smartest thing anyone being questioned can do. Unfortunately for him, my dad had taught me well how to deal with a quiet suspect. Be quiet right back at them. Let them fill the silence. We sat there, looking at each other. He twitched a bit, and his eyes darted around the room behind me. I stared at him, thinking confident thoughts. When he started tapping a pencil on the desktop I knew it wouldn’t be much longer.
“Billy, what do you want more than anything else?”
That was easy; so easy that it came out with a sigh.
“To go home;” I said.
Jens laughed again, not nervously but the kind of laugh that hides a real pain or shares one. “Yes, to go home. Imagine that you haven’t been home for years instead of weeks, and that the Nazis occupy your home. Now think about how badly you’d want to get back.” I had the fleeting thought that some parts of Boston at night would be tough even on the Nazis, but I knew what he meant.
“I’d want to get back real bad, to even the score. Just like you do now.”
“Yes, I do, now that everything has changed. Within a few months we will be in Norway, taking it back from the Germans. We’ve been dreaming about this since 1940.”
“You’re telling me all this because . . . ?”
“Because as much as I want to be part of this invasion, as important as it is to me, I won’t answer your questions. No matter what the consequence.”
“Jens, I already know that shortly before six o’clock you were seen returning to your room. You had left your door unlocked and went in very quietly. Then you told me the sentries woke you about six thirty after they found Birkeland’s body. I know you were out of your room in the early morning hours and that you lied about the time you were up. Why not just fill in the blanks?”
“No.”
“Were you in Birkeland’s room that morning?”
“Not until I entered with you.”
“Were you in anyone else’s room that morning?” I could see him think about that question. Evidently he didn’t mind answering questions that skirted the issue of why he was out of his room. I was beginning to get an idea.
“No, I can tell you that much.”
“Did you see anyone else?” He shook his head.
“Does that mean you didn’t see anyone or won’t tell me?”
“Billy, I am not withholding any information that would bear on Knut Birkeland’s death. I know you are somewhat single-minded, but not everything that happens here has to do with his death. Some things are personal . . . private.”
“Until I know that something doesn’t matter, it does.”
“That does indeed make you single minded, or childlike, as if the whole world revolves around you and your needs. It doesn’t, Billy. The world goes on, with or without us or even Knut Birkeland. The invasion will go on, regardless of what you find out.”
Not exactly, I thought to myself. Maybe the invasion, yes. It will go on. But this is my world—the investigation, the intrusion, the hanging on until it’s solved or I run out of air speed and ideas. Until then, this is my universe and I’m the center of it, and I like it just like that.
“Are you telling me to back off?” I asked.
Jens shrugged, as if it didn’t really matter.
“You cannot even be sure Birkeland was murdered. It may have been a suicide. You have to admit it is somewhat ironic that one death receives so much attention in the midst of a war with thousands of deaths. Here we are working on plans for the invasion and the Underground uprising. Who knows how many on both sides will die?”
“So what’s just one death when we can look forward to so many more?”
“I mean . . . there is so much to look forward to, so much to do. And we will need every man to help. Why not just leave things to the Almighty? Perhaps if Birkeland really was murdered, God will punish the killer. As you say, there will be death enough very soon.”
“I’m only a cop, or whatever I am now in this job. I make it a practice to leave God’s punishment up to him, as soon as I send a bad guy his way. You need to understand something, Jens. I’m going to find out what happened. In order to do that, I need to know everything that went on this morning, whether you like it or not. Even if it hurts somebody. Even if it hurts her.”
Jens jumped like he’d been poked with a sharp stick. Wow, had I been right.
“Who?”
“Her. The woman you’re protecting. The woman who was in your room last night. The woman who you probably escorted back to her quarters, being such a gentleman. Am I right, or were you off killing Knut Birkeland instead?”
Jens just about collapsed into a chair. His hands covered his face as he tried to mask his emotions. “Gudshjelp meg,” he said in a whisper. “God help me.” He rubbed his eyes as if he were very tired.
“I did not kill Knut Birkeland, Billy. If you can figure out everything else, you should know that much.”
“What about her? Who is she?” Well, he was the one who called me single-minded.
“It’s more . . . complicated than you might think. If it would help you, I would tell you, but there is nothing she could know. An
d it would cause . . . great pain.”
“Tell me one thing, Jens. Did you take her all the way back to her room?”
“No, I didn’t want us to be seen together. I took her down to the first floor, and then she went on from there.”
“Then I need to talk to her. She may have seen something after she left you, something she’s not even aware of.”
“No. I will not put her through this.”
“It sounds like this goes beyond your normal slap and tickle, Jens.”
“What does that mean?”
“How do you say ‘romp in the hayloft’ in Norwegian?”
A limp smile lifted his lips. “I think I understand. As I said, it is complicated. Much more complicated than that.”
“You love her, and she’s married?”
“That would be simple. I have fallen in love with her, but. . . .”
His voice trailed off, and his eyes wandered to some distant place. Suddenly I realized that he was right. It probably was very complicated. So complicated that it made him miserable and might lead him to give up his dream of fighting his way back home.
“But what, Jens?”
“Her husband is missing in action. He is a ghost that haunts her. Now leave me alone.”
CHAPTER ▪ THIRTEEN
I LEFT HIM ALONE as soon as I realized I wasn’t going to get another word out of him. I walked down to the main entrance, went outside between the twin grim sentries, and gazed along the road we had driven down just two days ago, unaware of the undercurrents in Beardsley Hall that were stirring, as someone was getting ready to kill Knut Birkeland. I took a deep breath and let it out, hoping the fresh air would clear my mind and let me see a pattern emerging. Nothing. Nothing but the smell of flowers, damp greenery, and the faint pungent smell of gun oil hanging in the still air. The sentries’ Sten guns gleamed, the dark metal glistening with the perfume of death. I stepped off the smooth steps and onto the crushed stone driveway, liking the feel and sound of it underfoot.
I wondered about Jens and his female friend with the missing husband. That would throw a monkey wrench into his plans. It was one thing for a woman to have an affair right under her husband’s nose, at least then he had some chance of finding out. But missing in action? Maybe dead, maybe not? Maybe never to be seen again, maybe about to walk through the door tomorrow? That’s competition.
He was intent on protecting her, whoever she was, and I was lucky to have gotten anything out of him before he clammed up. Now I needed to talk to Major Cosgrove, to ask about his early morning stroll with Skak. He hadn’t been straight with me, but then again, who had? Every time I turned around I found somebody where they shouldn’t have been. I wasn’t any closer to finding a spy, the missing gold, or even figuring out if there really had been a murder. Suicide still didn’t make any sense to me, not for a guy like Knut Birkeland. He might have killed somebody if he got mad enough, but I couldn’t see him taking his own life. It was too introspective an act for a fellow like him.
But even with every Tom, Dick, and Lars wandering around Beardsley Hall before dawn, I couldn’t place anyone in Birkeland’s room, much less figure out how they could’ve killed him. I was tired and I was getting a headache. I was fed up with Norwegians and their holy crusade and healthy early morning walks. Maybe Jens had it right. Let God sort things out. I thought about saying a little prayer for help, but it had been so long since I had been to confession that I figured it would only piss God off. Maybe I should go to Mass this Sunday. I could write Mom and tell her about it, which would definitely make her day. But though it seemed like a good idea now, I knew come early Sunday morning, I might feel differently. I thought about food and drink and Daphne, not in that order. And sleep. Sleep would be good, too. But Cosgrove was bugging me. Why hadn’t he told me he was out with Skak at six o’clock in the morning? He might have seen someone or something, like blood on Vidar Skak’s hands. OK, that was a little overboard, but it would have made things a lot easier. I knew it would bother me all night if I didn’t deal with it now, so like a good little investigator I went back inside to find the major.
Cosgrove and Harding had set up shop in the map room. It was a long room on the first floor, looking out over the gardens, a row of high windows illuminating the room with the gray light that filtered through the thick clouds. It was summer, but damp and cloudy seemed to be what passed for summer weather here. There were large map tables set up on trestles under the windows, and a long conference table along the opposite wall. File cabinets and map cases filled the middle of the room, and Harding and Cosgrove were standing in front of one of the map cases, its wooden front panel open. I was about to make a crack about English weather when I saw the look on their faces. Something was wrong.
“Boyle!” Harding snapped. “Shut that door and get in here.”
I turned and closed the heavy oak door behind me. I walked over to the map case. Harding was peering inside while Cosgrove examined the lock on the open door. They looked like a couple of fancy dress cops on burglary detail.
“Someone steal the Beardsley family silver?”
“Nothing has been stolen, Lieutenant,” Cosgrove said. “But someone has been in this map case. All the Operation Jupiter maps are stored in here.” I looked at the case, but nothing appeared to be disturbed.
“How do you know someone got into the case, sir?” I asked Harding.
“Look in here, Boyle. See these compartments?” The inside of the cabinet was subdivided into sixteen small compartments, four rows of four, each large enough for a rolled map and accompanying documents. Ten of them, starting at the top left, were full.
“These ten maps represent the overall strategic plan for Operation Jupiter. Naval, air and ground forces, plus special operations. They include unit strength, dates, everything. And they’ve been moved. Each map is numbered, one through ten, the first in the upper left-hand corner, then the rest in order.”
“They’re out of order?” I asked.
“No. They’re exactly in order.” Harding allowed himself a sly smile as he looked up at me. “I reversed maps six and seven when I put them away. I figured if anyone unauthorized got in here, they would think it was their mistake and put them back in the right order.”
“This confirms it, young man,” Cosgrove said. “The spy is here among us.”
“Why would a spy need to break in to see these? Aren’t you briefing the Norwegians on all this?”
“Need to know, Lieutenant, it’s all about need to know,” Harding answered. “No one here needs to know all the details. We briefed the king and his top aides on the big picture, without much detail. Then we worked our way through the ranks, by branch of service. The navy people got their briefing, but nothing about parachute drops or Underground activity, for instance. Each group got a detailed briefing, but only on their part of the plan. Whoever broke in here got detailed information about everything.”
“Look here, Harding,” said Cosgrove as he pointed to the lock. There were faint scratches on the inside of the keyhole.
“Yep,” I said, sticking my nose between them, “the lock’s been jimmied. Think he took pictures with a miniature camera or some sorta spy gadget?”
“I doubt it,” Harding said. “It would be too incriminating. It wouldn’t be hard to memorize the key elements. Or write them down later. The advantage we have is that he doesn’t know we’re on to him.”
“It occurs to me, gentleman,” Cosgrove said as he retreated to a comfortable chair and settled his bulk, “that this may have happened while poor Birkeland was meeting his maker.”
Cosgrove puffed out his cheeks, as if the act of sitting had taken all his energy. I looked at Harding, who nodded his head thoughtfully as he gazed into the case. Then I looked at the lock. It was a simple job, nothing an apprentice second-story man couldn’t pop open on the first try.
“You’re right,” he said. “I checked these last night and they were fine. The room was empty all night until 0800 h
ours. Then people have been in here all day and there wouldn’t have been any opportunity to break into the case. We had a briefing scheduled for this afternoon, and this was the first time I’ve opened the case today.”
“It could have happened during the night, or perhaps it is connected with the Birkeland business,” huffed Cosgrove. “If it was murder, that is. Have you found anything today, Lieutenant?”
My mind was reeling with possibilities, but I tried to focus on what I had originally come in for. I looked at each of them and thought about how much I could say. Or should say, if I cared about my military career. Not caring much had its benefits, I decided.
“I learned that I need to ask you a few questions, sir,” I said to Cosgrove. “Do you mind?”
“What is this, Boyle?” Harding demanded. His eyes narrowed in irritation. Cosgrove appeared amused.
“I need to talk to everyone who was up and around early this morning. Major Cosgrove never told me that he met Vidar Skak for a half-hour walk at six o’clock this morning. I wonder why, sir.”
Cosgrove just laughed and pounded his hand on the arm of the chair. “Very amusing, young man! Very amusing indeed. We have a dead government minister, invasion plans have been read by a spy, and you want to know what I was doing this morning! Shall we ring up the prime minister and ask him for his whereabouts while you’re at it?”
Cosgrove stroked his mustache and continued to chuckle as he looked at Harding with a raised eyebrow that said: See what an idiot this boy is.
Harding sighed and shook his head. “Boyle, not everything that goes on here is your business. Some things are beyond your reach, and Major Cosgrove is absolutely beyond suspicion. Got it?”
“Yeah, I get it,” I said, my voice going up a bit, even though I tried to keep it under control. “You guys want me to investigate a death and find a spy, but not if it bothers you and your little plots. Well, it don’t work that way!”
