Billy Boyle: A World War II Mystery, Vol. 1

by James R Benn

  But that was then, and now I had to answer Daphne. Jens didn’t strike me as the strictly guilty type, but he did have a certain sadness to him, as if he had disappointed himself. Remorse could fester into guilt, especially when there was a woman involved. And a war.

  “He or she or both. All I know is that she might have seen something. Jens says it’s complicated, and I can’t disagree. I asked Cosgrove to find out who on the staff might have a MIA or POW husband.”

  “Maybe that’s why the girls wouldn’t tell me anything about her,” Daphne said. “They must feel sorry for her. If they disapproved, they would’ve offered her up on a plate of gossip.”

  It made sense. Complicated, like Jens said.

  “Did you find out what Cosgrove and Skak were doing on their walk?” Kaz asked.

  “Skak takes a walk every morning at six. A man of precise habits, he says. Cosgrove, whom I don’t see as the walking type, supposedly asked to go along to talk about Skak’s plans for the underground. When I asked Cosgrove about it, he politely told me that it was a matter of security and to butt out.”

  “So we found out nothing today,” Daphne said sadly.

  “Something else happened.” I gestured for them to lean in closer and whispered to them about the maps. Their eyes widened in surprise. It felt good to impart something new, even if it didn’t help to figure out who the spy or the killer was.

  “Who do you think—,” Kaz asked before I cut him off.

  “We shouldn’t talk anymore about it here,” I whispered. “But there’s something else. It hit me today that the live round fired during the exercise wasn’t aimed at me. It was a near miss, aimed at Birkeland.”

  “That means it was a planned murder,” Kaz said thoughtfully. “The killer missed Birkeland at the exercise, so he got him in his room.”

  “In both cases, he went to great lengths to cover his tracks. If that bullet had hit Birkeland, there wouldn’t have been any suspicion at all. It would’ve been just a tragic accident,” I said. “But once you see both events as connected, then it’s obvious it was premeditated murder.”

  “Murder? Or assassination?” Daphne asked in a low voice. “Are the maps and his death connected?”

  “Connected, maybe, but I can’t really see the same person at work on both. What’s the advantage to the Germans of killing Birkeland? He was an important member of government, but what effect would his death have on the war?”

  “None, really,” shrugged Kaz.

  “That’s awfully callous, darling,” responded Daphne.

  “Yes, it is. But detectives must be objective and dispassionate, yes, Billy?”

  “That’s a good place to start, Kaz. But it usually gets complicated, much more complicated than you ever bargained for.”

  I thought about Jens again, and how he had described his relationship with the mystery woman. Complicated, but how complicated? Just how deep had he gotten himself? Were we sure the spy was a man? I drained my glass and went to the bar. This was thirsty work. Robert pulled another pint for me and I returned to my seat.

  “Daphne,” I asked as I sat down, “what do you know about Major Cosgrove?”

  “He seems very well connected to intelligence circles. We think he works for MI-5, British military intelligence. But he claims to be just a liaison from the British General Staff, which fits in with his role here, so maybe our imaginations are overactive. Why? You don’t suspect him of anything, do you?”

  “Before we got here, did either of you ever tell him anything about me?” Kaz and Daphne looked at each other, maybe thinking I had drunk my limit. They each shrugged.

  “No,” Kaz answered. “We hadn’t seen Major Cosgrove since a week before you got here. Why?”

  I leaned in and whispered again. This was getting to be a habit.

  “When we first got here, and Cosgrove walked in on us, he said two things about me. First, in Harding’s room, he said he doubted a lieutenant fresh from the States could find a spy when MI-5 had failed.”

  “So?” Daphne asked.

  “So how did he know I was fresh from the States? I could’ve been here for months.”

  “Well,” said Kaz, “most Americans are here fresh from the States. It could have just been an informed guess.”

  “Could have,” I agreed. “But I doubt he could have guessed I was from Boston.”

  “What do you mean?” Kaz asked.

  “Later, at lunch, when I said I hadn’t heard about the gold being smuggled out of Norway, he got snotty and asked if they didn’t report the war news in Boston. It didn’t strike me until later, but then I asked myself—how did he know those two things—that I was new here and from Boston?”

  “You do have a distinctive accent, Billy,” Kaz said, thinking it through. “You tend to drop your r’s at the end of a word. It’s noticeable, but then I’m a student of language. Is that a purely Boston accent?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. But would an Englishman know what a Boston accent sounded like? Not a Beacon Hill accent, but a real Irish South Boston delivery?”

  “No,” said Daphne. “You do sound terribly American, but I wouldn’t know a New York accent from a Boston one unless you pointed out the difference. I doubt Major Cosgrove would either. He’s not very fond of Americans, you know, thinks them brash and arrogant. He’d think it beneath him to discern any difference.”

  “What do you think,” I asked her, “about Americans?”

  “You are brash and arrogant, or at least more so than we English. We could use more brashness and you a bit less. But, back to Cosgrove. What do you think it means, if he knows more about you than he lets on?”

  “I think it means he can’t be trusted.”

  “Here you are, my dears!” Mildred’s singsong voice interrupted us as she laid down three steaming plates of fish and chips. “You tuck into that now!”

  I inhaled the delicious aroma of the fried fish. I glanced up at Daphne and Kaz, who were looking at each other in stunned silence, taking in what it might mean not to be able to trust a representative of the General Staff, if that was what he really was. Kaz’s glasses steamed up, and I thought, Right, that’s just how I feel. Can’t see a damned thing and no clue as to what the hell is going on.

  “Not trust him? What does that mean?” asked Daphne, as she absorbed the implications. “Why would the major hide the fact that he knows something about you? There must be a reasonable explanation.”

  “Yes, what purpose would it serve?” Kaz asked as he wiped his glasses.

  “Excellent questions. I mean to pursue them tomorrow, among other things. Right now I intend to demolish this plate of food.”

  I tried to sound confident and upbeat. In charge. Three pints later I almost believed it myself.

  CHAPTER ▪ FOURTEEN

  “NO, BOYLE, YOU CANNOT question the king!”

  I was sitting across from Major Harding, who was at his desk in the map room. He was sitting upright in his chair, not a wrinkle showing on his uniform, his clear brown eyes drilling me dead center. I was trying not to slouch, my uniform jacket smelled faintly of ale and smoke, and last time I looked in the mirror my eyes were more red than their usual blue. I was trying to ignore the jackhammer going off in my head and concentrate on being told off. I vaguely remembered buying some more pints the night before, someone, maybe me, singing; and Daphne driving us home. Wait, make that an angry Daphne driving us back, and it was me and Kaz singing.

  By the number of pound notes left in my wallet, we must’ve had a really good night. I know Robert, the innkeeper, did. Harding wasn’t too happy about us having taken the car without permission, but he was more interested in learning how the investigation was going. He must’ve been in a fairly good mood, though, since there was coffee for two. On the other hand, it was six thirty in the morning, or rather 0630 hours, as the orderly who knocked on my door a while ago had informed me. But that was pure Harding. He must’ve been up early playing another round of switch the maps.
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br />   After the first cup of joe had cleared the fur off my tongue, I told Harding I needed to speak to the king. Rolf had gone up to the base at Southwold, and I needed to know if he and the king had run across anything suspicious. They were the first ones up and about the house, I explained to Harding, as if that was enough reason to question royalty.

  “King Haakon is off limits to you, soldier, and that’s an order. Understand?”

  “What I understand is that I’ve got one hand tied behind my back. I’ve got nothing new to report because you won’t let me do what I need to do.”

  “You’ve got nothing because you’re sitting on your ass around here whining to me. Get out of here and question Rolf if you want. Do something useful, but keep out of my way. And away from the king.”

  “That settles that. Sir.” I reached for the silver coffee pot and poured myself another cup. No reason to try another frontal assault. I added a sugar cube and thought maybe I should ease off a bit. After all, here I was, pouring coffee from a silver service and stirring in real sugar, not that saccharin stuff they were using since sugar got rationed. Why rock the boat? I could end up living in a tent somewhere, standing in line for chow slopped into a tin mess kit.

  “I didn’t expect you to give up so easily, Boyle, but I’m glad you’re wising up to how we do things around here. You may end up being useful after all.”

  Damn! I had just about talked myself into going along. It would’ve been fine because I was ready to believe it was my own idea. Now I had to respond, even though it was to a know-it-all superior officer spouting off at me. I always hated being told what I had to do. Probably why I never did well in school. Looked like I wasn’t going to do any better in the army. I took a gulp and let the hot, sweet black coffee kick in.

  “Yeah, I’m beginning to get the picture. But there’s one thing I don’t quite understand, Major.”

  Harding set down his coffee cup with a little clink as the cup hit the saucer. A delicate sound, and it made me think of coffee cooked in the field, served in a tin cup in the rain. No clink, just the pitter-patter of rain on your helmet, rain in your coffee, water squishing in your boots. Harding looked pleased, like his slowest pupil had finally come around. I set my cup down, the coffee swishing around and spilling over the edge, hot on my fingers and overflowing the saucer. A real mess.

  “What’s that, Lieutenant?”

  “What are you and Major Cosgrove setting me up for?”

  There it was. The slightest blink registered and his pupils widened. In just a second everything was back to normal. Hard-ass Harding with the frozen face.

  “We’ve been over this, Boyle. Just because we can’t tell you everything—”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, Major, and you know it. Or is Cosgrove running this little game all by himself?”

  Harding half stood and slammed his right hand, palm down, on the desk. His coffee cup rattled and now he had coffee spilling into his saucer.

  “Listen, you insubordinate son of a bitch—”

  “No, you just listen, Major, sir!” We were both up on our feet now, spilt coffee forgotten. “When we first got here, Cosgrove and I were perfect strangers. So how did he know right away that I was just in from the States and that I came from Boston?”

  “I don’t know, Boyle, and what the hell would that mean anyway?”

  “It means that Cosgrove knew about me, and then pretended not to.

  He lied. Why would he do that? More important, why would a lowly American lieutenant be involved with the schemes of cloak-and-dagger officers like you and Cosgrove?”

  “What schemes? Maybe Cosgrove saw your file somewhere. He’s very well informed.”

  “Why would MI-5 have my file?”

  “Major Cosgrove works for the British General Staff, as special liaison to various governments in exile, not MI-5.”

  “Or at least that’s the party line for those without need to know.”

  “Have it your way, Boyle: you’re the center of a conspiracy by the British secret service, the proof of which is that Major Cosgrove knows you’re from Boston.”

  Harding sat down again, gave out a little sharp laugh, and reached for a pack of Luckies. Lucky Strike Green, “Lucky Strike Green has gone to war.” Just like me. Shake one out whenever you need it, use it up, grind it under your heel. Harding tapped the pack against two fingers and drew a cigarette out. He looked at me while he snapped his Zippo open and flicked the wheel, a tiny spark hitting the flint and producing a fine blue flame. He blew out a stream of smoke and spat out a stray bit of tobacco, shutting the Zippo with a metallic click and playing with it, turning it over in his right hand as he smoked. He shook his head and laughed again, but he didn’t fool me. I had seen his tell, that little blink.

  “Joke about it all you want, sir. I know something’s not right here.”

  “Damn right, Boyle! One dead government official, one active spy, and your investigation is a bust. When are you going to uncover the truth about what’s going on here?”

  “Let me share a little professional secret with you, Major.” I sat on the corner of his desk and leaned forward. “It’s something my dad taught me about investigations. He’s a cop too, better than I’ll ever be. Last year I was banging my head against a wall, trying to find out the truth about a killing. Know what he told me?”

  “What?” Harding sounded interested, and maybe a little worried.

  “Never go after the truth; that’s a waste of time. Chase the lie, and let it lead you to the truth. And I know where the lie is here.” I pushed off from his desk and stood at attention. “Permission to leave, sir?”

  “Sure, Boyle,” Harding said, shrugging as if all this made no difference at all. He stopped playing with the Zippo, set it down, and pointed at me with two fingers holding his cigarette. “But first, tell me, did you ever find that killer?”

  “Yeah. The guy’s wife shot him in the chest, then blamed it on a burglar.”

  “What’d you do, send her to the chair?” He smiled as if the thought amused him. I heard a door open behind me, and the sound of footsteps stopping, like when you walk into a room in the middle of an argument and realize you should have knocked. Two more footsteps backward, the door shut, and we were alone again.

  “No, I didn’t send her anywhere. Far as I know, she’s still back home, looking after her two kids.”

  “So you didn’t have enough evidence to arrest her?”

  “I had plenty.”

  Harding stubbed out his cigarette, another little soldier gone. Don’t worry, plenty more where that one came from. Lucky Strike Green has gone to war. Now he was irritated. This little story wasn’t working out the way he thought it would.

  “Damn it, Boyle, spit it out! Why didn’t you take her in?”

  “The bastard was screwing his own ten-year-old daughter. The wife caught him. First time the kids were out of the house she plugged him good. Two shots in the chest and he was toes up. She and her kids had been through enough, as far as I could figure it, and the guy would’ve got worse in prison anyway. Not a happy ending, but the best one I could come up with under the circumstances. I found the piece in the icebox, not exactly the hiding place of a master criminal. I dumped it in the Charles River and wrote it up as a burglary gone bad, the story she gave us.”

  Harding drummed his fingers on the desk, then picked up the Zippo again. He stopped and looked me straight in the eye. “What was the lie?”

  “The burglary story. They didn’t have a damn thing worth stealing.” Harding slammed the Zippo down, turned away from me, got up, and walked over to the window and looked out over the heath.

  “Have Daphne drive you up to Southwold. Talk to Rolf Kayser. And be careful, Boyle.”

  I left, confused by his change in attitude. He sounded like he suddenly gave a damn. I mentally shrugged, chalking it up to the inscrutable ways of senior officers. I went off to find Daphne and Kaz, to begin to chase down a different lie. Time I took my
own advice.

  “Pack your bags, kids, we’re blowing this joint.”

  I found Daphne and Kaz working their way through breakfast in the mess. I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down with them. They both looked at me quizzically.

  “I understand that we are leaving, Billy, but what are we blowing up?” Kaz asked, as if he were totally ready to set off explosives at my request.

  “No, wait, we heard Humphrey Bogart say that in a film!” Daphne said excitedly, turning to Kaz and grasping his hand. “Remember, dear? This house is a joint, and we’re leaving quickly, blowing out!” Her brown eyes gleamed with excitement at deciphering American slang. I was glad she liked it, since my supply of ten-dollar words was pretty short.

  “Close enough, Daphne, and pretty good for an English gal. Harding gave his OK for you to drive me up to the base at Southwold. I’m going to question Rolf about what he might’ve seen that morning. The king, apparently, is off limits.”

  “You didn’t ask Harding if you could interrogate King Haakon?” asked Kaz.

  “Yep, and I’ve got the imprint of his boot on my backside to prove it. So, the next step is to talk to our friend Rolf and see what further confusion he can add to this investigation.”