Rag and Bone bbwwim-5

by James R Benn

  “I said, Boyle, tell me what Topper told you about the Russian.” Scutt spoke loudly, maybe for the second time, to bring me back from woolgathering.

  “Topper said Egorov himself had no connection to them, and that they weren’t responsible for the killing.”

  Scutt had the well-earned policeman’s distrust of a criminal’s protestation of innocence.

  “But he did say the map had been for them. He as much as admitted they’d been behind the supply hijackings, and that there was a business arrangement with someone, probably at the Russian Embassy, although he never said so exactly.”

  “All to be denied if asked again.”

  “Yes, that was the deal. With everything else they did, without worrying about being caught, why would he lie about Egorov?”

  “Murder means the rope, Lieutenant Boyle. Reason enough.”

  “Could be. Maybe he’s trying to throw us off the track.”

  “We haven’t much of a scent to pick up, much less be thrown off,” Scutt said with a weary sigh.

  “Excuse me, Inspector,” a constable said, approaching Scutt and handing him a sheet of paper. “This just came in. A body was dug out of the rubble from the raid the other night, over on Tower Bridge Road. Looks suspicious, according to the report.”

  “Very well, I’ll go take a look. Haven’t had one of these in a while.”

  “One of what, Inspector?” I asked as he put on his raincoat.

  “Murder, perhaps. Disguised as a bombing victim. Had quite a rash during the Blitz, as soon as people started getting the idea it would be a fine way to get rid of a body. Bash a fellow you don’t like on the head, bury him in a bit of rubble from a bombed-out building, and as soon as he starts to smell, he’s dug up and written off as done in by Herr Goring.”

  “What makes it suspicious?”

  “Well, you take this fellow. About thirty years of age. No identification papers, and no one in the area knew him. Likely killed by a blow to the head. Now most people go about with their papers, and if you’ve seen a body after a ton of bricks falls on it, you’d know there would be other injuries. There are usually massive physical injuries. But only a crushed skull, and a stranger to boot? Unlikely.”

  “Good luck,” I said. “And let me know if anything comes up about Sidorov. Something’s not right there.”

  “I still wonder about your Polish friend, you know,” Scutt said. His raised eyebrows invited a comment as we took the steps down to the main door.

  “I talked with him,” I said, and shared Kaz’s thoughts about the placement of the body. “Not the best way to make a political statement.”

  “Perhaps not. Perhaps it was more personal than political. Or both. Lieutenant Kazimierz could have had words with Egorov, at some diplomatic function. Who knows?”

  Not me. Scutt promised to alert the area constables to watch for the truck, but he was only going through the motions, the same sort of thing I’d said many a time when an automobile was stolen or a purse snatched, knowing it would only be dumb luck or a dumber crook that would see it returned.

  The rain had stopped, so I walked to Norfolk House, glad for the excuse to delay seeing Colonel Harding. Since he was regular U.S. Army, he was apt to look upon the truck and peaches as his personal property. Scutt could afford to chuckle about it, since I’d only gotten what I deserved. But Harding wasn’t interested in failure, and except for breakfast, I had nothing to show for my gamble.

  “Go on in, Billy, they’re waiting for you,” Big Mike said as I entered the office. He nodded to the open conference-room door, and winked. I wanted to ask him what he was so happy about, but Harding appeared at the door and told me to get in, pronto. He sounded mildly angry and agitated, but that was SOP with him. I had expected a full-bore lecture, maybe a demotion, but nothing like that was in the air.

  “You know Colonel Dawson, I take it,” Harding said, nodding toward Bull, who sat at the conference table, a large map spread out in front of him. “And Major Cosgrove.”

  “Sure. I mean, yes, sir.”

  “Boyle,” Cosgrove said, nodding slightly, his eyes briefly darting up to meet mine. I didn’t count Major Charles Cosgrove of MI5, the British Secret Service, among my friends. The feeling would have been mutual, except he was too much of a stiff upper lip to admit to the emotion necessary to say what he thought of me. There had been bad blood between us since he used me in one of his plots, back when I first arrived in London, and worse blood since the business in Northern Ireland a few weeks ago. He had a habit of manipulating people, and some of those people didn’t live long enough to return the favor. I had, and someday I intended to.

  “Good to see you, Billy,” Colonel Bull Dawson said. Him I was glad to see. He looked spiffy in his Class A uniform, all decked out for a visit to HQ in London. His brass buttons gleamed, and the silver wings perched over his heart sparkled. His eyes, marked by crow’s-feet from constant squinting into the sun at twenty-five thousand feet, flickered between Cosgrove and me. I could tell he sensed trouble, the way he could probably pick up on a Me-109 coming out of a cloud formation.

  “Same here, Colonel,” I said. “Unless there’s a pack of MPs in the next room.”

  “That’s what we’re here to talk about, Boyle,” Harding said, taking his seat at the head of the table. I sat next to Bull, and Harding gave him the nod.

  “Ever since you hightailed out of High Wycombe, I’ve been asking around about you, Billy,” Bull said. “You seemed like a stand-up guy in Northern Ireland, but I had to be sure. Everyone agrees, you get the job done. Some apparently wish you did it a bit more subtly, but I’m a guy who drops five thousand-pound bomb loads for a living, so subtle doesn’t carry much weight with me. I’ve asked for the highest-level clearance for you on this matter. I briefed Colonel Harding this morning, with Major Cosgrove’s permission.”

  “Major Cosgrove can call the shots on that?” I said.

  “Yes, I can, Lieutenant Boyle, and it won’t surprise you to know I do have concerns about your conduct. Still, it does make sense to bring you in on this, at least to minimize any damage you might inadvertently do. I already had to speak to Inspector Scutt and tell him to stop asking questions on your behalf. He asked me why the Russians had stopped going to High Wycombe, and over an open line! Lord knows what else you or he may blurt out.”

  “You mean like the flights to Poltava and Mirgorod?” I said, putting together the sum total of my knowledge to see if it would get a reaction from Cosgrove.

  “This proves my point, Harding! Lieutenant Boyle should be confined to quarters until this matter is completed. And not a suite at the Dorchester, either!” Cosgrove turned beet red, puffing out his cheeks as he tried to control his anger. He was a big guy, around the waist anyway, and I almost worried about him blowing a fuse.

  “That’s Colonel Harding, Major” was the reply. The fact that Cosgrove worked for MI5 and could have shown up in an admiral’s getup didn’t matter. His cover was as a major, a rank low enough not to attract attention but high enough to get a decent table at a fancy restaurant. Harding outranked him and expected the military courtesies. “The fact that Lieutenant Boyle has figured out that much means we’re right to brief him now. Bull, proceed.”

  “Billy,” he began, playing the peacemaker. “Major Cosgrove is in charge of security for the Soviet personnel. This includes worrying about any potential threats from emigre anti-Communist groups in London. It’s enough to make any sane man jumpy.”

  “OK,” I said. “I understand. I only know about the two locations because I noticed they’d been marked on the map in your office. And of course I would’ve stumbled upon the Russian connection from the reaction when I asked about it. The transfer of Estelle Gordon was a tip-off that I was onto something.”

  “That was a bit heavy-handed,” Bull said, working at not giving Cosgrove a look. “But we have to be sure word doesn’t leak out about this. London is full of rumors, gossip, and informers. You sure you haven’
t heard anything else?”

  “Nope. Well, except that the Royal Navy is in on it somehow.”

  “Good lord, the man’s a menace,” Cosgrove said, mainly to himself and the ceiling.

  “Operation Frantic Joe,” Bull said.

  “Now simply called Operation Frantic,” Cosgrove put in, as if reminding a child of a forgotten lesson.

  “Right,” Bull said. “The idea began as a response to Stalin’s demand for a second front against the Germans. The Soviets wanted us to do something to take the pressure off them on the Eastern Front. We will, but on our schedule, not theirs. For now, we do have long-range bomber forces, and can put them to work pretty damn quick.”

  “Did Frantic Joe refer to Joe Stalin?” I asked.

  “Yes, but it was thought to be more diplomatic to shorten it to Operation Frantic. We’re going to set up Eighth Air Force airfields in the Soviet Union, flying shuttle missions back and forth between there and our bases in England. That’s what they brought me back from Northern Ireland for, to plan optimal routes for our bombers.”

  “So we’ll be hitting targets on the Eastern Front for the Russians?”

  “Yes, plus our own strategic targets. You see, the plan has a dual purpose. It’ll play havoc with the German air defenses. They won’t know if we’ll be flying back to the base we started at, or straight through the Reich. Right now, their air defenses try to intercept us on the way to the target, or on the way home. Once we’re set up with the Russians, they’ll have to spread themselves thin, since we can fly to bases in Italy as well.”

  “That’s what the Russians were doing at High Wycombe,” I said. “Planning for their end of Operation Frantic.”

  “Exactly. No one was supposed to know. Then you show up asking questions, and everyone gets nervous. So here we are. We need you inside the tent, Billy. Just keep your mouth shut about it.”

  “It is important that you solve the murder of Egorov,” Cosgrove said. “We must know if that was a security breach, a personal matter, or simply a random crime. If word about Operation Frantic gets out, there will be hell to pay.”

  “I need to question the members of the delegation, to see if any of them know anything. I tried at the embassy and got the cold shoulder from Sidorov.”

  “He’s NKVD, like Egorov was,” Bull said. “They sat back and watched, hardly ever participated.”

  “Yeah. The question is, who’s watching them? Can I have Big Mike in on this, Colonel Harding? And Kaz.”

  “Impossible,” Cosgrove sputtered.

  “Why?” Harding said.

  “Kaz speaks Russian, and I trust him.”

  “He’s Polish,” Cosgrove said. “The Russians won’t stand for it.”

  “How about he just listens? They ought to be used to that.”

  “I’ll see if we can get him back from the Poles,” Harding said. “But he’ll have to remove the Poland shoulder patch. He’ll be attached to SHAEF headquarters, so they won’t have a basis for complaint.”

  “Never stopped the bloody Bolsheviks before,” Cosgrove said. “Tomorrow the joint planning committee is moving operations down to Dover. Be prepared to join us, Boyle.”

  “Dover? Not High Wycombe?”

  “That’s where the Royal Navy comes in. Major Cosgrove decided that Red Air Force officers at Eighth Air Force HQ might lead people to put two and two together. So we’re moving everyone down to Dover Castle, on the coast. It’s a Royal Navy base, secure, with underground tunnels. Made to order.”

  “In case there are any spies about,” Cosgrove explained, “we’ve put out word that we are giving the Russians a tour of the castle and of the defensive measures taken in the area, earlier in the war, when invasion was a real possibility. There will probably be a photograph in the newspapers of a Russian or two and some Home Guard chaps, that sort of thing.”

  “Perfect. I can interview them while the public relations stuff is going on.”

  “You’ll have to cut them out of the herd, Billy,” Bull said. “Those Russkies stick real close together. You can start tonight. We’ve been invited to the opera at their place.”

  “Russian opera,” Cosgrove said. “Dreadful stuff.”

  “Major Cosgrove,” I said, trying to sound respectful, “I’m investigating one of the London gangs that may have been involved with Egorov’s death. Archie Chapman is the head guy.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Cosgrove said. “He runs a well-organized operation for a fellow who’s off his rocker. Spreads a bit of the wealth around locally, which makes it difficult for the Met, I understand.”

  “Right. I’m interested in his son, Topper Chapman. Can I get a look at his file?”

  “He’s not in the army, so we wouldn’t have a file on him,” Cosgrove said.

  “I mean the secret files you have access to. It may be important.”

  “Very well. I’ll see what we have.”

  The meeting broke up and I hung back in the outer office until everyone was in the hall. Big Mike sat at his desk, the office chair creaking under his weight as he went through a stack of files.

  “What gives?” I asked him. “Didn’t you tell Harding about the truck?”

  “Sure I did, Billy. I also told him about your idea to get it back. He liked it.”

  “My idea?”

  “Well, I didn’t want anything to mess up getting Estelle back here, so I figured we both had to come out looking good. I told him you wanted all the pubs and restaurants in Shoreditch placed off limits to U.S. personnel until the truck and shipment were returned.”

  “That’s a stroke of genius, Big Mike. A lot of those joints must pay protection to Chapman. He’ll have to give it up to protect his income.”

  “And his reputation. He can look like a hero on his home turf, getting us to lift the restriction. Plus he gets a few crates of peaches out of the deal. We only want fifty back.”

  “You make me sound like I’m one crafty lieutenant.”

  “That’s a noncom’s job, Billy,” Big Mike said as he returned to the files and forms on his desk.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It’s not every pair of lieutenants who get their shoes shined regularly at the Dorchester, but I almost wished Kaz hadn’t left our best patent leathers out for a workover. The smell of shoe polish was a reminder of home, so I didn’t mind a go with a good brush. When I was a kid, it was my job to take Dad’s shoes down cellar once a week and give them a spit shine. I’d sit on the wooden steps, with the door open behind me, listening to the sounds of the house. Mom cleaning up in the kitchen, my little brother Danny running around, and Dad fiddling with the radio. It felt like it would always be that way, that I’d never run out of weeks to put a shine to my father’s shoes.

  So I liked shining shoes, but I couldn’t explain all that to Kaz. It would make me sound like I wasn’t a tough guy. I sipped good Irish whiskey instead, hearing the swoop swoosh of the brush in my mind as it went back and forth over countless pairs of shoes, the aroma in the glass a poor substitute for mink oil, leather, black shoe polish, and the traces of my old man’s sweat that I picked up on my fingers as I curled them inside each shoe, forcing out the folds and buffing them with all my might, desperate to do this job right, as if everything depended on a perfect shoe shine. I always complained, but I worked as hard as I could at it. Funny, the things you miss. Right now, I’d have given anything to have that shoe brush in my hand.

  I watched Kaz knotting his tie in the mirror and felt ashamed of my homesickness. His family was dead, and his nation occupied by the Germans, with the Russians up at bat next. There was a lot of politics going on about Polish borders after the war, but reading between the lines I knew that the Soviets were going to bite off a big chunk for themselves and call the shots in what was left. I still had a home to go to. Kaz had nowhere to go, and no one to be with in England after the war. I wondered if he’d want to settle in Boston. Never mind that, I told myself. Make sure he doesn’t hang first.

  �
��Kaz, you need to see your tailor,” I said, shaking off the melancholy. “You’re busting the seams of that shirt.”

  “Do you think so, Billy? My collar feels tight also.” He put on his dress uniform jacket, the one he’d had tailored. It did look a little tight in the shoulders. There was a barely discernible patch of darker fabric where the red Poland patch had been. Kaz had been glad to be released back into service with SHAEF, and had cut the stitching with no regrets.

  “It’s true,” I said. “Those weights are working. You’ve got some real muscle.”

  Kaz beamed, proud of his new strength. I was glad of it, too. I knew I needed our morning workouts as well, to sweat out the alcohol I’d been dousing myself with. Some of it had been in the line of duty, but the rest was in the line of drowning my sorrows, worrying about Kaz and Diana, and feeling sorry for myself. I had to work at remembering I didn’t have it half as bad as Kaz, or everyone else in this war who might get in the way of a bullet. I started to down the rest of my drink, and then thought about what we might encounter that night at the Soviet Embassy. If it shaped up anything like the Poles and their vodka and the Chapmans and their gin, I needed to save my energy. I set the glass down. Moderation was my middle name.

  Shoes shined, ribbons and brass all in order, we put on trench coats and walked across Hyde Park to Bayswater Road, heading for the embassy. Clouds blew across the evening sky, and patches of stars shone through the breaks, glimmering on the still waters of the Serpentine.