by James R Benn
“It appears Lieutenant Kazimierz forgot something,” Scutt said.
“It only appears that someone placed this bullet in this drawer,” I said. “He cleared everything out yesterday, didn’t he? A dozen people could have put it there. Any rookie could tell you that.”
“Perhaps,” Scutt admitted. “We may learn something if there are any fingerprints on it, or on the bayonet.”
“I must protest, Inspector,” Major Horak said. “This is an open area; the desks are not guarded. Who knows who placed the bullet there?”
“True enough,” Scutt said. “But why would anyone? Who here would want to frame Lieutenant Kazimierz for murder?”
“No one, of course,” Horak said, and then stopped as the logic sunk in. If it wasn’t a frame-up, then it was Kaz’s bullet.
“When was he here last?” Scutt said.
“Yesterday,” Horak said. “He came in midday to finish some paperwork, then he and Captain Radecki lunched downstairs. He came up to say good-bye to the staff, and departed.”
“Then he couldn’t have left the note for Eddie. It was found this morning.”
“The staff changes their clothes here. Eddie was working the early shift this week. Eddie would be certain to find it this morning, as it appears he did. Lieutenant Kazimierz could have easily placed it in his pocket before he left yesterday.”
“Have you questioned Sheila, on the hotel staff? She and Eddie seemed close.”
“Sheila Carlson,” Scutt said, consulting his notebook. “Today is her day off. We’ll get to her soon enough. We’re short staffed, with men rounding up more Germans each night. Nabbed half a dozen down in Croydon before dawn this morning.” He sighed and pocketed his notebook, his heavy eyelids showing his exhaustion.
“Major Horak,” I said. “Do you store weapons here?”
“No, only the sidearms we carry. The guards bring their weapons from the barracks.”
“No rifles, no bayonets?”
“No. But come with me.” Horak led us down the hall, to another, larger office, with Radecki’s name on the door. It was spacious, by army standards. There was a table, and behind it a bookshelf held volumes in English and Polish. Framed pictures were arranged around a battered green helmet. “It’s gone,” Horak said.
“What is?”
“Valerian’s bayonet. He is very proud of it, and the helmet. He was stationed with our border troops in the east and fought against the Russians. He escaped after all was lost, and is proud he never surrendered his weapons. They wouldn’t let him travel through Romania with his rifle, but he did keep everything else. The bayonet has always been right here, with his helmet.”
“Well, it found its way into Eddie Miller’s chest,” Scutt said, showing little care for Radecki’s wartime exploits. “Where is this fellow now?”
“He is visiting Station Number Eight,” Horak said, his discomfort visible as he looked away and spoke in a strangled whisper.
“What in blazes is Station Number Eight?” Scutt said, his anger rising. “And tell me where it is, for that matter!”
“I am afraid I can’t, Inspector,” Horak said. “I have my orders, which come in part from your own government. I can tell you Captain Radecki is on an assignment and I expect him back within the week.”
“Is he here in London?”
“He has not left England. More than that, I simply am not allowed to say.”
“You get in touch with him, and tell him Scotland Yard wants a word,” Scutt said, and left the room, muttering loudly enough to be heard. “Not left England! Who the bloody hell has?”
“The inspector is not a happy man,” Horak said.
“His feet hurt,” I said. “Occupational hazard for policemen. Did Radecki and Kaz often lunch together? I didn’t get the impression they were all that friendly.”
“Lieutenant Kazimierz, you mean? It seems you Americans must shorten every name with more than two syllables. I’m sorry,” he said, waving his hand as if to erase what he’d said. “No, they weren’t especially friendly. They differed over the treatment of Tadeusz Tucholski, the young man you met.”
“How so?”
“Captain Radecki pushed Tadeusz hard. He said it would be best for him to get everything out in the open. Lieutenant Kazimierz said Tadeusz needed time, and comforting.”
“What did you think?”
“I think we have very little time. But we needed to strike a balance, and I fear Captain Radecki was too adamant and caused Tadeusz to retreat into himself. I had to agree when Lieutenant Kazimierz suggested a break. We’ve used the facility at St. Albans before. It’s a sanatorium, run by the military, very secure. They specialize in treating shell shock. We hope it will help, but one never knows.”
“What was it exactly that led you to decide to place him in a sanatorium?” I picked up the helmet displayed on Radecki’s shelves. It was heavy, the brim a bit wider than ours. I put it back, staring at the shelves. I had no idea what I was looking for.
“Tadeusz slept more than usual,” Horak said, tapping a Wills Four Aces cigarette down on the yellow tin case before lighting it. “He always slept after telling his story, but it began to happen more and more. Even when he was awake, he was lethargic in the extreme. You heard his last coherent words, Lieutenant Boyle.”
“It must have been hard for him, reliving it on demand.” I walked in back of Radecki’s table, wondering what he and Kaz had talked about at lunch yesterday.
“Too hard, apparently,” Horak said, blowing smoke up to the ceiling. “If you don’t mind my asking, why does it matter to you?”
“I don’t like the idea of Scutt considering Kaz as a suspect.”
“Then you won’t like what I am about to tell you. Captain Radecki spoke with your friend in this office before they went to lunch. I came in to say good-bye to Lieutenant Kazimierz, and saw Radecki showing him his souvenirs. The lieutenant was handling the bayonet, feeling the heft of it.”
“So Kaz’s fingerprints will be all over it.”
“Unfortunately so,” Horak said. “Unless the killer wiped them away, along with his own.”
“He probably wore gloves. It’s cold enough outside to not be noticed. What worries me is that it had to be someone who wouldn’t have looked out of place in your offices, or elsewhere in the hotel. He had to have typed that note and left it for Eddie yesterday, and then taken the bayonet, either last night or early this morning. When did Radecki leave?”
“Sometime late yesterday afternoon. He was gone when I returned here a little after five o’clock.”
“So the bayonet could have been taken yesterday. You didn’t see it?”
“I only saw that his office was empty.”
“I suppose anyone could walk in there?”
“Once a person gains admittance to this floor, there are really no restrictions. Plus, we have hotel staff coming and going. Waiters, cleaning people, and so on.”
“Eddie, of course. And Sheila Carlson?”
“Yes, she’s been working on this floor for a month or so. Nice young girl.”
“Do you mind if I use the telephone?” I asked, sitting at Radecki’s table. Horak shrugged, ground out his cigarette, and told me to make myself comfortable. I did, and called Norfolk House to ask Harding if he’d send Big Mike over to pick me up and help look for Kaz. I had an idea he might pay a visit to Tadeusz, and that a drive up to St. Albans might turn him up. The switchboard put me on hold and, believing that idle hands are the devil’s workshop, I let them pull open the drawers on Radecki’s desk.
File folders full of papers typed in Polish. Notepads, none of the writing in English. A map of London, a pack of cigarettes, paper clips, a pencil stub. The usual office debris. The last drawer on the right held a first aid kit, along with a small glass bottle labeled TINCTURE OF OPIUM. LAUDANUM. Radecki probably had a spare with him, if his leg hurt as much as it seemed to. The doctor’s name and address were on the label. H. T. Ruskin, Horseferry Street, about a te
n-minute walk. Harding came on the line and I shut the drawer. He said Big Mike was available, and that he’d come right over.
I set the receiver down and tried to get my jumbled thoughts in order. Kaz was in trouble, or damn close to it. If I was right about his going to St. Albans, it would give me a chance to warn him of Scutt’s suspicions. Nothing made sense about Eddie Miller’s killing. If Sidorov figured out Eddie had turned on him, the smart money would bet on his playing along. Knowing Eddie was feeding him bad information could point him to the truth, or at least to its neighborhood. As for Kaz and any of the other Poles, Eddie was too valuable alive; there was no percentage in killing him. As for what I was supposed to be investigating, the murder of Gennady Egorov, the only loose thread I had to pull was Topper. He and his father didn’t see eye to eye on his wish to serve king and country, and while I could appreciate the elder Chapman’s desire to keep his offspring alive it also gave me something to exploit. If I could drive them apart, the truth might have a chance to slither out between them. There seemed to be a link between the truck hijackings and Egorov’s murder. Somewhere in all this, there were connections that made sense, connections that would explain everything. I just couldn’t see them yet.
I took the street map of London, figuring Radecki wouldn’t need it while he was at Station Number Eight. I opened it up to see if by chance he’d marked the location with a nice big 8, but no dice. One street in Camberwell, south of the Thames, was marked. Penford Street, number 420. He had made a show of giving Eddie Miller the message that he knew where Eddie lived, reciting the address when he looked through Eddie’s wallet. Was this simply a reminder, or had he planned on making a visit? Probably a reminder, I decided, since he could always talk to Eddie at the hotel. But if he needed to make good on his threat, a home visit would be more intimidating.
I stood, taking in the framed pictures Radecki kept on the shelves behind his desk. Family pictures-Valerian Radecki in civilian clothes with a pretty wife and two young children, the oldest no more than six. It looked like a picnic, blankets spread by a lake, smiling faces drenched in sunlight. Another was of Radecki in uniform, standing with an older man who was probably his father, in front of a small factory.
“All dead,” Horak said. I hadn’t heard him come in, intent on studying photographs of a happier time. “His father was killed when the Germans bombed Warsaw. He owned a steelworks, and was in the building when it took a direct hit.”
“His wife and children?”
“Stuka dive-bombers. They were in a column of refugees, heading out of Warsaw, when the road was bombed and strafed. They and many others were killed.”
“Senseless,” I said, stunned once again at the scale of the losses endured.
“From a strictly military point of view, it is not senseless. Such attacks are designed to deny the enemy freedom of movement. If civilians cannot move, neither can troops. The road is left littered with burning hulks of automobiles and carts. Dead horses, dead civilians. Soldiers must dismount from their vehicles and walk around the carnage, demoralizing and weakening them. Is it not terrible, that we live in a time where such a horrible thing is done with purpose? Personally, I would prefer unthinking evil.”
I didn’t answer Horak. I left, descending the elegant staircase, passing under the crystal chandelier, pulling my coat on, and turning my collar up before I’d even gone outside, wishing I could shield myself from the ghosts and memories haunting the exiled and doomed Poles.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“ Where to, Billy? ” Big Mike said as I got into the jeep.
“Camberwell, across the river. Take the Vauxhall Bridge.”
“That where Kaz is?” Big Mike said as he turned left in front of Victoria Station.
“No. It’s where Eddie Miller lived. He was the snitch for Sidorov.”
“Past tense?”
“Yeah. Somebody put a Polish bayonet through his heart early this morning. It belonged to Valerian Radecki, one of the Polish officers Kaz worked with. Major Horak saw Kaz handling it yesterday.”
“Fingerprints,” Big Mike said, nodding his head as he drove, visualizing the frame with his inner cop’s eye. “Who showed it to him, Radecki?”
“Yes, it was one of his souvenirs.”
“Then it’s going to have his prints, Kaz’s, and the killer’s. Or none.”
“Right,” I said, agreeing silently that Kaz was not the murderer.
“We trying to beat Scotland Yard to Eddie’s house?”
“We might not have to try too hard,” I said as we crossed the bridge, Big Ben visible downriver, its sharp spire silhouetted against white clouds drifting over the city. “Scutt says he’s shorthanded. He had to send men out to hunt for Krauts.”
“Harding said the docks took some scattered hits, but we shot down a dozen bombers, between flak and the night fighters,” Big Mike said. “Not that you’d know from the newspapers. The Brits play their cards close in, know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I do,” I said as I pointed out our next turn, onto Brixton Road. Big Mike had a point, and I wondered what connections I might be missing entirely. Connections between Major Cosgrove, MI5, and who else? The Poles, the Russians, the Chapman gang, or the local Communist Party?
Penford Street was one of several short side streets about a block from the railroad. A tall brick wall screened the view but not the noise as a freight train lumbered by. The street was neat and well kept, three-story row houses in uniform brown brick, white-painted trim, and the typical London door, lacquered in different colors. Eddie’s was deep blue, and as we walked up the steps, it opened, and out came Sheila Carlson.
“Oh,” she said, startled by the near collision. She seemed to be in a hurry, her eyes darting out to the street, in a rush to leave Eddie’s house behind her. Her eyes took a second to settle down and focus on my face, and then they widened as she recognized me from the hotel.
“Oh no, please don’t. Oh no, no,” she muttered, as she took in my presence there and the towering form of Big Mike behind me. She thought she was looking at death itself. She put her hands on the door frame to steady herself, her face gone white, her mouth a gaping circle, little puffs of air escaping with each oh, oh, and none going in, like a gasping fish on dry land. I went to take her arm, which was a mistake.
“No!” she shouted, her voice finding anger as she swung her pocketbook, slamming me in the side of my face. I felt a sharp pain, a razor slice on my cheekbone, as a reinforced metal corner of the purse ripped at my skin. The bag flew out of her hand, opening and scattering all sorts of female accoutrements on the landing. Mixed in among the lipstick, compact, handkerchief, and change purse was a creamy white envelope from the Rubens Hotel, a thick wad of pound notes bulging out of it.
“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 w
as 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.”
