by James R Benn
“Correct,” said Flack.
“In the course of that investigation, I stumbled onto an informant for Captain Kiril Sidorov. Eddie Miller, of the Rubens Hotel, who provided Sidorov with information on the Polish Government in Exile. Then Eddie was found dead. You suspect Kaz, but I think Eddie was poisoned, then stabbed, by Sheila Carlson.”
“We’ve been over all this,” Flack said, drumming his fingers on the table.
“We know that Egorov was shot with a dumdum bullet. You recovered fragments that indicated a. 32-caliber slug.”
“Which fits the weapon Lieutenant Kazimierz carries,” Flack said. “Remember, we also found a dumdum round in his desk, with the neatly filed X on top.”
“Yes, so convenient. All you were missing was a big red sign that said, ‘Look Here.’ Tell me, does Kaz strike you as stupid?”
“No, he does not. But anyone can make a mistake.”
“Sure. But think for a minute. If Kaz didn’t kill Egorov, who put the bullet there?”
“Eddie Miller, perhaps. He was working for Sidorov.”
“OK, same question. Did Eddie strike you as stupid?”
“From what I heard, he was not the brightest fellow. Gullible, certainly.”
“The kind of guy to be entrusted with a key piece of incriminating evidence, to frame Kaz?”
“We’ll never know, will we? Please come to the point, Boyle.”
We were interrupted by an orderly with a pot of coffee and a tray of cups. It was perfect timing. The coffee smelled good, and as Flack dumped in a healthy spoonful of sugar, I knew he’d stay as long as the coffee lasted.
“Two things have bothered me about this case. First, Sheila Carlson. We know she worked for MI5, for an operative known as Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown seems to have gone to extremes for king and country, and Sheila was happy to oblige, plotting to kill Tadeusz Tucholski with a poisoned cake. She might as well have, too. Everyone else was connected to each other: Sidorov, Egorov, Kaz, Radecki, Vatutin, Tad, Archie, and Topper. They all had a connection, no matter how slim.”
“Sheila was connected to Eddie,” Flack said. “She lived and worked with him.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And she killed him as well.”
“So you say,” Flack said, sipping his coffee. “Brown seems to have gone too far, even by MI5 standards. Cosgrove told me he’s been reined in, transferred elsewhere.”
“Good. And I hope you had the contents of Eddie’s stomach tested,”I said.
“As a matter of course, yes, but I haven’t heard anything yet. It is not a priority with everything else we have on our plate: murdered Russians and German aircrews running about.”
“Sheila was the one person who stood alone, after she killed Eddie. Eddie was the only one who knew her, who might have an idea of where she’d gone. Even Brown and his MI5 henchmen couldn’t find her. Think about that,” I said, leaning over the table, staring into Flack’s eyes, willing him to see it as I did. “She needs her identity card and her ration card. How hard should it be for MI5 to find someone in England these days?”
“Your point?”
“She killed Eddie for a reason. To eliminate anyone who knew anything about her. If she was simply an MI5 agent, why would she worry about that?”
“Lucky for her she did,” said Big Mike.
“Right, but how was she to know Mr. Brown had gone off the reservation and needed to get rid of her?”
“So she had another reason,” said Bull, looking to Flack as if to coach him. Flack was silent.
“Yes. And that reason connects to the other thing that bothered me. The information on the truck hijackings had to come from within the Russian Embassy. They laid out the routes for the delivery trucks. But what was in it for whoever did it?”
“Money, of course,” Flack said as Big Mike poured him more coffee. I made a mental note to get him promoted to sergeant.
“Sure, maybe for the produce and booze. A little extra to spend in London. But what good are dollars or pounds back in the Soviet Union? He couldn’t bring them in and deposit them in a bank.”
“If I had to go back to Russia, I should be glad of extra money while I was in London,” Flack said.
“But what if you didn’t have to go back?” I asked, and watched Flack think that one through.
“We are Allies with the Soviet Union, Boyle. We couldn’t let one of their officers defect. What is the point, anyway? We have three dead Russians; no one is defecting!”
“No. You have two. Egorov and Vatutin, both murdered by Kiril Sidorov. With help from his lover, Sheila Carlson.” I sat back and took a sip of coffee. It was good.
“What?” Flack and Big Mike said at the same time.
“Sheila was working both sides of the fence. Maybe Sidorov recruited her through Eddie, but I don’t think Eddie knew. She was working for MI5 and saw no reason not to supplement her income. But it went further than that. Maybe they fell for each other, or maybe it’s all about the money.”
“What money?” Flack said. “They can’t have earned a fortune from tipping off the Chapman gang.” I knew I had him interested at last. He wasn’t sarcastic, he was working the problem.
“That was just for expenses. They needed it for forged identity papers and ration cards. There have been cases of papers stolen from bodies recovered after the bombings. I bet some of those match the descriptions of Sheila and Sidorov. Part of their deal with Archie Chapman. The real payoff was information about the gold shipment.”I told him about the half million in gold coming from Scotland.
“And you’re certain about Sheila and Sidorov?” Flack said.
“Certain enough,” I said. “I remembered that Sheila had been wearing a beige utility coat and a blue scarf when we first met her. When I was tailing Sidorov, before he met with Eddie, I saw him bump into a woman wearing the same coat with a blue scarf over her head. She dropped her pocketbook and he picked it up. I bet they were close to the end of their game, and using spy craft to be certain no one saw them together. But they had to have a way of communicating. Passing notes on a busy sidewalk would do the trick.” I didn’t mention I’d remembered the coat and scarf in my dream, and that it had been Dalenka wearing them.
“That’s something to chew on,” Flack said. “Have you alerted anyone about the gold shipment?”
“Yes, my boss, Colonel Harding. He’s sending an escort of a couple of armored cars.”
“Archie will be cross,” Flack said, a smile creeping up on his face. “What put you on to this?”
“I had a deal with Archie. I knew I’d need Chapman’s help, so I agreed to deliver a message. Topper told me to tell Vatutin ’time and place,’ that he’d know what it meant. I thought it was only another supply shipment, and figured it was worth it to get in with them. I think I made a mistake, one that may have cost Vatutin his life. I said Topper wanted to know ’time and place.’”
“How did that make any difference?” Bull asked.
“ Vatutin was a trip wire. He worked for Sidorov, and Sidorov knew anything that was said to him would be reported. Sure enough, Vatutinran right over to Sidorov when I delivered the message. I’m beginning to think mentioning Topper was not meant as part of the message, and that was too much information to let Vatutin live with.”
“‘Time and place’ alone might have done the same,” Flack said. “ Vatutin might have put two and two together if the gold shipment had been hit. I wouldn’t worry, Boyle. But I meant the whole scheme; how did you put all that together?”
“Chaucer and Joey Adamo,” I said. “Chaucer fled to Canterbury to get away from the Merciless Parliament. Joey Adamo was a Detroit hood who escaped the Mob by fleeing to Canada, where his death was likely faked. Last night, Sidorov said it was necessary for his government to be merciless, and that set me thinking.” I didn’t mention the thinking had gone on in my dreams. “And then I remembered what he had told me about Article 58 of the Soviet Criminal Code. It makes the nonreportingof counterrevolutio
nary activities by family members punishable by a stretch in a Siberian labor camp, at best.”
“Chaucer, as in The Canterbury Tales?” Flack asked.
“Yeah. He escaped to the country to save his neck.”
“I know about Chaucer, man! It’s a bit flimsy, don’t you think?”
“I’m not saying it’s evidence, but it fits. Sidorov has a wife and daughter. If he defected, they’d be punished.”
“How could they?” Big Mike said.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s how they control people.”
“Wait a minute,” Flack said, holding up his hand. “ Sidorov couldn’t have known a German plane would be shot down last night. Are you claiming he killed one of the Germans, and put the body in the bunker? It’s too fantastic.”
“No, it’s not,” Bull said. “If Billy’s right, then we put a huge crimp in their plans by moving the Russian personnel down here. Except for controlled outings, they’ve been virtually incommunicado. Telephone calls are monitored; this is a highly sensitive installation.”
“Yeah,” chimed in Big Mike. “They were all ready to go. Sidorov set up the route for the gold shipment, and made sure the guard would be on the light side, under the guise of not attracting too much attention. Sheila got rid of Eddie and gave Mr. Brown the slip. Chapman arranged for an identity swap with a couple of dead bodies on ice. And then, out of the blue, Sidorov was sent down here.”
“Right. Archie was desperate to contact him. Sidorov was certainly feeling the same way. Archie followed me down here, and probably made contact.”
“Couldn’t Sidorov have left with Chapman?” Flack said.
“Would you trust Archie, after he paid you and got what he wanted?”
“Valid point,” Flack said. “So Sidorov sees his chance. He knows about the bunker from his Home Guard tour. He volunteers to join the search party, in hopes of finding a German from the downed aircraft. Intending to kill him, and change clothes.”
“Or one of the Home Guard, or even a constable. If any of them disappeared, and it looked like Sidorov’s body had been burned in the fire, suspicion would fall on them. It would be enough to allow Sidorovto disappear, and to get around Article 58. He’d be mourned as a hero back home.”
“You’re right, it would look like one of them murdered Sidorov, and fled. That would have bought him time and confusion.”
“The German could have been already dead, killed bailing out. Or he may have given himself up, and Sidorov led him to the bunker. You should have the body examined. There could be a bullet.”
“There is,” Flack said. “I had it looked at by a doctor here. I learned my lesson with the last dead Russian. But it could have been from the rounds going off in the fire.”
“OK,” Bull said. “I’m Sidorov. I’ve just changed clothes with a Kraut flier. That’s a problem right there. Big, heavy flight boots. Flight jacket and pants with big map pockets on the thighs. He’s going to have trouble getting around without being noticed.”
“Right. I’ll have the local constables canvas the area. If you’re not wrong, Boyle, we’ll find a report of missing laundry and a stolen bicycle close by,” Flack said, pulling a notebook from his pocket. That was a good sign. What he said next wasn’t. “You don’t know where this bunker is, do you?”
“Not exactly. Close?”
“About a twenty-minute walk north, set into the woods near a crossroad. Lieutenant Kazimierz could have followed Sidorov and the Home Guard, perhaps even caught him unawares when he was separated from the group. Then he takes him to the bunker, and stages it to look like an accident. He would have had ample time to make it back to the castle and bash Vatutin in the head. If you hadn’t come along, he might have gotten away with it.”
“We have to find Sidorov,” I said, more to myself than anyone else. If Scotland Yard got it in their mind that Kaz was the killer, and if that took off the political heat, then I knew what was likely to happen. If the killings stopped, Kaz was as good as convicted. And hanged.
“Or the fourth German crewman,” Flack said, rising from his chair. “Either will prove a point. I’ll have the Home Guard out again and alert the constables.”
Suddenly I felt exhausted, my failure to fully convince Flack weighing hard. I stared at the table, trying to think of what else to say. There was nothing left, my arguments as empty as my hands.
My hands. I had dreamed about my hands. What was it? Diana, or Dalenka, or whoever the hell it was, had asked me something. The pebbles.
Why are they in your hand?
Of course. This time, I did snap my fingers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Faking a limp is hard. You can do it if you really focus on it, but if you slip up, you’re done for. To pull it off, try walking around with pebbles in your shoe. You limp. You have to. That’s what the mystery woman’s question meant. The pebbles went in a shoe, not a hand. They weren’t souvenirs of Poland; they were stones to put in Sidorov’s shoe, to establish his identity as a bandaged, crippled Polish pilot. He and Sheila had visited Shepherdswell several times, laying the groundwork for their getaway. They probably planned to hole up there for a while, after Sidorovpulled off the switch with whatever body Archie provided. After the gold shipment was knocked off, of course. Then, with phony identities established, they could move away when the heat died down, Sidorov healed and rich. Free of the Merciless Parliament.
Operation Frantic had thrown a monkey wrench into things. But both Archie and Sidorov were determined to get what they wanted, and were daring enough for the job. Archie and Topper setting me up with that message, and tailing us in a staff car, provided the perfect camouflage. As did Sidorov’s move, joining the Home Guard search, ready to kill again for a body to be consumed in flames.
We’d left Flack to organize the search. He was calling out the Home Guard, telling them they were after the remaining German, which worked for me, since Sidorov was wearing his clothes. Unless he’d already stolen other duds. That’s what I would have done, I thought, as Big Mike barreled the jeep north on the open road. Lots of military traffic headed for the coast, but the left lane going north was clear.
I would’ve looked for a barn or outbuilding, hoping for some work clothes hung on a peg. One of those boilersuits, maybe. A commonplace blue one-piece outfit would be perfect to cover the Luftwaffeuniform, even the flying boots. Then a bicycle, on back roads, to Shepherdswell.
“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. An
d 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.
W E 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.”
