by Ed Ruggero
“Our friend here has had an uphill paper route,” Harkins said.
“Pardon?” Lowell asked.
“Cushing, Frederick James, U.S. Army Air Forces,” Harkins read from the book. “Major Cushing had a rough night, maybe a few rough nights.”
Harkins leaned forward and into the man’s line of sight.
“You with me, Major Cushing?” Harkins asked. No response.
Cushing belched loudly.
“We’re going to have to take him somewhere he can sober up,” Harkins said. “I’m going to want to talk to him when he comes around.”
Cushing lifted his head and mumbled something. Harkins leaned in far enough to hear Cushing say, “I don’t feel so good.” Then the major vomited on his own legs. Harkins jumped back, but not before his hands and feet were splashed with the contents of Cushing’s stomach.
“Shit!” Harkins said.
Cushing slumped forward so that his chest was almost on his thighs. It didn’t seem possible, but he didn’t fall out of the chair.
“Can you please get him out of here before he makes a bigger mess?” Nelson asked, more sympathetic than angry.
“Bring the car around,” Harkins told Lowell, who hurried out the door.
Nelson went to the back of the pub and returned with a bucket and mop. He pulled a rag out of the soapy water, wrung it out, and handed it to Harkins.
“Thanks,” Harkins said. “Sorry about the mess.”
“Oh, he’s not the first one to get sick in here,” Nelson said. “I feel sorry for the man. Those pilots deal with a lot. Dangerous work. One of the RAF blokes told me that on some raids they might lose a quarter of the bombers that go out.”
Everything Harkins knew about the Allies’ massive bombing campaign against Germany came from newsreels and air force press releases. If he believed what he heard and read—which he decidedly did not—everything was going swell and the Germans were being bombed back into the Stone Age and the war would be over by autumn. Yet the British hadn’t given up during the Blitz. Why would the Germans be any different?
Harkins cleaned himself up as best he could. When Lowell came back after parking the car in front of the pub, Major Cushing was still defying gravity, still in the chair, his upper body bent forward and resting on his thighs.
Lowell rinsed another rag and tried to get the worst of the mess off Cushing’s legs.
“I can’t bring the car back to the motor pool with the seats covered in puke,” she said.
Nelson went into the back and returned with a panel of cloth from a blackout curtain. He went outside and spread it on the backseat of the car, then he helped Harkins and Lowell carry Cushing out.
“Has anyone else been around asking questions?” Harkins asked Nelson. “American investigators?”
“I thought you were the investigator.”
“So far,” Harkins said. “There may be more.”
Lowell was in the driver’s seat, and when Harkins got in the front passenger side she asked, “Where to, sir?”
“It’s going to take a while for him to sober up,” Harkins said. “And I don’t want him running off before I get a chance to talk to him again, since he was one of the last people to see Batcheller alive.”
“There’s a stockade, sir,” Lowell said. “If that’s appropriate.”
“Maybe they have a drunk tank,” Harkins said.
* * *
Eddie Harkins was only mildly surprised to learn that the American Military Police in London had established four drunk tanks, the largest of them capable of housing one hundred and fifty enlisted men, with a separate facility for up to twenty officers.
“This town is lousy with GIs on a weekend,” the sergeant on duty told Harkins when he asked about holding a prisoner for questioning. “Last month we had a Friday payday and a full moon. All the crazies were out.”
Fortunately for the still-intoxicated Major Frederick Cushing, it was a slow night and the officers’ drunk tank, at least, was empty. Harkins buttonholed two big MP privates to help Cushing to his cell. He made sure the major was not in danger of choking on his own vomit, then had Lowell drive him back to OSS Headquarters on Grosvenor Street, where Major Sinnott was waiting for him.
“You look like shit,” Sinnott said as Harkins climbed the stairs. He’d been hoping to grab his duffel bag, find his quarters and get a shower, maybe fit in an hour of sleep.
Sinnott, in contrast, had obviously changed into a fresh uniform since Harkins saw him at 0630. He did not look rested, but he was clean.
“You smell, too,” Sinnott said when Harkins closed the distance.
“I was dealing with a drunk,” Harkins said.
“I heard you briefed Colonel Haskell. I want all information to come through me.”
“Yes, sir,” Harkins said. “He asked me point blank what I knew, so I answered his question.”
Sinnott waited for more, but Harkins kept his mouth shut. After a few seconds, Sinnott smiled, but it wasn’t especially friendly.
“Sure, okay, I get it. Can’t say ‘no’ to the man’s face. Just, from now on, try to get the information to me first. Got it?”
Harkins nodded. “Right.”
“Did anybody from CID ever show up at the scene?”
“No, sir.”
“Figures,” Sinnott said. “Guy named Blair called here. He heard we were at the scene, wanted to know what we learned. I told him I’d get back to him as soon as possible.”
“You want me to brief them?”
“No. I don’t want you to give them anything. They want us to do all the work, hand it to them on a platter. To hell with that. I want you to run with this as far as you can, as if you’re the principal investigator.”
Harkins figured that at some point this—stepping on CID jurisdiction—would come back to haunt them; it didn’t seem to worry Sinnott.
“So, where have you been this morning?”
“Went back to the neighborhood where the body turned up,” Harkins said. “Found a guy who was with Batcheller last night.”
“Where?”
“A pub. The bartender saw this guy—his name’s Cushing, a pilot—the bartender saw them together early in the evening. Then they left together and Cushing came back to the same pub a little later. The timeline works and the pub isn’t far from where the body was.”
“What did this Cushing say?”
“Nothing,” Harkins said. “He was dead drunk when we found him, passed out in a tiny storeroom at the back of the pub. I tried questioning him, see how his story compared to the bartender’s, but he only came around long enough to throw up on himself and on me. I took him to the drunk tank at Finsbury Park so I can question him when he sobers up.”
“This bartender hear what they were talking about?”
“No. He said they appeared to know one another, but weren’t a couple,” Harkins said. “And I found this in Cushing’s coat.”
Harkins pulled out the rolled sheaf of papers he had taken from Cushing and offered it to Sinnott. The major studied the first page, then flipped through the rest.
“Any idea what we’re looking at there, sir?” Harkins asked.
“This list on the first page—these are German cities,” Sinnott said. “A bunch of them in the Ruhr, where their heavy industry is. Then there are some dates, or ranges of dates. I don’t know about the numbers in these other columns.”
Sinnott folded the papers, tapped them on his leg, then opened them again.
“You said Cushing is a pilot, right? These could be targets, in which case there’s no way he should be carrying something like this around with him. It’s most likely classified.”
“I’ll go back in a few hours, see if he can talk. I’ll ask him then,” Harkins said, holding out his hand.
“I’ll hang on to these,” Sinnott said. “Maybe Batcheller’s boss will recognize this as her work. They might be classified, and you don’t have a security clearance yet.”
“Okay, si
r,” Harkins said.
“Wouldn’t that beat all if you got your man in your first three hours on the job?” Sinnott said.
“Probably a little early to be celebrating yet,” Harkins said.
“Well, just don’t make this any more complicated than it has to be,” Sinnott said. “This murder has already attracted attention from the big brass. We don’t need this hanging over our heads while we’re in the final stages of preparation for the big show.”
“The big show?”
“The invasion, son,” Sinnott said. “Jumping the channel. The adventure of our lives.”
Sinnott’s eyes were wide; he was genuinely excited.
“Think about it,” Sinnott said, clapping Harkins on the shoulder. “A million men, maybe more, going into righteous battle to crush one of history’s most evil regimes. And we get to be part of it.”
Sinnott squeezed Harkins’ upper arm. “It’s a great time to be alive, son.”
A remarkably easy time to get killed, too, Harkins thought.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “But in the meantime, I’m going to change uniforms, maybe get a shower, before I go back to see Major Cushing.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Sinnott said. “Captain Wickman got you all set up with a flat? Quarters somewhere?”
“I think so, yes, sir. I just have to find him.”
“Don’t expect too much. Probably a shared room in a cold-water flat.”
Harkins hadn’t been expecting the Ritz, but he had been hoping for hot water.
“You can’t imagine how surprised I was to arrive at Oxford, one of the most prestigious universities in the world, and found out there were no hot-water showers. Just ancient, cold-water bathtubs.”
Sinnott studied Harkins for a moment, and Harkins knew he was supposed to ask about the major’s time as a Rhodes scholar.
“Anything else, sir?” Harkins asked.
“No,” Sinnott said. “Come find me later if you learn anything interesting from this pilot.”
“Right.”
Sinnott still held the rolled sheaf of papers Harkins had taken from Cushing. He tapped Harkins on the chest with the roll.
“And get yourself cleaned up, Lieutenant. This is an elite outfit you’ve joined, so try to look the part.”
4
20 April 1944
1600 hours
Once she was back in the motor pool, Pamela Lowell cleaned the vomit from the staff car. Very little of the mess had gotten on the seat, thanks to the blackout curtain Nelson had given her. Lowell spread the panel on the rear end of the car, which the Americans called a trunk, to let it dry completely. She was pretty sure it would come clean with a good brushing. She had no idea what she might use the material for, but big pieces of cloth, even rough, cheaply made segments, had become quite valuable after five years of clothes rationing. Throughout the whole of the war so far, the only new clothing Lowell had managed to lay hold of, besides undergarments, were her uniforms.
“Where’d you get that?”
Lowell turned to see her team leader, Corporal Edith Moore.
“Used it to protect the seats. A Yank we transported had thrown up on himself and I didn’t want the car getting dirty.”
Moore, who liked to say she was a stickler for cleanliness, had more than once kept drivers long after their shift to clean vehicles. She rubbed the fabric between her fingers. “I asked where you got it.”
“At the pub where we picked up the American,” Lowell said.
Moore was only a few years older than Lowell, pretty, with a slight build and dark hair of which she was especially proud. When she was off duty she used red lipstick to give herself a Cupid’s bow mouth, like a film star.
Moore looked up from the fabric and smiled. “Was it a detail for a Yank, too?”
Lowell nodded. All the drivers, most of whom in this pool were women, wanted to drive Americans, because they had access to the most fabulous food. A couple of times Moore had pulled drivers from choice details and inserted herself into the coveted spot. Lowell wanted to continue driving for Lieutenant Harkins, and he wanted her as his driver, too, but she couldn’t overplay her hand.
“An investigator. Policeman. A Lieutenant Harkins.”
“And what was he investigating?”
“A murder. Some poor American woman got her throat slashed.”
“Sounds more interesting than anything else going on around here,” Moore said. “Driving brass back and forth to Marble Arch so they can run down to the coast or out to East Anglia to count bloody airplanes all day.”
Lowell doubted that Moore had driven anyone to the train station lately; she gave all the worst details to the youngest drivers. Or to the women she didn’t like. Some drivers gave Moore gifts—trinkets they’d gotten from their American boyfriends—as a kind of tribute to avoid the worst details.
Lowell opened the back door of the staff car and brushed the seat with a dry rag. She had already cleaned the whole car and now was just trying to look busy. Moore leaned into the opposite door and sniffed loudly.
“Still stinks,” she said. “Go over it again.”
“Yes, Corporal.”
Moore stood with her arms folded as Lowell retrieved a bucket and rags.
“Is he nice?” Moore asked when Lowell returned.
“Who?”
“Don’t play daft with me,” Moore said. “Did the Yank give you anything? Food? Chocolate? Fags?”
“No, Corporal,” Lowell said.
“I bet he wanted to give you something,” Moore said.
Lowell tried to keep from looking up but failed. Moore smiled and made an obscene gesture with her fist. When Lowell didn’t react, Moore laughed.
“Oh, come on, Lowell. You’re going to have to give it up someday. Might as well be to some rich Yank.”
Lowell had gone out with exactly two GIs but had never gone beyond a chaste kiss good-night with either of them.
“You say ‘yes, sir’ enough all day eventually you’re going to say ‘yes, sir’ at night, too,” Moore said.
Lowell bent into the car so as to avoid Moore’s glare and so didn’t see their section sergeant, Wallace, come up behind her.
“What’s so funny?” Wallace asked.
Lowell ducked out of the car; Moore dropped her arms to her sides.
“Oh, just having a bit of fun with young Lowell, here, Sergeant Wallace.”
Wallace looked at Moore, then at Lowell. The sergeant wasn’t much for fun.
“So now it takes two of you to clean out the back of a bloody staff car?” Wallace said in a tone that implied she did not want a response.
Wallace and her husband had owned a farm in East Anglia, but the husband lost his draft exemption and got called up after the Yanks paved over the farm to build one of their airstrips. He was killed in North Africa and Sarah Wallace, childless, joined the ATS to get away from her shrunken farm and vivid memories.
“Dispatch got a message that you’re detailed to an American lieutenant,” Wallace said to Lowell. “You drove for him this morning when he started investigating a murder. They want you back in an hour.”
“Pardon, Sergeant,” Moore said. “Shouldn’t we use the regular rotation, the next driver on the duty roster?”
Wallace chewed the inside of her lip, which she did when she was annoyed.
“Look, Moore, if it turns out to be a plum and the Yanks don’t care, we’ll give your other girls a chance, too, all right? Right now, the Yanks want her.”
“Some bloody Yank lieutenant gets to mess with our duty roster?”
Wallace exhaled. She’d been in Moore’s company for three minutes and she already looked exhausted.
“It’s a major, actually,” Lowell ventured. “Major Sinnott.”
“Who the hell is Major Sinnott, now?” Moore demanded.
“Lieutenant Harkins’ boss,” Lowell said. “I think Major Sinnott is in charge of the investigation.”
“All right,” Wallace said.
“Whichever one it is, let him know that you’re a dedicated driver now. When they release you, you’re back on the regular duty roster. Keep Corporal Moore apprised of what you’re doing.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Lowell said.
Wallace walked away without saying anything else.
“Aren’t you the clever one?” Moore said. “You didn’t have any trouble remembering that major’s name, now did you?”
Lowell had the assignment, should probably let it go at that, but Moore’s pettiness was just so unnecessary.
“I didn’t make it up, Corporal,” Lowell said. “That lieutenant really did request me as a driver.”
“Did you promise him something, Lowell? Maybe you’re thinking he’s the one who’ll finally breach the walls of your precious, frigid little castle.”
“It’s not like that,” Lowell said. “I—I … it’s not like that.”
She wanted to say she’d helped Lieutenant Harkins, but she wasn’t sure that was true. Mostly, she wanted to help.
“I—I—I,” Moore mocked. “Your motives are pure, right? Hard to imagine how you put up with the rest of us mere mortals.”
When Lowell didn’t respond, Moore huffed, “Clean this bleedin’ car again before you go anywhere, you hear me?”
“Yes, Corporal.”
When Moore walked away, Lowell plunged the rag back into the soapy water, then wrung it out, twisting and squeezing the cloth until her knuckles went white.
* * *
Harkins called the Somers Town precinct and left a message for Detective Sergeant Hoyle. He left Wickman’s office number and said he’d call back.
Wickman had left an envelope for Harkins with the address of his rented flat, which was located about a half mile from OSS headquarters on a narrow alley off Wimpole Street. The skinny buildings reminded Harkins of the brick rowhouses in his Philadelphia neighborhood, except that five houses on one side of this street had been reduced to piles of shattered brick, charred wooden beams, and splintered furniture.
