The Red Horse

by James R Benn

  “Oh, my God,” I said, blurting out the words before I could stop them.

  “What?” Robinson said, halting and standing in front of me. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes,” I said. “What you said hit me hard, that’s all. That I was worried about me when I should have been worrying about Diana.”

  “It’s okay, Boyle. It was nothing but your mind protecting you. Now you’re ready to face facts, so we can work on getting you out of here.”

  “I know. It was a shock to realize it, that’s all,” I said. “What next?”

  “For the rest of the day, take it easy. Visit your friend and relax. I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.” I told him I’d be there, and we went our separate ways.

  He hadn’t noticed the lie. I wasn’t almost knocked over by the revelation that I’d substituted Diana’s predicament for my own. I was almost knocked over by the unbidden memory of a single word.

  Sweden.

  Go to the Swedes, a dying man in Paris had told me. As with much of what happened when Diana was taken, that moment had been tamped down deep in my brain. But it had bubbled to the surface and now offered the slightest bit of hope.

  Why Sweden? I had no idea. Probably nothing I should mention to Robinson. Maybe I wasn’t really a prisoner here, but the Brits and the army called the shots, and when a guy who knew too many secrets started talking about a neutral country, the prison bars might get real all too quickly.

  Chapter Seven

  I finally made it to Kaz’s floor in the medical wing. I’d walked around the grounds once, trying to work up my courage. It took a second circuit, but that got me to the south wing’s rear entrance, which opened onto a solarium where patients sat in comfortable chairs amid plants and sunlight. Not very prison-like, I had to admit. Two women sat in a corner, one of them in a wheelchair. She was in her early twenties, with brown wavy hair, a hint of freckles dashed across her cheeks, and a vacant stare. Her companion, blond-haired and about the same age, sat close to her, hands clasped around her friend’s and tears brimming as she tried to blink them away. One of her legs was heavily bandaged, and crutches lay on the floor next to her.

  I looked away as I passed them, not wishing to intrude. SOE agents, perhaps, plucked back from occupied Europe after being wounded. In body, if not spirit. If Diana survived the Gestapo, which one would she look like? I sent up a quick prayer to Saint Anthony, the patron saint of the missing, to grant her strength and luck and to bring her back safely.

  I tried to put the image of the woman with the blank stare out of my mind. Then I remembered how that didn’t work so well before, so I let that picture stay with me and tried to imagine the freckled young woman rising from her chair one day. Maybe with a smile on her lips. A daydream, yes. Maybe a fantasy, but it gave me hope.

  “Billy!” Kaz said, greeting me with more enthusiasm than I deserved. He stood, tossing the book he’d been reading on the bed. “Come, sit and tell me how you are. Rested?”

  “I am, Kaz,” I said, as I pulled up a chair next to his. He sat, turning up the collar of his dressing gown. He looked thin and pale, and I wondered if I’d been too off my head to notice it before. “Forty hours of sleep is plenty restful.”

  “Dr. Robinson came yesterday to tell me about the sleep cure. He had high hopes for it,” Kaz said. He cocked his head a bit, as if he were studying me for any clues as to my mental health.

  “Listen, Kaz, about the other day. I’m sorry. I was off my rocker, more than I realized. I didn’t mean it,” I said.

  “I know, Billy,” he said. “I knew you were having difficulties and still I pressured you about seeing General Eisenhower. I am the one who should apologize. It was too much of a burden to place on your shoulders at this time.”

  “Well, let’s split the difference. Half an apology each?”

  “An admirable compromise,” Kaz said with a lopsided grin. A scar stopped his smile on one side of his face, the puckered skin too hardened to allow for a totally joyful expression. The scar, which ran from eye to chin thanks to an explosion that had killed the woman he loved, was a constant reminder of his loss and the memories that bound us together. Daphne Seaton had been Kaz’s one true and great love, and she’d been taken from him by this war. Diana was Daphne’s sister, and now the grim tide of treachery had taken her as well. But not with the same finality as it had taken Daphne. At least as far as I knew.

  We shook on our deal, his hand feeling slight and bony in mine. Kaz was spindly and fragile in a way he had never been, even when he was a lightweight academic translating documents in Uncle Ike’s headquarters. After Daphne’s death, he had built himself up, working out with dumbbells in his suite at the Dorchester and taking impossibly fast walks through Hyde Park. He’d managed to shed the image of the weakling with a troubled heart, but in Paris it had all caught up with him.

  “Kaz, have you heard about the fellow who went off the clock tower the other day?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Such news travels quickly in a small, closed society. Holland, correct?”

  “Yes. That’s what I was coming to see you about the other day,” I said. “I witnessed the whole thing.”

  “It must have been gruesome,” he said.

  “It wasn’t pretty, but that’s not what I mean,” I said, lowering my voice. “Someone was up in the tower with Holland. I think he was murdered.”

  “Billy,” Kaz said, with a quick glance at the door. “Are you sure you really saw that? You were mixed up at the time, you know. Are you certain?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know I wasn’t thinking straight, but I’m as sure as I can be.” I filled Kaz in on my hallucinations about the fence and the guards. “But this memory didn’t fade after I woke up. It’s still as real as it was that day.”

  “All right. Let’s accept that you did see a murder,” Kaz said. “Perhaps you should investigate. That might allow you to confirm what you saw.”

  “I don’t know. I should focus on getting out of here. That’s the only way I get to speak to Ike about you and find out about Diana.”

  “That is the first time you have mentioned her name,” Kaz said. “Here, in any case.”

  “That’s been most of my problem, according to Robinson,” I said. “But never mind the Sigmund Freud routine. I’ve got to appear perfectly rational to Robinson to get him to release me. I can’t go around squawking about a mystery man in the tower.”

  “Billy, I certainly endorse the notion of you reaching General Eisenhower, even if he is likely in France at present. But consider the implications of a murder in this establishment.” Again, he glanced toward the open door, but there was so much hustle and bustle going on in the hallway, no one could hear us.

  “Listen, I’m just starting to get used to the idea that we aren’t in an insane asylum guarded by bloodthirsty British Commandos. Do you know what this place is, exactly?”

  “Saint Albans Special Hospital,” Kaz said. “Formerly an asylum for paupers and lunatics, so you were partly correct. It opened in the 1870s and was shuttered in the last decade due to the high cost of maintenance. Fairly progressive in its day, but I digress. It was reopened in 1940 by our friends at the Special Operations Executive to provide care for agents who needed time to recuperate in a secluded setting, closed off from the outside world. And to allow secrets that might be inadvertently revealed to remain within these grounds. Over time, the patients have grown to include anyone within the military or government who suffers an episode, mental or physical, that qualifies for high-security care.”

  “You have been busy,” I said.

  “On the contrary, I have nothing to do,” Kaz said. “Nothing but engaging in idle chitchat with those who find the company of a Polish baron amusing.”

  “Playing the baron card again, huh?”

  “Exactly. Everyone from surgeons to orderlies has been helpful rega
rding Saint Albans as an institution. But no one will volunteer a thing about the patients. They are well drilled on the importance of security.”

  “Robinson is a Yank, and there are American patients as well,” I said.

  “Yes. Your Army Medical Corps is providing support, the idea being that it was more efficient to combine resources than to start a separate unit for Americans. There are only a few, from the OSS and other hush-hush groups. The English have been at the game much longer, as you know, so there has been more time for the burden of underground operations to wear people down.”

  “Okay, I get the setup. You think it’s important to look into Holland’s death?”

  “At least to determine if it was murder, and if so, if it is a danger to security. Was it an unbalanced patient who threw him off, or someone with a vendetta, perhaps?”

  “You know that I can’t tell anyone else? Robinson was there at the scene, along with Hughes, the fellow you told me about, the chief medical officer. There was also a thickset British officer, a guy with a heavy mustache and a bit of a limp.”

  “That must be Snow. Major Basil Snow. Head of security. Although Hughes is nominally in charge of the hospital, the word is Snow has the final word. He’s SOE.”

  “A bit suspicious that they were all at the scene within seconds,” I said.

  “What’s the layout here?” Kaz asked, spreading out his hands. “I have not been far from this room.” He got up and looked out the window. It was a fine view of the green lawn and dark woods, but it gave little sense of how large this building was.

  “This is the south wing. I’m in the north wing, with the other lunatics. Between us is the main building with the clock tower. That’s where all the administrative offices are.”

  “So they could have been in a meeting and heard or seen the fall,” Kaz said. “I think the key would be to find out more about Holland. Why was he here? Did he have enemies?”

  “Easier said than done. And are you sure about this? It might delay my release.”

  “Only if you get caught.”

  “Doing what exactly?”

  “Breaking into the administrative offices and reviewing the file on Holland, as well as anyone connected to him, of course,” Kaz said. “There is a great concern about security here, but it is mainly focused on keeping people from the outside from entering, and secondarily containing patients until they are recovered. But there is a weak spot.”

  “They’re not worried about security within the hospital,” I offered.

  “Right. No more than the normal hospital would be, in any case. I sense a certain laxity within these walls. It seems that the presence of guards and the overall emphasis on secrecy creates a false sense of security. After all, why be suspicious about the very people you are protecting?”

  “There may be an excellent reason, if I’m right that there was another person in the tower. Okay, I’ll give it shot. Any idea where they keep the files?”

  “Billy, I can’t do everything, can I? I am sure you can handle it. Simply a matter of casing the joint and opening the can,” Kaz said. He enjoyed American slang, especially the gangster stuff.

  “A can opener specializes in cheap safes, Kaz. I’m counting on file cabinets with simple locks.”

  “Ah. I must pay closer attention,” Kaz said, pointing to the book on his bed. “The High Window, by this Raymond Chandler fellow. Very American. Funny, there’s a man who fell to his death, and Marlowe—the detective, not the playwright—suspects foul play. Is that always the case with detectives, I wonder? Are you so jaded by experience that you see murder instead of suicide?”

  “I got a good look at Holland’s body, Kaz. I’ve seen a lot of jumpers, and I know what a fall can do to the human body. From that height, the internal injuries are horrible, but usually contained. From higher up, the torso might rupture, but he was relatively intact. There was bleeding from the scalp, but that’s to be expected hitting gravel at a fair downward speed.”

  “What aroused your suspicion, then? Other than seeing another person with him,” Kaz said.

  “His shirt was untucked. Pulled clear out of his trousers on one side. I’ve seen shoes flung off feet, but this was different. Someone grabbed Holland, lifted him up, and threw him over.”

  “In the process, pulling his shirt free,” Kaz said. “It must have been a fairly strong man.”

  “Maybe. But Holland was a slight guy, average height. Wouldn’t have been hard to lift him up and over.”

  “But you heard nothing, no scream?” Kaz said, his brow wrinkled as he rubbed his chin, trying to piece things together.

  “Holland was one of the mutes,” I said. “For the life of me I can’t see why anyone wanted him dead.”

  “Interesting,” Kaz said. “That is something to think about.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Dr. Hughes said from the doorway, another white coated doctor and a nurse behind him. “Baron, it is time for your examination.”

  “My daily torture,” Kaz said, returning to his bed.

  “Let me know how the book turns out,” I said, as I walked past Hughes and gave him a friendly nod of greeting.

  He ignored me, as if we hadn’t both viewed a dead man a couple of days ago.

  Doctors can get jaded, I guess, just like cops. Maybe he didn’t want to think about Holland’s death.

  Or what I might have seen.

  Chapter Eight

  I hadn’t been able to ask Kaz about Sweden before Dr. Hughes had come in. In Paris I’d told him what the German officer had said before he died.

  “Geh zu den Schweden.”

  Go to the Swedes, Kaz had translated. But now I couldn’t remember what had happened next. Those last moments in Paris were a blur of exhaustion and violence. The next thing I remember was waking up in an ambulance on my way to this place.

  Big Mike had been there, I suddenly recalled. Where was he now? Where was Colonel Harding?

  I had no idea. Maybe Kaz had told me when I was out of it. I’d ask him later.

  I went out the side door. I needed fresh air. And a plan to get to the Saint Albans patient files.

  Back to the pathway. It was a crisp, blue-sky day with an edge of autumn chill in the air. Just what I needed. I turned up the collar on my field jacket, took a couple of deep lungfuls, and trudged on, going through a mental list of the problems I needed to solve.

  Where were Big Mike and Sam Harding? Staff Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski was part of the SHAEF Office of Special Investigations. The biggest part, if you went by size. A good six feet of Detroit cop, with the broadest shoulders in the US Army. If Kaz was the brains of our small outfit, Big Mike was the brawn. And heart, now that I thought about it. I knew he’d been here, at least when the ambulance brought me. And he talked with Sergeant Jenkins. Might be worth checking with him, although he hadn’t been exactly friendly.

  Colonel Samuel Harding was our boss. West Pointer, regular army, but still not a bad sort. He had several jobs at SHAEF in addition to riding herd on us. He was an intelligence liaison with Resistance groups and governments in exile, which meant that he and Big Mike were as likely to be at the front in France as they were to be in London.

  I had no way to contact them. Unless I could get to a telephone. Maybe tonight, if I could locate which office held the patient files. If I could get an open line to SHAEF, I might be able to get a message to them.

  Now all I had to do was figure out how to break into a secure office. The good news was that I was already inside the facility. The Home Guard patrolled the fence, but I’d only seen them inside the building on rare occasions. There had to be a mess area for them in one of the smaller buildings, since I never saw them at meals.

  It made sense. The less contact they had with patients, the better.

  All right. I turned around. Time to reconnoiter. I hadn’t paid a lot of att
ention to the layout inside the building. I’d been more interested in scouting out escape routes through the woods. My north wing digs were on the second floor. I’d taken the staircase down and went direct to Robinson, not paying any attention to the other offices. The third floor was locked. I didn’t even want to think about the poor souls up there. There was a fourth floor, but that was terra incognita.

  Time to focus. I walked in the main entrance, not even glancing at where Holland had hit the ground. No distracting thoughts. Inside, I crossed the foyer and headed straight down the hall to Robinson’s office. The door was shut, which I knew meant he was out or in a session. A shuffling gait took me closer, my boots quiet on the polished floor. I didn’t hear voices. I laid my hand on the knob and tested it. Shut tight. It didn’t look like a tough lock to pick, but I didn’t have anything in the way of tools, penknives not being encouraged in the north wing.

  “Are you looking for Dr. Robinson?” A woman’s voice shocked me, and I whipped my hand off the doorknob like it was red hot. I turned to face her, hoping not to look too guilty. She clutched a stack of files and looked at me with a combination of helpfulness and pity, in the right proportions given my status here.

  “Yes. I didn’t have an appointment, but I wanted to speak with him for a minute,” I said, moving away from the door. “I didn’t know if it was all right to knock.”

  “It doesn’t matter, he’s up on the third floor. Do you want to leave a message?”

  “Sure, that’d be great, thank you,” I said.

  “Come along then,” she said, heading toward the foyer. She was in her thirties, with pulled-back dark hair, a pencil stuck behind her ear, and an expression of intense curiosity.

  “My name’s Boyle,” I said.

  “I know. I’ve seen you going to your appointments. We don’t have that many Yanks here, so you stand out. Sorry, but I can’t tell you my name. I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s not encouraged.”