The Red Horse

by James R Benn

  I looked at my hands anyway and was shocked to see a trace of darkened red. It was from the sheets. The killer had wiped his fingers clean on them. I gave mine the Lady Macbeth treatment right down to the fingernails.

  I got up again, listening to the blood rushing in my ears and feeling the sweat drip in the small of my back. I steadied myself and began to search the room as quietly as I could. Once again, there was no sign of a struggle. Whoever did this wasn’t seen as a threat.

  It still could have been a woman, I thought as I leaned against the wall by the window. Densmore had some height to him but seated that wouldn’t have mattered. Anyone could have leaned over and given his neck a twist with the commando move all SOE and OSS agents had been trained to use. It wasn’t easy, but then again Densmore wasn’t exactly an armed German on sentry duty.

  Densmore’s murder was the second killing linked to the SOE German Section. Cosgrove had worked with Blackford, and presumably Densmore as well. Cosgrove, Blackford, and Snow all had links to Holland one way or the other. Which meant the last two men were in danger. I needed to do something.

  I’d removed the red horse postcard from the first murder scene. The fact that the symbol appeared here again showed that the killer wanted to link it to his victims. Maybe he’d do something stupid if I robbed him of that opportunity.

  I took a napkin from the table where Densmore had breakfasted. I dipped it into a glass of water and scrubbed at the windowpane. The blood was coagulated but not fully dried. It cleaned up easily, especially after I found a handkerchief and did a final wipe down. I left the stained fabric near the bloody breakfast dish.

  I checked the drop from the window. Too far and too visible. There was nothing to do but report the murder like any good citizen.

  Okay. Time to go. I checked myself for telltale bloodstains and worked to calm my breathing. I still felt jittery, my breaths coming in rapid gasps. I placed my hand on the latch. It shook like autumn’s last leaf.

  The crack of a rifle shattered the air, the unmistakable sound echoing off the stone buildings. I let go of the handle. Footsteps thundered in the hallway and I stepped back, certain they were headed for me.

  They kept going. I darted to the window. Below, two figures raced across the grass, making for one of the north wing entrances. Another shot split the air and I jumped. I couldn’t see anything, but it was close.

  A scream from the hallway drew me back to the door. I heard voices, questioning and worried, male and female. Someone shouted this way and I decided my best chance was to mix in with the confused pack as they evacuated the floor. I opened the door as two Home Guards emerged from the stairwell at the end of the corridor, calling for people to follow them to the basement. I stepped out, closing the door and mingling with some female staff and the shirtsleeved men who had been wearing headphones in the next office.

  There was a rush to the stairs. One of the Home Guards stayed behind, while the other led the group down. Everyone was babbling a mile a minute and paying me no mind. I could have been dressed in a pink tuxedo and not a soul would have taken their eyes off the steps beneath their feet.

  At the second-floor landing, I split off and made for my room, which is where I planned on saying I was the whole time if anyone asked. At my window I watched orderlies and patients running from the north wing while a single Home Guard took cover behind a tree and covered their escape. I couldn’t see where he was aiming, but it seemed to be in the direction of the guest quarters.

  Damn. Colonel Blackford was still there. But shooting at him didn’t fit the pattern. The last two killings were quiet. Using what sounded like a Lee-Enfield rifle was anything but.

  I headed out, not wanting to take any chances. Blackford knew more than he was saying, and if he ended up eating a bullet, I’d never find out what it was. I took the back way, easing the door open and watching for a threat. All I saw was Major Snow, running with his limping gait toward the soldier behind the tree, revolver in hand. He motioned for me to get back inside. So, of course, I ignored him.

  I ran to the nearest tree, taking cover, and risking a glance in the direction of the shots. The first thing I saw was Sergeant Jenkins, standing in the walkway, motioning with one arm for the men behind him to halt. The other hand, hanging loosely at his side, held a pistol that he kept pointed at the ground. Dr. Robinson ran out from the north wing, joining him.

  I couldn’t see much else with the trees and buildings in the way, but neither Snow nor Jenkins was acting like the shooter presented a threat. Which was strange after several rounds had been fired off. Still, the guest quarters were in the general direction they were both facing, and I had to wonder about Blackford’s safety.

  I left the cover of the tree and ambled in Jenkins’s direction. No threatening moves, just a fellow out for a midday stroll. At least that’s what I hoped the guy with the rifle thought. As I drew closer to Jenkins, I caught his eye. He nodded and didn’t tell me to stop, so I kept on. I noticed that directly behind him a Home Guard stood without his helmet or rifle, blood streaming from a scrape on his temple.

  Near the path, I finally had a clear view. Midway between the guest quarters and the Home Guard canteen, two figures stood facing each other.

  Sinclair and Blackford.

  Sinclair had the rifle. The Lee-Enfield held ten rounds in the chamber, and I’d heard three shots. There was still a lot of damage to be done. But Sinclair wasn’t pointing the rifle at anyone, and he and Blackford seemed to be busy arguing with each other. Sinclair had the weapon gripped close to his chest; the barrel pointed toward the sky.

  “Hello, Sinclair,” I said, stopping about ten feet away. Close enough to talk, but not so close he’d think I was trying to grab the rifle. “What’s with the fireworks?”

  “You tell him to leave me alone!” Sinclair shouted, thrusting the rifle in Blackford’s direction, then pulling it back close to his chest. “I am done helping his sort. Done!”

  “Colonel Blackford?” I said, looking to him for clarification.

  “We were having a calm discussion, sitting on the porch, then all of a sudden Sinclair bolted off,” Blackford said. “Didn’t know he could move that quickly. He bowled over the young Home Guard who was coming around the corner from the canteen. Sent him crashing to the ground and fell on top of him. Next thing I knew he was holding that rifle and shooting it off.”

  “To keep you at bay!” Sinclair said, his rage spewing between gritted teeth. “No more, do you hear? You promised to get me out of here, but that hasn’t happened, has it?”

  “I thought you liked it here, Sinclair,” I said, moving slightly to place myself between them.

  “I say that, yes. But I want to go home,” he said. “He said I could, if I helped him.”

  “Now Angus, be careful what you say. This is all classified, remember,” Blackford said.

  “Murder? Is that classified?” Sinclair said, his voice a hissing whisper. “Tampering with parachutes? Who does that get killed, eh? And now you want me to design a new transmitter? It’s impossible!”

  “Sinclair, you know what I think we should do?” I asked, wondering what the hell he was talking about. “I think we should go over and apologize to the young man you knocked over. He’s bleeding, and I think it would be the nice thing to do, don’t you? Then we’ll go get a cup of tea and work this out. Okay?”

  “You can’t . . .” Blackford said, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand. Which wasn’t shaking, I noticed with some small part of my brain.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Sinclair said. “Sorry I caused so much trouble.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You didn’t shoot at anybody, did you?”

  “Good gracious, no. It felt good, I must say. Awfully loud, though.”

  “It puts the exclamation point on an argument, doesn’t it?” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “Why don�
��t we give this back to the young man so he won’t get in trouble, all right?”

  “Of course,” Sinclair said. We walked toward Jenkins, who had the sense to holster his pistol and tell his men to stand down. He grabbed the bleeding soldier, who had a handkerchief pressed to his head, and dragged him forward.

  “Take yer rifle, sonny,” Jenkins growled. “Then fetch yer helmet and stand to like a soldier.”

  “My sincere apologies,” Sinclair said, offering the rifle as if it were a sword being surrendered. Snow approached the small group, holstering his revolver, and shaking his head. Robinson trailed behind him, keeping his distance.

  “Angus, perhaps we should speak in private,” Blackford said, laying a hand on Sinclair’s arm. Angus shook it off.

  “No! I told you the Great Panjandrum would not work, and neither will this squirt transmitter,” Sinclair said, his hands in the air and his voice rising in pitch. “It’s foolishness, but you won’t listen. Boyle will, I’m sure. Come, let’s have our tea.” Snow and I exchanged looks, and I followed Sinclair. Snow began to speak with Jenkins, not seeming too pleased about events.

  “Angus,” Blackford said, running to keep up with him as he huffed off toward the dining hall. “You simply can’t keep repeating these things. They’ll keep you here forever.”

  “Panjandrum! Squirt!” Sinclair hollered, cupping his hands around his mouth. He uttered a few other words that were incomprehensible but was quickly drowned out by shouts from the main building. Shouts for Major Snow.

  “What the devil is happening now?” Blackford demanded.

  “Who knows?” I said, although I did. “Were you talking with Sinclair long, sir? I mean before he became upset.”

  “Fifteen minutes or so, why?”

  “Just wondering,” I said, watching Sinclair huff and puff his way to the north wing entrance. “Has this happened before?”

  “His reaction? Well, you know he’s unstable, but brilliant. He can’t control himself, really,” Blackford said.

  “No, I mean has he refused work for you before? While stuck in here?” I asked.

  “I can’t say, Boyle. Security, you know.” At that moment, Clarissa dashed out of the building, looked around, and waved once she spotted Blackford.

  “Colonel,” she said, her eyes wide. “Please come. It’s Lieutenant Densmore. Someone’s killed him.”

  “Oh no,” Blackford said, stopping so suddenly I thought he might fall.

  “Colonel?” I said. “Are you all right?”

  “Boyle, please calm Angus down, but don’t encourage him. They’ll think he’s mad if he keeps spouting secrets. It’s for his own good. Oh, this is horrible news. I can’t believe it.”

  “I’ll try,” I said, but Blackford was already off, muttering about how there had to be some mistake. Funny how people try to talk themselves out of believing bad news.

  In the dining hall, I got Sinclair seated. I fetched him tea and got coffee for myself. I could hear voices echoing in the hallway and the tread of boots on stairs. The discovery of Densmore’s body had stirred up a hornet’s nest, and I wanted it to subside long before anyone took notice of me.

  We were at the end of a table near a window. I let Sinclair settle down, watching as he added milk and sugar to his tea and stirred it hypnotically. He looked tired, with heavy bags under his eyes. His graying hair was disheveled, his forehead wrinkled, and he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days.

  “Angus,” I said, getting his attention. “You shouldn’t be saying those things. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Right now, yes. But in the heat of the moment, they all tumble out. Secrets. It is as if I am so full of them they can no longer be contained. I ought to be kept here, I know that. But I miss my wife.”

  It was a simple, heartfelt statement, and I had no idea how to respond. Plenty of people missed loved ones these days, but that wasn’t what made Angus Sinclair dangerous. It was the secrets he knew. Robinson began to stare openly at Sinclair, which gave me a bad feeling.

  “Listen, Angus,” I said. “If Dr. Robinson speaks with you, try your damnedest not to say anything that’s classified. Say you’re sorry, you lost your temper, and it was all an accident.”

  “It was,” he said. “An accident.”

  “Yes, but an accident involving a firearm and top-secret information. So do your best, okay?”

  “I will,” he said. “I hope Blackie doesn’t get in trouble.”

  “He won’t. Colonels seldom do, unless a general needs a fall guy,” I said, taking note of the use of the same nickname Cosgrove used for Blackford. “You’ve known him long?”

  “We did some work together. Wheezer and dodger stuff. Decent fellow, but a bit dense. There’s no way to send coded messages in compressed bursts. I told him the squirt transmitter was a fairy tale! Can’t be done.”

  “Angus,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Oh dear. Please forget I said that. Should have mentioned the Great Panjandrum instead. Utter failure, no need to keep that a secret. Wouldn’t have been, if they’d listened to me.”

  “Angus, please.”

  “Two ten-foot wheels, powered by cordite rockets that rolled them forward, with an explosive payload lodged between them. For breaching barriers on the beach. Trouble was, it never went in a straight line. In one of the tests it almost rolled over the generals and admirals who’d come to watch the trials. You should have seen them run!”

  “Okay,” I said, “as long as we’re spilling secrets. What was that about tampering with parachutes?”

  “Tricky stuff, that,” Sinclair said, sipping his milky tea. “The idea is to rig the parachute so it doesn’t open.”

  “Sounds easy,” I said, wondering why Blackford would want to do that.

  “But there was a wrinkle,” Sinclair said, wagging his finger and leaning in to whisper. “It couldn’t look like it was tampered with. When the Germans found it, don’t you see? It had to look like a real malfunction, not sabotage.”

  “Sinclair, Boyle, mind if I join you?” Robinson sat without waiting for an answer. Sinclair looked oblivious, but this wasn’t your normal coffee break chat. “How are you, Angus?”

  “Fine, fine,” he said, catching my glance. “And I do apologize. It will not happen again.”

  “Somebody could have been hurt, Angus,” Robinson said.

  “A bird, perhaps,” Sinclair answered. “Although I am sorry that I knocked that boy over. It was an accident, you know.”

  “I do, Angus, I do,” Robinson said.

  “What’s all the commotion, Doc?” I asked, with as much innocence as I could muster.

  “Not now, Boyle. I think Sinclair needs a rest. What do you think, Angus? Are you tired?”

  “Yes I am, Dr. Robinson. Very.”

  “Wait a minute, Doc,” I said. “There’s no need to punish him. Blackford shouldn’t have pushed him. He shouldn’t be working in here, should he?”

  “No, and I will speak to the colonel about that,” Robinson said. “Don’t worry. Angus has had the sleep cure before. He’ll be fine.”

  “The sleep cure. That’s it?”

  “Nothing but,” Robinson said. “Are you ready, Angus?”

  Angus was. Robinson snapped his fingers toward an orderly who was waiting in the hallway. He took Sinclair by the arm and led him away as Robinson promised to follow right behind.

  “Paul Densmore has been murdered,” Robinson said, keeping his voice low.

  “That’s Blackford’s guy, right? In for a nervous breakdown?”

  “I’d classify it as mental and physical exhaustion. A complete breakdown is something else. Whatever you want to call it, he was close to being released. What the hell is going on here?” Robinson said, rubbing his eyes.

  “How was he killed?” I asked.

  “His neck was br
oken,” Robinson said. “Two brutal murders, Boyle. We’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “Don’t forget Holland,” I said. “I’m sure he was murdered too. Tell me, did you see the body?”

  “I did. Snow called for a doctor, and I was the nearest one. Not that there was anything to be done. Dr. Hughes is going to be busy with autopsies, that’s for sure. Why did you ask?”

  “I’m curious,” I said. “Did you see anything unusual? Signs of a struggle, anything like that?”

  “Densmore had a cut on one arm, but it hardly bled. Other than that, nothing.”

  “A quick kill,” I said. If Robinson had been surprised not to see any sign of the red horse, he did a good job of hiding it. “Any idea how long he’d been dead?”

  “No, you’ll have to ask Hughes about that. Now, I’ve got to attend to Sinclair,” Robinson said as he stood. “Don’t worry, no electric shock therapy for him. He’ll be fine, and the sooner he’s asleep, the better. That way Snow can’t get at him.”

  “Think Snow would be tough on him?”

  “Use your head, Boyle. Snow’s in charge of security, and he has two or three murders to account for. He’ll be looking for a fall guy, you watch. He was an SOE field agent in Italy, but here he’s just another bureaucrat answerable to yet another bureaucrat. If he doesn’t fix this, he’s out. Disgraced.”

  Which made him dangerous. A scapegoat was a handy answer, and one that might even work for him. Unless the killer struck again.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Not now, Boyle,” Snow said when I intercepted him and Blackford on the way into his office. The major was favoring his bum leg as he steered Blackford through his doorway, wincing as he turned to face me. Blackford wore a stunned look, his eyes wide with shock after seeing Densmore’s body.

  “Major, Colonel Blackford needs protection,” I said, as Snow ushered the colonel into his office and began to shut the door.

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Boyle,” he said, slamming the door an inch from my nose. I thought it was funny he didn’t ask me where I was this morning, since I was involved in all this from the get-go. I would have been one of the first suspects I questioned, but I guess Snow was busy enough trying to clamp a lid down on this mess.