The Red Horse

by James R Benn

  “Come on,” I said, pulling Feliks out of the room. It must have been a shock for him to walk in on Kaz in that condition. “Have you been away? I haven’t seen you around.”

  “Yes. There was a meeting in London I had to attend. I am sorry to hear of Major Cosgrove’s death. He was a good friend to us. But what happened to Piotr?” I could see the strain and confusion on Feliks’s face. He had his own set of burdens in this war.

  “There was some sort of problem with his heart,” I said, keeping things vague. “They had to operate. The doctor said he came through it fine. They brought him back a few minutes ago. He’ll be okay.” He had to be.

  “Thank God,” Feliks said with a heavy sigh, thankfully not pressing me for medical details.

  “How is Skory?” I asked, lowering my voice. The Polish scientist was one part of the puzzle that could lead to Diana’s release, and I needed to stay in the know as far as that was concerned. I felt guilty for a moment, knowing Feliks was in love with Angelika, but I couldn’t do anything about that.

  “Recovering quite well,” he said. “That was the subject of the meeting. The Foreign Office sent someone to take Cosgrove’s place. Your Colonel Harding and Duży Mike were there as well.”

  “Doozy Mike?”

  “No, Duży Mike,” he said, slowing down the Polish pronunciation for me. “It is what we call Big Mike, your sergeant. He is a large man, even for an American.”

  “You’re telling me Colonel Harding and Duży Mike are involved with Skory?”

  “Yes. That is why Duży Mike and I arrived here together. Don’t you remember?”

  “Right, sure,” I said. I had recalled their arrival, but this was the first time I’d heard that Harding was part of this project. If Sam was at a meeting with Cosgrove’s replacement from the Foreign Office, he’d be involved with the trial release of prisoners. Maybe he could figure out a way to include Angelika. And ensure Diana had a top spot on the list. “Sorry, it’s been a little crazy here.”

  Feliks didn’t laugh.

  “By the way, Billy, Colonel Harding has secured your release. He and Duży Mike will be here later this afternoon. Good news, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Very good news.” Feliks left, promising to stop and see Kaz later. I looked in on Kaz one more time. No change for the worse, or better. I took myself outside, thinking through what my release would mean. A soft bed, decent chow, and freedom. A chance to follow up with Harding on the Ravensbrück releases.

  I looked up at the blue sky. Not a cloud to be seen; the rainstorm had blown away on the wind. I walked along the front pathway, staring at the rows of windows in the massive main building. Somewhere in there, or close by, was the person who murdered Charles Cosgrove. If I left, the only person investigating the killings would be Major Snow and his heavy-handed Redcaps.

  One more night. That’s what I needed. Another clandestine visit to the files. This time I’d pay more attention to the selection board notes in Holland’s dossier. I’d have to convince Snow to let me stay so I could visit Kaz in the morning. Once he had my release in hand, it would make sense for him to give me a spot in the guest quarters instead of keeping me under lock and key. No more hanging sheets out the window.

  As I passed the clock tower, I looked up to the third floor where Densmore’s room had been. I wondered if staff worked through the night in the room with the recording devices. Transcribing conversations, maybe? No, that would just be a lot of complaints about the food and the doctors, and the general gossip of any large institution. Most likely, they must review the tapes and note anything suspicious.

  I knew there were staff in the switchboard room. What I didn’t know was whether the door to that floor being unlocked had been a fluke or if it was routinely left open. Even if it was open during the day, chances were, it was locked at night.

  Still, it was tempting. There might be evidence of conversations that would be revealing, especially if the guest quarters had been bugged. I wasn’t supposed to know about the eavesdropping, so I couldn’t ask Snow. But he had to have thought about it and gone over the records.

  Right?

  I decided to check Cosgrove’s room, if it was open. I circled around the main building and took the path to the guest quarters. Two women with cleaning supplies were on the porch, entering Blackford’s digs. They told me he’d gone, and I should make myself scarce, patients not being allowed inside. I backed off, coming up on the porch from the other direction, treading lightly so they wouldn’t hear.

  I opened the door to Cosgrove’s room. It smelled of carbolic and bleach. The bloodstained couch had been removed and the place scrubbed clean. If possible, it made the room even sadder and more forlorn. The windows were open to air the place out, the curtains wafting in and out like dying breaths.

  I searched the room for a listening device and any telltale wires. The place was void of decorative touches or any other spot to hide a bug. I stood on a chair and unscrewed the light fixture in the ceiling, getting nothing but dust and dead flies for my troubles.

  No, wait. I spotted a small hole near the electrical wires. Maybe a microphone had been hidden in the light. Or maybe it was simply from the original fixture, long since replaced. Besides, the SOE spying on their own people was a stretch, even for that bunch.

  Voices sounded from the next room. Laughter and a sharp retort. The cleaning women were having a back-and-forth. I couldn’t understand them, not until I put my ear up against the thin wall. Then I heard the tail end of a story about a husband coming home from the pub and a problem with his suspenders. They laughed again.

  What had we talked about in here that night? Sweden. Top secret stuff about Sweden and the Ravensbrück prisoners. Had Blackford overheard? And what if he did? He was SOE and knew how to keep his mouth shut. And as head of the German Section, he might well have known about the plan.

  I got out of there before the cleaning ladies took a broom to me and headed to Doc Robinson’s office.

  I thought about telling Robinson there was a chance his place was bugged, but I wasn’t sure how to go about it. He appeared to be a decent guy doing his best, and it didn’t seem fair to him or his patients to have SOE listening in as they spilled their guts. But maybe that was the whole point. Maybe he knew and was looking for evidence of agents who talked too much or too freely.

  Hell, that was a lot of maybes. Maybe I should drop in and ask for a session. It wouldn’t hurt to scan the room for any stray wires.

  I knocked on his door. No answer. As I began to walk away, a couple of Redcaps exited Major Snow’s office down the hall. When I passed by, Snow looked up and called me in.

  “I’ve been told your release has been authorized, Boyle. At the highest level,” Snow said. “Congratulations. I’m sorry I couldn’t get it sorted myself, but there hasn’t been a minute for routine paperwork.”

  “Thanks, Major. Any luck with the search?” I looked at a stack of magazines and papers, and a small container on a table by his desk.

  “I may have put too much stock in the idea of a search, I must admit,” Snow said, rising from his seat and standing by the table. “Not to mention the investigative prowess of our military police. They seem to think pornographic pictures and unidentified white powders are important clues to two murders. All it means is I must listen to the outrage of staff who have had their belongings gone through. If these are drugs, it is serious, of course.” He sighed.

  “But not how you want to spend your time and energy,” I said.

  “Exactly. I told the Redcaps to bring me anything unusual. They must lead dreary lives if this mound of debris counts as unusual to them.” He sifted through girlie magazines, French postcards, a couple of Italian art journals, and sheets of nude drawings done in pencil. Each item had a note attached with the name and location of the owner.

  “Nice artwork,” I said.

  �
��Medical people have an eye for anatomy,” Snow said. “And short tempers.” He dropped the drawings and a small square of paper fluttered to the floor.

  It was a red horse. The same stylized figure of a horse that had been on the postcard and drawn in Densmore’s blood. I had to stop myself from blurting out I’d seen it in Cosgrove’s hand. I didn’t know what Snow’s reaction would be to learning I’d tampered with evidence.

  “What’s that? It looks like the Uffington White Horse. Saw it once from the train,” I said, remembering what Big Mike had told me about it. I noted the fact that it was nothing but a simple drawing, done in red ink, not a stamped postcard like the one found on Cosgrove.

  “Well, it’s obviously red, not white,” Snow said. “But other than that, you’re right. Does it mean anything to you?”

  “No. Whose is it?”

  “Dr. Robinson’s. It was in one of those Italian magazines. He goes in for Italian paintings, evidently, and picked those up at a used book shop. He claimed he had no idea that the card was inside when they questioned him.”

  “The Redcaps were suspicious because the magazines were Italian, I guess.” I took the card from him and gave it a quick study. Nothing else on it, just the primitive drawing. I handed it back. Snow tossed it on the pile of papers, giving no hint of recognition. I wondered what the hell Robinson was doing with it. Or who planted it among his possessions.

  “If they were in German, they’d probably have shot him on the spot,” Snow said, with a scornful laugh. “Too bad you’re leaving us, Boyle. I could use your help.”

  “I may want to stay an extra night, if you don’t mind, Major. My pal was operated on today. I’d like to see him in the morning when he’s awake,” I said.

  “I understand your superior, Colonel Harding, will be here within the hour. As soon as I have the paperwork in hand, you’re a free man. I’ll put you up in the guest quarters, and you can visit your Polish friend. Everything went well?”

  “Apparently,” I said. “He had a scare when his blood pressure dropped, but they said he should be fine.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Snow said. “Dr. Hughes wasn’t so sure of the outcome.”

  “He seems to be a prickly guy,” I said. “How’d he react to the search?”

  “He was actually cooperative,” Snow said. “He volunteered to have his rooms searched first, to show that everyone was getting the same treatment. Good of him.”

  Yeah, I thought as I left Snow to his mound of contraband. He wanted the search team long gone when his envelope of cash arrived later today.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I spotted Robinson in the foyer on his way in. I felt less inclined to warn him about the possibility of his office being bugged. I needed time to think about the red horse drawing found in his room, as well as the Italian art journals. I doubted there were many Italian spy rings left in operation, but picking up books and magazines at a used-book shop would be the perfect way to handle drops and messages.

  “How are you doing, Boyle?” Robinson asked as we met in the hallway. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I have time to talk this afternoon if you want.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” I said. “But looks like I’ve been sprung. Honchos in London cut through the red tape. I should be gone by morning.”

  “Well, good luck to you. And I hope for the best for your friend,” he said in a quiet, heartfelt voice. “Take care of yourself. Get some rest if you can.”

  “A long hot bath and a fine meal are tops on my list, Doc,” I said. “You have your quarters searched yet? People seem hopping mad.”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t a big deal. They made a mess, but that’s to be expected. I’m used to cleaning up messes the war leaves behind,” he said. It was the most personal thing he’d ever said to me.

  “Hey, I wasn’t that messed up, Doc,” I said, forcing a laugh.

  “Boyle, you’re a smart guy. Smarter than you let on. You know damn well you were in seriously bad shape,” Robinson said, his voice angrier than I’d ever heard. “And you’re aware a lot of people here are worse off than you. That doesn’t even include the ones who may never be released.”

  “Sorry, Doc. You’re right.”

  “Didn’t mean to blow my stack,” he said. “You’d think a psychiatrist would have better self-control. Anyway, best of luck to you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “When I got my walking papers in Snow’s office, I saw your Italian art magazines the MPs confiscated. Hope you get them back.” I watched his eyes for any sign of surprise. Nothing. He took it calmly.

  “They were only a few pence at a used-book shop, no big deal,” Robinson said. “The MPs had to be grasping at straws to think they were evidence of anything. I don’t care about the art journals. But I do hope I can get to the Continent when the shooting’s over and visit a few museums in France and Italy.”

  “I’m not much of an art lover myself,” I said. “But I do want to see the Uffington White Horse. You heard of that, Doc?”

  “Sure. It’s beautiful. Over three thousand years old, they say. It’s a short trip, worth a train ride from London. Enjoy yourself, Boyle. You deserve some relaxation.”

  We shook hands and he went on his way, leaving me wondering exactly how much self-control he had. He hadn’t said a thing about the red horse found in his magazines and betrayed nothing at the mention of the look-alike White Horse. Either he was one cool customer, or he didn’t know why it was important.

  I got to the south wing as a US Army staff car pulled up. Colonel Harding jumped out of the rear while the wheels were still rolling and strode over to me.

  “It’s good to see you up and looking well, Billy,” he said, clapping me on my shoulder and grinning. “Really good.”

  “Uh, yes sir,” I said, raising my hand in salute and trying to hide my amazement. First, Sam Harding had never once in the more than two years I’d known him called me Billy. It was always Boyle or something else less than flattering. And grins were at best a once-a-month phenomenon. “Glad you’re here, Colonel.”

  “It’s the least I could do, Captain. I’ve got your release papers right here,” he said, tapping the pocket of his trench coat. “Signed by General Colin Gubbins, head of SOE himself. That should satisfy the local pencil pushers.”

  I had to admit, it was nice to be called captain. It made me feel more like myself.

  “Billy, how’s Kaz?” Big Mike said, unfolding himself from the driver’s seat.

  “It went well. The operation, that is. They had some trouble with his blood pressure, but they said he should be okay. I’m hoping he’s awake by now,” I said. “Do you have that package?”

  “What package?” Harding asked, as Big Mike gave a discreet nod.

  “It’s a long story, Colonel,” I said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “Jesus, Boyle, some things don’t change. Forget I asked. Take us to Lieutenant Kazimierz.”

  That was the Sam Harding I was used to. Ornery, ramrod straight, professional army all the way.

  Kaz was awake, propped up on pillows, and still looking pale. But his eyes were lively, and he managed a smile and a wave as we entered his room. Dr. Harken was listening to his heart with a stethoscope as Dark Shirley took notes.

  “You’re doing fine, Baron,” Harken said, shooting a glance at Harding. He looked concerned, and I introduced them quickly, not wanting Harken to think the brass was running him down for an unauthorized operation.

  “Hello, Colonel,” Kaz said, his voice thin and strained.

  “His throat is sore from the breathing tube,” Dark Shirley said. “Otherwise he endured the anesthesia well.”

  “He’s going to be okay?” Colonel Harding asked.

  “His heart sounds perfectly normal,” Harken said.

  “What was the problem?” Harding asked him.

  “Colonel, that’s
part of the long story. Probably best we don’t go into details,” I said.

  “I came here at the request of Charles Cosgrove,” Harken said. “He was a patient of mine and thought I could help. You knew Charles?”

  “Yes. A damn honorable man and a fine soldier,” Harding said, momentarily distracted from asking too many questions.

  “All right, Baron, let’s get you up and walking,” Harken said. He and Dark Shirley helped Kaz sit up and swing his legs off the bed.

  “Wait,” Kaz whispered, and looked to Big Mike. “You have the package from Walter?”

  “Yeah,” Big Mike said.

  “Good,” Kaz said. “I would like to thank Dr. Hughes for everything he’s done. Could you ask him to stop by?” Big Mike gave him a thumbs-up and vanished.

  “Should he be walking so soon?” Harding asked, as they got Kaz standing.

  “Colonel, I wouldn’t dream of interfering in your military plans, so please, if you don’t mind, don’t question my medical decisions,” Harken said, holding on to Kaz’s elbow and guiding him out of the room.

  “I like that guy,” Harding said. “Tell me, who is Dr. Hughes, and what does he have to do with all this?”

  “As little as possible,” I said. “But he has agreed to sign off on Kaz being fit for duty.”

  “Hmm,” Harding said. I could see the wheels turning. “It does sound like a long story. A story for another day. Right now, tell me what you’ve learned about Cosgrove’s murder.”

  We sat in the corridor on a narrow bench and watched Kaz being slowly walked up and down the hall. I quietly filled Harding in on Densmore’s murder and the red horse image on the windowpane.

  “Did Big Mike show you the postcard?” I asked.