The Red Horse

by James R Benn

  “A future, maybe,” I said, looking at his life summed up in terse bureaucratic form. “But not much of a past.” No relatives. Religion was marked CE. Church of England, which told me nothing about the man.

  “That’s the story of a lifelong serviceman,” Scutt said. “All too often it means a life left behind.” He gathered up the papers and began to close the file.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. The glimpse of something familiar had flown by as he stacked the sheets. “The page with his personal information, what was his mother’s maiden name?”

  “Here,” Scutt said, pulling it out. “Weisskopf. Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Same as Markstein’s mother,” I said, as we both took in the implication. “Was that ever followed up?”

  “No, but there would be no call to. The woman died nearly twenty years ago. Hardly cause to suspect her as a German agent,” Scutt said.

  “Then why is Snow hiding his connection to Markstein?” I asked. “And what about this Church of England entry if his mother is Jewish?”

  “Not remarkable in itself,” Scutt said. “Folk are free to decide their own religion. But still, it does raise a question or two.”

  “If these two Weisskopf women are related, sisters perhaps, then George Markstein is Basil Snow’s cousin,” I said, letting that relationship, and the fact that Snow had hidden it, sink in.

  “And what does that tell you?” Scutt asked.

  “The motive. Blood revenge,” I said, as WPC Halford knocked again at the door.

  “Sorry to bother you, Chief Inspector, but there’s an urgent telephone call,” she said.

  “Who is it then?” Scutt growled.

  “Well, it’s a woman, and she’ll only give her first name. And she wants to speak with a Captain Boyle, an American,” Halford said. “I told her there were no Yanks about.”

  “Well done,” Scutt said, then looked to me. “Who knows you’re here, Boyle?”

  “I left a message at the hotel for my sergeant, but that’s it. Wait, who is this woman?”

  “Name of Clarissa, Chief Inspector,” Halford said, scrupulously obeying his instruction to ignore my presence.

  “St. Albans,” I whispered, fear gnawing at my gut as I prayed it wasn’t bad news about Kaz.

  “Put her through,” Scutt ordered. I picked up as soon as it rang.

  “Clarissa?”

  “Is this Captain Boyle?”

  “Yes. Is Kaz okay? Lieutenant Kazimierz, I mean.”

  “The baron is fine, he asked me to call you. He said it was urgent,” Clarissa said. I heard voices in the background.

  “Who’s that with you?”

  “Iris and Faith. Things are all a muddle here, Captain. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “You did the right thing to call,” I said. I’d thought the three of them were chummy. From the whispered conversation on the other end of the line, I could tell I was right. And that something was wrong.

  “He’s broken the code. The baron, I mean. He said to tell you Griffin saw Major Snow enter Dr. Robinson’s quarters shortly before he had them searched. In and out, quickly, according to Griffin’s notebook. He said it was important,” Clarissa said. “I called your hotel and they gave me this number.”

  “It is important, thank you,” I said. That’s when he hid the drawing of the red horse in Robinson’s Italian magazine, knowing it would be searched by his military police. “But what’s wrong? What are Iris and Faith doing in your office? Isn’t that frowned upon?” I tried to make light of the muddle Clarissa found herself in, making a long-distance call to Scotland Yard.

  “They brought me to visit the baron yesterday and came first thing today with the news about the code. But it’s all so strange,” she said.

  “What is?”

  “Well, I went to see where Major Snow was. We all decided I should contact you, but I didn’t want him walking in while I was putting the call through. He’s gone, Captain. Without a word. Apparently, he left more than an hour ago.”

  “With one of the MPs?” I asked, remembering he’d talked about taking the non-com with him to interview Colonel Blackford.

  “No. That’s who I asked. He left alone. No one knows where he went.”

  “I do, Clarissa. Find Sergeant Jenkins. Tell him Major Snow is armed and dangerous. He should be detained if he returns. Tell him to be careful.”

  “Oh dear,” she said. “Are you certain?”

  “I am. And give Dr. Robinson a message for me. Tell him his office is bugged. SOE has been listening to all his patients.”

  “I can’t believe it. Really?”

  “Have you ever been up on the third floor?” I asked her, glancing at Scutt who was listening intently.

  “No, it’s not allowed,” Clarissa said, her voice a whisper, as if they were listening right now. Maybe they were.

  “Now you know why. Tell him, please.”

  She promised she would. It wasn’t much, but I figured I owed Doc Robinson for all his help now that I knew he wasn’t a spy or a murderer.

  I did know one thing for certain. Basil Snow was coming to London to kill Blackford. To take his final blood revenge.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “I don’t suppose you have a telephone number for the Special Operations Executive?” I asked Scutt as I glanced at my watch. Eight o’clock. If Big Mike was running on time, he’d be picking up my message at the Dorchester about now.

  “No one telephones SOE,” Scutt said. “Who do you need to talk to?”

  “I’d better not say. You’ve done enough already, Chief Inspector,” I said, as I weighed my options. The fewer people involved, the better. And the better for Horace Scutt’s pension if his help remained unofficial. “I know SOE has a lot of offices in the Baker Street area. Do you have any idea if the German Section is housed at the main office, number sixty-four?”

  “That I can help you with. All the country sections are a few doors down at Norseby House, eighty-three Baker Street. I know because once we had to send a courier there for personnel files. Good luck, Boyle. With that bunch, you’ll need it.”

  I didn’t disagree.

  I only had to wait a couple of minutes outside Scotland Yard before Big Mike pulled up in the staff car.

  “Baker Street,” I said, giving him the number. “You armed?”

  “Good morning to you too,” Big Mike said, maneuvering into traffic as I shut the passenger door. He pointed to the glove box. “Who we gonna shoot?”

  I gave him the lowdown about the connection between Markstein and Snow, Kaz breaking Griffin’s code, and Clarissa’s report about Snow traveling to London.

  “He could already be at Blackford’s office,” I said, opening the glove box and pulling out Big Mike’s .45 automatic. “Hurry up.”

  He hurried, as much as London traffic would allow, barely avoiding a collision with a black cab as we zoomed through Piccadilly Circus. Minutes later we spilled out of the double-parked car and made for the entrance. We found ourselves in a marble-floored lobby with a desk manned by two guards, both of whom jumped to their feet at the sight of Big Mike buckling his web belt with the holstered automatic.

  One went for the telephone, the other for his revolver.

  “Halt!”

  “We have an important message for Colonel Blackford,” I said, skidding to a stop and raising my hands. I knew that in our rush we must have looked like a threat.

  “Has Major Snow from Saint Albans been here?” Big Mike asked, adjusting his belt and tugging at his Parsons jacket, sounding completely reasonable.

  “Who are you Yanks?” the sergeant asked, his hand resting on the butt of his revolver. The other, a corporal, spoke into the telephone, one hand cupped over the receiver.

  “We’re from SHAEF,” I said, producing my identification in case our fl
aming sword shoulder patches didn’t impress sufficiently.

  “They let anyone barge into General Eisenhower’s headquarters, do they?” he said, unimpressed with either the paperwork or the embroidery.

  “Just tell us if Snow’s been here,” I said, as I heard the thudding of boots in the stairwell coming up from the basement. I guess that’s where they kept their behemoths at number eighty-three.

  “Never heard of the man,” the sergeant said, as the other fellow set down the telephone. Three more soldiers spilled out from a door at their rear: two privates with Sten guns followed by a lieutenant with his Webley revolver drawn.

  “Hold on, guys, no sense chipping the marble floor,” Big Mike said, flashing the grin that had made him so many friends. These three evidently had all the friends they needed.

  “Hands up,” the lieutenant snapped, as his men went to our sides.

  “No,” I said. “Call Colonel Blackford. It’s important. He’ll talk to us.”

  “We can’t confirm anyone by that name is in this building,” said the lieutenant. Now I knew we had him. He’d already given up on enforcing the order for us to reach for the sky.

  “You don’t have to confirm anything, just get on that phone and tell Blackford his life is in danger. And God help you, not to mention Blackford, if Major Basil Snow is with him. Hurry!”

  The lieutenant wavered, glancing at his men, probably wondering how harshly they were judging him.

  “Listen, Lieutenant,” Big Mike said, in the softest tone he could muster. “We know the German Section has offices here. The French Section too. Call Vera Atkins, she knows us. We saw her yesterday.”

  “Corporal, has anyone by the name of Snow been logged in this morning?” the lieutenant asked, moving his finger off the trigger.

  “No sir,” the corporal answered, running his finger down a list of entries.

  The other guard picked up the telephone and had a whispered conversation.

  “Are you Captain Boyle?” the sergeant asked. I nodded.

  “Flight Officer Atkins will be with you in a moment,” he said, the slightest of shrugs aimed at the lieutenant.

  That calmed things down enough for one of the Sten gunners to be sent away as we moved to the rear of the lobby, making the place look less like a bank holdup gone bad. In seconds, Vera appeared from the lift.

  “How did you know it was me?” I asked.

  “Armed Americans, one of them as large as two grenadiers, enter a secret SOE facility. Who else, Captain Boyle? Who else?” Vera said, a sharp laugh escaping her lips. But her narrowed eyes carried another message. “What do you want?”

  “I have good reason to believe Major Basil Snow is coming here to murder Colonel Blackford. Snow left Saint Albans this morning and should be here anytime,” I said.

  “You have evidence of this accusation?” Vera asked. The lieutenant took a step in the other direction and whispered to one of his gunmen, who took up a position facing the entrance. He evidently took the threat of a murderer’s visit seriously.

  “Evidence exists, but it will never see a courtroom, I’m sure of that. But I know Snow is a killer.”

  “That’s what he was trained to do, Captain Boyle.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s a bit mixed up as to who the enemy is. Right now, it’s the SOE German Section, and he’s after Blackford,” I said.

  “Where is the colonel?” Vera said to the non-com.

  “He left thirty minutes ago, ma’am,” he said, his finger working through another column of entries. “Signed out a vehicle and headed for Radlett, a village on Watling Street. Having a meetup at the Cat and Fiddle. Pub, it sounds like.”

  “Where’s Radlett?” I asked.

  “To the northeast, out past Edgware. You take Watling Street from there and you can’t miss the place,” the sergeant added helpfully. We were all friends now.

  “That has to be Snow,” I said. “He’s luring him away. Let’s go.”

  “We have our own security people, Captain,” Vera said, her hand on my arm. “They are effective and discreet.”

  “Then get them on the road, but we’re leaving now,” I said. “And to hell with discretion.”

  We dashed to the car, getting out of there before Vera could decide to have us detained. SOE thrived on secrecy, and she may have preferred a dead Blackford to a public confrontation.

  Big Mike gunned it toward Edgware as soon as we’d cleared the worst of the city traffic. We had to slow down at the site of the V2 strike where heavy trucks were hauling away debris.

  “Pubs don’t open until eleven thirty, right?” I said, checking my watch. “That’s two hours from now.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything,” Big Mike said. “Lots of pubs keep their back door open for regulars. They’d get fined for selling drinks, but that doesn’t mean you can’t pull up a chair. Or it could be as simple as Blackford throwing his weight around.”

  “I’m not buying it,” I said. “This is way too early for any publican to be at work.”

  “Think Snow’s going to grab him outside?” Big Mike said.

  “That, or simply plug him in his car. The pub could be nothing more than a recognizable meeting point. Blackford parks and Snow puts a round in his head. Or takes him somewhere to do the deed. Away from witnesses.”

  “And there’s no reason for Blackford to suspect Snow,” Big Mike said. “We sure didn’t.”

  “Don’t remind me,” I said as we drove on. Before long we rolled into Radlett, a quiet village of white-timbered buildings alongside flintstone shops and ivy-covered cottages. A quaint spot for murder. Right past the village center, the Cat and Fiddle Pub sat by the roadside, its white stucco bright in the morning sun.

  We parked behind a jeep. The bumper bore a black square with an ID number. Black was the color for medical units. I checked the hood. Still warm. Big Mike tried the pub door, then went around back. Nothing. The place was locked up tight.

  “They could be anywhere,” Big Mike said, looking up and down the street.

  I looked around too, hoping for a clue, some hint of where Snow had taken his next victim. I caught a flutter out of the corner of my eye and saw a magpie fly out of a tree, the long-tailed black-and-white bird circling around, gaining height, then settling in on the topmost branch.

  Of course.

  “I know where they’re going. Come on.”

  We were in open country and Big Mike floored it. There was only one place that made sense. The clock tower, where this all started. Snow’s first murder. There was a symmetry to it, a logic that fit. His last victim would go out in highly visible style. He didn’t need to hide anymore.

  “It’s his home turf,” I said to Big Mike. “He feels comfortable there. In charge. He knows people and can tell them the truth, the story behind his vengeance.”

  “And then he kills himself,” Big Mike said, slowing for a steep curve.

  “There’s nothing left for him,” I said. “He and George must have had a strong bond. And we know how he detested the notion of betrayal. It ate at him after Italy. So when he learned about SOE’s betrayal of George and the other volunteers, it was too much.”

  “He figured it out from the bugs,” Big Mike said, putting the final piece together.

  “Yeah. We know Holland had started to speak, but it could have been Densmore just as easily,” I said. “He was feeling guilty about something.”

  “We’re about a mile out,” Big Mike said a while later. “What’s our plan?”

  “He doesn’t know I’ve talked to Clarissa,” I said. “If Jenkins is ready for him, maybe we won’t need one.”

  “Billy, Snow is a trained agent. Jenkins is Home Guard. And he’s bound to have some hesitation, taking the word of a former patient against his commanding officer. Snow will have the upper hand, if only by his rank,” Big Mike said. />
  He was right. It would have been better not to say anything.

  Damn.

  We sped to the gate at Saint Albans. Two Home Guards and one of the regular army MPs approached the car. The gate stayed down.

  “Open up,” I barked. “Where’s Major Snow?”

  “Afraid we can’t let you in, Captain,” the MP said. “We have a situation. You’ll have to turn around.”

  “Captain Boyle? Sir?” It was the Home Guard kid who Sinclair had bowled over. Private Fulton. “He’s shot Sarge!”

  “Hush up, lad!” the MP growled.

  “How bad?” I asked, ignoring the Redcap.

  “In the leg. Dr. Hughes came right away. Said Sarge’ll be okay. But what’s going on, Captain? The major didn’t look in his right mind!” Fulton said.

  “He’s not, Private. Did he have another officer with him? Colonel Blackford?”

  “He did. He took Blackford into the tower and locked the door. Let him in, willya?” Fulton said to the MP.

  “Do it,” I said. “I’ll take responsibility.”

  The gate went up in a flash.

  The Union Jack atop the clock tower flapped in the brisk wind, as it had the day Holland went over. Some of the same people were there. Robinson and Hughes stood craning their necks, shouting at Snow to give himself up. An MP and a couple of guards stood in front of them, rifles aimed at the tower.

  A shot cracked, echoing harshly against the stonework. The bullet zinged against the gravel walkway, sending stone shards into a dance.

  “No weapons!” Snow shouted. “Rifles on the ground!”

  He pushed Blackford forward, both leaning crazily over the parapet. He put his revolver to Blackford’s head.

  “Lay them down,” I said. The three soldiers didn’t need any prompting. “Who’s in the building?” I whispered to Robinson.

  “One MP and some of the patients,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “No time to explain,” I said, motioning for Big Mike to go inside. I cupped my hands and hollered to Snow, “Major! I’d like to come up and talk. I know all about it.”