According to the most recent numbers she’d heard there were more than a hundred thousand Americans in England now, with thousands more streaming in every day. If Hitler’s back was going to be broken there’d eventually be a million or maybe two or three. An invasion of smiling faces and pockets full of Hershey bars and Lucky Strikes but an invasion nevertheless.
Dundee returned, followed by a middle-aged, plain-faced, heavyset woman carrying a tray. ‘Mrs Staines herself,’ said Dundee.
‘Pleasure,’ said the woman, setting down the tray. She unloaded two plates and a pair of glass pint mugs of ale. She smiled and Jane smiled back, then she vanished into the darkness, outlined for an instant in the light from inside the restaurant as she pushed through the heavy blackout curtain. Jane examined her plate: a cold ham sandwich on a long, crusty bun that was pointed at both ends and a small pile of lukewarm French fries. The beer was room temperature, had no discernible head and tasted wonderful.
The two ate until their plates were clean then Dundee went and fetched another two pints before the bar closed for the night. He set down the mugs, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of tobacco. He deftly rolled himself a cigarette and offered it to Jane, who took it, amazed at how perfectly it had been created. He rolled himself another one and lit them both with a solid-gold Dunhill lighter; the only sign so far that he came from a wealthy background.
‘Long day,’ said Dundee.
Jane nodded sleepily. ‘Too long, that’s for sure.’ She closed her eyes for an instant and felt a sudden surge of mental vertigo; too much to think about, too much to see, an ocean and a continent away from everything she knew, every inch making her the Bible’s Stranger in a Strange Land.
‘You look a little overwhelmed,’ Dundee commented, watching her.
Jane nodded absently. ‘I am feeling a bit out of place.’
‘I used to love the thought of coming here,’ said Dundee wistfully. ‘I wanted to go to Oxford as a matter of fact. Read in history or archaeology or something.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘You read my file, I’m sure,’ he answered, his voice sour. ‘Blackjack Dundee’s son doesn’t do anything even remotely out of step. I became a lawyer just to spite him, I think; a cop even more so.’
‘What about the Army?’
‘To get away from him.’ He grinned then shook his head. ‘He’s got a long reach though. Nice cushy job where I’m not likely to run into too many Germans. Half the people in JAG know it, too: daddy’s boy.’ He sucked on his cigarette then put it down in the ashtray. ‘What about you?’ he said after a moment. ‘Bit of a pariah yourself?’
‘Self-made,’ Jane answered. ‘Los Angeles has good weather but that’s where any comparison to paradise ends, no matter what the postcards say.’ She shrugged and left it there, still not sure of Dundee or how much she should tell him about the past. Working for Donovan and his bunch wasn’t the best recommendation these days. ‘I guess you can take the girl out of New York but not New York out of the girl. It just never felt like home.’
Dundee laughed. ‘Never felt like home to me either and I was born there.’
Jane changed the subject, bringing up the obvious. ‘What can you tell me about this corpse we’re going to be seeing tomorrow?’
Dundee took a small notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped it open. ‘Two boys found him early this morning, lying beside the railway tracks near a place called Letchworth.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘North of here, about thirty miles.’
The location meant nothing to Jane. ‘Any idea who he is?’
‘The man had no wallet but he was wearing a uniform and dog tags on a chain around his neck.’
‘Who was it?’
Dundee consulted his notebook, holding it up to the faint light leaking around the blackout curtain over the entrance to the restaurant. ‘Kelman, David J., serial number 1251893, blood type B, religion, Hebrew.’
‘The uniform?’
‘Lieutenant, Eighth Army Air Force,’ said Dundee.
‘What killed him?’
‘Devon C.I.D. says it looks as though he was shot in the face with a large-calibre weapon and then dumped from a train.’
‘Who says he was on the train at all?’
‘There was a ticket in his overcoat pocket,’ said Dundee. ‘Cambridge to Cardiff, the late express last night.’
‘Anybody see him?’
‘The train crew is being interviewed. We should have their statements by tomorrow.’
‘Fair enough.’ Jane nodded. It all sounded very efficient. On the other hand, she found herself wondering why Dundee had been called in on the case at all – from what Dundee had said it was a straightforward murder and by rights, at least to this point, it should have been a matter for the Provost Marshal’s office to investigate. She looked across the table at her handsome dark-eyed companion. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
‘My, aren’t we quick,’ said Dundee.
‘So there is something else.’
‘Simpson did a preliminary once-over. They found gold dust under his fingernails. Now, what do you think of that?’
‘I can’t think,’ said Jane. ‘I’m too tired.’
‘Then I’d better take you home.’
The drive took only a few minutes and Jane wasn’t aware of much of it beyond Dundee’s description of what it was like in daylight. Shepherd’s Market was a little enclave just off Piccadilly, with Green Park to the south and Hyde Park to the west. Not quite Mayfair and la-de-da but no slum either. He let Jane out at the right address on Hereford Street then watched while she fumbled with the keys in the blackout darkness and stumbled up the stairs to what had once been Morris Black’s home.
Chapter Five
Jane awoke to the scents and sounds of frying bacon and percolating coffee. She blinked, sat up on the old, brown leather couch and tossed back the thin blanket that had been covering her. She was dressed in nothing but bra and panties, her uniform folded neatly on a comfortable-looking upholstered chair beside one of the room’s tall windows, her jacket draped carefully over the back of it. The blackout curtains had been pulled back and the room was flooded with weak, early morning light. For a split second she couldn’t for the life of her remember where she was and then, just as suddenly, it came back to her: Morris Black’s flat. She blinked, feeling a little odd about being surrounded by his things without the man himself being there.
The room was large and square, the pair of tall windows on her right, the breakfast sounds coming from beyond an alcove on her left. The couch faced a black-enamelled gas fire on the far side of the room. The hardwood floor was partially covered by an oval rag rug done in a geometric design of greys and blues. There was a modern-looking black lacquer bar cabinet to the right of the gas fire and a plain wood dining table and a trio of chairs squeezed in between the windows. There were a number of framed watercolours on the off-white walls, all clearly painted by the same person, most of them depicting neighbourhood scenes – a postman on his rounds, children playing in a small, fenced park, a butcher leaning against the entrance to his shop smoking his pipe. The only exception was a formal portrait of a younger Morris Black, at the age of maybe thirty or so, seated in an armchair with a wall of books behind him and a book open in his lap. The artist’s touch was deft and gentle, perhaps a woman with a woman’s careful eye for detail.
Jane got up and struggled back into her uniform. A few minutes later Dundee came out of the kitchen, fully dressed and wearing an apron, a black lacquer tray in his hands loaded down with breakfast. ‘’Morning,’ he said brightly. He carried the tray over to the dining table and began setting out two places. ‘Coffee?’
‘God, yes,’ said Jane. She yawned and stood up, stretching. ‘What time is it? And how the hell did you get in here?’
‘Seven. And you left the downstairs door unlocked and the keys in the flat door,’ Dundee answered, pourin
g coffee from the enamelled metal pot. ‘Simpson starts work at eight and he’s a stickler for punctuality. We better get going.’
Jane crossed to the table and sat down. Dundee had outdone himself. Both plates were loaded down with scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, sliced fried tomatoes and several rashers of streaky bacon each. ‘I thought the Brits were being rationed,’ Jane commented. She ate a forkful of the eggs – real, not powdered.
‘They are.’ Dundee nodded. ‘Which means, of course, that there is a red-hot black market.’
‘Ah,’ said Jane and took a sip of coffee. It was wonderful.
‘Ah, indeed,’ Dundee replied. ‘The maid always told me that breakfast was the most important meal.’
‘The maid?’
‘It was that kind of family. My old man was at work by six and the old lady was either drying out in one of those places in Santa Barbara or upstairs with a bottle of pills and a silk sleeping mask.’
They waded through the breakfast, keeping conversation to a minimum. Finishing up, they loaded their plates back onto the tray and Dundee poured them each another cup of coffee.
‘Nice place,’ said Dundee, sipping his coffee and lighting up his pipe. ‘I saw a commendation on the wall. He was a cop?’
‘Little more than that in the recent past. Some secret wartime thing.’ She pointed to the portrait over the gas fire. ‘That’s him.’
‘You met him Stateside?’
‘We did some work together.’
‘Sounds interesting.’
‘It was.’
‘So, tell me about it?’
‘Why?’
‘Just curious.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘Who’s the artist?’ Dundee asked, changing the subject.
‘His wife,’ said Jane. ‘She died shortly before the war.’ She paused. ‘All the paintings are hers, I think.’
Coffee finished, Dundee gathered up the last of the cutlery and crockery and took the tray back to the kitchen. Jane spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom trying to put herself back together, picked up her Rolleiflex twin lens reflex and by twenty to eight they were out the door and on their way.
Dundee guided the car from Hendon along Market Street to White Horse Street then drove one short block to Piccadilly. It was still early and traffic was light, mostly double-decker buses and black cabs, so they made good time. A few minutes later they reached the confluence of Piccadilly, Shaftsbury, Regent Street and Haymarket. Turning right onto Haymarket, they were heading for the Thames.
Jane turned in her seat and stared back through the rear window of the car. The statue of Eros was shrouded with a grey-painted and sandbagged cover that had been further disguised with a papering of War Bond posters but the gigantic Bovril sign and the Guinness clock were right out of an old National Geographic.
‘I’ll be damned,’ Jane said. ‘Piccadilly Circus. I really am in England.’ Since flying into Prestwick she’d been operating in a bit of a fog, disconnected from virtually everything familiar to her. Seeing the famous traffic circle triggered something in her and, for the first time in days, she had a real sense of being on solid ground. She was ‘here,’ not ‘there’ any more.
‘I always wanted to come here,’ she said, rubbernecking like a tourist. ‘I didn’t think it would be like this though.’
They drove down to the Victoria Embankment and the Thames and off to her right Jane could see Westminster and Big Ben. ‘I feel like a yokel,’ she said, turning to Dundee and smiling.
The major grimaced. ‘Enjoy it while you can. You’re going somewhere few tourists have on their itinerary.’ Dundee continued on down the Embankment, ducked down into the underpass at Waterloo Bridge, then came up again, skirting Blackfriars as they turned onto Lower Thames Street.
Dundee piloted the car up to London Bridge and Jane saw the grim, bomb-blasted remains of dozens of buildings all around her. Other than the covered statue in Piccadilly, they were the first real evidence to her senses that she was actually in an active war zone. They reached the bridge itself and Jane also noted the sandbagged pillboxes on either side of the road.
They crossed London Bridge with Tower Bridge on their left, swept past the sooty façade of the London Bridge Railway Terminus, then continued down Borough High Street with its cramped rows of shops, offices and warehouses on the tottering floors above. Everything was brick, everything was covered with a fine layer of soot and grit and everything was old. There was bomb damage on this side of the Thames as well but it seemed random; single blocks of buildings smashed to bits giving the street a gap-toothed look.
Dundee turned into a narrow lane called Angel Court, slowing the car as he eased down the half-lane passage, then turned onto a wider street ancient enough to still have old-fashioned gaslights on tall, ornately worked iron lamp posts. An enamelled sign riveted onto a wall announced that they were on George Street. As they turned, Jane saw that the side streets and courtyards on the left had vanished in a welter of brick rubble and interconnecting craters, turning a dozen blocks into a single gigantic bomb site. Apparently oblivious to the blasted landscape, Dundee continued on down George Street, then pulled up in front of a windowless stone building guarded by a low brick wall, which was in turn topped by a tall, rusted, wrought-iron fence.
‘Southwark Mortuary,’ said Dundee, switching off the engine and setting the handbrake. Jane nodded, feeling a slight acidic twinge deep in her stomach and regretting the size and content of her recent breakfast. She knew what was coming and wasn’t looking forward to it at all. It wasn’t the first time she’d attended an autopsy but it wasn’t her favourite early morning occupation.
The reception area of the mortuary was oak-panelled, marble-floored and topped by an ornately plastered ceiling but beyond the swinging doors at the far end of the large open area it was gruesomely familiar. A dank, wide corridor with dark green linoleum on the floor and a particularly vile shade of yellow on the walls was lined with loaded gurneys, each corpse covered with a once-white sheet now gone to grey, the heads of the bodies covered but the feet exposed, one or the other of the big toes looped with a large cardboard tag inscribed with a scribbled number and notation. At the end of the line of wheeled stretchers a squat, broad-shouldered man wearing a grey, striped suit and a waistcoat to match the walls was filling out a tag and looping the string around a subject’s toe. The tag fitter had the square, broken face of a prizefighter, with a pair of jug ears to match and broad, thick-fingered hands. He looked up at the sound of Dundee’s shoes on the linoleum and smiled broadly.
‘Morning, West,’ said Dundee.
‘Ah. Morning, Major. Doctor’s already begun working on your fellow.’ West grinned, thick lips drawing back to reveal gigantic teeth. ‘Missed the grand opening, so to speak.’
‘Thank you, West,’ said Dundee. He led the way through another pair of doors and they entered the post-mortem room itself. It was almost a match for the L.A. County morgue, right down to the white-tiled walls, the painted concrete floors sloping down to a central drain and the rows of chipped, bathtub-enamelled tables and matching sinks. The room even smelled the same: camphor, ammonia and the tainted-meat smell of old death.
A slight, almost willowy man with a large, balding, egg-shaped head was standing at one of the tables peering down at the naked man laid out upon it. The man examining the corpse was wearing a white post-mortem gown to match the table, the gown in turn covered by a green-grey rubber apron. He was also wearing heavy rubber gloves, in one of which he held a large, hook-bladed knife. There were white rubber galoshes on his feet. To his left, seated at a small stenographer’s table on wheels, a stunningly beautiful blonde-haired woman waited with her fingers poised over the keys of a small portable typewriter. Like the balding man, the blonde was robed in a white post-mortem gown. Barely visible around her long, pale neck was a single strand of gleaming, jet-black pearls.
Dundee approached the table, Jane close behind him, and the balding man waved the knife
in greeting. ‘Morning, Dundee.’ He looked inquiringly at Jane.
‘Morning, Doctor.’ Dundee turned to Jane. ‘Dr Keith Simpson, Jane Todd.’
‘War correspondent?’
‘Yes, sir. And photographer.’
‘Playing Watson to the major’s Holmes.’
‘For the present I guess you could say that.’ They obviously weren’t going to shake hands over the bare chest of the corpse so Jane simply nodded. ‘Pleased to meet you, Doctor.’
Simpson inclined his large head towards the stunning woman at the typewriter. ‘My inestimable right hand, Miss Molly Lefebure.’ The woman smiled and the sudden animation of her face was completely out of place in the cold, grim room. Jane smiled back. Molly Lefebure looked about eighteen years old and completely smitten by her egg-headed boss.
Simpson glanced down at the corpse in front of him. The remains of the man’s head had been placed on a battered, rectangular mortuary pillow, the ruined face looking down the length of his flayed body like a man in a bathtub searching for his feet among the soap bubbles. Jane started taking pictures; it wasn’t the first time she’d been in a morgue and not the first time she’d seen a body in this condition. The corpse had already been cracked open, ribs pulled back like trick doors to reveal the shining pool of glistening organs within. Simpson looked up at Dundee and Jane. ‘Thrown from a train you say?’
‘It would appear so,’ Dundee said. Jane noted that the major’s face was drawn and there was a faint line of perspiration on his forehead even though the room was quite cool. He liked autopsies even less than she did.
Simpson’s large head bobbed in agreement. ‘Post-mortem fractures are consistent with such an event, I suppose. One can never be absolutely sure in cases like this with so much trauma.’ Behind him Miss Lefebure clacked away on the typewriter, the keys clearly muted somehow as she took down everything that was said. ‘I can already see that he smoked and drank heavily.’ He used the knife to point out the little patches of exploded blood vessels growing on either side of the man’s nose and the dark yellowing just inside the nostrils. He picked up one of the lungs in a pair of tongs. It looked grey and shrivelled.
An American Spy Page 5