DEATH ON WINTER'S EVE

by Doug Dollard

  Riley was a high value prisoner. Mansfield had made that abundantly clear. Losing him would have serious repercussions. Perhaps he would even loose his command. He grew light-headed at the mere thought of having to notify the Colonel of his incompetence. Mansfield was at this very moment expecting a report on his progress with the American. Churchill himself would be expecting a report. He couldn’t just tell the Colonel he had been duped into releasing the American. Perhaps there was another way he thought.

  The message he had received verifying Riley’s credentials might be traceable. His heart quickened at the prospect. He had his suspicions of course, but it would have been dangerous to act on these without proof. The best method for dealing with Mansfield was to recover Riley and denounce those responsible for his release. The latter would be far more problematical.

  Exposing Commander Whitley’s duplicity would also expose his own lapses in judgment. Charges of incompetence or worse, dereliction of duty were not out of the question. Fortunately his suspicious nature may have saved him.

  As a matter of course he had the Americans who had collected Riley followed at a discrete distance. After numerous unsuccessful attempts at eluding anyone following them the Americans drove Riley to an RAF base in Buckinghamshire. Shortly thereafter the base was put on lockdown. Chandler’s men had learned base security was searching for a missing person matching Riley’s description. What was odd was that a young female was also being sought as a potential accomplice. The two were reported to have driven off the base in an American military vehicle on loan to the CSDIC.

  Chandler rubbed his meaty hands together in delight. He was convinced this whole episode had Commander Whitley’s fingerprints all over it. He only needed to locate Riley and take him back into custody for this episode to be put in its proper perspective. Delivering up Whitley would be icing on his cake. It was puzzling why Whitley would have taken such an extraordinary risk. Riley had not impressed him as a man with much to offer and yet Whitley had risked his career to get him back. Perhaps there was more to Riley than he suspected.

  Chandler vowed when he had the American back in custody he would get to the bottom of this in short order. To that end he had just ordered every available man in his command to comb the countryside around Buckinghamshire for the missing vehicle. He had instructed his men to interview every household in the area. The two would not go unnoticed. Country folk were especially alert for strangers acting suspiciously.

  The war had created a near paranoia of German spies. If anyone answered their descriptions he would have them. He was confident his men would soon uncover leads to the couple’s whereabouts. In the mean time he would work on compiling irrefutable evidence Commander Whitley had been directly responsible for Riley’s escape.

  Chapter 43

  WHITLEY’S GAMBIT

  Commander Whitley limped through a near pristine snowfall along the old path that twisted through the woods surrounding Wilton Park. It was early morning, just after dawn and the air was stiff with the cold. He enjoyed these early morning walks though they took a toll on his injured thigh. He made greater use of his walking stick on mornings when the snow lay unbroken on the ground.

  Willie didn’t care for the snow. His short legs gave little clearance for his rotund belly which far too often made contact with the snow wherever it drifted across the path. Willie much preferred the fall when the squirrels were about gathering their winter stockpiles of food. He was too old to chase them now but he still enjoyed seeing them scurry up the trees whenever they caught sight of him.

  It had been forty-eight hours since Riley and Wellington had left the base and Whitley worried time was growing short. He knew Major Chandler’s men were making inquiries around Danesfield and it wouldn’t be long before they caught a lead on the two fugitives. He had placed a heavy burden on Lieutenant Wellington but he knew of no other means for a quick resolution to his dilemma.

  Had he more time he would have preferred to do this by more traditional means, but it wasn’t an option and he had put it out of his mind. He estimated there was a one in four probability of success, fairly slim odds on which to risk one’s career. But of one thing he was absolutely certain, Riley knew far more than he was letting on. Lieutenant Wellington was under strict orders not to attempt contacting him during the five days he had allotted for the operation.

  Riley was too smart to be beguiled by Wellington’s admittedly ample charms. But the American’s compunction to protect her would cloud his judgment. Whitley was counting on that uniquely American flaw to serve as a key to unlocking Riley’s secret. He had planned to use his own men to put pressure on the couple, deepening their dependence upon one another while isolating them from extraneous influences. But Chandler’s men would serve that purpose just as well. That is assuming they were not caught.

  Without realizing it Whitley had covered the entire three mile loop and was approaching the White House from the west where the trail terminated. Willie’s tail began to wag in anticipation of curling up beside the fireplace in Whitley’s office. Whitley bent down and patted Willie’s head.

  “I know old boy, I feel the cold in my bones as well.”

  Chapter 44

  PERFIDY

  Wellington woke early the next morning with a throbbing headache. Sulfides in red wine always made her ill. She groaned but did not move. The warm presence of the man beside her was comforting and despite her hangover she had slept more soundly than she could remember.

  Riley lay in a deep sleep next to her, his breathing regular and oddly reassuring. Shifting slightly she observed him as he slept, his face a mask of contradictions.

  When Commander Whitley had asked her to take this assignment she hesitated. Not because she feared Riley or even because she feared the inherent risk soldiers might shoot them. She hesitated because her feelings for the American were confused. There was an air of mystery about him that excited her. He was brave and resourceful and at times even amusing especially when he poked fun at himself. And yet there was a strain of sadness in him that shown through in subtle ways. The longer they were together the more she was attracted to him and the less she understood him.

  The Commander had given her five days to discover Riley’s secret. After that whether or not Riley had confided in her the Army would arrest him and he would be returned to confinement where he would remain until the Commander no longer deemed him a threat. She had convinced herself her participation might serve to save him but she realized now that was just a rationalization. She wanted to be with him and if this was the only way then so be it.

  Riley stirred next to her, his arm sliding across her waist. An involuntary surge of adrenalin flooded her bloodstream.

  “Michael,” she nudged him gently.

  I woke with a start and it took me a few seconds to realize where I was. Wellington was up on one elbow staring down at me.

  “It’s morning,” she declared. “We slept in our clothes.” I glanced down at my crumpled trousers and wrinkled shirt, confirming her observation. “I can press those,” she offered. “I need to check your wounds as well. How did you sleep?”

  “Well,” I replied, easing my legs over the edge of the bed and pushing myself into a standing position. I looked over at her. Her hair fell across her face in soft brown curls and her lipstick had worn away in the night leaving her appearance natural, almost angelic. The gold cross at her throat hung loosely from its chain. Her dress had fared no better than my shirt and trousers.

  “You’re staring at me.”

  “Sorry. We should wash up, have breakfast and then decide what to do. Does your uncle’s cottage have a shower?” She laughed, tossing her head and sending her curls dancing.

  I soon realized what had caused her laughter.

  The shower was in an old wooden stall behind the cottage. The water came directly from the well where the winter temperatures were only slightly above freezing. There had been a heating element at one time but it had long ago ceased to f
unction.

  “Uncle Frank only uses the cottage in the summer months,” she explained. “Besides, you can’t shower yet. Your wounds need at least another week to heal or you’ll risk infection.”

  I washed as best I could using the bathroom sink and then Mary did the same. She exited the bathroom fully dressed but with her hair still damp. I helped her towel dry her hair.

  “Where did you get the clothes?” I asked, curious about the new beige dress she wore.

  “It’s Aunt Eileen’s. Uncle Frank and Aunt Eileen leave things here so they don’t have so much to bring with them in the summer.” I expected our new intimacy to feel awkward but surprisingly it all transpired naturally.

  Wellington checked my injuries and found they were healing faster than expected. A good thing given our circumstances. She even found an iron and pressed my trousers and tunic. I found one of her Uncle Frank’s shirts in the bedroom closet. It was a little too large but my tunic would cover most of it.

  “Have you any cash,” I asked once we were dressed and ready to discuss our next moves. We were seated at small wooden table in the kitchen. The fire we had set the night before had long ago gone out and the temperature in the cottage had dropped into the low fifties. Wellington lit the gas burners on the stove and the oven and before long the temperature in the kitchen had risen into the mid sixties. She stood up and went over to the jacket she’d been wearing the previous evening. Reaching in one of the pockets she pulled out a wad of various colored notes and quickly counted them.

  “Forty seven pounds,” she announced proudly. “What do we need it for?”

  “Petrol,” I answered definitively. “We need to fuel up the car.” She thought for a moment.

  “How much do you think petrol costs?” She laughed. I had no idea what gasoline sold for in 1944 but I guessed it wasn’t four dollars a gallon.

  “Okay, so we have enough money. Where do we find petrol?”

  “The Dog and Badger is just down the road. The owner knows my uncle and we stand a good chance of getting petrol for the car.”

  “You don’t have any coupons,” I reminded her. She shrugged.

  “The owner likes me,” she answered coyly.

  It wasn’t the best situation but it would have to do. We needed the car and driving around in an American staff car had advantages that outweighed the risks. I didn’t like the scrutiny we’d get in a public place like a British Pub but I couldn’t think of a better plan for securing petrol. It would be a bit tricky explaining why an RAF officer was traveling in a U.S. Army staff car but we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.

  “Okay,” I agreed. “But we need to coordinate our stories. People are going to ask about me and why we’re together.”

  “I’ll tell them you are my American boyfriend who has volunteered for service in the RAF. They’ll like you better that way than if you were in the American Army. I was dubious but agreed. Wellington would know best the temperaments of the locals.

  Chapter 45

  CHANDLER’S MEN

  Two of Chandler’s men were searching the towns on the west side of the Thames between Beaconsfield and Henley. During the past two days they had spoken to dozens of people, explaining they were searching for an American gangster posing as an RAF officer who might be traveling with the under aged daughter of a senior British military officer. It seemed a reasonable ploy to elicit the indignation of their English countrymen. Americans were not universally beloved by the British people and a story about a brash American criminal seducing one of their own was certain to arouse their anger.

  It was mid morning when the two pulled into the parking lot of the Dog and Badger Pub for a spot of tea. The man driving was named Nash Rumpole. He was a big man standing six foot two and weighing fifteen stone. His hair was long, black and oily, the result his benign attitude toward personal grooming. Though he had thickened a bit around the middle he retained his rather considerable strength in his arms and barrel chest. His partner, Sid Venture was an inch shorter and a full stone lighter but his partner’s equal in strength.

  Both men wore long woolen coats over their dark suits. Each wore a broad brimmed hat with a satin band. Beneath their suit jackets they carried Webley .445 revolvers in shoulder holsters. So far they had little success in tracking down the American and his English whore. None of the locals they spoke with reported anyone matching Riley or the woman’s description.

  There were a few reports of American Army staff cars but so many military vehicles traveled the roads in southern England it was impossible to sort them out. SIS intelligence was tracking down the woman’s known acquaintances, relatives and friends. Nash expected he’d have that list no later than that afternoon. They were shooting in the dark now but once they had the list they could begin following up on more pertinent leads. Finding the couple had been given top priority. They weren’t told why. Not that knowing why would matter to either of them.

  “We should get some petrol,” Sid reminded his partner after eyeing the pumps outside the Inn.

  “You fill up the car. I’ve got to take a piss,” Nash groused, tossing the vehicle’s keys to Sid as he continued on his path toward the Inn.

  Sid turned around and was headed back to the car when he noticed an American Army staff car parked off to his right away from the pub. He stopped in his tracks and glanced back over his shoulder in the direction his partner had taken but Nash was already pushing his way into the pub. At first he considered following him but then decided it would be a waste of time getting Nash to accompany him. He headed toward the Packard, loosening his top coat button for easy access to his Webley.

  The spot the driver had chosen was a good one if he was concerned about being visible from the road. Sid placed an open hand on the Packard’s hood. It was still warm. Either it hadn’t been driven far or it had been sitting for awhile. He looked around but there was no one to be seen. There were five cars in the Pub’s parking lot including their own. Only one car was parked in the Inn’s parking lot and that belonged to the United States Army.

  He peered into the windows. On the back seat he saw to U.S. Army coats. Nothing particularly unusual about that except there were two coats and he and Nash were searching for two fugitives who escaped in an Army staff car.

  With nothing more to be learned from the car he turned to head back to the pub when he spied a women standing in the center of the parking lot. She wasn’t moving or talking or anything but just standing there as if she were a sculpture. And then he realized who she was. She matched the description of the woman who helped the American spy escape.

  At that instant she turned and began walking quickly back toward the pub. Sid held up his arm and shouted for her to stop but she only quickened her pace. Immediately he began running after her, catching her just as she reached the pub’s front door. Grabbing her from behind he pulled her off her feet. With his right hand firmly around her throat and his left tightly gripping her waist he held her high off the ground, her feet kicking wildly in the air.

  Chapter 46

  YE OLDE DOG AND BADGER

  Dressed in my RAF officer’s uniform Wellington and I donned our winter coats and headed outside to the carriage house. The Packard fired up on the first try despite the cold. The fuel gage indicator was buried in the large E at the bottom of the gage. We got out onto Henley Road and drove west toward Mill End.

  The fields and wooded areas on either side of the road were dusted with snow but the roads were clear and dry. Wellington was at the wheel again. In less than three kilometers we came upon the Dog and Badger. It was an all white, single story stone and brick building with a thatched roof. It sat on the brow of a wooded hill where the old ferry once crossed the Thames. It had been built in the fourteenth century, retaining all the charm of that rustic period. I had a new appreciation of history now that I was an inadvertent party to it.

  We parked near the inn in a large gravel lot away from the pub where we were less visible from the road. We
both removed the military jackets we wore and left them in the car before heading for the Inn. It might have seemed odd for an RAF pilot and his fiancé to appear in U.S. Army coats. Wellington took my arm and we did our impression of a couple in love.

  Inside the pub was dimly lit with only a few patrons hardy enough for a brisk morning refresher at the bar. Mary held my arm tightly as we approached the barman where Wellington asked for the owner. The barman directed Mary to the owner’s office at the far end of the pub. Wellington signaled for me to wait while she headed across the room in search of the pub’s owner. I sat down at the bar and nodded to the patrons who eyed me with seeming fascination. I had worn my RAF cap down over the long gash in my forehead but it did little to conceal it. The bartender set a pint of Guinness dark down on the bar in front of me. When I protested he told me wounded RAF pilots would always have their first beer on the house at the Dog and Badger. It was useless to argue and it would only draw unwanted attention anyway. Only a few minutes passed before Wellington returned smiling and holding aloft petrol coupons.

  “I could only get five gallons,” she conceded.

  “It’s okay, you did well.” Five gallons was more than I expected. I estimated it was enough to take us one hundred fifty miles if we nursed the accelerator. We were exposed now and I didn’t think it wise to return to the cottage now that the Inn’s owner knew where we were staying.

  “Let’s have breakfast,” she exclaimed. “I’m hungry and we’ll still have enough money for petrol.”

  It was a bad idea but I didn’t want to crush her enthusiasm. Wellington hadn’t acquired the instinct needed when your life is in jeopardy. It came naturally for some and had to be instilled in others. Either way nothing focused your attention like the risk of loosing your life.