The Rest Is Silence

by James R Benn

  “Do you have reason to believe the victim was engaged in a criminal enterprise?” Fraser said.

  “It’s a guess, but sure,” I said. “A civilian, in decent physical condition, not in the military. We’re fairly sure of that, since he doesn’t match any AWOL reports. I’m thinking a serious criminal conviction when he was younger.”

  “Any number of medical conditions could have kept him out of the service,” Fraser said.

  “Sure, but why hasn’t anyone reported him missing then? If he were involved in illegal activities, people who knew him would be less likely to report him missing. Being away for long periods would be par for the course.”

  “I don’t disagree with you, Captain Boyle. It is a good guess. But what I think you are asking is quite difficult.”

  “I’m not asking you to rat out a client,” I said. “All I want to know is if you’ve heard through the grapevine of anyone getting rubbed out within the past three months or so. A turf war, maybe something like that.”

  “You sound like a gangster film,” Fraser said. He tapped his fingers together again and stared past me. He knew something; I could tell.

  “Are you branching out into legit clients?” I asked. “Mrs. Fraser said you have an appointment with a regular citizen.”

  “That would be admitting that my other clients were less than legitimate businessmen,” Fraser said.

  “Hey, we’re not in court,” I said. “I’m only asking for some help here. It could save lives; British lives, American, French, I don’t know. But that’s got to count for something.”

  “Even to a man like me, you mean?” He was right. I’d had to stop myself from saying it out loud.

  “Especially to a man like you,” I said. It wasn’t time to soft-soap the guy. He knew it and I knew it. He got thugs and killers off the hook. This was a chance to do something decent, something that he could tell his wife in whispers; he could make her promise never to tell anyone that he’d helped catch a spy, or however he spun the story out to her. Yeah, especially to a guy like Razor Fraser.

  “There may be something,” Fraser said.

  “Okay,” I said, waiting for him to tell me. He fidgeted and wet his lips, as if he couldn’t get his body to go along with this new idea of helping someone in a uniform.

  “We are trying to stick to the straight and narrow out here,” he said. “Dorothy wanted a change. She threatened to leave me if I didn’t get a new clientele.”

  “Apparently Dorothy doesn’t understand the rules,” I said. Once you’re a shyster for the mob in any country, you don’t retire.

  “No, she doesn’t. But that’s part of what I’m trying to tell you. There have been some conflicts. Two of my biggest clients have been killed.” He spoke in hushed tones—whether by habit or because his wife’s ear was at the door, I didn’t know.

  “So that frees you up to be a rural attorney?”

  “Almost,” Fraser said. “I must admit, it would be easier, and it would be nice not to be threatened all the time.”

  “Threatened?”

  “With what would happen if I lost a case,” Fraser said. My heart bled.

  “Okay. Spill. What do you know?” I thought about threatening him myself, but held off. If he really liked the idea of a change, he had to see me as a safe bet, not another gangster.

  “There’s a man by the name of Charles Sabini,” Fraser said. As soon as the words came out, he slumped back in his chair like a deflated balloon. He had broken the code, and there was no going back. He knew it. “He’s half English and half Italian. He had a gang in the thirties, and controlled most of the racecourses in the south of England. He was heavily into gambling, fixing races, extortion, you name it.”

  “A client of yours?”

  “No. My clients were in competition with Sabini. At the beginning of the war, Sabini was interned as an enemy alien, even though he was born here and had an English mother. My guess is that Scotland Yard decided on the internment as a pretext, since they couldn’t pin anything on him.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” I said.

  “From their point of view, yes,” Fraser said. “But the irony is that Sabini’s gambling empire was built upon a network of Jewish bookmakers operating out of London. When the war began, some of his Italian gangsters wanted to cut ties with their Jewish partners, out of loyalty to Mussolini. Sabini refused, even though it meant being deserted by his men with fascist sympathies.”

  “I take it he’s no longer interned,” I said.

  “No, he was let out after a year. Scotland Yard probably figured enough damage had been done to his organization by then. They were right,” Fraser said.

  “And you know that because your clients benefited from his absence,” I said.

  “Since they are now dead, they can no longer be my clients,” Fraser said.

  “Understood,” I said, a little bothered by the fact that I was following his logic.

  “Sabini got right back into the game,” Fraser continued. “He was caught fencing stolen property and sent down for two years. Last year he got out and started making up for lost time. He’s re-established himself on the horse-racing circuit and branched out into the black market.”

  “Which means he must have stepped on somebody’s toes. Black-market territories are certain to be well established,” I said.

  “Of course,” Fraser said. “Sabini isn’t afraid of violent confrontation, but he’s also a clever one. He saw the buildup beginning in southwest England. It’s not hard to put two and two together and come up with the idea that the area is becoming one big supply dump for the American army as they train for the invasion.”

  “What about existing gangs? They must be working the ports all along the coast.”

  “They are,” Fraser said. “Sabini cut a deal that he’d stay out of the ports. He’s got the inland territory, with men on his payroll who load and unload the trains that haul supplies coming from the ports. He gets his share and then some. The man’s got more business than he can handle.”

  “So what’s the connection?” I asked.

  “Three months ago, a client dispatched an individual to Newton Abbot, where Sabini is headquartered. The job was to eliminate Sabini. This individual was never heard from again, and never returned to collect the remainder of his fee. Then, within a month, my client cut himself shaving. From ear to ear.”

  “You don’t seem upset,” I said.

  “A lawyer in my situation learns to keep his opinions to himself and his emotions in check,” Fraser said, looking pained in spite of his declaration. “I had to look for a way out. If Sabini thinks I’ve left my former practice, there’s a chance he’ll leave me be.”

  “You think he’d put a hit out on you?” I asked. In the States, legal counsel was usually off-limits, even for hardened gangsters.

  “No, Captain Boyle, I’m afraid he’d want me as his attorney,” Fraser said, his head bent low and his voice lower. “Neither my wife nor my ulcer would find that acceptable.”

  Now I understood why Fraser had so readily told me everything. He hoped I’d put Sabini away and all his troubles would be behind him.

  “Where does Charles Sabini hang his hat?” I asked.

  “At the racecourse in Newton Abbot,” Fraser said. “The track sits hard against the River Teign, which flows into the Channel about fifteen or twenty miles from Slapton Sands.”

  “It fits,” I said. “You don’t happen to know the name of the guy who was sent to kill Sabini, or where he was from?”

  “Captain Boyle, I must caution you,” Fraser said, wagging his finger at me, his face turning red. “I never said I was aware of a plot to have anyone killed or injured. If I had been, I would have been duty-bound to report it to the authorities. As it stands, I was aware of an emissary sent to Mr. Sabini, who did not return to my client for reasons unknown. I never knew his name or was acquainted with him in any way.”

  “Sorry,” I said, hands up in surrender, worried that he’
d blow a fuse. “I did not mean to imply any knowledge of wrongdoing. I am certain you had no inkling of any criminal activity.” That seemed to calm him down. The response was automatic, built up from years of denying what he knew, hiding the truth even from himself. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “Yes,” Fraser said. “Be very careful. Sabini has vowed never to return to prison, and he has a violent temper. He has also developed a vehement hatred of the British government. Days before he was due to be released from prison, his son Michael, an RAF pilot, was killed in North Africa.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said, hoping he was being completely truthful. “If this pans out, how would you and the missus like an invitation to the Mayor’s Ball at the Dartmouth Royal Regatta this summer?”

  “That would be just the thing,” Fraser said, beaming. Respectable. I left him a happy man, which was what I needed. I didn’t want him to have any regrets that might prompt a telephone call to his old pals, or worse yet, Sabini himself.

  It was a cruel world, I thought as I walked back to the station. Even a crook would be proud of a son fighting in the RAF, but it would take a villain’s mind to make his death an affront, turning his grief into anger at a government that had had good reason to jail him. Lots of professional criminals look at what they do as a job, with risks and rewards. They go up against law enforcement, but it’s all part of the game. For Sabini, the game had become personal, and that made him dangerous.

  The train had passed through Newton Abbot, and on the return trip I watched for a glimpse of the racecourse. It was easy to spot. The train ran along the banks of the River Teign, and as we neared the town it was visible across the river, the oval track fronting the water along one curve, the grandstand and stables at the far end. I had a fleeting glimpse of a small boathouse and dock off a dirt path that led down from the track. A private little spot, if no train was running.

  The rail yard was busy. Another set of tracks joined ours at the station, and I could see cars on a siding being unloaded. Maybe some of Sabini’s men were hard at work replenishing his stocks, courtesy of Uncle Sam.

  The train pulled out of the station, and I watched the river widen into an estuary, the tide running out, a tree branch floating and bobbing on the current, until finally the locomotive picked up speed and we left the Teign behind on its journey to the cold Channel waters.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  KAZ AND DAVID Martindale were waiting for me in Dartmouth. It was nearly dusk, and I’d spent most of the day on a crowded train dodging packs and rifles as GIs and Tommies got on and off in droves. We weren’t expected for dinner at Ashcroft, so David suggested the Dartmouth Arms, which was close by. “They have excellent fish and ales,” he said, which was all I needed to hear.

  “Was your trip successful?” Kaz said as we walked to the pub.

  “I’ll tell you about it after dinner,” I said, not certain about what we should share with David.

  We ordered three pints and got a snug booth in the corner. “Na zdrowie,” Kaz said, raising his glass and giving the Polish version of cheers. We clinked glasses and drank. After a day of train travel and talking with a crooked lawyer, it went down smooth. As we drank, I watched David and Kaz. It was easy to see them as chums at school. Both good-looking—war injuries notwithstanding—with thin features, sharp eyes, and easy grins. I could visualize them up to their elbows in books, discussing the finer points of Romanian grammar or some rare book.

  I went to see a man about a horse, and when I returned I heard Kaz speaking in a familiar lilt.

  “Nem blong mi Piotr,” he said.

  “No,” David said in amazement. “You actually spoke pidgin with real Solomon Islanders? You should write a paper, Piotr.”

  “Hey,” I said. “We’re not supposed to talk about that, Kaz.”

  “Billy, it is only because David and I studied languages together. It is quite fascinating, and he’s promised not to repeat this to anyone.”

  “Listen, just don’t do it while I’m around. I never heard a thing, okay?”

  “Tenkyu, Billy,” Kaz said, and they both erupted in laughter. I went to get another round, and by the time I returned to the table they were whispering like two Solomon Islanders. I didn’t want to spoil their fun, but I didn’t want to chance a stretch in Leavenworth either. We’d kept that little jaunt a secret, as we’d been instructed, and it was best that it stayed that way, college buddy or not. I set down the glasses with a hard thump, getting their attention.

  “Sorry, Billy,” Kaz said, sticking to English this time.

  “Cheers,” David said. “Don’t worry, Billy, I am discretion incarnate. I’m happy to simply enjoy this evening out. Ashcroft can be a little narrow, if you know what I mean.”

  “Narrow-minded?” Kaz asked, drawing David out.

  “No, not at all,” he said. “I mean as though the walls are closing in. I hadn’t really got to know Helen’s family very well, and now I have nothing but time to spend with them. I’m afraid we don’t have much in common.”

  Did he mean Helen or her family? Or both? It was a revealing admission, either way.

  “How long will you stay?” Kaz asked.

  “That’s just it, Piotr, I don’t know. The RAF doctor refused to release me for duty. I’ve got a checkup in two weeks’ time, but I doubt that will make any difference. There is no improvement to be had.”

  “Any further surgeries?” Kaz asked, his voice hesitant.

  “No,” David said. “They’ve done what they can. Saved my eye, but it’s not worth much, except to balance things out.” He worked up a smile, but like all his others, it was crooked, the shiny skin on the right side of his face barely moving.

  “Will you stay at Ashcroft if the RAF won’t have you back?” Kaz said.

  “Good God, no,” David said. “I couldn’t imagine it, living off Sir Rupert’s kindness. Helen wouldn’t mind though, she loves the place. I’ve got no family left myself, nowhere to go home to.”

  “Perhaps you could find work,” Kaz said, without much hope in his voice.

  “And do what? Teach languages at some boarding school? With this face I’d frighten the children, or be the butt of their jokes,” David said, waving his hand along his cheek. “I really don’t know what I could do to hold down a decent job.”

  “What happened?” I asked, surprising myself. “I mean, were you shot down or did you crash-land?” Kaz glanced at me, and I knew it was bad form to be so direct.

  “A bit of both. We were on our way back to base,” David said, his voice steady but quiet. “Four of us. It had been an uneventful patrol, for a change. We were jumped by a dozen or so Fw 190s as we began our descent. They must have been circling high above our airfield, waiting for aircraft to come in. I wish I could say I got any of the bastards, but it happened too fast. Much too fast.” He took a drink and wiped his mouth, fingers lingering over the sharp line that had once been his lower lip. “My engine was hit, and I was nearly blinded by black smoke. Flames burst through the instrument panel. I put the nose down and headed for the runway, hoping they were done with me and I could get out before the cockpit was engulfed by fire. It was too low to bail out, otherwise I would have. Do you know that in a Spitfire the fuel tanks are directly in front of the pilot? All that high-octane fuel sitting there, inches away.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” I said, just to say something. The thought was horrifying.

  “At least I was low on fuel, which saved my life, such as it is,” David continued. “I thought I’d made it, but one of the Jerries gave me a final burst. Came at me from the left, a bit too high. He put a single twenty-millimeter shell through my canopy. The wind sucked the flames past my face like a blowtorch. They said the goggles saved my eyes, but I don’t remember anything after that long tongue of flame. I landed the Spitfire, although I have no memory of it. The ground crew pulled me out seconds before the aircraft exploded.”

  He drank again.

  “
You’re certain there’s nothing more a specialist could do?” Kaz asked.

  “Piotr, I have been in the hands of a great physician. Have you heard of Doctor McIndoe and the Guinea Pig Club?” Neither of us had. “Archibald McIndoe, a truly great man. He heads up the burns and reconstructive-surgery section at the Queen Victoria Hospital in Sussex. It’s exclusively for RAF pilots and crewmen who have been badly burned.”

  “Why ‘guinea pig’?” I asked.

  “McIndoe had to create new techniques and equipment. No one had ever seen so many burn cases before. The medical staff are all members of the club, and I was inducted a couple of months ago.”

  “But you were injured a year ago,” Kaz said.

  “Yes,” David answered. “But you have to have had at least ten surgical procedures to be admitted. We can’t just let anyone in.” There was pride in his voice, and I wondered if David felt more at home with the members of the Guinea Pig Club than at Ashcroft. “You’d be laughed out of the ward with that pathetic little scar of yours, for instance.”

  “It sounds like Doctor McIndoe has the right approach to the job,” I said.

  “He does. Some men have lost their hands and faces; they come to the hospital thinking they’re beyond redemption. And the injuries are nothing compared to the surgeries,” David said, clenching a fist as he thought of the pain. “But he does his best to create a bond between the staff and patients, even with the locals. He got some of them to organize visits for home-cooked meals, to help the lads prepare for going out into the world. They were wary at first, both the locals and the men, but now when they walk through town, they’re greeted instead of gawked at.”

  “Did it help you, David?” Kaz said. “To come home?”

  “Listen, Piotr—and Billy. There’s something I wanted to ask you,” David said, ignoring the question and answering it at the same time. “I’d like to go back on active service. As soon as possible. I thought with you being at SHAEF and all, you might be able to pull some strings.”