by James R Benn
Me, I was lucky my eyes weren’t fish food right now. I was in a soft bed by a warm fire to cheer me up. I’d awakened to Diana at my side. I should be happy, I told myself. But that’s tough after being a victim of attempted murder. I knew I didn’t fall. Someone hit me; not a killing blow, but hard enough to knock me off balance and send me into the drink. That much I knew for certain, as well as the fact that it didn’t add up. No one knew I was headed to the Miller place. Hell, I didn’t know it until I was in the jeep heading back there. So who was there, and why did they smack me one?
“Billy!” Big Mike had to stoop to enter the room, barely squeezing through the door as he did. “Diana said you woke up. How you doin’?”
“I’m all right. I’d like to know who hit me though.”
“Yeah, I knew you didn’t fall in,” Big Mike said, taking a seat in a straight-backed chair that groaned under his weight. “You remember anything?”
“I recall being struck on the side of the head. Then the water, I guess. It was cold.” I didn’t bother trying to describe how cold.
“The sawbones said you might have slipped and hit your head.”
“No,” I said, feeling the tenderness above my ear. “I was up, then hit, then in the water. It wasn’t a blunt object, like whatever was used against Neville. More like a two-by-four, maybe lighter.”
“I spoke to the Millers. They said they didn’t know you were out there.”
“No one did, that’s the strange part. It was a whim. I wanted to walk the ground again, get a feel for what it’s like at night.”
“Well, you got that, Billy.” I couldn’t argue.
Diana came in with a tray. Hot tea, cakes, and jam. It tasted great. Being alive probably had something to do with it. Big Mike filled me in on what had been going on while I was sacked out. Kaz had gone off to help Inspector Payne with a more extensive search of the pathway behind the Millers’ house. Big Mike and Diana had stayed to watch over me in case anyone else wanted to have a go at cracking my skull. My clothes were being cleaned and ironed, Berlin had been bombed, and the Detroit Tigers had signed Boom-Boom Beck as a pitcher, with great prospects for the upcoming season. That last bit was of interest only to Big Mike, who thought everyone else cared as much about Detroit baseball as he did. I freshened up, shaved, put on a new uniform, and promptly fell into the easy chair by the window.
“Okay, Big Mike,” I said. “What did you find out at CID?”
“Plenty of nothing,” he said. “I told Diana on the ride out here that those guys are the laziest investigators I ever saw. They got no real evidence, other than Private Smith’s nickname is Angry and his skin is black.”
“That’s what Constable Cook thought, too,” I said, and filled Big Mike and Diana in on the story he’d told me.
“It was Rosemary Adams’s statement that they hung their hat on,” he said. “Even though she admitted she lied.”
“Why didn’t your Criminal Investigations Division turn over the case to the local police, if Private Smith’s guilt was in doubt?” Diana asked.
“They want convictions as much as any police force,” I said. “To be fair, if they thought a GI was a suspect, they had to investigate. Once they turn it over, there’s no going back. It’s all because of the Visiting Forces Act.”
“You’d think common sense would win out,” Diana said. “There’s a killer on the loose now, and no one is looking for him.”
“We are,” Big Mike said.
“Yes, we are,” she agreed. I was about to ask what had happened with Roger Allen when footsteps sounded in the hall and the door opened.
“Glad to see you up and about,” Inspector Payne said. “I have news. Bit crowded in here, isn’t it?”
“Join the party,” I said. “What do you have?”
“This,” he said, setting a small worn suitcase on the bed. “We found it in one of the boats not far from the Millers’. Likely it belongs to the girl in the canal. Margaret Hibberd.” He held up a tag tied to the handle. “Her name, with an address in Great Shefford crossed out and an address in London added.”
“Where’s Great Shefford?” I asked.
“About ten miles north of Hungerford. They have a school for children evacuated from London during the Blitz. We have a constable headed there now to see if this girl is missing, ask for a photograph, and break the news if it’s the same one. Lieutenant Kazimierz is accompanying him. The clothing points to a girl the same size.” Children had been evacuated not only from the Channel Islands, but from all the major cities in England within range of German bombers.
“Terrible,” Diana said, picking through the threadbare garments.
“It is,” Payne said. “What’s worse is that the girl’s street in Shoreditch was bombed back in January. I called Scotland Yard and they checked the records. Her father’s body was found, but not her mother’s. Missing, most likely incinerated. They already had her listed as a runaway to watch for.”
“So this poor girl takes it upon herself to travel to London, only to be killed before her journey is barely begun,” Diana said.
“How would she get from Great Shefford to London?” I asked.
“Most direct route would be south on the road to Hungerford, then by train to London,” Payne said. “I’d wager she left on foot from Great Shefford, someone offered her a lift, and she never made it to the station.”
“Could be,” Big Mike said. “Question is, why was the suitcase found near the Miller place?”
“Does Miller have an automobile?” I asked.
“No,” Payne said. “And if he did there’s no petrol to be had. It’s rationed for official use only, and for businesses that require it.”
“He could have met the girl in Hungerford easily enough,” Diana said. “Offered to help her, perhaps.”
“I think we might be asking the wrong question,” I said. “The real question is why was I attacked, at that time and place?”
“Perhaps it was Miller,” Payne said, stroking his chin. “He sees you snooping about, figures you’ll find the suitcase, and Bob’s your uncle, you’re in the canal.”
“What you’re suggesting is that George Miller has committed one murder and one attempted murder, all to keep the suitcase from being found. If he’s the guy who took Margaret Hibberd, why didn’t he put rocks in the suitcase and toss it in the canal? Or bury or burn it?”
“So why were you attacked, Billy?” Diana asked.
“Because somewhere along the line, I got somebody nervous. My guess is the girl’s killer had the suitcase and needed to get rid of it. What better place than near the scene of a recent murder? Maybe we’d start looking at Neville or Miller as suspects. He waits until dark to plant the suitcase, and then sees me walking down the path. He might think I followed him, and he can eliminate me as a threat and divert suspicion at the same time.”
“Or he didn’t try to kill you,” Big Mike said. “You told me you weren’t hit that hard. Maybe he figured by attacking you, he’d ensure a search of the area.”
“I’m not sure I see the same connection you do,” Payne said. “You’re assuming the disappearance of Sophia and the murder of Margaret are tied to the Neville case. Why?”
“Because of the warning Neville gave to Eva Miller. He told her to be careful.”
“It’s not much,” Payne said.
“What else do we have?”
“There’s a sad truth,” he said. “Perhaps it is time to press our German friend Miller a bit harder.”
“Why not? It may serve to get some things out into the open.”
“Where MI5 are concerned,” Payne said, “they may be better left hidden. But we’ve little else, so I will invite Miller to come to the station for a bit of a chat. Would you like to attend, Captain?”
“No, I’m still a bit wobbly. How about Big Mike?”
“Indeed! We shall put the fear of God into the man, and see what happens.”
After Payne and Big Mike left the room w
as quiet, and I enjoyed the silence with Diana in the chair beside me. No talk of dead girls or drowning. After ten minutes of peace came a knock at the door.
“Tree,” I said, surprised at the visit. “Come in.”
“There’s been trouble, Billy. Oh, sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Tree said as soon as he noticed Diana. But he was worked up, and halfway into the room.
“It’s okay,” I said. “This is Diana Seaton, the woman I told you about.”
“You’re Billy’s friend, aren’t you?” Diana said, extending her hand. “Sergeant Jackson?”
“Yes, Miss Seaton. Call me Tree if you like, everyone does.”
“You must call me Diana,” she said. “Come and sit down, tell us what has happened.”
“Billy, what’s the matter?” Tree asked as we sat. “You don’t look so good.” I filled him in on the events of the night before, and the discovery of Margaret Hibberd’s suitcase.
“I’m still a bit shaky, but I’m fine,” I said. “Now what kind of trouble?”
“There’s rumors flying all around about the girl we found. Two of our guys were changing a tire on their jeep when four white GIs jumped them. They beat them up pretty bad, told them there’d be a lynching if any more white girls were raped and murdered. We had a supply truck headed to Greenham Common today and they had to turn back when their windshield was smashed.”
“Same story?” I asked.
“Worse. GIs at the base said they heard we had a white girl held prisoner in camp, and a bunch of rednecks were going to head out tonight to rescue her. I hope they come, they’ll see how Negroes can fight, you better believe it.” I believed. I knew Tree would stand up for what he knew was right, but in this situation it was likely to get him killed.
“Jesus. Did you go to the MPs?”
“Billy, have you heard anything I’ve been telling you? I go to the MPs and I’ll get my head busted for making trouble. Just like going to the cops in Boston. A waste of time at best, dangerous most likely.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said, knowing it all too well.
Diana shot me a questioning look.
“I’m sorry, Miss Seaton-Diana,” Tree said. “But it’s the truth. Seems we can’t get away from prejudice and hatred even when we’re fighting the same enemy.”
“What can you do, then?”
“I was hoping Billy was about to apprehend the real killer. That would help.”
“Not even close,” I said. “Not to who killed Neville, the guy I was sent here to investigate. Or to who killed this girl, or Constable Eastman, for that matter.”
“You’re close enough for someone to try and do you in,” Tree said.
“Yeah. A few more clues like that and I’ll wake up at the bottom of the canal. But I do know for sure that CID doesn’t have much of a case against Angry. The local constable doesn’t think it was him either. Did you know about Rosemary Adams saying she saw him that night?”
“I heard that, but didn’t believe it.” I filled Tree in on the details, and the fact that Tom Eastman’s father had been a policeman as well.
“If I have time tomorrow, I’m going to pay a visit to Rosemary and Malcolm Adams, see what they have to say. Then I want to visit that jump school at Chilton Foliat. That track to the cemetery is interesting. I’d like to know how often it’s used.”
“Tell you what, Billy. You go see the Adamses if you can. I can go to Chilton Foliat and look around. We need to map out a route for a field exercise. I can swing it as official business.”
“Okay, that’ll help. If you don’t need to get back, stay and have dinner with us. Kaz is on his way back from the boarding school in Great Shefford, where Margaret was coming from. He’s confirming it was her. And Big Mike-you haven’t met him yet-might be back from an interrogation with Inspector Payne.”
“Okay. Anything hopeful?”
“Long shot. I don’t expect much.” I was getting pretty tired of long shots. I was ready for a close shot, right to the heart of whoever tried to kill me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Five of us sat around the table in the dining room downstairs. It was odd having a friend from my Boston past here with my new friends from three nations. They were all so different. Diana, with her beauty, aristocratic airs, and passion for the truth; Kaz, with his studied nonchalance and languid manner masking an iron fierceness; Big Mike, with his working-stiff wit and dogged loyalty; Tree, with his determination to fight, his rage right beneath the surface at how hard it all had been.
And me. The parsley and potato soup came before I could figure out what I brought to the party, other than an affinity for people I could count on. I wasn’t sure what I could count on Tree for, except that something always happened with him around.
“This is the late Margaret Hibberd,” Kaz said, passing a photograph around. “Her school picture. The headmistress had notified the local police that she’d gone missing, and they had in turn called Scotland Yard. Her friends said she often talked about going home, that she missed her mother especially.” I took the photograph and studied it. It was the girl from the canal. Thin, dark hair, lost.
“Did she have anyone local she knew, might have gone to?” I asked.
“No one. She was worried that she hadn’t had a letter from her parents in quite a while. The police in Great Shefford knew about her father being killed in the bombing, but kept it from her until the mother’s death could be confirmed. They hoped she might be found in one of the hospitals.”
“It is pure chaos in some of them,” Diana said. “Records are destroyed along with buildings, patients moved about. It was worth hoping for.”
“Margaret slipped away one night,” Kaz said. “She could have walked to the Hungerford railroad station easily enough for the morning train to London.”
“We found her just east of Hungerford,” Tree said. “So she must have made it to town. The current flows east to west. She could have been dumped in Kintbury, anywhere along the canal.”
“Inspector Payne finally heard from the coroner,” Big Mike said. “She didn’t drown, but that much was obvious from the marks on her neck. The doc said she could’ve been in the water three to five days; it was cold enough to slow down decomposition.”
“I can attest to that,” I said, glad of the warm soup in my belly. “How did it go with Miller?”
“I had my suspicions when Payne asked him to come down to the station for a chat,” Big Mike said. “Mrs. Miller looked like she was about to faint.”
“Do you think she knew something?” Diana asked.
“Suspected, or was afraid maybe. But Miller himself was calm and said he’d be glad to help. We took him down to the station and went over Neville’s killing, where he was last night, and pressed him on any connection to Sophia Edwards. Came up with nothing.”
“How did he react?” I asked.
“Cooperative at first,” Big Mike reported. “Then started looking at his watch. Then he wanted to know how long it would take. Finally he asked if he was a suspect. Then he got upset. Completely normal for an innocent man or a practiced liar.”
“You certainly have a difficult profession,” Diana said. “How can you tell the two apart?”
“Keep pressing them until they break,” Big Mike said. “Kinda hard if they’re innocent, right, Billy?”
“Billy knows all about that,” Tree said. An awkward silence followed as the soup bowls were cleared. “I can tell by their faces you’ve already told your friends about how we met, Billy.”
“Part of the story, anyway,” I said. “They’re a nosy bunch.”
“We know Billy took your job,” Big Mike said. “That was a raw deal.”
“Billy did not get to the part yet where you two actually met,” Kaz said. “Tell us your side of the story.”
“Yes, do tell us, Tree,” Diana said with enthusiasm, as if it were a parlor game. “What was Billy like as a schoolboy?” All eyes were on Tree. I shrugged and glanced a
way, pretending it didn’t matter, even though I wanted to hear his version as much as anyone. No, more. I waited as Tree settled back, took a deep breath, and began.
It wasn’t the first time a white boy took a job from me. Pop got me a job stocking shelves in a grocery store that winter. He’d heard one of the cops say his brother-in-law needed a kid to work after school, so Pop sent me down there right away. The owner hadn’t even put a sign up yet. I worked three days before a customer made a comment about that nigger boy being in the way. The problem was I didn’t say “yes ma’am” fast enough and look at the floor while I did so. I told my boss what had happened, and got docked one day’s pay for talking back. That was my first lesson in working with white people. You don’t complain, unless you’re ready for things to get a whole lot worse. Works the same in the army, except you don’t lose your pay, you get a billy club across your head. Anyway, I found out later that the woman who complained about me happened to have a son who could take my spot, so things worked out exactly the way she’d wanted.
I wasn’t surprised when Pop told me not to bother showing up for work at the station. Even though I’d put in my application a month before and had been approved, it didn’t mean a damn thing, not when a white man, and a detective at that, wanted the job for his kid. No way a Negro janitor could match that pull. I was mad, real mad. And things got worse when I heard that some of the cops didn’t like the idea of a Negro man bossing around a white boy. Pop had worked for years at police headquarters, and had a good record. I don’t think Basher-Billy must have mentioned Basher McGee-minded a colored janitor one bit, but he hated the idea of a white kid working for one.
At first, I thought the kid would quit, once I heard about the tricks Basher and his pals were pulling. Dumping coffee on a floor, grinding out cigar butts outside the commissioner’s office, that sort of thing. But Pop knew what all that meant. Either he’d get blamed for not supervising Billy properly, or it would prove that a Negro man wasn’t up to the job of bossing a white boy. He’d be in trouble either way. That was the thing about Basher. He enjoyed putting the squeeze on you and watching while you figured out which was the least awful alternative.