A Blind Goddess bbwwim-8

by James R Benn

  An M8 six-wheeled armored car roared to a quick halt beside us, Lieutenant Binghamton in the turret, a broad grin on his face as he saluted. “Come to watch the show, Captain?”

  “We did,” I said, and introduced Kaz. I asked where Tree was and he pointed to the lead TD in the nearby platoon. He switched on his radio and a few seconds later Tree popped up from the open turret, waving me over.

  “Thanks for coming out, Billy,” Tree said as I clambered up the side. “I mean Captain Boyle,” he added, with a glance at his men and a salute for me.

  “Tree, first thing to learn in combat is not to salute. Unless you don’t like your officers. It only points them out to snipers.” That got a laugh from the other four crewmen.

  “Fellas, this is the guy I told you about. He’s working on getting Angry free.” We were interrupted by another radio call, and the driver began to work his gears.

  “I have a lead,” I said, before jumping off. “I’ll find you after the maneuver and tell you about it.” Tree’s response was lost in the sound of the four TDs moving off in unison, widening the space between them. I saw observers and umpires ahead, speeding around in jeeps, their armbands marking them as non-combatants. The Common quickly became a smoky confusion of fast vehicles, TDs, armored cars, and jeeps weaving between each other, darting from cover when they could, seeking out the folds in the land to settle into and fire simulated rounds directly at the foe, umpires barking into their radios.

  Two TDs were flagged down by the umpires and declared destroyed, red smoke grenades marking their demise. In the woods by the canal, yellow smoke rose up from several spots, marking the enemy casualties, each one raising a cheer from the crowd. I returned to the jeep with Kaz, who was watching the progress through binoculars.

  “Tree’s platoon is still intact,” he said, pointing to a small grove of pine trees where the TDs had hidden as much as they could. A dispatch rider on a motorcycle sped onto the scene, handing papers to Lieutenant Binghamton in his armored car.

  “That’s an Indian Scout,” I said to Kaz, pointing at the motorcycle. “The model I bought as a kid.” This was a new one, decked out in olive drab with leather saddlebags. I watched as the motorcycle raced from unit to unit, delivering orders. It looked like the driver was enjoying himself. We were so focused on the ebb and flow of the battle that we were both startled when a constable came up to us. “Inspector Payne would like a word, sir.”

  We left the jeep and followed him back to the roadway. I caught sight of Flowers, standing next to George Miller, like the best of friends. Bone was closing up his cart, sold out of humbugs and the like, I figured. Crowley was nowhere to be seen, but Razor Fraser raised a hand in a friendly greeting, or at least a reasonable imitation of one. Payne’s car was on the side of the road, turned away from the crowd. The constable opened the door and we climbed in back. Payne was in the driver’s seat and his passenger was watching the maneuvers intently.

  “Gentlemen,” Payne began, “let me introduce Blackie Crane. Constable Cook said you’d like a word.”

  “Thought I ought to see what’s holding up traffic on the canal,” Blackie said, without taking his eyes from the maneuvers. “Not a bad view, is it?” I could see where Blackie got his name. Coal dust coated his hands, clothes, and hair. From what I could see of his face, his pores were clogged with the stuff.

  “I found him with his barge, tied up by the Hog’s Head Pub,” Payne said, turning in his seat to face us. “I thought it best to bring him along before opening time, otherwise we might not get much out of him.”

  “Not much else to do, Inspector, with the Yanks closing down the canal, now is there?” Blackie kept his eyes glued on the Common as vehicles raced about, churning up soil as they spun their treads. “Bloody good show, though.” He interrupted his viewing long enough to light a cigarette, striking a wooden match with his thumbnail. I was relieved when we all didn’t go up in an explosion of coal dust.

  “Mr. Crane,” Kaz said. “We understand you are one of the few canal men who run at night.”

  “Cor! What have we here, a foreigner? Not enough to have Yanks all about, is it?” Crane addressed this remark to the air, and I wondered if he’d started his drinking early.

  “Polish, Mr. Crane. And unused to your damp climate, I must add. So I have enjoyed being warmed by your excellent coal at the Hog’s Head.”

  “You have, have you?” Crane turned in his seat, giving Kaz his full attention. Everyone likes to be flattered. “Old Jack Monk buys from me. We used to pass each other on the canal, back when he was on the water. Now he likes to have a good supply on hand. Folks drink more when they don’t have a chill going through their bones.”

  “Perhaps we will have a drink there when we are done here. You have worked the route from Pewsey to Reading a number of years,” Kaz said, holding out the promise of free booze. “You must know the water well.”

  “Indeed I do. When I sell the last of my load, I turn back and try to make it home in one run. Nighttime is tricky with the blackout and all, but you’ve got the canal to yourself. Give me a bit of moonlight and I can be back in Pewsey in no time.” He grinned, and the creases on his face showed in lines of coal dust.

  “Did Inspector Payne tell you what we wanted to ask you?” I said. Blackie was the talkative type, too talkative. He was the kind of guy that might lead in whatever direction he thought you wanted to go, especially with the promise of a drink at the other end. Kaz was smart appealing to Blackie’s vanity, but dangling that pint out in front of him was dangerous.

  “No, only the night in question. I recall it well, perfect half-moon, brilliant light to guide me home. I’d made my last delivery and came through Newbury a bit after midnight. I remember hearing the churchbell toll from a ways out.”

  “Not many people out that time of night, I’d guess,” I said. Outside the car, a few people were drifting by, the action having moved farther away.

  “No, not many. So why don’t we adjourn to the Hog’s Head?” Blackie said. “So I can get underway when the canal’s opened.”

  “Not many, you said. Does that mean no one?”

  “Listen, Yank, if I meant no one I’d of said no one. You should have manners like your Polish friend here.”

  “Steady on, Blackie,” Payne said. “He’s got his job to do, just like you do.”

  “Was the water high that night?” Kaz asked, jumping in to keep Blackie calm.

  “Aye, it was. There’d been a hard rain, and the river that feeds into the canal was at a rage, it was. But the canal is smooth, no matter how much water she carries.”

  “Do you remember who you saw out in Newbury that night?” Kaz asked. “Along the embankment.”

  “No, not really. I mean that I did see two men, not far from the Hog’s Head, downstream. They were arguing, I could tell since one of them was pointing his finger hard at the other fellow’s chest. But I didn’t know them, by sight or by name.”

  “But would you recognize either one of them?” I asked.

  “Oh sure, since one of them cursed me.”

  “Why?” Kaz asked.

  “Oh, the water. Like I said, it was high, and I had a full head of steam up. Probably going faster than I should of, especially with an empty boat and it being the middle of town. But it was late, and I wanted to get home.”

  “What do you mean, the water?” I asked. I didn’t want to give Blackie the answer, I wanted to hear it from him.

  “The wake, man, are you daft or simple? The wake kicked up onto the embankment, right where they were standing. Gave their trousers a good soaking I did. Might have laughed at the sight of them, caught up in their argument and then splashed by old Blackie! One of them shook his fist and cursed at me, and the other walked off, none too happy himself.”

  “So you’d recognize one of them?” I asked.

  “The one who raised his fist to me, sure I would. He had his collar up and wore a cloth cap, but I got a good look at his face. Walked a bit
stooped over, as well. The other fellow, maybe not. He didn’t look at me for very long.”

  “He walked back to the house,” Payne said. Blackie nodded, and we all knew what he had witnessed. The last seconds of Stuart Neville’s life.

  “Can you describe the other man, the one who cursed at you? His face, I mean,” Payne said.

  “Close to your age, Inspector. Shorter, stooped over, like I said. Big cheeks, like he was well fed. Sort of like that gent,” Blackie said, pointing to the crowd streaming by the car.

  “Which one, man?” Payne demanded.

  “Cor, if it ain’t him! That one, with the pony! I’ll swear to it.” Blackie raised his hand, his coal smudged finger pointing straight at Ernest Bone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY — THREE

  Bone saw Blackie Crane pointing directly at him. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and then he bolted, but not before he slapped his pony hard on the rump and sent him trotting into the crowd, the cart barreling along behind him as people stumbled out of the way, shouting and cursing, creating exactly the kind of confusion Bone wanted. He had betrayed no surprise, no shock of wonderment or bemusement at being singled out. It was a rapid, calculated decision to run. He had the look of a practiced criminal who knew the jig was up. A murderer. Worse. I should have tumbled to it sooner. Seeing him with the girls had started the wheels turning, but not soon enough for a nice quiet arrest.

  Payne and I were out of the car immediately, our cop’s sense sending us running before our brains caught up with what we’d seen. Kaz was behind us and for all I knew Blackie was still staring at his finger. The road was filled with people walking back to town. The pony cart had created enough chaos that the crowd was milling about, asking what had happened, what all the fuss was about, and why had Mr. Bone run away? Payne and I pushed people aside, trying to spot our quarry in the tumult.

  I caught a glimpse of him, weaving through the throng, heads turning as he rushed past. His cloth cap blew off, his bald head with its low ring of dark hair now a clear marker. The noise of the crowd was pierced by a child’s shriek, and we pushed through to find Miss Ross on the ground, holding one of her students, luckily with no injuries other than badly skinned knees.

  “He ran through the girls, knocked them over,” Laurianne shouted, pointing down the lane with one hand and cradling the head of a dazed girl with the other. We followed her lead, and I was glad to see the crowd had thinned out, only a few stragglers left watching the distant maneuvers. I looked up to where the road switched back on itself as it ascended, expecting to see Bone making for the fields and woods beyond. There was no sight of him.

  “There!” Payne shouted, and I saw a constable sent sprawling as he tried to keep Bone from leaving the road and entering the offlimits area, still jam-packed with tracked and wheeled vehicles driving in seemingly random patterns.

  “He’s heading for our jeep,” I hollered, vaulting a low stone wall that bordered the road. I came down on a loose rock and pitched forward, hitting the ground hard. I rolled and got up, pulling my revolver from my shoulder holster and wincing from the sharp pain in my right knee. The inspector kept going, his legs churning as Bone jumped into the jeep and pressed the starter. I heard Payne yell, probably something about the name of the King, and saw Bone turn in panic at how close he was. But the panic turned to quick calculation. Instead of driving away, he jammed the jeep’s clutch into reverse and stepped on the accelerator. In a second the vehicle collided with Payne, sending him flying backward, landing with a crack and a thud in a tangle of limbs.

  I left the inspector behind. I knew there were plenty of constables about and probably a medic nearby. I also knew that Bone was determined to get away, and by the look on his face he’d spare no one who got in his way. All around me shouts and frantic commands rose up in a confused crescendo. A jeep raced after Bone as I ran as fast as I could, the pain in my knee stabbing me with each long pace. Binghamton’s armored car joined in, and I could see him standing in the turret, one hand holding a radio and the other gripping the.50 machine gun for support as the six-wheeled vehicle careened over the open ground at top speed. No one else was nearby. Not until I heard the Indian Scout behind me.

  “Stop!” I shouted, holding up my hand. He skidded to a halt and without explanation-a privilege of rank-I strong-armed him off the bike and took off after Bone, spitting mud and fighting mad. I caught a glimpse of him as I rounded a stand of trees and navigated through an opening in another stone wall. His shiny bald head was a fine beacon, but he was making for the canal where smoke still wreathed the ground as Sherman tanks and other vehicles crossed his path. GIs from the opposing force milled around, not sure what to make of this headlong rush in their direction.

  I lost sight of Bone as I downshifted to take a small rise. I went over the top and the bike came down on damp grass, the rear tire fishtailing crazily until I got it under control. I couldn’t spot Bone anywhere. The other jeep following him was dead ahead of me, kicking up dust and obscuring my vision. A Sherman tank burst out of the woods, flattening trees as it blindly crossed paths with the jeep. The jeep’s driver slammed on his brakes and skidded sideways, smashing into the side of the tank as it swept by. He was thrown clear, but the tank treads chewed up the jeep, leaving shreds of metal and rubber behind. I swerved around the wreckage and behind the tank, the exhaust blinding me. I blinked away the blurriness and had to swerve again as GIs rushed out of the woods to gawk at some actual destruction.

  I saw Bone ahead of me. He was making for the path along the canal, a nice flat stretch of hard-packed ground where he could make time and disappear. Or so he hoped. The path would make it easy for me, too, and I hoped that by now the constables were working to seal off the area. But no, I realized. Other than the bicycles they came in on, they only had one vehicle-Payne’s car. Unless Binghamton was giving orders for his unit to block the roads, there was no one with the time, transportation, or sense to do it.

  The Scout was giving me all it had, but Bone was flying along. On the hill above me, I spotted Binghamton in his armored car, the big wheels churning up ground as fast as I was. The M8 could make over fifty miles an hour, but not in this soft and undulating terrain. It could be tricky to handle cross-country, but Binghamton was going for the most direct route, a straight line to the open ground where Bone was heading. Once there, we had him pinned.

  The armored car was speeding downhill at an angle, the slope of the land increasing as it approached a jumble of rocks. Binghamton had no choice but to go left and head straight down, losing his advantage and increasing the distance from Bone. Or so I thought.

  I saw him slam his hand on the turret, shouting down to the driver, his words lost in the snarl of engines. The M8 picked up speed, its left wheels sinking into the soft ground, as it kept on course, narrowly avoiding the boulders, but tilting at a precarious angle, Binghamton hanging on, clutching the.50 caliber.

  It looked like he’d make it. Even ground was about fifty yards away. But then gravity took over, and the tilt was too much for the eight tons of steel to sustain. I could tell the driver was trying to compensate, but it was too late. The M8 went over, sliding on its side as Binghamton ducked his head in, finally rolling over, once, twice, then plowing into the ground, coming to rest on the path we’d been making for.

  I slowed, hesitant to give up the chase, hoping Binghamton and his crew weren’t badly injured. I hadn’t know him long, but he seemed like a decent guy, and a friend to Tree. I circled the vehicle as dust settled from the violent impact, gear and men rattling about inside. I slowed, rounding the car, one foot skittering along the ground. What I saw wasn’t good. I stopped.

  Binghamton was half in, half out of the turret, his back bent sideways at an impossible angle. Crewmen bolted from the hatches as Binghamton flailed with his arms, trying to get his useless legs to work, to pull himself out of the vehicle. I jumped up onto the M8, screaming for someone to get a medic.

  It was pointless. He must
have been tossed partway out as the armored car turned over. His spine was snapped, and the internal injuries had to be terrible. He was choking on blood as he frantically tried to get his body to move, his eyes fixed on some distant spot, still chasing Bone, still leading his men, dreaming of glory as he died.

  “Hold steady,” I said, trying to grip his arms. “You’re only making it worse.”

  His eyes widened, and I thought he might actually see me. He struggled, still trying to move. He gagged on blood and I raised his head, cradling it in my lap.

  “Medics are on the way,” a GI said, and I heard the distant siren. Binghamton thrashed in my arms and I struggled to keep him immobile, even as I knew he was dying.

  “Binghamton,” I whispered. “Quiet, quiet. Say a prayer with me.” I held his hand as I spoke into his ear, reciting that everyday prayer, the only thing that came to mind. “Our Father, who art in heaven.”

  By the time I got to “deliver us from evil” he was gone, and not for the first time in this war I was glad a man was dead, if only to put a halt to his suffering.

  Your will be done. But His will didn’t make much sense right now. Binghamton had missed his chance to lead his men and face the enemy, killed by a murdering child rapist.

  CHAPTER THIRTY — FOUR

  Margaret Hibberd. She’d bicycled up to the Avington School but no one saw her leave. Because she took the path in the gardens around back. She’d been spooked by Miss Ross calling the police, and darted off, out of sight. Which put her on a course straight to Ernest Bone and his sweet shop. Mr. Bone and his charming pony. Perhaps he’d been out back with the pony, and young Margaret had stopped to chat. Or had she gone into the shop?