Evil for Evil: A Billy Boyle World War II Mystery

by James R Benn

  "They said it was going to be easy," he began. "The Italians had just surrendered. Our officers said the beaches didn't need a preliminary bombardment, that we'd just stroll ashore. So all those big naval guns sat quiet. It was going to be easy."

  "It wasn't," I said.

  "No, it wasn't. Mortars and machine guns hit us as soon as the landing craft dropped its ramp and took out half the guys, everyone up front. We had to step over the bodies to get out. Then the machine guns really started up. I was the only guy to get to shore alive. Just me and Pig. There was no one else to talk to, no one else close by that I even recognized. I was scared, so I started telling Pig that nothing was going to happen to us there, more to convince myself than anything else. There was so much machine-gun fire, their tracer rounds hit my pack and it started to burn. You couldn't even lift your head up off the ground. But they didn't kill me. So I kept on talking to Pig every day. I'd tell him to watch out, to do his part, because if I went, so did he."

  "It worked?"

  "For ten days. We got hit hard by them Germans. They were on the high ground all around us. Seemed like the only way we had to attack was up. They had lots of tanks, too goddamn many tanks. They counterattacked one morning and them Panzer Grenadiers infiltrated our rear area. Tanks out front, Jerries behind us, mortars everywhere. I couldn't even talk to Pig, it was so loud with those 88s slamming into us. Next thing I knew, there was an explosion, some kind of fireball. My back was filled with shrapnel, they told me. I ended up in a hospital in England. When I recovered, they transferred me here. Didn't matter much to me, my buddies are all dead."

  "So you came to Ireland with Pig."

  "Yeah, I managed to hang on to him. I haven't missed a day since. I figure if he makes it, I make it. Sound nuts to you, Lieutenant?"

  "It might, in polite society. But that's not where we are, is it?"

  "Hardly. Say, how did you know my name, Lieutenant? Why are you here?"

  "The name's Billy Boyle. I came here to look into that arms theft last week. I have a few questions for you."

  "Are you with Captain Heck?"

  "Everybody asks me that, in a sort of worried tone. Why is that?"

  "I dunno, cops make people nervous, don't they?"

  "Well, that depends. Some people like cops; they feel more secure with them around."

  "Military police? Belfast police? You said your name was Boyle, didn't you?"

  "That I did," I said, letting a bit of the brogue roll into my voice. "Is that why you're going around armed? Not many people wear a piece around here when they're off duty."

  "Makes me feel safe. Sort of like having my own personal cop around. You're a cop, aren't you?"

  "Was, back in Boston. Which is why they asked me to look into this. And I don't work for Heck."

  "Didn't think so. He's put me through the wringer, him and that Carrick guy."

  "If you're not in the stockade they must think you weren't involved."

  "There's barbed wire all around this place if you haven't noticed. What questions do you have?"

  "Was Lieutenant Hayes lax on security?"

  "Hell no, he was a good ordnance man. He knew his stuff. I was glad when I got transferred to the Ordnance Depot. I spent my first two weeks here working in the mess hall, and let me tell you, I was glad to get off that detail."

  "I bet," I said. "How does Lieutenant Jacobson compare to Hayes?"

  "Saul is all right, he runs the place OK, but he doesn't know weapons like Stan did. They needed a scapegoat, and Stan was their choice. Protected everyone else. There hadn't been any security orders for the arms depot. Just like there aren't any for the motor pool. We're inside an army base, for Christ's sake."

  "Makes sense. What about that night? You had no idea what was going on?"

  "None. I was at the opposite end of the building. It was raining sideways, and with all that noise and wind it would have been impossible to hear anything. I did notice the truck driving away, though. It switched on its headlights, which I thought was odd. That's when I went in the back and saw the door had been forced open."

  "I suppose you called Lieutenant Hayes?"

  "First I tried to call the main gate, to stop the truck. But they'd cut the telephone wires. I couldn't get anyone. By the time I roused Stan, they were long gone."

  "What time was this?"

  "Close to midnight."

  "Any idea who was behind it? Any rumors floating around?"

  "None that make any sense. Everyone seems convinced it was the IRA."

  "You're not?"

  "Well, they used Jenkins's truck, right? And he's big with the Red Hand boys around here. Now that would be a slap in the face to the Protestants, wouldn't it?"

  "Yeah, if that's why they did it. But he had access to the post, he made regular deliveries here, so it makes sense to grab one of his vehicles."

  "No, you don't understand. Do you know your Irish history, Lieutenant?"

  "It's a fairly big deal in my family."

  "Mine too. So think about this. The IRA steals a vehicle from the leader of the Red Hand and uses it to steal automatic weapons, adding insult to injury. What would Jenkins's first reaction be?"

  "Retribution," I said, as I began to see what Brennan meant.

  "You are a cop! And as an Irish cop, you'd know that any Catholic would do, IRA member or not."

  "Have there been any reprisals? Retaliation of any kind?"

  "Not against Catholics by Protestant militia. The IRA shot a Belfast cop a couple days ago. With a pistol. That's it. At least that's all that's been in the newspapers."

  "Could've happened that way. Or maybe with everyone looking for the BARs, the Red Hand decided to lie low for a while."

  "Lieutenant Boyle, if you know anything about recent history here, you'll know that lying low isn't something either side does." He drew Pig out of his pocket and began to rub the creature absentmindedly as he gazed out over the sea.

  "I just got here. To Ireland, I mean. What's it like for someone with a sense of Irish history to be here in the north?"

  "Helping the British garrison their part of Ireland, you mean? I don't like it much, but we probably won't be here long anyway. It is strange, though. Most of the IRA activity these days goes on up here or along the border. After hearing so many stories, it's odd to see it really happening. I mean, back home, who cares if you're Catholic or Protestant? Here it could get you killed if the other fellow has his blood up."

  "Tell me, has anyone from the IRA ever approached you? Appealing to you as a patriotic Irishman?"

  "I'm not sure. There was one time--it was in a pub in Ardglass--a guy asked me what church I attended. I thought it was a strange way to strike up a conversation, but it turned out to be common around here. Lets you know right away if you're drinking with the right kind or not. He said he went to Saint Mary's, which meant he was Catholic. Once I told him I went to Saint Brigid's back home, he started talking about how we all have to stick together, even those who'd left Ireland for America. It could've been nothing but talk except that he asked a lot of questions about what type of guns we had, almost as if he knew I was assigned to the arms depot."

  "Did you ever see him again?"

  "Once, over in Clough. It's a lot closer than Ardglass, and I wondered if he was looking for me. I waved and he nodded back but that was it. He was deep in conversation with another guy, some GI, and I didn't want to butt in."

  "What did he look like?"

  "Pretty average looking, except for his red hair. Bright red, like a carrot. The other fellow was tall, forty or so, balding."

  "Do you remember his name, the guy you'd talked to before?"

  "Yeah, it was Eamonn, he said. A Gaelic name. He talked about how it used to be illegal for an Irishman to even say his name in Gaelic. Can you believe that?"

  "Yes, I can." "Eamonn" was "Edward" in English. Eddie Mahoney had bright red hair, and this was the second time he'd come up. Or the third, if you counted the time someo
ne had shot him in the head.

  CHAPTER * TEN

  I SAT ALONE in the mess hall, drinking coffee and trying to figure out what do next. So far, all I knew was that Eddie Mahoney had been sighted in two area pubs, once arguing with someone, and once chatting with a GI. Not evidence of anything, not even a clue. I knew that Major Thornton hadn't bothered to tell me Inspector Carrick had asked for Brennan's file. Again, nothing really suspicious; worth asking about but I doubted it meant anything. Brennan was in the know about the IRA, and sympathetic, but so was I, and likely hundreds of other GIs in Northern Ireland. I needed to check out Andrew Jenkins to see if he was brazen enough to have used his own delivery truck in the heist. Something about Mahoney and how he was found bothered me. It seemed as if there was a missing piece to this puzzle but I couldn't see it.

  Also, I had been warned by old Grady O'Brick as soon as I landed, warned to watch my step. He'd nodded in the direction of the MP waiting for me but was that what he'd meant? Or was he gesturing toward the land itself? I didn't know, which pretty much summed up where I was in this investigation. No answers.

  I watched the men in the mess hall, eating chow, laughing and talking, doing everyday things, as much as that was possible in the army. Some of these guys had been on garrison duty in Iceland; others were fresh from the States. A few, like Brennan, were transfers from outfits that had been in combat. Maybe the army wanted to add experienced men to the unit but it never made much sense to me. Until men went through combat and saw for themselves, veterans like Brennan would be viewed as oddballs, paranoid and superstitious, strangers in their midst. Brennan himself, his pals all dead, stood apart, doing his job, but unwilling or unable to form the bonds of friendship with men who might get chopped up beside him on the next invasion beach. Instead, his only buddy was a carved pig.

  Matches, bottle caps, pocket knives, Saint Christopher medals, coins, and the ace of spades. I'd seen them all grasped in sweaty palms, tucked in pockets and continually patted down to make sure they were safe. There were rituals too--prayers, curses, songs, finger tapping, the sign of the cross, all those charms and amulets each GI was certain he couldn't do without when the lead started flying. They knew that without it, they'd be dead. With it, their chances might be slightly better than average, but nothing was guaranteed. Finally, after enough time up on the line, they realized luck had nothing to do with it. Skill and alertness--those things could give you an edge, at least until exhaustion set in, but luck was meaningless. Sooner or later, unless they pulled you off the line, you were going to get it.

  I stirred my cold coffee and stared at the dark liquid swirling like a whirlpool.

  "Lieutenant Boyle?"

  I jumped, startled. I looked up and saw a man in a dark green uniform staring at me. He had a square jaw and a thin-lipped mouth set beneath dark eyes. Crow's-feet showed at their corners, and I judged him to be in his midforties. The uniform had a high collar with the Irish harp on each collar tab. His black leather belt and holster were gleaming, the butt of his revolver high and forward, ready for action.

  "You must be Hugh Carrick," I said, rising from my seat. I didn't offer my hand.

  "District Inspector Carrick, if it's all the same to you," he said as he sat down across from me. He gestured with his hand for me to be seated, as if I had just walked into his office.

  "It is," I said. "Do district inspectors in Ulster have to wear Class As all the time?"

  "Pardon me?"

  "The fancy dress uniform. Back in the States detectives dress in suits except for special occasions."

  "I just came from a funeral in Dromara. A constable, murdered by the so-called Irish Republican Army. Shot four times in the back, twenty yards from his home. His wife and two wee girls reached him first."

  As he spoke, his tone didn't vary. No emotion crept into his voice, and his eyes stayed focused on me as he sat there, hands folded in his lap.

  "I'm sorry, Inspector--"

  "District Inspector."

  "I am sorry, District Inspector. I'm a policeman myself, or was. In Boston, before the war. The death of a brother officer is a serious matter."

  "Serious? To a Catholic from Boston? I understand the IRA murder squads enjoy a great deal of support from the Irish settled in Boston."

  "How do you know I'm Catholic? Maybe I'm an atheist."

  "Do not joke with me, Lieutenant Boyle. Your name tells me what I need to know, and your city tells me the rest. It's in the blood with you from across the border, whether you've gone to America or come north with a pistol to shoot a good man in the back." His words spilled out with the Irish accent I was used to, but with a harder, clipped edge. The only part of him that moved was his lips.

  "Perhaps we should talk another time, District Inspector. I'm sure passions are running high after the funeral."

  "Passions, Lieutenant Boyle? We have no time for passions. We have murderers to apprehend. We have a war to fight. Perhaps you allow yourself to wallow in passions but personally I find them distracting."

  "Passion is what usually leads to murder, DI Carrick."

  "But not what solves them, in my experience. Now I am told that I must cooperate with you, and I am sure you have been instructed to cooperate with me."

  "I have been. I've only been here one full day. I don't have much information yet." I tried to keep my response neutral, to match his tone and his approach to me. It was an interrogation technique my dad had taught me. When a suspect was giving you a hard time, watch how he sits and how he speaks. Copy his stance and tone, and give it back to him. Sometimes it can defuse a touchy situation.

  "Very well. What information do you have?"

  "I know that Edward Mahoney was seen in the area in two different pubs, by Major Thornton and then by Sergeant Brennan. That you've questioned Brennan and requested his file. I know that Provost Marshal Heck was not pleased with my arrival. And now I know that you also are less than pleased. The only person glad to see me has been Major Thornton, who seems certain I can find his BARs for him, which will guarantee his command of a combat outfit."

  "Major Thornton has not yet seen the elephant, or he wouldn't be so eager. Do you think you can find the weapons, or that your IRA friends will hand them over if you ask?"

  "I just explained that I don't have any friends in Ireland. How about being a pal anyway and telling me what you know? Some of that promised cooperation would be nice."

  "I can tell you I have my suspicions about Sergeant Brennan although his record is exemplary. Stood up well at Salerno after your generals sent good men ashore to be slaughtered."

  "Suspicions?" I asked, resisting the urge to take a swipe at him or at least respond to his barbs. But that was what he was looking for, so he'd have a good excuse to write me off as an inexperienced pro-IRA Yank.

  "He spends all of his free time in the villages around here, alone. He never goes anywhere with his mates."

  "His mates are all dead, and he doesn't seem to want any new ones."

  "Nevertheless, that could be how he made contact with the IRA. The Catholic pubs are sure to be full of them or their sympathizers. And of course who better to let them know when and how to strike?"

  "That's good circumstantial stuff. But I have a question for you. If the IRA pulled this off by stealing one of Andrew Jenkins's trucks, that would leave him looking the fool. Why hasn't he retaliated? Have there been any IRA men or innocent Catholics gunned down?"

  "No. I've told Jenkins to sit this out and let us handle it."

  "You give orders to the Red Hand Society? And they obey them?"

  "I'm not part of that rabble, Lieutenant Boyle. The Ulster Volunteer Force are all good men, good Protestant Unionists who will fight for our right to be part of Great Britain. The Red Hand are criminals and bullies, acting under the guise of patriotism. Most would sell out their own mothers if there was a quid in it for them. Andrew Jenkins isn't the worst of the lot; he does listen to reason on occasion."

  The missing p
iece came to me when Carrick mentioned selling out.

  "Eddie Mahoney was found with a pound note in his hand, the sign of the informer," I said.

  "Aye, he was."

  "Well, whom did he inform on? Whom did he inform to?" I asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's simple. If he was correctly marked as an informer, he must have been informing to someone. Was he one of yours?"

  "No, he wasn't. But they could have made a mistake. On the run, suspicious of everyone, any one of those IRA men could have turned on him."

  "Not really. The IRA has its court-martial process. It might not be pretty but one man couldn't shoot another like that without approval."

  "How close are you to the IRA in America, Lieutenant Boyle?"

  I leaned in on my elbows, as close I could get, and looked him in the eye.

  "Close enough. Close enough to know something stinks here. Tell me, are you in on the cover-up, or are you not high up enough to know who was running Mahoney?"

  I watched his face for a sign of rage and kept half an eye on those folded hands, in case one came up a fist to slam me. It didn't.

  "It wasn't us, and it wasn't the British Army," he said, his face relaxing slightly. He rested one arm on the tabletop, the most casual pose he had yet taken. "You're right about that--it doesn't add up, unless the IRA got it all wrong."

  "Or it wasn't the IRA."

  "I doubt that. The Red Hand would have an easier time stealing British arms, don't you think? More sympathizers among the British troops, just as the IRA has its sympathizers among the Americans."

  "That makes some sense, although if the opportunity presented itself--"

  "Jenkins would surely take it, yes."

  "But if it was the IRA, then either they were wrong about Mahoney or there's something going on you don't know about."

  "Doubtful."

  "What if they were right about an informer but wrong about who it was?"