Evil for Evil: A Billy Boyle World War II Mystery

by James R Benn

  "No, sir. First time in Belfast."

  "It's rather amazing. They have a runway built right up to the docks. After they unload the planes, they take off, right from the ship. Wizard, simply wizard."

  "More bomb damage?" I said, pointing to piles of rubble where workers were loading debris onto trucks.

  "Yes. The Luftwaffe gave Belfast the full treatment early on. They went for the dockyards regularly, the railroads, and the city in general. Some neighborhoods were hit quite badly. There are not enough resources at present to rebuild everything, so some of the damaged buildings are taken down and the rubble hauled away, as they are doing there. They still find bodies underneath."

  "Do they still hit the city?"

  "No, not for a while. With you Yanks coming in, with your aircraft added to ours, and our increased defenses, it's too risky for them. It's a long flight, navigating at night, across England, avoiding the Republic of Ireland, and then finding Belfast. It's a wonder they ever tried. Do you know they accidentally bombed Dublin? Blighters got lost and thought they were over Ulster! I'd say those particular boys are shivering at the Russian front, if they're still alive."

  "I never heard about that."

  "De Valera kept it as quiet as he could. Embarrassing for him not to retaliate in any way but he didn't want to antagonize the Germans or encourage us. He's walking a tightrope. One slip and he'll have us, the Germans, or both over his border."

  We left the city, occasional gaps in the rows of buildings showing where German bombs had fallen. A few new buildings were going up but mostly it was bricks and concrete going out, leaving small fields of weeds sprouting between structures, marking the place where homes and lives had once flourished.

  Convoy traffic lightened up and we made it into Lisburn in forty minutes. Slaine gave the driver directions to Jenkins's warehouse, one of a number of small facilities he owned as part of his distribution network. Had owned, I should say. We drove up to where two RUC constables had set up a roadblock with their vehicle at the entrance to a fenced-in yard containing a few large garages, some open sheds, and a few sheet-metal-roofed wooden buildings. The main gate was open, a chain with an open padlock hanging from one side.

  "Here to see DI Carrick," the driver said.

  We were waved through, the constable pointing to the row of buildings on our left. We drove across the dirt drive, still wet and churned up from the recent rains. Ahead of us were an ambulance and three police cars. It occurred to me I'd seen several ambulances in Northern Ireland, and they all had been used to transport murder victims. Wasn't anybody ever simply injured here?

  Jenkins's warehouse was the last building. The double doors were open and one of the police cars was parked in front, its lights on, illuminating the dark interior. Two thick wooden beams ran across the interior space. From the second hung the limp body of Andrew Jenkins, his head tilted sideways at a sickening angle. Those who hang themselves are not pretty to behold, and I'd give odds that no one would do so who had ever seen such a sight.

  "Lieutenant Boyle," DI Carrick said with the solemn tone appropriate to a crime scene. He shook Major Cosgrove's hand and suggested to Slaine that she might wish to wait outside.

  She ignored his concern and glanced around the space. Beneath Jenkins was a flatbed truck and a single wooden chair on the ground next to it. Crates of vegetables were stacked along one wall, and an empty workbench adorned the other.

  "Nothing's been moved?"

  "Nothing. We thought you might have an interest, and were sure Lieutenant Boyle would."

  "Do you mind?" I asked, stepping forward. Carrick nodded his assent, and I walked over to the truck, watching where I stepped across the dirt floor. The truck had been driven in recently, the wet mud showing clearly in its tracks. A rope was secured to the truck bed, tied through one of several clamps used to tie down crates. The truck looked like it had come straight from a farm.

  "It appears that Mr. Jenkins secured the rope, threw it over the rafter, put the chair on the truck bed, and then kicked it out from under him," Carrick said, raising his voice for all to hear.

  "It does," I said, looking inside the truck cab. "There's no note. Did you see any paper in here?"

  "None."

  I walked around the truck, searching the ground. I looked inside the cab. The seat was cracked and torn, the interior caked with mud and dust. The key was in the ignition. I put the chair on the truck bed and jumped up. I could see the rope wasn't long enough to reach the rafter from the ground, so he'd used the truck for extra height. I stood on the chair, close to Jenkins. His feet dangled several inches above the seat where my feet were. I had to look up at his face, which was distended, eyes and tongue bulging out. I didn't linger long. He hadn't been much to look at when alive.

  I felt his arm and noticed the beginnings of rigor. "Who called it in?" I asked.

  "Anonymous phone call," Carrick said. "To the local station, saying that Andrew Jenkins had hung himself."

  "The caller used that name specifically?" Carrick consulted with a constable, who nodded his head emphatically.

  "Yes."

  Why? Why would someone who knew Jenkins call in his suicide? Why mention his name? I turned the body, listening to the creak of the rope on wood as I did. The back of his head was dark. I turned the body more, bringing his head into the full light of the headlamps. Dried blood. Andrew Jenkins had been hit over the head before this noose had gone around his neck. I looked at the rope again, and I saw how it had been done. Knock Jenkins out, and then throw him up on the truck bed, parked right below the rafter. Toss the rope over, tie it to the truck, and put the noose around his neck. Then drive the truck forward about four feet, and Jenkins is swaying in the air. Throw the chair down near the truck, and we're ready to jump to the suicide conclusion.

  "He was murdered," I said. Jenkins spun around once or twice, then settled into a gentle back-and-forth motion. I saw Slaine turn away, her hand over her mouth. Not quite one of the hard-case boys yet. I got down from the truck and told them about the blood on the back of his head.

  "And his feet don't quite reach the chair," I said. "I doubt he hit himself on the head and then jumped up into the noose."

  "Why stage a suicide then? It doesn't make sense. A man like Jenkins was bound to come to a violent end," Carrick said. "It wouldn't have surprised me to find him shot or beaten to death and left by the side of the road. But this seems like an elaborate ruse for no purpose."

  "Perhaps the killer wanted to divert suspicion from himself," Cosgrove said.

  "No need to, sir," Slaine said. "There are any number of IRA types who would gladly have strung him up. We'd be hard-pressed to limit ourselves to a dozen suspects offhand."

  "Then why?" Carrick asked. "Drive the truck forward slowly, so we can let the body down," he said, pointing to two constables who stood by the cars. "One of you hop up and get that noose off him."

  The constables acknowledged his order and walked to the truck.

  The silence was broken by the throaty sound of a motorcycle on the main road, downshifting, followed by a short, sharp screech of tires. Shouts came from the direction of the main gate, and heads turned in that direction. The motorcycle engine revved high and I saw it turn the corner, followed by the two RUC men from the gate, their pistols drawn, yelling for the man to halt.

  Carrick drew his revolver, and I followed suit with my automatic. One of the guards fired a warning shot over the motorcyclist's head, and I saw him scrunch down, making himself a smaller target.

  "Get back," Carrick shouted to all of us. "Inside!" We were in the line of fire. He dropped to one knee and held his pistol level as the motorcycle drew closer. Two shots rang out, the men from the gate firing and missing. The motorcycle swerved left and right, then turned hard to drive straight at us. The driver wore a leather helmet and goggles, and his mouth was open, yelling something. He looked like a crazy man, his face contorted in rage or frustration.

  "No!" he shouted as
he braked and slid the bike sideways, spraying Carrick and me with mud. Carrick kept his revolver aimed at the man, but didn't fire. He stood and raised his free hand in the direction of the men giving chase. I kept my .45 aimed at the motorcyclist. He looked familiar. This had to be the mystery Yank: same motorcycle, same trench coat.

  "For God's sake, don't start that truck!" He pulled off his goggles and helmet, his American accent ringing out loud and clear. And then I knew why he'd looked so familiar. I lowered my automatic, not believing what my eyes were seeing.

  "Who the hell are you?" Cosgrove said, emerging from the warehouse.

  "I'm the man who just saved your goddamn life," he said. "Want to tell them who I am, Billy, as soon as you point that cannon away from me?" His face lit up in a hell-raiser's grin, one I'd seen many times, and I couldn't help but smile back at him, even as the impossibility of it rattled around inside my head.

  "This is Daniel Boyle. He's a homicide detective with the Boston Police Department. And my uncle."

  "Explain yourself," Carrick said, not showing much interest in this Boyle family reunion.

  "Call your bomb squad. That truck is wired with plastic explosive, enough to destroy this place and anyone close to it," Uncle Dan said as he gave me a bear hug. "It's probably wired to the ignition but I wouldn't recommend trying the doors until the experts look at it."

  "I don't mean that," Carrick said. "I mean explain what you are doing here, and how you come by this information."

  "This is District Inspector Hugh Carrick," I said, and introduced Uncle Dan to the others. I wanted to know what the hell he was doing here myself but I sensed his presence might not be entirely on the up-and-up.

  "An explanation is in order," Cosgrove said.

  "I'd like to have a word with Billy, if you don't mind," Uncle Dan said.

  "No," Carrick said. "There will be time enough for a chat later, at headquarters. What I want to know right now is how you got by this information."

  "Well, let's see if I'm right," Uncle Dan said, walking over to the truck. "Billy, can you slide under and take a look at the engine? Don't open the hood. Don't touch anything."

  "Don't worry," I said, getting down on my back and pushing with my heels. Carrick and the others crowded around, their curiosity overcoming their qualms. It was dark under the truck but not so dark that I couldn't see bricks of plastic explosive tucked in the wheel wells and in various places around the frame and engine. Detonators were wired to each, and seemed to lead to the ignition switch. I could see above the radiator to the hood latch, and there were no wires or explosives there. I pulled myself out.

  "The hood is clear," I said. "But look at this." I opened the hood and propped it up. Even more of the plastic explosive was visible. It looked like enough to sink a battleship.

  "That's why the killer faked a suicide," Carrick said. "So we would all be called to the scene, stand around trying to figure things out, and then blow ourselves to smithereens."

  "The rope was short so that we'd have to start up the truck to lower the body. If Uncle Dan had been just a few minutes late--"

  "This would have been one big hole in the ground," he finished for me.

  "We owe you our thanks, to be sure," Carrick said. "If you're a policeman, as your nephew says, then you will understand we need to speak with you further about this matter and your presence here. It is not official, I take it."

  "The jurisdiction of the Boston PD does not extend over the Atlantic, to be sure," Uncle Dan said. "As for right now, I'd be happy to answer your questions but I have an appointment. Saving all your lives has made me late, and this much explosive makes me nervous, so I'll be leaving."

  "I agree with you about the explosive, Mr. Boyle. But not about your leaving. Constable," Carrick said, pointing at Uncle Dan, "search him."

  They found a .38 Special, brass knuckles, and a switchblade, but no passport or identification. But it was obvious he wasn't here to tour the old country. Cosgrove and Carrick argued over whether this was a police matter or one for MI-5. Carrick responded by informing Uncle Dan that he was under arrest for reckless driving and vagrancy, and put him in the back of one of the police cars with a constable on either side. Uncle Dan nodded and smiled in appreciation of the maneuver as he settled in for the ride between two cops who owed him their lives. I figured these Ulster cops were a better bet than MI-5 at Stormont Castle. Our driver followed us on Uncle Dan's motorcycle, and we all drove north, back to Belfast and RUC headquarters, me at the wheel with Cosgrove and Slaine in back.

  "They should give him a medal, not take him in," I said, probably for the tenth time.

  "You had no idea he was here?" Slaine asked.

  "None. I'd seen a guy on a motorcycle shadowing me, and a few people I talked to mentioned another American asking the same sort of questions I was. That must have been Uncle Dan. Remember, I asked you if you had another American working on this?"

  "Yes, I do. It rather looks like you had the other American, not I."

  "I had no idea it was him. How could I?" I thought about the Boston Braves matchbook in my pocket. That would have come from Uncle Dan. He was a Braves fan and could easily have grabbed a few packs of smokes and matches for the trip, without even thinking about it. Then he and Eddie Mahoney meet for a pint, the cigarettes and matches are out on the table, and Eddie ends up with Warren Spahn in his pocket. But what had Uncle Dan been up to with Eddie Mahoney, and why was he following me around in secret?

  I could think of one reason. Given Uncle Dan's membership in the North American IRA and his connections with Clan na Gael, I could make a pretty good guess, especially since he'd been in touch with Eddie Mahoney. The Dublin IRA wouldn't be the only ones out for blood when they learned about Red Jack stealing from them. Joe McGarrity, the head of Clan na Gael, and good friend of the Boyles, would be upset too. Upset enough to send someone to eliminate the thief, and set an example. Upset enough to send a hit man. A man loyal enough to do what had to be done and keep quiet about it. A man like Daniel Boyle.

  WE PULLED INTO the rear of the brick RUC station on Musgrave Road as DI Carrick took Uncle Dan by the arm and led him up the steps. It wasn't a tight grip and he didn't use handcuffs. Professional courtesy, I guess.

  "Major Cosgrove?" a constable asked as we stepped out of the vehicle. "Message for you, sir. Follow me." We did, turning right as we entered the building. I watched Uncle Dan and Carrick disappear down the opposite corridor. We were taken to a radio room. An operator handed Cosgrove a dispatch, which he read carefully then held over an ashtray and lit with his lighter. He held it until flames licked his fingers, and then dropped it.

  "Operation Sea Eagle II," he said in a whisper. "A Focke-Wulf Condor will take off from Saint-Servais in Brittany this evening. Two men will be dropped by parachute tonight, somewhere near the border."

  "How do you know--?"

  "Never mind that, Boyle. What matters is we do know."

  "Are you going to intercept it?"

  "What would you suggest, Subaltern O'Brien?" Cosgrove said, ushering us out into the deserted hallway.

  "I'd prefer those two men alive. Let them come."

  "Of course. Only sensible thing to do at this point. Now let's find out what your relative has been up to and then work out this little puzzle."

  A little puzzle. That's all this was to the old men of the British Empire, the riddle of the Irish. I didn't have much sympathy for the Luftwaffe, based on recent experiences, but I did feel sorry for those guys, gearing up for their flight, not knowing that their lives were being weighed in the balance. Was their part of the puzzle to live or die? I hoped no one was thinking about me that way, and then I remembered Slaine and her secret meetings. Was I part of her puzzle? And if so, was I her solution?

  We entered what looked like home. A big room, desks pushed together, guys pecking at typewriters, talking on telephones with receivers scrunched between cheek and shoulder as they took notes, the low buzz of talk and back talk and
all the familiar noises of a big city stationhouse. Rising above the Ulster Irish accents was one pure American voice.

  ". . . so then I says to him, 'Either way is fine with me!'"

  Laughter broke out at the punch line from a group of constables crowded around Uncle Dan, who took a sip of tea from a mug one of them handed him. He was grinning ear to ear as he winked at me, charming everyone around him as usual. I watched DI Carrick in his office, through the open door, as he spoke on the telephone, one eye on Uncle Dan.

  "Billy, come here and tell our brother officers about your first arrest, that Frenchman who couldn't keep his pants on, wasn't it?" He set down the mug and hitched his trousers up, the way he always did when he carried a pistol, badge, and cuffs. Cop force of habit. He rocked on his heels, his head tilted back as he brushed his thick brown hair off his forehead. He looked good, still strong, broad in the shoulders with blue eyes that drank in everything around him.

  The constables looked eagerly at me but I wasn't the storyteller Uncle Dan was. I saw Carrick hang up.

  "I think we're keeping DI Carrick waiting," I said.

  The group broke up, a few of the men wishing Uncle Dan luck before moving back to their desks and duties. Carrick motioned us in. His office was long and narrow, a conference table to the right of his desk, along a window that overlooked the room. He sat at the head under a portrait of King George VI, gazing serenely over us in his naval uniform, one hand languidly resting on a chair, gold braid up the elbow. Uncle Dan looked at it, then turned away to face Major Cosgrove and Slaine across the table. He shook his head slowly and muttered something under his breath. I didn't dare ask him what he'd said.

  "I have many questions for you," Carrick said as he opened a small notepad. "But please begin with how you came to know about the bomb in the truck."

  "I'll not speak further in front of this lot," Uncle Dan said, gesturing dismissively with his thumb toward Slaine and Cosgrove.

  "You certainly will, and answer every question put to you," Cosgrove said, his cheeks puffed out in indignation. "I've half a mind to take you in for espionage as it is."