Evil for Evil: A Billy Boyle World War II Mystery

by James R Benn

  "I didn't put it all together at first but he was there when we found Pete Brennan's body. He drove his cart by, and had words with Sergeant Lynch. I think Grady recognized him, and maybe even the staff car. I mentioned to him in passing that I was going up to Belfast with a British officer the next day. He could've easily had Lynch and Slaine followed, and planted the bomb, or had it planted, since we know the IRA has plenty of plastic explosive. Plus, he was in the pub when we stopped to call the base. He saw Slaine with me, probably overheard the call. He must have known Taggart was up the mountain and called out the reinforcements when he found out we were going up after him."

  "He seems like a harmless old gent, Billy. Are you sure?"

  "It's the only thing that fits. He was present when I met Slaine and Sergeant Lynch on the road, and he was in the pub when we called the base on our way to Slieve Donard. So he was behind the hotel bomb and the ambush at the bridge. Everything that happened had the hallmark of a careful planner, which by his own admission, he is. But most of all, it would be the perfect revenge. He was tortured over a Lewis gun, did you know that?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "He gave it up after they pulled out nine fingernails. The Brit pulled the tenth for the hell of it."

  "Jesus, they are a bunch of bastards for all their grand civilization, aren't they? So now he's taking an old man's revenge, turning automatic weapons on them in repayment for one Lewis gun. And he was in league with the devil himself, mad Jack Taggart, to get his revenge."

  "Turn here," I said as we passed the pub.

  "Why are you so sure the weapons will be gone?"

  "Because they need to get into position before everyone arrives at Brownlow House, for the shindig the Royal Black Knights of the British Commonwealth are throwing tonight. Black tie and dress uniforms. Americans and British, armed services and the RUC. The cream of Protestant Ulster society and their Yank guests. How's that for an opportunity to start a shooting war?"

  "God, the man's a genius," Uncle Dan said with fervent awe. "You know those so-called knights are not the firebrands, Billy. Most of them will look down their noses at us and try to put us in our places but they like things neat and stable. Yet if you kill enough of them, the ones left will be crying for blood in the streets."

  "I know. And if that happens, what will the IRA do?"

  "Accept about ten thousand new recruits and head north. Then the Republic will have to step in, and God knows where it will all end."

  "It's what Slaine warned me about in Jerusalem. Here it is, turn left."

  "Jerusalem? You do get around in this war."

  He slowed the ambulance to a crawl as he turned the wheel to enter the boreen. The wheels straddled the track, rolling over the gorse with its yellow flowers and spiky vines. Stretching ahead of us was proof of what I'd suspected. The gorse had been flattened the whole way, the ground beneath still muddy and churned up from yesterday's rain. Another vehicle, larger than Grady's horse cart, had been through here today.

  We parked in front of Grady's cottage and got out, guns drawn. But I wasn't worried about an ambush; I was certain the IRA men were gone. We checked the house and it was empty, the picture of the bloody rabbit still next to Jesus carrying his cross down the Via Dolorosa. His choice of artworks had seemed strange when I first saw them but now they seemed the perfect pair of pictures for Grady to stare at during his long nights by the fire, planning his retribution. A small animal, hunted and mutilated, next to a man whipped and tormented, carrying a heavy burden to his death. It's a strange world, that place inhabited by those who have been harmed and plan harm to others. A house of sadness, pity, and terror, drenched in dreams of blood. I shivered as I turned from the pictures.

  "Look at this," Uncle Dan said, moving some papers on a rough wood table with the barrel of his revolver. It was a copy of the Ulster Gazette about five years old, opened to a photo spread of Brownlow House, a history of its architecture, and pictures of the adjacent park. "You were right. We better get over there with backup."

  There was nothing else in the cottage, no evidence other than an old yellowed newspaper. The croft was a different story. Peat bricks were strewn and trampled down everywhere. Piles had been taken down and open sections revealed the perfect hiding places for crates of BARs and ammunition. Broken wood planks were scattered about, the military nomenclature spelling out Rifle, Caliber .30, Automatic, Browning, M1918 in dozens of pieces. An empty bandolier and a few bullets dropped in haste were all that was left.

  "I have to say, Billy, I'm feeling a bit outgunned here. Is the cavalry on its way?"

  "I don't think Masters is back down the mountain yet. Hopefully, DI Carrick will get the message before it's too late." I holstered my automatic and leaned against the truck, cradling my arm and lifting my head to the sun. The sky was a brilliant blue, everything washed clean from the rains. There was a chill from the damp ground but the sun warmed my face. Uncle Dan stuffed the revolver in his pocket and sat on the bumper.

  "We've got to do more than hope, boy. Why not call out more troops? Brownlow House is an army headquarters, after all."

  "Same reason I didn't called Cosgrove. If GIs and a security detail show up, Grady will go to ground. We can't let him get away. He'll simply plan something else."

  "So how do we catch him?" Uncle Dan lit a cigarette, spitting out a piece of stray tobacco. "The two of us surround forty-odd armed men and tell them to give up, it's hopeless?"

  "How would you get that many men with BARs close enough to attack Brownlow House? I mean close enough for them to have a chance of getting inside."

  "Two things to take care of first," he said. "Take out the security in place, and then secure against reinforcements."

  "OK, how would you do that?"

  "Well, a diversion maybe. Something to attract the attention of the guards. Draw them in, cut them down. And I'd place a team on either side of the main drive to take out any vehicles bringing in reinforcements. BARs would be just the thing."

  "All this assumes the main assault group is close by, ready to take advantage of the diversion and move in."

  "Sure. Otherwise it's a waste of time. But how?"

  How? How could you smuggle that many armed men into a guarded military facility?

  "Jesus H. Christ on a crutch," I said, borrowing one of General Eisenhower's favorite curses. "They do it the same damn way they stole the BARs in the first place. Waltz right in!"

  "Use a Jenkins truck?" Uncle Dan asked.

  "You said the man was a genius. When he had Taggart kill Jenkins, it was for two reasons. One was to get us together and kill us with one booby trap, but the other was to get Jenkins out of the way to make it easier to steal a couple of his trucks in the confusion after his death. His firm is bound to be one of the suppliers for the event, so no one would think to check them."

  "You know, Billy, I never believed what they said about you. You're a smart one after all, you are."

  CHAPTER * THIRTY FIVE

  WE PARKED THE ambulance in an alley with a view of the entrance to Brownlow House. A black wrought-iron fence surrounded the property, but the gate was wide open. We watched a few jeeps come and go, and endured the stares of civilians passing by. With the ambulance's Red Cross markings, we were fairly conspicuous. A few buildings down, on our side of the street, cars began to park near a church, and men in black suits began to gather out front. Uncle Dan got out and strolled down the sidewalk for a look.

  "That's a Protestant, Church of Ireland, crowd," he said when he returned. "Those fellows look like they could be with the Royal Black Knights. Might be getting ready for a parade or some lodge ceremony, although there's only nine of them so far, talking and having a smoke. They have rolled-up banners and the like."

  "Maybe they're going to have a procession, from the church to Brownlow House. They'd make nice targets, like ducks in a line."

  A few minutes later they'd gone inside the church, and two deuce-and-half trucks pulled over to t
he side of the road. Sergeant Farrell got out of the lead truck and I signaled him to come over to us.

  "Where's Masters?" I said.

  "We got in touch by walkie-talkie, and he told us to go ahead, to meet you right away. He's maybe thirty minutes behind us."

  I gave him a brief explanation of what we expected, and told him to send in teams to sweep the woods on either side of the main drive. "Stash the trucks out of sight somewhere, and radio Masters to meet us on the grounds. We'll probably be with DI Carrick."

  We drove in past the iron gates, slowly enough to check the terrain. A gravel drive crunched beneath our tires as Uncle Dan kept in first gear, his arm hanging nonchalantly out the window. I saw his eyes moving from tree to tree, up and down the road, into the woods. I'd seen him like that in Boston, in tenement buildings and back alleys. But this was different. This was combat, and the last time he'd faced this many automatic weapons had been in World War I in No-Man's-Land.

  "There," he said, nodding his head forward. "That's where I'd put them. On the curve ahead. Clear line of fire down the road. Probably a couple of them there right now."

  His face was blank, no emotion, no hint of fear, turmoil, or remembrance. Nothing but steely eyes and white knuckles on the wheel. He whistled a tune, "I've Heard That Song Before," as he took the curve. I bet he had.

  It was late afternoon, and the sun sparkled off the sandstone building with its forest of chimneys stark against the deep blue sky. British and American flags flew from the lantern-shaped main tower, and dress uniforms of all types were evident as small groups of officers in blue, brown, and khaki strolled the grounds. I spotted DI Carrick in his dark green RUC uniform, walking with a plainclothesman. They were eyeing the perimeter, where the woods met the manicured lawns of Brownlow House. Uncle Dan parked the ambulance, backing it in next to a deuce-and-half as if he did it for a living. Carrick had seen us, sent the other man off, and waited for us near the steps leading into the main entrance.

  "Did I understand correctly? You think they're here already?"

  "Yes, or will be soon if they aren't. I have Lieutenant Masters's platoon conducting a sweep through the woods, looking for a rear guard to keep reinforcements at bay. His idea," I said, hooking a thumb in Uncle Dan's direction. He'd stepped away for better view of the grounds.

  "Not a bad one. With that much firepower, half a dozen men could hold up a company on that narrow drive. I have some men in uniform patrolling the grounds, not any more than would be usual for such an event. Others are in plainclothes or dressed as waiters."

  "Have trucks from Jenkins's firm shown up?"

  "I saw two of them leaving as I came in. Why?"

  I told him my theory about Grady O'Brick and my insight into the death of Andrew Jenkins and the use of the trucks to smuggle in the men and weapons. DI Carrick didn't seem impressed.

  "A Jenkins vehicle delivering food for a large dinner, well, that's not out of the ordinary. And I've been through most of the house, and my men have checked every room by now. I don't know where they're hiding if they were brought in in those trucks."

  "Are all your men accounted for?"

  "I'll have a count made," he said. The sound of drums rolled in from the main road.

  "Is there some sort of parade?" I said.

  "A short procession, from the church and through the park, in honor of our guests, members from lodges in England, Canada, and the U.S. There will be a brief welcoming speech by the Grand Master on the veranda. Then inside for the dinner. That'll be them now, forming up."

  "How many?" Uncle Dan asked, rejoining us.

  "Two hundred for the dinner, probably twice as many in the procession. Many of the local lodges have sent members to take part in the parade."

  "Plus all the brass here to watch it. It'll be a turkey shoot if we're right," Uncle Dan said.

  "I'll be back with a count," Carrick said, a worried look crossing his face as he gazed out over the flat, open lawn.

  "Let's walk once around the place," Uncle Dan said. We took off, trying to blend in with the officers enjoying the late autumn sunshine, GIs, and workers scurrying around, setting up inside and out for the festivities.

  "Everyone looks like a genuine GI or an unarmed waiter," I said. "You heard that the Jenkins trucks have been and gone?"

  "Yeah. Let's check the kitchen, see if there's food enough for two truckloads."

  There was. The staff was so busy they hardly noticed us. It took a lot of food to feed two hundred of Ulster's best, and the place was stocked with it. Several cooks were preparing racks of lamb, trimming the bones and seasoning the meat. Vegetables were being chopped, potatoes peeled and boiled, cases of wine opened, and trays of appetizers laid out. Not a BAR in sight, and everyone looked like they knew what they were doing.

  We kept walking around the building. No one stopped us or asked who we were. Maybe Carrick's men knew us by now but the building sentries should have been on their toes. Yet how could they cope with this many guests flooding the place?

  "I don't know what to do next," I said as we returned to our starting point. Carrick met us just as I saw Bob Masters park his jeep and head over. The two men nodded in greeting as they approached.

  "All my men are accounted for," Carrick said, in a quick, clipped tone. He tried to hide his relief.

  "I ran into Sergeant Farrell," Masters said. "They found a nest of four IRA men, right at the bend in the road. Two sets of BARs pointed in each direction. He's got three of them tied up and guarded."

  "The fourth?" Carrick said.

  "Farrell said three of them gave up easy, one went for his weapon. He had to use his knife."

  "Where are your men now?" Uncle Dan asked.

  "I've got two groups making a sweep of the perimeter, just inside the tree line. The rest are close, in case something happens here." He nodded his head slightly, indicating the trees nearest the house.

  "Unfortunately, we don't know where O'Brick and the rest of them may be," Carrick said. "We've searched the house thoroughly, and your men are taking care of the grounds. Where could they hide?"

  "Cold feet?" Uncle Dan said, without much enthusiasm.

  "They wouldn't have left the rear guard behind," I said.

  "We'll search the house again, but forty men armed with Browning Automatic Rifles can't be easily hidden," Carrick said.

  "Did you check the tunnel?" Masters said.

  "What tunnel?"

  "You know, the one I told you about. Lord Brownlow's tunnel, the one he had built so he could sneak out on his wife. Supposedly it leads into the town somewhere."

  "Good lord, I'd forgotten about that completely," Carrick said. "It's been sealed up for years."

  "So it hasn't been checked?" I said.

  "No, I doubt any of my men even know of it. How did you learn of it, Lieutenant Masters?"

  "A chaplain told me. He'd been studying the history of the building."

  "Very well," Carrick said, with an edge of suspicion in his voice. He didn't care for a Yank showing him up on the details of Brownlow House. "I think I remember where it is."

  DI Carrick led us to a set of double wooden doors at the far side of the building, away from the main entrance and stone veranda. It was built for everyday use, not show. He pointed to tire tracks in the grass, where a vehicle had pulled close to the doors. They opened into a short hallway, with rubber boots and tools lining the sandstone walls. Cans of oil were stacked next to a large red can marked PETROL. Another set of doors led down thick wooden steps into the dank and musty smell of a basement. Carrick pulled a string hanging over the steps and a single lightbulb cast a yellow, feeble illumination into the low-ceil-inged room. Masters had a flashlight and searched the far corners of the cellar with its beam. Sagging shelves choked with cobwebs, dust-encrusted barrels, three-legged chairs, and the debris of decades crowded each wall. Carrick pointed and Masters followed with his beam. It found a door less than five feet high, thick oak secured by cast-iron bands and hea
vy nails. It looked hundreds of years old, as did the sliding bolt lock, left open. Masters pointed the flashlight in front of the door. Prints and scuff marks of many feet were visible on the hard-packed dirt floor. Carrick put his finger to his lips, and we all backed out into the first room.

  "We have them," he said in barely a whisper.

  "The trick is, to get them out. Where does the tunnel lead?" Uncle Dan said.

  "In the old days, it ran to Castle Street, but it's been caved in for years. I can send some men over there, just in case. But it's likely we have them boxed in. If I were that evil fellow in Mr. Poe's 'Cask of Amontillado,' then I'd say seal up the door and be done with it."

  "A creative approach, Hugh, but Billy needs his BARs back. Why not let me talk to them?"

  "It is my responsibility, Daniel, but thank you all the same."

  "Now listen, Hugh," Uncle Dan said, turning away from Masters and me to face Carrick dead on. "You're an excellent police officer. But I nearly fell down laughing when you ordered Taggart to give up in the name of the Crown. Not that he had any notion of giving up at all, but if he had, any mention of the Crown would have driven it out of his Red Republican head. Give me a chance to talk to these lads for only a minute. If I don't have them out as meek as lambs in short order, then you go ahead and tell them the king orders them to surrender." He ended with a laugh, to show it was all a matter of tactics, nothing personal.

  "All right. I'll send a squad over to Castle Street. Lieutenant Masters, bring up that squad you have close by; we'll need them if Daniel gets lucky."

  "Yes, sir," Masters said, running off. Carrick left at a more sedate pace. I drew my .45, realizing we were the last line of defense.

  "Luck will have nothing to do with it, Hugh, my friend," Uncle Dan said to himself as he picked up the can of petrol and gave it a shake, a good healthy slosh showing it was more than half full. I followed him down the steps but not too closely.

  "If any of you boys are smoking in there, which I doubt, you'd best put them out," he said loudly as he poured out the contents of the can at the bottom of the door. The gasoline went glug glug glug and disappeared beneath the door frame. He slid the bolt shut, locking them in. "And don't even think of firing a shot or you'll set off the fumes and be roasted alive." Shouts and pounding echoed from inside the tunnel, the words barely understandable through the heavy door.