by James R Benn
“Oh,” said Alfred, taking in this new information, nodding his head as if he were a connoisseur of dead foreign officers.
“Sorry for the trouble, guv,” his father said. “Ever since his mum was killed, I’ve had a hard time keeping my eye on him. I’m a docker, and we get double shifts as often as not. Not so bad now that they ain’t bombing us, but it’s ’ard enough. The boy didn’t mean any ’arm by it.”
“The Blitz?” Scutt asked, standing to look the man in the eye.
“Aye. October 1940 it was. Alfred was up north. I came ’ome after a big raid, fires burning all around. Could ’ardly see. Thought the smoke had got to my eyes when I couldn’t find our ’ouse. The whole street was gone. Gone.”
“Can we go now?” Alfred asked, sounding older than a kid still in short pants. He stood and took his father’s hand.
“There’s nothing else you can tell us, Alfred?” Flack said. “Nothing else you saw, or took with you? Even something small?”
“No, and I ain’t lyin’.”
“Had you ever seen this man before?” I asked. Alfred and his father turned, surprised to find me standing behind them.
“A Yank!” Alfred said. “Got any chewing gum?”
“Alfred!” His father gave him a light cuff on the ear. “Show some respect.”
“That’s OK,” I said.
“I don’t mean for you, I mean for the lad ’imself. Ain’t right to go begging.”
“I didn’t look at ’is face,” Alfred said, rubbing his ear and chancing a glance at his father. “There was blood and stuff everywhere, and ’is face was to the ground. I didn’t want to touch it, know what I mean?”
“I do. Take a look at this photograph. Recognize him?” I laid the picture of Egorov on the desk. Alfred and his father leaned in to study it.
“Well, ’e don’t look so good, but that’s the fellow what asked about Chapman outside the Tube,” the father said. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention Alfred in connection with that, nor my name neither.”
“Is that ’im who’s dead?” Alfred asked.
“Yes.”
“Couldn’t ’ave been Chapman then, right, Dad?”
“True, boy. You’re right there.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Too quick, a bullet to the ’ead,” Alfred’s father said. “Ain’t Chapman’s style. Now, if you gentleman are done with us, we’ll get ’ome.”
“Yes, thank you for your cooperation,” said Scutt. “And we won’t mention your names and Chapman’s in the same breath.”
“I appreciate it, Inspector. Wouldn’t do to get on Chapman’s bad side, not down in the shelter.”
“Where’s home?” I asked, following them out. “Where did you go after being bombed out?”
“Moved in with my sister and her ’usband, down on Threadneedle Street. But we spend nights in the shelter. Don’t want to take a chance with the boy here.”
“But there hasn’t been a raid in months.”
“True. But the Jerries are a long way from beat, and they’ll be back. If we give up our place now, we won’t ’ave it when it’s needed most. So down we go, every night.”
“Along with this guy Chapman?”
“Listen to my advice. Stay away from ’im. You’ll find nothing but trouble if you don’t. Let’s go, Alfred.” The two shuffled off, the father’s arm draped over his son’s shoulder.
“Good idea you had, Boyle,” Flack said when I returned. “The boy was holding something back, and as soon as his father came home, he gave it up.”
“What does it mean?” I asked, tracing the line drawn on the map, from Stowmarket in Suffolk through Chelmsford and into London. It lazily terminated in the area of Buckingham Palace.
“It was the lad’s imagination that concluded it led to the palace, as you can see,” Scutt said. “But it does end near the Soviet Embassy. It starts outside of Stowmarket, where the Russians purchase much of their foodstuff from the local farms. Pigs, beef, whatever is in season. As diplomats, they are not subject to rationing, and can buy what they wish direct from farms, for their fancy dinners.”
“Egorov was selling information,” I said. “To this Chapman?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. We’ve had lorries hit all over London. Liquor, clothing, even bread. A load of food for an embassy would be worth a fortune on the black market.”
“Is that the business Chapman is in?”
“Oh no,” Scutt said in mock horror. “Archibald Chapman is a perfectly respectable contractor. Building, renovating, that sort of thing. Plenty of work these days, putting London back together.”
“But he didn’t lack for work before the war,” Flack said. “Since his competition had a habit of disappearing.”
“I know the type,” I said. “Did you find any other evidence on Egorov’s body? Anything in his billfold?”
“No,” Scutt said. “A few pound notes, pictures of a young woman and a baby. His identity papers, nothing else. We cataloged everything, but that Russian captain took it all. What was his name, Flack?”
“Kiril Sidorov,” Flack said, consulting his notebook. “Red Air Force captain. Came in here with a couple of fellows with arms the size of ham hocks, took all the evidence, such as it was, along with the late Captain Egorov. I asked him if we could search Egorov’s quarters in the embassy, and he just laughed.”
“Smooth chap,” Scutt said. “Not all bluster and blather. Spoke decent English, and apologized for interfering with our investigation. He didn’t mean it, but it showed good manners, which the few Bolsheviks I’ve met lacked.”
“Here’s the bullet,” Flack said, opening an envelope. A misshapen slug rolled out onto the map, tumbling to a halt north of London Bridge. “You can see the filing marks, what’s left of them.”
I picked up the bullet. The sides were peeled back, torn away when the crisscross indentations had met the skull bone, turning a deadly round into a destructive missile. I could see the remnants of the file markings. The size was about right for a .32 caliber.
“No way to identify the caliber, is there?” I asked, trying to keep the hope out of my voice.
“Not in a courtroom, but I’d bet a month’s wages we’re looking for a .32,” said Scutt, taking the bullet from my hand and squinting at it. “Wouldn’t you say, Lieutenant Boyle?”
“Hard to say. Maybe, yeah. But the pistol could be at the bottom of the Thames by now. We need to focus on why someone wanted Egorov dead.”
“Indeed,” Scutt said. I hardly heard him, as I was thinking about the best place to drop Kaz’s sidearm in the river.
“I’ve been up to Eighth Air Force HQ,” I said.
“What did you learn?” Flack said.
“That Russians have been there, and that it’s unhealthy to ask questions about them. I had a pack of MPs looking for me. I’d be in the stockade now if a guy I knew hadn’t helped me get out ahead of them.”
“Can this guy, as you call him, be of assistance?” Scutt asked.
“Maybe. He’s a colonel, but he’s OK. He said he’d try and get in touch. Meanwhile, I think I’ll pay Chapman a visit.”
“Watch your step with that one,” Flack said. “He’s as liable to slit your throat as to say good evening. He likes the blade, he does. His right-hand man is his son, Topper. Not as flashy as the old man, but smart. Archie sent him to the best schools, trying to put a shine on the family name. Topper knows how to dress and talk so you’d think him a banker, but don’t let him fool you.”
“I try never to turn my back on a banker.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
WALTER SIGNALED ME from his post at the front desk when I returned to the Dorchester, and handed me a message from Kaz. It said he’d be working late at Polish headquarters and would stay the night at the Rubens Hotel. I tried to call him from the room, but I couldn’t get through. Lieutenant Kazimierz was unavailable, in conference, and would be all night. It sounded like something big was brewing. Mayb
e it had to do with the Russians and Katyn Forest, maybe not. There was plenty else going on in this war. Polish troops were fighting in Italy, and the whole Polish underground movement was coordinated from London, plus the Polish RAF squadrons were only an hour’s drive away. But all that paled in comparison to the atrocity at Katyn. Every Pole who fought on our side was a volunteer, risking his life for his country. Death was a tragedy among them, but not unexpected, not avoidable. The Poles at Katyn were prisoners of war, murdered by our own Allies. They’d been helpless, and their deaths were as unnecessary as they were cruel. It was murder, and I had come to hate murder all the more because of the war. There was enough killing to go around. The thousands shot in the head by the Russians and thrown into pits should not have died that way. It was wrong, so wrong that it made my gut ache. So wrong that I could understand the need for revenge, the absolute necessity of it.
I set down the receiver and stared at the telephone. Kaz was my friend, but it was time to start acting like a cop. At least a cop who knew how to dispose of incriminating evidence. He probably had the .32 with him, but I had to look. I went through his desk, rifled his bureau drawers, then moved on to his clothes, patting down jacket pockets. Nothing. I pulled down boxes from the closet shelf, and one fell open. Letters spilled out. They were from Daphne. The postmarks went back to early 1940, when they’d first met, here in the dining room of the Dorchester, as bombs fell on Hyde Park. There were notes as well as letters, probably from when she’d moved in with him. Her handwriting flowed over the paper, a river of words that Kaz would never hear again, even if he read them a thousand times.
I felt like a lowlife. I put everything back, and wished I was still in Naples, hiking up a volcano with Diana. I couldn’t betray Kaz, but I wasn’t sure I could protect him either. It was the same with Diana. I’d learned I couldn’t talk her out of volunteering with the SOE, that she needed to do her bit, as she liked to say. She needed to risk her life, to prove to herself she deserved it. I couldn’t stop her, and I couldn’t protect her from the risk of death either. I cared for both Kaz and Diana, more than anyone this side of Southie, and fear curled up inside me as I thought of the worst of what might be in store for them.
I pulled the heavy curtains shut, pausing to watch the last of the afternoon light bathe the park in a soft glow. Vehicles crawled along Park Lane, tiny beams of light seeping onto the roadway through blackout slits. London had never felt so lonely. Everyone was going somewhere. Home, to dinner, back to the barracks, maybe down to the shelters. Those things that passed for a normal life these days. Friends and family, small talk, even if it was on a subway platform. Me, I was in a high-class hotel, rummaging through my best friend’s possessions, spilling letters from his dead lover onto the floor. Welcome to my war. I poured a drink from the bar Kaz kept stocked with Irish whiskey, just for me. Here’s to you, pal.
It went down smoothly, but I still felt a twinge of that morning’s hangover. I shouldn’t have drunk so much vodka the night before, and I shouldn’t have any more tonight, I told myself as I poured one more. But then I thought, hell, if I’m looking to steal Kaz’s pistol, I might as well drink all his whiskey, too.
Daphne’s letters made me realize how long it had been since I’d written one myself. I pulled some stationery from the writing desk—heavy, creamy paper with The Dorchester in elegant script across the top. I could sneak it into the airmail bag at headquarters, instead of using the Victory Mail forms. Mom would get a kick out of the hotel stationery. I switched on the desk lamp and set down my drink, the heavy crystal settling on the polished cherrywood with a satisfying clunk. It was a high-class sound, the kind of sound that said a lot of money had gone into the furniture, glassware, and booze. A rich man’s sound, the echo of privilege and place. But right then I’d have preferred the sound of a beer glass going down on a coaster at Kirby’s Tavern in South Boston. Soft and quiet. Comfortable.
I started off the letter with the obvious news that I was back in London. I asked about my kid brother, Danny, who had just started college under the Army Specialized Training Program. He’d turned eighteen and would have been drafted but for the ASTP, which was an army deal to insure a supply of well-educated officer candidates in case the war dragged on longer than they expected. It sort of satisfied Danny, who got to wear a uniform and march around campus. He was a smart kid—I mean a really smart kid—straight As and all that. It was a cinch for him to get in, and I hoped it would keep him safe until the shooting died down.
Then I had to write about what I was up to. I couldn’t tell them anything about Diana, on account of her being British, since I didn’t want a written lecture on the evils of associating with the English. Or about dead Poles in a Russian forest, a dead Russian in bombed-out London, Kaz and his possible murder weapon, getting drunk on vodka last night, being chased by MPs at High Wycombe, or drinking too much whiskey tonight. I almost wrote about young Alfred finding the body and thinking it was a German, but that was too depressing. It was a short letter, and I fell asleep on the couch, a spilled drink soaking the carpet and the vision of motherless Alfred leading his father by the hand worming its way into my dreams.
IN THE MORNING I called Kaz, who was still not available. Then I called room service, which mercifully was. I wolfed down toast and jam, and then washed that down with hot coffee until the cobwebs cleared. I told myself no booze today, but I knew that morning promises had a way of giving in to evening temptations. I wanted to talk to Kaz, but until I could, I needed to work this case some more. There were two visits I had to make. One was to the Russian who had come to claim Egorov’s body. Kiril Sidorov, captain in Stalin’s air force, or so he claimed. He was certainly NKVD, charged with cleaning up an embarrassing murder of a Soviet officer gone bad, tempted by the degenerate English criminal class. The other was to Archibald Chapman, one of those degenerate English criminals. Sidorov was first on the list, since degenerates generally slept in, while secret police never sleep.
It was a cold, clear day. I’d dressed in my heavy wool brown pants and the chocolate brown wool shirt I’d picked up in Naples before coming north. With my light khaki tie, it made me look like a gangster, which was why I had chosen it for today. The Russians probably thought all Americans were gangsters, so why not go along? I set my garrison cap at a smart angle, put on my mackinaw with the warm wool collar, and added a scarf and leather gloves. It felt like winter in Boston on a sunny day with the breeze howling up the Charles River. The Soviet Embassy was on the other side of Kensington Palace, where the lesser royals had to make do, and the wind gusted over the open park grounds. It was a swanky area, not the kind of place you’d find many Bolsheviks among the neighbors, but even a Red ambassador had to put on a good show.
Walking to Kensington Palace Gardens was a little like walking up Beacon Hill, except the English had more room to spread out than the Boston Brahmins had. I found the Soviet Embassy, which wasn’t hard, given the big bloodred flag snapping in the breeze, the yellow hammer and sickle vanishing and reappearing in the silken folds as the banner waved in the wind. The building was a two-story, ornate structure, beige brickwork bordered by gleaming white trim and elegantly carved cornices. Two sentries stood at the ironwork gate, dressed in Soviet Army greatcoats. I asked to see Captain Kiril Sidorov, and they opened the gate without asking a question or speaking a word. I wondered what you had to do in their army to get embassy duty in London. It must have seemed like springtime in paradise, compared to the Russian front.
Inside the main entrance was a small room. It was painted a stark white, with one door, a desk, and two chairs. A man in a baggy dark suit sat at a desk and, without looking up, started asking me a series of questions as a bigger guy in an even baggier suit searched me. Neither of them had spent their spare time shopping in London, that was for sure. Who was I, whom did I want to see, for what purpose, who was my superior officer, and finally, what was my civilian occupation.
I used Harding’s name, holding Uncle
Ike in reserve in case things got dicey. I told them I wanted to speak to Captain Sidorov in connection with the murder of Captain Gennady Egorov.
“The assassination of Captain Egorov,” the smaller dark suit stated, waiting for the answer to the last question. It didn’t seem worth debating the difference. He had a thin face, with a thick mustache that looked out of place over pale, pursed lips. He spoke English carefully, considering each word as he strung them together in a series of harsh consonants.
“Why does it matter what I did in civilian life?” I asked. I wondered if his mustache was an imitation of Joe Stalin’s.
“It will assist us in determining if you are an enemy of the people. We do not want provocateurs causing trouble for our comrades.”
“Aren’t we all on the same side, comrade?”
“We must be vigilant in the class struggle, as well as in the struggle against Fascism, especially in this decadent city. Your civilian occupation, please?”
“Have you guys seen Ninotchka yet?”
“We have no one here by that name.” Busy writing in his notebook, he still hadn’t looked me in the eye. The big guy stood with his arms folded, a bored look on his broad, dull face. His neck was thick and his knuckles were decorated with scar tissue. I wondered what his civilian occupation had been.
“No, the film,” I said. “With Greta Garbo.”
“Western films are a frivolous waste of time. We have our own Russian motion pictures brought in for entertainment. Perhaps Captain Sidorov will invite you to see one. Your civilian occupation?”
“Police detective. Friend and protector of the people.”
“Hmm.” He wrote some more, and finally looked at me. I sensed he was weighing the obvious benefit of a detective working on the assassination of Comrade Egorov against my being a lackey of the ruling class. We had our fair share of Communist sympathizers in Boston, especially over in Cambridge, where the most ardent of them usually came from the richest families. I wasn’t exactly a fan of the moneyed crowd and politicians who ran things, but it seemed to me the Reds had as many bosses as any factory hand, and less of a chance of quitting than any textile worker in New England.