by James R Benn
“I assume you didn’t tell him she was the love of your life?”
“Hell no, Billy. I didn’t make it out to be any big deal. Didn’t want to overplay my hand. Beetle just said if you was having any trouble to let him know. So go let him know while he’s in a good mood and thinking about blasting quail. Then we’ll steal whatever you want.”
I left Big Mike to wash down the third doughnut while I went upstairs. Luck was on my side; Mattie Pinette was the WAC on duty. She was a good friend from North Africa, and she’d heard about the quail hunt Big Mike had organized.
“We’re all grateful, Billy,” she said in a whisper. “Beetle needs a day off. Don’t you worry. Estelle Gordon will be back in London as soon as we can get her on an aircraft. Is she a suspect in something? Is she dangerous?”
“She’s a giant killer, Mattie.”
Ten minutes later Big Mike—wearing a grin that wouldn’t stop—and I were scouting out the back entrance to Norfolk House, along Charles Street, where the deliveries came in. It was a tight squeeze, and several vehicles were waiting in line, a plumber’s truck and a jeep filled with typewriters jockeying for position near the double-wide rear doors.
“We can’t touch the civilian stuff, and I doubt there’s a market for typewriters,” Big Mike said. “Want to stake the place out?”
“How about heading back to the kitchen, and we’ll ask the cooks what they’ve got. We can tell them Beetle was asking for something special.”
“Canned peaches,” Big Mike said. “They’re worth their weight in gold.”
“Perfect,” I said. We both went, and I played the snotty junior officer, ordering Big Mike around in front of the mess staff. We told the sergeant in charge that General Walter Bedell Smith was a sonuvabitch all day if he didn’t get his canned peaches and that if there weren’t any this afternoon he was going to get himself some new cooks.
These cooks and bakers worked hard, no doubt about it, but they also knew that duty at Norfolk House in London was preferable to cooking in some battalion kitchen out on maneuvers. They consulted clipboards, yelled into the telephone, searched shelves, and looked under counters, stirring up a cloud of flour in their haste and panic, until a kid wearing an apron bigger than he was triumphantly told us they’d be serving canned peaches in a couple of hours, and had enough coming in to keep Beetle in thick syrup for weeks. They were happy, I was happy, Big Mike was happy. But there would be no peaches tonight for the weary warriors of Norfolk House.
We waited on Charles Street, watching the traffic, wrapped in our trench coats and scarves, stomping our feet to keep warm. The weather was turning colder, the clouds still blanking out the sun, the pavement chill creeping up our boots. Finally, what we were waiting for showed up. One supply truck, driven by a corporal, with a PFC dead asleep in the passenger’s seat. I stepped out in front of them as they turned off the street.
“Show me your orders!” I barked, imitating a combination of Beetle, Harding, and a rabid dog as I peered inside the truck cab. “How dare you show up to headquarters like this? You’re both out of uniform. I ought to put you on report.”
“Gee, Lieutenant,” the PFC said, “we’ve been loading and unloading crates all day. We always wear our fatigues on work detail. These are uniforms, ain’t they?”
“Looks like you’ve been rolling around in the dirt all day, soldier. Plus, no field scarf, and that wool cap isn’t regulation wear without a steel helmet on top of it. If General Smith sees you, you’ll lose what stripes you have. Pull the vehicle over then go inside, both of you. Wash up, make yourselves presentable, and then unload this stuff.”
“But, Lieutenant, we can’t leave this—”
“I’ll sign for your shipment, Corporal, don’t worry. And we’ll wait right here. Now move!”
“I don’t know, Lieutenant,” he said, handing me the clipboard. I scrawled on the signature line and kept the clipboard.
“Trust me, I know. I used to be a captain. Then I showed up one day with mud on my trousers. Busted. Do yourself a favor—hustle inside, clean up, get back here on the double, and you might be all right. I can’t wait all day.”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” he said, getting out of the truck and reaching for the clipboard. “I’ll take my receipt now.”
“You’re not putting those greasy fingers on my copy,” I said, tossing the clipboard on the seat. “Clean those hands and then we’ll finish the paperwork.”
They both went off, shaking their heads, slightly unsure if they owed me thanks or if it was more of the usual chickenshit. Big Mike and I watched them go in, waited a couple of seconds in case they looked back, and jumped into the truck. I threw the clipboard out the window. They’d find it, signed, and maybe their story would be believed. I shoved the gear into reverse, backed into Charles Street, and took off, trying not to hit the statue of Florence Nightingale as I turned right onto Waterloo Place, watching the rearview mirror for cooks, bakers, MPs, or quartermaster troops on our tail.
“You got a can opener on you, Billy?” Big Mike asked. I didn’t stop laughing until I realized I had to find a place in the heart of London to hide a three-quarter-ton U.S. Army truck, loaded with crates labeled PEACHES, CANNED, SYRUP, HEAVY.
Fortunately, Walter was on duty at the Dorchester, manning the front desk and unflappable as I told him we needed a place to park a truck for a few hours, out of sight. I hesitated to use the word hide, but he understood. He made a phone call and told me to head around the back of the hotel, between the two wings that extended from the rear of the hotel. I signaled Big Mike, who was circling the block, and he turned in, a Dorchester Rolls-Royce pulling in behind us, partially blocking the view from the side street. As long as the MPs didn’t start searching fancy hotels for stolen peaches, we’d be OK. I untied the canvas cover at the rear and counted crates. Neatly stacked, there were four rows, four high, four deep. Sixty-four crates of canned peaches. I grabbed a pry bar from a tool kit bolted to the floor and popped the top of one crate, the thin pine giving way easily. Six industrial-sized cans in each crate, enough peaches to feed an army.
“Jeez, Billy, what do you think it’s all worth?” Big Mike asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But we have some time to figure it out.” I handed him the open crate, got down and secured the canvas tarp. We left the one crate with the Rolls driver, since it wouldn’t do to carry contraband through the lobby, and told Walter to divvy it up as he saw fit. When I told him what it was, his eyes widened.
“I haven’t seen peaches since, since, I can’t remember when,” Walter said. “There’s four staff involved, Lieutenant, and one more coming on duty soon. Ah, are there sufficient supplies?”
“Six cans this high, Walter,” I said, holding my hands about a foot apart. “I need to know what this stuff would cost on the black market. And don’t worry, this is all in the course of an investigation. I’m working with Scotland Yard.”
“Very well, Lieutenant. I shall make inquiries,” he said in a whisper. “The sixth can will go to the chef, who should be able to find out.”
“Thanks. We’ll be out of here after dark.” I swear I saw him lick his lips. He’d be a hero at home tonight.
I ordered room service, since it would be a late night, and Big Mike had gone without food for about four hours. As we worked on the lamb chops and boiled potatoes, we tried to figure out what to ask Chapman for the peaches.
“I know a carton of smokes goes for about twenty bucks,” Big Mike said. “That’s a lot because you can trade American cigarettes for just about anything.”
“Yeah, but there’s a built-in appeal for smokers, they gotta have them. Peaches, well, they taste good, but you can go without and not really be bothered.”
“Maybe,” Big Mike said. “They’re a luxury. Some folks will pay top dollar for what everyone else can’t have.” There was a knock on the door and we both jumped, like a couple of heisters on the run. But it was only Walter.
“Our ch
ef wishes to know how many of these cans you are looking to sell,” he asked.
“Sixty-four,” I said.
“He would pay five pounds each.”
“Wow” was all I could say.
“Billy, remember it’s sixty-three crates now, since we gave these guys one.”
“You have sixty-three crates?” Walter asked, amazement registering in his normally cultured and calm voice.
“Yeah,” I said. “Did you mean five pounds per crate?”
“Blimey, no,” Walter said, dropping the high-society accent. “Five quid per can!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WE LEFT ANOTHER crate with Walter and his pals, just to let them know there were no hard feelings. I didn’t know if the chef and Walter were in cahoots, planning to sell off the peaches at an even greater profit, or if it was all for the glory of the hotel’s kitchen. I thought it might be the glory, the desire for the Dorchester to be seen as able to conjure up anything for their guests. The government limit of five shillings for any meal on the menu was still in effect, but that didn’t mean the hotel couldn’t charge separately for a dessert of peaches. The rumor of peaches alone would probably bring in droves of diners, all the Mayfair set ready to plunk down whatever it took for a delicacy out of reach for the common folk.
But we were headed to a different neighborhood, one where you didn’t dress for dinner. Big Mike took Oxford Street and left the West End behind, the roadway changing to names that better suited the surroundings. Cheapside turned to Threadneedle Street, and that took us close to the Liverpool Tube Station.
“Pull in next to those trucks,” I said. As I’d hoped, there were vehicles parked near the burned-out buildings a block away from the Underground. Work was still going on to clear the debris, and a couple of flatbed trucks and a van had been backed into the cleared space. Big Mike joined them and killed the engine. “You stay here, make sure no one noses around.”
“I can’t let you go in there alone, Billy,” Big Mike said, but without a lot of enthusiasm. He knew our precious cargo might not last unguarded.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back in no time at all with a buyer.”
“Kinda interesting, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“Being a bad guy. I’m sitting here with a truckload of stolen goods, while you’re looking to fence ’em. Who’da thought it?”
“Yeah. Makes you see the attraction. There’s good money to be made.”
“I’ll take my PD pension any day. This is getting on my nerves. Hurry up, OK? I don’t know what I’d say if a bobby comes along.”
“Show him your badge and tell him about Detroit. That’ll keep him from coming back.” I shut the door before Big Mike could curse me out and pulled a crate from the back, wrapping it in a tarp. I carried it into the Tube station, thinking about the ARP warden the night before, staying at his post to help a mother and her children. Heroes and bums were everywhere, plenty of each on the homefront as well as the firing line.
The atmosphere was calmer down below, with a steady stream of East Enders carrying blankets, pillows, and bags to their places on the platform. The chances of another raid with all the cloud cover tonight were slim, but the place was filling up. Last night’s terror was replaced by laughter and smiles of recognition as neighbors from above met each other below. A small group of girls was trying to sing the new song “A Lovely Way to Spend an Evening,” but ended up giggling each time they got to the chorus.
The bunks in the siding were near to full, the soft murmur of conversation marking the more regular residents. Some read newspapers, others magazines and paperbacks. One man, old enough to have served in the last war, was reading No Orchids for Miss Blandish, a recent book that had caused a sensation in 1939 over its depictions of beatings, killings, torture, and rape. Odd, with one war behind him and another driving him underground, that he passed his time by turning the page from one act of brutality to another. Or maybe it made perfect sense. At least he wasn’t deluding himself.
“Hi, Charlie,” I said, as the boxer looked up from his newspaper. “I’ve got a present for Mr. Chapman.”
“Let’s have a look then,” he said. I dropped the cover off the crate and watched him raise an eyebrow. “You can take that back, Topper’ll see you. But hand the gun over first.” I gave him my .38, and he folded the newspaper over it. I wondered how much they paid off the local constables, or if they were just too afraid to come down this way.
“Well, Boyle, I see you don’t take advice,” Topper said as I entered the room. The blankets to Archie’s sanctum were drawn. “Can’t say I didn’t give fair warning.” He was playing cards with two guys in brand-new suits. It was noticeable since nobody had a new suit in London, due to rationing and the desire of most people to do their bit. But not Topper and his pals. Elegant tailoring, silk shirts, patent-leather black shoes.
“All dressed up and nowhere to go?” I said, setting the crate down on their card table.
“Shut up, Yank,” one of Topper’s boys said, pulling the deck of cards away from the crate of canned peaches.
“You know, my dad always told me to make a good first impression when you meet new people,” I said. “Because that sets the tone for everything that comes afterward.”
“Ain’t nothing coming afterward, Yank, so shut up before I get mad and do it for you.”
“That’s just what I’m talking about,” I said, gazing at Topper across the table from me. The guy with the mouth was on my left, looking up at me. Topper made a show of studying his cards. The well-dressed thug on my right watched Topper, waiting for a sign. “This guy is going to give me a hard time every time I see him now, because of the lousy first impression he has of me, letting him mouth off like that.”
“So why don’t—”
Before he could tell me what I should do about it, I grabbed him by the back of the head and snapped it down, smashing his face against the wooden crate. The pine wood and the cartilage in his nose cracked, and he started howling as blood christened his shirt. I didn’t look at the other two. I knew I had to show disdain for whatever they might do. Charlie didn’t stir, likely used to the sound of pain coming from behind the wall of blankets.
“Now,” I said, still grasping his hair and holding his face back so I loomed over him, “wouldn’t it have been better to start off politely, so we could’ve been pals?” He looked at Topper, waiting for him to have me dismembered. All Topper did was blow out a breath in mock boredom and toss his cards onto the table.
“Pals?” the tough guy said through the blood filling his nostrils, unable to follow what I was saying, stunned at the lack of support from his boss.
“Have some peaches,” I said. Topper laughed.
I’d hoped for a chance to get their attention, beyond the gift of six cans of Uncle Sam’s finest Georgia peaches. I needed to demonstrate that I was a tough guy, too, and the only way to do that with a bunch of crooks is to not let one of them give you any lip. That was one of the lessons Dad had taught me. Never take guff from a guy unless you’re willing to take it every time you run into him.
“Stanley, get cleaned up. I’ll get you a new shirt tomorrow,” Topper said. He nodded to the other fellow, who stood, took the box from the table, cleaned up the cards, and stood behind me. “Thank you for the gift, Boyle.”
“Lots more where that came from.”
“I hope your delivery method improves. I won’t let you get away with that again. But it was worth it to teach Stanley a lesson. He should think before he speaks.”
“I don’t intend on delivering these in person. If you’re interested in acquiring more, I’ve got sixty cases to move. But the gift-giving season is over.”
“Where are they?”
“Close, ready to unload.”
“I don’t intend to be drawn into a trap, Lieutenant Boyle. I appreciate this gift from the U.S. Army, but I have no interest in the black market.”
“What’s the clothing ration t
hese days? Thirty-six coupons a year, right? You’re each wearing about two-thirds of that.”
“It pays to have friends, Lieutenant. In the same way it pays to not make enemies. It helps one get ahead.”
“Five pounds per can,” I said. “That’s my price.”
“What?”
“I’m making the offer to sell you army property. I don’t know about the law here, but back in the States I’d have to wait for you to offer to buy if I wanted to entrap you.”
“That’s not what I meant. I must’ve misunderstood you. I thought you said five pounds per can.”
“I did. You can’t find peaches anywhere in England except on a U.S. Army base. They’re priceless. You can sell them to fancy restaurants, rich folk, gangsters, anyone with a pocketful of cash. You could charge five pounds per peach, for crying out loud.”
“Clive,” Topper said, beckoning to the guy standing behind me. I tensed, waiting for a sap to my skull. “Open those cans. Take them around to the good people outside. Make sure they share them out, women and children first. Got it?”
“Yes, boss. You want any?”
“No. Leave a bowl for Dad, though. And yourself and Charlie, too.”
“None for Stanley?” Topper shook his head, and Clive got to work with a can opener.
“I’ll buy your sixty crates at four pounds each. That’s two hundred and forty quid. My only offer.”
“You going to give those away, too?”
“We’re not a charitable institution,” Topper said. “But these are all East Enders in here. Our folk. We take care of our own.”
“And they take care of you.”
“What’s fair is fair,” he said, as a chorus of cheers went up from the residents of the Chapman siding. “Take the two forty or take your leave.”
“I want three hundred, and some information.”
“Information has value, Billy, it’s not something to be given away.”
“OK, I’ll knock fifty pounds off for the info. Two fifty, and you tell me what I need to know.”