Billy Boyle: A World War II Mystery, Vol. 1

by James R Benn

  “Not right away. I saw Kaz come out the door, carrying a briefcase, which is probably what he’d forgotten. He walked toward the car. Daphne must’ve seen him, and decided to back out, so he could just hop in and they could drive off.”

  I held my hand up for him to stop. I tried to relax and just let the thought surface. It was right on the edge of getting through. Then, suddenly, I knew.

  “As soon as she started to back out, there was an explosion. It was on the passenger side of the car and caught Kaz as he walked toward the car door,” I said calmly, seeing it all in my mind. “Then a second or two later, the gas tank went up.”

  “You’re right, Boyle,” Harding said in surprise. “I remember hearing a loud noise before the car burst into flames. It happened so fast . . . how did you know?”

  “Let’s go outside and check the car. I’d like to be certain.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Billy?” Jens asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m a cop, remember? I see this stuff all the time.” I stood up and held on to the table for support, trying to convince myself. We went outside.

  Men were cleaning up. Daphne’s body hadn’t been moved, but someone had placed a sheet over her. The wreckage of the Imp was still smoldering and the place stank. Two staff cars that had been parked on either side of the Imp had also been badly damaged. Glass, metal, and charred leather debris littered the area. The Imp was at a slight angle from the others, evidence that Daphne was pulling out of the space when it blew up. I walked toward the passenger side and studied it. It was ripped open. If Kaz had been in the car, he would’ve been in a dozen pieces even before the gas tank went. A blackened hole in the crushed gravel driveway had been blasted down to the hard-packed dirt. It was right under the passenger seat.

  “Tire bomb,” I said.

  “What?” asked Harding and Jens together.

  “Tire bomb. It’s a tube filled with plastic explosive and a detonator. One end is flat, and you jam it under a tire. That depresses a switch. The bomb goes off when the tire moves off it and frees the switch. Daphne had the car parked facing in. The device was placed under the left rear tire. When she pulled out, it went off under the passenger’s seat and lit up the fuel tank.”

  “Sabotage?” Jens asked.

  “Murder,” I answered. “To cover up the murder of Knut Birkeland.”

  “Where would you get this tire bomb?” Harding asked.

  “It’s standard equipment for SOE commandos.”

  “Why would someone want to kill Daphne?” asked Harding.

  “The criminal knew Kaz had been snooping around in London. He hotfooted it back here to see if Kaz had found out anything. I bet he had, and he’d confided in Daphne. Then he concocted that phony message from me to get them right where he wanted them. In the car, together.”

  “Who did?” asked Jens.

  “A guy who had access to commando equipment. The guy who gave them the message and helped Daphne out to the car. Rolf Kayser.”

  Jens opened his mouth, as if to deny it, but the logic of was undeniable.

  “But why commit murder?” Harding asked. “Why kill Birkeland?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But I’ll bet Daphne did. And now she’s dead. Kaz is our only hope.”

  I turned and walked inside. I had to wash and change my clothes. The smell of death was everywhere. I scrubbed my face, hands, and hair. I threw everything I was wearing into a pile on the floor and changed into fresh khakis. I still smelled the smoke on my skin.

  Twenty minutes later Harding and I were in a jeep heading to the British military hospital in Ipswich. We had left Jens on the phone with the Southwold base, issuing orders in the king’s name for Lieutenant Rolf Kayser to be held for questioning as soon as he showed up. For the moment, all I had to do was drive and worry about Kaz. There wasn’t time to mourn Daphne yet. I wanted Kaz to be all right, and part of me felt guilty that I might care more about finding out what he’d discovered than about him. I wondered if he knew about Daphne, and hoped I wouldn’t have to be the one to tell him. Things just seemed to get worse and worse. How would Kaz take it? He and Daphne were so different, yet so alike. They had been perfect for each other. How could you live, knowing the perfect thing you once had was gone?

  “You know what, Boyle?” Harding said. I was grateful to him for breaking into my thoughts. “This means that going after Anders Arnesen would have been a wild goose chase. Now that this has happened, it’s obvious he isn’t involved.”

  I hadn’t even thought about Anders. I was so pissed at Harding for not stopping him that it hadn’t even occurred to me that he couldn’t be the killer.

  “That’s right, sir. But we still need to talk to him. I want to know why he lied about being up and around early that morning.”

  Harding shrugged, as if what I wanted didn’t count for much.

  “That reminds me of another thing, Boyle,” he said. “I thought you had ruled out Rolf as a suspect because he was with the king when Birkeland was killed?” He finished his question as he pulled up to the gate at the hospital. The sentry asked for our IDs and we went through the drill with him.

  “It’s a long story, sir. Can it wait until later when I can lay it all out for you?”

  “OK.” Harding pulled into a parking place. “Let’s see how Kaz is doing.”

  He wasn’t doing well. A doctor took us into his room and read from his chart. Broken leg, a large gash on the left side of his face, multiple lacerations, probable concussion, a collapsed lung, and second-degree burns where his clothing had caught fire. Plus they were concerned about the effect on his heart, which wasn’t very strong to start with.

  I stopped listening and pulled up a chair next to the head of his bed. His face was wrapped in bandages. All I could see was one eye between the layers of gauze. I gently put my hand on his arm, afraid the slightest touch would hurt him.

  “Kaz? Kaz, can you hear me?”

  “He can’t hear you, Lieutenant. The pain medication has put him out,” the doctor said.

  “When will he wake up?”

  “We hope tomorrow. But in his condition, it may be hard to predict.”

  I didn’t ask any more questions. I wasn’t crazy about the answers I was getting. Harding went out in the corridor with the doc. I didn’t know what to do. Hospitals always made me nervous. But Kaz was my partner, or at least as close as a Boston cop could get to one over here. So I stayed. I looked around to make sure the door was shut, and then I started talking to Kaz. I filled him in on everything that had happened since we left him at Daphne’s father’s place. Until this morning, anyway. I told him about Southwold, Anders, Victoria Brey, everything I had seen and done.

  “That’s it, Kaz,” I finished up. “Now I just need to hear from you. What did you find out in London? It must’ve been good.”

  The slightest of little sounds escaped his lips, just a puff of air. One finger moved.

  “Kaz, it’s me, Billy.”

  I could see him try to move his head, but it was too much. He winced. He lifted his hand, holding it as if he wanted to shake hands.

  “What do you want, Kaz?” I heard another little sound. I leaned closer to his mouth.

  “Bbb ...”

  “Yeah, it’s Billy. I’m here.”

  “Bb . . . Bbbb . . .”

  It was like he was trying to say my name but couldn’t get it all out. I tried to take his hand, thinking that’s what he wanted. He shook me off with an effort that must have been painful. He gasped, then didn’t say anything for a long time.

  “I’ll stay right here, Kaz. When you feel strong enough, try again.”

  His eyelid fluttered and I could see he was trying to open it. A thin slit appeared and he tried to focus on me. He must have been really doped up, because he faded pretty quick. I waited. Minutes passed. Long minutes.

  “Bb . . . bbb.” Again, the hand. He tried to open his eye again. This time, he got the lid halfway up. I was sure he saw
me.

  “Bbb . . . re . . .”

  “What?”

  He worked his hand again, holding it like he was gripping something. His eye was fully open now, and he held me in his gaze, willing me to understand. I got it.

  “Briefcase!” I shouted. “Your briefcase! I understand, Kaz. I’ll find it. That’s where the evidence is, right?” This time when I took his hand he squeezed it. Yes.

  “I’ll get it, Kaz, I promise. Then I’ll come back to see you.”

  I wondered if he knew about Daphne, and if I should tell him. But I wanted to get out of there, away from the antiseptic hospital smell and Kaz’s suffering. Then I saw the tears leaking from his one good eye. He knew. He had delivered his message and now he was done. All that was left was grief. I squeezed his hand.

  “I know, buddy, I know. I know.”

  I stood up and let his hand slip from mine. I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, just above his eye, about the only patch of skin that wasn’t wrapped in bandages. I sniffed and guiltily wiped my own tears away, glancing around to make sure no one had seen. Boston cops don’t cry, much less kiss Polacks.

  I stood back from the bed and let out a sigh that came from way down in my gut. Kaz was out, his strength used up by uttering half a word and squeezing my hand. I felt the hardness of the linoleum floor through my feet. The close, warm air of the room brought beads of sweat out on my forehead that dripped down my temples.

  It had been a long time since I’d been in a hospital room. I wasn’t counting Doc O’Brien’s office, where I had taken Danny to get his leg stitched up last summer, or even the emergency room, where I’d escorted my fair share of bums, drunks, and Brunos who thought they could take on a guy who knew how to use a billy club with their fists. No, a hospital room was different; it was a place where they stashed you until they killed you or you happened to get well enough to walk out. At least, that’s what most everyone in my family said, ever since somebody’s great-aunt got taken down to Cork and put in a hospital she never came home from. I wasn’t sure about it myself, but the tightening in my stomach now was the same as it was the last time I’d stood at the foot of a bed like this, hat in hand, trying not to cry and feeling the room close in on me. The uniforms had been blue then, and it had been Dad on the bed.

  Uncle Dan had picked me up on my beat, siren blasting away, and brought me straight to the hospital. We didn’t know what had happened, just that Dad had been shot and was alive last anyone heard. The place was crawling with cops—out front, in the main lobby, all of them parting like the Red Sea as Uncle Dan looked at everyone and no one, demanding to know where his brother was. Somebody led us up a flight of stairs and down a hall to a room. A room like this: too warm; hard floor; smells of chalky gauze, antiseptic cleaners, and open wounds mingling.

  The difference was, Dad could talk. “Bastard couldn’t shoot straight” was the first thing he’d said, wincing with the pain the words brought him. He lay on his side, his right shoulder packed with thick gauze front and back, bandages around his chest and neck holding everything in place. Dried blood the color of rust showed through the gauze, and the sheets were pink where blood had dripped and spread. Dad’s skin was so pale it was almost as if I could see through it to the flesh and muscle beneath. He looked old, weak, and hurt. That scared me more than the bandages.

  “A through and through,” Uncle Dan said, his hands clenching and unclenching as his fear turned to anger. “Who did it?”

  “Don’t know,” Dad said. “I heard somebody come up behind me from an alleyway, then a click, like a hammer pulled back.” He stopped, closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and then flinched, the act of filling his chest with air causing shredded muscle to shriek in protest.

  “I started to turn,” he said, “and then he fired. I went down, heard another shot, but he missed. Must’ve been nervous, there were cops close by.” He closed his eyes again.

  “Where?” I asked. “Where were you?”

  “A block from the district courthouse, not ten minutes after I left the D Street Station.”

  “Did you see the guy?” I asked. I looked at Uncle Dan and saw him exchange glances with Dad, then look at me.

  “Naw,” Dad said. “Didn’t see a thing.”

  “Who would shoot you two blocks from the courthouse, in broad daylight? And why?” Dad didn’t answer; he just looked at Uncle Dan.

  “Well, Billy, I’d say someone who didn’t want your da to get to the courthouse,” Uncle Dan said with slow certainty.

  I had a million questions, about open cases and guys getting out of the slammer, but neither of them wanted to talk. Uncle Dan had given me the keys to the squad car and told me to go home and get Mom, tell her everything was OK. I wasn’t so sure it was, but I did as I was told. I took my dad’s hand, something I hadn’t done since I was a little kid, and held it tight. He squeezed it and smiled, a brave smile, and I gave him one back. As I walked out of the room, I turned to pull the door shut behind me. Uncle Dan was already leaning over Dad, nodding his head as Dad whispered to him. I shut the door and walked down the hallway lined with cops—plainclothes and bluecoats—all thankful Dad was all right, patting me on the back and telling me all I had to do was ask if we needed anything. I remember nodding and saying thanks, all the while wondering what had led to an ambush just steps from the South Boston District Court.

  Dad was home in a week and we had constant visitors and meals brought in by neighbors and the wives of cops. Everything from corned beef to platters of cold cuts, pickles, and cheese to lasagna and meatloaf. We needed it all, too, with cops visiting Dad at the end of every shift, sometimes just sitting outside on the front stoop, watching the traffic go by, waiting. Uncle Dan brought some of his IRA pals around, too, quiet men in black suits and cloth caps who spoke Gaelic to each other whenever someone they didn’t know came into the room.

  The case was never solved. Dad went back to work, desk duty at first, after three weeks at home. Every day after work one of the IRA boys would pick Dad up at the station and drive him home. That went on for a week, then Basher McGee was found floating in Quincy Bay, hands tied behind his back and two slugs in the back of the head. Just like an IRA execution, although no one commented on that. There was a big police funeral, with black armbands, brass, and bands. After that, Dad took the trolley home.

  Someone dropped a tray outside the room, the loud metal-against-linoleum sound echoing in the hallway. I took another look at Kaz, then walked out of the room. The door closed behind me.

  It was as if I had walked out into another world, where all the rules were different; everything had changed as sure as the door shutting behind me. Daphne Seaton, a kind, sweet person, was dead. Kaz was shattered and would never be the same again without her. My first two friends in England. Destroyed. I didn’t really care about the war any more than I had before. But I did know one thing. The man who had killed them was going to die soon, at my hands. My world had been attacked this time and I was going to hit back. This was my war.

  As I went to look for Harding, it occurred to me that I didn’t give a damn about what happened after that. Maybe I’d get killed, maybe thrown in prison, it didn’t make a bit of difference. It was kind of restful not to have to think about the future.

  CHAPTER ▪ TWENTY-ONE

  THUNDER RUMBLED IN FROM the north as low dark clouds let loose. Hard rain pelted the courtyard of the hall with thick drops, splattering dirt and ash into a gooey ooze beneath my feet. Daphne was gone, the white sheet that had covered her lying in the sooty mud next to the twisted frame of the Imp. I tried not to think of the image of her in the car as I went through the wreckage, trying to find any piece of evidence. Nothing had survived the fire. Cold rain soaked through my Parsons coat; I was glad I was wearing thick-soled combat boots as I struggled through the muck.

  I turned my attention to the debris piled up in a corner of the lot. Bits of metal and glass, pieces of the staff cars that had been damaged, a
nd what looked like the charred remains of luggage were heaped together. There were a couple of bicycles that had also been caught in the explosion, and other unidentifiable pieces of who knows what. Shovels and rakes were stacked up against the side of the building, left by the crew that had started the cleanup before the rains came. I grabbed a rake and started to pull the pile apart. The rain couldn’t keep the stink of wet ash and burned rubber down. I tried not to breathe too deeply as I looked through the soggy mess I raked out from the pile.

  I pawed through the stuff, trying to ignore how raw and cold my hands were, and found some bits of clothing and a pile of burned papers that turned out to be a manual for a Ford sedan. I tossed the bike frames aside and dug deeper. I was soaked to the skin now, and the rain was getting worse, starting to come down sideways. There was a helluva storm brewing up. I was just about to give up the search when I saw a leather grip sticking out from under a partially charred seat cushion. I thought of Kaz’s hand holding the handle of a briefcase, and pulled it out from under the cushion. It was a cheap government issue briefcase, more of an attaché case, with hard sides and two spring locks. It hadn’t stood up well to the blast. It hung open on a busted hinge. One side was ripped and blistered, as if it had caught fire and smoldered for a bit. There was nothing inside. I looked at the warped case and wondered out loud. “Geez, Kaz, how did you manage to live through that?”

  I went back to methodically pulling the pile apart again, looking for the papers or whatever else might have been inside the briefcase. It kept raining. Now lightning was striking the heath all around me. I wasn’t having fun. The only good thing was that the rain was washing the mud and ash off me as fast as I became covered in it. After half an hour all I had to show for my efforts was a disintegrating pile of charred papers that could have been the London Times for all I knew. It just didn’t figure. Could whatever was in the case have been totally destroyed? It must’ve fallen out of the broken briefcase when the tire bomb went off. Could it have been burned to ashes?