by James R Benn
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kaz double stepped to keep up with me as I strode down the hallways of Beardsley Hall, fists slammed into my pockets and a black cloud over my head. I didn’t feel like chatting and Kaz mercifully got the point, remaining unusually silent.
I was fuming at looking like a rookie in front of Kaz and Anders. I hadn’t placed much stock in that key being proof of Anders’s guilt, so I didn’t mind that it hadn’t worked out. We took a shot and missed, no big deal. I hated being shown up about the locks, though. I was certain that within the hour my big “discovery” of the loud locks would be making the rounds, getting a big laugh about the American detective and his powers of deduction, or was it seduction? Ha ha. It reminded me of what my kid brother, Danny, said after his first few months at college. He took a class in sociology and said a sociologist was someone who would do a year’s worth of research to find out where all the whorehouses in town were, when all you had to do was slip any cabbie a sawbuck.
I had no idea what a sociologist did for a day’s pay, but I felt about as low as that dumb guy doing all that research. The worst thing-well not actually, but it sure felt that way at the moment-that could happen to a cop in an investigation was to look stupid or be the butt of a joke. It’s hard to put the fear of God in someone who’s laughing at you. You’re more than likely to beat the guy like a drum, which may feel satisfying at the moment, but doesn’t get you anywhere. And it wasn’t an option here in merrie olde England anyway.
We went down the last flight of stairs to the basement, following a sign for the mess hall. This place wasn’t for state dinners, and the king probably never set foot inside. It was basically a cafeteria for the military and civilian staff working in Beardsley Hall. Linoleum floors, shiny aluminum fixtures in the kitchen, ladies with hairnets and paper hats, warming trays along the line, and a mixture of yeasty odors all signaled that the British version of institutional food was in ready supply. Small round tables with wooden chairs pulled up to them were scattered throughout the room. At the far end, Daphne was sitting with Harding. She smiled and waved. He didn’t. I gave it a try and came up with tight-lipped grimace.
My spirits rose just a bit when the aroma of coffee drifted out of the kitchen. Was it possible? A break from tea, here in the heart of England? Yes! There were two large urns, industrial-size jobs, one for tea and the other containing the blessed black brew. I poured hot, steaming black coffee into a tall, thick mug with the seal of the Norwegian navy on it. I dumped in some sugar, grabbed a couple of hot hard-crusted rolls from a basket, and scooped strawberry preserves onto my plate. I was a happy man again, and thanked my lucky stars that I was a simple soul at heart, satisfied with such little things that could take my mind off being the laughingstock of Beardsley Hall. Armed with java and jam, I made my way to the table and sat next to Daphne. Not a hard choice.
“Go ahead, Boyle, eat your chow. You probably haven’t had anything yet today.” Harding confused me when he was nice, which fortunately didn’t happen often enough to be a real problem. I ate, gulped, went and got a refill on the coffee, and sat down, ready to report.
“So, what have we got?” Harding demanded. There, that was more like it. That dependable tone of voice always let me know right where I stood.
“We’ve got the key. Daphne found it in Arnesen’s room. Most likely it was planted there. A lot of the fellows here leave their rooms unlocked at night so they can slip out quietly and visit the ladies. We interrogated Arnesen but it just didn’t add up.”
“Loud locks give the men away to senior staff?” Geez, did everybody know this dodge except me?
“Of course, sir.” I smiled my best man-of-the-world smile, which was also my David Niven impression.
“So run me through a likely chain of events, as best you can.”
I looked around, wanting to be sure no one had sat down at the table behind me. No worry there, the only other people in the place were halfway across the room, talking and glancing over at us, probably laughing at me.
“OK. The suicide version goes like this. Knut Birkeland knows that he is about to be exposed for the theft of gold from the Norwegian treasury. He’s about to lose everything: position, honor, the friendship of the king. He decides to end it all. He gets up early, writes a note, and places a gold coin on it to make his point. He takes a bath and dresses in his best suit, wanting to go out in style. He opens the window and jumps. Breaks his neck.”
“And you say that’s not out of the ordinary for a suicide? The bath and best-suit routine?” Harding sounded skeptical, and Daphne and Kaz looked up at me like I was a professor at How-to-Kill-Yourself U.
“Look, I’m not an expert on suicides. But from what I’ve seen, yeah, it works. Maybe he decided to sleep on it, woke up, and found everything still bleak.”
I tried to visualize what had gone on in that room and in Birkeland’s mind. I closed my eyes, gripped the coffee mug, and tried to see things as they might have happened.
“Maybe he hadn’t decided when he first got up. He took a bath, dressed, and maybe thought about it some more. He reached the same conclusion: dishonor, failure. He decided to go through with it. He wrote that note. Placed the coin on it, an admission of guilt, and a nice paperweight, too. Then opened the window and jumped.”
I opened my eyes.
“Sounds plausible,” Daphne said, looking at each of us for our reaction.
“Except for the key,” I sighed. “If he committed suicide, we have to explain how his room ended up locked and the key got into Major Arnesen’s room.”
“You’ve eliminated Arnesen as a suspect?” Harding asked.
“No, we haven’t eliminated anyone, but Arnesen seemed genuinely surprised when we showed him the key. He pointed out, with some logic, how easy it would have been for him to hide it elsewhere. And how stupid it would have been for him to hide it in his own room.”
Harding rubbed his chin and frowned. “OK, tell me how a murder would have gone.”
“That one’s a little harder, sir.” I took a deep breath and tried to place myself in that room, watching the events unfold. Standing there, up against the wall, real quiet, observing.
“It’s early morning, and Birkeland was already up and bathed. We know he was an early riser. Probably he’s already dressed. Someone knocks on the door and Birkeland unlocks it, lets them in. Maybe they talk a while. Somehow the killer gets Birkeland to write that note, then kills him, quick, probably by breaking his neck. No signs of a struggle, so we have to assume it was done rapidly and efficiently. He opens the window and tosses out the body. Then he probably put the coin on the note, although I don’t know if he or Birkeland originally had it. Could’ve been either one of them. He unlocks the door and goes out into the hallway. He locks the door behind him, not wanting anyone to get into the room too soon because he needs to get away before the body and the note are found. He’s standing in the hallway, trying to figure out what to do with the key. He quietly tries a few doors until he finds one unlocked. Figuring he can kill two birds with one stone, he hides the key in Arnesen’s room so suspicion will be cast on someone else.”
“Wouldn’t that mean that Major Arnesen can’t be a suspect?” asked Kaz.
“If that theory held up, it would, except for the fact that Arnesen says he was in his room all night, so his door should’ve been locked. But before we even think about that, tell me how anyone could force Birkeland to write a suicide note and then kill him? He was a big fellow, and not exactly meek. Why would he go along with it? It doesn’t make any sense.” I shrugged.
“A commando could kill quickly and quietly,” Harding offered.
“Rolf?” asked Daphne. “I think he’s the only commando who stayed at Beardsley Hall after the exercise.”
“Unfortunately, that theory doesn’t fit either,” Harding said, negating his own idea. “Rolf met with the king before five o’clock this morning to go grouse hunting. According to Boyle, the murder, or death, occurred s
hortly after that. Rigor mortis and blood settling gave a pretty good estimate of the time of death. It occurred when Rolf and the king were out hunting, and the king provides a pretty good alibi.”
My head hurt. Nothing added up. Birkeland couldn’t have committed suicide in a locked room with no key in it, and there was no way I could see for anyone to force him to write a fictitious note and then kill him with no fuss or muss. Even if someone like Rolf had pulled a quick one and snapped Birkeland’s neck, how did he or she get him to write that note? Neither option made any sense. Maybe it was time to tell these guys that I never actually headed up a murder investigation before. Crowd control for my dad didn’t really qualify me. Maybe it was time to tell them I was basically a fraud. I decided to go at that one sideways.
“Major, are you going to call in the military police to conduct a real… an official investigation? They’ve got all kinds of resources that we could use.”
“No way, Boyle. This is exactly the kind of affair Ike wanted you on board for. If we bring a truckload of MPs in here, word would get out in no time. It would be embarrassing for the Norwegians and hurt the war effort, especially with the invasion coming up. You’ve got to track this thing down yourself. Lieutenant Kazimierz and Second Officer Seaton will assist you. If I can help, let me know what you need. Otherwise, it’s up to you. Plus, it will be an excellent cover for taking care of that other concern. I know you can handle it.”
I wanted to tell him he had the wrong guy. I wanted to tell him I was just a Boston Mick and I was like a fish out of water here in England. I doubted I could find out how Birkeland died, and I sure was no spy catcher. He needed to know that maybe our congressman oversold me a little bit to get me a job with Uncle Ike. Probably a lot. Yeah, I had been promoted to detective just before the war started, but I never even got to work a single case. Sure, I had worked a few here and there with my dad, but never as the detective in charge. Now, I was between that old rock and a hard place. If I told the truth about myself, Harding would send me to a rifle company and I’d find myself landing on a cold, stony shore in Norway in no time flat. If I didn’t, I’d probably screw up this investigation and never find the murderer, much less the spy. I was feeling pretty bad.
Maybe I should come clean and get it over with. Admit that what I did, what my family did, was wrong. Face the music. Easier said than done, if you want my opinion. It wasn’t just me who had pulled this off, it was my whole family. What was I supposed to do, turn state’s evidence on them with Uncle Ike? I thought about Dad throwing that package in the garbage. At some point, when you were in over your head, what became important wasn’t whatever you’d gone after in the first place, but something more indefinable. You couldn’t call it honor, not at this stage, not after you had gotten yourself in this deep. Avoidance of shame, that was more like it.
“Billy, darling, we’ll help you,” Daphne said, reading the struggle on my face, but not understanding how far back it went. “Look at everything we’ve found out so far! We can do it together.”
She reached out and put her hand on my arm while Kaz solemnly nodded his agreement. Well, maybe I was being too hasty. Why agonize over it? Why disappoint Daphne and Kaz? So what if the murderer got away? It had happened before and would happen again. Uncle Ike might not be too happy if I didn’t take care of this little problem, but he’d be a lot madder if he found out… found out the truth about me. It didn’t sound real pretty when you just came out and said it, did it? I shivered a little inside and tried to forget it.
“Sure we will, Daphne. We can do it. Major, we’ll ask a few more questions and then the three of us will regroup and decide what to do next.”
Harding nodded, as if he really believed I knew what I was doing. He seemed to have changed his opinion about me. It was as if he trusted me to get the job done.
“Very well, Lieutenant,” he said in a formal tone, sealing the deal on my assignment. “I’m going to meet with the king. He was very upset at hearing the news. He needed some time to compose himself. He and Birkeland had evidently been close friends for some time.”
“How did Rolf take it?” asked Kaz as Harding got up to leave.
“Surprised, but he seemed to take it in stride. He’s seen plenty of death and destruction in this war already. One more body wouldn’t shake him.”
“Did he come back with you?”
“Yes, but he’s gone by now. He had to get back to his unit. The Norwegian commandos have been moved to a new base at Southwold, up the coast, along with our Ranger and paratroop units.”
I’m not the most experienced detective around, but I knew that didn’t sound right. When you didn’t have one suspect, everyone was a suspect, and you didn’t let anyone waltz out the front door. I drank some more coffee, but it was cold.
“We should have questioned him first, sir.”
“Why? He obviously wasn’t involved if he left with the king to go hunting before Birkeland died.”
“It’s hard to explain, sir, but I need to talk to everyone. Rolf may know something he doesn’t even know is important.”
“I’ll pretend I understand that, Boyle. Don’t worry. They’ve got a big fence around the Southwold base. If you want him, you can find him there. Keep me posted.”
Harding strode out of the mess hall, confidently leaving his staff to solve a murder while he went off to hold King Haakon’s hands. It must be nice to be in command. Oh yeah, I was, too. In command of a little Polish baron and his beautiful English broad. If the guys at the precinct could only see me now. I was beginning to think I had gotten stuck with the short end of my own stick. How could I find the murderer if I couldn’t even keep track of the suspects? The suicide theory was beginning to look better by the hour. I tried to sound confident for my rookies.
“OK, here’s the deal. We’ve obviously missed something important, and we have no idea what it is. So we’ve got to split up and ask a lot of questions. Daphne, you’ve got the hardest job of all, one Kaz and I couldn’t even attempt.” I could see her eyes widen at the prospect. She was a real trouper.
“Tell me what to do, Billy.”
“Chat up the young ladies and make some friends. We need to know if any of them had visitors from the fourth floor last night.”
“You mean ask them about…”
“Yes, dear,” Kaz said with a smile. “Ask them about that.”
“Well, it’s usually not done, but I’ll try my best.”
“Really?” I asked. “Don’t girls talk about… that?”
“If we did, we wouldn’t let you men in on it, would we?” With a sly smile, she got up and stood in line for a cup of tea along with a gaggle of giggling WRENs who had just entered the cafeteria. On the job in a flash.
“Do you understand women, Billy?” Kaz asked, his eyes still fixed on Daphne.
“I understand they make me crazy, Kaz. Other than that, not a damn thing. What about you?”
“She is a constant, wondrous mystery.” He refocused on me. “Now, what do I do?”
“You talk to the housekeeper. Find out if any of the household staff saw someone walking around early, from five o’clock on. They must have been up and about. Maybe we’ll get lucky and one of them will have seen something.”
“What will you do?”
“I think I need to talk to Vidar Skak some more,” I said.
“Why Skak?”
“So far, he’s got the most to gain from Birkeland’s death. Nothing else makes sense, but that always does. My dad always says when you’re stuck, go back to the guy who benefits the most.”
We left the mess hall and I headed to Skak’s office, praying that Dad’s advice would provide the solution to this mess. I didn’t have any other cards to play. If this didn’t work I was going to need a whole new deck.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Vidar Skak didn’t have the casual open-door policy of Knut Birkeland. In his office on the third floor I was confronted by a severe gray-haired Norwegian woman, s
eated at a desk way too small for her big-boned figure, in an anteroom way too small even for the desk. She spilled out over it, big droopy arms lying on papers as if she was holding them down. Her arms moved as I entered, hands poised to push her body up from the desk, ready to leap in front of Skak’s closed door if I tried anything. A piece of paper stuck to the underside of one forearm, which she shook until the paper fluttered down, freed from the thin veneer of dampness that had bonded it to her. I backed up, not wanting to get in the way of those elbows and arms.
I gave my name and asked to speak to her boss. She told me to wait as she moved away from the desk, which took no more than two steps in that little room, keeping her eyes on me at all times. She guarded Skak’s office like it was Fort Knox. I still didn’t know exactly how the gold fit in, or even if it really did, but it was never far from my mind.
Brunhilda, or whatever her name was, knocked on the door, waited a beat, then went in, half closing the door behind her. Maybe Skak took naps and didn’t like the help walking in on him. She spoke to him in hushed tones and then, grudgingly, opened the door and nodded me in. I tried to make myself small as I went past her sideways.
Vidar Skak rose but didn’t come out from behind his desk. The cherrywood gleamed, every carved corner shining. There were three folders on the desktop, lined up perfectly. Nothing else, not even a pen. Glass double doors behind him opened onto a small balcony. The wall on my right was covered in bookshelves; a quick glance showed that most of the titles were in Norwegian. They looked like law books and bound government reports. Had Skak brought all those books with him? While Knut Birkeland was breaking his back carrying his country’s national treasure, was Skak transporting cases of books? The other wall was covered with photos, all arranged neatly, above a leather sofa. Skak with the king, Skak shaking hands with Winston Churchill, Skak seated at another desk, in another office, probably in Oslo. No trace of family photos, no other picture of that woman on his mantel.