by James R Benn
“Is Vidar angry?” asked Rolf.
“Yes, of course, but he’s pretending to be very friendly. I’m his next best hope if he can’t convince the king. I’m to make an initial report in thirty days.”
“So you’re going soon?” I asked.
“I fly from here to Scotland in the morning.” He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t have to. Scotland was the jumping-off point for commando raids and agent drops to Norway. They went in by fishing boat, submarine, or sometimes airplane. So another suspect was getting out of Dodge before I was done with the investigation. I knew there was a war on, but I still didn’t like it one bit.
“Congratulations. You deserve such an important mission,” said Rolf. “But I’m surprised the king let you go. He seemed intent on keeping you with the brigade.”
“I think he finally decided a report from a trusted source was the most logical way to decide about the underground,” Anders answered. “But I shouldn’t say any more. I’d trust one of the musketeers with my life and I’m sure General Eisenhower’s staff is above suspicion, but my orders are top secret. Please do not repeat anything I’ve said.”
“Or didn’t say,” I added.
“Yes, that also.”
“So,” Rolf said, “to change the subject, where is the baron? The three of you seemed to be a team.” He raised his eyebrow at me, as if asking if I had ditched Kaz to get Daphne alone. Or maybe he just had a twitch. Whatever it was, Daphne must’ve caught it, too, because she spoke up quickly, defending me against the insinuation.
“Oh, Kaz is in London, doing some research. He’s looking into who else might benefit from Mr. Birkeland’s death.”
“Good idea,” Rolf said. “Like who would inherit his business, that sort of thing?”
“Yes,” Daphne answered, “and-”
I jumped in. “It’s just a long shot. He probably won’t have any business left to inherit if the raids keep up.”
“We’re ordered to destroy the fishing plants, forbann det! How do you think it feels for Norwegians to ruin their own fishing industry?”
“Whoa, Rolf, hold on,” I said. “I never blamed anyone. It’s Allied policy, that’s all. Don’t get all hot under the collar.”
“It’s bad enough that we have to do it, Billy, but it adds insult to injury that you are investigating the motives of patriotic Norwegians.”
“First, it may turn out that Birkeland wasn’t killed by a Norwegian. Second, if he was, the killer wouldn’t be very patriotic, if he killed the king’s trusted adviser.”
Rolf seemed to calm down. He looked at us a little guiltily. “I understand. I apologize,” he said. “I know you are only doing your duty.”
“As are we all,” Anders said very seriously. He raised his glass. “To duty, wherever it takes us.” We clinked glasses and drank. Dinner came. It was good American food. Roast beef, mashed potatoes, and succotash. But my appetite wasn’t what it should have been. The roast beef sat in a twisted ball in my stomach as I pushed the rest of my food around the plate and looked at Daphne, trying not to be mad at her. It was kind of sweet that she had spoken up for me and real dumb to have let the cat out of the bag.
We talked about the war news for a while. There was a lot of it. We had just sunk some Jap carriers off an island named Midway in the Pacific somewhere. Churchill was in the States for talks with Roosevelt. The Afrika Korps was driving deeper into Libya. Daphne was fairly sure her brother, Thomas, was with the Eighth Army in Egypt but wasn’t certain, and it worried her. That meant her two siblings were in danger. I wondered how she felt, safe here in England. Did she, like Diana, want to tempt fate, too?
After dinner I walked Daphne back to her quarters. She looped her arm around mine and I had a hard time staying mad at her. Since meeting Diana I was beginning to think of Daphne as a kid sister and that made things a lot easier.
“Are we off to Greenchurch tomorrow, Billy?”
“Not we. I am, but I want you to drive back to Beardsley Hall and talk to Harding or Cosgrove. Get them to intervene and have Anders’s orders cancelled. I don’t want him leaving the country until we get this thing sorted out.”
“Do you think he’s the killer?”
“I don’t know yet. But now he knows we’re looking into Birkeland’s business, and if there’s any connection it’d be a breeze for him to vanish into the countryside once he gets to Norway. Until he’s in the clear, I want him here.”
“Oh, Billy! I didn’t realize-”
“Don’t worry about it. See if you can get in touch with Kaz, too, and find out what he’s got. I’ll commandeer some transport here and join you at Beardsley Hall after I drop in at Greenchurch.”
“All right. I’m so sorry, Billy. I feel as if I failed you.”
“You didn’t. You’ve done great so far. You just have a few things to learn. You don’t become an ace detective overnight, you know!”
“Billy, you’re a dear!” She kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll see you back at the hall.” She pranced up the stairs to the door of the VIP quarters and waved good night. I waved back and walked off, thinking about what a swell kid she was. It’s funny how silly a crush on somebody can seem after you’ve met the real thing. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and slowly walked over to the officers’ quarters, the setting sun behind me lighting up the sky over the gray sea ahead. I kicked a stone, tried not to think about Diana and the night before, and wondered where she’d be tomorrow.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your orders, Lieutenant,” said Captain Gilmore.
The bad mood fit him like a glove. Yesterday I had thought it was just due to the confusion of handing out all that winter gear. Today I found him sitting at his clean desk, drinking coffee, chewing on a cigar, and looking for someone to scowl at. The pile of reports that Sergeant Slater had been working on the day before were all neatly stacked up in his out basket, signed and ready to go up the line. He should’ve been happy, but that probably didn’t come easy for him.
“But they’re from ETO Headquarters, sir…”
“All I get from HQ are headaches, sonny. If they want to send someone who outranks me up here, I’ll salute and give them anything they want. But I’m not giving a vehicle to some Louie who drove in here in a sports car, I’ll tell you that.”
“But sir-”
“Enough!”
It came out as a growl, wrapped around a wet stogie. I was wondering what to do next when Slater appeared out of nowhere and walked over to the captain’s desk. He pointedly ignored me again and spoke directly to Gilmore.
“Begging your pardon, captain, but this might be a good opportunity to fix that little problem we were talking about.”
Gilmore looked at Slater like he was another fly the captain was going to swat. Then I could almost see the lightbulb go off over his head as he dropped the scowl and nodded his head in agreement.
“Yes, very good, Top. Show the lieutenant to the Brit motor pool while I make the call.”
Since they were talking about me as if I weren’t there, I didn’t see any percentage in asking what was going on. My chances had improved since Slater came into the room, so I picked up my kit and followed him out of the exec’s office. Gilmore was almost cackling with glee as he dialed the phone. At least it made him happy.
“Thanks, Top, I think. What’s this all about?”
“Well, we got two motor pools here, one Brit and one U.S., so we can take care of both types of transport. The motor-pool guys have taken to tinkering with a few vehicles and having races. The latest thing is motorcycles. You ever ride?”
“Sure. My cousin is a motorcycle cop in Boston, where I used to work. I’ve ridden his Harley.”
“That’s what we got here. We being the Yanks. The Brits have a BMW-a sweet thing from before the war, I have to admit. We have a race scheduled for tomorrow. Thing is, our guy crashed the Harley yesterday and they can’t get the spare parts to fix it until after
the weekend.”
“And you forfeit the race if you don’t show?”
“That’s the rule.”
“Fair bit of money bet on this one?”
For the first time, he actually looked at me, giving me a practiced once-over to decide if I was a by-the-book or a let-things-slide kind of lieutenant.
“Now, Lieutenant, you know that would be against army regulations.”
The faintest smile passed over his blunt face, then he quickly looked away-no need to waste words on a very junior lieutenant.
“In other words, a bundle.”
“I don’t intend on losing my next paycheck on a no-show. I was waiting for the captain to think of this, but it didn’t look like he was going to, so I jumped in.”
The top kick opened the door and held it for me as we stepped outside. The air smelled damp and clean, a fresh sea breeze drying the dew from the grass as the sun struggled to come out from behind a low cloud layer. Not the worst day for a motorcycle ride.
“Whatever would the army do without sergeants?”
“I ask myself that question every morning, Lieutenant.”
He led the way to the British motor pool. All the walkways were laid out with those whitewashed rocks that seemed to crop up at every army base I’d ever seen. I wondered what they did in Alaska or Greenland.
“Am I going to ruin your racing plans if I don’t bring the BMW back?”
“Oh, you’ll bring it back. It’s British army property, and a couple of hundred commandos, all trained to kill silently, will be looking for you if you don’t. Lieutenant,” he added, as if it was an afterthought.
He led me into a wide garage, not much more than corrugated sheet metal nailed on to a wooden frame. The floor was hard-packed dirt, and the smell of oil and damp soil was oddly pleasing. Several British army vehicles were in various stages of disassembly and repair, and we walked past those to the darkened rear of the building. In a corner next to a workbench neatly stacked with gleaming tools, on a drop cloth and under a hanging light, was a BMW motorcycle, painted British army brown, polished to a high gloss and clean as a whistle. Three men, also in British army brown but not all that clean, stood with their arms folded in front of us.
“Now what’s all this about taking our motorcycle? Just because yours-”
“Hold on, Malcolm,” Slater said. “You know ours is still being worked on. This officer needs transportation and the BMW is the only vehicle not signed out.”
“Neither of us ever signs out these machines!”
I knew I had entered some special part of the military world, where noncoms ruled and officers were just an irritation, an insistent itch that demanded once in a while to be scratched. They gave me a glance, read me like a field manual, and decided I wasn’t going to give them any trouble, except for taking their bike. They ignored me, rightfully understanding this was a matter between guys with stripes, not bars.
“It’s just for a day or so. We’ll have the race when he gets back, no problem,” Slater said.
“Aye, if I’m dumb enough to believe you. Very convenient to come up with this story just after that corporal of yours runs your Harley-Davidson into a ditch,” Malcolm said. The others laughed, and he joined them, enjoying the position he was in.
“Malcolm, take a look at these orders of his. Signed not only by Ike’s office, but by some guy from your own Imperial Staff!”
Slater held the orders in front of Malcolm, who wiped his hand on a greasy rag and took them by the edges. He looked at each page and then over at me, then back again, as if he couldn’t believe they were for the guy he was gazing at. He shook his head in disgust and handed them back to Slater.
“All right, but you’ll have to sign a few forms, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks, Malcolm,” Slater said as he turned to leave, “and good luck, Lieutenant. Make sure you bring her back in one piece.”
That earned me even blacker glares from the Brit mechanics, so I dug into my kit and came up with three packs of Lucky Strikes. I handed them out along with my apologies and promises to return the motorcycle in a couple of days. I must’ve sounded convincing, because although I didn’t really give a hoot about their motorcycle race, and they didn’t care a bit about what I needed, pretty soon we were all smoking and trading war stories about bikes and cars. After chewing the fat for a while, they left me with one mechanic, a Scottish corporal, who was giving the BMW a final check over.
Corporal Roddy Ross was of indeterminate age, the skin of his hands and even his face covered in a sheen of grease and oil. He was rail thin, but his forearms were muscular, and he had a certain grace as he moved around the machine, tightening connections and wiping her down with a cloth as he went. He had a Lucky stuck in the corner of his mouth and smoked as he talked, blowing out smoke with each phrase and squinting his right eye against the blue smoke curling up from the tip of the cigarette.
“Now, laddie, are ye shur ye kin find yer way? Greenchurch is but one of a dozen wee small villages yonder.” He pointed with his thumb toward the northeast as he rested his other hand protectively on the handlebar of the BMW. I had to concentrate on listening to him to understand his thick Scottish brogue.
“I’ve studied the map, Corporal, and copied down my route. If I get lost, I can always stop and ask for directions.” This brought a chuckle.
“Oh, yeah, as if the English wouldn’t mistake a Yank for a Jerry and blow yer young head off with a shotgun! That far inland, there’s been hardly a single Yank yet.”
I could tell from his tone that Corporal Ross was certain that any Scotsman could tell the difference between a Yank and a German, but that he wasn’t about to vouch for anyone south of Hadrian’s Wall.
“Well, Corporal, what do you suggest? Maps are in short supply.”
“You know that all the road signs have been taken down hereabouts. But I should be able to draw up me own sort of directions. Fer a man who knows his pubs, it should be easy.”
With that, he set down his rag and pulled out a stub of a pencil from his overalls pocket and a small pad from the workbench. He licked the end of the pencil, wrote studiously for a minute, ripped off a sheet, and handed it to me. Pittsfield-straight at the Red Hart
St. Paul-left at the King George Inn
Midbury-straight at the Blue Swan
“Corporal, you’re a genius. It must’ve taken a lot of research to come up with this!”
“Well, ye know what the English say about the Scots: we know the value of a shilling. I wanted to find the best value for a pint and I had to go far and wide in search of it. Now this road at Midbury should take ye right into Greenchurch, though it’s a long stretch. Ask there at the Miller’s Stone for where ye need to go. And take good care of this machine!”
“I will, Corporal, if you let go of it.”
He took his hand off the handlebar, smiled weakly, and stepped back to give me some room. I stowed my pack and got on. We shook hands. He opened a wide side door with a narrow wood-plank ramp. I adjusted my goggles and kick-started the engine. It came to life immediately and purred like a kitten. I sat for a minute, getting the feel of the machine while I let the quiet rumbling vibrate through my body. I nodded to Ross, who got his hand halfway up to his forehead, executing an absent salute as he kept his eye on the bike. I took the BMW slowly down the ramp, did a turn, waved, and rode off. Out of respect for the corporal and his work I didn’t open her right up, but rode at a sedate pace up to the main gate. On the way out, Rolf Kayser pulled in front of me in a jeep. He gave a friendly salute, went through the gate, and drove south. I passed the gate and went north on the main road, giving the bike full throttle, hoping the sound would carry back to the motor pool, where I knew Corporal Ross would still be standing just as I had left him, straining his ears to follow the nuance of each gearshift.
The BMW responded like a champ. The throaty rumble of the engine echoed off the hills rising up on each side of the road, and I felt like a schoolkid playing hooky
. For the first time in days I was alone, off on my own for a little side trip to the quaint village of Greenchurch, where I doubted I’d find anything new. Even if Subaltern Victoria Brey had seen somebody that morning as she made her way back to her room, did it make that person the murderer? Half a dozen people were up and about, in their own private little worlds, when Knut Birkeland took his dive. Would one more really make a difference? Yeah, maybe it would.
I opened up the BMW on a straightaway to see what it could do. The acceleration pulled me back in the seat and I hunched over, made myself smaller and watched the road unwind in front of me. I eased up on the throttle as the road narrowed where it passed along a hillside, white stone markers on either side. A grassy slope went up on my right, down on my left. I could see muddy paths where cows made their way among the fields and could smell them, too, the odor of green grass and manure flowing over me as I opened her up on another straightaway.
I hoped this trip would make a difference, almost prayed for it. Right now, if someone asked my opinion based on pure logic, I’d have to say Knut Birkeland really had killed himself, if only because that answered the most questions. If I had to answer from my gut, though, I’d bet my next paycheck that he’d been murdered. I had a working theory of how, but it didn’t lead me anywhere. Why and who were still mysteries. If only Birkeland had been poisoned. Then I would’ve clapped the irons on Vidar Skak. He was just the kind of snake who would use poison. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the kind of snake to wrestle Knut Birkeland out the window. Cosgrove still bothered me, too. There was something off about him, but I had no idea what. Yet. My thoughts drifted into all the possibilities, all the suspects, and all the reasons why.
It came around a curve I hadn’t realized was there-a big, dusty gray vehicle with the driver laying on his horn. The bike wobbled and started to skid and I almost lost control as I tried to recover from my surprise. I caught myself and banked into a curve, just as a truck-or a lorry or whatever the hell they called it over here-came around the bend. I slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road, waiting for my heart to slow too. I decided to stop thinking about the case and keep my mind on riding on the wrong side of the road or else they were going to be scraping me up off it. I started up again, slow, and just rode.