Rag and Bone bbwwim-5

by James R Benn

  “Which you won’t reveal.”

  “Or ever acknowledge again.”

  “OK,” I said. “Then let’s finish the rest of the deal.” I followed Topper out, and Charlie fell in behind us, promising to return my weapon when the transaction was complete. Topper stopped to chat along the way, as people thanked him for the peaches. He was especially popular with the young ladies, but the old ones liked him, too. Never underestimate the power of peaches in syrup when an island has been at war for four years. It was a happy group, and I had to stop three or four times to accept thanks as well, from those who’d seen me carry in the covered crate and put two and two together.

  Once we made it aboveground, I led Topper to the bombed-out buildings, with Charlie at our heels. “Got the money on you?” I asked, wanting to sound like a legitimate bad guy.

  “I do, and that’s where it’s staying,” Topper said, wheeling to face me as I felt the muzzle of my own gun at my neck. “All set?” Topper yelled over his shoulder.

  “That we are, boy,” I heard Archie respond, a cackling laugh finishing his sentence. “Wasn’t too hard either, even though this fellow is the size of a house.”

  Archie stepped out from between two trucks, advancing until his bayonet pointed straight at my chest. “Don’t you play with me, Boyle. Either you’re a thief or not. I don’t like how you mix your business.”

  “Big Mike?” I said into the darkness.

  “I’m OK, Billy. Except for the shotgun digging into my back. They got the drop on me.”

  “Amateurs,” Archie said. “What pitiful amateurs. It gives honest crooks a bad name. First you ask too many damn questions, then you accept a pittance for these wonderful fruits of nature, then you tell Topper you’ve got the truck full no more than five minutes away. What did you expect, boy? You may as well have brought the whole load to my doorstep.”

  “If you need anything done, boss, I’d be happy to oblige.” Stanley stepped from behind the truck, a scarf wrapped around his neck to hide the bloodstains. “Very happy,” he added, his voice still nasal and stuffy.

  “No need, no need. We’ll take the truck and let these two fools find their own way back. But if you see them an hour from now, do whatever pleases you. And I might do the same!”

  “Archie, you can’t take the truck,” I said, trying to sound reasonable.

  “Oh no?” he said, waving the bayonet in a circle in front of my face. “I say I can do what I please. No man has stopped me, and yet many have tried. Why, in tires and engine parts alone, this vehicle is worth as much as the cargo. Now be glad you have your lives for one more day, and never come back to Shoreditch. And if you send coppers from the Met, there’s no one down below who will ever admit to seeing you. You know that’s the truth, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling the complete fool. Archie had clearly been listening to my conversation with Topper, and snuck out just before we left, taking Stanley and Clive to hunt for the truck. There had to be a side passage from his room at the rear of the siding. “I do.”

  “And do you want to know why?” Archie whispered, leaning in close to my face, the tip of his bayonet lifting my chin until I had to look him in the eye. He lifted the blade and placed it flat against my lips, the point sharp against my nose. His voice rose with each line, echoing off the dark, black walls surrounding us. To these I turn, in these I trust- Brother Lead and Sister Steel. To his blind power I make appeal, I guard her beauty clean from rust.

  He spins and burns and loves the air, And splits a skull to win my praise; But up the nobly marching days She glitters naked, cold and fair.

  Sweet Sister, grant your soldier this: That in good fury he may feel The body where he sets his heel Quail from your downward darting kiss.

  Keeping the blade on my lips, he leaned in closer, and kissed the cold steel. I felt the razor sharpness against my lips along with the unwelcome warmth of his, and someone’s blood seeping between my teeth.

  “‘The Kiss,’ by Siegfried Sassoon,” Archie said, stepping back, as if at a formal recital. He bowed gracefully and pointed down the ruined road, back to the center of London. “Go.”

  “I didn’t lie to you about the Russian,” Topper said as we passed him by. “And I warned you not to come back, didn’t I?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I thick, heavy splats of rain hitting the windows. For a couple of seconds I didn’t remember what had happened last night, or realize that those two seconds were going to be the best part of my day.

  The rain was murderously fierce, driving sideways against the glass, the dark, leaden London sky giving promise of a cold soaking and another postponed bombing run. Wordlessly, I joined Kaz in morning exercises, doing deep knee bends and stretches, trying to think of the next boneheaded move I could make. I’d told Kaz the whole story the night before, about how they’d sent Stanley out to stumble in front of the truck, as if he’d been mugged. Big Mike, being a public servant at heart, had gone to help, and ended up on the wrong end of a sawed-off. Then I showed up, we had the poetry reading, the Chapman gang drove off in our truck, and Big Mike and I hoofed it until we found a taxi, thankful that at least they hadn’t taken the coins from our pockets. During the cab ride, I got angry with my dad for never telling me how he had handled the gangsters who were threatening Nuno. A few tips on dealing with the underworld would have come in handy.

  I got out of the way as Kaz used a jump rope. I had to admit, I was pretty impressed with how he’d built himself up. He’d always had stamina but it had been that of the soul. Now his body was ready to keep up with his spirit and his intellect. Unfortunately, as smart as he was, he hadn’t come up with an answer to my problems. I did knee curls with the weights, thinking through the list of my troubles with each slow repetition.

  One, I was nowhere in terms of the Egorov case. I had no clue who killed him, or why. I had the word of honor from a guy who robbed me that he had nothing to do with it. Swell. Plus, the whole idea of a Russian officer working with the Chapman bunch didn’t add up. No one in the Soviet Union was allowed to get rich, so what was he going to do with his loot?

  Two, I’d stirred up a hornet’s nest out at High Wycombe asking about Russians at the Eighth Air Force HQ. Something top secret was going on, based on those red strings from Bull’s map, the squad of MPs who had been after me, and Estelle’s sudden transfer after she talked with us. What it was, I had no idea, only a promise from Bull that he’d try to get in touch.

  Three, there was no love lost between Kaz, his Polish buddies, and the Russians. I’d uncovered an informer, but that likely had nothing to do with the case. I still wasn’t totally sure Kaz was innocent, and as I thought through the little I’d come up with, I realized he looked good for it. In the absence of any solid leads, my dad always said, go with what you got, no matter how slim. It at least gave the illusion of forward movement, and more often than not there was some truth embedded in your suspicions. Was that true of Kaz? I knew he could be ruthless, far more ruthless than his studious appearance would suggest. But Nuno was a hard case, too, and Dad hadn’t given him up to the authorities or the Mob.

  Four, I’d gotten myself in big trouble with the quartermaster corps, the military police, and, worst of all, Colonel Sam Harding. They’d be looking everywhere for that truck, and it wouldn’t take anyone at Norfolk House with an ounce of sense to figure out who the fast-talking lieutenant and the giant corporal were. If I’d solved the case at the cost of a truck and goods, Harding might’ve backed me up. But to come up empty all around, no way.

  Five. I needed a five. I kept up the reps, switching from one arm to the other, generating perspiration but no inspiration.

  “What will you do, Billy?” Kaz said, rubbing his head with a towel.

  “I’m not sure. I’d like to get in touch with Bull, but that might only set the dogs on me again. I guess I’ll see if Inspector Scutt can help, then go fess up to Harding.”

  “Good luck. No matter how stern hi
s visage, Sam Harding was always fair.”

  “Not so with your new boss, Major Horak?”

  “No, sadly,” Kaz said. “While he is my superior, he leaves much in the hands of Captain Radecki, who is far too impatient. A good soldier, but not a diplomat. Perhaps because he lives with pain every day.”

  “Is he still being hard on Tadeusz?”

  “Yes, and I think it caused him to retreat into his mind forever. Radecki had threatened to turn him over to the Russians if he didn’t speak. He meant to force the issue, but he has little understanding of the human mind. Now Tadeusz shows no response at all. The doctor says he needs to be sent to a hospital, where he can receive full-time care. He no longer speaks, barely eats, and spends most of his time sleeping.”

  “So the one surviving eyewitness to Katyn has everything locked up in his head, unable to get it out.”

  “It would have been merciful if the Russians had shot him that day, I regret to say. We’ve changed the story we are feeding the Russians through Eddie Miller. Since Tadeusz will now be safely out of the way, we are saying we have a witness, using much of his story as he told it.”

  “In hopes the Russians might do what?”

  “We have no hopes for the Russians. It’s the Americans and the British we need to influence. Hearing we have a witness may help open some minds. And perhaps Tadeusz will come out of his trance once he’s had rest and quiet.”

  “Kaz, is there any possibility in your mind that someone from the Polish Army could have shot Egorov? Maybe someone who’s heard Tadeusz tell his story? Hell, I know I’d be hard-pressed not to take some revenge if that happened to my own people.”

  “I know you have to ask, Billy, but no, there isn’t. As for revenge, I have thought about it. I agree, it is difficult not to. But if I wished to take violent revenge against the Russians, why would I kill just one, way out in Shoreditch? It’s not much of a statement.”

  “But there’s the twine, and the execution just like at Katyn.”

  “True, but a bullet to the back of the head is not a purely Russian invention. And naturally the victim would be bound. It does make one think, but if I were to go to all that trouble, why kill him in the East End, where it could easily be mistaken for random violence? Why not dump his body in front of his own embassy, or at the palace, or on Fleet Street so the newspaper people would get the first look at it? It does not add up.”

  “You’re right,” I said. There was a knock at the door, and Kaz opened it for room service, delivering our morning coffee and toast. An envelope addressed to Kaz and a note on Dorchester stationery sat on a silver tray.

  “The note is from the chef, and says with his compliments,” Kaz said, a quizzical look on his face. I took the cover off one of the bowls on the cart.

  “Peaches,” I said. “Sixty-three crates, and this is what I end up with.” I thought I wouldn’t be able to eat them, but taste won out over remorse. “What’s in the envelope?”

  “I don’t believe it,” Kaz said. “A note from Captain Kiril Sidorov.”

  “What?”

  “An invitation to the Soviet Embassy, tonight,” Kaz said, as he handed me the elegantly lettered invitation on creamy card stock, topped with the emblem of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics in full color, the red star over the globe, stamped with a golden hammer and sickle, a design leaving little doubt. Kaz read the note. Dear Lieutenant Kazimierz:

  Since relations between our two governments do not allow for an official invitation to be sent to you for tonight’s cultural event, I have taken it upon myself to forward this personal invitation. Your most interesting colleague, Lieutenant Boyle, is also being invited, along with several other officers from Norfolk House. I sincerely hope you will attend and demonstrate that, in spite of the differences between us, we are united not only in our struggle against Fascism, but in the appreciation of fine opera.

  Yours, Kiril Sidorov, Captain, Red Army Air Force

  “Opera?” I said, trying to keep what I knew was a childish whine out of my voice.

  “Billy, I have been invited to the embassy of the government responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of my countrymen, the regime that invaded Poland in collusion with the Nazis, and all you can think of is the ordeal of sitting through an opera?”

  “Sorry, gut reaction. Why do you think Sidorov sent it, whatever it’s for?”

  “You tell me, you’ve met him.”

  “He’s not what you’d expect. Relaxed, not all up in arms about the workers of the world. He obviously does his job well, but he doesn’t present a serious front.”

  “You sound like you like the man.”

  “Actually, I was thinking that he reminds me of you in some ways. Educated, urbane, speaks English perfectly and, hey, he likes opera, too.”

  “There are some educated Russians,” Kaz said, granting the possibility that Sidorov wasn’t a swine. “The invitation says it’s a new film of a Russian opera, not a live performance. Ivan Susanin. I’ve not heard of it.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Why not? It will be interesting to meet the man who is spying on me. And someone will have to keep you awake. You won’t be able to turn down an official invitation, you know.”

  “I could get lucky and get arrested.”

  “By Scotland Yard or the military police?”

  “Funny,” I said, as I drank my coffee. I resisted telling Kaz that he was the one who should worry about Scotland Yard, but now that I had MPs from High Wycombe to London looking for me, I had enough trouble keeping myself from behind bars. Anyway, there wasn’t enough evidence to do more than question him, and he’d been through worse than that.

  Something about how we were looking at it was off, and that’s why it wasn’t making sense to us.

  I needed that number five. Number five would add up, I was sure.

  I decided to head to the Met first, in case an unarmed bobby had captured the Chapman gang and rescued Uncle Sam’s peaches. I took a cab, avoiding the worst of the downpour and arriving just as Inspector Scutt was shaking the water off his raincoat.

  “Miserable weather today,” he said. “DS Flack will be soaked to the bone, probably is already.” He gestured to the chair opposite his desk as he settled in, glancing at the paperwork and messages waiting for him.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Out hunting Jerries,” he said. “There’s still a dozen unaccounted for from the raid the other night. Most give themselves up right away, glad to be alive and hoping not to get impaled by an angry farmer with a pitchfork.” He laughed, more to himself, as if remembering an unfortunate German who had met that fate. He lit his pipe, fussing with it the way pipe smokers did, tamping it down, filling the room with clouds of smoke until he was satisfied. “The Bromley station called for assistance, since the airfield at Biggin Hill is close by, and they’ve had reports of two or three Germans in the area. Flack is heading up the search down there.”

  “This rain ought to drive them in,” I said. It was hard to imagine how the fliers could manage to evade capture this long, especially after the violence of being blown out of the sky, floating down in the dark, and landing in enemy territory, most likely alone.

  “I’d guess it will, but the RAF wants them all caught, so they can stop worrying about some Fritz pinching an aircraft. That would be the only way off the island, and it would be an embarrassment for all, wouldn’t it? At least they don’t expect an old retread like me to tramp about the fields, that’s something. Now, what news do you have?”

  I gave him the short version of the truck heist, trying not to sound like a rookie.

  “Well, there’s some chance of finding the truck. Minus tires and engine. Peaches, you said? I couldn’t even guarantee you’d get them back if I found them myself,” Scutt said, winking to let me know he didn’t mean it. I think.

  “Yeah, I know. Any part of the vehicle would be appreciated. But there’s more. Part of the deal, before it went sour, was
for Topper to give me the inside story on the Russian. I think he kept that side of the bargain.”

  “He’s an odd one, our Topper is,” Scutt said, raising more smoke from his pipe. “Smart, I’ll give him that. And protective of his father. I’ll make no excuses for Archie Chapman, but he’s not been right in the head since the war.”

  “He says he served with Siegfried Sassoon.”

  “True. I checked with the War Office the first time I heard Archie spout verse. They served together in the First Battalion, in Flanders. Did he recite for you?”

  “Twice. Dead drunk first time, stone sober the second, as he robbed me.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive. Archie Chapman could have slit your throat in front of a hundred East Enders, who’d all swear he was at their dinner table at the time. Some like him, most are afraid, and for good reason.”

  “Topper is different?”

  “Cold, I’d say. Archie enjoys what he does. Topper does what is necessary. Without regard for the law, which makes him as bad as his old man, but I don’t know if he has his heart in the family business. Don’t rightly know if he has much of a heart, at that.”

  “Any idea why he’s not in the service? He looks fit.”

  “Doctors can be bought, like anyone else. Maybe he has some sort of condition, maybe not. He did try to join up, at least.”

  “You sure?” I asked, remembering Archie cutting me off as I asked Topper why he wasn’t serving.

  “I remember it well. The army inquired about any criminal record, since he was known at the local recruiting office. We’ve never been able to charge him, so I had to say he was clean. I thought he was going off to war to follow in his father’s footsteps, but a few weeks later, there he is, at Archie’s side, conducting business as usual. Or better. He’s got a talent for it.”

  “Evidently,” I said. “I wonder how he got out after enlisting.” My thoughts went back to my own army physical, and how Dad and Uncle Dan had hoped I would fail, to avoid the chance of serving altogether. After I’d passed, we’d hoisted a few pints at Kirby’s, toasting to my health with an odd mixture of pride and wistfulness. The next step would be to pull some strings in D.C., with Mom’s distant, somewhat obscure relative. Dad was certain he didn’t want me to end up like his older brother Frank, buried in a French cemetery for helping the English fight a war. But there was something in his eyes, along with the certainty that he could pull this thing off-a sadness, perhaps, or a sorrowful joy, that I would not share his visions of the trenches, an experience that had made him the man he was. That was a good thing, but a thing that would always divide us.