Rag and Bone bbwwim-5

by James R Benn

  “All right,” Archie said. He nodded to Topper to shut the door. Topper checked the hallway, then sat next to us. Archie nodded again, and he spoke in a low voice, keeping their secrets close.

  “As you know, we’ve had a relationship with someone who provides us with the routes the delivery trucks take going to the Russian Embassy. We’ve had other dealings with him, and came to trust him, as far as that goes in this business. We were in negotiations for another exchange of information for cash. We made a down payment, and before we could complete the transaction, he dropped out of sight. The timing is right from what you just told us.”

  “Without betraying any military secrets, Peaches, what can you tell us that will lend a bit more credence to your tale?” Archie broke in, trying for more than I wanted to give.

  “It is directly related to military planning, so I can’t say anything else. I should get there tonight if the fog lifts.”

  “Go on then,” Archie said to Topper.

  “We need to be assured that plans are still set. We have not received the time and place. That’s the message. We’ve done everything on our end; now we need to know. Time and place. He’ll understand.”

  “And who is he?”

  “Captain Rak Vatutin. Red Army chap.”

  The last and only time I’d seen Rak Vatutin, he was serving Kaz and me drinks at the Soviet Embassy. Had he been trying to get Kaz looped, in hopes he would make a fool of himself once he saw the film? There had been something nasty in Vatutin’s look, a glimpse of viciousness behind the diplomatic facade and automatic smile. But that could have been the vodka or simply his nature. I needed to find out more about what Vatutin did at the embassy, and if he’d had access to the delivery routes. And the “time and place”-but for what?

  I took the Underground back to Norfolk House, wondering about Harding’s reaction when he saw that, once again, I hadn’t made it to Dover. I’d learned a few things, though. Scotland Yard was still looking for Kaz; MI5 was in the murder business and had contracted with Sheila Carlson to kill Tad, and then turned on her to eliminate loose ends; MI6, represented by Kim Philby, didn’t seem to care very much; and Major Cosgrove had acted suspiciously out of character. Did all this violate his sense of fair play? Maybe.

  I’d also learned about the Eastcheap Gentleman’s Club, where Archie had female refugees from all across Europe on offer, and that Archie and Topper had something big planned, and the top-secret move to Dover had sent them into a panic, thinking they’d been betrayed. Now I was the messenger boy, my job to find Rak Vatutin and ask him what was the time and place.

  It was finally time to get to Dover. All I had to do was endure Harding’s wrath, find Big Mike, and figure out what to do with Kaz while the heat died down. Then find Vatutin, figure out what the target was, and somewhere along the way find out what Egorov’s death had to do with it all.

  The only thing that was guaranteed was how steamed Harding would be, but I came up empty on that one. I found Big Mike at his desk, apologetic at not finding me in Berkeley Square. I told him I’d made my way back OK, filling him in on my bordello detour.

  “Sam won’t be back until late this afternoon,” Big Mike said. “He’s up at Bletchley Park, whatever that is. Something hush-hush. But you got someone waiting for you in his office. Cosgrove.”

  “Interesting. Where’s Kaz?”

  “I stashed him at a pub across from the Rubens. I figured he could watch for Sheila to show herself, if the fog lifts, while I waited for you.”

  I filled Big Mike in about Sheila, then opened the door to Harding’s office. Cosgrove stood by the window, hands behind his back. He gave a quick glance in my direction, then brought his gaze back to the green square below.

  “I thought we ought to talk, Boyle.”

  “Sure, Major,” I said as I took a seat opposite Harding’s desk. It gave me a side view of Cosgrove’s face, the best I could do. “Strange bunch in your office this morning. I got the distinct impression you didn’t see eye to eye.”

  “Yes. I thought the hail-fellow-well-met routine would tell you as much.”

  “It did. But why bother?”

  “We’ve not seen eye to eye, either, Boyle, on several occasions. But I daresay our differences have been more of style. Perhaps belief also, but sincere belief on both our parts.”

  “Can’t argue that. But the way you used me in our first encounter, that never set well with me. It was more than a difference in style.”

  “Damn it, Boyle, there are pawns in war, and when you first came here, that was how you were best used. And to good effect, I may add. You know what Churchill said, about the best way to protect truth in wartime? To attend her with a bodyguard of lies. You were part of that bodyguard. Sorry if that’s difficult to accept, but there it is.”

  “OK, OK, I get it. It doesn’t help to debate the past anyway. Why are you here?”

  “Whatever our differences, I wanted you to know that I don’t approve of the actions of the man you know as Mr. Brown. He’s gone much too far. In the past, he’s had a number of successes that have gone to his head and blinded his superiors to the utter ruthlessness of his methods.”

  “Did he approve of the plan to kill Tadeusz?”

  “Yes. I found out about it too late to put a stop to it. I’m glad to hear it failed and the young man is doing well.”

  “Really? Even though your government wants the Katyn Forest Massacre to be blamed on the Germans?”

  “Boyle,” Cosgrove said, still unable to look me in the eye, “I will follow the orders of my government. If it is judged that it is in the best interest of Great Britain and the war effort that the deaths of those Poles be laid at the feet of the Germans, I say so be it. History can sort it all out when the war is won. But I will not sanction murder on English soil to improve our chance of success. I came here to tell you something else, though. Brown spoke of Sheila Carlson’s being hit by a truck, you recall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Apparently he was speaking of a plan, not an actual event. One of the problems with Brown is that he plays fast and loose with the truth, even among colleagues. He had sent one of his men to follow her and do the job.”

  “But he didn’t?”

  “No. She spotted him and gave him the slip at the first opportunity. Now she’s nowhere to be found. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Thank you,” I said, trying to work out what that meant in the mix of death, theft, intrigue, and betrayal I was trying to unravel. “There’s something I should tell you, too. Tadeusz is dead. I made up the story about his being alive in hopes it would get back to Sheila, and make her try again.”

  “She was successful then?”

  “Indirectly.” I told him the story of seeing Tad at St. Albans, and his reaction to hearing about Eddie and Sheila.

  “The proverbial straw,” Cosgrove said, shaking his head. “How odd that we both have news about life and death, quite opposite in the telling. I must admit, I would have preferred the original stories to this outcome. Sheila Carlson seems to lack any moral center. Pity about the young Pole, truly.”

  “His life was a nightmare. He said he wished he’d been killed with all the others.”

  “He actually witnessed it? In Katyn?”

  “Yes,” I said. “He told me the whole story. They pulled him out of line when they discovered they hadn’t finished questioning him. About one minute before he would have joined the bodies in the pit.”

  “Dear God.”

  Silence descended between us. Cosgrove rested his hands on the windowsill, weariness suddenly overcoming him. I waited, listening to the sounds drift up from the street below. Life flowing by, as if all the murders and lies in this war were to be expected and endured as a matter of course.

  “There’s something else,” I said.

  “What?” Cosgrove said, finally turning to face me.

  “Kiril Sidorov knows about Diana Seaton, and her mission.”

  “Impos
sible!”

  “He didn’t mention her name, or where she is, but he did say he knew there was a woman I cared about on a mission behind enemy lines. How could he know that?”

  “Do you know where she’s gone to?”

  “I had Italy figured, probably Rome.”

  “She didn’t tell you, did she?”

  “No, she got angry when I asked. But I put a few clues together, and Rome seemed like a safe bet. Maybe the Vatican?”

  “I shouldn’t comment,” Cosgrove said, in a way that confirmed I’d been right. “But if that were the case, Rome is filled with Communists. She may have come into contact with a cell, but I don’t know why that information would be routed back to London.”

  “Would Kim Philby know? He seemed to be in charge of SOE.”

  “He is, for Spain and the rest of the Mediterranean. He definitely knows about all missions in the area. Sharp chap, but I wouldn’t come at him directly with a question about a security breach. He’s apt to have you thrown in a military prison while he looks into it. I will ask discreetly.”

  “Will you let me know what you find out? About Diana, I mean.”

  “Yes, I will. I won’t be able to reveal details, but I can let you know if she’s come to harm.” It was my turn to look away. I’d heard more than I wanted to about Gestapo torture chambers, more than I wanted to believe. “Sorry, Boyle, that was clumsily said. I will tell you what I find.”

  “Thank you,” I said, facing Cosgrove. This was difficult for him, I knew. He’d followed orders all his life, with a certainty that he served a good and righteous master. Now his master had upset everything he believed in, everything he counted on, and he found himself conspiring with the likes of me. It took courage and, for the first time, I saw the younger man in him. Or maybe I simply saw him for who he really was, without regard to age, uniform, or belief in the British Empire.

  “Save your thanks. I may need them and more before all is said and done.”

  “One more thing, Major. Is there any kind of shipment headed for the Soviet Embassy, something more valuable than booze or food?”

  “Why do you ask?” Cosgrove narrowed his eyes, studying me, as if I’d come up with a really smart comment. He looked surprised.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “I can’t answer that question, Boyle, to say yes or no. Either would leave the impression I know of such a thing, one way or the other. But I would like to know what you suspect.”

  “Scotland Yard says hijackings are down, so maybe it’s a rumor.”

  “ What is just a rumor?” Cosgrove was angry now, and we were back on more comfortable ground.

  “Just some loose talk. I’ll let you know if it comes to anything. Have you heard of the Three Kings?”

  “I assume you’re not talking about a Christmas pageant, Boyle. If you mean the resistance group from Czechoslovakia, yes, I have. Last of the leaders was taken in 1941. Showed potential, as I recall. No sign from any of the survivors since, if there were any.”

  “There is one. She’s here in London. Is that something Philby might be interested in?”

  “Smart chap, Boyle; he may indeed. Could you produce this woman?”

  “She runs a bordello for Archie Chapman. I know where she is. Producing her might be a bit difficult. She goes by Dalenka.”

  “Well, MI6 would have no trouble if it comes to that. Could be a Nazi plant, but that would be useful in its own way. I’m certain Philby will want to know more, and information about Miss Seaton will be a small price to pay in exchange. I’ll see him later tonight, and will be able to speak to him alone.”

  “You mean without the mysterious Mr. Brown?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Do you think he had anything to do with the killing of Egorov?” I asked, as I opened the office door for him. He put his weight on his cane, and frowned.

  “Brown? No, I don’t. Egorov’s name never came up, and as you’ve seen, he is a bit of a braggart. I think if he had, he would’ve said something about it. I expect you’ll solve that mystery, Boyle. You seem to have talent in that direction. Be certain to tell me anything you learn about threats concerning shipments to the Soviets. Good day.”

  I watched his rolling, limping gait as he left through the outer office. I’d had some strange conversations with the man, but this was the first one that had ended on a friendly note, which made it the oddest of them all.

  “Let’s get to that pub,” I said to Big Mike.

  “You’re the boss, Billy.”

  A five-minute drive took half an hour in the thick fog. Vehicles hugged the curb to stay on their side of the road, and the late afternoon looked more like dusk. The only good thing was that the Germans wouldn’t be sending over bombers in this weather.

  “Sheila Carlson could have walked in and out of the Rubens ten times,” Kaz said from his seat next to a window at the Bag O’Nails Pub.

  “She probably won’t show herself in London,” I said, explaining that Mr. Brown had ordered her killed, and how she’d slipped away.

  “There’s a man who doesn’t like loose ends, and a woman who is very careful,” Kaz said. “What do we do now?”

  “Let’s eat,” Big Mike said. “It’s early, but we have a long drive ahead of us.”

  “We can’t get to Dover in this soup,” I said.

  “We should’ve left earlier, before it got this bad. Sam won’t like it that we hung around here and got stuck. So we’re leaving, after we eat.”

  “OK,” I said, giving in to the lowest ranker at the table. No reason to argue with a corporal who has generals and colonels for pals and who could lift me three feet off the floor. Big Mike and I ordered ale, while Kaz stayed with Scotch. I really wanted vodka, God help me, but I resisted the hard stuff. Before long I was tucking into a plate of fish and chips. Kaz had chicken and turnips, while Big Mike indulged his taste for odd English dishes.

  “Steak and kidney pie?” I said. “I didn’t know they still served that in the twentieth century.”

  “It’s good,” Big Mike said. “Beefsteak, nice fluffy pastry, and the kidney tastes like liver. Sort of.” He chewed a bit, and took a long swallow of ale.

  “What have you been up to, Billy?” Kaz asked, after we were through eating.

  “I found out Scutt is very interested in talking to you, which I think means throwing you in a cell on suspicion of murder. Apparently a Russian named Osip Nikolaevich Blotski was beat with a lead pipe last night, and nearly killed.”

  “Inspector Scutt thinks I am hunting Russians one by one, on the streets of London?”

  “I’d say he’s seeking a motive, and you’ve got the best claim to one, after that scene at the opera. Things got stranger after that. I went to see Cosgrove, to confront him about Sheila Carlson and watch his reaction. Who do I find him with but none other than a Mr. Brown. They had a meeting with a guy from MI6, Kim Philby.”

  “Then Mr. Brown must be more than an errand boy,” Kaz said. “Cosgrove and Philby move in the higher ranks of intelligence circles.”

  “I got the distinct notion that Cosgrove was the junior of the three, and that he and Brown were on the outs. Brown as much as boasted he’d had Sheila killed, to keep her quiet.” I described my visit to the Eastcheap Gentleman’s Club, the message I was supposed to carry to Rak Vatutin, and the surprise visit from Cosgrove.

  “So now we know who among the Russians was tipping off the Chapman gang,” Kaz said. “And that you are aiding and abetting them in hijacking farm produce. That doesn’t help clear me of suspicion, or help you solve the case.”

  “It might be more than produce or vodka this time. When I mentioned it to Cosgrove he nearly blew a fuse.”

  “What else could it be?” Kaz said. “Weapons? Drugs?”

  “We’re missing something,” Big Mike said, setting down his empty glass.

  “Obviously,” I said.

  “I mean about Sheila. We figured she killed Eddie for the cash, right? But Scutt was right,
that she could’ve taken that anytime. So there had to be another reason.”

  “There could be many reasons,” Kaz said. “A lover’s quarrel, a falling-out among thieves.”

  “No, we gotta look at it with this new information: Brown wanted her dead, and she got away.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, not seeing where Big Mike was going with this.

  “OK,” he said, holding up one finger. “Let’s say she has no clue Brown is going to have her done in. She makes the cake, gives it to Radecki, and then figures it’s a big payday. Eddie’s at work. She could take off with their nest egg, and then get whatever Brown promised her once the job was done. Why kill Eddie?”

  “Maybe he found out about the poisoned cake,” I said. “Or who was paying her to do it.”

  “No, he was at work. She baked two cakes, and brought him a piece of one, which he ate. He couldn’t have known about her taking off with their money.” Big Mike held up a second finger. “Now let’s figure she knew Brown was going to double-cross her. Same question applies. Why kill Eddie?”

  “It doesn’t help to repeat that we don’t know why,” Kaz said.

  “No, that’s not what he’s saying,” I broke in, watching Big Mike nod his head in approval as I caught up to him. “We’re stuck in a rut thinking it had something to do with MI5 or Tad. It doesn’t. There’s another reason entirely. Eddie had to know something that truly threatened her. Working for MI5 is its own protection; if she had faith in Brown, she would have felt safe. Or, if she knew Brown was going to have her killed, that threat would have been her top priority.”

  “I see,” Kaz said. “You’re saying she murdered Eddie for a third reason, external to the case. And that perhaps she didn’t know Brown had ordered her death. Perhaps she slipped away for that third reason.”

  “I knew you guys would get it sooner or later,” Big Mike said. “Being officers, you were bound to. How about you buy the next round?”

  “Aren’t you driving us to Dover tonight?”