The Broken Sword

by R. Mingo Sweeney

  The page took Manie’s bags to the waiting limousine, which was nearly full of waiting passengers. “She was only a friend!” said MacQueen, still bewildered and feeling cheapened.

  “I believe she saw it differently. You don’t manage your love life very well, ol’ boy,” Manie said and smiled. “But I’m not the jealous type. Give me a kiss, MacQueen, and wish me well…and thanks for last night. I mean it.”

  They kissed. He helped her into the back seat, wished a bon voyage, and closed the door. The limousine swept off to the airport, leaving MacQueen standing desolately on the curb. He turned and went back into the hotel to call for his car. He dropped a coin and dialed.

  “Lieutenant MacQueen, sir! We’ve been trying to get you everywhere.”

  “Hemming—what are you doing there on Sunday morning? What’s the matter?”

  “It’s Lieutenant Cossit, sir. He’s dead.”

  This brutal statement hit MacQueen like a club. All of his senses turned off, and he stood dumbly holding the telephone. That must be a joke, he thought.

  “Lieutenant MacQueen? Sir? Where are you? I’ll send your car right away, sir. It’s been terrible around here.”

  MacQueen tried to pull himself together. He shook his head, and started to speak, but his voice failed. He cleared his throat and tried again.

  “I’m at the hotel. What happened?”

  “I think you should go to your house, sir. That’s where it happened. The PO is there now and the commander wants to talk to you.”

  “He died at my house?”

  “Shot, sir. He shot himself. I don’t know it all but you’d better get there soon.”

  “Send the car, Hemming.” MacQueen slowly hung up in disbelief. His face had gone deathly pale, and he virtually fell into an armchair. The page came over to him. “Are you okay, sir? You look badly.”

  MacQueen nodded slowly, looked up, and focused on the boy’s face. “Yes, I’m okay. Just tell me when my car arrives. What time is it?”

  “Goin’ on for nine o’clock, sir. Sure you wouldn’t like a drink of water?”

  “Thanks. Yes, I would.”

  Jimmy Cossit dead. It was a sudden thing to digest. What the hell had he been up to? The war is over, he had his DSC and the whole world to live for. Why the hell would he kill himself, and in MacQueen’s house of all places? God, what a shambles!

  “Here’s your water, sir. I’ll watch for your car. What’s your name, sir?”

  “MacQueen.”

  “Yes, sir. Lieutenant MacQueen.” The boy disappeared through the main door to wait on the sidewalk.

  MacQueen drank a few mouthfuls, then rose and placed the glass on the main desk.

  “Had some bad news?” asked the clerk.

  “What? Oh, yes. My mother…she’s ill.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said the clerk. “Anything I can do?”

  “Your car, sir,” called the boy from the door.

  “No—uh, no thanks. Nothing.”

  MacQueen slipped a coin to the boy and answered MacDonell’s salute. He climbed into the back seat and was glad to see that Rodney was on duty.

  “Take me home, Rodney,” he said as MacDonell slipped into the front. “And try to tell me what has happened.”

  “We don’t know much about it, sir. The PO has been there all night. Lieutenant Cossit’s body was taken to the barracks this morning, after the police photographed everything. The commander and the first lieutenant have just left.”

  “Who’s there now?”

  “Just the PO and Espery, I think. Everyone’s been looking for you, of course.”

  “I’ll bet,” muttered MacQueen bitterly. “How did he do it?”

  MacDonell turned his head. “A .45 revolver, sir.”

  “I didn’t know that he could even recognize one, let alone shoot it.”

  “It did a helluva job,” said MacDonell.

  “Shut up,” said Rodney.

  MacQueen strode into his house, trailed by MacDonell. Petty Officer Low and Espery were sitting at a table in the kitchen, drinking beer.

  “What in hell’s going on around here?” demanded MacQueen. “I take a night off and my good friend kills himself—is this some macabre joke or what?”

  The PO staggered to his feet. Espery advanced with one arm outstretched, his curly hair damp on his forehead and dark circles under his eyes.

  “Glad to see you at last,” he said. “It’s been one heck of a night. Can I get you a drink? I think you could use it.”

  “I’ll have a brandy,” said MacQueen. “Now brief me on all of this quickly, PO, as I’ll have to know the details. What precisely happened?”

  “Should we go inside, sir?” asked Espery. “In the drawing room. The dining room is a mess.”

  MacQueen gulped the brandy straight and shuddered. He glanced into the small dining room and noted that the glass china cabinet was smashed; towels, some faintly tinted pink, lay on the floor. He turned and went into the front room. The fire was cold and dead, and a faint smell of cordite lingered in the air, or was that his imagination? He sat down heavily. Espery asked MacDonell to make some coffee then joined the two in the front room.

  “Well, PO?” asked MacQueen.

  Petty Officer Low sat on a straight chair. He was obviously tired, but a faint light deep in his eyes betrayed a secret enjoyment of the drama.

  “It seems, from the police record, sir, that Lieutenant Cossit was having an—uh—an affair with a sailor near New Gower Street. They were discovered by two civilians who started a fight, and the constabulary moved in. The lieutenant got away in the fog and came here. Espery phoned me about it as you weren’t home, and I came right away. While I was here the phone was ringing a good deal, and in one of my absences the lieutenant shot himself.”

  “What time was this?”

  “About 0300 hours, sir,” answered the petty officer.

  “Who was the sailor? One of ours?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the civilians, where are they?”

  “Everybody’s locked up, sir.”

  “ …And Lieutenant Cossit’s body?”

  “It will be sent to Canada today by RCAF scheduled flight, sir. The guardsman is being transferred tomorrow. The civilians are being frightened into silence. It was an accident, sir. The police records have been cleared and there will be no inquest or inquiry. Nothing except the unfortunate death of a gallant officer in the line of duty.”

  “How neat,” exclaimed MacQueen. “Who did you talk to before coming here last night?”

  “I had to speak to the first lieutenant, of course—he called me. The police were on his neck and he couldn’t find you.”

  “You went to the barracks and saw him first? Was the commander there?”

  “No, sir. We spoke to him by telephone.”

  “You were a busy fellow. What gun did Lieutenant Cossit use?”

  “Mine, sir.”

  “How did he get your gun, Petty Officer?”

  “As I said, sir, I went to the phone. I had unbelted my gun and it was lying on the table. He apparently put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

  “Was it cocked with the safety catch off, Petty Officer? Did you show him how to use it?”

  “I don’t understand, sir. Why are you asking me these questions?”

  MacQueen silently gnawed at the knuckle of his right fist, desperately attempting to make some sense out of this weighted evidence. The true picture was forming in his mind. He restrained himself, but stood and began to pace about the room.

  “Did the Number One suggest that this might be the honourable way out for an officer caught in such a crime, PO?”

  “Well, I agree with that, sir. He would have been disgraced. There would have been inquiries and a court martial—it would have been a terrible mess. You would have been implicated as well, of course, because he came here, and you two were friends. Suicide was the only honourable path, to save us all, as well as his family
and reputation.”

  “So, you were a one-man firing squad, executing the orders of a court in absentia, and ruling on the life of a distraught man who happened to be my friend?”

  “He shot himself, sir!” The petty officer was becoming visibly upset. Espery sat quietly in the corner, staring at the floor. MacDonell didn’t dare bring in the coffee and sat miserably in the kitchen, waiting for the inevitable explosion. It had been a hard night on his young nerves.

  MacQueen stopped directly in front of the PO. “With your pistol, PO. Which was left conveniently on the table. And I’ll warrant those phone calls were to find out if the deed had been done before notifying the police!”

  The petty officer’s eyes shifted, but then he straightened himself and looked MacQueen in the face.

  “He was your Achilles heel, sir. It was my duty!”

  MacQueen’s mouth hung open as he looked at the petty officer. He was thunderstruck. All the talk of Bonnie Prince Charlie and loyalty unto death had led to this—his friend lying in a wooden crate with his head blown off. The anachronism before him, like something from the fantasies of Sir Walter Scott, had murdered his friend to protect…who? His ideal of MacQueen, or his ideal of himself in which MacQueen played a part? For this false ideal, Lieutenant James Cossit, RCN, DSC was dead. Whitewashed, and soon to be buried.

  “You bloody murdering fool! Get out of this house—and tomorrow you are drafted out of this base. You can accompany the body to Canada and let the memory accompany you to hell! You are the one official shore patrol rating here, so don’t appeal to your brethren in crime to keep you here. You are finished, on my say-so, and that is final. Now get out, and God damn your soul!”

  The petty officer was shocked speechless. He took his cap and rapidly departed, heading for the barracks. MacQueen fell back in his chair and covered his eyes.

  “My God, Espery, what’s next?”

  “Can you shave, sir? I’ll put out a clean shirt. The commander will want to see you, and you have a meeting at four this afternoon.”

  Inevitably, the phone rang as he was shaving. The commander’s voice sounded thickly in his ear. “MacQueen? At last you’ve surfaced. I would like to see you immediately in my office, we’ve got to get this mess straightened out.”

  “I’ll be there shortly, sir,” MacQueen said and hung up. He finished shaving, changed his uniform, and accepted a coffee laced with rum from Espery.

  “I was in the Bismarck battle, sir,” said Espery. “It seemed pretty hopeless for a while, but we won that round, even with a lot of casualties.”

  “You think we’ll win this battle, do you?”

  “Just keep firing,” answered Espery, taking the cup.

  “Thanks. You’d better stay close to the phone.”

  “I’ve no place to go and there’s a mess here to clean.”

  MacQueen looked at him gratefully, then put his cap on and beckoned to MacDonell.

  He entered the commander’s office with his cap under his left arm and holding his gloves in strict regulation style. He then stood at attention in front of the commander’s desk, allowing his eyes to wander from the commander’s pale, fat face to the windows behind his head. He looked across the parade square and the roofs of the officers’ quarters, towards the south-side hills, on which was perched the oil tank farm, and below this the multi-million dollar white elephant of the south-side barracks. These had been erected on the hill at a forty-five degree angle, fully equipped, and were now occupied by only six of his guards. Rumour said that the Lord Commissioner of the Admiralty in London, who had approved the location, wasn’t accustomed to noting land contour lines on maps.

  “At ease, MacQueen, and please sit down.”

  MacQueen snapped out of his reverie and sat on a chair facing the commander, who was flanked on one side by the Number One and on the other by his new secretary, Lieutenant MacDwine. The unholy three, thought MacQueen, recalling an old Lon Chaney movie.

  “I understand you’ve been briefed somewhat by Petty Officer Low, and no doubt by others?”

  “Yes, sir.” MacQueen resolved to remain cool and correct.

  “While you were out whoring or whatever, we’ve had a particularly trying night.” The commander’s haggard face underlined that comment, as did that of the Number One. MacDwine, on the other hand, looked quite cheerful. “You understand the implications of all that has transpired? We’ve been engaged in a massive covering job, with the police ashore and with our own authorities. Everything has been quashed and the report states that the officer concerned died by a fatal accident while cleaning his revolver. His body will be shipped by air to Canada today; the rating concerned is to be transferred and kept in seclusion for a time, then discharged. The civilian rowdies have had the wits scared out of them and are in jail for drunkenness and disorderly conduct. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As the dead officer was a friend of yours, I offer my sympathy. But you must realize that we have acted in the best interests of the service, and also, I think, in your best interest…and in his as well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The commander shuffled through some papers with shaking hands. The Number One was gazing distractedly out the window. Lieutenant MacDwine leaned forward respectfully and pointed to the paper the commander was looking for. He took it, and it rustled quietly in his hand.

  “Now, about Petty Officer Low. This man has done loyal service to all of us and should be commended. Instead of which I understand that you are having him drafted to Canada for discharge. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I will ask you here and now to reverse that decision.” The commander laid the paper down and sat back, with his chin in his hand, and narrowed his eyes.

  “No, sir.”

  “I can’t force your decision—he is shore patrol and I understand not under me in such matters. Why are you so insistent?”

  “I want him to accompany Lieutenant Cossit’s body, sir. Someone has to do it, why not him?”

  The commander looked at the Number One, who cleared his throat and shrugged slightly.

  “You could issue a direct order, sir, then Lieutenant MacQueen would have to obey,” said the Number One. “However, if he chose to, he could cause trouble at Naval Service Headquarters in Ottawa. Then the whole thing would be blown wide open.”

  The commander looked again at MacQueen.

  “Would you do that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The three of them flinched perceptibly.

  “Very well, he goes. This decision of yours hasn’t endeared you to me, MacQueen, but we still have to work together. Is there anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  The Number One interjected with another cough. “If I might add, sir, for the guard officer’s benefit, that Lieutenant Cossit took the only honourable path open to an officer under the circumstances. We are proud of him for that.”

  You fucking hypocrite, thought MacQueen savagely. “If there’s nothing else then,” he said. The commander shook his head. MacQueen rose, put on his cap, saluted, and marched out. He lost control of himself only once in his car, where he cursed openly at the backs of his companions’ heads.

  He went to see the guard, who was locked up in the cellblock. Hemming unlocked the door and MacQueen entered. The boy was sitting on a bunk and sprang to his feet. Hemming brought a chair, and MacQueen sat down, motioning for the rating to be seated.

  “Was it as they say?” asked MacQueen quietly.

  “I guess so, sir,” answered the boy abjectly. “We were both drunk and met in the fog on New Gower Street. I was just coming out of a tavern and he was walking to the barracks and seemed lost.”

  “Who discovered you?”

  “A couple of Newfies. They wanted to fight, but then some cops arrived and I told the lieutenant to beat it.”

  “Were you hurt?”

  “A bang on the head.” He rubbed his head and winced.

>   “It’s been looked after?”

  “The civilian doctor was in last night, sir.”

  “You heard about Lieutenant Cossit?”

  “Yes, sir. I was told not to talk to anyone about it.”

  “…You held them up so that he could get away?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  MacQueen rose, and the boy also stood up. “You’ll be going back to Canada, and probably be kept locked up for a spell. I don’t think any charges will be laid. If they are, write a letter to me here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After a moment, MacQueen offered his hand to the young man, and looked him in the eyes. “Thank you for trying to save my friend.”

  The boy blushed, and shook hands. MacQueen called for Hemming, who opened the cell. He went to his office and sat in a daze behind his desk. He could hear the band and realized that Church parade had begun. They would have to do without him today. Hemming came to the door. “Is everything okay, sir?”

  “Yes, thanks Hemming. You must be tired. Where is the body?”

  “In the hospital, sir. It’s all crated now, and we’ve been asked to take it to the airport this afternoon in a shore patrol wagon.”

  “Petty Officer Low will be accompanying it, Hemming, and I want you to send a signal transferring him to Ottawa for demobilization. You can arrange for his papers to be forwarded tomorrow.”

  “The PO is leaving, sir?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away.”

  All of Jimmy’s personal effects, including his Distinguished Service Cross, would be sent to his family. MacQueen looked at his watch. The bar would be open in a half hour, and he certainly needed a drink.

  86

  At the wardroom, the bartender gave him a chit, asking him to call Lieutenant Seaton through the Naval Armament Depot telephone. He ordered a drink and took it into the booth. After waiting for some minutes, Freddie’s cheerful voice almost deafened him.

  “Hi, old buddy—glad you got through. Terrific party, ol’ boy. Total success! How’re you feeling?”

  “There was an accident here, Freddie,” answered MacQueen. “One of the officers was killed. I’m a bit shaken, as he was a good friend.”