“A touchy situation,” agreed MacQueen.
“I can assure you, old boy, if you weren’t essential we wouldn’t be talking.” He looked at MacQueen and smiled humourlessly.
“That, I judge,” MacQueen said and smiled back. “I’m not the commander’s favourite.”
“Oh, he admires you, but he didn’t think you had a price.”
“Who hasn’t?”
“That’s what I told him,” said MacDwine with a laugh. “He’ll be glad to hear it. So, it’s the three of us. Soon there won’t be many more anyway, just specialists and engineers and so on to dismantle things. I can assure you it’s worth the effort.”
“How worth?”
MacDwine evaded the question. “It’s not all figured out yet, but enough to get us all started as entrepreneurs in civvy life with a big plus.”
MacQueen knew full well that this man had it calculated to the dollar, but he didn’t press the point. They rose. “Deal?” asked MacDwine, offering his hand.
“Deal,” replied MacQueen, taking the proffered hand and feeling strangely impersonal about it.
MacQueen then descended to the parade square to watch the honour guard drilling for Wednesday’s ceremony. They were in three ranks, with a petty officer at either end, and a sub-lieutenant substituting for MacQueen standing midway in front with his sword unsheathed. The gunner’s mate saw MacQueen, ordered them to stand at ease, and marched over to him with a salute.
“Morning, sir. Very sorry to hear about Lieutenant Cossit, sir.”
“A tragedy, Chief,” replied MacQueen, straightening and returning the salute.
“I understand Petty Officer Low is no longer with us.”
“That’s right, Chief, you’re on your own.”
The sub-lieutenant marched up to them and saluted, his sword glinting as it traced a graceful arc in the morning sun. “Would you like to inspect the guard, sir?” he asked.
MacQueen looked at the gunner’s mate, who gave an imperceptible nod, and he replied, “In a moment, Sub-Lieutenant Daly. Why don’t you get the sun out of their eyes?”
As the sub-lieutenant saluted and did an about turn, young MacDonell appeared on the parade square and doubled over to MacQueen. “Good morning, sir. We didn’t know where you were.”
“I walked down the back way, MacDonell—good morning.”
They stood in a small knot as the young officer manoeuvred the guard with shouts of command. As always, an audience from the administration building was looking from the windows and probably wondering if it wasn’t preferable to be on the square rather than inside, filing papers.
MacQueen took another salute from Sub-Lieutenant Daly, indicating that the troops were ready for inspection. The four of them commenced from the right of the front rank and slowly walked up and down the three ranks in order. He recognized most of the lads, standing erect and silent with their rifles by their sides and the wind ruffling their square naval collars. They wore the gunner’s mate’s special web gaiters and belts, all of uniform shade, and looked presentable indeed. He checked one who needed repairs to his heels, another who needed a hair trim, and spoke to a few others with praise.
When the brief inspection was finished, MacQueen and his escort departed in a flurry of salutes, and the gunner’s mate got back to business.
“The barracks are getting kind of empty, sir,” commented MacDonell on their way to the guard offices.
“Yes, time is running out. I wonder what they’ll do with these buildings.” He returned more salutes and entered the orderly room, beckoning to Hemming to follow him into his office.
“Morning, Hemming. You know of our prisoner?”
“Morning, sir. Yes, I learned when I came on watch.”
“You’re to keep it quiet. He’s an oddball British petty officer, you understand? No one is to believe anything else, and even that news is to be kept to the essential few, no matter what the prisoner or anyone else says. And I mean anyone! Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. Mum’s the word. MacDonell got his breakfast and he stood guard while I gave it to him.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Just a ‘good morning’, sir. Very quiet. The other prisoner will clean his cell and his bucket, I guess, if he isn’t allowed out.”
“Good idea. It won’t be for long, but this man is dangerous, so be very careful when you’re near him.”
“Right, sir.”
Hemming left, and MacQueen dialed Rowntree’s special number. It was answered promptly, and Rowntree came on the line shortly.
“Hello, old boy,” he said. “I’ve been hoping to hear from you. Our politicos are arguing, so they must be coming up with something, eh? I’ve got my boys rounded up. How’re you doing?”
“I inspected the guard this morning and they’re shaping up also. LaRosa is quiet and seems happy enough, or resigned, I should say. No flak as yet, and no word from the mainland to my knowledge.”
“What kind of a man is this petty officer messenger fella?”
“He’s furious with me, but we won’t go into that. I think he’ll do what they want if they pay him. If they’ve paid him first he might get drunk and hopefully stay that way for a few days. He was restraining himself here, but it was building up.”
“Let’s hope so. You’re seeing the police this aft?”
“I won’t ask how you know, but yes, I am.”
“Good. Try and sound out their sympathies. I’m sure they aren’t pro-Canadian but they are polite and might want to please you. Well, that’s diplomacy and not my line! The inspector general is a fine old boy—hewn from oak!”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”
MacQueen buzzed for Hemming and inspected his sword. It was sparkling from the vigorous polishing by the rating in the cells. “Tell the lad I’m pleased,” said MacQueen, “and smuggle him a bottle of beer. Incidentally, if the other prisoner wants anything to drink, check with the Chief and put it on my mess bill. I’ll have lunch at home and take off for my ceremonial police visits from there. I should be finished by 1700 hours, but please be here when I return if I’m late.” He picked up his sword and headed out to the car.
Rodney had polished the car to a high gleam, and MacQueen complimented him on it. With his escort in front, they started out the gate as MacQueen looked up and saw Dr. Wolff looking out of his office window. He gave a brief wave and hoped the doctor had seen it. This would be the sword’s first official function by its new owner.
Newfoundland weather has a strange contrariness that usually closes her airports when it is clear everywhere else, and the reverse is equally true. This causes endless headaches for anyone attempting to maintain a schedule, as Petty Officer Low was discovering to his mounting dismay.
His flight had been diverted to Toronto, and they had unloaded the crate containing Lieutenant Cossit’s body into a hangar until it could be transferred to Ottawa.
However, no one would sign for the crate, so the petty officer was stuck with it. Not being superstitious, at least when the lights were on, he sat glumly on it and surveyed the vast, virtually deserted hangar.
“What are you doing, sailor?” asked a sergeant, passing by with a clipboard under his arm.
“Great Christ,” muttered Low, “I don’t know m’self! I’ve got this box to deliver to Ottawa and they dumped me here en route to Winnipeg. I just don’t know what t’do.”
“You a Scot? My family came from Scotland. What’s in it?”
“A body.”
“Christ, nobody’s going to steal that! Why not come and have a drink at the mess and we’ll talk it over? I’m just knocking off.”
The petty officer recollected that he had to deliver the message to the captain…but he had one hundred dollars in his pocket, given to him by the lieutenant in Newfie, and he also had one almighty thirst. He ran his tongue over his dry lips then stood up abruptly.
“You’re m’saviour-r,” he exclaimed, his Scottish burr called into play. “Le
t’s have a few and then we can sort all this out!”
“Good fellow. Just wait till I get my cap and toss this stuff into the office. The boys will like your company.”
Shortly, they were striding vigorously towards the sergeants’ mess, across landing strips that seemed to stretch endlessly towards the horizon. They were outlined with lights that were coming on as the twilight disappeared in the west. Music cascaded from an old jukebox as they entered a smoky and noisy room. Low closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet smells of beer and tobacco.
“What’ll it be, gents?” asked the barman. “Two Molsons, Pete. Molson okay, PO?”
Low nodded, and they took their bottles to a table, tilting the glasses to keep the beer from foaming over.
“Look what’s washed up on the beach!” shouted an airman.
“Gorblimey, the fuckin’ nay-ve-e-e,” called another.
The PO drank deeply and smiled to himself. This was what he’d been waiting for—a bunch of good blokes, plenty of beer, and no worries.
“Where you from, sailor?” asked yet another voice. They crowded around and bought him drinks. Petty Officer Low slowly slid under the waves. His decks weren’t fully awash until closing time, and he vaguely recalled being pushed into a bus by a singing crowd of airmen, all young enough to be his sons.
The inspector general of the Newfoundland Constabulary greeted MacQueen with a crushing handshake and an invitation to share a wee one of the locally bottled rum. They stood on a duckboard walk flanked by a flag pole from which fluttered the Newfoundland flag. It, in turn, was flanked by two ancient cannon. The general himself was tall, lean, and had a deeply lined, craggy face that reminded MacQueen of the English actor C. Aubrey Smith. He was dressed in a frogged tunic and trews, with small spurs attached to the heels of his boots.
A squad of constables were drilling with rifles on a tiny parade square. “I didn’t know you conducted military drills for the police,” said MacQueen, as they walked towards the entrance of a stone building.
“We’re based on the Royal Ulster Constabulary, m’lad,” replied the gruff old man. “Most of these boys are from the outports. A bit of discipline won’t hurt ’em at all.”
MacDonell stayed with a constable in the outer office while MacQueen and the inspector general retired to his inner sanctum. It was a comfortable room with a large rolltop desk and a fire in the hearth, in front of which reclined a huge Labrador dog who barely acknowledged their presence. “My boy’s gettin’ old,” commented the inspector general. He opened a cupboard and placed two small glasses and a bottle on the desk, and then poured two drinks. “To your health, sir,” he said, and raised his glass.
His drink disappeared in one gulp and MacQueen felt obliged to follow suit. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he restrained an urgent need to cough as the fiery liquid burned down his throat.
“I was sorry to hear of the young officer’s—ah—accident. It’s just as well to keep it all under wraps. Such cases are best concealed, I agree. Tragic nonetheless. So, you’re taking over from Commander Kyley? A fine man. We got along well together, as I’m sure you and I will also.”
As a courtesy call the conversation drifted on. They had another drink then it came time to leave. Rising, MacQueen suddenly asked, “What do you think of Winterwood, sir?”
The older man grimaced visibly then shrugged. “He’s on the make, as they say. Who knows? I uphold the law, whoever makes it. Anyway, I’m near retirement. Personally, I am a Newfoundlander and would like to die as such, but that is only a personal wish.”
The plainclothes Civilian Investigation Department, or CID, presented a contrast to the traditional flavour of the constabulary. Their offices were downtown on Duckworth Street and the atmosphere was one of informality and bustle.
“Come in, Lieutenant,” greeted Inspector Garvey as MacQueen was ushered into his office. “Don’t you look grand! If it’s in my honour I’m greatly flattered. Did you see the old boy just now? He’d appreciate it all, I’m sure.”
“A fine gentleman,” said MacQueen, shaking hands and accepting a cigarette. “A pillar of law and order.”
“Indeed, yes. A bit old-fashioned for our tastes here, but he certainly cuts a fine figure. Will you have a coffee? We usually have tea but I can get you a coffee, if you’d rather.”
“No, tea’s fine.”
“Jimmy,” shouted Garvey out the door. “Rustle us up some tea, will you, like a good fellow, and give the lad some too, if he wants.”
Garvey sat behind a flat desk littered with files and papers. The sun shafted through the windows and reflected off his spectacles and his high shiny forehead. Compared to the inspector general he was soft and mod, fussing with gadgets and anxious to be on top of things.
“Yes, sorry about the accident to your lieutenant. Crocket?…No, Cossit—that’s it. A sad business. Life must go on, eh? Ah, here’s the tea. Sugar and milk?”
The informal ceremony lasted through one cup of tea. MacQueen sensed his host’s wish to get back to business and rose, holding his sword, cap, and gloves in his left hand. He extended his right and thanked the inspector.
“Not at all, nice of you to come. Anytime, please drop in or let us know what we can do.”
“Incidentally,” asked MacQueen, hesitating at the door, “what do you think of Winterwood and the confederation business, Inspector?”
Inspector Garvey looked up, a document already in his hands. He seemed slightly startled by the question. “I try to stay out of politics, Lieutenant.” His voice was suddenly hard. “And between you and me that’s good advice to follow.”
They looked at one another. Lieutenant MacQueen inclined his head slightly and then left.
It was just five o’clock when they returned to the barracks. Hemming was checking two more filing cabinets that were standing in the middle of the orderly room.
“What’s this?” asked MacQueen.
“Files from the Intelligence Department, sir.”
“Ah yes, I’m now Staff Officer Naval Intelligence also!” MacQueen said, laughing, then hesitated as he recalled LaRosa’s remark about learning his identity through these files. He took the index from the top of a cabinet and ran his fingers down the headings. He then opened the second drawer of a cabinet. He withdrew a file and went into his office.
“Anything else, sir?” asked Hemming.
“Is our prisoner okay?”
“Yes, sir. He’s been fed and barbered and now has a bottle of brandy to keep him company. I think he’s writing a letter.”
“Fine, Hemming. Carry on, but ask MacDonell to stand by.”
“Thank you, sir. Good night.”
MacQueen unbuckled his sword and settled behind his desk. He glanced at the list of telephone calls and memos, then opened the file. It didn’t contain much. A few letters and documents, but the curriculum vitae of his prisoner was there. It was marked SECRET, and he read it with interest. It was accompanied by a letter addressed to Staff Officer Naval Intelligence Newfoundland Command, dated from Naval Service Headquarters, Ottawa (NSHQ), stating that Lieutenant James Patrick LaRosa, RNR, attached to Royal Naval Intelligence at the Admiralty in London, was assigned to duty with the Royal Naval Detachment, Newfoundland Command.
The attached 8 x 10 card had a photograph of LaRosa on the upper left corner and identified him as the son of Lieutenant General Ivan Ivanovich Rossovsky of the Imperial Russian Army. He had been a cadet in St. Michael’s Military Academy when the Russian Revolution broke out in 1917, and had marched in an attempt to free the czar with some of his classmates. He had then served with Admiral Kolchak in Siberia. He later joined his mother at Harbin in Manchuria when the Bolsheviks finally conquered their way to Vladivostok. MacQueen shook his head and continued.
Judging from the document, LaRosa then married an Irish girl, the daughter of a diplomat in Shanghai. He procured a posting with the Palestine Police in the early 1930s, which is when his connection with British Intelligence commenced.
His subsequent career included work in Ireland in connection with the IRA, a mission to Franco’s Nationalists during the Spanish Civil War, and collaboration with the American OSS in Yugoslavia and in Iceland. His home was in Ireland, where his wife resided in her family seat, which had been destroyed in 1922 but was slowly being restored.
MacQueen was staggered at the size of the fish that he had in his net. He ordered MacDonell to accompany him to LaRosa’s cell, revolver at the ready, and opened the door. LaRosa was seated on the padded bunk, writing on an upturned box. He looked up quickly and smiled.
“Ah, my friend, good to see you.”
“Are you comfortable?” asked MacQueen.
“Most certainly. I’ve even been enjoying some quite passable brandy. Won’t you come in?”
“I think not, thank you, but I would like some answers.”
“My files have arrived, I take it?”
“Indeed, they have. They don’t quite correspond to your previous tales.”
“I must tailor my tales, so to speak,” answered LaRosa, smiling again and emptying his glass. “Would it be possible to have the documents? Just to destroy them, of course.”
“Certainly,” replied MacQueen, “but not just now. My one major question: why did you send that note with the petty officer?”
La Rosa threw his head back and looked at the bare bulb in a cage in the ceiling. “This is not a matter for the navy,” he answered finally. “Your Captain—or ex-Captain—Purcell is my only possible direct line to the prime minister. I tried to call him but he was campaigning, or something. I felt that my meeting with you might be disadvantageous somehow, so the note with the petty officer was insurance. I didn’t suspect that you were going to arrest me. That was a sudden and clever move.”
“Why not involve the navy?” asked MacQueen.
LaRosa laughed and uncorked the brandy, pouring himself a small amount. “My dear fellow, that would be the end of it all. No Newfoundlander would vote for confederation if the word was out that the Canadian navy suppressed an independence movement here. They are a proud people and still cherish a form of sovereignty, you know.”
The Broken Sword Page 47