Billy Boyle: A World War II Mystery, Vol. 1 Read online

  We left the mess hall and I headed to Skak’s office, praying that Dad’s advice would provide the solution to this mess. I didn’t have any other cards to play. If this didn’t work I was going to need a whole new deck.

  CHAPTER ▪ TWELVE

  VIDAR SKAK DIDN’T HAVE the casual open-door policy of Knut Birkeland. In his office on the third floor I was confronted by a severe gray-haired Norwegian woman, seated at a desk way too small for her big-boned figure, in an anteroom way too small even for the desk. She spilled out over it, big droopy arms lying on papers as if she was holding them down. Her arms moved as I entered, hands poised to push her body up from the desk, ready to leap in front of Skak’s closed door if I tried anything. A piece of paper stuck to the underside of one forearm, which she shook until the paper fluttered down, freed from the thin veneer of dampness that had bonded it to her. I backed up, not wanting to get in the way of those elbows and arms.

  I gave my name and asked to speak to her boss. She told me to wait as she moved away from the desk, which took no more than two steps in that little room, keeping her eyes on me at all times. She guarded Skak’s office like it was Fort Knox. I still didn’t know exactly how the gold fit in, or even if it really did, but it was never far from my mind.

  Brunhilda, or whatever her name was, knocked on the door, waited a beat, then went in, half closing the door behind her. Maybe Skak took naps and didn’t like the help walking in on him. She spoke to him in hushed tones and then, grudgingly, opened the door and nodded me in. I tried to make myself small as I went past her sideways.

  Vidar Skak rose but didn’t come out from behind his desk. The cherrywood gleamed, every carved corner shining. There were three folders on the desktop, lined up perfectly. Nothing else, not even a pen. Glass double doors behind him opened onto a small balcony. The wall on my right was covered in bookshelves; a quick glance showed that most of the titles were in Norwegian. They looked like law books and bound government reports. Had Skak brought all those books with him? While Knut Birkeland was breaking his back carrying his country’s national treasure, was Skak transporting cases of books? The other wall was covered with photos, all arranged neatly, above a leather sofa. Skak with the king, Skak shaking hands with Winston Churchill, Skak seated at another desk, in another office, probably in Oslo. No trace of family photos, no other picture of that woman on his mantel.

  This was Skak’s true surroundings, not his sterile room upstairs. Here, at the center of his power, was the place he called home. No one else would see his bedroom, so it served no purpose other than as a place to sleep and get ready for another day of politics. And this was a good day for Skak, a day of elimination and gain. But was it as simple as good fortune for him and bad luck for Birkeland? Or had Skak made his own luck?

  He looked severe, his forehead wrinkled with all the important thoughts going on behind it. He raised his lips in the semblance of a smile, the phony politician’s grin that looks the same in Boston or Oslo. I wondered if they bothered with that anymore in Berlin. Watching Skak trying to smile was like looking at a crack in a mirror; I thought the effort might break his face. He put his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth on his heels, like he was full of energy and life. It made me think of Knut Birkeland, still and cold on the damp ground.

  “What can I do for you, Lieutenant Boyle?” He gestured for me to be seated as he adjusted his frock coat so he didn’t sit on the tails. His high starched collar dug into his neck and he twisted his head just a fraction, adjusting the angle he looked at me from to suit the collar. I had seen pictures of men dressed like that, I just didn’t know they still did.

  “Nice office. Will you get a new one when you’re the senior adviser?”

  “Don’t be impertinent, young man!” The smile vanished.

  “My apologies, sir. I just assumed you’d get the job now with Mr. Birkeland out of the way.” He looked at me through angry, narrowed eyes, assessing my value, my ability to help or hinder his advancement.

  “Is rudeness a technique of American policemen?”

  “Do Norwegian police solve crimes through politeness?” He eased back in his chair and I thought I saw a half grin, half sneer try to creep up one corner of his mouth. It was entirely natural, a real emotion playing out over his face. Gone in a flash, it gave the hint of a highly intelligent man who enjoyed this sort of game.

  “Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But why did you refer to crimes? Did not Birkeland jump from his own window?”

  “Perhaps not,” I shot back. “Do you think Birkeland was the kind of man to kill himself?”

  “I am not qualified to judge such things. I have never known anyone who has taken his own life. It seems abhorrent to me, but perhaps he had his reasons.” Skak leaned back, quietly satisfied at leaving the thought of Birkeland’s reasons dangling in the air, bait for me to rise to. I wasn’t ready to walk into that one yet.

  “Well, if you don’t know if he would have killed himself, do you know anyone who wanted him dead?”

  “Lieutenant, we have many disagreements here,” Skak pontificated, looking over my shoulder at the photographs on the wall. “Some of those disagreements are about matters of state policy, and some are about military strategy. Most involve the lives of many people. Naturally, these disagreements can become quite heated, and even personal. But to wish someone dead—no, I cannot conceive of that.” He sounded smug, as if he had rehearsed these words until they sounded just perfect. Time to poke this guy.

  “Don’t you wish many people dead, sir?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Underground Army. Won’t many of them die if the king authorizes the uprising?”

  “You know that’s not the same thing, Lieutenant.”

  “No, you won’t have to get your own hands dirty. It’s not the same thing at all.”

  “Lieutenant Boyle, this discussion is pointless. If there is something specific I can do for you, please let me know. Otherwise, I am very busy.”

  “Mr. Skak, I think you don’t quite understand. This questioning is not voluntary on your part. I’m under orders to investigate the suspicious death of an Allied government official. You are as much a suspect as anyone. More so, perhaps.” The smugness and the smile vanished. He looked like he suddenly realized that it might not be smooth sailing for the future senior adviser. I had no idea if my authority, if I really had any at all, extended to the Norwegians. All I had was Harding’s orders and some backup from Cosgrove. It looked like Skak bought the bluff, though.

  “A suspect? More so? Whatever do you mean?”

  “The most basic rule of a murder investigation. The one who has the most to gain is automatically a suspect. Birkeland was your competition for senior adviser. He’s gone and now you’re it. Simple.”

  “That is idiotic! You don’t even know if he was murdered or killed himself!”

  “I know that things aren’t what they seem. And that I will find out what really happened, and why.” I went silent and stared at Skak. Sometimes a confident bluff and determined silence can work on a guy. As I stared at him, I started counting how many pairs of clean socks I had left. It wasn’t many, but it didn’t take Skak long to start talking either. He didn’t strike me as a man comfortable with his own silence. Maybe he didn’t have any clean socks to count.

  “I have been told you are looking for a key. What does all this have to do with your search for that key?”

  “Good question, Mr. Skak. There was no key inside Mr. Birkeland’s room, which was locked. That means that someone was in his room and locked it from the outside when he or she left.”

  “The murderer.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe Birkeland did kill himself and someone entered the room after the fact, for some other reason then left and locked it. Did you visit him in his room last night?”

  “We were not in the habit of visiting each other in our personal living quarters. We were not . . . friends, I regret to say.”

  �
�You don’t look like you regret it at all, Mr. Skak.”

  “Oh, but I do, I do, young man. If he were alive, I could expose Knut Birkeland for the thief he was. I could have ended his influence with the king and won the post of senior adviser for myself. But now that he is dead, by whatever means, I will certainly be appointed by default, and we will never know what he did with the gold he took.” It was a good answer, and there was a rage in his voice that seemed real to me.

  “When did this problem with the gold start?”

  “Aboard the Glasgow, after we left Molde. You heard about the crate of coins that broke open. I had been keeping a tally of the crates during our journey. I kept track of every small shipment that Birkeland sent off. It was a good idea, I must admit, to use the fishing fleet. It protected the entire shipment from capture by the Germans, but it also allowed it to slowly leave our control.”

  “Did you lose much of the gold?”

  “No, the Norwegian people rallied around us through every step of the journey. Everyone helped and no one informed the Germans. But when the last of the shipment, about two hundred crates, distributed to Birkeland’s fleet of fishing vessels in Nordland was unloaded, we ended up two crates short.”

  “Only two? How could that have been Birkeland’s fault?”

  “Lieutenant, first you must understand that each crate weighed sixtyfive pounds. That makes one hundred and thirty pounds of gold, a fortune for anyone. Each ship’s count was right, which means the two crates were diverted in the off-loading. Which was supervised by Knut Birkeland.”

  “Means and opportunity, but no motive,” I said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Police first look to see if a suspect had the means, the motive and the opportunity to commit a crime. Birkeland had two out of three, but what would his motive have been?”

  “Money. A great deal of it.”

  “Would you have stolen it?”

  Skak paused for a second to actually consider the question. “I would like to say no, but then again, I have never had the means and the opportunity, as you say, presented to me. Who can say what they would really do? Would you commit such a crime?”

  “Good question,” I admitted. I thought back to the last big bust I had been involved with before I left the cops. We had got the jump on the Riley brothers as they were about to fence a shipment of stolen watches: ladies’ watches, fourteen-karat gold plated, a gross of them. While we were unloading the boxes into the evidence locker, one of the guys dropped one and it busted open. I had given my mom a fourteen-karat gold plated watch for Christmas that year. I never really thought of it as stealing. Hell, it had already been stolen, and we got it back! So, yeah, I took my share when it wouldn’t hurt anyone, so who was I to judge Birkeland, up in Nordland on a little fishing boat, watching all the gold in the world pass him by? I looked Skak straight in the eye and answered him.

  “No. Once a police officer, always a police officer. I wouldn’t steal.”

  “Exactly. Your training prohibits you from doing so. My family is quite wealthy, and I have few needs, since I have dedicated my life to government service.”

  “In other words, you prefer power to money.”

  “Lieutenant, you are rude and overly blunt. But not incorrect. Wealth by itself is nothing more than an amusement for those who are born to it. Knut Birkeland, however, was born to a poor fisherman, and built up his fishing fleet and his political fortunes by hard work alone. To such a man, great wealth is an aspiration, and a temptation.”

  “I have to agree with you, Mr. Skak, about money. But it also applies to power. Once you’ve had a taste of it, you can never have enough. The motive you’re describing for Birkeland’s theft of the gold is the same one I could apply to you. You wouldn’t have been able to stand the humiliation and loss of power if Birkeland had been appointed senior adviser. It’s a perfect motive for murder.”

  Skak gulped. He didn’t like the picture I was painting. I could see him mentally calculating the chances that just a hint of guilt would keep the king from appointing him, even if I had no proof. Then he brightened.

  “Let me grant you that, in your mind at least, that is a sufficient motive for murder. What about your own rules? Where are my means and opportunity? How could I have overpowered and killed Knut Birkeland?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted.

  Skak’s face lit up as he warmed to the task of destroying my theory.

  “Another thing, Lieutenant. Why do you suppose I was the only one with a great deal to gain from Birkeland’s death? Why don’t you look into who will inherit or take over his business interests? He could have a relative or partner in England who would have much to gain by his death.”

  It was a very good point. It was also a long shot, but one worth taking, as well as one I hadn’t thought of. I decided not to thank him for the swell idea.

  “Where were you between five thirty and six o’clock this morning?”

  “I am a man of very precise habits, Lieutenant. I awake each morning at five thirty. I dress and take a morning walk at six o’clock, rain or shine. I find it clears my head for the day’s work and keeps me fit. I breakfast at six thirty and am at work by seven. This morning, Major Cosgrove joined me on my walk. He wanted to talk about the Underground Army and my plans for it.”

  I made a mental note to talk to Cosgrove. He hadn’t mentioned that he’d been up and around, and I hadn’t figured him for the early-exercise much less the walking type.

  “Did you see anything unusual in the house or on the grounds?”

  “No, just the usual house staff about. Except for Captain Iversen, now that you mention it.”

  “Was it unusual for him to be around?”

  “I don’t usually see him that early. As I came down the staircase from the fourth floor, I saw him walking down the third-floor corridor very quietly. His back was to me, so he didn’t see me there. He opened his door, which was unlocked, and closed it behind him, very slowly without a noise. I thought it a bit odd at the time, and only remembered when you asked me. Why would he go out and leave his room unlocked and act so furtively?”

  I was glad to hear that someone else besides me hadn’t caught on to the unlocked door dodge, until I realized it put me in the same company as this lifeless bureaucrat. I’d have to ask Jens about his excursion, and why he hadn’t mentioned it. That made three guys already up and around the building when Birkeland was killed: Skak, Cosgrove, and Iversen. And maybe Anders, since he couldn’t account for how someone got into his room to leave Birkeland’s key, although that could have been done anytime up until it was found.

  “Well, Mr. Skak, maybe he just didn’t want to wake up his neighbors. Anything else?”

  “No. Major Cosgrove and I met at the front entrance and walked briskly for half an hour. When we returned I went straight to my room, where I have my breakfast delivered.” The thought of Cosgrove walking briskly for thirty minutes was pretty funny, and it made me wonder why he was so interested in Skak’s plans.

  “Lieutenant Boyle, will you be reporting on your investigation to the king?” I could see the worry in his eyes.

  “I doubt it, sir. I report to Major Harding, who reports directly to General Eisenhower. He will probably inform Major Cosgrove as a courtesy, but what they do with my report is their business.”

  “And when do you think you will complete your investigation?”

  “When I understand exactly what happened and why.”

  “Well, good luck then, Lieutenant.” I could see that Skak’s faith in me didn’t lead him to foresee a speedy conclusion to this case. His face visibly relaxed and his smile looked almost natural. He must’ve figured that word of his potential involvement wouldn’t get back to the king until he was safely enthroned as senior adviser.

  I left and smiled at Brunhilda on my way out, trying to work the Irish charm. Nothing. I’d have had more of a chance with cod on ice at Quincy Market than with her.

  I walked down
stairs to the second floor, where Jens had his office amid a cluster of other officers and lower-level functionaries. No ample secretaries pulling guard duty in sight. I found him at his desk and on the phone, jotting down notes and nodding his head. Someone on the other end was doing a lot of talking. I stepped back a bit and looked around as I waited.

  Down here on the second floor accommodations were a bit more spartan. Jens’s office was actually a rectangle, three walls and an open front. There were four others like it along one wall, and a nest of desks, map tables, and file cabinets filled the rest of the room. Norwegian soldiers in brown British battle dress, WRENs in their blue uniforms, and some civilian women buzzed about. I watched them talking, tracing movements on a wall map with their fingers, dancing over the North Sea from Scotland to Norway as if they were planning a Sunday drive, eyes alive with anticipation. There was a sense of purpose in everything they did, every little thing filled with great importance, even filing papers and typing forms. File cabinets were closed with determined thuds like mortar rounds going off, and the rapid chatter of typewriter keys sounded like machine guns strafing the paper into submission. There was excitement in the air, the unspoken fervor of anticipated action. The invasion was on. It had been two years since some of these people had seen their homeland, and now they were on their way back. This wasn’t just a government job; it was a cause, something they all believed in and would fight for. Die for.

  Leaning against the wall, with Jens jabbering on the phone and the murmurs of activity all around me, I felt a stab of loneliness. Or maybe just a kind of difference that separated me from these eager beavers. They were all doing their bit for the cause, and here I was, an outsider, searching their rooms, questioning their leaders, and generally getting in the way. I sure didn’t want to go along with them, but I did feel left out, as if I were watching a parade pass me by. But that was the price I paid, the trade-off for making my living by uncovering what people wanted to stay hidden. Separateness. Everybody had their secrets, and no one liked having them aired in public. I didn’t either, which was why I was trying so hard not to make a fool of myself in this investigation.