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

  “Lieutenant,” Cosgrove said, “I don’t know if I am more offended by your tone, your atrocious grammar, or the fact that you’ve referred to me as one of ‘you guys.’ I’ve been accused of many things, but never that!”

  He kept his look of amusement, but his eyes drilled me. Harding was steamed. I was nowhere. I wondered if the whole war was going to be like this. I tried to speak calmly.

  “Look, sirs, in order to find anything out, I need to ask a lot of questions. Most of them lead nowhere. Once in a while, they lead to something that doesn’t add up. Something out of place. Maybe just a little innocent lie, or something left unsaid. That’s the kind of thing I look for. I can’t work on solving a crime when some of the main players are out of bounds. It doesn’t mean that I think Major Cosgrove did it, but maybe something Skak said this morning will help. Or maybe you saw something, something that means nothing to you but could be an important missing piece to me.”

  “Young man,” Cosgrove said as he leaned forward earnestly, “I understand and sympathize, actually. But there are certain reasons of security that apply. Need to know and all that. You’ll simply have to make do.”

  “Boyle,” Harding added, “we need you on the job, but we can’t tell you everything. There are plenty of generals who don’t know half of what you know already. We have to draw the line here. Do whatever you need to do to find out what happened, but you must trust us on this. Besides, what could the major tell you that would help you find out if Birkeland was murdered or killed himself?”

  I sat down, feeling defeated. They were actually making sense. This was war, not the cops. There were different rules here. Cosgrove sat back in his chair, smiling at his own logic. Harding stood next to him, arms folded, watching me, waiting to see if I’d fall in line or cause more problems.

  “Well, I don’t know which is my big problem right now. I hate not knowing, having a blank spot in my investigation. But I guess I understand what you’re saying.”

  I felt like I was surrendering to some superior logic that had proved me wrong but might let a murderer get away. My head was pounding, and I rubbed my temples to ease the pain building up inside.

  “Boyle, you’re bleeding,” Harding said, pulling my hand away from my head. “You must have opened up one of the cuts from the wood splinters.”

  Harding held my hand in front of my face so I could see. My fin-gers were stained sticky red and I felt a stream trickle down the side of my face like a tear. I pulled out my handkerchief and tried to stop it before it hit my collar. It seemed so long ago that Kaz, Knut Birkeland, and I were standing out there playing soldier. Blood on my face, blood on the roses—where would it show up next? I felt dull and stupid, a child in the company of adults, needing a bandage. Something wasn’t adding up. I felt an idea trying to claw its way up from the back of my mind. I looked at the blood on the handkerchief. Where would it show up next?

  “Wait a minute!” I said. I held up my hand as if to stop any other thoughts, to clear my mind. I knew the answer had to do with that bullet. Where would it show up next? I tried to visualize that morning. Kaz had been on my right, and Birkeland on my left. There had been smoke and confusion. I closed my eyes and watched it all happen, trying to slow things down. The commandos sneaking up on us . . . explosions . . . burning tanks . . . shots . . .

  “Knut Birkeland was murdered,” I said. “On the second try.”

  “What? How could you know that for certain?” Cosgrove’s mouth gaped open, as if he had just heard a monkey guess his birthday.

  “The bullet that almost got me was not a stray or a mistake in loading. It was an assassination attempt, intended for Knut Birkeland.”

  “But the bullet struck just inches from your head,” Cosgrove sputtered.

  “Which also put it inches from Birkeland,” Harding said slowly, one step behind me, as the thought took hold and he started to see how it might have worked. Everything fell into place.

  “Yes, sir. Whoever fired was low and to the left. I just happened to be there. Maybe it was his rifle or maybe he got jostled. It was a good idea, though. All he had to do was slip one live round in the chamber before the exercise. When he loaded the clip of blanks, it would have been waiting there, ready to go on the first shot. With all that firing, no one would notice that the shooter didn’t work his bolt, since he already had the live round loaded. He could just aim and fire.”

  “You might be right, Boyle,” Harding said. Cosgrove nodded, as if he was reluctant to agree, but couldn’t find anything to criticize. He wasn’t amused anymore.

  “I know I am. There’s no reason at all to try and kill me, I’ve got nothing to do with this Norwegian business. But we know someone wanted Birkeland dead, so it fits perfectly.”

  “Could it be the spy, I wonder?” asked Harding.

  “Not unless the Germans prefer bombings and commando raids to an uprising,” said Cosgrove. “Can’t see the spy making that decision in favor of Skak and acting on it. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “None at all,” I agreed. “I think that we’ve got a murderer and a spy, and if we’re lucky, finding one will help us find the other. Their paths had to have crossed at some point. Maybe one of them even knows about the other.”

  Cosgrove and Harding exchanged glances, and then looked away from me, back at the map case. I got up and headed toward the door. Then I remembered something I needed Cosgrove to do. I stopped and turned around. I drew myself up into what I hoped looked like parade rest and tried to look and sound military. I thought it might improve my chances.

  “Major Cosgrove, sir, I do have a request for some information. I don’t believe it would conflict with security concerns.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant,” Cosgrove said, pleased to grant a small favor. “What do you need?”

  “I’d like a list of all British and Norwegian female staff posted here who are married to military personnel listed as missing in action, or who we know are POWs.”

  “Should be a simple matter. I will have it looked in to,” Cosgrove said dismissively. “Now what are these other questions you have for me?”

  “Oh, that’s on a need-to-know basis, Major. When I need to know, I’ll ask you.” On my way out it occurred to me that if I hadn’t been one myself, I would have had to conclude all officers were bastards.

  I tracked down Daphne and Kaz and found them in Daphne’s room, sitting on a couch with a tea service in front of them. Kaz had his feet up and his eyes closed, his head resting on Daphne’s shoulder. Thinking, I’m sure. Teatime had come and gone, and I was tired, frustrated, hungry, and jealous that it wasn’t me napping on the couch next to Daphne. I wanted a change of scenery and a drink. Or two.

  “Daphne, is there a pub around here?”

  “Yes, in the village, but we need permission to take the car—”

  “Permission granted,” chimed in Kaz, his eyes still closed.

  Daphne nudged his shoulder. “Dear, you can’t decide that. Either Major Harding or the ETOUSA transport officer—”

  “Daphne, let’s not get all official. I just met with the major and he told me to utilize all available resources for this investigation. That must include the staff car. Now let’s get out of here.”

  It was a short drive to the village of Marston Bridge, one of the many rural farm hamlets surrounding the town of Wickham Market, which we had passed through on our drive in. Marston Bridge was a small cluster of houses and shops surrounding, naturally enough, a bridge. We drove over the arched stonework span and Daphne pulled the staff car off the road, next to a timber-framed white-plaster building with a thatched roof. The once whitewashed masonry looked like it hadn’t seen a brush and bucket for a century or so. A worn sign hung over the door with a picture of a big red deer, although the lettering below it told me this was the Red Stag Inn. Our staff car looked out of place next to the collection of bicycles that leaned against an old oak tree in front of the inn. It looked quiet, cozy, and comfortable, like a neighborh
ood bar back in Southie, the kind of place where folks were naturally suspicious of strangers and foreigners. It didn’t look a thing like it, but it made me think of Kirby’s Bar, a local joint on the corner of D Street and Broadway. Guys coming home from work on the streetcar would get off there, have a beer or two with their buddies, talk about baseball or politics, then go home for supper. I can’t remember a time I saw anybody in there I didn’t know well enough to say hello to on the street, except maybe those crazy cousins of Packy Ryan’s from Back Bay. I thought about those guys and wondered what our reception in this neighborhood bar would be.

  As soon as Kaz opened the door for Daphne, I could hear the low murmur of voices and laughter. We entered and stood in the darkened foyer as I blinked my eyes to get used to the change. As soon as I could see clearly, the voices died down; a few oblivious souls in the back cut off in midsentence as they noticed the silence. Heads turned. I guess a beautiful WREN, a little Pole, and a Yank didn’t walk in here every day. We took off our hats and stepped in, pairs of eyes following us in frank assessment.

  It was a low-ceilinged room, with dark oak timbers spaced out every couple of yards. To our left was a small front room, a bench along the walls and small tables scattered about, just big enough for pints and ashtrays. The bar filled the rest of the room—rough, wood stained, dark with spilled ale and nicotine. It was all men on the left, at the bar or sitting on the bench, watching a dart game in progress. About half a dozen larger tables were arranged on the right side of the room, and small groups of men and women were seated at those, some eating and others drinking. Daphne headed for the only empty table, being at least from the same country as the locals.

  “Good evening,” she said to the barkeep, nodding her head in respect. He was a stout older guy, who stood behind the bar like a drill sergeant surveying new recruits. He had a pipe clenched between his teeth and nodded back, a clipped “Evenin’” delivered in response. Muted whispers filled the air, our presence seeming to push the liveliness out of the room. Figuring a village pub in England couldn’t be that different from Kirby’s, I put on my best friendly grin and walked up to the bar, doing a quick calculation of the pound notes in my wallet and the number of people in the pub. Lucky for me I had researched the cost of drinking in England at the Coach & Horses.

  “Good evening,” I offered with a smile. “Would it be out of place to buy pints all around?”

  “A Yank are yer? First one we’ve seen here. About time, too!”

  Now all eyes were on me, Americans and free pints being in short supply. He turned and called into the kitchen just behind the bar. “Mildred, come out here. We’ve got a rich Yank visiting us offering to buy pints all around!” Mildred emerged from the kitchen, carrying two plates of fish and chips in each hand. She delivered them to a table and turned, wiping her hands on a dishrag she had slung over her shoulder.

  “Well start pulling pints then, why don’t you, like the young gentleman asked for? You don’t want the first Yank you meet up with to think you don’t appreciate his business, right?”

  I could see Mildred was the brains of the operation. The barkeep chuckled to himself as he grabbed glasses off a shelf and started pulling pints. The locals gathered around and I was greeted with “Well done, Yank” and “Thank ye” as well as smiles and slaps on the back. We were all pals in minutes.

  “You’ll have to excuse my man, Lieutenant,” Mildred said as she took me by the arm. “He’s been waiting for you Americans to show up and drink yourselves silly in his pub for months now. Plumb struck him dumb when the first one to show up buys drinks all around. Now sit down with your friends and let me know what you’d like. Don’t need ration cards for the fish and chips, seein’ as we’re so near the coast and can get all the fish we want, long as the men don’t go too far off shore and catch a U-boat instead, hee hee! Chips aren’t a problem either, since we got plenty potatoes planted out back.”

  “Fish and chips will be great, Mildred. It looks delicious.”

  “Oh, well, thank you.” Mildred blushed at the compliment, and then turned back to her husband, raising her voice to command level. “Now, Robert, you pull the next three pints for our visitors here. No need for them that’s bought ’em to wait ’til last!”

  Robert obeyed, and with an anticipatory smile set up the three pint glasses on the bar in front of me, the thick foam perched on top. I could see he was envisioning me as the first wave in an invasion of Yanks, all thirsty and gripping pound sterling notes in their hands. I decided it was best to let him believe what he wanted. Kaz came over and took two pints back to the table. I sipped mine. It was ale, dark amber colored. Then I took a gulp. It was good, real good, sharp on the tongue and easy going down.

  “Is this a local ale, Robert?”

  “Aye, Wickham’s Ale, they make it in the brewery over in Wickham Market.”

  “What do the Norwegians like to drink?”

  “Them folk up at Beardsley Hall? Don’t see too many of ’em here. They tend to stick to themselves. Got their own food and drink up there, I guess. Once in a while, some of them come down here for a meal, but they have to cycle in. They don’t come in a grand car like you did. Do all American lieutenants have their own car and driver?”

  “No, Robert,” I chuckled. “These are my friends. We’re at Beardsley Hall for a few days and we wanted a bit of a change of fare. What about the British civilians working at the hall? Do the ladies come here often?”

  Robert glanced at the table, and took in the fact that Kaz and Daphne were together. He gave me a knowing look and leaned over the bar as he handed out pints. “Sorry, Yank, but all the girls who work there go to Wickham Market for their fun. They have a bus what brings ’em in and carries ’em back. There’s restaurants, pubs, and a movie house. Not like little Marston Bridge at all! Look around you, and you’ll see all the entertainment that’s to be had for miles. A few farmers and old folk throwing darts, that’s about it. You’ll have to look elsewhere for a pretty lass.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” I raised my glass to Robert and left him happily pulling pints as I walked over to our table.

  “You look quite at home in an English pub, Billy,” Kaz said as he lifted his glass in salute.

  “Yes,” said Daphne, “you’ve made friends for life already. That was very nice of you.”

  “Yeah, I’m a swell guy. I was really hoping for some inside dope on the Beardsley Hall staff from the local gossips, but they don’t seem to mix very much.”

  “What is dope, inside?” asked Kaz, turning to Daphne. “Do you know, Daphne?”

  “Yes, I saw a film with James Cagney and he used that expression. Information, right, Billy?” Daphne asked me.

  “Yeah. Same thing as the skinny. The low down. The truth. Why do you want to know all this stuff?”

  “I want to learn to speak American,” said Kaz with a straight face. “I know the king’s English, but someday we want to go to New York City. I want to fit right in and understand all the slang.”

  “We love American gangster movies,” Daphne added, “but sometimes they’re terribly hard to understand. We’ll count on you for the low down skinny.” She said the last words dramatically, proud of the new phrase.

  “It’s the skinny or the low down, but not both. So, tell me, what’s the low down on what you two found out today?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” said Kaz. “Or at least not much of any help. The household staff are mostly Norwegians or of Norwegian ancestry, drawn from those already living in England before the war. They’re a tight-lipped group, very protective of the king and their cause. They all know about the late-night carryings-on, but won’t name names. I did find out that a number of people were out and about in the early morning. The king—and Rolf of course—went hunting together at four thirty. Skak and Cosgrove were out around six o’clock, taking a walk. Did you know that?”

  I nodded.

  “Skak was up early, about five thirty, which was his usual
routine. Several people also saw Jens going back to his room from somewhere about the same time,” Kaz continued. “One maid said she saw someone turn a corner up the stairs, perhaps either Jens or Anders, she couldn’t tell. No one else claimed to have seen Anders out until after the body was found. Of course there were staff on duty all night in the radio room, guards outside patrolling the grounds, that sort of thing. But no one else in that wing of the hall, as far as I can tell.”

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  Kaz nodded, gave an apologetic smile, and drank his ale.

  “I didn’t do much better,” said Daphne. “The girls didn’t exactly bare their souls to me. They don’t think much of the strict rules here, and they’ve probably all broken a few of them. No one would admit to leaving their rooms at night or having guests, but there was enough giggling to tell me some of them are expert at it.”

  “Any of them see anything in the morning?”

  “No. They were adamant that they sleep as late as humanly possible. Probably true, they’re fairly young. They were all sad about Knut Birkeland. They thought he was a kind man.”

  “What do they think of Vidar Skak?” I asked.

  “Not much. He’s the source of most of the rules they hate. Jens Iversen seems to be the buffer between Skak and the staff. They like Jens, but think he’s a little odd. Needs to relax, one of them said. Then another girl said he looked more relaxed lately, and they all giggled again. I couldn’t get anything else out of them.”

  “Jens has a lover,” I said. “Someone he’s protecting. I know he was escorting her back to her room, but he won’t say who she is.”

  “Gallant sort,” said Kaz.

  “She’s married,” I explained. “Her husband is missing. That’s all I know.”

  “He feels guilty?” Daphne asked.

  I thought about that. There was guilt, and then there was a deeper layer, when you felt guilty that you didn’t feel guilty about something bad you did. The remnant of conscience, I remember Dad telling me. It was a few days after the argument with Basher, when he threw away that package. I came home from the evening shift to find him sitting out on the front stoop, smoking. He had started sitting on the stoop instead of up in his study for some reason, which was nice. It meant we could relax and talk. It was a fall evening and I unbuttoned my coat as we sat there, watching the cars drive slowly by and the front-porch lights wink out, one by one. Dad started to tell me about an interrogation he had run, and how he had to get at that remnant of conscience, to get a guy to show his remorse at his lack of remorse. To crack him open, he said, and start leading him down the road to confession. I remember all that he said, but what always stuck in my mind was just how nice it was sitting out there, shooting the breeze with my old man, and wondering what had led him out of his study and down to the front steps.