Billy Boyle: A World War II Mystery, Vol. 1 Page 2

  Harding didn’t point out the sights on the way to the hotel. Some of those sights were piles of rubble where apartment houses and office buildings used to be. The Blitz hadn’t been as bad as it had been the previous year, but the place was still a target. As we passed by a row of white-painted brick houses with a gap like a missing front tooth in a wide grin, I caught sight of a river that I figured was the Thames. A pile of blackened rubble covered the ground between the houses, weeds creeping over the remains of the unlucky home. We turned a corner and had to stop as workers in blue coveralls hauled bricks away from a smoldering pile of debris that had slid out into the street. People going to work walked around the mess, carrying their newspapers, umbrellas, and briefcases as if it were completely normal to walk past bomb-damaged buildings. Shops across the street had OPEN FOR BUSINESS painted on wood planks nailed over shattered windows.

  A London cop, his blue uniform a dingy shade of gray from concrete dust that lay thick on his shoulders, stood in the middle of the road and blew his whistle, holding up his hands as an ambulance passed cars on the other side of the blocked street. Traffic was already at a dead stop, but the pedestrians halted immediately, the murmur of movement and morning conversations stopped by the end of the shrill whistle blast. People parted and formed a narrow corridor as three stretchers were carried out of the destroyed building. Two held blanketed, inert forms. The third carried a person covered in soot highlighted by rust-colored dried blood along a leg and a hasty bandage wrapping a head. A thin female arm rose from the stretcher with two fingers raised in the V-for-victory sign as she was gingerly carried into the ambulance. There were murmurs of appreciation from the crowd, and then they drifted back into their morning routine. Another day at the war. The other two stretchers were left on the sidewalk for a journey to a different destination.

  “Welcome to London,” Harding said as the traffic moved forward.

  “Yes, sir.” Maybe I wouldn’t wave those sawbucks around for a while.

  The river was the Thames. We crossed it on a bridge that showed off a scene I had seen on dozens of newsreels as I waited for the main feature to start. Parliament and Big Ben. London, under the gun. I could almost hear Edward R. Murrow saying, “This . . . is London” over the radio in our living room, that pause always giving a sense of weighty suspense as he reported on the Blitz and other war news. Now I was here. It didn’t seem real, as if my being here somehow lessened the importance of everything.

  The rain had stopped, and the clouds were turning from threatening gray to puffy white. Harding zipped past Big Ben as the clock struck the half hour with that distinctive, authoritative bong that sounded so much louder than it had in the newsreels. Buildings were much larger on this side of the river, big imposing granite structures mounded with sandbags around their entrances. British soldiers stood guard as well-dressed officers with gleaming leather belts and polished buttons strode past them. We looped around a bit and ended up on a road with a park to its left. HYDE PARK CORNER, a sign said. I had heard of that. Harding pulled into a semicircular driveway in front of the Dorchester Hotel. He stopped. He didn’t take his hands off the wheel or look at me. A large lady wearing a hat with a big feather sticking out of it walked by, dragging a tiny dog on a leash. The dog dug in his heels and barked at the jeep, or Harding, or both. The lady kept walking, dragging the dog away, his toenails making a long scratching noise on the sidewalk as he tried to stand his ground.

  “Here it is. Remember, 1100 hours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I got out, grabbed my duffel bag, and he drove away without even complimenting me on my proper military response. Standing on the curb, I could hardly locate the door of the Dorchester. The entire entrance was lined with sandbags, except for a narrow passageway. The front of the hotel was curved, facing the park across the street at an angle. A fountain marked the center of the driveway, and staff cars, after pulling around it, were discharging generals and guys wearing formal coats with vests and striped pants I thought had gone out of style before the last war. I felt out of place and thought maybe lowly Irish lieutenants from Boston were supposed to use the side entrance. I walked through the front door anyway, threading my way between sandbag walls and half carrying, half dragging my duffel bag through the door.

  The reception desk was to my left in a small area dwarfed by a long marble hallway that stretched straight ahead. White flowers were everywhere, blending with the color of the marble and highlighted by soft white lights. Footsteps click-clacked all around me, but voices were hushed, as if this were church. Half of me wanted to turn around and find a rooming house with some normal people, someplace a little less fancy and not as heavy on marble and chandeliers. The other half of me couldn’t wait to see my room. I snapped out of my daydream of room service and a hot bath and walked over to the counter. A tall, balding guy stood behind it, his fountain pen drifting across paper.

  “May I be of some assistance?” He literally looked down his nose at me. I had heard that expression before, but never actually seen it. I could practically count his nose hairs. The way he said it told me assistance was the last thing I could expect.

  “Yeah. I need a room. Major Harding told me I was billeted here.”

  “Your name?” I thought I could hear him shudder as he looked me over. I made a mental note that dried vomit seems to impress folks in England even less than it does in the States.

  “Billy Boyle.”

  “We have a room for a Lieutenant William Boyle?” There was a hint of hope that a more distinguished and cleaner member of the Boyle family would walk through the door behind me.

  “Yep, that’s me.”

  “Sign the register, please.” I admired him for hiding his disappointment so well. He even smiled when he handed me a key attached to a large disc and directed me to the elevator—the “lift,” he called it, which I figured was just what I needed. My room was on the fourteenth floor, but the elevator—lift—went only to the twelfth. There was no thirteenth, but a flight of stairs led to the fourteenth, which was actually the thirteenth floor. Lucky me.

  I dragged my duffel bag behind me, thumping up each step. The hallway was narrow; it didn’t look much like a fancy hotel to me. I unlocked my door and went in. There was a small bed, a table, and a bureau, and one very small window that jutted out from a slanted ceiling. No bathroom. Then I got it. This was a servant’s room. That slanted ceiling was the roof. I had visited our cousin Margaret Boyle with my mom when she came over from Ireland to work as a domestic on Beacon Hill. She’d had an attic room just like this in the mansion where she worked.

  Did that snob at the desk sense I was shanty Irish and belonged up here? Or were they just pressed for space with Americans pouring into London? Or had Major Harding made this very thoughtful arrangement for me? Screw it, I decided, a bed’s a bed. I unpacked my wrinkled khakis and shined my shoes. I found the bathroom down the hall and washed up. I wanted to sleep, but I was nervous about missing my date with Harding at eleven o’clock. Eleven hundred hours, I reminded myself. It was really a pain in the neck after noontime, but at least in the morning I didn’t have to count off on my fingers.

  I was feeling good enough to be hungry and would’ve killed for a cup of coffee. I think it was still the middle of the night back home, but it was midmorning here and I didn’t have a clue where to get some grub. Then I realized I didn’t have any English money. Sitting in my little room, putting a final spit shine on my shoes, I felt forlorn. There had always been a relative or friend I could turn to when things got tough back in Boston. Here, I only knew a tight-assed American major and an even more tight-assed English hotel clerk. Oh, yeah, and Uncle Ike.

  That cheered me up some, and I headed out to find Grosvenor Square. I asked my pal at the desk, and I guess he saw that I had worked hard at cleaning up, and so I was worth a civil answer.

  “Go left out the main door, you’ll see South Audley Lane straightaway. Go left again and it’s a five-minute walk dir
ect to Grosvenor Square. Are you looking for the American headquarters?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “It will be directly across the square as you enter it. You can’t miss it—sandbags, American sentries, and all that.”

  “Great. Thanks a lot.”

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “Seems like a nice hotel,” I said, holding back half a dozen wisecracks about my closet-sized room.

  “No,” he said, leaning forward on his elbows and looking me in the eyes. “Thank you for coming to England.”

  I said something that I hoped didn’t sound idiotic and followed his directions. His thanks unsettled me. I didn’t want to be here, never was a fan of the British Empire, and the only American I had met so far didn’t act like he gave a rat’s ass if I was here. I thought about the woman and the V-for-victory sign. Was she still alive? The image of her swam through my mind as I wondered if she had made it. I noticed I had already crossed South Audley without turning left. I tried to forget about her and concentrate on not getting lost.

  I saw a sign for Piccadilly and knew that was something a tourist would go see. I was tempted to explore. But duty called and, more important, I thought they’d have coffee at the office. Coffee at the office. OK, that sounds almost normal, I thought. It may not be Boston or even the States, but I’m in London walking to the office. How bad can this be?

  A few minutes later, standing at my best imitation of attention in front of Major Harding, I began to get an inkling of just how bad it could be. He sat behind his desk, leaning back in a swivel chair, reading a file. My file, I guessed from the expression on his face. He wasn’t smiling. He had a row of campaign ribbons and medals on his uniform jacket that made it look like he had been in the army since God was a child. He sported a neatly trimmed mustache, and a brush haircut that almost hid the gray at his temples. He looked pretty trim, like he had been a football player—maybe a quarterback—who worked at not going soft when he hit forty, which is about what I guessed him to be. He wore a West Point ring and no wedding band. Worst of all, he sipped from a china cup of steaming black coffee while he read. I didn’t see a service for two.

  “Now listen up, Boyle,” he finally said, throwing the file on his desk. “Ike wants me to babysit you while you get your feet wet. I’ve got too much to do already without taking on some relative who pulled strings to get a soft staff job. I don’t know what Ike’s got in mind for you, but if I had my way you’d be carrying a rifle in an infantry platoon.”

  “Major, I—”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Lieutenant!”

  “Yes, sir.” That phrase sure was coming in handy.

  “Do you have any idea at all why you’re here?”

  Now let’s see, I thought. Should I tell him about how my mom and dad and Uncle Dan didn’t want me to get killed? Or about the congressman who got me this job? Then the perfect answer came to me.

  “No, sir.” It was a variation on a theme, but I thought I was beginning to get the hang of it.

  “Well, neither do I. However, although I’ve only worked with General Eisenhower for a few weeks, since he came over here from the States, I respect his judgment. He’s made a real difference in a short time. I don’t want you screwing things up, Boyle. For some reason Ike thinks you can help him out. Doing what I don’t have a clue, but if you step out of line just once. . . .”

  “Major.” I spoke up quickly to avoid another lecture. “Sir, I don’t know what the general wants me for. I don’t plan on screwing anything up or getting in your way, but I don’t think I’d be much use to anyone in an infantry platoon. I’m a city boy, a police officer.” I was beginning to get a little steamed.

  “I read your file, Boyle,” he said irritably. “I know you’re no coward. There’s a commendation in here from the mayor of Boston for saving a little girl from a burning house. Why did you bother to risk your life for her, city boy?” Harding leaned back in his chair and seemed to focus on my eyes. It made me feel uncomfortable so I shrugged to show him I wasn’t. I wanted him to know he didn’t get to me.

  “That was little Mary O’Shaughnessey. I saw her every day on my beat. I knew her folks. My dad would have whipped my butt if I hadn’t gone in after her. We look out for each other in South Boston,” I said rather proudly.

  “What if you left here and came upon a burning building?”

  “Call in the alarm, what else?”

  “Go in and look for another little girl?”

  “That’s a job for the London cops and firemen, isn’t it? Sir?”

  “The London cops have quite a lot on their hands right now, Boyle. We’re here to help them, not to sit around while they do the heavy lifting.”

  I’m no scholar, but even a dumb Mick like me knew this was a metaphor. Or a simile, I could never remember which was which. I also knew what the right thing to say was.

  “Yes, sir.”

  A rap on the door saved me from a further lecture on how we have to help our good pals the Brits.

  “General Eisenhower is ready to see you now, Major Harding. And the lieutenant.” The beautiful voice belonged to a honey-haired young woman in a blue uniform. She spoke like an angel—an English, very upper-class angel.

  I stood and introduced myself. “Billy Boyle, Miss . . . ?”

  “I know your name, Lieutenant.” Her disapproval hit me like a hammer. Harding came to the rescue, which meant her dislike of me must’ve been pretty apparent.

  “This is Second Officer Daphne Seaton, Women’s Royal Naval Service, attached to U.S. headquarters. Daphne . . . Second Officer Seaton . . . holds a rank equivalent to yours. She’s my administrative assistant.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Second Officer.” She nodded.

  “We’ll be right there, Daphne. When we’re done, please take Lieutenant Boyle to his desk and show him around. He looks like he could use some chow.” I almost fell over when I heard Harding say that. He seemed almost human.

  “Certainly, Major, I will be glad to.” As she turned to leave, she looked at me as if Harding had asked her to take out the garbage.

  I was beginning to get the feeling that the English were pretty good at letting you know that they meant exactly the opposite of what they were saying. I looked at my shoes. No, they were clean and shiny.

  “You’ll have to excuse Daphne,” Harding said as he stood up from his desk. “She’s gone through the Blitz from the beginning and lost some friends. It didn’t make her and some of the other staff happy to hear Ike’s nephew got himself appointed to a soft job here. Especially not with the news that they’ve just lost Tobruk in North Africa, along with twenty-five thousand prisoners. Now let’s go see Ike.”

  I considered how I could thaw out Daphne while I followed Harding up the stairs. He led me through a suite of offices and knocked on a set of double doors. I stopped thinking about Daphne with some difficulty. I had just time enough to feel nervous about meeting Uncle Ike again. A sergeant opened the doors and gestured us in.

  “William, very good to see you!” Though he was a distant relation, Ike grinned widely and extended his hand to shake mine. He looked older, of course, than the last time I saw him. He was smiling but the rest of his face looked serious. His eyes locked on to mine and it seemed like he was trying to see inside my head. It was as if he was looking for something that he wanted, something that I could give him. Only I didn’t know what it was. Or if I even had it.

  I suddenly didn’t know my left from my right. I’d tried to stammer out something while beginning to salute, then finally got my right hand in the right place when I saw he wanted to shake hands. I tried not to sound like the jerk I felt.

  “Uncle . . . I mean General . . . ,” I managed to say. OK, so maybe I should have tried harder.

  Ike laughed, and immediately put me at ease. “Sit down, son. We won’t dwell on military protocol today.” He sat in a leather chair and motioned for the two of us to seats opposite him, then he lit a cigarette.


  “So how are your folks, William? It’s been a few years.”

  “Fine, sir. Mother sends her regards.”

  Ike inhaled and then looked at Harding. “You know, Major, William was a detective with the Boston Police Department before joining us.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve seen his file.”

  “There’s one thing about family,” Ike continued. “A relation, even a distant one, is always bound to you. There’s no escaping it. It could be a drunken brother-in-law or a crazy cousin or even a rich uncle. When they show up at the door, they’re one of yours.”

  “We don’t get many rich uncles in South Boston, General, but I know what you mean. Family is family.”

  “Yes, it is.” He nodded, paused, and looked straight at me. “William, we’re trying to build a family here. An Anglo-American family that will fight together and win this war. A family that will stick together, through thick and thin. To do that, I’ve got to make sure that everyone is pulling his own weight and putting the family first.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, General.” I didn’t want to sound stupid, but I wasn’t too proud to ask a dumb question.

  “William, I’ve got a big job here. I’ve got to get the British, who have been fighting this war alone and barely holding on, to work with the Americans, who haven’t yet been touched by the war, and to take us seriously. I’ve got to get the Americans to listen and learn from them, instead of coming on like gangbusters. Pretty soon, there will be more Yank soldiers, planes, and ships over here than British. Before that happens, we’ve got to get everything working smoothly between us. If we don’t, it could be our greatest weakness. Disunity.”

  He stopped and pulled on his cigarette deeply, letting the smoke out with a sigh as if he was himself daunted by the task. He looked at me and smiled that friendly warm grin of his.