A Blind Goddess Page 5

  As senior detectives on the force, my dad and his brother Dan had done enough favors for politicians to get me a spot on Uncle Ike’s staff. But what we hadn’t planned on was that our unknown and distant relative would be tapped to head up US Army forces in Europe in early 1942. And that he liked the idea of a police detective who was a relative to handle sensitive assignments. Assignments that tended to involve bullets and very loud explosions.

  I didn’t start off this war the gung-ho type. What I really wanted was to end it in one piece. But when Uncle Ike needed something done, I couldn’t say no. Partly because he was a general and could order me to do whatever he wanted, but mainly because he was family, and he carried a heavy burden. So I hadn’t minded asking him for one small favor this time.

  “What do you say we celebrate tonight, Billy?” Diana said as she took me by the arm. “Let’s go dancing at the Rhythm Club. Big Mike and Estelle fixed Kaz up with a nurse from the infirmary. It will be loads of fun, I promise.”

  “Sure,” I said. I knew Diana was working hard at making up for the lost leave, and that a night out on the town might be just the ticket. I’d been down since seeing Tree again, and being sidelined by both SHAEF and my own girlfriend. So what the hell. “Kaz said he’d go?”

  “Yes. Although he and Nini have been writing almost every day. It is quite touching. I’m so glad for him.” Nini was an Italian princess, holed up within Vatican City in occupied Rome. Long story. Diana went off to tell Estelle, leaving me with not much to do.

  “William,” Uncle Ike said, as an officer beckoned him from the doorway. “You remember to write your folks and give them my regards.”

  I promised I would and watched him leave, trailing a bevy of aides carrying files and map cases. Planning an invasion while I ate cake. Really not a bad deal, I reminded myself. The WACs drifted back to their desks as the party wound down. Estelle left for her office in Air Force Operations while Harding took a telephone call.

  “Kaz,” I said. “Let’s get over to the Provost Marshal General’s office and see what they’ve got on the Smith case. We still have time before we hit the fleshpots of London tonight.”

  “Good. It will give us something to do,” Kaz said.

  “I’ll drive you as long as Sam don’t need me,” Big Mike said. “We might have to drop him off at Norfolk House.”

  “You’re staying put,” Harding said, slamming down the telephone. “All of you. Major Cosgrove is on his way over. We have a case. You’d best cancel your reservations tonight.”

  So much for the Rhythm Club. And my leave. I wrote a note to Diana and gave it to Mattie to deliver. I told her I was sorry, and that it might be no more than a couple of days. I felt bad about standing her up, but we both understood wartime demands. I felt worse about letting Tree down and not getting into the Angry Smith arrest, but I have to say, an official case was just what the doctor ordered. Nothing like a cold corpse to make you feel needed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “GLAD YOU’RE HERE, Boyle,” Major Charles Cosgrove said, sitting down at the conference table and puffing his cheeks as he let out a deep breath, wiping away beads of sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief. “Congratulations on your captaincy, by the way.”

  “Thanks, Major,” I said. “But what’s the rush?”

  “We have a bit of a problem, and it seems you are the perfect solution, Captain Boyle.” It was odd to hear the word captain in front of my name. To me, a captain is a high-ranking cop, not a soldier one step above dime-a-dozen lieutenants. It was also odd hearing Cosgrove say I was perfect for anything.

  Major Cosgrove worked for MI5, the British security service charged with counterintelligence. He was an older gent, the kind of guy who would have been long retired if it hadn’t been for another war coming around. He was grey-haired and portly, with a white mustache that gave him a grandfatherly look that was at odds with his deadly, steel-blue eyes.

  Cosgrove and Harding sat on one side of the table in the conference room just a few doors down from Uncle Ike’s office. Kaz and Big Mike flanked me on either side. We eyed the manila folder with MOST SECRET stamped in red.

  “I’ve asked Colonel Harding for help in this case,” Cosgrove went on. “For reasons I cannot let on, it will be better for an American team to investigate this murder.”

  “Who’s been killed, and where?” I asked. I’d only been back in England for less than a week, and I liked the idea of staying put for a while.

  “A chap named Stuart Neville. He was found at his rooming house in Newbury—west of London—this morning.”

  “Newbury is close to Hungerford,” Kaz said. “We passed through it yesterday.” The look he gave me said it all. Close enough to look into Angry Smith while we were at it.

  “Are the police investigating, or is this a hushed-up MI5 case?” I said.

  “The Berkshire Constabulary are on the scene now. We want this treated as a normal criminal investigation,” Cosgrove said. “Publicly.”

  “It won’t be normal once we show up,” I said. “What’s our role?”

  “There is an American involved. He discovered the body, actually. Sergeant Jerome Sullivan, stationed at the nearby US Air Force base at Greenham Common. That will explain your presence. It is a joint investigation with the local police. Inspector John Payne is expecting you and will cooperate fully. He has primary jurisdiction, of course.”

  “What is MI5’s involvement?” Kaz asked, not unreasonably.

  “For reasons of security, I can only say we have an official interest that must be kept quiet.”

  “Do you have an official interest in the killer being apprehended, or not apprehended?” I asked. Having dealt with Major Cosgrove before, I knew enough not to assume either.

  “I am confident that you and Inspector Payne will ensure that justice is served, Captain Boyle. I cannot say more without prejudicing your investigation and military security. I have prepared some basic information for you which you can review on your way there. If you leave immediately you will be able to inspect the crime scene with the inspector before the body is removed.” Cosgrove slid a folded piece of paper across the table. I handed it to Kaz.

  “Hold on,” I said. “Newbury is about fifty miles away. You’re telling me that you found out about the murder this morning, had time to contact Colonel Harding, come out to Bushy Park to brief me, and I can still get to Newbury before they move the body?”

  “There are telephones, you know,” Cosgrove said.

  “Who called you?” I wondered if it had been the killer.

  “That is not germane. One thing I can tell you is that the owner of the rooming house, George Miller, emigrated here from Germany. He and his wife were active in the Social Democratic Party and had to flee after Hitler took power. He was originally Georg Mueller, but changed his name for obvious reasons.”

  “Is that common knowledge?” I asked.

  “Yes. He keeps to himself these days, but his background is not a secret. He and his wife, Carla, have had some trouble since the war began—they have slight but noticeable German accents—but are reasonably well accepted in Newbury. Lots of foreigners on our shores these days, people have got used to it.”

  “By trouble, do you mean violence?” Kaz asked.

  “Not that I know of. More along the lines of taunts in the street, that sort of thing. Inspector Payne can fill you in.”

  “And you know of Miller how?” I asked.

  “It is my business to know of the Millers in our midst, Captain Boyle.”

  “I assume they’ve been investigated, since they are interned.”

  “Quite. Although technically enemy aliens, the Millers were defined as Category C, which means they present no security risk, especially since they were vocal opponents of the Nazi regime. Their son serves in the Royal Navy, actually. Now I suggest you leave promptly for Newbury, if that is all right with you, Colonel Harding?” Cosgrove glanced at Harding as if he really needed his permission. Cosgro
ve wore a major’s uniform, but I’d always thought that was to blend into the scenery. Dollars to donuts, he ranked a lot higher in the secret world of MI5.

  “Of course,” Harding said. “Big Mike can drive you. Good luck.”

  “One final item,” Cosgrove said as we all stood up to leave. “Be sure to report to me as soon as you learn anything. There is a telephone number on the paper I left you. Call that number when you have something. Under no circumstances are you, or Inspector Payne, to take any action before contacting me. Understood?”

  “I get it, Major. But will Inspector Payne?”

  “Consider that part of your brief, Captain. Make sure he understands. And the Millers are not under suspicion. Leave them out of the investigation, other than a basic interview about Neville.” With that, Cosgrove patted his brow with his handkerchief and stalked out of the room. When we’d first met, Cosgrove and I hadn’t seen eye to eye. He thought I was a useless Yank with political connections and not much more. I thought he was a stuffed-shirt imperialist of the old school. Neither of us had been far off the mark, but as time passed and we worked together, sometimes not without danger to us both, we’d come to understand and respect each other, to some degree. But this performance today was the old Cosgrove, vintage bluster and orders handed down to the stumblebum colonials.

  “What’s up, Colonel?” I asked Harding as soon as Cosgrove cleared the door.

  “All I know is orders came down direct from General Whiteley, SHAEF G-2, to cooperate fully and without question with Major Cosgrove. That’s what I’m doing and that’s what I expect you to do, Captain, so shake a leg.”

  In other words, Harding was in the dark as well, and probably didn’t like it much, but was too professional to let on. I also knew Whiteley was a British officer, and Cosgrove probably had an easy time getting him to cooperate. But I was smart enough to leave that unsaid. Uncle Ike didn’t like Brits or Yanks criticizing each other based purely on nationality, so I let it slide.

  “I’ll bring the jeep around,” Big Mike said, adding in a whisper, “and I’ll tip off Estelle that we got called away.”

  Kaz and I retrieved our trench coats and walked outside to wait for Big Mike. It was a cold morning, and a thin layer of late spring snow lay across the park. Ice crinkled beneath our feet, the last gasp of winter’s grip. Spring had come ahead of schedule, a rare treat for England in March. Camouflage netting was draped over the buildings, lending the scene a graceful, almost festive look. A bit like circus tents under the winter sun, shading the hastily built wooden structures housing SHAEF personnel from the elements. And German reconnaissance aircraft.

  On the gravel drive, Major Cosgrove stood talking with a man in civilian clothes. The guy was middle-aged, tall, and slim, with angular cheekbones. He looked as if he’d been an athlete in his youth, his easy stance and smooth gestures beneath the topcoat hinting at strength and agility. He and Cosgrove could have been about the same age, but Cosgrove, with his weight and worry, appeared stooped and defeated in his presence.

  All I could see was Cosgrove nodding yes, yes. The civilian got into the rear seat of the automobile, which then pulled away, leaving the major standing alone, patting his brow over and over.

  “That,” said Kaz, “is as public a demonstration of a crisis within MI5 as you are ever likely to see.”

  “Any idea who that was?”

  “The man who makes Major Cosgrove sweat,” he said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WE MADE GOOD time to Newbury. The roadway was shut down to London-bound traffic so army convoys could use both lanes heading south to the invasion ports. We moved along at a good clip, surrounded by British and American trucks carrying Tommies and GIs, flatbeds with tanks, towed artillery, and staff cars with their general’s pennants flying. Everyone was headed for the Channel, men and the machinery of war flowing like lethal rivers to the sea. At roundabouts, MPs directed traffic and the few travelers headed in the wrong direction stood by their vehicles and watched forlornly as the heavy stream rumbled by.

  “What do we have?” I said to Kaz from the back seat of the jeep. Kaz reached his gloved hand into his coat pocket and produced the sheet of paper Cosgrove had given us. The jeep’s canvas top was up, but it was still damn cold inside.

  “We are going to the Kennet Arms on Swan Court in Newbury, off Bridge Street, which is the main route across the Kennet and Avon Canal,” Kaz said. “Owners are George and Carla Miller. They have a seventeen-year-old daughter, Eva, who lives at home and works at the canteen at the air base. Which is apparently where she met Sergeant Jerome Sullivan, who reported finding the body.”

  “Anything there on the victim?” Big Mike said from the driver’s seat.

  “One Stuart Neville, a long-term roomer, apparently. No other information on him. The Millers also have an older son, Walter, who is in the Royal Navy, currently in the Mediterranean. Nothing else.”

  “Cosgrove is well informed about the family situation,” I said. “Enough so that he’s convinced the Millers had no part in the murder. Bit soon to tell for sure, if you ask me.”

  “It makes some sense,” Kaz said, leaning back in his seat. “MI5 would have a file on any German expatriates, especially those with political leanings.”

  “He never answered your question, Billy,” Big Mike said. “About who called him. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It could have been Inspector Payne,” Kaz said.

  “Then he woulda said so,” Big Mike said. “It’s the easiest answer. But he changed the subject, talking about the Millers being Krauts and all, which of course got our attention.”

  “We’ll ask Payne,” I said, trying to sound confident. But Big Mike was right. Cosgrove got tipped off by someone else. Who and why would be nice to know. Cosgrove was a man of secrets, and maybe he had his reasons, but I didn’t like going into an investigation blind.

  “By the way, did you find anything in Private Smith’s letters?” Kaz asked.

  “They were all from his family. It sounded like he’d written them that he was thinking about staying on in England after the war. His mother was upset, but his older brother told him it might be a good idea. Said if he came home there was bound to be trouble with white folks.”

  “He must have earned his nickname before the army,” Big Mike said. “Hell, if I was colored, I’d stay here too.”

  We entered Newbury, greeted by a statue of Queen Victoria, four lions at her feet. She wasn’t saying anything either. We found Bridge Street, and then Swan Court, which was a quiet little street close to the canal, separated from it by a thick stand of trees, their budding branches shivering in the cold breeze. The houses were all red brick, with tall chimneys and set apart by waist-high brick walls. A path led along the riverbank behind the buildings. Small wooden boats were moored by the path, many of them covered in tarpaulins.

  “Easy enough to get to these houses on all sides,” Big Mike said, casing the neighborhood expertly. He parked the jeep near a black sedan, where a constable in the distinctive helmet and blue serge uniform stood on the sidewalk.

  “You the Yanks we’re waiting on?”

  “That’s us,” I said to the constable. He nodded toward the front door of number eight Swan Court. A small sign proclaimed it to be the Kennet Arms, but it looked like any decent-sized house, three floors under a steep-sloped black slate roof.

  “There you are,” a man with a pipe clenched between his teeth said from the open door. “Come around the back and take a look at the body. Detective Inspector John Payne,” he said, extending a hand. I did the introductions and we followed him around the side of the house. Payne was tall and lanky, a brown unbuttoned topcoat billowing behind him as he walked.

  “Meet Mr. Stuart Neville,” he said, working his pipe and blowing a stream of smoke to the sky. A constable who had been standing guard stood aside, revealing a set of stone steps leading down to a cellar door at the rear of the house. At the base of the steps was a crumpled form tha
t a civilian might have mistaken for a pile of discarded clothes, if not for the pale white face with the startled look. Wisps of longish hair had fallen over one eye, but the other was staring up at us, or the sky beyond. You might expect him to hop up, dust himself off, and call himself a clumsy sod, if not for the odd angle of his neck.

  “May I?” I said, gesturing toward the body.

  “Oh, sure,” Payne said. “We’ve had more than enough time to take fingerprints, waiting for you.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t you worry, Captain Boyle. We’re happy to cooperate. Two heads better than one, eh? Mr. Neville could have used another, that’s plain to see. Go ahead.”

  I descended the stairs, which were steep and narrow, tailor-made for an accident. Maybe Neville slipped and broke his neck. Case closed. There was barely room to stand at the bottom, which was a square about four feet on either side in front of a cellar door. Neville wore a tweed jacket, a rumpled shirt, his tie askew, and wool pants that had seen better days. With clothes being strictly rationed, that didn’t mean much. The soles of his shoes were well worn, the shoes themselves mud-splattered. I felt them; shoes and socks were wet. Maybe he had slipped and fallen after all?

  But then I turned the head, and I realized what Payne had meant about a second one coming in handy. The back of Neville’s skull was a bloody pulp. Someone had whacked him hard and sent him flying down the stairs. Maybe the blow had broken his neck or it happened when he hit the bottom. Either way, he was probably dead on impact.

  “Any blood trail?” I asked as I came up the steps.

  “None that we found,” Payne said. “Seems like he took a blow to the head right here and tumbled down the steps.”