A Blind Goddess (6 page)

“Makes sense, General. But what about me? I’m still posted at Norfolk House in London.”

“Don’t complain too loudly, William. There are officers who would kill to be sleeping at the Dorchester instead of in a tent.”

“All right, General. There is one other thing I’d like to ask you. A favor.”

“I can’t deny my own nephew a favor the day I promote him, so ask away.”

“I visited a friend today, a guy I knew back in Boston. He’s with one of the colored tank destroyer battalions, over by Hungerford.”

“Does he want a transfer to a white outfit?” Uncle Ike lit a cigarette and looked at me with a hint of recrimination. He thought my friend was a white guy looking to get out of duty with a Negro unit.

“No, that’s not the case, not at all. He’s a Negro, and proud to be in a combat unit. They’ve been training outside of Hungerford
for some time now, and they’ve gotten to know the locals. The people in town seem to like them too.”

“I know, I’ve heard it often enough. A lot of the English say our Negro troops are the most polite of the lot,” said Uncle Ike, releasing a plume of blue smoke.

“Yes, sir. It’s just that they got word that Hungerford is going to be restricted to white troops on leave only. My friend’s unit won’t be able to go into town at all.”

“William, this seems like a minor affair, are you sure you want me to get involved?”

“General, when we met my friend yesterday, the pubs in town had been raided by white GIs. They smashed every glass in the place so when they went on leave in Hungerford they wouldn’t have to drink from the same glass a Negro had.”

“Damn it,” Uncle Ike said, crushing out his cigarette. “Hungerford, you say? What’s the unit?”

“The Six-Sevententh Tank Destroyer Battalion.”

“Consider it done, William. I have a war to win, and I can’t afford to get distracted by the rights and wrongs of race issues, but some things just aren’t right. Hell’s bells!” He signaled Mattie, who made a quick note and went to a telephone. Sometimes being the nephew of the Supreme Commander was a very useful thing.

Well, “nephew” wasn’t exactly the right word. We were cousins of a sort, related through my mother’s side and Mamie Doud’s family, but I’d hardly known him before the war. It was my mom who had come up with the idea to get me assigned to his staff in Washington, DC. That was back before anyone else had even heard of Dwight David Eisenhower, when he was working in the War Plans Department in the nation’s capital. Just the right assignment for a young Irish-American ex-policeman to sit out the war, or so my mother thought. We’d all thought it was a grand idea, having given up one Boyle in the previous war for the British Empire, as it was viewed in my household. Not to mention a lot of others in South Boston, where the Irish Republican Army and the fight against the British rule in our homeland was the one true faith.

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

“G
LAD 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. Cosgrove 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.”