Rag and Bone (23 page)

CHAPTER
•
SIXTEEN

K
AZ WAS BACK
at the hotel, sitting in the dark, in front of the windows that faced Hyde Park, the drapes wide open. The reflected glow of the fires from the East End gave the bare trees a desperate, terrified look, as if their branches were arms raised in horror, ready to scream and bolt from the cold, hard earth.

“You shouldn’t sit in front of the glass,” I said, settling for an air-raid warden’s warning since I didn’t know what else to say.

“The bombing is over. Only the fires remain.” Kaz drained his glass, then poured himself more vodka. His uniform jacket was thrown over the back of the chair, his tie was loose, and his revolver sat on the table next to him. I joined him, resigned to more hard liquor, hoping it would either dull me into uncaring sleep or sharpen my mind, granting some insight into what was going on around me. I knew it was a foolish wish, and that nothing would come of it but a headache and regret. Still, I drank.

“Interesting night,” I said.

“I lost control,” Kaz said. “Once I recognized the opera, I knew he had invited me as a deliberate provocation.
A Life for the Czar
was the first Russian opera, but the Communists changed the title, I assume, so as not to give the czar top billing.”

“Harding wants you to lie low for a while. Maybe leave London for a few days.”

“That’s all? I am surprised I haven’t lost my commission.”

“Maybe that’s why he wants you to scram, before it comes to that.”

“You know, Billy, it is a horrible thing to have your country occupied by the Nazis, with the only liberation it can look
forward to coming from the Soviet Union. Poles are fighting and dying, but for what? The Americans and English turn a blind eye to the murders of thousands of Polish officers by the Russians, and meanwhile Stalin lays claim to a postwar border that annexes a third of Poland. Tell me, Billy, what have they died for—all the Poles in the RAF, the Royal Navy, and the infantry in Italy? To trade a Fascist master for a dictatorship of the proletariat? Tell me.”

“Could you stand by and do nothing? Not fight one dictator because of another?”

“No. I don’t think so,” Kaz said. He began to pour another glass, but set down the bottle. “Better to hope that something honorable will come out of this war than to sit on the sidelines.”

“Yeah. There’s always a chance.”

“Spoken like a true American optimist. But you are also an Irish Catholic, so you know the odds of relying on the English Empire to solve another nation’s problems are slim. I would guess that most Irish Republicans are pessimists by now, wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe. But they do have their own nation, or most of it. And you don’t win your freedom without being a bit of an optimist. Both Americans and Irish know something about that.”

“Very well, Billy. I shall work to remain an optimist. Who knows?” He filled our glasses and we raised them high, the empty-headed toasting the unknown.

“Something very odd happened after you left,” I said. “Sidorov dropped a heavy hint that he knew about Diana and her SOE mission. Said it was his business to know about people—meaning you and me—and that he even knew about my relationship with a young British woman on a mission behind enemy lines. No specifics, but he described the broad outline.”

“What does that mean? Was it a threat?”

“No, that’s what’s odd. It felt more like a tip-off. The only
way for Sidorov to know about Diana would be if he were in contact with a spy within MI5 or MI6.”

“A spy, or a talkative secretary, or an officer being blackmailed. Perhaps he’s trading information. Still, it is strange that he should tell you.”

“There are plenty of Communists in Italy, right?”

“Certainly. France as well. They are maneuvering among the partisan groups for power after the war. Why?”

“Could Sidorov be in touch with them?”

“I don’t know. It would take a sophisticated communications system. Or a courier to Switzerland, perhaps. Being neutral, travel would not be impossible.”

“The Vatican is neutral, and I’m fairly certain that’s where Diana is headed.”

“It is possible. Vatican City is full of spies, along with Jews in hiding, Allied airmen shot down over Italy, and diplomats from many nations. I doubt there are any Communist partisans there, but they are definitely close by in Rome. If any high-level communications go through the Vatican, and if the Russians are involved, it might be monitored by their embassy here in London.”

“Where Sidorov, as an NKVD man, would have access.”

“Who could say no to him?”

I sat for a while longer, trying to put the pieces together, but nothing fit, nothing made sense. I was left with dread and fear, wondering at the unseen forces gathering around Diana. Had she been betrayed? Arrested and tortured? Or was she sleeping soundly, safe, oblivious to news of her mission being passed on to the Soviets? The eerie glow in the park faded, and the dark night took over, masking even the largest and tallest trees. I waited for sleep to find me.

K
AZ WAS ALREADY
up and out by the time I rolled out of the sack. I didn’t mind missing the morning workout, so I got going
before he came back and made me do push-ups. Crossing St. James’s Square, I spotted a familiar truck parked in front of Norfolk House. The canvas covering was lashed down tight, but the two MPs guarding it told me what I already knew—that Big Mike’s scheme had worked.

“Nice work,” I told Big Mike as I entered the office. “That didn’t take long.”

“Nope. A driver parked it there right before dawn, and told the MP on duty to thank Lieutenant Boyle for the peaches. They left the fifty cases, just like we wanted.”

“Good. That puts us out of Dutch with Harding?”

“Think so. He seemed satisfied. We probably have more to worry about from Chapman than the colonel. Speaking of the Chapmans, Major Cosgrove sent this over. You’re to read it now, and I have to return it to him by noon.”

It was the file on Topper Chapman. I sat down and opened it, going through the biographical information first. Topper was born in 1919, and his mother died in the influenza epidemic. That left him to be raised under the sole care of Archie Chapman, and I wondered how much poetry from the trenches Archie had subjected young Topper to. Topper had dropped out of school at age fourteen, as soon as he legally could. A report from his school noted he was highly intelligent but difficult to control. He was placed in a remand home for a month, awaiting charges on a series of burglaries, but the charges were dropped, and he was never arrested again. Not because he gave up a life of crime, but through fear and intimidation due to his father’s growing criminal empire, based in Shoreditch and extending along the river to the Isle of Dogs, where the Chapmans had a running border dispute with a neighboring gang.

There were few entries from the 1930s, except to note that Topper’s ascendency within the Chapman organization shielded him from scrutiny, as he assumed more of a management role. For 1940, there were two crucial events. In January, rationing was instituted in Great Britain. With that, the Chapman gang
began working the black market, ranging far afield to raid farms north of London, stealing chickens and geese. They soon escalated to hijacking lorries. A few gang members were caught, but they took their punishment and no one turned on the Chapmans. It was wryly noted that all the gang members came from Shoreditch and had families there.

The other significant event came in June, after Dunkirk. Topper Chapman enlisted in the army. He had been exempt from conscription as a dockworker, which was deemed a reserve occupation, immune from the draft. I doubted Topper did a lick of work on the docks, but his father knew how to pull the right strings. He went through the physical exam and was ready to leave for training when a London doctor by the name of Edgar Carlisle submitted a letter stating that Topper Chapman had been under his care since he was a child, and that Topper suffered from a heart murmur and had had a serious bout of rheumatic fever at age ten, which rendered him unfit for military service.

So Topper was a would-be patriot. There had been an odd current between Archie and Topper when I’d asked about his not being in uniform. Health reasons, Archie had said. London’s dangerous enough, Topper had said. Something told me he wasn’t referring to bombs or the police. His own father, maybe? I got on the phone and called New Scotland Yard. Scutt wasn’t in, but I got through to Detective Sergeant Flack.

“Do you know a Dr. Edgar Carlisle?” I asked.

“I know of him,” Flack said. “Likes the good life. Doesn’t mind sewing up the odd gangster and pocketing a nice fee for keeping a knife or gunshot wound quiet. Never been able to prove anything, but I’m sure he’s not entirely straight.”

“Would he falsify records? Lie about a medical condition to keep someone out of the service?”

“Hm. Not sure about that, Boyle. That means putting his name on a piece of paper. He’s more careful than that.”

“What if it were at the request of Archie Chapman?”

“Oh. Well then, as I said, Dr. Carlisle likes the good life, and you have to be alive to enjoy it.”

“OK, thanks, that’s a help.”

“Wait, Boyle, don’t hang up. I was about to call you. Inspector Scutt wants you to meet him at the Rubens Hotel. There’s been a murder there.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know yet, the call just came in. Somebody’s been stabbed is all I know. Inspector Scutt thought you might want to know.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right there.” My heart was pounding and my stomach felt like it had hit the floor. I didn’t know what to worry about, Kaz being the victim or the killer. I gave the file back to Big Mike and hustled over to the Rubens.

I found Inspector Scutt standing on the sidewalk, watching the traffic on Buckingham Palace Road. He had his hands in his pockets and was rocking slowly on his heels, the practiced, efficient motion of a cop who has spent plenty of time waiting on hard pavement. The wind was up and there was a hard bite of cold in the air, damp and clammy from the river, overlaid with the smell of smoke from last night’s fires.

“There you are, Lieutenant Boyle,” Scutt said, his eyes narrowing as he studied me. “Thought you’d want to see this. Just in time, too. We’ve finished with the crime scene, and they’re about to take the body away.”

“Who is it?” I asked, following him down the narrow alleyway that I knew led to the staff door. He didn’t answer. Beyond the stairs to the entrance a pair of legs was barely visible. Scutt gestured and I moved forward, in front of the body. Lying on the brickwork, with a knife driven deep into his chest, was Eddie Miller. His eyes were wide open, the mouth gaping in amazement, either at the shock of being stabbed or in surprise at the person who stabbed him. Or both. There wasn’t much blood staining the white shirt he wore under his open overcoat. He’d died quickly.

“Was he on his way in or out of work?” I asked.

“He was at work, according to the manager. Why?”

“It’s cold, and his jacket was open. Maybe he threw it on to come outside and sneak a smoke. Or grab a bite; there are crumbs scattered on the ground.”

“Or to meet someone.”

“What do you mean?” I knew what he was thinking. He had to mean Kaz. Kaz was my only link to the hotel. Why else would Scutt think I’d want to see Eddie dead in an alleyway? We both knew he was an informer, but other than that, what was important for me here?

“See this,” Scutt said, and handed me a folded piece of paper. On it were the typewritten words MEET ME OUTSIDE, 8:00. “It was in his shirt pocket.”

“No name,” I said. “But he must’ve known who it was, don’t you think? Otherwise why take it seriously?”

“Curiosity, perhaps, but I’m inclined to agree with you. He didn’t confide in anyone, if the other staff are to be believed.”

“Anything else on him?”

“Besides his billfold, a train ticket to Plymouth. First class, rather extravagant for a waiter.”

“Any idea what’s in Plymouth that would interest him?”

“No idea. He has family in Shoeburyness, a little town at the mouth of the Thames,” Scutt said, consulting his notebook. “None of the hotel staff I talked with remembered him mentioning Plymouth. Tell me, did you know him well, Lieutenant Boyle?”

“I met him, when I came to visit Kaz,” I said, close enough to the truth to satisfy a lawyer.

“So Lieutenant Kazimierz knew him personally?”

“Sure, he worked the Polish floor regularly. I imagine they all knew him, to some extent. Why the interest? Why did you call me here?”

“You share rooms with Lieutenant Kazimierz at the Dorchester, correct?”

“Yes, but what does—”

“Bear with me, Lieutenant. We sent someone over there earlier to find you both. Gent at the desk said he’d seen you leave, but not Kazimierz. He wasn’t in his room. Any idea where he is?”

“He usually walks in the park, but very early. I don’t know where he is now. After last night, Colonel Harding told him to lie low for a while, maybe leave London for a few days. He could have left this morning.”

“Yes, last night. Very odd, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, I’m not much on opera, but I agree it was strange for Sidorov to invite him to that particular one.”

“I’m not referring to that, Lieutenant Boyle. I’m referring to what Kazimierz said. He called Sidorov a butcher, and said he would pay, something along those lines, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Look at the knife. It’s a bayonet, as you’ll see. Don’t touch it, but look at the marking.” I knelt, peering at the shaft of the bayonet, keeping my hands on the ground to steady myself and not topple onto poor Eddie. I could see a symbol, an eagle, stamped into the metal. Next to it were the letters
W.P
.

“That’s the Polish eagle,” Scutt said. “And they tell me
W.P
. stands for Wojsko Polskie, Polish Army.”

“What are you after, Inspector?”

“The truth, Lieutenant.” Scutt nodded at the men standing by the body, ready to transport it to the morgue. “Let’s step inside; it’s too cold out here for these old bones.”