The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) (10 page)

CHAPTER TEN

F
RASER’S PLACE WAS
a short walk from the train station on a quiet residential street. I still had a bit of a limp, and my arm was stiffening up, but a brisk walk felt good. Fraser worked in one side of a semi-detached and lived in the other. A gleaming brass plaque marked the office entrance, and as I opened the door I tried to recall the name of his receptionist. What I did remember was her manicure. She’d spent most of her time filing her nails, and I doubted she did much typing with them.

It didn’t matter. Sitting at the receptionist’s desk was Mrs. Fraser herself. Her nails weren’t as perfect as her predecessor’s, but she was actually working, typing away at a rapid pace.

“Right on time, Captain Boyle,” she said. “So nice to see you again.”

“Same to you, Mrs. Fraser. I didn’t expect to see you at work. You’re pretty fast with those keys.”

“I worked in an office before we were married,” she said. “And I got bored sitting around, doing nothing. Now Stanley and I are together all day, and we save on the expense, of course.” She smiled, queen of her domain, having vanquished the competition.

“That sounds great,” I said, wondering what Stanley thought about the staffing change. “Is he available?”

“Yes, go right in. But you’ve only got twenty minutes. We’ve got a new client coming in and you’ll have to be done by then. A local, law-abiding client, I am pleased to say.” She looked quite pleased indeed.

“They’re the best kind,” I said, and went in.

“What’s this all about?” Fraser said as I sat across from him.

“What happened to the previous receptionist? Too receptive?” I figured if he was going to give me a hard time, I’d give it right back.

“She went off with a Yank,” he said. “Dorothy and I decided to put her skills to use. It’s worked out well for us.”

“That must be dandy,” I said. Stanley Fraser was a man with too much around the middle and not enough on top, but he dressed up well. He adjusted his cuff links and straightened his tie. His suit looked expensive; he certainly wasn’t making do with worn-out clothes. “Actually, I’m here to ask for your help.”

“Do you need a lawyer, Captain Boyle? If not, then I don’t see how I can help you.”

“Listen, Mr. Fraser,” I said, hoping to score points for not calling him Razor. “Let’s start over, okay? I’m not here to cause trouble for you. I’m only seeking your assistance.”

“All right,” Fraser said, sighing and leaning back in his chair. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I’m trying to identify the body of a man about thirty years old, probably a civilian. He washed up on the beach at Slapton Sands a few days ago.”

“What makes you think I would know about a dead body?” Fraser said. “Are you accusing me?”

“No, not at all,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s imperative that we find out who this person is, in order to rule out any possibility of an enemy agent having gained access to a highly restricted area.” That got his attention.

“Did this person drown?” Fraser said.

“Murdered,” I said. “Shot.” I went over what we knew from the body and the movements of the tides.

“So if this was a German spy, the worry is that others might have been in the restricted area as well?” He leaned forward in his chair, caught up in the drama.

“Exactly. We can’t find any record of a missing person who matches his description. The problem we have is obvious, Mr. Fraser. Was this
person a spy? If so, we must assume his confederates saw or learned things we don’t want the Nazis to know, especially with the invasion of France right around the corner.”

“Therefore,” Fraser said, steepling his fingers in front of him, “if he was a spy, you’ll have to put a lot of man power into the hunt for others. But if you can determine that he was something else, then that takes the heat off you.”

“It’s for the war effort, Mr. Fraser, not me. The boys who will be storming the beaches.”

“Yes, yes, quite,” Fraser said, waving away the distinction. “This is where I must say I have no idea why you’ve come to me, and that none of my clients would be involved in any sinister criminal activity.”

“Consider it said.”

“You’ve talked about wanting to identify this body,” Fraser said. “Nothing about apprehending the killer.”

“That is secondary at this point,” I said. I thought Fraser might pick up on that distinction, with his lawyer’s gift for legal nitpicking.

“Do you have reason to believe the victim was engaged in a criminal enterprise?” Fraser said.

“It’s a guess, but sure,” I said. “A civilian, in decent physical condition, not in the military. We’re fairly sure of that, since he doesn’t match any AWOL reports. I’m thinking a serious criminal conviction when he was younger.”

“Any number of medical conditions could have kept him out of the service,” Fraser said.

“Sure, but why hasn’t anyone reported him missing then? If he were involved in illegal activities, people who knew him would be less likely to report him missing. Being away for long periods would be par for the course.”

“I don’t disagree with you, Captain Boyle. It is a good guess. But what I think you are asking is quite difficult.”

“I’m not asking you to rat out a client,” I said. “All I want to know is if you’ve heard through the grapevine of anyone getting rubbed out within the past three months or so. A turf war, maybe something like that.”

“You sound like a gangster film,” Fraser said. He tapped his fingers together again and stared past me. He knew something; I could tell.

“Are you branching out into legit clients?” I asked. “Mrs. Fraser said you have an appointment with a regular citizen.”

“That would be admitting that my other clients were less than legitimate businessmen,” Fraser said.

“Hey, we’re not in court,” I said. “I’m only asking for some help here. It could save lives; British lives, American, French, I don’t know. But that’s got to count for something.”

“Even to a man like me, you mean?” He was right. I’d had to stop myself from saying it out loud.

“Especially to a man like you,” I said. It wasn’t time to soft-soap the guy. He knew it and I knew it. He got thugs and killers off the hook. This was a chance to do something decent, something that he could tell his wife in whispers; he could make her promise never to tell anyone that he’d helped catch a spy, or however he spun the story out to her. Yeah, especially to a guy like Razor Fraser.

“There may be something,” Fraser said.

“Okay,” I said, waiting for him to tell me. He fidgeted and wet his lips, as if he couldn’t get his body to go along with this new idea of helping someone in a uniform.

“We are trying to stick to the straight and narrow out here,” he said. “Dorothy wanted a change. She threatened to leave me if I didn’t get a new clientele.”

“Apparently Dorothy doesn’t understand the rules,” I said. Once you’re a shyster for the mob in any country, you don’t retire.

“No, she doesn’t. But that’s part of what I’m trying to tell you. There have been some conflicts. Two of my biggest clients have been killed.” He spoke in hushed tones—whether by habit or because his wife’s ear was at the door, I didn’t know.

“So that frees you up to be a rural attorney?”

“Almost,” Fraser said. “I must admit, it would be easier, and it would be nice not to be threatened all the time.”

“Threatened?”

“With what would happen if I lost a case,” Fraser said. My heart bled.

“Okay. Spill. What do you know?” I thought about threatening him myself, but held off. If he really liked the idea of a change, he had to see me as a safe bet, not another gangster.

“There’s a man by the name of Charles Sabini,” Fraser said. As soon as the words came out, he slumped back in his chair like a deflated balloon. He had broken the code, and there was no going back. He knew it. “He’s half English and half Italian. He had a gang in the thirties, and controlled most of the racecourses in the south of England. He was heavily into gambling, fixing races, extortion, you name it.”

“A client of yours?”

“No. My clients were in competition with Sabini. At the beginning of the war, Sabini was interned as an enemy alien, even though he was born here and had an English mother. My guess is that Scotland Yard decided on the internment as a pretext, since they couldn’t pin anything on him.”

“Sounds reasonable,” I said.

“From their point of view, yes,” Fraser said. “But the irony is that Sabini’s gambling empire was built upon a network of Jewish bookmakers operating out of London. When the war began, some of his Italian gangsters wanted to cut ties with their Jewish partners, out of loyalty to Mussolini. Sabini refused, even though it meant being deserted by his men with fascist sympathies.”

“I take it he’s no longer interned,” I said.

“No, he was let out after a year. Scotland Yard probably figured enough damage had been done to his organization by then. They were right,” Fraser said.

“And you know that because your clients benefited from his absence,” I said.

“Since they are now dead, they can no longer be my clients,” Fraser said.

“Understood,” I said, a little bothered by the fact that I was following his logic.

“Sabini got right back into the game,” Fraser continued. “He was caught fencing stolen property and sent down for two years. Last year
he got out and started making up for lost time. He’s re-established himself on the horse-racing circuit and branched out into the black market.”

“Which means he must have stepped on somebody’s toes. Black-market territories are certain to be well established,” I said.

“Of course,” Fraser said. “Sabini isn’t afraid of violent confrontation, but he’s also a clever one. He saw the buildup beginning in southwest England. It’s not hard to put two and two together and come up with the idea that the area is becoming one big supply dump for the American army as they train for the invasion.”

“What about existing gangs? They must be working the ports all along the coast.”

“They are,” Fraser said. “Sabini cut a deal that he’d stay out of the ports. He’s got the inland territory, with men on his payroll who load and unload the trains that haul supplies coming from the ports. He gets his share and then some. The man’s got more business than he can handle.”

“So what’s the connection?” I asked.

“Three months ago, a client dispatched an individual to Newton Abbot, where Sabini is headquartered. The job was to eliminate Sabini. This individual was never heard from again, and never returned to collect the remainder of his fee. Then, within a month, my client cut himself shaving. From ear to ear.”

“You don’t seem upset,” I said.

“A lawyer in my situation learns to keep his opinions to himself and his emotions in check,” Fraser said, looking pained in spite of his declaration. “I had to look for a way out. If Sabini thinks I’ve left my former practice, there’s a chance he’ll leave me be.”

“You think he’d put a hit out on you?” I asked. In the States, legal counsel was usually off-limits, even for hardened gangsters.

“No, Captain Boyle, I’m afraid he’d want me as his attorney,” Fraser said, his head bent low and his voice lower. “Neither my wife nor my ulcer would find that acceptable.”

Now I understood why Fraser had so readily told me everything. He hoped I’d put Sabini away and all his troubles would be behind him.

“Where does Charles Sabini hang his hat?” I asked.

“At the racecourse in Newton Abbot,” Fraser said. “The track sits hard against the River Teign, which flows into the Channel about fifteen or twenty miles from Slapton Sands.”

“It fits,” I said. “You don’t happen to know the name of the guy who was sent to kill Sabini, or where he was from?”

“Captain Boyle, I must caution you,” Fraser said, wagging his finger at me, his face turning red. “I never said I was aware of a plot to have anyone killed or injured. If I had been, I would have been duty-bound to report it to the authorities. As it stands, I was aware of an emissary sent to Mr. Sabini, who did not return to my client for reasons unknown. I never knew his name or was acquainted with him in any way.”

“Sorry,” I said, hands up in surrender, worried that he’d blow a fuse. “I did not mean to imply any knowledge of wrongdoing. I am certain you had no inkling of any criminal activity.” That seemed to calm him down. The response was automatic, built up from years of denying what he knew, hiding the truth even from himself. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Yes,” Fraser said. “Be very careful. Sabini has vowed never to return to prison, and he has a violent temper. He has also developed a vehement hatred of the British government. Days before he was due to be released from prison, his son Michael, an RAF pilot, was killed in North Africa.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I said, hoping he was being completely truthful. “If this pans out, how would you and the missus like an invitation to the Mayor’s Ball at the Dartmouth Royal Regatta this summer?”

“That would be just the thing,” Fraser said, beaming. Respectable. I left him a happy man, which was what I needed. I didn’t want him to have any regrets that might prompt a telephone call to his old pals, or worse yet, Sabini himself.

It was a cruel world, I thought as I walked back to the station. Even a crook would be proud of a son fighting in the RAF, but it would take a villain’s mind to make his death an affront, turning his grief into
anger at a government that had had good reason to jail him. Lots of professional criminals look at what they do as a job, with risks and rewards. They go up against law enforcement, but it’s all part of the game. For Sabini, the game had become personal, and that made him dangerous.

The train had passed through Newton Abbot, and on the return trip I watched for a glimpse of the racecourse. It was easy to spot. The train ran along the banks of the River Teign, and as we neared the town it was visible across the river, the oval track fronting the water along one curve, the grandstand and stables at the far end. I had a fleeting glimpse of a small boathouse and dock off a dirt path that led down from the track. A private little spot, if no train was running.