The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) (40 page)

“Think you’ll miss it?” I asked as we swung the bags into the back of the jeep.

“Yes,” David said, his voice low and firm. “Terribly. But at least I’m needed here. Gives me something to do. Listen, good luck with the Peter Wiley case. Hard to believe it was murder, but I am glad you seem to be closing in on the killer.”

“We’re very close,” I said. “A key piece of evidence has turned up. But mum’s the word, okay?” David agreed, and we shook hands and drove off.

“Where to now?” Kaz said.

“To see Inspector Grange. Then into the restricted area. The timing ought to be about right.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

I
HAD ENOUGH
of the pieces of the puzzle assembled for it to make sense to Kaz as we drove into Dartmouth. Which was good, since that was a dress rehearsal for Inspector Grange. He thought the idea had sufficient merit to send a car with two constables to assist us. But not so much that he came along himself. It was getting dark, and starting to rain to boot, so he decided to do his inspecting indoors.

We drove to Strete, showing orders at the roadblock and explaining that the bobbies in the other automobile were with us.

“You can go ahead if you want, Captain,” the MP at the gate said, shaking his head at the idea as raindrops splattered off his helmet. “But there’s an exercise scheduled for the morning. Bombardment at zero four thirty, landings at zero six hundred at Slapton Sands. Where are you headed?”

“Dunstone,” I said. “Little place south of Torcross.”

“I know where it is,” he said. “You’d best be clear of it by zero four hundred. They’re sending in those new rocket-firing fighter-bombers to soften up the area around the beachhead. They hauled in some old tanks today for target practice. If a stray shell from a cruiser doesn’t get you, a P-47 might.”

“Cheery,” Kaz said as we set off into the wet, bleak landscape. Heavy black clouds blanketed the setting sun, and the rain came and went in gusty showers. We slowed as we made our way through the
ruined village of Stokenham, almost slamming into a tank parked in the middle of the road.

“Hey!” I yelled, looking for the crew. Then I noticed there were no treads. It was a wreck, an old M3 model, one of the targets for tomorrow’s exercise. The P-47s would be diving and firing their rockets, testing them out against thick armor plate. Flesh and bone wouldn’t stand a chance. I drove on, braking at shadows, afraid of a collision with an immoveable object.

We stopped at a fork in the road on the outskirts of Dunstone. An old farmhouse stood between two roads, a ramshackle barn facing the lane leading to the village. Rows of trees stood like sentinels in the night—it had been an apple orchard once upon a time.

“You fellows stay here,” I told the constables as they approached the idling jeep. “Watch each road, and follow anyone who passes. Give them about five minutes.”

“Right,” Constable Carraher said. “We’ll hide the motorcar in the barn and follow by foot or vehicle, depending on how the villain proceeds.”

“Good,” I said. “Remember that he’s gotten in before, and he knows the area. He may stay off the road.”

“I know this patch as well, Captain,” Carraher said. “We’ll come on real quiet like if we spot him.” He grinned, and I could see he was looking forward to some excitement.

His younger partner looked nervous, pushing his tin-pot helmet up and wiping the rain from his face. “Is he likely to be armed?” Constable Dell asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe a shotgun from Ashcroft House. Best assume he is, although carrying a weapon would raise suspicions if he were stopped anywhere along the way. The safest bet for him would be to go unarmed, but he may be desperate.”

“We’ll do our bit,” Carraher said. “Two rifles and the authority of the Devon Constabulary, that’s more than enough weight, eh?” He clapped the other constable on the shoulder, and the kid did his best to put on a brave face. We left the two of them at the farm, backing the Austin into the barn. I told them to get the hell out of there if we
didn’t return by four o’clock. I hoped we’d all be sipping hot tea in the Dartmouth clink by then, but I didn’t want them on the receiving end of a rocket attack if things went south.

We drove closer to Dunstone, pulling over short of the village to hide the jeep in a grove of trees. The rain had lessened, but that only made our tire tracks where we left the road more noticeable. We grabbed some fallen branches and worked at smoothing over the gouges in the mud at the side of the lane.

“That may be good enough,” Kaz said, surveying our handiwork and tossing his branch into the thick grass. “But if he is suspicious at all, he might take note.”

“Then we’ll have lost our chance,” I said. I turned up the collar of my trench coat and stuffed a .45 automatic into my pocket. I had my .38 Police Special revolver in a shoulder holster. Kaz patted his raincoat pocket, the Webley Break-Top revolver ready for action. As rain beaded up on the leather brim of his service cap, he gave me a wink and we trotted off, slinking around the first decrepit cottages that made up the mournful remnants of Dunstone. On the open ground we leapt like dancers in combat boots, jumping from one tuft of grass to another, trying not to leave any telltale footprints.

“If anyone’s watching, they’ll laugh themselves silly,” I said to Kaz as we caught our breath behind a tumbledown stone wall.

“Furtive we are not,” he said, pointing down the road. “Look, is that another tank?”

“Yeah,” I said as the hulking form took shape in the gloom. It was a British Valentine, an older model with the turret gone, volunteered for one last duty as a stationary target. “Maybe we should hunker down in there. Crawford’s cottage is straight ahead.”

“It is probably full of water,” Kaz said. “And we will be trapped if he sees us.”

“Okay. Let’s move around back and check his cottage, then find a spot to wait.” We crouched low and scurried through an overgrown field, coming up on the rear of Crawford’s burned-out house. Guns drawn, we darted to one corner. Back to back, we watched our respective walls, listening for any trace of movement within. The heavy rain
had let up, air now full of swirling mist, turning the darkness into a blurred landscape of grey and black. To the left was a small barn, one wall smashed as if a tank had backed into it, timbers leaning at crazy angles as if the whole thing was about to collapse. We worked our way around to the front of the cottage, visibility down to ten yards at best. Good in that we wouldn’t be seen by anyone farther away than that. Bad in that closer than ten yards, a shotgun can do a lot of damage.

We went in the front entrance, brushing against the blackened timbers where the door had been burned away. I went left, Kaz right, and we stayed low, our backs to the wall, pistols out and searching for anything that moved.

Silence.

I signaled to Kaz to watch the road while I checked the one back room. Same as the rest of the place. Smashed and burned.

“Looks the same as the last time we were here,” I whispered to Kaz as we gazed into the night.

“He’s a smuggler,” Kaz said, “if not worse. He could have a secret compartment or cellar dug out and hidden under all this rubble.”

“Well, let’s have him point the way to it,” I said. “How about that barn? It gives us a good view of the cottage.”

“If this weather doesn’t turn to fog,” Kaz said. “And if the barn doesn’t collapse on top of us. Otherwise an excellent idea. Lead on, Billy.” He grinned, his scarred face looking slightly maniacal. I don’t much mind maniacal when it’s on my side.

It must have been a poor excuse for a barn even before it lost a wall. The place smelled of rotten hay and garbage, the latter probably courtesy of GIs passing through. Empty cases of field rations littered the ground, the familiar crescent-moon symbol marking them as C- or K-Rations. We cleared a spot under the overhanging corner of the roof, which looked like it might lose its fight with gravity at any moment. But it was dry, and it gave us a perfect view of the cottage and the road, not to mention a bit of cover provided by the fallen timbers.

So we waited.

And waited. For hours. The misty rain gave way to fog, rising from
the ground in a dark haze that muffled the occasional hoot of a nearby owl. It was well past midnight when we first heard it: the puttering, coughing sound of a small motorbike in the distance.

“Where is it?” Kaz whispered, twisting his head to try and locate the sudden sound.

“There,” I said, pointing in the direction we’d come from. “No, over there.” It was hopeless. It seemed to be everywhere, the noise and the night playing tricks on our ears. It faded away, then rose again, coming from the opposite end of the village.

“He is suspicious,” Kaz said. “I think he’s trying to draw us out.”

“Or maybe it’s his usual routine, to see if the MPs are patrolling. Not that he had a motorbike before, but he could have done the same thing on foot, circling the village until he was sure it was empty.”

“I wonder if the constables have given chase?” Kaz said.

“Unless they saw him, it’d be a wild goose chase.”

We waited some more, listening for the motorbike, picking it up in the distance only to have it fade away again. It was after two o’clock when we heard it draw closer. Much closer than it had been. We strained to find the direction, the thick fog disorienting our senses and cutting visibility to near zero.

“Over there,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Across the road, behind the buildings.” The engine was idling, giving off a rhythmic
putt-putt
, almost mesmerizing in the dank night air.

“What’s he waiting for?” Kaz asked. “An accomplice?”

“Us,” I said. “Let’s not disappoint him.” I was tired of waiting. If he wanted a fight, he could have one. Besides, the clock was ticking on the upcoming shelling and air attack. A mixture of frustration and practicality drove me forward, making me increasingly desperate for a solution that didn’t involve a P-47 strafing run.

I motioned to Kaz to stay low, and we used the heavy fog on the ground for cover as best we could. We slipped out of the barn, pistols in hand, and scurried to the tank in the middle of the road, straining our eyes for any sign of movement. We watched the approach to Crawford’s cottage, hoping he’d appear. Nothing. We waited ten, maybe fifteen minutes. The idling engine enticed us to move again.
We darted to the blasted doorway of a cottage across from Crawford’s, where we spent another ten minutes waiting for something to happen.

“Maybe he
is
waiting for someone,” I whispered. “Let’s get closer.”

I led and Kaz followed, both of us swiveling our heads like mad, watching for a threat from any quarter. We froze at the sound of movement ahead, only to see a big rat run across our path seconds later. We sprinted to the edge of a wooded patch, the motorbike now sounding only yards away.

We stood still, regaining our breath, waiting for footsteps or a voice. Nothing came, nothing but the steadily idling engine. I motioned Kaz to go flat, and we began to crawl through the underbrush, skirting tangles of vines and branches, finally getting close enough to smell the exhaust fumes. Either my eyes were getting used to the fog, or it was thinning out. Kaz nudged my arm and pointed with his Webley.

There it was. On the edge of a clearing about ten yards out. No one in sight, just the monotonous engine noise filling the empty space. Then it began to sputter and cough. It ran ragged for a few minutes and then conked out. The silence encompassed us, the absence of sound suddenly frightening. Now we had to be really quiet; there was no cover to muffle our footsteps in the forest. We moved apart, circling in on the motorbike. I could feel the warmth from the engine, see where the kickstand dug into the loamy earth.

It was as if we were meant to find it.

“Look,” Kaz whispered, pointing to a canvas musette bag hanging from the handlebar. He stepped forward to lift it off, and as he did Crawford’s words about his service in the last war flooded my brain.

I was a sapper … setting charges … laying mines and booby-traps
.

Kaz pulled the musette bag by the straps, but it only gave a few inches. I heard a metallic
snap
and rushed at Kaz, leaning in low to hit him with my shoulder, lifting him and rolling into the bushes, keeping his body covered with mine.

The explosion blasted over us, the force slamming my face into the ground as I felt a red-hot sensation in my legs. I opened my eyes to check on Kaz, shaking my head to clear it from the shock and the concussive noise.

“Are you okay?” I managed, grasping him by the shoulders and pulling him up.

“What happened?” Kaz answered, wincing as he righted himself.

“It was booby-trapped,” I said. “Are you hurt, Kaz?” I tried not to shout, the ringing in my ears still loud.

“No, I think not. Sore but unhurt,” he said, picking up his revolver and checking it. The motorbike was a twisted lump of metal and burning rubber, the smoky flames flickering in the darkness, sending shadows dancing at our feet. I felt warmth in my boot and knew that I’d caught some shrapnel. The back of my trench coat was ripped, and I could feel the tears in my wool pants above the boot. I’d have scars on top of scars before this thing was over.

“Let’s go,” I said, ignoring the squishing between my toes.

“Billy, you’re injured,” Kaz said, spotting my leg.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Now we have an advantage.” I took off at a gimpy trot, making for Crawford’s cottage.

“What, that our heads were not completely blown off? And thank you, by the way. Mine would have been if you hadn’t tackled me.”

“Anytime,” I said, crouching behind a thick tree trunk. “The advantage is that Crawford thinks we’re dead, or close to it. The idling bike was a ruse to draw out anyone watching.”

“It is about time we had the upper hand,” Kaz said. “Let’s make good use of it.”

“We need to hurry,” I whispered, checking my watch. The sky was beginning to lighten at the horizon, the harbinger of a dawn drawing close.

“I am tempted to leave him here,” Kaz said. “To the justice of a naval and air bombardment.”