The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) (41 page)

“If we didn’t need him, that’d be fine with me,” I said. But we did, and I wanted the indispensable Crawford alive and uninjured for the job I had in mind for him. We worked out a plan to approach the cottage from both sides, staying out of his line of sight from the doorway. I figured he had valuables stashed in some secret spot, and it was time to dig them up and hightail it out of here. But all I cared about was one gold ring with the Pemberton coat of arms.

I went left and Kaz went right, each of us in a low, careful duckwalk, scurrying across the lane guarded by the gutted tank. Fog hung close to the ground, rising from the damp earth and making sudden movements dangerous; there was no way to tell if you were about to stumble into a hole or fall across a log. The air was thick with moisture and fear as we moved in on the cottage, flattening ourselves against the whitewashed walls on either side.

I heard sounds from inside. The gritty scraping of a heavy stone being moved. The shuffling of feet, a slight grunt, the exhalation of breath. I signaled with my automatic to Kaz. He leaned out from the corner of the cottage, his Webley at the ready. I glanced at the sky, worried that I could see Kaz so clearly, then gave my watch a glance. Already after three o’clock, according to the luminous dial. Plenty of time, I told myself. As long as nothing goes wrong.

I took the flashlight from my pocket, gave Kaz a wave, then stood up at the edge of the soot-blackened window frame. Automatic held out straight, flashlight held high. I took a deep breath and clicked the light on.

“Crawford! Hands up!” I swept the burned-out room with the light, keeping the .45 steady. He was on his knees at the hearth, or what was left of it. A pry bar had lifted a large flat stone away from the chimney, where Crawford knelt, gripping an open knapsack. He dropped it, one hand going up to shield his eyes from the light, the other scrambling for something on the floor. “Don’t do it,” I warned.

He did. In spades. Rising up, he hoisted a Thompson submachine gun and let loose a volley in my direction. The muzzle flash was lightning bright, and the noise inside the stone cottage was eardrum shattering. Rounds chewed the window frame, whizzing over my head as I ducked. The first few shots were close, but then he went high, unused to the kick of the Thompson. I fired one wild shot through the window and then pressed myself against the wall a few feet away, listening for movement, my ears still ringing.

Another burst came through the window, then several more through the door and other windows. I hadn’t heard Kaz, and Crawford was probably unsure if anyone was with me. The sound of the bolt
being worked told me Crawford had loaded a new clip. I went to the corner of the cottage and aimed at the door, then pulled back as I saw Kaz do the same. Great minds think alike, but in this case we were more liable to hit each other than Crawford.

Before I could reorient myself, he flew out the door, twisting and turning, firing the Thompson and sending me diving for cover. I heard two single shots, Kaz firing his Webley, and I rolled out from the protection of the cottage wall, my automatic ready, searching for a target.

Nothing.

Was he hit? Or waiting for us to make a move and get peppered with .45 slugs for our trouble? The fog cloaking the ground was beginning to thin out, providing all of us with lessening cover. I was beginning to feel naked, flat on my stomach in the mud, nothing but swirling grey air between me and a tommy gun. Kaz darted past me and I followed, huddling at the base of the abandoned tank. We waited quietly, maybe fifteen minutes, watching for any sign of movement.

“See him?” I whispered. Kaz shook his head. I motioned for Kaz to stay low and pointed to the stone wall fronting the field to our right. He nodded and I stood, working my way slowly along the other side of the tank, scanning the ground ahead.

The Thompson spat rounds from dead ahead, ricochets zinging off armor plating as I went as flat as I could against the side of the tank, firing my automatic in the general direction of the burst, hoping Crawford would duck for long enough for Kaz to get to the cover of the stone wall. I did my own ducking in time to avoid another volley that stitched a line in the mud inches from where I laid. I stuck my hand up and fired off my last shots, hoping it kept Crawford focused on the tank. I loaded a fresh clip and worked the slide as I backed up, worried about Crawford getting the same idea for a flanking move.

“Crawford!” I yelled. “Come out with your hands up. You can’t get away, the area is surrounded.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt. What I wanted most was a reply, so I could be sure of his location.

Silence.

I stood and fired one shot, then sprinted away from Kaz, making for the cover of a cottage about twenty yards away. The one shot was to make Crawford flinch and give me a few seconds’ head start. Darkness was fading into light, and I knew I’d make a decent target if I didn’t hustle. I pumped my legs as fast as I could, feeling the sticky blood in my boot with each stride, not to mention the pain of accumulated injuries. I felt my knee buckle and hoped I’d be fast enough.

Crawford fired again, the muzzle flash a white-hot blast in my peripheral vision. Bullets hit the cottage wall in front of me, and as I thought about what a lousy shot Crawford was, I caught a root with the toe of my boot and went sprawling, rolling as best I could to gain the cover of the cottage wall.

I made it, but my .45 didn’t. I’d dropped it when I fell, about seven or eight feet from the corner of the house where I lay gasping. I crawled on my elbows, hoping I could reach it before Crawford realized where I was. A shot inches from my head told me it wasn’t in the cards. He’d gotten smarter, changing the selector to single shot. Better aim and more control. I slithered back, drawing the .38 Police Special from my shoulder holster. Not as much stopping power as the .45, but that hardly mattered if I couldn’t see Crawford well enough to shoot him.

If I couldn’t plug him, then the next best thing was to give Kaz a chance. Which meant making myself a target again, and trusting Kaz had found a place to hide and fire from. I gripped the revolver tightly and rounded the cottage, running broken-field style, aiming for a point directly opposite where I guessed Kaz to be.

Crawford squeezed off several rounds, slowly, taking his time. The bullets thrummed through the air, some of them smacking into stout trees behind me. Was Crawford playing with me? Missing on purpose? However he’d acquired the Thompson, my guess was he wasn’t familiar with it, not yet anyway. But as a slug whizzed closer to my head, I had to admit he was getting the hang of the thing.

I took cover behind a well, the thick, cold stone reassuring. I waited, hoping to spot Crawford in the open, but he was too clever for that. After several minutes of cat and mouse he sent a couple of shots ricocheting off the stones, to let me know he had me in his sights. I looked
to the east, where the horizon showed a reddish hue. I glanced at my watch. Just after four o’clock. Time to be getting the hell out of here.

“Crawford!” I yelled. “This place is going to be shelled any minute. We need to clear out.”

“Go to hell, Yank!” Crawford hollered back. At least I had him talking instead of shooting.

“It’s true,” I said. “Naval bombardment followed by fighter-bombers. There won’t be anything left of Dunstone, or anyone in it.”

“Your lot’s made sure of that already,” Crawford said. He sounded closer. The well was excellent cover, but it wouldn’t matter if he snuck up on me while I was hunkered down. I eased myself up, pistol at the ready, and looked out from the stonework in time to see Crawford hide behind a thick tree about twenty yards out. He knew how to move quietly, a smuggler’s advantage.

The stone wall Kaz had used for cover ended on the other side of the road. A thicket of shrubs abutted it, and that’s where I hoped Kaz was hiding. If I could get Crawford to turn a bit, Kaz would have him in his sights. Then it was simply a matter of getting him to drop the tommy gun so we wouldn’t have to kill him. My plan depended on that, but I was tired of being shot at, and my leg was starting to hurt like the blazes, so a .38 cross fire sounded pretty damn good.

I aimed and shot, nicking the bark of the tree right where I wanted. I could make out Crawford pulling back, a perfect target for Kaz. Now was the moment of truth. If Kaz was not where I thought he was, this was going to go badly.

“Give it up, Crawford!” I said, standing up. “We’ve got you covered from two sides.”

“Liar!”

Kaz fired, taking off his own chunk of treebark. Crawford swiveled to take aim, then realized he had exposed himself to me. He could take one of us, but the other would get the drop on him.

“I know it wasn’t your idea,” I said, taking careful steps closer, the .38 cradled in both hands. “You helped them out, was all.”

“You don’t know a damn thing,” he said. If he didn’t care about dying, he’d fire any second, I decided.

“So it was your idea? To kill Peter Wiley?”

“I’m not going to hang for that, Yank.” Good. He wanted to live. Very helpful.

“Okay, so put the Thompson down. We have a lot to talk about, but we need to get the hell out of here.” I glanced for a second toward Kaz, who moved in closer, his Webley aimed square at Crawford’s chest.

A distant noise drew closer, and I froze until I realized it wasn’t an aircraft or the beginning of the bombardment. It was our two constables in their automobile, disobeying orders and racing toward the sound of gunfire.

“I told you the place was surrounded,” I said, moving in on Crawford. “Drop the Thompson.”

Crawford stared at the police car, a bitter look of defeat on his face as headlights lit the roadway. He lowered the Thompson, looking for a way out, but he was hemmed in on three sides. He dropped the weapon and the knapsack at his feet.

“At least I’ll be taken by proper Englishmen, not a bloody American or Pole,” Crawford said, watching Constable Carraher as he stepped out from behind the wheel. His look of resignation changed to puzzlement as he gazed skyward, hearing a faint rumble in the distance, as if thunder had erupted along the horizon.

The screaming sound of naval shells arcing through the air told me it was no spring storm. I ran for Crawford, grabbing his arm before he had a chance to raise the Thompson, and knocked it from his grasp.

“Take cover!” I yelled, and dove for the ground, taking Crawford with me. The explosions came seconds later, hitting the woods on the outskirts of the village, sparing us and what was left of the village buildings. They came again and again, volleys of fire that tore trees into shreds and sent geysers of earth skyward. When the shelling stopped, we all looked at one another, stunned to be alive. Crawford was subdued, the way a lot of criminals are right after being taken. Sometimes the toughest hoodlum falls apart as soon as you get the cuffs on. Others bluster and curse, but Crawford was in the quiet category. I liked to think it was because they were ashamed, but I knew better. Exhaustion, more like.

Kaz hustled off to get our jeep while the two constables searched Crawford. I checked the back of my leg and wasn’t surprised to find blood. I was exhausted myself, but I bucked up when Carraher pulled a gold ring from Crawford’s backpack. It was Peter Wiley’s, complete with the Pemberton family coat of arms. He handed it to me, and I smiled. But it didn’t last long. The snarl of P-47 engines rose up in a heartbeat, a flight of four of the fighter-bombers coming in low, rockets slung under their wings. Seconds behind them trailed another four.

We were only a few yards from the tank in the middle of the road. Those P-47s had enough firepower to blow the whole damn village to hell and gone.

“Run!” I grabbed Crawford, again, with the two constables following, and sprinted down the road, toward our jeep, away from the tank hulk. This time, Crawford twisted loose and made a break in the opposite direction, into the village. Maybe it was the familiarity of the place, or maybe he didn’t give a damn. But I did. I needed him, so I followed. The noise from the P-47s was deafening as they fired their rockets and peeled off in two directions, rising above the carnage they’d unleashed.

Rockets hit the tank and rocked it, a fireball rising from the wreck. Others hit the nearby cottages as I saw Crawford make for his own place, arms and legs pumping as if nothing mattered but getting home. Then the second group of P-47s fired their rockets, and the cottage blew apart, sending timbers hurtling through the air, scattering debris in every direction. The blast knocked me flat, making me feel like I’d gone a few rounds with Joe Louis.

I tried to clear my head and locate Crawford. The pain in my leg was nothing compared to the ringing in my ears. All I could see was dust and swirling smoke. I heard Kaz asking me if I was okay, sounding very far away. And that’s all I remember.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

A
SHCROFT
H
OUSE FELT
different. It looked different; a lesser place than it had been. Stepping over the threshold as an investigator, not a guest, I saw the cobwebs and cracks in the ceiling, smelled the mustiness of the lies and secrets that permeated the woodwork, and noticed the shabby, faded curtains. Or maybe it was my imagination; it had been a long night, and the brightness of the blue sky had only made my head ache.

Our jeep had been mistaken for another target and shredded by machine-gun fire as the P-47 pilots amused themselves strafing what they thought was a deserted village. The police car survived with only its windows blown out and got us back to headquarters in Dartmouth, where a police surgeon picked shrapnel out of my legs and bandaged me up. Presented with Peter Wiley’s ring and the contents of Crawford’s knapsack, Inspector Grange agreed it was high time for serious talk with all the residents of Ashcroft House. I gave him the lowdown on what I had planned, and he seemed happy for me to stick my neck out and give it a try. There wasn’t a lot of hard evidence other than the ring, and we’d have to do some serious conjuring in order to make a murder charge stick.

Kaz and I downed hot tea loaded with precious sugar, then washed up and changed into clean uniforms. We drove to Ashcroft House in two cars, Kaz and me with Inspector Grange, and Constables Carraher
and Dell following. Williams answered our knock and stepped back, looking confused as we paraded into the foyer.