We smelled the smoke from the center of town, and I had a bad feeling. Another bad feeling, on top of all the others. Black smoke churned above the rooftops ahead, and if I didn’t know where I was going, I could have used it as a beacon. Vehicles clogged the road near Bar Raffaele, and we left the jeep to walk the last hundred yards. A long flatbed truck marked Vigili del Fuoco stood in front of Bar Raffaele, two hoses attached to a large cylindrical tank pumping water onto the building.
The bar wasn’t the only thing burning. A U.S. Army truck in front of the main entrance was engulfed in flames, its burning tires producing most of the black cloud we’d seen from a distance. More smoke billowed out from the two windows, both partially blocked by the truck, which had been pulled up against the door, blocking the exit. Firemen tried to get near the windows but were driven back, gasping and coughing. We followed two of them down an alleyway, to the rear of the building that housed the bar. Empty bottles and rotting garbage were piled against the wall beneath a pair of windows, iron bars set into the masonry, probably to discourage thieves. One wooden door was set low, down a short flight of steps. A torrent of flame gushed up from the door, and I could make out a jerrycan at the base of the steps.
“Truck up against the front door, and a can of gas ignited at the back door,” Kaz said.
“He must have seen us,” I said, realizing I could scratch Jim Cole off my list of suspects.
“Who?”
“The killer. He saw us here and decided not to take a chance on Inzerillo staying quiet. But he knows Inzerillo’s guard is up, that he’s barricaded himself in there. So he uses it against him.”
“Cunning,” Kaz said as we stepped out of the back alley and went around the front. There, the flames had died down amid the swirls of acrid black smoke, and the fire truck pulled out to circle around the block. Kaz spotted a Carabiniere talking to onlookers and approached him as I tried to get a look inside. The wreck of the truck was too hot to get close to, and all I could make out was a gray haze inside the building. No telltale smell of burned flesh, but no sound of movement, no cries for help. The heat or the smoke must have gotten him. In his weakened condition, he couldn’t have moved fast enough to escape.
“He says witnesses saw the truck pull up alongside the entrance, but paid little attention,” Kaz told me. “Two of them saw an American soldier take something from the truck and walk around back. It was common knowledge that Inzerillo dealt in the black market, so it was not seen as unusual.”
“Could they indentify the GI?”
“No. He wore a helmet and had his collar turned up. They can’t say if he was an officer or enlisted man. Both claim not to have seen the fire start, front or back. The Italian officer says they are scared to talk, that if a tough bastard like Inzerillo could be killed, no one is safe.”
“I think that was part of the message.”
“It worked. These people look genuinely frightened. Should we check the truck?”
“No, it’s probably stolen. He used the spare gas can for out back, then probably lit a rag stuffed into the fuel line. Hoofed it back to his vehicle, and was gone before the local fire brigade got here.”
“There’s only one piece of good news in all this,” Kaz said. “He hasn’t played the queen of hearts yet. Perhaps the cards were a feint, to distract us.”
“Or maybe he had loose ends to tie up before he moved onto bigger and better things. Let’s get back,” I said. I didn’t think much of Inzerillo, but I didn’t like him added to the list of victims either. He was a loose end, and now no one would have to worry about him unraveling. I should have seen this coming. I should have seen Cole’s death coming, for that matter. I don’t know what I could have done about either, but that didn’t stop me from feeling responsible.
As we turned to leave, the Carabiniere whom Kaz had spoken to called him over and I watched as they talked, the conversation growing heated at the end.
“What was that about?” I asked as we walked back to the jeep.
“He asked if we had a vehicle to tow the truck away. He thought we were from the AMGOT headquarters in town. When I said we were not, he began to ask what our interest was with Inzerillo. I told him it was part of an investigation that Lieutenant Luca Amatori was involved in. He didn’t like that answer.”
“He probably didn’t like being kept in the dark, especially since the investigation involved an Italian civilian. Can’t blame him.”
“No, it wasn’t that. It was the mention of Luca’s name. He called him a Fascist, and a friend to the Nazis.”
“Strange,” I said as I started up the jeep. “The Carabinieri aren’t known for Fascist tendencies. And Luca didn’t come across as a Nazi sympathizer.”
“Would you, after the king deposed Mussolini and the government went over to the Allies?”
It was a good question, and I gave it some thought as we drove back to Caserta, even though I couldn’t see how it had a damn thing to do with our card-dealing killer and the murder of Inzerillo. But I did wonder what Luca had done to deserve the contempt of a fellow officer, to generate so intense a disdain that it would be brought up to a stranger, an outsider. Maybe it was nothing, some guy with a beef, spreading rumors about Luca. I didn’t want to know. I had problems of my own.
We drove to the 3rd Division bivouac area. I wanted to see who had been where this afternoon. But the going was slow, the roads crammed with long convoys of trucks, all headed east, toward Naples and its big harbor. Huge GMC deuce-and-a-half trucks, some pulling artillery, most crammed with GIs huddled together on the open bench seats. Ambulances, flatbeds with Sherman tanks, and jeeps overflowing with soldiers and gear, some so top-heavy I was surprised they made it around the next bend. It was a constant flow of men, so many that it seemed we must have emptied out entire towns and schools to get all these soldiers, all these anonymous clean-faced boys, their hands clenched around the barrels of their M1s, heads bowed low against the wind, as if they were murmuring their nighttime prayers.
There was little traffic in the opposite direction, but we were held up at every intersection. As we came to the outskirts of Caserta, a flight of P-40 fighters flew over, heading for a landing at the Marcinese airfield. One plane trailed the others, smoke rhythmically sputtering behind it.
“Do you think he’ll make it?” Kaz said, following the P-40’s progress.
“He’s close, he should,” I said, and glanced upward. The puffs of smoke stopped and the aircraft hung in the air for a moment, then began a lazy twirl straight down, as if a giant hand had swatted it out of the sky. There was no evidence of a pilot trying to regain control, nothing but dead weight descending to a stony field where it blossomed into a fireball, a final violent eruption of flame and smoke marking the spot.
We drove on.
An hour later we pulled into San Felice, home of the 3rd Division headquarters. I wanted to quiz Colonel Schleck and Major Arnold about their disagreement with Max Galante over combat fatigue. From what Doctor Cassidy told me, it had been more personal than professional. Maybe they’d also tell me how much longer the division was going to be around. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be for long.
The bombed-out school that served as headquarters had its own fleet of trucks parked outside, tailgates down and GIs loading them up with boxes and crates of whatever it was you needed to run a division HQ. Typewriters, carbon paper, and Scotch were high on the list.
We parked the jeep and worked our way inside amidst the heavy lifting.
“You back again? Boyle, wasn’t it?” Colonel Schleck growled, heading out in full battle gear. Grenades hung from his web belt, Thompson submachine gun at the ready, helmet on. You might have thought the Germans were right outside the door.
“Still is, sir. I wanted to talk to you and Major Arnold if I could.”
“You can’t. We’re pulling out, and Arnold is AWOL. If you see the bastard, shoot him. My clerk is still in the office upstairs. Talk to him if you need anything. You find that killer yet?”
“No sir. The whole division pulling out?”
“Headquarters is staging to Naples, that’s all I can say.” And that was all he did say. He got in a waiting jeep, signaled with his hand like a cowboy at a cattle drive, and a small convoy of trucks followed him.
“Interesting fellow,” Kaz said as we headed to the G1 office. “I’m not surprised he doesn’t believe in combat fatigue. He looks like he’s enjoying the war.”
“Some guys do. They get rank and privileges they never had in civilian life, and if they’re just behind the front lines, in a headquarters outfit, they wear combat gear and get their picture taken to show the folks back home. I’ll bet a lot of them will get into politics after the war.”
“I fear for your nation,” Kaz said, as we entered the office. Boxed files were stacked everywhere, and a corporal with his sleeves rolled up was pulling sheets from a typewriter, separating the carbon paper from the duplicates, as he looked up.
“Sorry, Lieutenant. No more replacements, we’re all sold out.”
“I don’t want replacements-”
“Well, if you don’t like the ones you got, sorry, can’t do anything about that either. Those ASTP kids are wet behind the ears, but we gotta take what we can get.”
“No, no, listen. I need to talk to Major Arnold. Colonel Schleck said he was AWOL?”
“Lieutenant, you got a complaint about the guys in your platoon, lodge it with me. It’s better than bothering the officers. What’s the beef?”
“No beef, Corporal. It’s a murder investigation.”
“This war’s murder. You mean the guy with the cards? Thought that kinda died down, so to speak.” He laughed at his own joke.
“Corporal,” Kaz said, in a low and even voice. “Tell us where Major Arnold is or the killer may start working the deck in the other direction. An eight of hearts would do quite nicely for you.”
“I’ve heard guys say they’d kill for my job, but no one ever threatened me outright,” he said, and again laughed at his little joke. We didn’t. “Okay, okay. This morning we got the last truckload of replacements in, right off the boat, twenty ASTP kids to farm out. The colonel was eager to leave, so he told Major Arnold to handle it. He tells me to pull the list of platoons still short on guys. Problem is, there’s been trouble in some squads. The ASTP guys hang together, the noncoms resent them since they come out of college and the officer program, you know how it is. It ain’t easy keeping everyone happy.”
“Does this story lead to Major Arnold anytime soon?”
“Yeah. So the major wants to place these kids one per squad, figuring they’ll fit in better if they have to buddy up with a non-ASTP guy. See?”
“Sure,” I said, not really caring about the psychology of replacement handling.
“So he takes my lists, and has the driver take him to the bivouac area, and doles out the kids, one per squad, where they’re needed most. Takes him an hour or so, then he comes back here. Tells me he’s going to his tent to square away his gear, and I ain’t seen him since.”
“Why did Schleck say he was AWOL? He told me I could shoot him if I found him.”
“The colonel sent for him, sent runners everywhere. To his quarters, back to the bivouac area, but nobody could find him. Colonel Schleck is a man of little patience.”
“Did he have much patience for Max Galante?”
“At first, he tolerated him ’cause he was a good doctor and he worked right up front. But when he started pestering the colonel about nervous exhaustion or whatever, that did it. Colonel Schleck does not believe in it, therefore it doesn’t exist, so Galante got his walking papers.”
“What was Major Arnold’s opinion of Galante?”
“His opinion was that his immediate superior is correct in all things. Makes it easier to get through the day around here. Which reminds me, I got to get everything packed and shipped to Naples. Anything else I can do for you?”
“Where is Major Arnold?” I asked, one hand on his shoulder in a fatherly gesture, the other hand on the butt of my. 45 automatic.
“Honest, I don’t know, Lieutenant. He should have been back long ago.”
“Is there something about the major you’re not telling us?” Kaz asked. “Some place he might go? A woman, perhaps?”
“No, he wouldn’t disappear for a dame. The only thing I can think of is that he’s a real souvenir hound. He’s always trading with the dogfaces. Nazi knives, pistols, flags, all that junk. He’s a teetotaler, so he has his officer’s liquor ration to swap with. The boys love that.”
“So he’s off hunting souvenirs?”
“No need to, the guys come to him. But he might be packing them up and shipping them home. Check the field post office. It’s a busy place, he might have gotten held up.”
“You didn’t mention this possibility to Colonel Schleck?”
“The major and I get along. I’m no snitch.”
“Okay, just tell me this. Who might get a pass today to go into Acerra? Or have business there?”
“All passes were cancelled last night, and I don’t know of any official reason for anyone under the rank of general to go to Acerra. That’s AMGOT territory. We got guys going to Caserta all the time, but that’s usually for headquarters errands. No one minds a quick stop once business is taken care of, since it’s so close, but for Acerra you’d need a pass, and there ain’t none.”
The corporal gave us a description of Major Arnold and we headed to the field post office, looking for a short, wiry officer with curly brown hair and parcels tucked under each arm. He wasn’t there, and no one remembered him coming in. We decided to check his tent, and if we didn’t find him there we’d move on. Where to, exactly, I wasn’t sure.
Officers’ tents were pitched in a field behind headquarters. It was high ground, free of mud, a good deal for guys who didn’t rate a real roof over their heads. There were four rows, each marked with the occupant’s names and a wood-slat walkway.
I opened the flap and called the major’s name, but no one was home. He kept the place neat, his cot made, books and papers stacked on a small folding table. His gear was all there. Footlocker, carbine, field pack. The insert tray from the footlocker was on the cot, shirts precisely folded. In one corner sat two wooden boxes, a hammer and nails and a roll of twine perched on top of them.
“Souvenirs?” Kaz asked, testing one of the lids. It came up, and revealed Nazi daggers, belt buckles, a black SS officer’s cap, iron crosses, and other medals.
“Check the other,” I said, studying the rest of the area. There had to be some clue as to where Arnold was. It looked like he had stepped out in the midst of packing and never returned.
“It says fragile,” Kaz said. Arnold had marked the contents as china. Kaz opened it, and there were four plates, wrapped in newspaper. Beneath them was a Nazi flag, the black swastika on a field of blood red. “What’s this?” He unfolded the flag and a Walther P38 pistol fell out.
“Major Arnold could get himself in trouble. It’s against regulations to mail weapons home.”
“There are two magazines as well,” Kaz said. “But at least the pistol isn’t loaded.”
“He was probably banking on the post office being too busy to ask questions, with everyone pulling out. I don’t even know how much attention they pay anyway. I heard a story about a sergeant shipping a jeep home, one part at a time.”
“Impressive,” Kaz said. “Should we look further for the major, or is this a dead end?”
A dead end. A missing major. I looked again at the footlocker, and pushed it with my boot. It was heavy, and I had that real bad feeling again. I’d been sidetracked by the fire, and hadn’t thought about the next victim since then. There was a padlock in the latch.
“Why is this locked, if he hadn’t finished packing?” The tray, its compartments filled with shirts, sat on the cot.
“Perhaps he has his valuables inside?” Kaz sounded hopeful, but it was that false hope, the hope you feel when you go for an inside straight. Brief, insubstantial, useless. I took the dagger from Arnold’s souvenir box and began working the latch. The footlocker was plywood, not built to withstand a steel blade. I dug around the top latch, loosening the screws until I could pull the latch free. I hoped that all I’d end up with was a chewing out from a superior officer for destroying his footlocker, but that was inside-straight thinking. I lifted the top, and the only card I saw was the queen of hearts, stuck between the dead fingers of Major Matthew Arnold.
He was short, which was a good thing. He was on his side, knees to his chest, hands up to his face, as if at prayer. The card stuck out from between two fingers, the red heart at odds with the pale face of the dead major.
“Strangled,” I said. “Strangled and stuffed in a box. Why?” His neck was bruised and the blood vessels in his eyes had burst.
“It had to be a major,” Kaz said. “The odds were it would be one from the Third Division, since the first two victims had been.”
“No, I mean why stuffed in a box? The killer didn’t hide either of the first two bodies. Galante was tucked against a wall, but he was in plain sight. Why hide the third victim? It’s not the same pattern.”
“To delay his being discovered?”
“Has to be. In order to give the killer time to get away. Which means he was seen by someone, and he needed to put time between that and the discovery of the body.”
“We should go back to division headquarters,” Kaz said. “Report and contact CID.”
“Not yet,” I said, shutting the footlocker. “Let’s go.”
“It’s more important that we find out where the GIs in Landry’s platoon have been today,” I said as I gunned the jeep down the muddy road to the bivouac area. “It all started with him and it has to go back to him. Galante, Cole, Inzerillo, they all connect to Landry and his men. If we reported the body now, we’d be tied up for hours with CID and filling out reports. We’ll go back as soon as we talk to Sergeant Gates and get an accounting of where his men have been.”
“I suppose Major Arnold is in no hurry,” Kaz said. Traffic was light, and I was glad we hadn’t stumbled straight into the entire Third Division pulling out. I turned into the churned-up, muddy field and drove to the same small rise I had before, claiming what dry ground I could. Before us was the bivouac, rows of olive-drab tents of all sizes, with vehicles loading and unloading supplies around the perimeter, just as before. But there was something different.
“Those are British trucks,” I said. The men unloading them were British. Not a Yank in sight. As we drew closer, I noticed a pile of white-painted signs at the end of each row of tents. Signs for units of the 3rd Division, no longer needed.
“Has the Third Division pulled out?” I asked a British sergeant leading a work detail of Italian civilians. Brooms, shovels, garbage cans, wheelbarrows. I guess more than ten thousand GIs can leave a fair-sized mess.
“Whoever the Yanks were, they’ve gone,” he said. “Got to clean up for our lot to move in tomorrow. Can I help you, Lieutenant?”
“No,” I said. “I doubt it.”
I walked along the perimeter until I saw the signpost, lying on the muddy ground. 2nd Battalion, Easy Company. Soon I found the tent where the poker game had been in session. Third Platoon territory. Everything was cleared out, nothing but folded cots and the debris of a departing unit. Empty wine bottles, mostly. Crumpled paper, odds and ends that men had accumulated when in camp but tossed out as unnecessary when they were on the move, back to the sharp end.
Garbage cans had been placed along the wooden walkway, but not enough to handle the last-minute discards. The one in front of the poker tent was overflowing with bottles, broken crates, and other indefinable rubbish. On top was a single tan leather glove, holes worn through the fingertips, the kind the wire crews had been wearing when I first came here.
“This is what he wore,” I said to Kaz. “Leather gloves. A new pair would give enough protection.”
“You mean whoever beat Inzerillo?”
“Yeah. I wanted to check the knuckles to see who’d been using their fists. But leather work gloves would do the trick.” I tossed the glove back on the pile, and wondered if that new pair, complete with bloodstains, might be at the bottom of the can. It would prove the connection I was certain of, so I tipped the can over, glad that the British sergeant and his work crew weren’t in sight.
I moved stuff around with my boot, but didn’t see another glove, bloodstained or not. Out of the corner of my eye, I did catch something red poking out of the mess. It looked familiar, as if I ought to know what it was.
“What is it, Billy?” As soon as Kaz spoke, I knew exactly what it was. A rag doll in a red dress.