Kaz 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.
Kaz 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.”
We sat in two armchairs in the lobby, away from the flow of officers, staff, police, and guests. Scutt leaned forward and beckoned me closer. “You know of the Special Branch?”
“Yes. Started off as the Irish Special Branch, right?”
“It did, back when the Fenians were setting off bombs in London, in the 1880s, as if that might scare the Crown out of Ireland. Today, Special Branch specializes in intelligence gathering, foreign nationals, and coordinating with MI5 in particular. I called them after I got here and saw it was this Miller chap.”
“Why?”
“Oh, a policeman’s hunch. I’ve been doing this for decades, and I’ve got a sense for when things don’t smell right. This didn’t. With you nosing around, and after last night, it was just too much of a coincidence.”
“What did Special Branch say?”
“I think you may know most of it, but as a professional courtesy, I won’t put you on the spot. Edward Miller was not only a paid informer for the Soviets, but a member of the Communist Party. Had been, for the past six years.”
“You didn’t know that?”
“Not the bit about him being a card-carrying Bolshevik. I just learned that this morning. Now I’m telling you, because it points to your friend Lieutenant Kazimierz.”
“Why, because he got steamed at Sidorov last night? You think he decided to murder the first Red he saw the next morning?”
“From all the talk of the Katyn Forest Massacre in the newspapers, I’d say he’d have had plenty of reason even before this morning.”
“So would any Polish officer in this building. And listen, Kaz and Captain Radecki were paying Eddie to feed bad information to the Russians. Why would they kill him?” As I said that, I remembered what Radecki had said to Eddie. If you perform well, we will pay you. If not, we will kill you.
“Revenge, betrayal, there are many reasons for murder, all of them base. Come with me, I have something to show you,” Scutt said, rising with a groan, slowly straightening his back. “I tell you, I can’t wait for this war to be over, if only to get on with my retirement.”
We entered what until the day before had been Kaz’s office on the floor where the Polish Government in Exile was housed. A uniformed constable stood by Kaz’s desk, as Major Stefan Horak approached Scutt, clearly agitated.
“I cannot believe this, Inspector. There must be some mistake,” Horak said.
“What’s going on?” I asked. Neither met my eyes.
“Look here, Lieutenant Boyle,” Scutt said, taking control of the situation. “We searched Kazimierz’s desk. He’d cleaned most everything out, but see what we found in the bottom drawer.” He opened it and used his pen to push aside a few scraps of paper and an empty file. There, at the bottom, was a single bullet. A. 32-caliber bullet, with fresh marks on the jacket nose where someone had filed an X, creating a homemade dumdum bullet.
“It appears Lieutenant Kazimierz forgot something,” Scutt said.
“It only appears that someone placed this bullet in this drawer,” I said. “He cleared everything out yesterday, didn’t he? A dozen people could have put it there. Any rookie could tell you that.”
“Perhaps,” Scutt admitted. “We may learn something if there are any fingerprints on it, or on the bayonet.”
“I must protest, Inspector,” Major Horak said. “This is an open area; the desks are not guarded. Who knows who placed the bullet there?”
“True enough,” Scutt said. “But why would anyone? Who here would want to frame Lieutenant Kazimierz for murder?”
“No one, of course,” Horak said, and then stopped as the logic sunk in. If it wasn’t a frame-up, then it was Kaz’s bullet.
“When was he here last?” Scutt said.
“Yesterday,” Horak said. “He came in midday to finish some paperwork, then he and Captain Radecki lunched downstairs. He came up to say good-bye to the staff, and departed.”
“Then he couldn’t have left the note for Eddie. It was found this morning.”
“The staff changes their clothes here. Eddie was working the early shift this week. Eddie would be certain to find it this morning, as it appears he did. Lieutenant Kazimierz could have easily placed it in his pocket before he left yesterday.”
“Have you questioned Sheila, on the hotel staff? She and Eddie seemed close.”
“Sheila Carlson,” Scutt said, consulting his notebook. “Today is her day off. We’ll get to her soon enough. We’re short staffed, with men rounding up more Germans each night. Nabbed half a dozen down in Croydon before dawn this morning.” He sighed and pocketed his notebook, his heavy eyelids showing his exhaustion.
“Major Horak,” I said. “Do you store weapons here?”
“No, only the sidearms we carry. The guards bring their weapons from the barracks.”
“No rifles, no bayonets?”
“No. But come with me.” Horak led us down the hall, to another, larger office, with Radecki’s name on the door. It was spacious, by army standards. There was a table, and behind it a bookshelf held volumes in English and Polish. Framed pictures were arranged around a battered green helmet. “It’s gone,” Horak said.
“What is?”
“Valerian’s bayonet. He is very proud of it, and the helmet. He was stationed with our border troops in the east and fought against the Russians. He escaped after all was lost, and is proud he never surrendered his weapons. They wouldn’t let him travel through Romania with his rifle, but he did keep everything else. The bayonet has always been right here, with his helmet.”
“Well, it found its way into Eddie Miller’s chest,” Scutt said, showing little care for Radecki’s wartime exploits. “Where is this fellow now?”
“He is visiting Station Number Eight,” Horak said, his discomfort visible as he looked away and spoke in a strangled whisper.
“What in blazes is Station Number Eight?” Scutt said, his anger rising. “And tell me where it is, for that matter!”
“I am afraid I can’t, Inspector,” Horak said. “I have my orders, which come in part from your own government. I can tell you Captain Radecki is on an assignment and I expect him back within the week.”
“Is he here in London?”
“He has not left England. More than that, I simply am not allowed to say.”
“You get in touch with him, and tell him Scotland Yard wants a word,” Scutt said, and left the room, muttering loudly enough to be heard. “Not left England! Who the bloody hell has?”
“The inspector is not a happy man,” Horak said.
“His feet hurt,” I said. “Occupational hazard for policemen. Did Radecki and Kaz often lunch together? I didn’t get the impression they were all that friendly.”
“Lieutenant Kazimierz, you mean? It seems you Americans must shorten every name with more than two syllables. I’m sorry,” he said, waving his hand as if to erase what he’d said. “No, they weren’t especially friendly. They differed over the treatment of Tadeusz Tucholski, the young man you met.”
“How so?”
“Captain Radecki pushed Tadeusz hard. He said it would be best for him to get everything out in the open. Lieutenant Kazimierz said Tadeusz needed time, and comforting.”
“What did you think?”
“I think we have very little time. But we needed to strike a balance, and I fear Captain Radecki was too adamant and caused Tadeusz to retreat into himself. I had to agree when Lieutenant Kazimierz suggested a break. We’ve used the facility at St. Albans before. It’s a sanatorium, run by the military, very secure. They specialize in treating shell shock. We hope it will help, but one never knows.”
“What was it exactly that led you to decide to place him in a sanatorium?” I picked up the helmet displayed on Radecki’s shelves. It was heavy, the brim a bit wider than ours. I put it back, staring at the shelves. I had no idea what I was looking for.
“Tadeusz slept more than usual,” Horak said, tapping a Wills Four Aces cigarette down on the yellow tin case before lighting it. “He always slept after telling his story, but it began to happen more and more. Even when he was awake, he was lethargic in the extreme. You heard his last coherent words, Lieutenant Boyle.”
“It must have been hard for him, reliving it on demand.” I walked in back of Radecki’s table, wondering what he and Kaz had talked about at lunch yesterday.
“Too hard, apparently,” Horak said, blowing smoke up to the ceiling. “If you don’t mind my asking, why does it matter to you?”
“I don’t like the idea of Scutt considering Kaz as a suspect.”
“Then you won’t like what I am about to tell you. Captain Radecki spoke with your friend in this office before they went to lunch. I came in to say good-bye to Lieutenant Kazimierz, and saw Radecki showing him his souvenirs. The lieutenant was handling the bayonet, feeling the heft of it.”
“So Kaz’s fingerprints will be all over it.”
“Unfortunately so,” Horak said. “Unless the killer wiped them away, along with his own.”
“He probably wore gloves. It’s cold enough outside to not be noticed. What worries me is that it had to be someone who wouldn’t have looked out of place in your offices, or elsewhere in the hotel. He had to have typed that note and left it for Eddie yesterday, and then taken the bayonet, either last night or early this morning. When did Radecki leave?”
“Sometime late yesterday afternoon. He was gone when I returned here a little after five o’clock.”
“So the bayonet could have been taken yesterday. You didn’t see it?”
“I only saw that his office was empty.”
“I suppose anyone could walk in there?”
“Once a person gains admittance to this floor, there are really no restrictions. Plus, we have hotel staff coming and going. Waiters, cleaning people, and so on.”
“Eddie, of course. And Sheila Carlson?”
“Yes, she’s been working on this floor for a month or so. Nice young girl.”
“Do you mind if I use the telephone?” I asked, sitting at Radecki’s table. Horak shrugged, ground out his cigarette, and told me to make myself comfortable. I did, and called Norfolk House to ask Harding if he’d send Big Mike over to pick me up and help look for Kaz. I had an idea he might pay a visit to Tadeusz, and that a drive up to St. Albans might turn him up. The switchboard put me on hold and, believing that idle hands are the devil’s workshop, I let them pull open the drawers on Radecki’s desk.
File folders full of papers typed in Polish. Notepads, none of the writing in English. A map of London, a pack of cigarettes, paper clips, a pencil stub. The usual office debris. The last drawer on the right held a first aid kit, along with a small glass bottle labeled TINCTURE OF OPIUM. LAUDANUM. Radecki probably had a spare with him, if his leg hurt as much as it seemed to. The doctor’s name and address were on the label. H. T. Ruskin, Horseferry Street, about a ten-minute walk. Harding came on the line and I shut the drawer. He said Big Mike was available, and that he’d come right over.
I set the receiver down and tried to get my jumbled thoughts in order. Kaz was in trouble, or damn close to it. If I was right about his going to St. Albans, it would give me a chance to warn him of Scutt’s suspicions. Nothing made sense about Eddie Miller’s killing. If Sidorov figured out Eddie had turned on him, the smart money would bet on his playing along. Knowing Eddie was feeding him bad information could point him to the truth, or at least to its neighborhood. As for Kaz and any of the other Poles, Eddie was too valuable alive; there was no percentage in killing him. As for what I was supposed to be investigating, the murder of Gennady Egorov, the only loose thread I had to pull was Topper. He and his father didn’t see eye to eye on his wish to serve king and country, and while I could appreciate the elder Chapman’s desire to keep his offspring alive it also gave me something to exploit. If I could drive them apart, the truth might have a chance to slither out between them. There seemed to be a link between the truck hijackings and Egorov’s murder. Somewhere in all this, there were connections that made sense, connections that would explain everything. I just couldn’t see them yet.
I took the street map of London, figuring Radecki wouldn’t need it while he was at Station Number Eight. I opened it up to see if by chance he’d marked the location with a nice big 8, but no dice. One street in Camberwell, south of the Thames, was marked. Penford Street, number 420. He had made a show of giving Eddie Miller the message that he knew where Eddie lived, reciting the address when he looked through Eddie’s wallet. Was this simply a reminder, or had he planned on making a visit? Probably a reminder, I decided, since he could always talk to Eddie at the hotel. But if he needed to make good on his threat, a home visit would be more intimidating.
I stood, taking in the framed pictures Radecki kept on the shelves behind his desk. Family pictures-Valerian Radecki in civilian clothes with a pretty wife and two young children, the oldest no more than six. It looked like a picnic, blankets spread by a lake, smiling faces drenched in sunlight. Another was of Radecki in uniform, standing with an older man who was probably his father, in front of a small factory.
“All dead,” Horak said. I hadn’t heard him come in, intent on studying photographs of a happier time. “His father was killed when the Germans bombed Warsaw. He owned a steelworks, and was in the building when it took a direct hit.”
“His wife and children?”
“Stuka dive-bombers. They were in a column of refugees, heading out of Warsaw, when the road was bombed and strafed. They and many others were killed.”
“Senseless,” I said, stunned once again at the scale of the losses endured.
“From a strictly military point of view, it is not senseless. Such attacks are designed to deny the enemy freedom of movement. If civilians cannot move, neither can troops. The road is left littered with burning hulks of automobiles and carts. Dead horses, dead civilians. Soldiers must dismount from their vehicles and walk around the carnage, demoralizing and weakening them. Is it not terrible, that we live in a time where such a horrible thing is done with purpose? Personally, I would prefer unthinking evil.”
I didn’t answer Horak. I left, descending the elegant staircase, passing under the crystal chandelier, pulling my coat on, and turning my collar up before I’d even gone outside, wishing I could shield myself from the ghosts and memories haunting the exiled and doomed Poles.