They’d been on me since I’d left the hotel that morning, Clive explained as we rode the Tube in the direction of Shoreditch.
“You didn’t give us much of a chance, with that big bloke driving you around, stopping at Scotland Yard, then dropping in on MI5. A high-visibility mark, you are,” he said as the train rolled out of the station.
“What about the two detectives who followed me?”
“Not much trouble at all, especially with this fog. Seems like both their rear tires went flat while they had their eyes glued on that door at St. James’s Street. Lucky for us you left on foot. All we had to do was not lose you in this blasted fog. Not good for the lungs, you know, to be out running about in it.”
“Who’s the boss you mentioned? Topper or Archie?”
“There’s only one boss, and best to keep your mouth shut about it for now. It’s just a chat he wants, and no reason for trouble if you follow along like you’re told. Got it?”
One goon had preceded Stanley and Clive as we boarded the train, and another followed us, making sure we had privacy at one end of the car. The odds were against me, and in an enclosed space to boot. It made me very agreeable. “Got it.”
We rode in silence and took the escalator to the surface when we reached Liverpool Street, which meant that it was too early for Archie to have taken up residence underground. They led me through a twisting maze of streets, past dingy, low buildings that looked only marginally better off than the bombed-out ruins facing them. The thick, gray fog reeked of coal smoke from the chimneys on every building. They spewed gritty ash from low-grade, cheap coal. The gutters ran with stinking, greasy water, the runoff of cesspools and burned-out homes. A foghorn sounded from a freighter on the river, only a few blocks away, a low, mournful drone that seemed to come from the wounded city itself.
“Here,” Clive said as he knocked on a door painted a bright red, the thick varnish shiny and garish in this neighborhood of boarded-up windows and ruin. He gave two short raps, waited a beat, then one final thump. The door opened, and a guy whose nose had been broken a few times but who wore a tuxedo well greeted us with a nod. Piano music tinkled idly from a room down the hall, as if a bored but accomplished musician was at the keys. Off the hall, in a sitting room, a fireplace glowed with coals, the warmth as welcome inside as the smoke was noxious in the street. Lush burgundy carpeting graced the hallway, and all the walls were painted a creamy white. It was a welcome contrast to the world outside, tucked away on a small side street in a seldom-traveled part of town. The perfect location for a whorehouse.
The muscle escort peeled off as Stanley and Clive led me down the hall, toward the music. The room was flanked at one end by a grand piano and at the other by a well-stocked bar. Between them sat Archie Chapman, looking comfortable in a leather armchair, as coffee was poured into his china cup by a stunningly beautiful woman in a black negligee. At the piano, a dark-haired woman in a red evening gown played with the keys while she smoked a cigarette in a long holder. Topper sat at the bar, and raised a glass in greeting.
“Peaches, my boy,” Archie shouted. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, and his skin glowed as if he’d just stepped from a bath. It was a different look than his subterranean guise. “Good of you to come. Grand to see you again.”
“Archie, the last time we met, you told me to never set foot in Shoreditch. Why the hoodlum-engraved invitation?”
“Ha! Good one, Peaches. I meant to say never return without a proper invite. Welcome to the Eastcheap Gentleman’s Club. It’s where I come after a night underground. Refreshing.”
“Nothing looks cheap. And where are the gentlemen?”
“Billy,” Topper said from his post at the bar. “Have a seat and take the chip off your shoulder, will you? Don’t let that business with the truck get under your skin.”
“Smart advice that,” Archie said. “We had a good go-round with the truck, me takin’ it and you gettin’ it back. Shows you learn fast, and know how to get what’s yours without burning your bridges. And that you have connections, to get the Shoreditch pubs declared off-limits. Impressive that. So listen to Topper and have some coffee. The real thing. American. Gisele, more coffee, s’il vous plait.”
“ Oui, Archie,” she said with a smile that left her eyes dead.
“I own this establishment, Peaches,” Archie continued, pausing to sip his coffee. “And you might be surprised at how many senior American officers partake of the delights here. Maybe some you know. Plenty of high-class toffs as well, military and politico. We even let in enlisted men one night a week. Supply sergeants get a special rate.”
“So business is good?”
“Very good. We did well before, but since the war, with the Americans flooding in and so much talent coming from the Continent, it’s all we can do to keep the place off the map.”
“The Continent?”
“All of our girls are from Europe, Billy,” Topper said. “When the war started, a lot of refugees came over, and many young girls were looking for work. Your average Englishman who uses our club wants something a bit different. He doesn’t want someone who reminds him of his wife or his maid. One of the odd consequences of the class structure. Continental girls are another species altogether. Frees the stodgy old men up, especially the ones with money.”
“Now, your average American, he doesn’t care. Most of ’em couldn’t tell the difference between a countess and a scrubwoman,” Archie said. “Right, Dalenka?”
“I’ve been both,” the woman at the piano said, not turning her head. “I scrubbed floors for the money when I first came to England, and now I tell them I am a countess for the money. Both I’ve done on my knees, and I tell you, scrubbing floors is much harder. And yes, the Americans are a bit naive. Sometimes it is endearing. Usually it is boring.” She blew smoke toward the ceiling.
“Dalenka is from Czechoslovakia,” Archie said. “She runs the place for me. Very smart, she is. Speaks several languages, and has a head for numbers. She is truly a countess in my book.” Archie looked almost smitten, but I knew it was for show, to bolster the morale of the talent.
Dalenka put her cigarette out, sat silently for a minute, and then began playing with both hands. She sat up straight, her long, arched fingers gliding smoothly over the ivories. Gisele put a tray of coffee down and served me, the vacant smile unwavering. The music rose slowly, building and then fading, joyous at moments, but ending on a downward slide of sorrowful deep notes that lingered in the smoky air. Dalenka’s hands remained poised on the keys where the last notes had been played. Even Archie was silent.
“What was that, Dalenka?” Topper asked in a whisper.
“A requiem by Anton Dvorak. A Czech composer. It was written as a funeral mass for soldiers.” She shut the keyboard cover, swiveled around on the stool, and looked at us as if we were dead men. Without a word, she left the room, putting her arm around Gisele, who was still smiling as tears rolled down her cheeks.
Archie nodded solemnly, acknowledging the unspoken truth that lingered where Dalenka had been. Staring at the open door, he spoke, in hushed tones. A Wounded Deer-leaps highest- I’ve heard the Hunter tell- ‘Tis but the Ecstasy of death- And then the Brake is still!
“Emily Dickinson,” I said, stunned that I’d remembered. I wasn’t much for school, or poetry, for that matter, but the sadness of that poem had stayed with me since I’d heard it in senior English class. The wounded dear, leaping for life, finding death.
“So you’re not a complete philistine, Peaches. Yes, your fellow American, Miss Emily Dickinson. ‘A Wounded Deer Leaps Highest,’ she called it, and she must’ve known about wounds, that poor one.”
“What about Dalenka?”
“She and her lover were involved with the Three Kings,” Topper said. “They were leaders of the Czech Resistance. The Nazis got all of them in 1941. Dalenka and her boyfriend were couriers, carrying everything from explosives to messages from London in and out of Prague. One spring day in 1940, the Gestapo was waiting; someone had betrayed them. The boyfriend was killed in a gunfight, but Dalenka escaped. Lucky for her that he was killed, otherwise they would have made him talk. She had false papers that got her out through Yugoslavia, then on to Portugal and finally here.”
“They all have stories,” Archie said. “Not all of them are heroic, either. But you don’t start off in Nazi-occupied Europe and end up in an East End bordello without a tale worth telling. Or not telling, as the case may be.”
“What story am I here to be told?”
“We both now seem to be looking for Russians, Peaches. Topper told me you want to know who killed that Egorov fellow. Fair enough. It had nothing to do with us. You know about the business with the delivery trucks, you’ve seen the map. Again, you’re smart enough to leave well enough alone there. Tells me you’re focused on the killer, not on farm produce. Right?”
“Right.”
“Just to get it out in the open. We’re not at cross-purposes here. There’s a certain Russian we want to find. Seeing as how you are thick with them, I figured you might be able to point us in the right direction.”
“Does this have anything to do with Osip Nikolaevich Blotski?”
“Who the hell is that?” Archie demanded.
“No one,” Topper said. “A message. One that was apparently not received.”
“Oh, that,” Archie said, scoffing. “Told you, boy, that wouldn’t smoke him out.”
“A Russian from the embassy owes you something, and you can’t find him. You crippled an associate of his, and probably gave him a message to pass on. That didn’t work, and you remembered my questions about Egorov, and thought I might be able to ferret him out?”
“See, Topper, I told you he had half a brain in his head! Yes, Peaches, that’s it in a nutshell. Will you help us?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Well, there’s the other half of that brain. Good for you, Peaches. What do we have for him, Topper?”
“Gisele? Perhaps her and a friend?”
“No thanks, my dance card is full. Who is it you’re looking for?”
“Peaches, we are asking so nicely here. Over coffee, after beautiful music. As we offer you the delights of the flesh. Why be obstinate then? We aren’t going to offer up a name until we have a deal of some sort. A handshake will do, but there has to be something between us, not simply a gift to your curiosity.”
I thought about it, and had to admit I was curious. Who were they after, and for what? I still thought there had to be a connection between Egorov, where he was killed, and the truck hijackings. I also wondered what a Russian from the embassy had that the Chapmans wanted so badly.
“I want a cut,” I said, deciding to see where this took things.
“So do we,” Topper said grimly. I think he meant my throat, not a percentage.
“Deal gone bad?”
“All is not yet lost,” Archie said, with a stern look at his son. “There is a man who we had an arrangement with. We’re not certain if he’s done a runner. We are prepared to provide a finder’s fee if you can assist us in locating him.”
I recalled Scutt telling me that there had been no more truck hijackings recently, and I wondered if it had anything to do with the movement of Russian personnel to Dover. Did Archie think he’d been betrayed when his contact moved out, probably under secret orders? Maybe I could turn this to some benefit.
“I think I may know where he is,” I said. “But I can’t tell you.”
“What do you want?” Archie said, moving out of his chair faster than I thought he could, leaning over me. “More money, or more of the blade? Either will do the job.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t take a message,” I said. “But it’s a military secret. A group of them moved out a couple of days ago, for security reasons. So if your boy hasn’t been in touch, it’s because he can’t get away.”
“How far away, Billy?” Topper asked, taking his father by the arm and moving him back to his chair. “Take it easy, Dad, we’ll work this out.”
“Not far. I’m supposed to go there today, as a matter of fact.”
“Is this on the up-and-up, Peaches? I’d hate to think you’d try to fool an old man.”
“Why would I? There’s no reason for me to make anything up. As you said, we each have our own concerns.”
“There’s that, yes,” Archie said, nodding to himself. “What do you want for your cut?”
“Not money. If I need some help with the Egorov business, I’ll come to you. For a favor, in exchange for the one I’ll do for you.”
“You’ll deliver a message directly to this person for us?” Topper said, clarifying the terms of the deal.
“Yes, but not a lead-pipe message. I’ll talk to him and let you know what he says as soon as I can get back. I’ll probably be able to move more freely than the Russians.” I felt a little twinge of guilt at being a messenger boy for Archie, but I thought it might help before this was over to have him owe me one. And anything I could learn about his operation wouldn’t hurt either.
“All right,” Archie said. He nodded to Topper to shut the door. Topper checked the hallway, then sat next to us. Archie nodded again, and he spoke in a low voice, keeping their secrets close.
“As you know, we’ve had a relationship with someone who provides us with the routes the delivery trucks take going to the Russian Embassy. We’ve had other dealings with him, and came to trust him, as far as that goes in this business. We were in negotiations for another exchange of information for cash. We made a down payment, and before we could complete the transaction, he dropped out of sight. The timing is right from what you just told us.”
“Without betraying any military secrets, Peaches, what can you tell us that will lend a bit more credence to your tale?” Archie broke in, trying for more than I wanted to give.
“It is directly related to military planning, so I can’t say anything else. I should get there tonight if the fog lifts.”
“Go on then,” Archie said to Topper.
“We need to be assured that plans are still set. We have not received the time and place. That’s the message. We’ve done everything on our end; now we need to know. Time and place. He’ll understand.”
“And who is he?”
“Captain Rak Vatutin. Red Army chap.”
The last and only time I’d seen Rak Vatutin, he was serving Kaz and me drinks at the Soviet Embassy. Had he been trying to get Kaz looped, in hopes he would make a fool of himself once he saw the film? There had been something nasty in Vatutin’s look, a glimpse of viciousness behind the diplomatic facade and automatic smile. But that could have been the vodka or simply his nature. I needed to find out more about what Vatutin did at the embassy, and if he’d had access to the delivery routes. And the “time and place”-but for what?
I took the Underground back to Norfolk House, wondering about Harding’s reaction when he saw that, once again, I hadn’t made it to Dover. I’d learned a few things, though. Scotland Yard was still looking for Kaz; MI5 was in the murder business and had contracted with Sheila Carlson to kill Tad, and then turned on her to eliminate loose ends; MI6, represented by Kim Philby, didn’t seem to care very much; and Major Cosgrove had acted suspiciously out of character. Did all this violate his sense of fair play? Maybe.
I’d also learned about the Eastcheap Gentleman’s Club, where Archie had female refugees from all across Europe on offer, and that Archie and Topper had something big planned, and the top-secret move to Dover had sent them into a panic, thinking they’d been betrayed. Now I was the messenger boy, my job to find Rak Vatutin and ask him what was the time and place.
It was finally time to get to Dover. All I had to do was endure Harding’s wrath, find Big Mike, and figure out what to do with Kaz while the heat died down. Then find Vatutin, figure out what the target was, and somewhere along the way find out what Egorov’s death had to do with it all.
The only thing that was guaranteed was how steamed Harding would be, but I came up empty on that one. I found Big Mike at his desk, apologetic at not finding me in Berkeley Square. I told him I’d made my way back OK, filling him in on my bordello detour.
“Sam won’t be back until late this afternoon,” Big Mike said. “He’s up at Bletchley Park, whatever that is. Something hush-hush. But you got someone waiting for you in his office. Cosgrove.”
“Interesting. Where’s Kaz?”
“I stashed him at a pub across from the Rubens. I figured he could watch for Sheila to show herself, if the fog lifts, while I waited for you.”
I filled Big Mike in about Sheila, then opened the door to Harding’s office. Cosgrove stood by the window, hands behind his back. He gave a quick glance in my direction, then brought his gaze back to the green square below.
“I thought we ought to talk, Boyle.”
“Sure, Major,” I said as I took a seat opposite Harding’s desk. It gave me a side view of Cosgrove’s face, the best I could do. “Strange bunch in your office this morning. I got the distinct impression you didn’t see eye to eye.”
“Yes. I thought the hail-fellow-well-met routine would tell you as much.”
“It did. But why bother?”
“We’ve not seen eye to eye, either, Boyle, on several occasions. But I daresay our differences have been more of style. Perhaps belief also, but sincere belief on both our parts.”
“Can’t argue that. But the way you used me in our first encounter, that never set well with me. It was more than a difference in style.”
“Damn it, Boyle, there are pawns in war, and when you first came here, that was how you were best used. And to good effect, I may add. You know what Churchill said, about the best way to protect truth in wartime? To attend her with a bodyguard of lies. You were part of that bodyguard. Sorry if that’s difficult to accept, but there it is.”
“OK, OK, I get it. It doesn’t help to debate the past anyway. Why are you here?”
“Whatever our differences, I wanted you to know that I don’t approve of the actions of the man you know as Mr. Brown. He’s gone much too far. In the past, he’s had a number of successes that have gone to his head and blinded his superiors to the utter ruthlessness of his methods.”
“Did he approve of the plan to kill Tadeusz?”
“Yes. I found out about it too late to put a stop to it. I’m glad to hear it failed and the young man is doing well.”
“Really? Even though your government wants the Katyn Forest Massacre to be blamed on the Germans?”
“Boyle,” Cosgrove said, still unable to look me in the eye, “I will follow the orders of my government. If it is judged that it is in the best interest of Great Britain and the war effort that the deaths of those Poles be laid at the feet of the Germans, I say so be it. History can sort it all out when the war is won. But I will not sanction murder on English soil to improve our chance of success. I came here to tell you something else, though. Brown spoke of Sheila Carlson’s being hit by a truck, you recall?”
“Yes.”
“Apparently he was speaking of a plan, not an actual event. One of the problems with Brown is that he plays fast and loose with the truth, even among colleagues. He had sent one of his men to follow her and do the job.”
“But he didn’t?”
“No. She spotted him and gave him the slip at the first opportunity. Now she’s nowhere to be found. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to work out what that meant in the mix of death, theft, intrigue, and betrayal I was trying to unravel. “There’s something I should tell you, too. Tadeusz is dead. I made up the story about his being alive in hopes it would get back to Sheila, and make her try again.”
“She was successful then?”
“Indirectly.” I told him the story of seeing Tad at St. Albans, and his reaction to hearing about Eddie and Sheila.
“The proverbial straw,” Cosgrove said, shaking his head. “How odd that we both have news about life and death, quite opposite in the telling. I must admit, I would have preferred the original stories to this outcome. Sheila Carlson seems to lack any moral center. Pity about the young Pole, truly.”
“His life was a nightmare. He said he wished he’d been killed with all the others.”
“He actually witnessed it? In Katyn?”
“Yes,” I said. “He told me the whole story. They pulled him out of line when they discovered they hadn’t finished questioning him. About one minute before he would have joined the bodies in the pit.”
“Dear God.”
Silence descended between us. Cosgrove rested his hands on the windowsill, weariness suddenly overcoming him. I waited, listening to the sounds drift up from the street below. Life flowing by, as if all the murders and lies in this war were to be expected and endured as a matter of course.
“There’s something else,” I said.
“What?” Cosgrove said, finally turning to face me.
“Kiril Sidorov knows about Diana Seaton, and her mission.”
“Impossible!”
“He didn’t mention her name, or where she is, but he did say he knew there was a woman I cared about on a mission behind enemy lines. How could he know that?”
“Do you know where she’s gone to?”
“I had Italy figured, probably Rome.”
“She didn’t tell you, did she?”
“No, she got angry when I asked. But I put a few clues together, and Rome seemed like a safe bet. Maybe the Vatican?”
“I shouldn’t comment,” Cosgrove said, in a way that confirmed I’d been right. “But if that were the case, Rome is filled with Communists. She may have come into contact with a cell, but I don’t know why that information would be routed back to London.”
“Would Kim Philby know? He seemed to be in charge of SOE.”
“He is, for Spain and the rest of the Mediterranean. He definitely knows about all missions in the area. Sharp chap, but I wouldn’t come at him directly with a question about a security breach. He’s apt to have you thrown in a military prison while he looks into it. I will ask discreetly.”
“Will you let me know what you find out? About Diana, I mean.”
“Yes, I will. I won’t be able to reveal details, but I can let you know if she’s come to harm.” It was my turn to look away. I’d heard more than I wanted to about Gestapo torture chambers, more than I wanted to believe. “Sorry, Boyle, that was clumsily said. I will tell you what I find.”
“Thank you,” I said, facing Cosgrove. This was difficult for him, I knew. He’d followed orders all his life, with a certainty that he served a good and righteous master. Now his master had upset everything he believed in, everything he counted on, and he found himself conspiring with the likes of me. It took courage and, for the first time, I saw the younger man in him. Or maybe I simply saw him for who he really was, without regard to age, uniform, or belief in the British Empire.
“Save your thanks. I may need them and more before all is said and done.”
“One more thing, Major. Is there any kind of shipment headed for the Soviet Embassy, something more valuable than booze or food?”
“Why do you ask?” Cosgrove narrowed his eyes, studying me, as if I’d come up with a really smart comment. He looked surprised.
“Is that a yes?”
“I can’t answer that question, Boyle, to say yes or no. Either would leave the impression I know of such a thing, one way or the other. But I would like to know what you suspect.”
“Scotland Yard says hijackings are down, so maybe it’s a rumor.”
“ What is just a rumor?” Cosgrove was angry now, and we were back on more comfortable ground.
“Just some loose talk. I’ll let you know if it comes to anything. Have you heard of the Three Kings?”
“I assume you’re not talking about a Christmas pageant, Boyle. If you mean the resistance group from Czechoslovakia, yes, I have. Last of the leaders was taken in 1941. Showed potential, as I recall. No sign from any of the survivors since, if there were any.”
“There is one. She’s here in London. Is that something Philby might be interested in?”
“Smart chap, Boyle; he may indeed. Could you produce this woman?”
“She runs a bordello for Archie Chapman. I know where she is. Producing her might be a bit difficult. She goes by Dalenka.”
“Well, MI6 would have no trouble if it comes to that. Could be a Nazi plant, but that would be useful in its own way. I’m certain Philby will want to know more, and information about Miss Seaton will be a small price to pay in exchange. I’ll see him later tonight, and will be able to speak to him alone.”
“You mean without the mysterious Mr. Brown?”
“Indeed.”
“Do you think he had anything to do with the killing of Egorov?” I asked, as I opened the office door for him. He put his weight on his cane, and frowned.
“Brown? No, I don’t. Egorov’s name never came up, and as you’ve seen, he is a bit of a braggart. I think if he had, he would’ve said something about it. I expect you’ll solve that mystery, Boyle. You seem to have talent in that direction. Be certain to tell me anything you learn about threats concerning shipments to the Soviets. Good day.”
I watched his rolling, limping gait as he left through the outer office. I’d had some strange conversations with the man, but this was the first one that had ended on a friendly note, which made it the oddest of them all.
“Let’s get to that pub,” I said to Big Mike.
“You’re the boss, Billy.”
A five-minute drive took half an hour in the thick fog. Vehicles hugged the curb to stay on their side of the road, and the late afternoon looked more like dusk. The only good thing was that the Germans wouldn’t be sending over bombers in this weather.
“Sheila Carlson could have walked in and out of the Rubens ten times,” Kaz said from his seat next to a window at the Bag O’Nails Pub.
“She probably won’t show herself in London,” I said, explaining that Mr. Brown had ordered her killed, and how she’d slipped away.
“There’s a man who doesn’t like loose ends, and a woman who is very careful,” Kaz said. “What do we do now?”
“Let’s eat,” Big Mike said. “It’s early, but we have a long drive ahead of us.”
“We can’t get to Dover in this soup,” I said.
“We should’ve left earlier, before it got this bad. Sam won’t like it that we hung around here and got stuck. So we’re leaving, after we eat.”
“OK,” I said, giving in to the lowest ranker at the table. No reason to argue with a corporal who has generals and colonels for pals and who could lift me three feet off the floor. Big Mike and I ordered ale, while Kaz stayed with Scotch. I really wanted vodka, God help me, but I resisted the hard stuff. Before long I was tucking into a plate of fish and chips. Kaz had chicken and turnips, while Big Mike indulged his taste for odd English dishes.
“Steak and kidney pie?” I said. “I didn’t know they still served that in the twentieth century.”
“It’s good,” Big Mike said. “Beefsteak, nice fluffy pastry, and the kidney tastes like liver. Sort of.” He chewed a bit, and took a long swallow of ale.
“What have you been up to, Billy?” Kaz asked, after we were through eating.
“I found out Scutt is very interested in talking to you, which I think means throwing you in a cell on suspicion of murder. Apparently a Russian named Osip Nikolaevich Blotski was beat with a lead pipe last night, and nearly killed.”
“Inspector Scutt thinks I am hunting Russians one by one, on the streets of London?”
“I’d say he’s seeking a motive, and you’ve got the best claim to one, after that scene at the opera. Things got stranger after that. I went to see Cosgrove, to confront him about Sheila Carlson and watch his reaction. Who do I find him with but none other than a Mr. Brown. They had a meeting with a guy from MI6, Kim Philby.”
“Then Mr. Brown must be more than an errand boy,” Kaz said. “Cosgrove and Philby move in the higher ranks of intelligence circles.”
“I got the distinct notion that Cosgrove was the junior of the three, and that he and Brown were on the outs. Brown as much as boasted he’d had Sheila killed, to keep her quiet.” I described my visit to the Eastcheap Gentleman’s Club, the message I was supposed to carry to Rak Vatutin, and the surprise visit from Cosgrove.
“So now we know who among the Russians was tipping off the Chapman gang,” Kaz said. “And that you are aiding and abetting them in hijacking farm produce. That doesn’t help clear me of suspicion, or help you solve the case.”
“It might be more than produce or vodka this time. When I mentioned it to Cosgrove he nearly blew a fuse.”
“What else could it be?” Kaz said. “Weapons? Drugs?”
“We’re missing something,” Big Mike said, setting down his empty glass.
“Obviously,” I said.
“I mean about Sheila. We figured she killed Eddie for the cash, right? But Scutt was right, that she could’ve taken that anytime. So there had to be another reason.”
“There could be many reasons,” Kaz said. “A lover’s quarrel, a falling-out among thieves.”
“No, we gotta look at it with this new information: Brown wanted her dead, and she got away.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, not seeing where Big Mike was going with this.
“OK,” he said, holding up one finger. “Let’s say she has no clue Brown is going to have her done in. She makes the cake, gives it to Radecki, and then figures it’s a big payday. Eddie’s at work. She could take off with their nest egg, and then get whatever Brown promised her once the job was done. Why kill Eddie?”
“Maybe he found out about the poisoned cake,” I said. “Or who was paying her to do it.”
“No, he was at work. She baked two cakes, and brought him a piece of one, which he ate. He couldn’t have known about her taking off with their money.” Big Mike held up a second finger. “Now let’s figure she knew Brown was going to double-cross her. Same question applies. Why kill Eddie?”
“It doesn’t help to repeat that we don’t know why,” Kaz said.
“No, that’s not what he’s saying,” I broke in, watching Big Mike nod his head in approval as I caught up to him. “We’re stuck in a rut thinking it had something to do with MI5 or Tad. It doesn’t. There’s another reason entirely. Eddie had to know something that truly threatened her. Working for MI5 is its own protection; if she had faith in Brown, she would have felt safe. Or, if she knew Brown was going to have her killed, that threat would have been her top priority.”
“I see,” Kaz said. “You’re saying she murdered Eddie for a third reason, external to the case. And that perhaps she didn’t know Brown had ordered her death. Perhaps she slipped away for that third reason.”
“I knew you guys would get it sooner or later,” Big Mike said. “Being officers, you were bound to. How about you buy the next round?”
“Aren’t you driving us to Dover tonight?”
“In this pea soup? No way. I’ll sleep on the couch in your fancy hotel, and we’ll leave at first light. Sam will never know.”
“You’re the boss, Big Mike.”
After the next round, we decided to detour back to Eddie’s place, figuring that we might have missed something the first time. Scotland Yard would have tossed the place by now, but maybe they were looking at things the way we had: that everything Sheila did was about her work for Brown and MI5. Even after a few drinks, three pairs of eyes might see something new. The fog was lifting, but navigating in the blackout made for a slow trip across the Thames and through the twisting side streets of Camberwell. A railroad bridge crossed the main thoroughfare, where a large antiaircraft gun lifted its steel nose into the foggy night. I could see the faint red glow of two cigarettes where the crew leaned against the railing, relaxing under the dark gray cover. Were they bored, I wondered, when the lonely quiet hours stretched out before them? Did they prefer the excitement, tinged with a chance of death, which a raid brought? As we drove under the bridge, one of them flipped his butt out into the night, the fiery sparks arcing into darkness. Odd, I thought, the choices that war presents us. The slow passage of time, or the thrill of dancing with death. Everyone wanted to live, but when the minutes and seconds crawled into the small hours of the morning, the speed and decisiveness of combat had an allure that it lacked in the daylight.
We found Penford Street and Eddie’s place. The front door was locked tight, but the back door gave way easily after Big Mike worked his knife blade into the latch and put his weight behind it.
“Back doors are always easier,” Big Mike said, as Kaz flipped on the light switch in the rear hallway. “Now, what exactly are we looking for?”
“Nothing,” I said, walking into the kitchen and turning on the overhead light. “Don’t look for anything. Look at what’s here.”
“Billy, perhaps my English is not up to the distinction,” Kaz said. “What are you talking about?”
“The biggest mistake you can make in a search is to expect to find something that shouldn’t be there. It can blind you to common objects that might mean something. Since we don’t know what we’re looking for, don’t look too hard. Just look at what’s here.” I could almost hear my dad drumming that into my head, over and over again, back when he used to pull me in as a uniform to help at a crime scene. The overtime was nice, but what he was really doing was teaching me an advanced course in homicide investigation. The problem was, I thought I already knew it all, and his lectures left me bored. Now it seemed to be such a simple, obvious truth, to not look for anything when you were looking for something.
“This kitchen is a mess,” Kaz said, keeping his opinion about the Boyle wisdom to himself.
“Pretty much like we left it,” Big Mike said. “Looks like the Scotland Yard boys pulled out a few drawers and fished around, that’s about it.” He was right. The cut-up oleander was dried out, and flies buzzed around the spilled sugar. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, and cooking utensils were scattered over the counter.
“There is a third reason,” I said. “Sheila was never coming back to this place.”
“Just because she’s a lousy housekeeper?” Big Mike said. “I’ve seen plenty places worse than this dump.”
“No. Because she left the evidence out where we could find it. The cut-up oleander. She didn’t even try to hide it, or clean up the sugar. When’s the last time you saw a Londoner waste sugar like that? I don’t think she cared what anyone found here, which may also mean she’s assumed another identity. Or had assumed one as Sheila Carlson. If we ever find her, I bet she’ll be using another name.”
“Yes,” Kaz said. “It makes sense. The rest of the kitchen is neat and orderly. The disarray is all from her baking, and what looks like morning tea.” He opened cupboards, revealing stacked dishes and cups, nothing fancy, but well kept. We went through the rest of the house, following the cursory search that Scutt’s men had done. We checked pockets in the clothing that hung in the closet, looked on the underside of a chest of drawers, pulled records out of their jackets, leafed through books and magazines. Nothing. I sat at a desk, glancing at unpaid bills, advertisements, and an empty appointment calendar, the past and future now useless to Eddie Miller.
“Anything in the bathroom?” I asked Kaz as I wandered through the bedroom again.
“Men’s toiletries. A few patent medicines.”
“Sheila’s stuff cleared out?”
“There is a bottle of cologne, nearly empty, but not much else.” I looked around the bedroom. A small vanity was set between two narrow windows, hairbrushes and cosmetics lined up by the mirror.
“I think she hightailed it out of here with the cash and whatever she put in her purse,” Big Mike said.
“Yeah, looks like. Is there anyplace we haven’t searched?”
“We’ve covered every inch of this place,” Big Mike said.
“Except,” said Kaz, “for one thing. The dustbin. It was by the back door.”
We hauled the garbage can into the back hall, and dumped the contents out onto newspapers spread on the floor. It didn’t look or smell pretty. They’d dined on fish and chips not too long ago-Eddie’s last supper maybe? The cut end of the small cake she’d fed to Eddie. Damp tea leaves, moldy crusts of bread, a broken glass, crumpled newspaper, and various indistinguishable globs made up the rest. With rationing, not much in England went into the dustbin.
“What’s this?” Big Mike said, holding out a small stained and wet piece of paper. It was dark green, and looked as if it had been ripped in half. A number was at the top and bottom. It was hard to read, but the printed words said Railway, along with some smudged ink stains that had once been handwriting. I ran my fingers through the garbage again, thinking how often I heard that a detective’s life must be glamorous.
“Here!” Kaz said, shaking out the newspapers. He held the other half, this one dry and intact. Southern Railway. Ticket number 4882. London to Shepherdswell, via Canterbury. Third class, round-trip.
“Who went to Shepherdswell, wherever the hell that is?” Big Mike said. “Eddie or Sheila?”
“Impossible to say, but the Southern Railway goes to the channel coast. Canterbury is southeast of here, so it should be a simple matter to find Shepherdswell along the line,” Kaz said. “We could ask around. If it’s a small town, someone may have noticed one of them.”
“That’s on the way to Dover, isn’t it?” I said.
“Ah, the ever-elusive Dover. Yes, it is.”