Billy Boyle (29 page)

“I suppose that this thing operates on the same principle, or is this item not too sanitary?” I asked, pointing at a pile of well, shit on the bench as Daphne wrinkled her nose.

“Exactly. The explosive turd, believe it or not. Not the real thing, but filled with plastic explosive and set up with a pressure switch. It’s made to look like horse or cow droppings.”

“So an officer orders some poor slob of a private to clean it up, and boom?” I asked, somewhat dubious about the military value of this thing.

“Well, that’s the general idea. One hopes the officer is nearby, or it’s under a vehicle.”

“Do you bring all this with you on raids, captain?” Daphne asked.

“These items are more for single agents, or the underground. We do use the clams and limpets, as well as this little device, which the SOE agents also like.”

He picked up a short round tube with one end flattened. There was a small switch at the flat end. He handed it carefully to Daphne.

“This is a pressure switch. The tube is filled with plastic explosive. You jam the flat end under a tire, which depresses the switch and activates it. When the vehicle pulls away off the tube, the switch pops up and the tire bomb instantly explodes.”

“Should do a good job of discouraging pursuit,” I offered.

“Exactly. We once placed them at night under the tires of a row of trucks outside a German barracks. Then we went on to hit our target, about two miles away. A few minutes after we began, there was a lovely row of explosions off in the distance as the fuel tanks went up!”

“Delightful,” said Daphne, gingerly putting the tube back down on the bench.

“Oh yes, quite,” the captain said with unabashed enthusiasm.

I could see Carlyle enjoyed all these devices. I couldn’t begrudge the commandos anything that might give them an edge, but there seemed to be a glint in his eye that said he was in it for the thrills as much as for God and country. Maybe that was natural for someone who climbed mountains for fun. Me, I didn’t even like walking up Beacon Hill.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

C
APTAIN
C
ARLYLE
HAD
TO
get back to his patients. He offered to drive us to the headquarters office to wait for Rolf, but we decided to walk. It was a nice day, and we could take the roadway along the beach. I wanted to talk, and I didn’t want to talk about murder suspects and spies with a company clerk listening to us.

A cool breeze blew in from the ocean, or the North Sea it was, I guess. There were puffy white clouds high in the sky, and the sun came in and out as they passed over, sunlight drenching us for a minute until the next cloud rolled by. A couple of Lockheed A-28 Hudsons with RAF markings flew overhead and straight out to sea, their engines snarling as they took off, the sound fading as Daphne watched them disappear toward the horizon.

“Probably hunting U-boats, or watching for surface raiders sneaking out from Wilhelmshaven along the Norwegian coast,” she said.

“Like the
Bismarck
?” I asked.

“Yes. It’s hard to believe how worried we were about one single German ship. Everything seemed to be hanging by a thread in those days.”

“There’s still plenty to worry about.”

“Worrying about Diana is not quite the same thing as worrying about the Nazis marching into Buckingham Palace. That’s something Americans safe across the Atlantic may not understand.”

“Safe across the Atlantic is just where I’d like to be right now. But I’d settle for Diana safe on this side of the channel.”

“Until this war is won, Billy, none of us will have the luxury of such choices. I wonder if even then we can ever relax again, knowing what evil the world is capable of.”

“Daphne, you don’t need a war to learn about evil. Spend a few days with a cop in any city and you’ll get a fair taste of it.”

“But it never touched us before. Now it’s reached out and grabbed all of us. My brother, my sister… I don’t want to lose them, too. Losing Mother was awful enough. I can’t imagine.…” She started to cry and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

I didn’t know how I could tell her everything was going to be OK, so I didn’t.

“I’m sorry, Billy. Let’s talk about something else, all right?”

“OK.” I smiled and gave her hand a squeeze.

“So tell me, Billy, why did you ask Captain Carlyle about Rolf ’s gold coin?”

“Just to see if Rolf ’s story holds up, about someone stealing his little souvenir.”

“You didn’t believe him?”

“I just wanted some verification. Maybe that was the coin that showed up in Knut Birkeland’s room. Maybe it wasn’t.”

“But if Carlyle never saw the coin, and only heard about it after Rolf said it was stolen, then maybe it wasn’t stolen at all.”

“Daphne,” I smiled, “you have the makings of a good cop. Suspicious of everyone. What do you think happened to it?”

“Maybe Rolf gave it to somebody. Maybe he gave it to Knut Birkeland? Perhaps they were in on the theft together.”

“If there really was a theft. We don’t know that either.”

“How do you keep all this straight, Billy? My head’s spinning.”

“Pretty much my permanent condition.”

“But the real question is why would Rolf lie about the coin? I can’t think of a single reason, can you? He seems a decent sort. He certainly cares for his men, insisting on all that medical training.”

That reminded me of something.

“When I got those splinters in my face, back at Beardsley Hall, Jens Iversen patched me up. He said something about its being something any first-year medical student could do.”

“Yes, I think he mentioned that he had been in medical school when the war started. Second year, I think.”

“So two people involved in this had some medical knowledge. Rolf Kayser, through his medical orderly training, and Jens Iversen, after two years of medical school.”

“Yes, I guess so. What does that mean?”

“Probably nothing.”

I did think it might mean something, but it was too soon to tell. I needed a few more connections to pop up before I was sure.

“With all these suspicions, Billy, there’s just one fact for certain: that we found Knut Birkeland’s key in Anders’s room. Of course, that doesn’t mean Anders put it there.”

“You’re learning fast, Daphne. But it also means something else.”

“What?”

“That if someone other than Anders put it there, it was when Anders was out of the room, which he says he wasn’t.”

“Hmmm. Or it was put there by someone who was in the room with Anders, when he wasn’t looking.”

“Which still means he’s lying.”

“Everything seems to go around in a circle! This is so frustrating!”

“Hang in there, kid. Sooner or later we’ll come across something that will put everything in perspective. Then it will all make sense.”

Daphne shook her head in frustration and disbelief that we’d ever figure anything out. We walked in silence up the road to the headquarters building. HQ was the last of three wood-frame structures, each up on cement blocks. The windows were open and somebody had the radio on. “GI Jive” was playing on Armed Forces Radio, and the words floated out as we climbed the four steps to the door.

After you wash and dress

More or less,

You go get your breakfast

In a beautiful little café

They call the mess.

We opened the door, and there was Major Anders Arnesen, feet up on a desk, a cigarette between his lips, his fingers keeping time to the tune.

“There you are, Billy! I’ve been looking all over for you. You know, American music is simply fantastic. Jazz, swing, I love it all.”

“That’s great, Anders. I like it, too. What are you doing here?”

“I can’t say in here,” Anders said, looking around at the clerks at work at the other desks. “But I can tell you more at dinner. Rolf is back from maneuvers and will meet us in that beautiful little café they call the mess after he cleans up.” He stood.

“Miss Seaton, I trust you will join us?”

“Certainly, Major,” Daphne said. “You seem to be in a cheerful mood. It must be good news.”

“I think so. Now, I must make some arrangements. We will meet in the officers’ mess in one hour.” He started toward the door. “Oh, I almost forgot, Billy.” He reached into his uniform jacket pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope. “Major Cosgrove asked me to give you this.”

“What is it?”

“I’m just the messenger, Billy. See you both in an hour.”

He left, whistling the tune to “GI Jive” and snapping his fingers like he didn’t have a care in the world. Daphne and I walked over to a bench set against the wall, under a curtain-less window. I opened the envelope and took out the papers so we could both read what was inside. Cosgrove had come through on his promise to look in to any women working at Beardsley Hall whose husbands were POWs or missing in action. There was only one. Victoria Brey, subaltern with the Auxiliary Territorial Service. Twenty-six years old and her husband served in the RAF, bomber command. He had been listed as missing in action when his bomber went down over the Dutch coast earlier that year. Several parachutes had been seen, but he hadn’t shown up on any POW lists. He could be dead, or he could be in hiding. He probably was long gone, washed out to sea and now forgotten except for a grieving and guilty wife. I thumbed through the sheaf of documents.

“Damn!”

“What is it, Billy?”

“She’s been transferred out of Beardsley Hall. Here’s a copy of her travel orders. Dated two days ago, giving her five days’ leave.”

“Where has she been transferred to?” asked Daphne.

“To the Norwegian Brigade base in Scotland.”

“Why would she be transferred out of Beardsley Hall?”

“Maybe to protect her. Or maybe she’s becoming an embarrassment. As head of security, wouldn’t Jens Iversen have something to say about transfers?”

“Everything,” Daphne answered as she took the papers to look at them. “He’d be the one to authorize any request or initiate the orders. Look here, Billy, she lives in Greenchurch. That’s only two hours north of here.”

“She still has three days’ leave. I hope that she’s spending it at home. We’ll talk to Rolf tonight, then head to Greenchurch in the morning. Between the two of them, maybe we’ll learn something new.”

“Good. Otherwise, this is just a tour of the East Anglia countryside.”

“Thanks for reminding me. Let’s do something useful while we wait for Rolf and square away our quarters for the night.”

I asked one of the company clerks where the HQ company first sergeant was.

“Top is in Captain Gilmore’s office, through there,” he said, indicating the rear hallway with his thumb, which I guess doubled as a salute.

“Top?” Daphne asked.

“Top kick,” I said, “is what we call the first sergeant in a company. Top enlisted man in the company, and usually ready to kick GIs in the ass to motivate them.”

“Let’s hope he can motivate someone out of their quarters so I have a place to sleep. I haven’t seen any female staff here at all.”

I stopped at Gilmore’s door and knocked. The steady sound of slamming typewriter keys echoed off the bare wood walls.

“Top?”

“Whaddya need?”

His back was to us and he was hunched over a small table that held a typewriter and a stack of forms. Smoke drifted up from a cigarette stuck in his mouth. It bobbed up and down as he spoke, scattering ash over the keys.

“Quarters for some visiting officers.”

“We’re not due for any brass.…” He turned, probably figuring it was some private bothering him for no good reason. He saw me, and frowned in irritation. Lieutenants were just a burden to any sergeant worth his salt. Second Louies didn’t have the rank to get anything worthwhile done, and took up a noncoms valuable time. Then he saw Daphne, and stood. I guess lady junior officers were a different story.

“First Sergeant Frank Slater, ma’am. I didn’t know we had a female on base.”

“That’s all right, Top,” Daphne said, obviously enjoying the new slang. “As long as you can find me a room for the night. I’m Second Officer Daphne Seaton, Women’s Royal Naval Service. This is Lieutenant—”

“We have very nice visitors’ quarters, and no one there at the moment. It’s all yours, ma’am.”

She smiled at him, and I saw a face that could freeze enlisted men in their tracks soften like ice cream in August. He crushed his cigarette, grabbed his cap, and brushed by me to offer Daphne his arm.

“May I show you the way?”

“Yes, you may, Sergeant Slater. I assume you have someplace for Lieutenant Boyle?”

“Who?”

Daphne tilted her head toward me.

“Oh, sure. Do you have luggage?”

“Yes, in a little red car right out front.”

As they walked down the hall, Slater yelled to one of the GI clerks. “Hanson, get the lady’s luggage and bring it over to the VIP quarters. Then show this lieutenant to a spare room in the officers’ quarters.”

Again, the thumb hooked over the shoulder. Must be a local custom.

After stashing my gear, I visited the quartermaster, showed him my very authoritative orders, and persuaded him to part with some shirts, socks, and skivvies. He didn’t like issuing supplies to someone not in his table of organization, but that was tough. Orders from ETO HQ countersigned by a representative of the Imperial General Staff were hard to ignore. I washed up, put on a clean shirt, and felt like a million bucks heading over to the officers’ mess.