Billy Boyle (30 page)

The feeling didn’t last long. Rolf was already there, sitting alone at a table for four. He waved me over. An orderly brought us a couple of beers.

“
Hei,
Billy. Welcome to Southwold. You should like the food; it’s an American mess. I must admit I’m becoming spoiled by it.” He lifted a bottle of Rheingold, almost covering it in his big hand, and took a long drink, draining half of it. He put the bottle down and looked me in the eye.

“What can I do for you?”

“Tell me about the morning of Knut Birkeland’s murder. What did you see at Beardsley Hall? Anything unusual?”

He shrugged. “No. It was early. It was dark. I went to the king’s rooms at exactly four thirty.…”

“What time did you get up?”

“I had set my alarm for four fifteen. I got up, dressed, and left my room. I didn’t see anyone. It was quiet. The king’s valet had provided a thermos of coffee and some bread and cheese sandwiches. We walked out front to the car and drove away. It was entirely unremarkable.”

I went over it all again, probing for any little thing he may have seen, anything out of the ordinary. I got nothing, except that it was dark and quiet. Not exactly revelations about a country house on the heath at four thirty in the morning.

Daphne and Anders walked in and came over to the table. Rolf stood and made a little fancy continental bow to Daphne. I half stood, then slumped back into my chair.

“Rolf, how good to see you again,” Daphne said.

“And you,” said Rolf. “Please sit and cheer up Billy. I have been unable to help him at all and he seems quite depressed.”

“Still no closer to finding the killer, Billy?” asked Anders as they seated themselves.

“Doesn’t seem so.”

“Are you sure there was a killer? I thought Birkeland left a suicide note,” said Rolf. “Has something else happened?” There was a moment of uneasy silence.

“Rolf,” said Anders, “you had to leave, so you probably don’t know that the key to Birkeland’s locked room was found. In my room.”

“Well, Billy, you seem to have your man!” Rolf lifted his glass in a mock toast to Anders, who raised his hands in surrender. They both laughed and Daphne joined in. It looked like it was going to be a real fun evening. We all ordered another drink, and then my curiosity got the better of me.

“So, Anders, tell us. What’s your big news?”

“What are you up to,
min venn
?” asked Rolf. Anders looked around and leaned in to whisper to us.

“Let me just say that the king has agreed to my plan.” Anders leaned back and smiled. He had wanted to return to Norway and make contact with the Underground Army to evaluate its effectiveness. This plan had represented a middle ground in the argument between Vidar Skak and Knut Birkeland, and it looked like the king was playing it safe.

“Is Vidar angry?” asked Rolf.

“Yes, of course, but he’s pretending to be very friendly. I’m his next best hope if he can’t convince the king. I’m to make an initial report in thirty days.”

“So you’re going soon?” I asked.

“I fly from here to Scotland in the morning.” He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t have to. Scotland was the jumping-off point for commando raids and agent drops to Norway. They went in by fishing boat, submarine, or sometimes airplane. So another suspect was getting out of Dodge before I was done with the investigation. I knew there was a war on, but I still didn’t like it one bit.

“Congratulations. You deserve such an important mission,” said Rolf. “But I’m surprised the king let you go. He seemed intent on keeping you with the brigade.”

“I think he finally decided a report from a trusted source was the most logical way to decide about the underground,” Anders answered. “But I shouldn’t say any more. I’d trust one of the musketeers with my life and I’m sure General Eisenhower’s staff is above suspicion, but my orders are top secret. Please do not repeat anything I’ve said.”

“Or didn’t say,” I added.

“Yes, that also.”

“So,” Rolf said, “to change the subject, where is the baron? The three of you seemed to be a team.” He raised his eyebrow at me, as if asking if I had ditched Kaz to get Daphne alone. Or maybe he just had a twitch. Whatever it was, Daphne must’ve caught it, too, because she spoke up quickly, defending me against the insinuation.

“Oh, Kaz is in London, doing some research. He’s looking into who else might benefit from Mr. Birkeland’s death.”

“Good idea,” Rolf said. “Like who would inherit his business, that sort of thing?”

“Yes,” Daphne answered, “and—”

I jumped in. “It’s just a long shot. He probably won’t have any business left to inherit if the raids keep up.”

“We’re ordered to destroy the fishing plants,
forbann det!
How do you think it feels for Norwegians to ruin their own fishing industry?”

“Whoa, Rolf, hold on,” I said. “I never blamed anyone. It’s Allied policy, that’s all. Don’t get all hot under the collar.”

“It’s bad enough that we have to do it, Billy, but it adds insult to injury that you are investigating the motives of patriotic Norwegians.”

“First, it may turn out that Birkeland wasn’t killed by a Norwegian. Second, if he was, the killer wouldn’t be very patriotic, if he killed the king’s trusted adviser.”

Rolf seemed to calm down. He looked at us a little guiltily. “I understand. I apologize,” he said. “I know you are only doing your duty.”

“As are we all,” Anders said very seriously. He raised his glass. “To duty, wherever it takes us.” We clinked glasses and drank. Dinner came. It was good American food. Roast beef, mashed potatoes, and succotash. But my appetite wasn’t what it should have been. The roast beef sat in a twisted ball in my stomach as I pushed the rest of my food around the plate and looked at Daphne, trying not to be mad at her. It was kind of sweet that she had spoken up for me and real dumb to have let the cat out of the bag.

We talked about the war news for a while. There was a lot of it. We had just sunk some Jap carriers off an island named Midway in the Pacific somewhere. Churchill was in the States for talks with Roosevelt. The Afrika Korps was driving deeper into Libya. Daphne was fairly sure her brother, Thomas, was with the Eighth Army in Egypt but wasn’t certain, and it worried her. That meant her two siblings were in danger. I wondered how she felt, safe here in England. Did she, like Diana, want to tempt fate, too?

After dinner I walked Daphne back to her quarters. She looped her arm around mine and I had a hard time staying mad at her. Since meeting Diana I was beginning to think of Daphne as a kid sister and that made things a lot easier.

“Are we off to Greenchurch tomorrow, Billy?”

“Not we. I am, but I want you to drive back to Beardsley Hall and talk to Harding or Cosgrove. Get them to intervene and have Anders’s orders canceled. I don’t want him leaving the country until we get this thing sorted out.”

“Do you think he’s the killer?”

“I don’t know yet. But now he knows we’re looking into Birkeland’s business, and if there’s any connection it’d be a breeze for him to vanish into the countryside once he gets to Norway. Until he’s in the clear, I want him here.”

“Oh, Billy! I didn’t realize—”

“Don’t worry about it. See if you can get in touch with Kaz, too, and find out what he’s got. I’ll commandeer some transport here and join you at Beardsley Hall after I drop in at Greenchurch.”

“All right. I’m so sorry, Billy. I feel as if I failed you.”

“You didn’t. You’ve done great so far. You just have a few things to learn. You don’t become an ace detective overnight, you know!”

“Billy, you’re a dear!” She kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll see you back at the hall.” She pranced up the stairs to the door of the VIP quarters and waved good night. I waved back and walked off, thinking about what a swell kid she was. It’s funny how silly a crush on somebody can seem after you’ve met the real thing. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and slowly walked over to the officers’ quarters, the setting sun behind me lighting up the sky over the gray sea ahead. I kicked a stone, tried not to think about Diana and the night before, and wondered where she’d be tomorrow.

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

“I
DON
’
T
GIVE
A
RAT
’
S
ASS
about your orders, Lieutenant,” said Captain Gilmore.

The bad mood fit him like a glove. Yesterday I had thought it was just due to the confusion of handing out all that winter gear. Today I found him sitting at his clean desk, drinking coffee, chewing on a cigar, and looking for someone to scowl at. The pile of reports that Sergeant Slater had been working on the day before were all neatly stacked up in his out basket, signed and ready to go up the line. He should’ve been happy, but that probably didn’t come easy for him.

“But they’re from ETO Headquarters, sir.…”

“All I get from HQ are headaches, sonny. If they want to send someone who outranks me up here, I’ll salute and give them anything they want. But I’m not giving a vehicle to some Louie who drove in here in a sports car, I’ll tell you that.”

“But sir—”

“Enough!”

It came out as a growl, wrapped around a wet stogie. I was wondering what to do next when Slater appeared out of nowhere and walked over to the captain’s desk. He pointedly ignored me again and spoke directly to Gilmore.

“Begging your pardon, captain, but this might be a good opportunity to fix that little problem we were talking about.”

Gilmore looked at Slater like he was another fly the captain was going to swat. Then I could almost see the lightbulb go off over his head as he dropped the scowl and nodded his head in agreement.

“Yes, very good, Top. Show the lieutenant to the Brit motor pool while I make the call.”

Since they were talking about me as if I weren’t there, I didn’t see any percentage in asking what was going on. My chances had improved since Slater came into the room, so I picked up my kit and followed him out of the exec’s office. Gilmore was almost cackling with glee as he dialed the phone. At least it made him happy.

“Thanks, Top, I think. What’s this all about?”

“Well, we got two motor pools here, one Brit and one U.S., so we can take care of both types of transport. The motor-pool guys have taken to tinkering with a few vehicles and having races. The latest thing is motorcycles. You ever ride?”

“Sure. My cousin is a motorcycle cop in Boston, where I used to work. I’ve ridden his Harley.”

“That’s what we got here. We being the Yanks. The Brits have a BMW—a sweet thing from before the war, I have to admit. We have a race scheduled for tomorrow. Thing is, our guy crashed the Harley yesterday and they can’t get the spare parts to fix it until after the weekend.”

“And you forfeit the race if you don’t show?”

“That’s the rule.”

“Fair bit of money bet on this one?”

For the first time, he actually looked at me, giving me a practiced once-over to decide if I was a by-the-book or a let-things-slide kind of lieutenant.

“Now, Lieutenant, you know that would be against army regulations.”

The faintest smile passed over his blunt face, then he quickly looked away—no need to waste words on a very junior lieutenant.

“In other words, a bundle.”

“I don’t intend on losing my next paycheck on a no-show. I was waiting for the captain to think of this, but it didn’t look like he was going to, so I jumped in.”

The top kick opened the door and held it for me as we stepped outside. The air smelled damp and clean, a fresh sea breeze drying the dew from the grass as the sun struggled to come out from behind a low cloud layer. Not the worst day for a motorcycle ride.

“Whatever would the army do without sergeants?”

“I ask myself that question every morning, Lieutenant.”

He led the way to the British motor pool. All the walkways were laid out with those whitewashed rocks that seemed to crop up at every army base I’d ever seen. I wondered what they did in Alaska or Greenland.

“Am I going to ruin your racing plans if I don’t bring the BMW back?”

“Oh, you’ll bring it back. It’s British army property, and a couple of hundred commandos, all trained to kill silently, will be looking for you if you don’t. Lieutenant,” he added, as if it was an afterthought.

He led me into a wide garage, not much more than corrugated sheet metal nailed on to a wooden frame. The floor was hard-packed dirt, and the smell of oil and damp soil was oddly pleasing. Several British army vehicles were in various stages of disassembly and repair, and we walked past those to the darkened rear of the building. In a corner next to a workbench neatly stacked with gleaming tools, on a drop cloth and under a hanging light, was a BMW motorcycle, painted British army brown, polished to a high gloss and clean as a whistle. Three men, also in British army brown but not all that clean, stood with their arms folded in front of us.

“Now what’s all this about taking our motorcycle? Just because yours—”

“Hold on, Malcolm,” Slater said. “You know ours is still being worked on. This officer needs transportation and the BMW is the only vehicle not signed out.”