“That I am, Yank. Not this first siding, but the next. Go on in and straight to the back. He’s all set up like it’s ’is own ’ouse. Don’t mention we told ya, all right?”
“OK, kid, I won’t. Wouldn’t Archie like that?”
“Mr. Chapman don’t like surprises,” he said, and then they were off, vanishing into the crowd on the platform. I entered the second siding, which was as wide as the main chamber, with curved walls and an even floor: no rails or platform in this unfinished tunnel. Unlike the pandemonium outside, it was orderly, with people making themselves at home in their assigned bunks. Metal cots hung from the walls, with another row set up on the floor, leaving a narrow corridor leading to the end. These were the folks who’d come back every night to keep their places in the shelter, and most had a look of self-satisfaction about them. They’d probably been laughed at by their neighbors, but now that the Luftwaffe had returned, they all had who’s-laughing-now smiles on their faces.
Near the end of the tunnel, a blanket hung on a line strung from wall to wall. In front of the blanket, a big guy in a brown leather jacket sat in an easy chair, reading a newspaper.
“End of the line for you, mate,” he said, without looking up from his paper. “No visitors, this is a private area.”
“I’m here to see Archie Chapman,” I said.
“Mr. Chapman ain’t receiving visitors. Beat it.” He’d given me a quick glance, then back to his newspaper. His nose had been broken a couple of times, and his hands were thick, the knuckles swollen where he’d injured his tendons.
“You a boxer?” I asked.
“Used to be. Fought in the middleweight division for a while, but things didn’t go my way. Now be a good Yank and turn yerself around.” He turned the page of the newspaper. It was the Dispatch, and I wondered if he was one of Chapman’s thugs who had slit that poor fellow’s throat on Fleet Street. His boxer’s knuckles didn’t come from fighting in a match with boxing gloves. The swollen, ropy tendons were from repeated applications of bare knuckles to flesh and bone.
“Tell Mr. Chapman I’m here to see him about the dead Russian.”
“Look, mate,” he said, wearily folding his paper and getting up, “best for you to move along ’fore things get out of hand, know what I mean?” He wasn’t as large as Big Mike, but he was bigger than me, and his arms strained against the leather as he folded them across his chest. I was trying to think of a snappy answer that wouldn’t earn me a right hook when a figure stepped from behind the blanket.
“There are many thousands of dead Russians, so I understand. Which one exactly do you wish to talk to Mr. Chapman about?” This guy was tall and thin, dressed in a black overcoat, a black silk scarf at his neck. His dark hair was slightly receding and combed straight back, making his widow’s peak a black arrow pointing between his eyes. His pronunciation was precise and proper, traces of the East End gone from his voice but not his eyes. Topper, maybe?
“The one found outside this shelter, last week, with a bullet in his head.”
“What interest does an American have in a dead Russian, found on a London street?”
“A mutual interest,” I said. I had no idea what that might be, but I was certain Archie Chapman’s self-interest was my only hope.
The thin guy’s eyes narrowed and his forehead creased as he decided his next move. He nodded to the boxer, who frisked me, quickly and expertly, stashing my. 38 in his folded-up newspaper and handing my identification to his boss.
“Are you with the military police?”
“No. I’m with General Eisenhower’s headquarters.”
“You’re a long way from Naples then, Lieutenant Boyle.”
“I’m part of the advance party. The general will be in London soon.”
“Ah, yes, the new Supreme Headquarters. Sounds grand. This way, please,” he said, handing me my identification and ushering me into a room decorated with a carpet, chairs, table, and a cupboard. Two other guys, middle-management thugs by the look of them, sat at the table playing cards. It was cozy, for an underground bomb shelter. My escort parted another set of draped blankets, entered, and held them open for me. This room was even larger than the first, the carpet plusher. A small electric heater provided warmth, aimed in the direction of a man with starkly white hair brushed back from his own widow’s peak. He sat in a worn leather chair, a floor lamp to one side and a bookshelf to the other. Beyond him was a real bed; no metal cot for Archie Chapman to rest his bones on.
“What’s this then?” Chapman said, closing the book he’d been reading with a fierce snap. A guy who didn’t like surprises.
“A Lieutenant William Boyle to see you. About that Russian.” I saw a look pass between the men, full of silent meaning. It said there was an advantage to my being here, one that was worth Chapman’s time. The elder Chapman, I should say. I could see the son in the father. Tall and slim, sharp cheekbones, the same hair and widow’s peak, whiter and sparser on the father, but it was the same face. Hawklike, predatory. Patient. A hunter who took what he wanted.
“Your son was kind enough to let me pass Tommy Farr out there,” I said, referring to the Welsh fighter who’d been beat by Joe Louis a few years back.
“Ha! Good one, Lieutenant. Charlie’s no Tommy Farr, although he did have a few wins at Argyle Hall, a pretty good run for a while. Sit down, and tell Topper and me what you want. Drinks, boy.”
Topper poured three glasses of gin from a small bar. Not my favorite drink, but with Topper and Archie for company, I was glad of it.
“To your health, Lieutenant Boyle,” Archie said, raising his glass.
“And to yours.” We drank. The gin tasted like pine needles soaked in lighter fluid. “Nice setup you’ve got.”
“All the comforts of home, Lieutenant, except that the goddamn Boche can’t blow us out of our beds deep down here. Now, why have you come to visit me in my underground hideaway?”
“I work for General Eisenhower. He wants to be sure that the murder of Captain Egorov is solved, and that it creates no difficulties for the Allies.”
“Egorov?” Topper said. “Is that the name of the fellow those boys found?”
“Yes, Gennady Egorov. Did you know him?”
“No, I hardly know any Russians, much less Communists,” Topper said, shrugging, as he looked to his father.
“So you’ve come to us, Lieutenant Boyle, for what?” Archie leaned forward, studying my eyes, as if the answer might show there before I spoke it.
“Billy,” I said, trying to ratchet down the intensity in the room. “Call me Billy. Everyone does.”
“Well, Billy, then. Tell me what we can do for each other. What do you have to offer me?” Archie smiled, they way I imagined a cat would smile if it bothered to, contemplating a cornered mouse.
“They’re calling Eisenhower’s new HQ the Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force. That means everything for the invasion goes through us. All the supplies, all the food, all the gear. All the Scotch whiskey the generals and admirals can drink, all their fine boots and coats, penicillin, cigarettes, you name it.” Archie’s eyes flickered with interest, darted to his son, and then reverted to hooded sullenness.
“You’re new to London then,” Topper said. “Do you have your operation set up yet?”
“I just got here from Naples, but my boys came with me. We’re getting things organized.”
“Ah, Naples. I hear the Italian black market is thriving,” Archie said, lifting his head as if he could see acres of supplies laid out for the taking. “But what is it you want from us? The killer? The vicious murderer of that innocent Russian boy?”
“Is he yours to hand over?”
“Of course he is. Whoever you want him to be. Dead or alive, with half a dozen witnesses who will swear they saw him do it, sold him the gun, and gave him the rope to bind Egorov’s hands. Whatever you want, if you can pay the price.”
“If I can’t?”
“Then you’ve wasted Father’s time,” Topper said calmly. “And mine. We’d not be happy about that.”