“Boyle,” Inspector Scutt said as I entered the detectives’ chamber. “We wondered how you made out in the raid last night. You went to see Chapman, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I had the pleasure,” I said, sitting down in front of Scutt’s desk.
“You were right in the thick of it then,” Flack said as he joined us. “Jerry’s a bit out of practice, but he managed to drop a few from the Surrey Docks up to Moorgate. Lucky for us a lot of them got nervous, or lost, and dropped their loads short. Tore up the countryside to the southeast, the bastards did, but better there than in the heart of London.”
“Bomb alley, they call it,” Scutt said. “The whole area from the coast, between Dover and Hastings, and straight up to London. Any German bomber that aborts or tangles with our fighters will drop their bombs and head for home. Between those random hits and actual targets in the area, it gets fairly nerve-racking down that way. My wife’s family is from Folkestone, and I’ve heard plenty from them about it.”
“Plus all the crashes, aircraft from both sides,” Flack said. “There were more than twenty bombers shot down last night. If most of the aircrew got out, that means we have almost a hundred Germans on the ground right now. The Home Guard is spread all over the countryside looking for them. Hasn’t been a dustup like this in months.”
“I saw more than a dustup last night,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. Flack seemed a bit too excited about the raid for my taste.
“Of course you did, Boyle,” Scutt said, seeming to understand my reluctance to rejoice in the return of the Luftwaffe. “It’s terrible, and at the same time, it brings us back to when we all stood together, Londoners and Englishmen alone, shoulder to shoulder. With all you Americans coming along, as grand as that is, sometimes I feel we’ve lost something.”
“I heard it in the Tube station this morning,” Flack said. “People talking to each other, saying we can stand up to it. Hard to explain, and I don’t mean to sound callous, but it’s almost like the war had passed us by. Civilians, in London, I mean. Now, it’s back. Gives some meaning to all the difficulties. Rationing, homes destroyed, men scattered all across the world.”
“All I saw last night was a lot of scared people, and corpses.”
“It’s been my experience, Boyle, that with the light of morning, those who find themselves alive put the best face on things they can,” Scutt said. “I’d wager the most scared of the lot last night are shaking their fists against an empty sky this morning, cursing the bloody Germans. Human nature. Now, tell us about Chapman.”
I did, leaving out much of the gin, and the knife at my throat, while focusing on his lack of interest in Egorov.
“You may be right in that Archie, or his boy Topper, have already taken care of business for themselves. We’ll be on the lookout for any suspicious deaths, especially of anyone connected with the embassy,” Flack said.
“Too bad you don’t have anything you can really trade with,” Scutt said, rubbing his chin. “Maybe some American supplies need to be sacrificed in the pursuit of justice.”
“Good idea, guv,” Flack said. “Boyle, maybe you can arrange for some coffee to go missing. Drop a bit off for us, eh?”
“It’s not a bad idea,” I said.
“I didn’t really mean-”
“No, I mean going into business with Archie and Topper. If they know who really killed Egorov, that could be the key. Might be worth a truckload of Spam.”
“Don’t bother bringing that around,” Flack said. “Worse than bully beef, that stuff.”
“Whatever you use, Boyle,” Scutt cut in, putting an end to a comparison of American and British canned meats, “it will have to come from your stores. The Met cannot provide supplies illegally. But we will assist in any way we can. Now we have some questions to put to you.”
“OK,” I said. I watched Scutt and Flack exchange glances. No more philosophical comments about Londoners at war, no more jokes about Spam and tinned beef. They had questions to put to me, and that was a shift. When a cop has something routine to ask another cop, he simply asks him. When a cop is about to interrogate someone, he tells him he has questions.
“Yesterday you were at the Rubens Hotel, correct?” Scutt began.
“Yes, I was visiting a friend.”
“Do you usually enter the Rubens via the staff entrance?”
“What does that matter?”
“We have been informed that you accosted a member of the staff there.”
“He was spying on my friend.”
“Who is your friend,” Flack said, studying a file Scutt had handed him, “and who was this Edward Miller spying for?”
“Lieutenant Baron Piotr Augustus Kazimierz,” I said, giving them Kaz’s name and title, thinking that might impress the royalty conscious. “He used to work on General Eisenhower’s staff, and now he’s with the Polish Government in Exile.”
“Edward Miller?”
“He was being paid off by Kiril Sidorov, the Russian officer you met, to supply information on the Poles.”
“We knew he was an informer, but not for whom. We have our own informants, but the data they provide only goes so far. What do you think Sidorov was after?”
“Information, of course, just like you.” I didn’t like how this was going.
“I think the stakes are a bit higher in this case,” Scutt said. “This is more than routine gossip and information gathering, and you know it. You’ve been holding out on us, Boyle.”
“About what?” I tried to sound irritated.
“About your friend, Lieutenant Kazimierz. His role in the controversy regarding the Kaytn Forest killings. That brings him in direct conflict with the Russians. Any reason you didn’t mention that to us? To your brother officers, investigating the murder of an NKVD man on their own patch?” Scutt’s voice had grown louder, and he leaned forward at the end, slamming his fist on the desk.
“Yes,” I said, willing myself to speak calmly, letting a few seconds of silence creep between us. “Because he’s my friend, and I’d trust him with my life.”
“That’s a fine answer,” Scutt said, studying me as he leaned back into his chair. “One I might be satisfied with if not for the fact that Lieutenant Kazimierz goes about London armed with a. 32-caliber pistol. The same caliber as the bullet that killed Egorov.”
“That bullet was too damaged to measure accurately,” I said, and regretted it instantly. I didn’t want to sound like a lawyer. “Kaz carries that for protection, that’s all.”
“So far, it’s been dangerous for one Russian, dead, and one Englishman, whom you apparently beat senseless.”
“Sheila,” I said, remembering the girl who had seen Eddie and me in the hallway. “She’s your informant. She’s the only one who saw me slap Eddie around. She must be sweet on him to claim I beat him senseless, not that he had much sense to begin with.”
“Keep that to yourself, Boyle,” Flack said in a low, angry voice. “Your friend bears watching, and so do you, as far as I can tell.”
“You’ve been watching him already. If you thought he was responsible for killing Egorov, then you would have picked him up.”
“No, we don’t have enough at this point,” Flack said. “We know he’s armed with a weapon similar to the one used on Egorov. We know that he’s made inflammatory statements about the Russians, but we don’t know where he was that Friday night.”
“Meaning you don’t have someone watching him at the Dorchester,” I said.
“Boyle, please understand this,” Scutt said. “We are not watching any one individual. We employ informants to keep us updated on the comings and goings of the many foreigners we have in London. They are our allies, but they often don’t see eye to eye with each other. The fact that Lieutenant Kazimierz goes about armed was just one detail in a routine report.”
“Sheila didn’t strike me as someone who could tell the difference between a. 32 caliber and a blunderbuss. How did you find that out?”
“It was determined in the routine course of investigation,” Scutt said. In other words, none of my business. They obviously had someone else inside. Or had they searched our rooms at the Dorchester?