“I said, Boyle, tell me what Topper told you about the Russian.” Scutt spoke loudly, maybe for the second time, to bring me back from woolgathering.
“Topper said Egorov himself had no connection to them, and that they weren’t responsible for the killing.”
Scutt had the well-earned policeman’s distrust of a criminal’s protestation of innocence.
“But he did say the map had been for them. He as much as admitted they’d been behind the supply hijackings, and that there was a business arrangement with someone, probably at the Russian Embassy, although he never said so exactly.”
“All to be denied if asked again.”
“Yes, that was the deal. With everything else they did, without worrying about being caught, why would he lie about Egorov?”
“Murder means the rope, Lieutenant Boyle. Reason enough.”
“Could be. Maybe he’s trying to throw us off the track.”
“We haven’t much of a scent to pick up, much less be thrown off,” Scutt said with a weary sigh.
“Excuse me, Inspector,” a constable said, approaching Scutt and handing him a sheet of paper. “This just came in. A body was dug out of the rubble from the raid the other night, over on Tower Bridge Road. Looks suspicious, according to the report.”
“Very well, I’ll go take a look. Haven’t had one of these in a while.”
“One of what, Inspector?” I asked as he put on his raincoat.
“Murder, perhaps. Disguised as a bombing victim. Had quite a rash during the Blitz, as soon as people started getting the idea it would be a fine way to get rid of a body. Bash a fellow you don’t like on the head, bury him in a bit of rubble from a bombed-out building, and as soon as he starts to smell, he’s dug up and written off as done in by Herr Goring.”
“What makes it suspicious?”
“Well, you take this fellow. About thirty years of age. No identification papers, and no one in the area knew him. Likely killed by a blow to the head. Now most people go about with their papers, and if you’ve seen a body after a ton of bricks falls on it, you’d know there would be other injuries. There are usually massive physical injuries. But only a crushed skull, and a stranger to boot? Unlikely.”
“Good luck,” I said. “And let me know if anything comes up about Sidorov. Something’s not right there.”
“I still wonder about your Polish friend, you know,” Scutt said. His raised eyebrows invited a comment as we took the steps down to the main door.
“I talked with him,” I said, and shared Kaz’s thoughts about the placement of the body. “Not the best way to make a political statement.”
“Perhaps not. Perhaps it was more personal than political. Or both. Lieutenant Kazimierz could have had words with Egorov, at some diplomatic function. Who knows?”
Not me. Scutt promised to alert the area constables to watch for the truck, but he was only going through the motions, the same sort of thing I’d said many a time when an automobile was stolen or a purse snatched, knowing it would only be dumb luck or a dumber crook that would see it returned.
The rain had stopped, so I walked to Norfolk House, glad for the excuse to delay seeing Colonel Harding. Since he was regular U.S. Army, he was apt to look upon the truck and peaches as his personal property. Scutt could afford to chuckle about it, since I’d only gotten what I deserved. But Harding wasn’t interested in failure, and except for breakfast, I had nothing to show for my gamble.
“Go on in, Billy, they’re waiting for you,” Big Mike said as I entered the office. He nodded to the open conference-room door, and winked. I wanted to ask him what he was so happy about, but Harding appeared at the door and told me to get in, pronto. He sounded mildly angry and agitated, but that was SOP with him. I had expected a full-bore lecture, maybe a demotion, but nothing like that was in the air.
“You know Colonel Dawson, I take it,” Harding said, nodding toward Bull, who sat at the conference table, a large map spread out in front of him. “And Major Cosgrove.”
“Sure. I mean, yes, sir.”
“Boyle,” Cosgrove said, nodding slightly, his eyes briefly darting up to meet mine. I didn’t count Major Charles Cosgrove of MI5, the British Secret Service, among my friends. The feeling would have been mutual, except he was too much of a stiff upper lip to admit to the emotion necessary to say what he thought of me. There had been bad blood between us since he used me in one of his plots, back when I first arrived in London, and worse blood since the business in Northern Ireland a few weeks ago. He had a habit of manipulating people, and some of those people didn’t live long enough to return the favor. I had, and someday I intended to.
“Good to see you, Billy,” Colonel Bull Dawson said. Him I was glad to see. He looked spiffy in his Class A uniform, all decked out for a visit to HQ in London. His brass buttons gleamed, and the silver wings perched over his heart sparkled. His eyes, marked by crow’s-feet from constant squinting into the sun at twenty-five thousand feet, flickered between Cosgrove and me. I could tell he sensed trouble, the way he could probably pick up on a Me-109 coming out of a cloud formation.
“Same here, Colonel,” I said. “Unless there’s a pack of MPs in the next room.”
“That’s what we’re here to talk about, Boyle,” Harding said, taking his seat at the head of the table. I sat next to Bull, and Harding gave him the nod.
“Ever since you hightailed out of High Wycombe, I’ve been asking around about you, Billy,” Bull said. “You seemed like a stand-up guy in Northern Ireland, but I had to be sure. Everyone agrees, you get the job done. Some apparently wish you did it a bit more subtly, but I’m a guy who drops five thousand-pound bomb loads for a living, so subtle doesn’t carry much weight with me. I’ve asked for the highest-level clearance for you on this matter. I briefed Colonel Harding this morning, with Major Cosgrove’s permission.”
“Major Cosgrove can call the shots on that?” I said.
“Yes, I can, Lieutenant Boyle, and it won’t surprise you to know I do have concerns about your conduct. Still, it does make sense to bring you in on this, at least to minimize any damage you might inadvertently do. I already had to speak to Inspector Scutt and tell him to stop asking questions on your behalf. He asked me why the Russians had stopped going to High Wycombe, and over an open line! Lord knows what else you or he may blurt out.”
“You mean like the flights to Poltava and Mirgorod?” I said, putting together the sum total of my knowledge to see if it would get a reaction from Cosgrove.
“This proves my point, Harding! Lieutenant Boyle should be confined to quarters until this matter is completed. And not a suite at the Dorchester, either!” Cosgrove turned beet red, puffing out his cheeks as he tried to control his anger. He was a big guy, around the waist anyway, and I almost worried about him blowing a fuse.
“That’s Colonel Harding, Major” was the reply. The fact that Cosgrove worked for MI5 and could have shown up in an admiral’s getup didn’t matter. His cover was as a major, a rank low enough not to attract attention but high enough to get a decent table at a fancy restaurant. Harding outranked him and expected the military courtesies. “The fact that Lieutenant Boyle has figured out that much means we’re right to brief him now. Bull, proceed.”
“Billy,” he began, playing the peacemaker. “Major Cosgrove is in charge of security for the Soviet personnel. This includes worrying about any potential threats from emigre anti-Communist groups in London. It’s enough to make any sane man jumpy.”