“Hold it!” Big Mike said. “Hands where I can see them.”
“You,” I said, when I finally had my revolver centered on my guy. “Hand out of your pocket, slowly.” I heard Sheila crying, Big Mike pulling his hammer back, and my heart pounded. The street was quiet, a midday lull broken by tension and blue steel.
“I have a warrant card here,” my guy said. “Police.” I glanced at the other guy, who stood silently with his hands open. They were calm, almost serene. I wondered why. I wondered how I’d react if two British soldiers pulled weapons on me in Boston. Nothing like these guys, and British cops didn’t carry guns, usually.
“Who sent you?”
“We’ve been looking for Miss Carlson there. Have a few questions for her.” His hand was still in his pocket, holding a warrant card, or a gun?
“I didn’t ask whom you’ve been looking for. Who sent you?”
“I don’t like being asked with that weapon in my face. You’re in enough trouble already, Lieutenant, drawing your weapon on members of the Metropolitan Police.”
“It’s not in your face. It’s pointed at your chest. High, close to the heart. If it misses the heart, it’ll shatter your spinal cord. Or hit one of the big veins in your neck. That’s what I like about a high chest shot. So many things can put you down. Last time, who sent you?”
“Lieutenant Boyle-” I stepped to one side to get a clear shot at the Morris. I pulled the trigger and shot out a tire, the retort echoing harshly against the buildings. The only sound after that was the air hissing out of the flat.
“Billy?” Big Mike said.
“They’re not cops,” I said. “No one knew we were coming here. So how could they know my name?”
“Wilson,” the guy facing Big Mike said. “Sit in the car, please.” Wilson did, a look of shock still on his face. “Now, perhaps we can step inside and have a word.”
“No dice,” I said, moving next to Big Mike. I holstered my piece, and Big Mike put his away as well. “We talk out here, in the open. Who are you?”
“We have a mutual acquaintance. Major Cosgrove.”
“Does MI5 carry identification?”
“Yes, but you’ve seen through us, so it really doesn’t matter what’s written on our warrant cards. We came here to speak to Miss Carlson, and thought it best to wait and see who came out with her.”
“You didn’t follow us here?”
“No, not at all. We have some questions for Miss Carlson, that’s all. We are aware of your involvement, but this has nothing to do with you, Lieutenant Boyle, I assure you.”
“Is it about Eddie?” Sheila asked, peeking from behind Big Mike’s left arm.
“No, Miss Carlson. A tragedy, to be sure, but Scotland Yard has that investigation well in hand. I understand you, as well as Edward Miller, often worked on the Polish floor, as it was called, at the hotel.”
“Yes, I did,” Sheila said, stepping out from Big Mike’s shadow. I could see her figuring the angles, calculating what there was for her in this, wondering if she could take over as a secret agent or whatever other role Eddie had sold her on. “Did you work with Eddie, if you know what I mean?”
“Not our department, Miss Carlson. But I wonder if you might know where Captain Valerian Radecki is at the moment. You and Mr. Miller were acquainted with him?”
“He and Eddie would chat now and then,” Sheila said. “But I can’t say he’d even know my name.”
“You’ve no idea where he may be then?”
“None at all. Is there a way I can get in touch with you if I find something out, Mister-?”
“Brown. No need, Miss Carlson. Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch if we need you.” He touched the brim of his hat and headed for the Morris. Big Mike took Sheila to the jeep and I followed Mr. Brown.
“Sorry about the tire,” I said. “I didn’t know who you guys really were.”
“Hopefully it can be patched; there’s a terrible shortage of tires, you know.”
“Didn’t you ask Major Horak where Radecki is?”
“Yes, but the problem is, he hasn’t shown up there. Something about Station Number Eight, whatever that is. Horak wouldn’t say any more, except that Radecki was overdue.”
“Why do you want Radecki?”
“Routine, that’s all. You know how paperwork is with government security agencies. Never ending. Some form Captain Radecki has to complete. Well, good to meet you, Lieutenant Boyle. I hadn’t believed all of Cosgrove’s stories about you, to tell you the truth, but now I do.
Good day.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Brown. And Mr. Wilson.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“ Brown and Wilson? ” Big Mike said after we’d dropped Sheila off at Victoria Station and drove slowly down Victoria Street. “What’s that, the English version of Smith and Jones?”
“Yeah, and about as subtle as a couple of G-men. You sure we don’t have another tail?”
“Absolutely. Them two knuckleheads are probably still changing that tire, and no one else followed us. As long as Sheila gets on a train, she should be all right. Hey, Billy, how about lunch? I’m starved.”
“Sure, if we can find a place to park,” I said. We were only a block from the station, and the streets were clogged with parked cars, taxicabs, and trucks. I pointed to a J. Lyons tea shop on the corner, and Big Mike pulled over, right next to a no-parking sign. A constable walked toward us, shaking his head. Big Mike was out in a flash, his Detroit gold policeman’s shield held in his hand. The bobby studied it for a second before laughing at something Big Mike said. They shook hands, Big Mike crooked his thumb in my direction, and they laughed again.
“All set, Billy,” he said as we entered the restaurant.
“Should I ask what you said about me?”
“No. There’s nothing like a pain-in-the-ass officer to make one flatfoot sympathetic to another. He’s watching the jeep for me.”
“Great,” I said. No matter the color of the uniform Big Mike was still a cop at heart. He ordered a tongue sandwich and lemon barley water, cold. Apparently there was a choice. I went with a ham sandwich and tea.
“What do you think Brown and Wilson were after, Billy?”
“I’d say they were genuinely surprised to see us, so I think they were looking for Radecki, following a lead.”
“Maybe he’s got a girlfriend somewhere.”
“Maybe so, but why is MI5 looking for him? If it was about the murder, they’d let Scutt handle it, and keep themselves out of the picture.” I lowered my voice, glancing around at the nearby diners. An RAF pilot stared at me from a poster, looking daring in his flight jacket, the caption warning that Careless Talk May Cost His Life. The tables were close together, and the waitresses, all dressed in black uniforms with red buttons and white collars, moved swiftly between them, tending to their customers and pouring steaming cups of tea. Too swiftly to pay much attention, I decided.
“You have any ideas?”
“Not really, but there was something that Sheila said that struck me. Radecki is taking laudanum for pain. He broke his leg on the way to England, and it wasn’t set right.”
“Is that what Eddie got for him on Horseferry Street?”
“Has to be. That’s where his doctor is. I saw the name and address on one of his empty bottles.” The food was delivered, and I winced as I always did when I saw someone take a bite out of a tongue sandwich.
“Why the hell would those clowns care if Radecki was dealing drugs on the side? That’s not their turf,” Big Mike said, smacking his lips after drinking down half his lemon barley water.
“They wouldn’t,” I said. “It’s got to be something else.”
“What else could it be? Maybe Eddie Miller swiped some of the stuff and double-crossed Radecki,” Big Mike said, his mouth poised to take another bite.