“It’s not theirs anymore. It was Sheila Carlson’s,” I said. I recounted what had happened when Big Mike and I went to Eddie’s place. How we came by the envelope, the visit from Brown and Wilson, and even how we’d been taken in by Sheila’s poor-girl sob story, giving her cash and a ride to the railroad station on top of letting her go.
“Did you carry her bags to the train?” Scutt said, not even trying to hide his laughter.
“If you think that’s funny, you’ll find this hilarious,” I said, pulling the biscuit tin out of the musette bag. I popped the lid to show him the crumbling apple cake. “Poisoned. Baked by Sheila as a gift for a Pole who saw too much before he got out of Russia. She even managed to have Captain Radecki deliver it.”
“Are you quite certain?” Scutt sniffed the cake, careful not to touch anything.
“Have your lab boys check it out. She had an oleander plant, and there were cut-up leaves and stems in the kitchen.”
“It appears no one ate any, thank goodness,” Scutt said as he signaled to a constable. “Watkins, take this to the laboratory to be analyzed. Put a note on it that it may contain poison, and be damned careful with it, man.”
I didn’t tell Scutt that it had done its work, eaten or not. Tadeusz had seen too much death in his short life, and it was my bet that an apple cake was what finally pushed him over the edge. It was the shock of the unexpected; the domestic and comforting turned deadly and corrupt. Everywhere I go, death follows. I knew what he meant.
Scutt pulled a pipe from his desk drawer, along with a red tin of Old English pipe tobacco. He went through the pipe smoker’s ritual, filling the bowl halfway, tamping it down, filling some more, tamping harder. He glanced at me a few times, as if to assure me he knew I was there, but he didn’t say a word. He struck a wooden match, let the sulfur burn off for a second, and then passed the flame back and forth over the tobacco, drawing slowly until it gave off a glow and he exhaled the first draw.
“Now then,” he said, giving me his full attention. “Time for us to talk.”
“OK,” I said.
“First, I’m pleased you turned over the money. A man with fewer scruples would have kept some of it, if not all.”
“No, a man with only a few less scruples than me would have kept it all. I figure you know how much you paid Sheila, and probably what the Russians paid Eddie. And if you know about her working for MI5, well, then you’d have a good guess as to the whole amount.”
“You’d make a smart criminal, Lieutenant Boyle. But in this case, you give me too much credit. Yes, she did pass on a few things to us, nothing important, really. I do know about this fellow Tadeusz Tucholski,” he said, consulting a notebook. “Fairly important to the Poles and their cause, isn’t he?”
“Very,” I said.
“And Captain Radecki, he brought the cake with him when he went to visit St. Albans, yes?”
“You are well informed.”
“A guess. Sheila Carlson did tell us about Mr. Tucholski’s condition and where he’d been placed. That was the sort of thing she passed on to us and the Special Branch. She was good at picking up gossip, as well as the comings and goings of senior personnel. This is serious, certainly, but you should remember two things.”
“Such as?”
“There’s only been one murder other than that of Egorov. Edward Miller, with a knife to the chest. And I don’t think Miss Carlson did that. Many women, when they kill, use poisons of one sort or another. Very few use the knife.”
“I think she fed Eddie a piece of cake when she met him in the alleyway. Do you remember the crumbs at his feet? That would have taken effect very quickly, and put him on the ground. All she’d have had to do was press the bayonet in, using her own weight. There wouldn’t have been a struggle.”
“No, I don’t recall seeing crumbs,” Scutt said, riffling through a stack of files on his desk until he found the one he wanted. “But the constable who searched the place found the mess she’d left in the kitchen, and noted the plant materials. Garden gloves also. Careful girl, this Sheila.”
“What’s the other thing I should remember?”
“While I don’t doubt Miss Carlson’s capability with poison, I am not convinced she killed Edward Miller.” He puffed, blew smoke, and inspected the pipe bowl. “Why? For this envelope? She had full access to his flat, she could have run away with it at any time. I still want to talk to Lieutenant Kazimierz about Miller’s death.”
“Kaz had nothing to do with it,” I said.
“How do you know? Have you spoken to him about it?”
“I don’t know where he is,” I said, avoiding the question and Scutt’s eyes at the same time.
“That is unfortunate. A Soviet official was beaten and nearly killed last night. Apparently, it was late, after that dreadful opera film. I’d like to know where Lieutenant Kazimierz went after he left the embassy. After he made his threats.” Scutt eyed me, working his cheeks, sucking in smoke and blowing it out, leaving a haze hanging over the files and papers on his desk.
“He was back at the hotel when I got in,” I said, remembering him sitting in the dark, liquor and pistol close by. “He was gone when I got up. Who took a beating?”
“Osip Nikolaevich Blotski, listed as an economic attache, but certainly a security operative. Someone used a length of pipe on him, one blow from behind, then went to work on his legs. Both broken in several places.”
“Where? Why did they wait so long to report it?” I wanted to say Kaz wouldn’t have done such a thing, but I knew that was what any friend would say. Scutt was looking through cop’s eyes, and I knew what that meant. Proof, not faith.
“Apparently Mr. Blotski went for a walk in Kensington Gardens after the opera, where he was set up by capitalist hooligans, or a rogue Polish emigre, or an economist of the Keynesian school.”
“Pardon?”
“Please excuse my little joke. Keynes is a British economist. No reason you should know him, and I doubt our Russian economic attache would either. He called for help, and another Russian, also out for a stroll, found him.”
“Sounds fishy,” I said.
“Indeed. But I saw the poor fellow a few hours ago, encased in a lower body cast, his head bandaged. They have him at the embassy. He was treated at a hospital and they brought him back before the plaster dried. His injuries are real, but I doubt they were inflicted in Kensington Gardens, as they told the story. We found no traces of blood or a struggle.”
“He was probably somewhere he shouldn’t have been. Or somewhere they didn’t want to admit to.”
“Yes, I agree. They took their time to get him under lock and key and come up with this story, cock and bull as it is.”
“Did anything else happen? Any more delivery trucks hijacked, anything like that?”
“Deliveries for the embassy, you mean? No, nothing’s been reported. They’re angry enough about this beating, following on the murder of Egorov. The Soviet ambassador, Ivan Maisky, complained directly to the foreign minister. That’s Anthony Eden, who has Churchill’s ear. So I must investigate, and Lieutenant Kazimierz is needed for questioning on this matter and the death of Edward Miller.”
“Are you seriously considering him a suspect?”
“I am seriously interested in speaking to him, Lieutenant Boyle. And I am growing increasingly interested in why he’s become so hard to find.”
“I’ll tell him when I see him,” I said as I stood, pushing the chair back with a harsh scrape. “And you ask MI5 what they paid Sheila Carlson to do.”
“I’ll ask them when I see them,” Scutt said, giving me my own back. He drew on his pipe, but the fire had died out. He fussed with it as I walked away. Glancing back, I saw him nod to someone, the pipe stem pointed at my back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“ We’ve got a tail,” I said to Big Mike as he pulled the jeep into traffic. “Courtesy of Inspector Scutt.”