“Any other good news?”
“Scutt wants to bring in Kaz for questioning,” I said.
“He still likes Kaz for knifing Miller?”
“Yeah, and for beating a Russian within an inch of his life with a lead pipe, after the opera. No evidence, but it fits his theory of Kaz taking out his revenge on the Russians. Egorov, then Eddie, since he was their snitch, and then this guy Osip Nikolaevich Blotski.”
“That doesn’t sound like Kaz,” Big Mike said. “The lead pipe, anyway.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “Osip took one to the head, then they worked on his legs.”
“Professional,” Big Mike said, giving a quick glance to his rearview mirror.
“Yeah, right up Archie Chapman’s alley. Spot our tail yet?”
“Pretty sure,” Big Mike said. “Sedan three cars back, two guys wearing fedoras.”
“Head over to St. James’s Street,” I said as we entered Trafalgar Square. Circling Nelson’s Column, I was able to get a good look at the sedan. Two plainclothes men in a civilian vehicle stood out among the red buses, brown military vehicles, and black taxis. “Drop me off at MI5, I need to put some pressure on Cosgrove.”
“Billy, Harding wants you down in Dover, and he wants me to get you there.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll head out in an hour or so. If the tail stays with you, lose them and find Kaz at the Rubens. Pick me up in Berkeley Square. If our friends follow me, I’ll lose them, so wait for me there. OK?”
“OK, but then straight to Dover. Right?”
“Right,” I promised Big Mike as he pulled up in front of the nondescript entrance to MI5 headquarters. The fedora boys pulled over and watched me go in. It wouldn’t be a problem shaking the tail. What I was more worried about was what to do with Kaz. I didn’t want Scotland Yard finding and charging him, but I didn’t think it would work out well if I brought him along to Dover, to question Russians.
The place looked like any office or government building, except for the lack of a sign or nameplate next to the door. I went through the identification routine with the receptionist as a stern-faced British Army sergeant eyed me from his post a few feet away. I asked to see Major Cosgrove, and she pointed to a row of chairs opposite her desk as she placed a call, speaking in hushed tones. I cooled my heels in the wide, carpeted hallway, watching officers in well-tailored uniforms from every service walk by, and a fair number of civilians as well. A busy place, everyone working hard at protecting the realm. I heard Cosgrove’s name, and saw a man standing at the reception desk, a pipe clenched between his teeth as he doffed his raincoat. He was dark haired and square jawed, and he wore his pin-striped suit well.
“Kim Philby,” he said to the receptionist as he showed his ID. “Major Cosgrove should have me listed for an appointment.”
“Yes, Mr. Philby, I have you down. You can go right up,” the receptionist said cheerily.
“I’ll go up with him,” I said, not wanting to wait for Cosgrove to finish gasbagging through some meeting.
“Not so fast, sir,” said the sergeant. “Not until they call for you.”
“Listen,” I said, “I only need to talk to the major for a minute. He knows me, he won’t mind.”
“If he wouldn’t mind, then why hasn’t he called you up? Sir?”
“I can ring the major again and ask,” the receptionist said helpfully, her hand on the telephone. “But he did say he’d be busy for quite a while.”
“Never mind all that,” Philby said. “I’ll escort the lieutenant; I know the place well enough.”
“All right, sir, if you say so,” the sergeant said, his reluctance obvious. Whoever this guy was, he obviously had clout around here.
“Kim Philby,” he said, extending his hand.
“Billy Boyle,” I said as we climbed the staircase. “Thanks for rescuing me back there. Do you work with Major Cosgrove?”
“More of a liaison. I’m with MI6, the other side of the coin. We handle the overseas stuff, but we work closely with our brethren here. Your name is familiar, Lieutenant Boyle, Charles may have mentioned you. Aren’t you looking into the murder of that Soviet fellow Egorov?”
“Yes, I am. That’s why I’m here.”
“I wish you luck, Lieutenant, for all our sakes. Murdered diplomats in the heart of London is something we could all do without. Whitehall is none too pleased, nor are the Soviets.”
“I can imagine.” I wondered if Philby would hang around when we got to Cosgrove’s office. I had some dirty laundry to air, and it would only complicate things to have him listening in.
“Here we are,” Philby said, opening a door and stepping in ahead of me. “Charles, I’ve brought you this American chap. Seemed harmless enough.” He gave me a wink as he said it.
“Boyle,” Cosgrove said. “What an unexpected surprise.” He looked at me from his seat in a leather armchair, one of two facing a large, ornate desk, the wood polished to a ferocious gleam.
“Major Cosgrove,” I said, a little confused at his friendly greeting, and what seemed like genuine surprise at seeing me. Then I saw the other person in the office, the man seated behind the desk. The one with the telephone at his elbow.
“Mr. Brown,” I said.
“No, that’s-,” Philby began to say, then caught himself. “Sorry. Security, I quite understand. I can wait in the hall, if you like.”
“No need, no need at all,” Cosgrove said. “We’re all friends here, right, Boyle?”
“Sure we are, Major. Friends and allies.” Cosgrove was more jovial than I was used to, but it was forced, as if he was working to cover up something else. Or to send me a signal that things weren’t what they seemed.
“What can I do for you then?” Cosgrove said, as if granting me a favor would be the high point of his day.
“For starters, you can tell me what MI5 was paying Sheila Carlson for, and if killing her lover and Tadeusz Tucholski was part of the contract.”
“I may have to apologize for bringing Lieutenant Boyle up,” Philby said, raising an eyebrow as he relit his pipe and settled into his chair, seeming to enjoy the tension in the room.
“Certainly you don’t think we pay people to commit murder,” Brown said. “Do you, Lieutenant Boyle?”
“I know one person on your payroll is a murderer, Mr. Brown. Edward Miller, late of the Rubens Hotel, was killed by Sheila Carlson. Nice combination of poison and bayonet.”
“Gruesome,” Philby said. “The other chap, the one with the Polish name, he’s alive?”
“Alive and back in London, ready to speak his mind.” I watched the three of them. Brown and Cosgrove exchanged glances, while Philby wrapped a smile around his pipe stem.
“It sounds like a domestic issue,” Brown said. “More suited to Scotland Yard than MI5. Have you talked to them, Lieutenant Boyle?”
“Yes. They’re on their way to pick up Miss Carlson right now. I imagine she’ll sing quite a tune in exchange for escaping the gallows.” It was a bluff, but you never know. I waited for a reaction, but got nothing. Cosgrove was quiet, and looked away from me, more interested in the carpet than the conversation. Strange, because he and I never got along, neither of us passing up the opportunity to show disdain for the other. He should have been lambasting me for what I was accusing him of. Instead, nothing. It had to be Brown. He was probably higher up than Cosgrove. I’d figured him for a heavy, but he was more than he appeared. Maybe he and Cosgrove didn’t see eye to eye.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Brown said. He spoke with a certainty that couldn’t be faked. It was the finality of the grave. “About her singing a tune, that is. But you’re right about the gallows, she won’t come to that end.”
“She’s dead?”
“Unfortunate,” Brown said. “She got off the train at Slough. Last night, unfamiliar with the town, and with the blackout in effect, she walked in front of a truck.”
“And how do you know all this? Last I saw you and your pal Wilson, you had a flat to fix.”
“It’s our business to know things, Lieutenant Boyle. We had people watching the trains, of course.”