“Let’s eat,” Big Mike said. “It’s early, but we have a long drive ahead of us.”
“We can’t get to Dover in this soup,” I said.
“We should’ve left earlier, before it got this bad. Sam won’t like it that we hung around here and got stuck. So we’re leaving, after we eat.”
“OK,” I said, giving in to the lowest ranker at the table. No reason to argue with a corporal who has generals and colonels for pals and who could lift me three feet off the floor. Big Mike and I ordered ale, while Kaz stayed with Scotch. I really wanted vodka, God help me, but I resisted the hard stuff. Before long I was tucking into a plate of fish and chips. Kaz had chicken and turnips, while Big Mike indulged his taste for odd English dishes.
“Steak and kidney pie?” I said. “I didn’t know they still served that in the twentieth century.”
“It’s good,” Big Mike said. “Beefsteak, nice fluffy pastry, and the kidney tastes like liver. Sort of.” He chewed a bit, and took a long swallow of ale.
“What have you been up to, Billy?” Kaz asked, after we were through eating.
“I found out Scutt is very interested in talking to you, which I think means throwing you in a cell on suspicion of murder. Apparently a Russian named Osip Nikolaevich Blotski was beat with a lead pipe last night, and nearly killed.”
“Inspector Scutt thinks I am hunting Russians one by one, on the streets of London?”
“I’d say he’s seeking a motive, and you’ve got the best claim to one, after that scene at the opera. Things got stranger after that. I went to see Cosgrove, to confront him about Sheila Carlson and watch his reaction. Who do I find him with but none other than a Mr. Brown. They had a meeting with a guy from MI6, Kim Philby.”
“Then Mr. Brown must be more than an errand boy,” Kaz said. “Cosgrove and Philby move in the higher ranks of intelligence circles.”
“I got the distinct notion that Cosgrove was the junior of the three, and that he and Brown were on the outs. Brown as much as boasted he’d had Sheila killed, to keep her quiet.” I described my visit to the Eastcheap Gentleman’s Club, the message I was supposed to carry to Rak Vatutin, and the surprise visit from Cosgrove.
“So now we know who among the Russians was tipping off the Chapman gang,” Kaz said. “And that you are aiding and abetting them in hijacking farm produce. That doesn’t help clear me of suspicion, or help you solve the case.”
“It might be more than produce or vodka this time. When I mentioned it to Cosgrove he nearly blew a fuse.”
“What else could it be?” Kaz said. “Weapons? Drugs?”
“We’re missing something,” Big Mike said, setting down his empty glass.
“Obviously,” I said.
“I mean about Sheila. We figured she killed Eddie for the cash, right? But Scutt was right, that she could’ve taken that anytime. So there had to be another reason.”
“There could be many reasons,” Kaz said. “A lover’s quarrel, a falling-out among thieves.”
“No, we gotta look at it with this new information: Brown wanted her dead, and she got away.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, not seeing where Big Mike was going with this.
“OK,” he said, holding up one finger. “Let’s say she has no clue Brown is going to have her done in. She makes the cake, gives it to Radecki, and then figures it’s a big payday. Eddie’s at work. She could take off with their nest egg, and then get whatever Brown promised her once the job was done. Why kill Eddie?”
“Maybe he found out about the poisoned cake,” I said. “Or who was paying her to do it.”
“No, he was at work. She baked two cakes, and brought him a piece of one, which he ate. He couldn’t have known about her taking off with their money.” Big Mike held up a second finger. “Now let’s figure she knew Brown was going to double-cross her. Same question applies. Why kill Eddie?”
“It doesn’t help to repeat that we don’t know why,” Kaz said.
“No, that’s not what he’s saying,” I broke in, watching Big Mike nod his head in approval as I caught up to him. “We’re stuck in a rut thinking it had something to do with MI5 or Tad. It doesn’t. There’s another reason entirely. Eddie had to know something that truly threatened her. Working for MI5 is its own protection; if she had faith in Brown, she would have felt safe. Or, if she knew Brown was going to have her killed, that threat would have been her top priority.”
“I see,” Kaz said. “You’re saying she murdered Eddie for a third reason, external to the case. And that perhaps she didn’t know Brown had ordered her death. Perhaps she slipped away for that third reason.”
“I knew you guys would get it sooner or later,” Big Mike said. “Being officers, you were bound to. How about you buy the next round?”
“Aren’t you driving us to Dover tonight?”
“In this pea soup? No way. I’ll sleep on the couch in your fancy hotel, and we’ll leave at first light. Sam will never know.”
“You’re the boss, Big Mike.”
After the next round, we decided to detour back to Eddie’s place, figuring that we might have missed something the first time. Scotland Yard would have tossed the place by now, but maybe they were looking at things the way we had: that everything Sheila did was about her work for Brown and MI5. Even after a few drinks, three pairs of eyes might see something new. The fog was lifting, but navigating in the blackout made for a slow trip across the Thames and through the twisting side streets of Camberwell. A railroad bridge crossed the main thoroughfare, where a large antiaircraft gun lifted its steel nose into the foggy night. I could see the faint red glow of two cigarettes where the crew leaned against the railing, relaxing under the dark gray cover. Were they bored, I wondered, when the lonely quiet hours stretched out before them? Did they prefer the excitement, tinged with a chance of death, which a raid brought? As we drove under the bridge, one of them flipped his butt out into the night, the fiery sparks arcing into darkness. Odd, I thought, the choices that war presents us. The slow passage of time, or the thrill of dancing with death. Everyone wanted to live, but when the minutes and seconds crawled into the small hours of the morning, the speed and decisiveness of combat had an allure that it lacked in the daylight.
We found Penford Street and Eddie’s place. The front door was locked tight, but the back door gave way easily after Big Mike worked his knife blade into the latch and put his weight behind it.
“Back doors are always easier,” Big Mike said, as Kaz flipped on the light switch in the rear hallway. “Now, what exactly are we looking for?”
“Nothing,” I said, walking into the kitchen and turning on the overhead light. “Don’t look for anything. Look at what’s here.”
“Billy, perhaps my English is not up to the distinction,” Kaz said. “What are you talking about?”
“The biggest mistake you can make in a search is to expect to find something that shouldn’t be there. It can blind you to common objects that might mean something. Since we don’t know what we’re looking for, don’t look too hard. Just look at what’s here.” I could almost hear my dad drumming that into my head, over and over again, back when he used to pull me in as a uniform to help at a crime scene. The overtime was nice, but what he was really doing was teaching me an advanced course in homicide investigation. The problem was, I thought I already knew it all, and his lectures left me bored. Now it seemed to be such a simple, obvious truth, to not look for anything when you were looking for something.
“This kitchen is a mess,” Kaz said, keeping his opinion about the Boyle wisdom to himself.
“Pretty much like we left it,” Big Mike said. “Looks like the Scotland Yard boys pulled out a few drawers and fished around, that’s about it.” He was right. The cut-up oleander was dried out, and flies buzzed around the spilled sugar. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, and cooking utensils were scattered over the counter.
“There is a third reason,” I said. “Sheila was never coming back to this place.”
“Just because she’s a lousy housekeeper?” Big Mike said. “I’ve seen plenty places worse than this dump.”