“Thank you for coming down,” the Provost Marshal said.
I nodded. “Our pleasure.”
“I was at the Officer’s Club tonight,” Stoneheart said, “and this tragic murder of Trooper Whitcomb is quite the topic of discussion.”
He looked at us. Neither one of us said anything. Ernie’s face was grim. Unreadable. I think we both knew what was coming.
“Well, a British Liaison Officer was there and one thing led to another and… Well, anyway, he told me that the Sergeant Major of the British Honor Guard claims that you two talked to Whitcomb, at their arms room, the day before his death.” He let that sit for a while, still studying our faces. “Is that true?”
Ernie didn’t flex a muscle. He stared at the Provost Marshal, not aggressively but without emotion, as if he were a stone-faced deity from Easter Island. Handling this issue would be my job. We both understood that. It made sense to have one spokesman. If each party involved were mouthing off, almost inevitably you’d trip each other up, even when you were telling the truth. But especially when you’re lying.
Maybe Ernie expected me to lie. Maybe I did too. Instead, the truth popped out of my mouth.
“We saw him,” I said.
The First Sergeant’s face pulled back slightly but he regained his composure quickly enough. The Provost Marshal let out a little sigh.
“Why?” he asked.
“We met a woman in Itaewon. Or I should say she met us. She gave us a note and asked us to deliver it to Cecil Whitcomb.”
“What did the note say?”
“Something about a rendezvous.”
“Where?”
“In Namdaemun.”
The First Sergeant and the Provost Marshal looked at one another with exaggerated surprise. It was clear that they were in the process of washing their hands of us, steering away from any dirt we might be involved in. After this little act, Colonel Stoneheart spoke again.
“Who was this woman?”
“She called herself Miss Ku.” I turned my palms face up. “Naturally, since Whitcomb was murdered, we’ve been searching for her. So far, no luck.”
“Why did she give you this note?”
“They were lovers who’d been quarreling. That’s what she claimed and, at the time, that’s what we believed.”
“So you just did her a favor?”
“Right.”
“And Whitcomb ends up dead that night, after you delivered the note to him?”
I nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
“Well, to be honest, sir, we were afraid you might take us off the case.”
“You’re damn right I would have.” For the first time his voice raised slightly. “To think I had to hear about this through gossip at the O Club.”
That was his main worry. That he’d been embarrassed and that it would reflect poorly on his annual efficiency report. Even the slightest bad mark can keep a full colonel from being promoted to general. For him, the stakes were high.
Ernie hadn’t moved. I don’t think he really gave a shit. Of course, neither did I. Not about the colonel’s promotion, anyway.
The Provost Marshal seemed distracted as he spoke. “What about that other issue, First Sergeant. What was it?”
“The SOFA charges, sir.”
“Yes.” Stoneheart looked at us sadly. “Charges made against you two under the Status of Forces Agreement.”
Ernie’s back stiffened a little. SOFA charges were bad news. Usually made by a Korean civilian against an American serviceman-for abuse or assault or theft-under the provisions of the SOFA treaty between the United States and the Republic of Korea.. Sometimes the GI would end up in a Korean court, but more often everything was settled by an ROK/U.S. mediation board. Either way, the GI usually shelled out a lot of money in compensation to the victim.
“What SOFA charges are those, sir?” I asked politely.
The First Sergeant handed the Provost Marshal some papers and he shuffled through them.
“Apparently you two had a busy day. There was a traffic accident in Pupyong-ni. A female truck driver charges you with reckless driving that resulted in injury to her.”
Finally, Ernie spoke. “That was the broad we busted for stealing the copper wire.”
“Not proven,” the Provost Marshal said.
“The wire was in the back of her truck.”
“But you can’t link it to her. The other workmen who disappeared, maybe, but not her.”
“Sure we can. She helped them load it.”
“Maybe. Sloppy work anyway. And another incident here in Itaewon.” The Provost Marshal looked up from the paperwork and stared at Ernie. “Some workmen claim you assaulted them after they delivered some household goods.”
“Sure, I did. Because they were stealing.”
“Stealing what?”
“An iron, a toaster, a blender, shit like that,” Ernie said.
“Have these items been checked into the evidence room?”
Ernie lowered his head. “They sort of got misplaced in the heat of the incident.”
“Yes. Misplaced. So there’s no evidence of any theft. But there is eyewitness testimony of an assault.”
“They’re all slicky boys,” Ernie said. “Their word doesn’t mean shit.”
“They’re what?”
“Slicky boys. The same guys who’ve been ripping off this compound for years.”
A chill crept into the cell. As if the entire force of the Korean winter had busted right through the cement walls. The Provost Marshal lowered his voice. “What do you mean, Agent Bascom?”
Ernie went on to explain about the cartel that began in the Korean War and had been pilfering exactly four percent of U.S. military supplies and equipment ever since. He told the Provost Marshal about their high degree of organization and about how they stuck together whenever somebody went up against them.
After he finished, there was a lengthy silence. Colonel Stoneheart’s mouth drew into a thin line. I’d never seen him look so grim. Even the First Sergeant became nervous and coughed and shuffled his feet. Finally, the Provost Marshal spoke.
“Do you have any proof of the existence of this cartel?”
Ernie rolled his shoulders. “Proof? Everybody knows about them.”
“No,” the Provost Marshal said, half rising from his chair. “I’m talking about proof. Not some wild-ass speculations. Proof, Agent Bascom. That’s what you’re supposed to provide. You’re a professional investigator, not some punk on the block who repeats every ridiculous rumor that comes down the pike.”
He stood completely upright and waggled his finger under Ernie’s nose.
“Until you get proof, real evidence that will stand up in court, I will not have you spreading wild rumors about some gang of ‘slicky boys.’ You understand that?”
Ernie was stunned. Finally he realized that Colonel Stoneheart was waiting for an answer. Slowly, he nodded.
The Provost Marshal quivered and his lips almost disappeared altogether. For a minute I thought he was going to punch Ernie. The First Sergeant’s brow crinkled, and he stood and stepped a little closer. Maybe he thought the same thing. Finally, the Provost Marshal swiveled and marched to the door.
“Come with me, First Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
The First Sergeant shot us a warning look which meant stay right where you are and followed the colonel down the hallway.
“What was that all about?” Ernie asked.
“The slicky boys,” I said. “A professional cartel of thieves operating with impunity right under the nose of the Provost Marshal. It’s his responsibility to stop them, but he can’t even touch them. Therefore, his only recourse is to deny that they exist.”
“How can he do that? They’re everywhere.”
“Nobody realizes that at the Officer’s Club. What with servants and drivers and maids, they live a sheltered life. And as long as they’re in the dark, the Provost Marshal’s reputation stays intact. But if the existence of the slicky boys becomes common knowledge, the first question will be, why didn’t he do something about it?”
“And he’ll be slapped with a low efficiency rating,” Ernie said.