“There’s a man by the name of Charles Sabini,” Fraser said. As soon as the words came out, he slumped back in his chair like a deflated balloon. He had broken the code, and there was no going back. He knew it. “He’s half English and half Italian. He had a gang in the thirties, and controlled most of the racecourses in the south of England. He was heavily into gambling, fixing races, extortion, you name it.”
“A client of yours?”
“No. My clients were in competition with Sabini. At the beginning of the war, Sabini was interned as an enemy alien, even though he was born here and had an English mother. My guess is that Scotland Yard decided on the internment as a pretext, since they couldn’t pin anything on him.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I said.
“From their point of view, yes,” Fraser said. “But the irony is that Sabini’s gambling empire was built upon a network of Jewish bookmakers operating out of London. When the war began, some of his Italian gangsters wanted to cut ties with their Jewish partners, out of loyalty to Mussolini. Sabini refused, even though it meant being deserted by his men with fascist sympathies.”
“I take it he’s no longer interned,” I said.
“No, he was let out after a year. Scotland Yard probably figured enough damage had been done to his organization by then. They were right,” Fraser said.
“And you know that because your clients benefited from his absence,” I said.
“Since they are now dead, they can no longer be my clients,” Fraser said.
“Understood,” I said, a little bothered by the fact that I was following his logic.
“Sabini got right back into the game,” Fraser continued. “He was caught fencing stolen property and sent down for two years. Last year he got out and started making up for lost time. He’s re-established himself on the horse-racing circuit and branched out into the black market.”
“Which means he must have stepped on somebody’s toes. Black-market territories are certain to be well established,” I said.
“Of course,” Fraser said. “Sabini isn’t afraid of violent confrontation, but he’s also a clever one. He saw the buildup beginning in southwest England. It’s not hard to put two and two together and come up with the idea that the area is becoming one big supply dump for the American army as they train for the invasion.”
“What about existing gangs? They must be working the ports all along the coast.”
“They are,” Fraser said. “Sabini cut a deal that he’d stay out of the ports. He’s got the inland territory, with men on his payroll who load and unload the trains that haul supplies coming from the ports. He gets his share and then some. The man’s got more business than he can handle.”
“So what’s the connection?” I asked.
“Three months ago, a client dispatched an individual to Newton Abbot, where Sabini is headquartered. The job was to eliminate Sabini. This individual was never heard from again, and never returned to collect the remainder of his fee. Then, within a month, my client cut himself shaving. From ear to ear.”
“You don’t seem upset,” I said.
“A lawyer in my situation learns to keep his opinions to himself and his emotions in check,” Fraser said, looking pained in spite of his declaration. “I had to look for a way out. If Sabini thinks I’ve left my former practice, there’s a chance he’ll leave me be.”
“You think he’d put a hit out on you?” I asked. In the States, legal counsel was usually off-limits, even for hardened gangsters.
“No, Captain Boyle, I’m afraid he’d want me as his attorney,” Fraser said, his head bent low and his voice lower. “Neither my wife nor my ulcer would find that acceptable.”
Now I understood why Fraser had so readily told me everything. He hoped I’d put Sabini away and all his troubles would be behind him.
“Where does Charles Sabini hang his hat?” I asked.
“At the racecourse in Newton Abbot,” Fraser said. “The track sits hard against the River Teign, which flows into the Channel about fifteen or twenty miles from Slapton Sands.”
“It fits,” I said. “You don’t happen to know the name of the guy who was sent to kill Sabini, or where he was from?”
“Captain Boyle, I must caution you,” Fraser said, wagging his finger at me, his face turning red. “I never said I was aware of a plot to have anyone killed or injured. If I had been, I would have been duty-bound to report it to the authorities. As it stands, I was aware of an emissary sent to Mr. Sabini, who did not return to my client for reasons unknown. I never knew his name or was acquainted with him in any way.”
“Sorry,” I said, hands up in surrender, worried that he’d blow a fuse. “I did not mean to imply any knowledge of wrongdoing. I am certain you had no inkling of any criminal activity.” That seemed to calm him down. The response was automatic, built up from years of denying what he knew, hiding the truth even from himself. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Yes,” Fraser said. “Be very careful. Sabini has vowed never to return to prison, and he has a violent temper. He has also developed a vehement hatred of the British government. Days before he was due to be released from prison, his son Michael, an RAF pilot, was killed in North Africa.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said, hoping he was being completely truthful. “If this pans out, how would you and the missus like an invitation to the Mayor’s Ball at the Dartmouth Royal Regatta this summer?”
“That would be just the thing,” Fraser said, beaming. Respectable. I left him a happy man, which was what I needed. I didn’t want him to have any regrets that might prompt a telephone call to his old pals, or worse yet, Sabini himself.
It was a cruel world, I thought as I walked back to the station. Even a crook would be proud of a son fighting in the RAF, but it would take a villain’s mind to make his death an affront, turning his grief into anger at a government that had had good reason to jail him. Lots of professional criminals look at what they do as a job, with risks and rewards. They go up against law enforcement, but it’s all part of the game. For Sabini, the game had become personal, and that made him dangerous.
The train had passed through Newton Abbot, and on the return trip I watched for a glimpse of the racecourse. It was easy to spot. The train ran along the banks of the River Teign, and as we neared the town it was visible across the river, the oval track fronting the water along one curve, the grandstand and stables at the far end. I had a fleeting glimpse of a small boathouse and dock off a dirt path that led down from the track. A private little spot, if no train was running.
The rail yard was busy. Another set of tracks joined ours at the station, and I could see cars on a siding being unloaded. Maybe some of Sabini’s men were hard at work replenishing his stocks, courtesy of Uncle Sam.
The train pulled out of the station, and I watched the river widen into an estuary, the tide running out, a tree branch floating and bobbing on the current, until finally the locomotive picked up speed and we left the Teign behind on its journey to the cold Channel waters.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kaz and David Martindale were waiting for me in Dartmouth. It was nearly dusk, and I’d spent most of the day on a crowded train dodging packs and rifles as GIs and Tommies got on and off in droves. We weren’t expected for dinner at Ashcroft, so David suggested the Dartmouth Arms, which was close by. “They have excellent fish and ales,” he said, which was all I needed to hear.
“Was your trip successful?” Kaz said as we walked to the pub.
“I’ll tell you about it after dinner,” I said, not certain about what we should share with David.
We ordered three pints and got a snug booth in the corner. “Na zdrowie,” Kaz said, raising his glass and giving the Polish version of cheers. We clinked glasses and drank. After a day of train travel and talking with a crooked lawyer, it went down smooth. As we drank, I watched David and Kaz. It was easy to see them as chums at school. Both good-looking-war injuries notwithstanding-with thin features, sharp eyes, and easy grins. I could visualize them up to their elbows in books, discussing the finer points of Romanian grammar or some rare book.