Blue Madonna (6 page)

“So why do we care about him?” I asked.

“Because his cousin cares about him,” Harding said. “CID finally got a guy who would talk. Sergeant Alvin Blake, radio operator and navigator on a B-26 bomber. His bomb group is based outside Southampton, and he's been diverting supplies to the Morgans. PX stuff mostly, but CID thinks he also had a hand in setting up a recent hijacking. Three trucks filled with canned food—a small fortune.”

“Why does he wish to talk?” Kaz asked.

“The gang leaned hard on his cousin Donald. Apparently the two are close, and when Donald had a weekend pass, he visited his cousin and complained to him about how he was being forced to steal supplies. Not knowing, of course, that Alvin was already part of the gang.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Alvin got in touch with CID and agreed to name names. Then someone snitched, and the Morgans grabbed Donald as leverage.”

“Exactly. Which was one reason Agent Hatch got in touch with me. He wanted to run this operation outside of channels, to reduce the chance of the Morgans' informant picking up on it.”

“Why not simply kill Alvin?” I asked.

“We're not sure,” Harding said. “They could have, but then they'd lose a valuable contact. Maybe they want to see if he'll come back into the fold once he saw they could get to his cousin.”

“Southampton is within the restricted coastal zone,” Kaz said. “Perhaps they cannot gain access to the base.”

“Hatch thinks there are other members of the gang on base,” Harding said. “They're probably the ones who gave Alvin Blake the message about his cousin. He recanted everything. He's a few years older than Donald and feels protective.”

“It's one thing to relay messages,” Big Mike said. “But the restricted area makes rough stuff harder. They can't bring in an English gang or a deserter. Without papers, they'd never get close.”

“What does Alvin have to say?” I asked. “Will he testify if his cousin Donald is safe?”

“He was ready to before,” Harding said. “No reason why he wouldn't be again, especially if we promise to have Donald transferred far away to someplace safe.”

I took a long pull on my ale and thought about this tale of two cousins. It made sense. Cousins could sometimes be closer than brothers. You shared family ties but not your toys and clothes, which took some of the rough edges off the lifelong relationship.

“Blake knows enough to take down the Morgan Gang?” I asked.

“He knows a lot,” Harding said, draining his own glass. “We get names and make some arrests; the rest of the gang will be fighting over who gets to make a deal. It will gut the organization.”

“They oughta hang,” Big Mike said, gulping the last of his beer. No one argued. Thieves stealing from combat troops didn't elicit sympathy from any of us.

At that moment, four bowls of steaming hot rabbit stew arrived. Our server informed us it was the specialty of the house, since rabbit was off-ration. They were easy to raise and to hunt, so it was a popular alternative to the more highly rationed meats. I'd heard there was some resistance to the idea at first, since the little guys were so adorable with their fluffy tails and floppy ears. But as food rationing tightened, cooking pots began to fill up with Peter Rabbit, and any qualms were quickly overcome. I ate the excellent stew, wondering at the fate that had befallen my dinner. He once had been free, and now he was cooked and served up.

I felt a vague kinship.

Chapter Seven

I walked up
to the brick two-story, the billy club in my belt digging into my ribs. I wore a heavy stubble and civilian coat, the slightest of desperate disguises. I knocked: sharp, impatient raps, the sound of a fugitive seeking shelter. I glanced behind me, watching the flow of workmen headed for the gates at the Castle Bromwich Aeroplane Factory. They built Spitfires there, and the test pilots were already up and noisily running the latest batch through their paces from the adjoining airfield.

I knocked again. Criminals weren't the earliest of risers. No one on the sidewalk paid me any mind. This was the last residential street before the factory area, all the red-brick and slate roofs grimy from coal smoke and whatever else belched out of the nearby chimneys. Crowded and anonymous, it was the perfect spot for a hideout. The house was run-down but not yet decrepit. The paint on the window sills was peeling, and upstairs two windows were boarded over. Broken glass or a makeshift cell?

“Yeah?” A rough voice barked as the door opened a bit, still secured by the chain.

“I'm looking for Willie,” I said. “Hammer sent me.”

The chain rattled loose, and the door opened a few inches farther. I entered a narrow hallway with cracked linoleum, faded wallpaper, and a guy with a pencil-thin mustache. He glowered at me as if I'd interrupted him at something important. His sleeves were rolled up and his suspenders hung loose at his side. Either he'd just gotten up or come in from a hard night on the town.

“Come on,” he said, waving a lazy hand my way. He walked down the hall, past the staircase and a couple of rooms.

“Are you Willie?” I asked as we entered the kitchen. Curtains were pulled over the windows, and teacups were scattered over a rough wooden table.

“No,
that's
Willie,” he said, as I heard the door shut behind me and felt the barrel of a pistol against my neck. It was cold, the sharp odor of gun oil rising in my nostrils.

“Have a seat,” Willie said, shoving me toward the table. “Nick, pat him down.” Nick pulled off my coat roughly and went through my pockets. There was nothing but a few shillings and of course the billy club.

“Planning a bit of rough stuff, eh?” Willie said, pushing me down onto the chair. Nick rapped the table with the club, hard enough to remind me what a billy club could do to a man's bones.

“It's all I had for protection,” I said. “I took it off the MP who was driving me.”

“What happened to him?” Willie asked, coming around to face me. He was short and squat, thick waisted, with a set of yellow-grey teeth behind meaty lips.

“I left him by the side of the road, sleeping like a baby,” I said. “I drove until I figured they'd put out an alarm, then ditched the jeep and made my way into Coventry. Caught a bus and got off with those suckers headed into the factory. No one spotted me.”

“No?” Willie said, handing over his Webley Bulldog revolver to Nick. He shook a Lucky Strike from a pack and sparked a wooden match to life with his fingernail. “Pretty smart guy, aren't you?”

“Look, fellas,” I said, spreading my arms wide in a friendly gesture, “no need to give me a hard time. Me and Hammer worked out a deal. He sent me here. So let's be pals, okay? Things can work out swell for everyone.”

“We already got a lot of friends, ain't we, Nick?” Willie said, straddling the chair opposite me. I hadn't expected them to cook me breakfast, but I hadn't expected the third degree, either.

“Yeah, I don't think we need any more pals, not like this Yank,” Nick said.

“Hey, what's your beef? I came here in good faith, ready to trade what I know.”

“Good faith?” Willie said, pulling on his cigarette. “Then why'd you lie to Hammer and Frankie?”

“What lie?” I asked, feigning indignation while I scrambled to think of where I'd tripped up.

“Listen, Willie, he's told so many lies he can't figure out which one,” Nick said with a laugh as he waved the Bulldog at me. It was a short-barreled piece with a small grip, perfect for stashing in a pocket.

“Hey, put that thing away,” Willie said, which told me they weren't planning on plugging me, at least not right now.

“I was on the up and up with Hammer,” I said. “I can put you in touch with people who will make you a lot of money.”

“Those ten thousand wool blankets,” Willie asked, “where are they?”

“What?” I had almost forgotten the story I'd spun for Hammer, so I stalled as best I could. “How'd you hear about that already?”

“We hear everything,” Willie said, his voice low and his eyes narrowed as his fingers beat out a drumbeat for each word on the table. “Start with the blankets, and tell the truth, or Nick puts a forty-four slug into your head.”

“They're in a warehouse in Bristol. They came in with a convoy about a week ago. I got a guy in a railway battalion who's setting the whole thing up. Soon as they load them, they're ours at the first stop.” It sounded good to me. Wool blankets were a hot commodity.

“I said the truth,” Willie said, slamming his palm on the table. Nick pulled the Bulldog back out.

“Okay, okay,” I said, getting the feeling they weren't bluffing. If word got from the stockade to these guys as fast as it did, they had reliable communications and sources of information. Given that they'd already infiltrated the quartermaster corps and CID, maybe I'd underestimated them. “There are no blankets. At least, none I know of. I was trying to impress Hammer, get his attention. But that doesn't mean I don't have contacts. Valuable contacts.”

“Yeah, we got someone checking on your contacts. I heard of Archie Chapman,” Willie said. “If that ain't a lie as well, we might live up to our end of the bargain. But if that's another phony story, well, then you'll be sorry you ever walked through our door.”

“Because you won't be walking out,” Nick
added, still gripping the Bulldog.

“I think he gets it,” Willie said, leaving no doubt as to who was the brains and who was the muscle.

“How'd you know?” I asked. “About the blankets.”

“Nick, stash the piece and brew up some tea for our guest, all right?” Nick looked disappointed but shuffled over to the stove, stuffing the pistol into his pants pocket. “You think there'd be ten thousand blankets within a hundred miles, and we wouldn't know about it? Our boys hit a train in Basingstoke last month, took off a couple thousand army blankets. That was the last of any quantity in the area. A U-boat sunk a transport in a convoy a couple of weeks ago. Guess what it carried?”

“Wool blankets,” I said, impressed with their intelligence sources.

“Right. So there's a shortage of blankets right now. You overplayed your hand, Mr. Boyle.”

“Listen, that was only for show. But Archie Chapman is the real deal, as are my other contacts. You'll see.”

“We better, and soon,” Willie said. He crushed out his cigarette and leaned back, eyeing me like a dubious banker facing a farmer asking for a loan. After a drought.

Nick set down the tea. Unlike most households, there was no shortage of sugar at 65 Goosemoor Lane. We drank, an almost domestic moment. I figured even though they were criminals, they were English, and odds were they wouldn't interrupt this ritual with gunfire.

“You're going to fix me up with identity papers, right?” I said. “Assuming everything checks out.”

“Yeah.” Willie nodded. “We'll make you a Canadian to confuse things a bit. Medical discharge, ration book, the works.”

“Will they hold up if I get caught at a checkpoint?”

“Why not? They're the real thing. Nothing but the best for you, Boyle. We've got doctors who will sign anything, and we got stacks of all sorts of government forms stolen right out from under their noses.”

“This war's the best thing that ever happened,” Nick added. “There's more valuable stuff lying around than ever. I used to be a smash-and-grab man, going after jewelry and the like in store windows. Now all we have to do is a bit of burglary in the wee hours, and we can fill in the paperwork for whatever we want.” Looked like Nick had some brains after all.

“And then your lot comes along.” Willie chuckled. “With everything from nylon stockings to whiskey to canned hams. A man'd be a fool not to get rich these days.”

“Someday,” I said, “we'll look back on these as the good old days.” That got a laugh. I was tempted to ask if any of their pals or family had died in this war that made them so rich, but I held back. Too much respect for the British Bulldog. “So how safe is this place anyway? I assume Hammer and Frankie don't hand out the address willy-nilly.”

“It's safe, don't you worry,” Willie said. “We only go out during the shift changes. That way, we blend in with the laborers and keep from drawing attention to ourselves.”

“Good plan,” I said. “Police don't come around much?”

“Not on this street,” Willie said. “It's mostly cheap rooming houses and apartments now, for all the workers. There's a couple of pubs a few streets over, and they draw the most attention. We're well hidden in plain sight.”

“I don't doubt you, but no way do I want to end up back in the clink.” I already knew about the rooming houses. Kaz and Big Mike had taken up residence on the other side of the street where they could keep an eye on things. Not that they could do much if Nick took the dog for a walk, but it was still comforting to know.

I sipped my tea, keeping an eye on my new friends as Willie nodded his agreement about jail. As it grew silent in the kitchen, I listened to the background noise. The rumble of a truck headed down the road; the faint creaks of an old house. But no other footsteps, no sign of life, neither a captive rattling chains nor a gangster sharpening a blade. I stayed quiet, hoping for a hint of Donald Blake, but the only sound was the sudden roar of Spitfires overhead.

“Damn test pilots,” Willie muttered. “They fly every plane that comes out from that factory. All they need do is take off, climb, do a few maneuvers, then land. No need to rattle our windows.”

“Does that go on all day? I could use some shut-eye.”

“Good luck with that, Boyle. They'll be at it till six o'clock tonight. Nick'll fix you some grub, and then rest up as best you can. Once we get word back about Archie Chapman, we'll get your papers. Or not,” Willie said with a wink to his pal. They both chuckled.

“You'll get my papers,” I said. “And if you're smart, you'll cut out the wise-guy stuff. When your boss hears about my connections, he may make me a partner. May as well start calling me ‘Mr. Boyle, sir,' so you can get used to it. Now what's to eat, Nick?”

Nick hesitated, looking to Willie to see if my insolence needed to be punished. I could almost see the wheels in Willie's mind turning, calculating the consequences if I wasn't blowing smoke.

“Make us some eggs, Nick,” was all he said, his eyes not leaving mine. A guy who knew how to play the angles. Nick grabbed a once-white apron, wrapping the string around his waist and knotting it. It was the kind of apron a short-order cook wore—full protection from splatters from the neck down. It was grimy and worn, but what interested me most was that it was too large for Nick. The sides covered his pockets, held down by the tied string. He'd be able to get to the Bulldog, but not quickly. I figured five to seven seconds of fumbling before he got a grip on it.

“Eggs for three?” I asked, trying to sound bored and indifferent.

“Best not to ask too many questions,” Willie said. “Mr. Boyle.”

“Sure. But tell me: How many people know I'm here?”

“Why?” Willie said.

“So I know who to come after if the cops show up. I'm not spending the rest of my life in Leavenworth, so I don't plan on letting them take me. But I do plan on evening the score if anyone snitches.”

“That ain't the kind of operation we run,” Willie said. “We reward loyalty and punish disobedience. Grassers are put down like the dogs they are.”

“Smart,” I said, watching Nick at work cracking eggs. “A united front.”

“Exactly,” Willie said, smiling. “Don't worry. Long as you're honest, you're safe with us.” I almost laughed, but caught myself.

Then I heard it. A footstep. Another. The sounds came from upstairs, echoing off the ancient plaster walls. I yawned wide and loud, trying not to appear as if I'd heard. I caught a quick glance between Nick and Willie. It vanished instantly.

That was as close as I was going to come to proof Blake was being held upstairs.

Nick cracked another egg, this one thin-shelled and splintering in his hand, which ended up covered in sticky egg white. Willie caught me looking, his eyes going wide for a split second before I grabbed the billy club from between us and cracked him over the head.

Nick swung around at the sound as I leapt on the table and lunged at him as he tried to reach for his gun, coming up with nothing but a fistful of apron before I connected. He staggered, a dull look on his face, but stayed upright, his hand reaching for a pocket he couldn't quite find. I gave him one more hit, a gentle rap, so maybe he'd wake up at some point. These guys weren't angels, but I didn't want to play the devil myself.

He fell forward on his knees. I rolled him over and took the Bulldog. I tied his hands with the apron strings and then checked on Willie. He was still breathing, but had a helluva lump on his head. I couldn't find anything to tie him with and didn't want to take the time to search. I took two chairs and set them on top of his torso, figuring he'd make a racket if he tried to get up. If Blake were here, I wouldn't need that much time anyway.

I bolted from the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time, billy club in one hand and the Bulldog in the other. I came to a wide hallway off the landing, with one door on the right and two on the left. The right side was where I'd seen the boarded windows, so I made for that door. As quiet as I tried to be, my boots seemed to thunder against the hardwood floor. One bare bulb lit the hall, casting shadows where wallpaper peeled from the plasterboard. I stuffed the club into my belt; paint chips flaked off the door where I laid my hand against it. I tried the handle. Locked.