Rag and Bone (42 page)

“Which leaves nothing.”

“Yes. We have offered to act as intermediaries, which the Russians have roundly and loudly rejected. So we wait for both sides to come to their senses, which may never happen. This entire matter may be settled by Russian tanks entering Warsaw, but don’t you ever repeat that, William.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But I’ll be damned if we let Lieutenant Kazimierz be Scotland Yard’s scapegoat, and don’t repeat that either. You find whoever is responsible for these murders, and get Kaz back to work for me. Can you do that, William?”

“Yes, Uncle Ike. I can. I will.”

“Good, good. Do you need anything?”

“I’ve got Major Cosgrove organizing something that should help. I’ll let you know if I need a company of Rangers to bust
Kaz out.” Uncle Ike smiled and draped his arm over my shoulder as he led me to the door.

“I wouldn’t mind leading them myself,” he said.

T
HE SOUND OF
a dozen pairs of boots running down the stairs in the enclosed space of the Liverpool Street Underground set up an echo that signaled lethal intent, which was the general idea. We tromped into Archie’s domain bristling with arms. The ten Royal Marines had Sten guns, and Big Mike carried a Winchester M12 shotgun. I satisfied myself with a .45 automatic at my side and a piece of paper in my hand. No one had a round chambered, but Archie and his boys wouldn’t know that. We were going to give them something else to think about.

It was pelting rain outside, and with little chance of a Luftwaffe raid, the population in the shelter was light, only those diehards who coveted their regular bunks. Plus Archie and Topper. We’d waited until we saw them go down for the night, gave them twenty minutes to get settled, then came on like gangbusters. Two jeeps and a truck, with an armed guard left to watch over our little convoy. Can’t fool me twice.

“Topper Chapman!” I bellowed as we stormed into Archie’s shelter. It was tight going with the cots and bunks, but people scattered fast to let us through. First up was Charlie, the ex-boxer who stood guard at the entrance to Archie’s blanketed retreat.

“Out of our way, Charlie. You don’t have enough newspaper for all the iron we brought.”

“This ain’t right,” Charlie said, holding his ground. “You all stop where you are.”

“Billy, hold this,” Big Mike said, handing me the shotgun. He put up his fists, and Charlie did the same, despite the fact that Big Mike stood a foot taller than he did. Big Mike pulled back his right fist, and Charlie moved his arms to block the punch, but Big Mike jabbed him in the stomach with his left,
a quick punch that sent Charlie to his knees, gasping. I handed Big Mike the shotgun, and we all stepped around Charlie, who’d done his duty and lost only his wind.

“Topper Chapman!” I said again, and heard the scamper of feet as more residents of the shelter fled the scene. “Time to serve king and country.”

“What’s this then?” Clive said, open mouthed, as he peered out at us from behind the makeshift wall. Stanley pushed Clive forward, his hand in his jacket pocket. He took it out slowly, and empty, as he watched Big Mike’s shotgun aimed straight at his chest.

“Down! Down on the floor!” The Royal Marine sergeant shouted, and with the snouts of several Sten guns to guide them, Stanley and Clive were spread-eagled in ten seconds. Two more marines pulled down the hanging blankets, and Archie Chapman was revealed, sitting in his chair, reading a book,
Poems from the Trenches
. He carefully placed a bookmark between the pages, then calmly watched the proceedings. Topper sat in a hard-backed chair, his legs crossed nonchalantly, a drink in his hand. The Chapmans were a couple of cool customers.

“Come in, Peaches,” Archie said. “I’ve been hoping to see you.”

“I came to see Topper. To give him this,” I said, holding up the piece of paper. “His enlistment has been reinstated. Turns out your Dr. Carlisle has lost his medical license, which invalidates his diagnosis of whatever phony condition he cooked up for you.”

“Bollocks!” Archie cried, throwing his book down. “You can’t do this, Yank.”

“I’m just the messenger,” I said, handing Archie the paperwork. “These gentlemen are here to carry out the lawful order of your own government.”

“You can’t be serious,” Topper said, but he knew I was. It was just something to say. He drained his drink, stood, and nodded to his father.

“Come, Mr. Chapman,” the Royal Marine sergeant said, addressing Topper. “Everything’s in order. Let’s get to the barracks and get you kitted out.” He took Topper by the arm and as they left, I thought I saw a glimpse of what—excitement?—on Topper’s face. Joy, maybe. The Royal Marines had to be an improvement over life with Archie.

The place cleared out quickly. Two marines remained at the entrance to the shelter to keep the denizens out. Big Mike took a few steps back and cradled the shotgun in his arms. I took Topper’s chair, pulled it close to Archie, and sat.

“No poem for the occasion?” I asked. Archie frowned, a bitter, deep frown that pulled down the corners of his mouth as if he were caught on a fishhook. He looked at the paper, the stamp of the Crown, and the legalisms that had taken his son away.

“You want praise for this maneuver of yours, Peaches? I think one of your own, an Irishman, put it best.”

You say, as I have often given tongue

In praise of what another’s said or sung
,

’Twere politic to do the like by these;

But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?

“That’s Yeats, but I doubt you know it. This maneuver is a fleabite. I’ll have Topper back in the time it takes to buy a politician, which is to say by dawn. What do you want with him? Have you taken him as a bargaining chip?”

“I’d like some insurance against taking a bayonet over that business with the Russian gold,” I said.

“So that was your doing? I thought perhaps. What a surprise that was. Armored cars, machine guns, not what we expected. A great fortune lost. And such a loss does build resentment, so you’re wise to have Topper at hand, at least for as long as you’re down here.”

“Think carefully, Archie. Think about what it takes to get a doctor’s license revoked. Think about what pull it takes to get
Topper into the service, without a question asked about his record. They weren’t picky, right after Dunkirk. But now, criminal associations should keep a guy like Topper out. But there it is, in black and white. The Royal Marines, no less. Maybe a commando unit. Think about that.”

He did. His mouth went slack for a moment, then he clamped it shut. He reached for a bottle of gin, a couple of glasses, and poured. He downed his before I got mine to my lips.

“Pass me that book,” he said, pointing to the volume he’d thrown to the floor. I did. “You won’t believe what I was reading when you burst in here. Isaac Rosenberg. Jewish lad, died at the Somme. Would have been a great poet, perhaps, had he lived. I was in the middle of ‘On Receiving News of the War.’ Listen.”

In all men’s hearts it is
.

Some spirit old

Hath turned with malign kiss

Our lives to mould
.

Red fangs have torn His face
.

God’s blood is shed
.

He mourns from His lone place

His children dead
.

“What do you think of that, Peaches?”

“I think you did everything a father could do,” I said. “I know my dad did, but I’m still here. Fate has a hand to play as well.”

“You could be right,” Archie said, letting the book drop to the floor. “So what do you want? It must be more than safe passage through Shoreditch should you come visiting.”

“I want everything you know about Kiril Sidorov and Sheila Carlson.” His eyebrows rose, a sign of admiration.

“So you’ve put those two together, have you? Regular lovebirds.”

“I didn’t know if it was love or money,” I said.

“The course of true love runs a lot more smoothly cushioned by cash. Still, they seem to be dedicated to each other. I’m giving no evidence here, understand. We’re just having a chat.”

“About two people we both know,” I said, gulping gin.

“And this chat will give the good doctor his medical license back? And Topper back to me?”

“Yes,” I said, “if I’m satisfied.” I wanted to tell him to let Topper go, but I was a military detective, not a social worker.

“I don’t know, Peaches,” Archie said, staring into his empty glass. “I can get another sawbones anytime. And maybe Topper should serve. He told me the other day how it might be hard for him to hold his head up high after the war. That some in the neighborhood might think badly of him.”

“Really?” I cursed myself for giving Topper that line to get him steamed.

“Really. If he’s thinking that way, then he’s weak and needs toughening. Once you start caring what others think of you, then you start living by their rules. Might as well get a proper job.”

“I know some fellows in Boston who’d agree with you. They’d also agree that you should make that decision, not have it made for you.”

“You’re leavin’ me with only bad choices, Peaches. I don’t like selling out a client. It isn’t good for business.”

“Listen, Archie. Once we pick these two up, there’s going to be no public trial, no testimony. This is wartime, and they’re spies, pure and simple. If they’re not hung they’ll be thrown in a deep, dark hole far away from here. MI5 is backing me on this, and they’ll back you, too, if you want.”

“You’re an interesting one, Peaches. A mere lieutenant who haunts the streets and tunnels of London, but who also can have Shoreditch declared off-limits, bring a squad of Royal Marines along as your own muscle, ruin my doctor’s practice, and at the same time cavort with the likes of MI5. They’ve shed their share of Irish blood, haven’t they? Don’t you feel hatred for them? Who are you really, Peaches?”

“A mere lieutenant,” I said. “Who understands what family means.” Archie sighed, and refilled our glasses. We drank some more, but that sigh told me everything I needed to know. I relaxed, and Archie filled in the details, his mind clear even as his belly filled with gin. Names on fake identity papers and ration books. Make and model of the stolen car, plus stolen license plates. Dates and amounts of payments. Details on the split Sidorov would have received if the gold shipment had been taken. It was impressive.

Sidorov had controlled security for the gold shipment, and had talked his superiors into the low-profile approach. Egorov had been suspicious from the get-go, and Sidorov thought he had gotten too close, so one night he led Egorov to Liverpool Street and gave him the Polish treatment, down to the hands tied with twine. He planted the map on him to draw suspicion toward Egorov as a victim of thugs, Poles, or both.

Sidorov had traded information about the earlier produce shipment with Archie, to establish his bona fides and to put his hands on enough money to purchase the phony papers and rent the cottage in Shepherdswell, disguised as a crippled RAF pilot. That way, he’d be ready to pull his disappearing act once the gold was snatched and Archie supplied a body.

“It was our good fortune Jerry came back,” Archie said. “I’ve got a stiff on ice, didn’t even have to kill the poor bastard. Concussion did him in. Sidorov had given me enough of his uniform gear over time that we got him all outfitted. Need a dead Russian, Peaches? Fire sale, you might say. Ha! Wasted effort, that was, with him going off to Dover, and you spoiling our grand plans.”

“It was clever, the way you used a staff car to tail me,” I said, wanting to steer the conversation away from my monkey wrenching and on to how brilliant Archie was. “You didn’t have any other way to contact Sidorov?” I said it casually as I filled my glass for what I hoped was the last time. I didn’t want Archie to know how important this was. Otherwise, there’d be a price tag I might not be able to pay.

“Sure we did, Peaches. But we couldn’t wait. There’s a blind drop at the railway station in Shepherdswell. One or both of them was to check it every third day, five o’clock in the morning. It was a place to leave emergency messages, or to rendezvous if things went south. I didn’t want to wait three more days.”

“It had just been checked?”

“Aye. Sheila had been there the morning we last met, but my men told me she’d had no word from Sidorov. She was frantic, so they said, desperate for her cut. I thought we’d lost our opportunity, but with you willing to carry our message to Vatutin himself, it was easier to ride your coattails, so to speak.”

“Cheers,” I said, raising my glass and finishing off the gin. The stuff was beginning to grow on me. Now I knew where Sidorov would be in two days. No need to beat the countryside, just let him come to us, to the rendezvous with his lover at the station. It was more than I could ask for, but I had one more question.

“Did you give Sidorov a book of poetry?” I asked.

“Why, Peaches? Are you hurt I haven’t given you a gift?”

“Just curious. Did you mark that passage, the one about the ladder?”

“I did give him the Yeats, yes. Marked it, no. I’m too careful with my books for that,” Archie said, pouring himself another glass and smacking his lips as he drank. He leaned back in his chair, and we could have been sitting in a warm room by the fire, from all you could tell by the expression on his face.

“Did you write the Latin inscription?”

“Latin? No, I didn’t go to no toff school to learn Latin! Didn’t go to school much at all. What did it say?”

“The bodies are asleep, the souls are awake,” I said. “That’s what was written in Latin.”

“I showed him Yeats, and pointed out the poem he should read. The book had no inscription when I gave it to him. I wouldn’t chance some bright detective snooping around and finding my hand in Sidorov’s book. But he had a need of poetry, that man.”