Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries

Train struggled to his feet. He was pushing a quarter century and his knees weren’t as flexible as they’d been ten years ago.

“You think Miller’s partner took the Missal?”

“Yep.”

“But why, Captain?”

Coughlin shrugged. “Who do you think Miller’s partner was, Train?”

“It had to be someone who had the key to the outer lock.”

“Yes.”

Another distant howitzer boom.

“Who, Train? Don’t be afraid. Who was Miller’s partner?”

“It had to be Lieutenant McWilliams or Sergeant Dillard, sir.”

“Or – who else?”

“You, sir.”

“That’s right. We have three suspects now, Train. That’s progress. That’s real progress. It has to be McWilliams or Dillard or Captain Coffin. Oh, I know what they call me. Don’t be naïve.” He paused. “Three suspects. Don’t be afraid to say it.”

He walked to the window. At least Miller had had a window in his room. He peered outside for a long moment. Looking past the captain, Train could see the patches of snow covering the red west Georgia clay.

“Where do you think the money is, Train?”

“I don’t know. Sir.”

“Try. If you were the killer, Train, if you were McWilliams or Dillard or Old Man Coughlin, Captain Coffin, and you had just robbed the company safe, what would you do with the money?”

“I think I’d try and get it off the post, Captain.”

“I think so, too. All right, come on back to the company office, soldier.”

The two soldiers posted outside the company office rendered smart rifle salutes to Captain Coughlin as he and Private Train returned. The captain motioned Train to sit opposite him, then picked up a telephone and placed a call. He picked up a pencil and scribbled a few notes, then grunted into the receiver and hung it up.

“McWilliams and Dillard both drove off post last night. McWilliams left around 2300 hours. Returned at 0400 this morning. Dillard left at 2346 hours and returned shortly after 0500. There’s no record of my leaving the post, and in fact I did not. What do you make of it, Train?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Train followed Coughlin’s glance to a wall-mounted clock. It was well into the afternoon. He and Captain Coughlin had missed the noon meal. Train’s barracks-mates would be on the practice range, throwing dummy hand grenades at cardboard targets.

From outside the building, Train heard a familiar voice. It was Lieutenant McWilliams, dressing down the two soldiers for what Train knew would be some petty offense. A moment later, McWilliams strode into the office and halted before Captain Coughlin’s desk. He snapped a sharp salute and all but clicked his heels, Gestapo-fashion.

“Sit down, Lieutenant,” Coughlin instructed. “Good. Make yourself comfortable. Don’t worry about sitting next to an enlisted man, you won’t catch a disease.”

McWilliams sent a filthy glare at Train.

“Where were you last night, Lieutenant?”

“I was here, sir. In the company office. Catching up on paperwork, looking over training schedules.”

“Right. And then?”

‘Then, sir?”

“Then, Lieutenant. You didn’t spend the night here, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, where did you go?”

“I went to my quarters, sir. I got a good night’s sleep, then I went to the mess hall and met you there for breakfast.”

“Right.”

Coughlin picked a sheet of paper off his desk, fingered it briefly, then dropped it again.

“Gate guards indicate that you left the post at 2300 hours last night and returned at 0400.”

“Oh. Yes, sir. That’s true.”

“That’s all right, Lieutenant. You’re an officer and a gentleman. You don’t have to stand bed check. So long as you’re present for all duties, you can come and go as you please. That’s per regulations.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where were you, though?”

“Am I required to answer that, sir?”

“I am directing you to answer, yes, Lieutenant.”

McWilliams had removed his visored cap and was holding it in his lap. “Sir, I met some friends and enjoyed a social visit.”

“Right. And where was that?”

“Columbus, sir.”

“Broad Street?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You get laid, McWilliams?”

“Sir!”

“Jesus Christ, man, you have a pair of gonads, don’t you? What did you do, pick up a woman in a bar? Do you have a steady girlfriend? Go to a whorehouse? This isn’t a Sunday School class, Lieutenant, we’ve had a murder and robbery here. Where were you last night?”

“The, ah, that one, Captain.”

There was another boom. It was louder than the howitzer booms, but in fact it seemed to be a smaller explosion, sharper, closer to the company area.

“Which one?”

“Ah, the last one, sir.”

“Please, McWilliams, let’s have it in plain English.”

“All right, sir. I was at the Cardinal Hotel.”

“Okay. We all know what that place is. I just hope you were careful, Lieutenant.”

“I was, sir.”

The young officer’s face was crimson.

“All right. One more thing. I want to inspect your vehicle.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right now, McWilliams.” The captain turned to Nick Train. “Did your police training include checking out vehicles for contraband, Private?”

“It did, sir.”

Train wound up inspecting Lieutenant McWilliams’s 1942 Packard Darrin One-Eighty. The convertible came up spotlessly clean and innocent, inside and out. McWilliams stood by fuming, Captain Coughlin watched noncommittally. Nothing under the hood but a perfectly maintained straight-eight engine. Nothing in the trunk but a jack, a tire-iron, a tool kit, and a spare tire. At the end, Train crawled out from under the car, dusted himself off and presented himself to Coughlin.

“Nothing, sir.”

“All right, Train. Lieutenant McWilliams, you hurry out to the grenade range and have a look-see. That was a nasty pop a little while ago. I hope somebody didn’t set off a real grenade. Train, you come with me. We’re going to have a look at Corporal Miller’s vehicle. McWilliams, you don’t mind if we borrow your tire iron, do you? Just in case we need it to pry open Miller’s car?”

But Miller’s little ’36 Nash 400 had been left unlocked. The True Believer in All Things Holy had trusted his fellow man to that extent. Or maybe he had nothing worth stealing. There was no trunk lid in the odd little car. Train scrambled over the seat to get into the trunk. The car wasn’t as well maintained mechanically as McWilliams’s Packard, nor was the interior quite as clean and innocent.

Train emerged with a half-empty bottle of Bourbon in one hand and a stack of ratty publications in the other. “Girly books,” he grinned, offering the loot to Captain Coughlin.

The captain grinned and shook his head. “So little Miller had a pair of gonads, too.” He brushed his hand across his forehead. “Well, we’ll just toss that stuff. No need to upset his family, they’ve got grief enough coming. No Missal, though?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, soldier. On to Sergeant Dillard’s wagon.”

But before they got to that vehicle, a soldier in olive fatigues came panting up, perspiring profusely despite the winter chill. Train recognized the ruddy complexion and the curly rust-colored hair sticking out from under the man’s fatigue cap. It was Aaron Hirsch. He wasn’t crying, just sweating.

He managed to pull himself together and salute the captain.

“Sir, Lieutenant McWilliams sends his respects and a message for the captain.”

“Yes, yes.” Coughlin returned the salute. “What is it, Hirsch?”

“It’s Sergeant Dillard, sir.”

“What happened?”