James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

“Exactly. We can’t find any record of a missing person who matches his description. The problem we have is obvious, Mr. Fraser. Was this person a spy? If so, we must assume his confederates saw or learned things we don’t want the Nazis to know, especially with the invasion of France right around the corner.”

“Therefore,” Fraser said, steepling his fingers in front of him, “if he was a spy, you’ll have to put a lot of man power into the hunt for others. But if you can determine that he was something else, then that takes the heat off you.”

“It’s for the war effort, Mr. Fraser, not me. The boys who will be storming the beaches.”

“Yes, yes, quite,” Fraser said, waving away the distinction. “This is where I must say I have no idea why you’ve come to me, and that none of my clients would be involved in any sinister criminal activity.”

“Consider it said.”

“You’ve talked about wanting to identify this body,” Fraser said. “Nothing about apprehending the killer.”

“That is secondary at this point,” I said. I thought Fraser might pick up on that distinction, with his lawyer’s gift for legal nitpicking.

“Do you have reason to believe the victim was engaged in a criminal enterprise?” Fraser said.

“It’s a guess, but sure,” I said. “A civilian, in decent physical condition, not in the military. We’re fairly sure of that, since he doesn’t match any AWOL reports. I’m thinking a serious criminal conviction when he was younger.”

“Any number of medical conditions could have kept him out of the service,” Fraser said.

“Sure, but why hasn’t anyone reported him missing then? If he were involved in illegal activities, people who knew him would be less likely to report him missing. Being away for long periods would be par for the course.”

“I don’t disagree with you, Captain Boyle. It is a good guess. But what I think you are asking is quite difficult.”

“I’m not asking you to rat out a client,” I said. “All I want to know is if you’ve heard through the grapevine of anyone getting rubbed out within the past three months or so. A turf war, maybe something like that.”

“You sound like a gangster film,” Fraser said. He tapped his fingers together again and stared past me. He knew something; I could tell.

“Are you branching out into legit clients?” I asked. “Mrs. Fraser said you have an appointment with a regular citizen.”

“That would be admitting that my other clients were less than legitimate businessmen,” Fraser said.

“Hey, we’re not in court,” I said. “I’m only asking for some help here. It could save lives; British lives, American, French, I don’t know. But that’s got to count for something.”

“Even to a man like me, you mean?” He was right. I’d had to stop myself from saying it out loud.

“Especially to a man like you,” I said. It wasn’t time to soft-soap the guy. He knew it and I knew it. He got thugs and killers off the hook. This was a chance to do something decent, something that he could tell his wife in whispers; he could make her promise never to tell anyone that he’d helped catch a spy, or however he spun the story out to her. Yeah, especially to a guy like Razor Fraser.

“There may be something,” Fraser said.

“Okay,” I said, waiting for him to tell me. He fidgeted and wet his lips, as if he couldn’t get his body to go along with this new idea of helping someone in a uniform.

“We are trying to stick to the straight and narrow out here,” he said. “Dorothy wanted a change. She threatened to leave me if I didn’t get a new clientele.”

“Apparently Dorothy doesn’t understand the rules,” I said. Once you’re a shyster for the mob in any country, you don’t retire.

“No, she doesn’t. But that’s part of what I’m trying to tell you. There have been some conflicts. Two of my biggest clients have been killed.” He spoke in hushed tones-whether by habit or because his wife’s ear was at the door, I didn’t know.

“So that frees you up to be a rural attorney?”

“Almost,” Fraser said. “I must admit, it would be easier, and it would be nice not to be threatened all the time.”

“Threatened?”

“With what would happen if I lost a case,” Fraser said. My heart bled.

“Okay. Spill. What do you know?” I thought about threatening him myself, but held off. If he really liked the idea of a change, he had to see me as a safe bet, not another gangster.

“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.”