James Benn - Rag and Bone

I pulled the heavy curtains shut, pausing to watch the last of the afternoon light bathe the park in a soft glow. Vehicles crawled along Park Lane, tiny beams of light seeping onto the roadway through blackout slits. London had never felt so lonely. Everyone was going somewhere. Home, to dinner, back to the barracks, maybe down to the shelters. Those things that passed for a normal life these days. Friends and family, small talk, even if it was on a subway platform. Me, I was in a high-class hotel, rummaging through my best friend’s possessions, spilling letters from his dead lover onto the floor. Welcome to my war. I poured a drink from the bar Kaz kept stocked with Irish whiskey, just for me. Here’s to you, pal.

It went down smoothly, but I still felt a twinge of that morning’s hangover. I shouldn’t have drunk so much vodka the night before, and I shouldn’t have any more tonight, I told myself as I poured one more. But then I thought, hell, if I’m looking to steal Kaz’s pistol, I might as well drink all his whiskey, too.

Daphne’s letters made me realize how long it had been since I’d written one myself. I pulled some stationery from the writing desk-heavy, creamy paper with The Dorchester in elegant script across the top. I could sneak it into the airmail bag at headquarters, instead of using the Victory Mail forms. Mom would get a kick out of the hotel stationery. I switched on the desk lamp and set down my drink, the heavy crystal settling on the polished cherrywood with a satisfying clunk. It was a high-class sound, the kind of sound that said a lot of money had gone into the furniture, glassware, and booze. A rich man’s sound, the echo of privilege and place. But right then I’d have preferred the sound of a beer glass going down on a coaster at Kirby’s Tavern in South Boston. Soft and quiet. Comfortable.

I started off the letter with the obvious news that I was back in London. I asked about my kid brother, Danny, who had just started college under the Army Specialized Training Program. He’d turned eighteen and would have been drafted but for the ASTP, which was an army deal to insure a supply of well-educated officer candidates in case the war dragged on longer than they expected. It sort of satisfied Danny, who got to wear a uniform and march around campus. He was a smart kid-I mean a really smart kid-straight As and all that. It was a cinch for him to get in, and I hoped it would keep him safe until the shooting died down.

Then I had to write about what I was up to. I couldn’t tell them anything about Diana, on account of her being British, since I didn’t want a written lecture on the evils of associating with the English. Or about dead Poles in a Russian forest, a dead Russian in bombed-out London, Kaz and his possible murder weapon, getting drunk on vodka last night, being chased by MPs at High Wycombe, or drinking too much whiskey tonight. I almost wrote about young Alfred finding the body and thinking it was a German, but that was too depressing. It was a short letter, and I fell asleep on the couch, a spilled drink soaking the carpet and the vision of motherless Alfred leading his father by the hand worming its way into my dreams.

In the morning I called Kaz, who was still not available. Then I called room service, which mercifully was. I wolfed down toast and jam, and then washed that down with hot coffee until the cobwebs cleared. I told myself no booze today, but I knew that morning promises had a way of giving in to evening temptations. I wanted to talk to Kaz, but until I could, I needed to work this case some more. There were two visits I had to make. One was to the Russian who had come to claim Egorov’s body. Kiril Sidorov, captain in Stalin’s air force, or so he claimed. He was certainly NKVD, charged with cleaning up an embarrassing murder of a Soviet officer gone bad, tempted by the degenerate English criminal class. The other was to Archibald Chapman, one of those degenerate English criminals. Sidorov was first on the list, since degenerates generally slept in, while secret police never sleep.

It was a cold, clear day. I’d dressed in my heavy wool brown pants and the chocolate brown wool shirt I’d picked up in Naples before coming north. With my light khaki tie, it made me look like a gangster, which was why I had chosen it for today. The Russians probably thought all Americans were gangsters, so why not go along? I set my garrison cap at a smart angle, put on my mackinaw with the warm wool collar, and added a scarf and leather gloves. It felt like winter in Boston on a sunny day with the breeze howling up the Charles River. The Soviet Embassy was on the other side of Kensington Palace, where the lesser royals had to make do, and the wind gusted over the open park grounds. It was a swanky area, not the kind of place you’d find many Bolsheviks among the neighbors, but even a Red ambassador had to put on a good show.

Walking to Kensington Palace Gardens was a little like walking up Beacon Hill, except the English had more room to spread out than the Boston Brahmins had. I found the Soviet Embassy, which wasn’t hard, given the big bloodred flag snapping in the breeze, the yellow hammer and sickle vanishing and reappearing in the silken folds as the banner waved in the wind. The building was a two-story, ornate structure, beige brickwork bordered by gleaming white trim and elegantly carved cornices. Two sentries stood at the ironwork gate, dressed in Soviet Army greatcoats. I asked to see Captain Kiril Sidorov, and they opened the gate without asking a question or speaking a word. I wondered what you had to do in their army to get embassy duty in London. It must have seemed like springtime in paradise, compared to the Russian front.

Inside the main entrance was a small room. It was painted a stark white, with one door, a desk, and two chairs. A man in a baggy dark suit sat at a desk and, without looking up, started asking me a series of questions as a bigger guy in an even baggier suit searched me. Neither of them had spent their spare time shopping in London, that was for sure. Who was I, whom did I want to see, for what purpose, who was my superior officer, and finally, what was my civilian occupation.

I used Harding’s name, holding Uncle Ike in reserve in case things got dicey. I told them I wanted to speak to Captain Sidorov in connection with the murder of Captain Gennady Egorov.

“The assassination of Captain Egorov,” the smaller dark suit stated, waiting for the answer to the last question. It didn’t seem worth debating the difference. He had a thin face, with a thick mustache that looked out of place over pale, pursed lips. He spoke English carefully, considering each word as he strung them together in a series of harsh consonants.

“Why does it matter what I did in civilian life?” I asked. I wondered if his mustache was an imitation of Joe Stalin’s.

“It will assist us in determining if you are an enemy of the people. We do not want provocateurs causing trouble for our comrades.”

“Aren’t we all on the same side, comrade?”

“We must be vigilant in the class struggle, as well as in the struggle against Fascism, especially in this decadent city. Your civilian occupation, please?”

“Have you guys seen Ninotchka yet?”

“We have no one here by that name.” Busy writing in his notebook, he still hadn’t looked me in the eye. The big guy stood with his arms folded, a bored look on his broad, dull face. His neck was thick and his knuckles were decorated with scar tissue. I wondered what his civilian occupation had been.

“No, the film,” I said. “With Greta Garbo.”

“Western films are a frivolous waste of time. We have our own Russian motion pictures brought in for entertainment. Perhaps Captain Sidorov will invite you to see one. Your civilian occupation?”