James Benn - Rag and Bone

“There may be a link between him and the dead Russian.”

“I’m not surprised he’s the one left standing.”

“Happen to know where I can find him?”

“He lives in Shoreditch, but I wouldn’t advise asking for his address. He is superstitious about air raids, though. He still sleeps every night in the Liverpool Street Underground.”

“So I’ve heard. That’s not far from where the body was found.”

“Be very careful, Billy. He has bodyguards with him at all times.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I have a friend who works for the Sunday Dispatch. He was going to write a series about the London underworld, and he told me about his plans since he knew I was interested in American gangsters. Some of Chapman’s men paid him a visit and convinced him to move on to other projects.”

“How? Did they beat him up?”

“No, he was not injured at all. They stopped him at night on Fleet Street, outside his office. Two of them with some poor soul from the East End slums. They slit his throat right there on the sidewalk and told my friend that would happen to him if he ever wrote a single word about Archie Chapman.”

“I assume he found other stories to write.”

“Yes. No shortage of stories in wartime. I think it gives people license to tolerate things they ordinarily wouldn’t. The black market is harmless in some respects, but shockingly criminal in others. You see your neighbor getting a bit of extra butter or meat, and you quite naturally want yours, too. No one ever thinks about all the theft and organized crime behind it. Not to mention all the riches you Americans brought with you. It seems never ending, all the food, machinery, men, and supplies. Why not take your share, that’s the common feeling.”

“And men like Archie Chapman get rich while better men go off and get themselves killed,” I said.

“Yes. Remember, he’s feared, but also respected by some in the East End. He spreads a bit of his wealth throughout Shoreditch, so the locals tend to close ranks around him. Be cautious when you venture into the Underground, and don’t go unarmed.”

“You still carrying that little. 32 automatic?”

“Of course. Do you want to borrow it?”

“No, but thanks,” I said. “I have a. 38 police special packed away, I’ll bring that along. Not as conspicuous as a. 45.” I thought it was a good sign that Kaz offered his piece to me. A guy who’d popped a Russian in the head a few days ago would’ve gotten rid of it most likely. He sure wouldn’t be eager to offer it to a cop, or whatever the hell I was. “One thing I forgot to ask, Kaz. You know anything about a Russian delegation visiting High Wycombe recently?”

“Eighth Air Force? No, why would they go there?”

“Just what I wanted to know. Big Mike has a date with a WAC from up there. He’s picking her up tonight. Maybe she can tell him something.”

“There is a Polish RAF squadron nearby at the Northolt base. I can ask them, although if they spotted any Russians I would’ve heard about the fight by now.” He smiled grimly. It had been a joke, but it reinforced the truth about the feelings between Poles and Russians. Deadly.

I’d gone back to the Dorchester, retrieved my Colt. 38 police special from my duffel bag, donned a shoulder holster, and resisted the temptation to sit on the couch, put my feet up, have a drink, and think things through. It was tough since a suite at the Dorchester with Kaz’s well-stocked bar had a lot more going for it than reporting to Colonel Harding then visiting a crime boss deep underground. It was tempting to goof off, get drunk, and forget about Kaz, dead Russians, and Diana risking her neck. But I knew the momentary respite would be followed by a hangover, and all the problems I was worried about would come flooding back, with a headache to boot.

So I told myself I was a first lieutenant now, and duty called. I was proud of my newfound sense of responsibility as I strode across St. James’s Square and up the stairs at Norfolk House. Within minutes, I wished I’d stayed on the couch with a bottle.

“What have you found out?” Harding said, leaning back in his chair and drumming his fingertips on the arms. No preliminaries, no how are you, isn’t it great to be back in London? Harding was permanently impatient, like a man late to someplace much better than this, his foot tapping in irritation at the forces holding him down-to this desk, this place, this city far from the fighting, where I knew he longed to be. I was part of what kept him here, if only by association, but I suffered for it just the same.

“Captain Kiril Sidorov is NKVD, as you thought. He’s spying on the Poles, using a hotel employee to pass him information,” I said.

“That’s interesting. What does it have to do with Egorov’s murder?”

“I don’t know. The Russians are about to release their own report on Katyn, and I think they want to know if the Poles have anything up their sleeves. Could make for bad blood.”

“OK,” Harding said, lighting a Lucky and blowing smoke over the papers strewn on his desk. “What do the Poles have?” He said it casually, not meeting my eyes, as if he weren’t really asking me to betray Kaz.

“More of the same,” I said. “I’ll stay on top of it.”

“Who told you about Sidorov’s inside man?”

“I followed him.”

“You saw the meet?”

“Yeah. At Victoria Station. I trailed his contact to the hotel.”

“And?”

“I told Kaz.”

“Is the hotel guy still in one piece?” Harding didn’t give anything away. Anger, satisfaction, joy, any of these could be lurking beneath the surface of his angular face.

“Yes. They’ll put him to good use.”

“You mean feeding misinformation to our Allies the Soviet Union. You remember them? The guys fighting millions of Nazis on the Russian front?”

“The Poles are our Allies, too, aren’t they?”

“Listen up, Boyle. Your job is to find out who killed Captain Egorov. Stay out of any squabbles between the Poles and the Russians. Understood?” Harding ground out his cigarette in a cut-glass ashtray, oddly beautiful in its crystal clearness, even filled with gray ash. I thought the murder of thousands was more than a squabble, but I knew what to say.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. What else?”

I told him about the map that the kid had pinched from Egorov’s corpse, about Archie Chapman and the possible black market connection. He nodded calmly, listening to my plan to seek out Chapman at the Liverpool Street Underground.

“Makes sense,” he said. “That why you’re packing that revolver?”

“Chapman is a hard case, from what I’ve heard. If he’s responsible, he won’t appreciate questions about Egorov.” I shifted in my seat, trying to settle into my jacket so the bulge wouldn’t show under my arm.

“What did you find out at High Wycombe? Big Mike said something about a fast getaway? I couldn’t get much out of him, except a lot of talk about a WAC.”

“That’s Estelle. He’s got a date with her tonight, and was headed back there this afternoon to pick her up. All part of the investigation, of course. She had a run-in with a Russian officer who broke up a conversation she was having with one of his pals. She identified him as Egorov.” It occurred to me that Estelle’s brief description of the Russian she had been talking to, that he spoke flawless English, fit Sidorov.

“What about the MPs?” Harding said.

“I ran into Bull Dawson up there, the guy who helped me out in Northern Ireland. He’d just been assigned to Eighth Air Force, so I decided to start with a friendly face. He gave me the heads-up that the MPs were looking for us.”