James Benn - Rag and Bone

“My friend’s troubles are my own,” I said, and felt the presence of my old man, and the odd feeling of understanding what he’d meant, finally. The depth of it. This was more than words, it was the quiet opening of the heart, the indelible definition of friendship.

Kaz looked at the ground, strangely, just as Nuno had done. We walked in silence, everything necessary having been said. I never knew what Dad had done to fix things for Nuno, even when I asked him after I made rookie and wore the blue. Nuno got out of the business right after Frankie Wallace got himself gunned down by an Italian gang from North Boston, and if he missed the money, he seemed glad to be legit. I often wondered exactly what Dad had done, and if he’d ever spill the beans.

“Anything new about the Russians and Katyn?” I asked, after we stopped to stretch.

“Yes,” Kaz said wearily. “The Russians will issue a report on Katyn soon. The bodies of those poor souls are being dug up once again. Only Russians are serving on their hand-picked commission; they’re not even letting their own tame Polish Communists participate.”

“No doubt what the verdict will be?”

“None at all. They will lie, and tell the world the Germans killed all those Polish officers. And the world will believe what it is told to believe.”

“But you have evidence, you have Tadeusz.”

“Tadeusz has not spoken a word since you met him,” Kaz said. “Nothing.”

“But the Red Cross saw all that evidence; the Germans brought them in. The letters and documents, all the dates ending in 1940. That has to count for something.”

“The Russians will plant their own evidence, and their scientists will all swear it was dug up. The commission is headed by Dr. Nikolai Bordenko, head of the USSR Academy of Sciences. A very respectable figure. He will be believed.”

“If he’s so respectable, why would he put his name to a lie?”

“Billy, the Russians are as ruthless as the Nazis. His family would be killed or sent to a Siberian labor camp at best.”

“Article 58,” I said.

“What?”

“Sidorov told me. It makes it a crime in the Soviet Union to not report any activity against the state. It gives the NKVD a blank check to arrest anyone.”

“Ah, I see,” Kaz said. “If you refuse to do what you are told, and your family does not turn you in, they can be arrested.”

“Nice and neat.”

“Yes. Unfortunate that they will dig up those bodies again. It would save everyone a lot of trouble if they simply wrote their report and let them lie in peace.”

I didn’t see any bomb damage on my way to New Scotland Yard, but gray smoke was visible to the east, from the area around St. Paul’s and the dockyards farther down the river. It drifted lazily across the morning sky, marking the remnants of last night’s sudden devastation. More bricks to stack in piles. More bodies laid out on the sidewalk.

“Boyle,” Inspector Scutt said as I entered the detectives’ chamber. “We wondered how you made out in the raid last night. You went to see Chapman, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I had the pleasure,” I said, sitting down in front of Scutt’s desk.

“You were right in the thick of it then,” Flack said as he joined us. “Jerry’s a bit out of practice, but he managed to drop a few from the Surrey Docks up to Moorgate. Lucky for us a lot of them got nervous, or lost, and dropped their loads short. Tore up the countryside to the southeast, the bastards did, but better there than in the heart of London.”

“Bomb alley, they call it,” Scutt said. “The whole area from the coast, between Dover and Hastings, and straight up to London. Any German bomber that aborts or tangles with our fighters will drop their bombs and head for home. Between those random hits and actual targets in the area, it gets fairly nerve-racking down that way. My wife’s family is from Folkestone, and I’ve heard plenty from them about it.”

“Plus all the crashes, aircraft from both sides,” Flack said. “There were more than twenty bombers shot down last night. If most of the aircrew got out, that means we have almost a hundred Germans on the ground right now. The Home Guard is spread all over the countryside looking for them. Hasn’t been a dustup like this in months.”

“I saw more than a dustup last night,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. Flack seemed a bit too excited about the raid for my taste.

“Of course you did, Boyle,” Scutt said, seeming to understand my reluctance to rejoice in the return of the Luftwaffe. “It’s terrible, and at the same time, it brings us back to when we all stood together, Londoners and Englishmen alone, shoulder to shoulder. With all you Americans coming along, as grand as that is, sometimes I feel we’ve lost something.”

“I heard it in the Tube station this morning,” Flack said. “People talking to each other, saying we can stand up to it. Hard to explain, and I don’t mean to sound callous, but it’s almost like the war had passed us by. Civilians, in London, I mean. Now, it’s back. Gives some meaning to all the difficulties. Rationing, homes destroyed, men scattered all across the world.”

“All I saw last night was a lot of scared people, and corpses.”

“It’s been my experience, Boyle, that with the light of morning, those who find themselves alive put the best face on things they can,” Scutt said. “I’d wager the most scared of the lot last night are shaking their fists against an empty sky this morning, cursing the bloody Germans. Human nature. Now, tell us about Chapman.”

I did, leaving out much of the gin, and the knife at my throat, while focusing on his lack of interest in Egorov.

“You may be right in that Archie, or his boy Topper, have already taken care of business for themselves. We’ll be on the lookout for any suspicious deaths, especially of anyone connected with the embassy,” Flack said.

“Too bad you don’t have anything you can really trade with,” Scutt said, rubbing his chin. “Maybe some American supplies need to be sacrificed in the pursuit of justice.”

“Good idea, guv,” Flack said. “Boyle, maybe you can arrange for some coffee to go missing. Drop a bit off for us, eh?”

“It’s not a bad idea,” I said.

“I didn’t really mean-”

“No, I mean going into business with Archie and Topper. If they know who really killed Egorov, that could be the key. Might be worth a truckload of Spam.”

“Don’t bother bringing that around,” Flack said. “Worse than bully beef, that stuff.”

“Whatever you use, Boyle,” Scutt cut in, putting an end to a comparison of American and British canned meats, “it will have to come from your stores. The Met cannot provide supplies illegally. But we will assist in any way we can. Now we have some questions to put to you.”

“OK,” I said. I watched Scutt and Flack exchange glances. No more philosophical comments about Londoners at war, no more jokes about Spam and tinned beef. They had questions to put to me, and that was a shift. When a cop has something routine to ask another cop, he simply asks him. When a cop is about to interrogate someone, he tells him he has questions.

“Yesterday you were at the Rubens Hotel, correct?” Scutt began.

“Yes, I was visiting a friend.”

“Do you usually enter the Rubens via the staff entrance?”

“What does that matter?”

“We have been informed that you accosted a member of the staff there.”

“He was spying on my friend.”

“Who is your friend,” Flack said, studying a file Scutt had handed him, “and who was this Edward Miller spying for?”

“Lieutenant Baron Piotr Augustus Kazimierz,” I said, giving them Kaz’s name and title, thinking that might impress the royalty conscious. “He used to work on General Eisenhower’s staff, and now he’s with the Polish Government in Exile.”