James Benn: Rag and Bone

“Kaz, it’s barely seven o’clock,” I said as I poured myself a cup and sat down. “What’s the news?”

“Heavy RAF and American bomber raids on Berlin. General Clark is approaching Monte Cassino, which overlooks the road to Rome. The Russians took Kiev, and held it against a German counterattack.”

“All good news.”

“Billy, Kiev is roughly two hundred miles from the Polish border. We are still eight miles south of Rome. Do you know what that means?”

“No, not before I’ve had my coffee, I don’t.”

“It means the Russians will take all of Poland before the British and Americans even get close to Germany.”

“I thought we called that liberating Poland,” I said, gulping the hot, black joe.

“I call it trading a Nazi master for a Communist master. The Nazis are the more bloodthirsty of the two, but neither will let Poland be free. And isn’t that what started this whole war? We were the first to be attacked, and Poles have been fighting ever since. In Italy, here with the RAF, and with the underground in Poland itself. I sometimes wonder what we are fighting for. Or who will fight for us, once the war is over and the Soviets occupy my country.”

“Would you go back after the war if the Russians ran the place?” I asked.

“Billy, I know what the Russians did to Polish officers. I think they would take even less kindly to Poles who had worn British uniforms. It would be a death sentence.”

“Isn’t that kind of harsh?”

“Harsh? I don’t think you understand, Billy, I don’t think you understand at all.”

“I don’t doubt you, Kaz. It’s just that General Eisenhower has been pounding Allied unity into our heads for so long, I have trouble criticizing the Russians. Hell, I even have trouble criticizing the Brits these days. And after all the propaganda stunts the Krauts have pulled, I have a hard time believing they’re aboveboard about the Katyn slaughter.”

“I know they are not to be trusted. I don’t mean to put you in a difficult position, Billy, but after what I’ve seen and learned, I’ve begun to question things. Everything has changed, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah.” I chewed toast and washed it down with coffee. “And it’s only getting started.”

“I must get to work,” Kaz said, standing up. “Can you come by and visit today? Perhaps I can show you the evidence I’ve been gathering. It may help to explain things.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Kaz,” I said.

“Thank you, Billy. But do come to the Rubens Hotel. It’s off Buckingham Gate, immediately south of the palace. Ask for me at the desk and they’ll take you up.”

“I’m busy this morning, Kaz, but I’ll try to stop by this afternoon.”

“Are you going to Norfolk House? It’s a short walk from there to the hotel.”

“Yeah, I have to check in, scout out the arrangements.” Norfolk House was in St. James’s Square, a stone’s throw from Piccadilly Circus. It was going to be Uncle Ike’s new headquarters.

“Is Major Harding here yet? Is Big Mike coming with you?”

“I forgot to tell you, it’s Colonel Harding now. And yes, Big Mike will be here with him, maybe tomorrow.” Corporal Mike Miecznikowski was an MP who had joined up with us after Sicily, where he’d gotten in hot water for helping me out. He was a former Detroit cop, and as the nickname implied, a really large former Detroit cop. He was handy to have around, and I wondered what his take on this Polish stuff might be.

“Why did they send you ahead?”

“I didn’t have anything to do,” I lied.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here. I didn’t mean to unload all my troubles on you, but it is good to have a friend to talk to.”

“It is, Kaz,” I said as he left to dress, glad he wasn’t watching me as I felt my face flush with betrayal. I sat alone, drinking the remains of my coffee, thinking how right he was and how guilty I felt at not being straight with him. I decided to come clean that afternoon, and get it out in the open. But first, I had an appointment at New Scotland Yard.

The rail fell in fat, slow drops, as if it couldn’t make up its mind, and it fit my mood. I pulled up the collar of my trench coat and set off from the Dorchester toward Westminster. It would be a straight shot on Park Lane, alongside Hyde Park, past Buckingham Palace, then down Birdcage Walk to Big Ben and Parliament. But I decided to reacquaint myself with the side streets of London. It had been a while, and I was in town to find a murderer. Backstreets and alleys might be useful.

I walked a few blocks through Mayfair, filled with neat, low brick buildings. Varnished doors with polished brass fixtures stood like sentries along the street. A few automobiles purred through the neighborhood, all shiny, low, and expensive. It was quiet, the kind of city quiet that money gets you. Black umbrellas hid faces from me, but I could’ve guessed: thin lips, narrow noses, bored eyes, all the marks of good breeding and high culture. It wasn’t my part of town.

The clouds finally cut loose and I ducked into a shop doorway, shaking myself like a soggy dog. In a minute the rain was gone and I headed south on Curzon Street to Half Moon, which I knew would take me across Piccadilly. On Curzon, where a row of houses should have been, there was nothing but stacked rubble. On either side of the cleared area, the buildings were boarded up and deserted. The rising trail of smoke and fire had left its trace around every window and door. Sooty black, each looked like the dark hand of death had marked that room, that family, for destruction.

I’d always liked Boston after a rain. It made everything seem clean, no matter how dirty it hadbeen. London was different. There was too much to wash away, even in the posh part of town. The gritty smell of coal smoke stuck in my nostrils, and the foul smell of burnt wood and charred family possessions rose from the brickwork. Rain always revived the memory of a fire, coaxing its odor out of blackened wood and scorched earth. The bricks were precisely stacked, cleaned of concrete, ready to be put up again, to form parts of new houses that would always smell a bit odd when it rained.

I went through St. James’s Square, eyeing Norfolk House, which stood in one corner, my future home away from home. It was taller than most neighboring buildings, seven stories. The windows started out large on the bottom floors, nearly vanishing into a series of tiny gables jutting out of the slanted slate roof. I guessed one of those would be mine, if I had a window at all.

I scooted around St. James’s Park, passing by the sandbagged War Rooms, where Churchill himself was probably growling into his special telephone, the hotline to the White House. Minutes later, I’d walked past Westminster Abbey, Parliament, Big Ben, the vaunted heart of the British Empire. Big Ben struck the quarter hour, the great bell still astounding me with its clear, deep tones. I’d heard it through static on news broadcasts hundreds of times, but when I heard it here, I thought of Edward R. Murrow reporting during the Blitz. We’d all gather around the radio, and the house would go quiet as we waited for his words.

This… is London.

I shivered. The damn place still gave me goose bumps. Or maybe it was the memory of Southie that it stirred up. I stood on the Embankment, watching the Thames flow dark and murky beneath me. For a moment, it was South Bay, and I was back walking a beat in the old neighborhood. But that seemed like so long ago, far more than barely two years. I tried to shake off the homesick blues, but it was getting harder as time passed.

Crossing the street, I craned my neck to take in the turreted white-and-red-brick headquarters of the London Metropolitan Police. New Scotland Yard. I went in and asked at the duty desk for Detective Inspector Horace Scutt. A uniformed constable showed me to the Criminal Investigations Department. Plainclothes. I walked into a room where any cop in the States would feel at home. Desks pushed together in the center, filing cabinets against the walls. A large city map on a bulletin board. Heavy black telephones ringing, and the low buzz of conversation, tinged with sharp frustration. The only difference was the tangy odor of stale tea leaves instead of coffee grounds.