James Benn: Rag and Bone

“Kiril! Kiril! Kiiirilll!”

Sidorov was silent, his eyes locked on to hers as they handcuffed him.

That had been four hours ago. Now we were seated in an interview room at Scotland Yard. Detective Inspector Scutt, Detective Sergeant Flack, and me, across the table from Sidorov. Tea had been served. It was almost civilized. Sidorov had not spoken, except to say thank you for the tea, and more sugar, please. I had wanted to interrogate him in Shepherdswell, right in the station if need be. I wanted to get to him before the shock of his capture had time to wear off. But Scutt had ordered him taken to the Yard, and that was that. He’d been allowed to wash up, and now with his hair combed back and a teacup in his hand, he looked almost normal, in spite of the well-worn working clothes he had on.

“Captain Sidorov,” Flack began, after a nod from Scutt. “You are facing very serious charges. Two murders and numerous crimes in connection with the hijacked trucks. We’d very much like to hear your side of the story.”

“Murder? Whom have I murdered?” Sidorov said, manufacturing a surprised look on his face.

“You know very well, sir. Gennady Egorov and Rak Vatutin.”

“They have been murdered, yes,” Sidorov said. “But not by me.”

“Perhaps we can simply start with what happened in Dover,” Flack said. “The night you joined the Home Guard search party.”

“I became separated from the group. Someone attacked me, hit me on the head, and after that, things are a bit vague. I have a memory of someone removing my uniform. I have no idea at all how I came to be wearing these clothes.”

“How did you get from Dover to Shepherdswell?”

“I don’t recall. The blow to my head must have affected my memory,” Sidorov said as he sipped his tea. He wasn’t even bothering to lie very well.

“I should inform you, Captain Sidorov,” Scutt said, “that while diplomatic immunity does apply to many crimes, a charge of murder is quite serious. Immunity may be waived. In any case, at a minimum we can hold you for trial. Since Great Britain and the Soviet Union are Allies, and two of the victims were Soviet citizens killed on English soil, I would imagine your government would want the matter decided here.”

“That makes sense,” Sidorov said. “But I am not worried.”

“So your story is that you wandered the countryside for days, and just happened to stumble onto your accomplice, Sheila Carlson?” Flack said, continuing with the questioning.

“Ah, there you have me. I do confess to a crime of the heart. I was having an affair with Miss Carlson. We had arranged to meet in Shepherdswell, and as I found myself close to there, and my wits returning, I thought it best to meet her.”

“Thank you, Captain Sidorov,” Flack said. He opened a folder on the table in front of him. “Or should I say Lieutenant Stefan Kobos, on medical leave from the Kosciuszko Squadron. Or perhaps William Barlett.” Flack tossed identity papers onto the table.

“These men do bear a resemblance, I admit,” Sidorov said, giving the photographs the slightest of glances. “Not a very good likeness, though.”

“You don’t seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation, Captain,”Flack said.

“I would say it is you who do not. While working with our American friends on a most secret and important project, I volunteered my services to join in the search for German parachutists. While in the field, I was attacked, and wandered for days with no clear recollection of where I was or what I was doing. Finally, when I am recovered enough to keep an appointment with a young lady, I am handcuffed and brought here, treated as an enemy of the people. And what do you have for proof of these fantastic claims? Forged papers with pictures of a man who looks somewhat like me? Preposterous.”

“We have Sheila,” I said, keeping my voice quiet and low.

“Or should we call her Margaret Pemble?” Flack said, pulling her papers out of the folder. “Or Victoria Fraser?”

“It was smart,” I said, “having a second set of identity papers, in case your first plan went south. And I liked the wounded Polish fighter-pilot routine, too, right down to the pebbles in your shoes to make your limp look authentic.” I took three pebbles from my pocket and threw them onto the table.

“Stones? These little stones are more proof? This is laughable.”

“Here’s the deal,” I said. “Sheila hasn’t killed anyone, so Scotland Yard is not interested in her.” Sidorov didn’t know that we had proof of Sheila feeding Eddie the poisoned cake and knifing him, so I left that out. Flack had gotten the medical report on Eddie’s stomach contents, which included the poison-laced cake. “But MI5 is. Her controller, Mr. Brown, is looking for her to tie up loose ends. We’ve got her, Kiril. We’ve got her cash and all her identity papers. We’ll cut her loose without a shilling, and call MI5 ten minutes before we do it. What do you think she’ll do, faced with that choice? Rat on you, or take her chances?”

“Take her chances,” Sidorov said, finishing his tea. “May I go now?”

Scutt didn’t let him go. Next we had a try at Sheila. Since Scutt had her for Eddie Miller’s murder, he didn’t think there was much he could bargain with. But she took a tough stance, saying everything she’d done had been at the order of MI5, and she stressed her role as an informant for Scotland Yard as well. It was smart. If they charged her and brought her to trial, her evidence would have to be repressed due to the Official Secrets Act. That would give any lawyer enough to call for a dismissal.

We went back to Sidorov and lied through our teeth. Sheila had given him up, she’d sworn out a statement, and we were going to send her to America with a new identity, to protect her from MI5 and Mr. Brown. It was a good yarn, but Sidorov only had one question.

“What’s the magic number?” he’d said. Nothing else. We didn’t know what he meant until we pulled the same routine with Sheila.

“What’s the magic number?” she’d said.

“They have everything planned,” I said to Scutt and Flack in their office. “Even the signal for when they have to give each other up. They figured we’d try this, so they have a code. If things got too hot and heavy and one of them was forced to give evidence, they’d give the number. That way the other knows it’s for real.”

“Then let’s make things hot and heavy,” Flack said, and outlined his plan. I liked it, and made a call to Cosgrove.

Two hours later, we stood in the main entrance to Scotland Yard. Sidorov was in cuffs, held by two constables. Opposite him was Sheila. Her eyes darted everywhere as she tried to work out what was happening. Her handcuffs were unlocked, and a woman constable guided her out the open door, keeping her a good five feet from Sidorov. They called to each other, but that was all they had time for. The constables turned Sidorovso he could see out onto the street. Standing on the sidewalk, at the bottom of the stone steps, was Mr. Brown. Two burly men stood on either side of him, their menacing glares focused on Sheila.

“Too bad,” I said to Sidorov. “She seems like a real smart dame.” Sheila was out on the steps now, and the constable closed the door behind her. There was nowhere for her to go except straight into the waiting arms of Mr. Brown and his thugs. She turned, and I could hear her words through the glass.

“Good-bye, Kiril.” She was a killer, but she had grit. No screams, no begging for mercy. She descended the stairs, head held high.

“No,” Sidorov said. “Get her back. I will confess. To everything.”

He did. Based on my agreement to make good on a new American identity for Sheila. I promised I would make that happen as soon as she was released by Scotland Yard. What Sidorov didn’t know was that she was being formally charged with the murder of Eddie Miller at that very moment, so I wasn’t worried about her being released anytime soon. Another thing Sidorov didn’t know was that Mr. Brown had been sacked, and was being debriefed about his excesses by MI5. Cosgrove had called in a favor and gotten him delivered to the sidewalk in front of Scotland Yard for five minutes. The thugs were our thugs, not his. It was a con.