James Benn - A Mortal Terror

I found the building, its masonry decorated by a spray of bullet holes. Most centered around one window on the upper story where hinges held the remnants of wooden shingles. A sniper, maybe, drawing fire from every GI advancing up the street, as they edged from door to door, blasting at any sign of movement, not wanting to die from the last shot of a rearguard Nazi. Or a curtain fluttering the breeze, catching the eye of a dogface who empties his Garand into the window as the rest of his squad joins in, excitement and desperation mingling with sweat and noise until all that remains is the smell of concrete dusk and nervous, jumpy laughter.

I parked the jeep in the courtyard and turned off the engine. Rain splattered on the canvas top, reminding me of distant machinegun fire. I took a deep breath, telling myself this was way behind the lines, and there would be no snipers lurking in third-story windows. Wet as everything was, I swore I could smell concrete dust in my nostrils. Shaking off the memory, I grabbed my duffle and took the stairs up to the main door. I was about to knock when it opened and a short, stout, gray-haired Italian woman unleashed a torrent of language at me, beckoning me in with one hand and pointing to my feet with the other. I didn’t need to understand Italian to get it. I wiped my wet boots on the mat and hung my dripping mackinaw on a peg. She must have decided I passed inspection, and led me down a hallway into a kitchen, allowing me on the tile floor as she pointed to another room beyond. I wanted to linger and savor the smells coming from the pots on the stove, but the old woman had her back to me, busy with whatever was cooking.

“You must be Boyle,” said a figure in an armchair, seated before an old coal stove. I was glad of the warmth, and stood close, rubbing my hands. He watched me, folding the newspaper he’d been reading, as if he thought I might be of greater interest. He was a British captain, the Royal Army Medical Corps insignia obvious on his lapels.

“You were expecting me?”

“Yes. We got a note that you’d be taking Max Galante’s room. Terrible thing, him getting it like that. Bradshaw’s the name,” he said, extending his hand. “Harold Bradshaw.”

“Doctor Bradshaw?”

“Oh, please. Leave the doctor and military business out of our little home, will you? There’s enough of that outside these walls. Hope that doesn’t spoil things for you, Boyle. Sit down, why don’t you?”

“If I wasn’t taking a dead man’s bed, I think I’d feel at home here,” I said, settling into another chair drawn near the fire. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Can’t say I knew Galante all that well, and this is war, isn’t it? Still, one hopes for a quick bullet on the field of battle, if one has to buy it. Not a brutish attack by one of your own.”

Bradshaw packed a pipe and fussed with it the way pipe smokers do. He was in his forties, with a bit of a paunch and receding hairline. His uniform was worn and wrinkled, and I guessed this was about as much spit and polish as the army was going to get out of him. I stretched my legs and let the stove warm my boots.

“You’re both doctors at the same hospital, and you lived together, but you didn’t know him well? How come?”

“What’s your concern with this, Boyle?”

“They didn’t tell you I was investigating the murders?”

“No,” Bradshaw said as he blew out a plume of smoke. He admired the coals for a moment before continuing. “Only your name and that you were to be billeted here. So you’re with the American CID?”

“Working with them. I’m curious about your remark, if you don’t mind me asking.” I figured the best way to interrogate Bradshaw was to keep it casual, pal to pal after a tough day at work.

“Not at all. Galante kept to himself. There were four of us here, all medical men. Two American, two English. We work long hours, not much time for socializing. And at my age, not the same inclination as the younger lads.”

“There are two other doctors living here?”

“One, at the moment. Stafford got transferred, then Galante got himself killed. That leaves Wilson. Captain Jonas Wilson. Yank, like you.”

“Was he any friendlier with Galante than you were?”

“Well, I wasn’t unfriendly. The way you put it makes it sound like I disliked the fellow. No, he was pleasant enough company. He and I often chatted at meals. We all tried to arrange our schedules to be here for dinner. Signora Salvalaggio can work wonders with any kind of ration. Even bully beef.”

“The lady in the kitchen?”

“Yes. She lives downstairs. Keeps house for us, cooks and cleans. We all pool our rations and share with her, pay her a bit as well.”

“Is Captain Wilson here?”

“Not yet. Should be soon, though. You’re welcome to stay and eat with us, but if it’s going to be a regular thing you’ll have to throw in your share.”

“Thanks. Not tonight. I have to meet someone. Is there anything else you can tell me about Captain Galante? Did he have any enemies you know of?”

“He never mentioned anyone. He was transferred to the hospital only a month ago, hardly time to generate a blood feud.”

“Where was he before the transfer?” That was something that hadn’t been covered in the file I’d been given.

“An infantry division, part of the medical battalion,” Bradshaw said. “Can’t recall which one.”

“You really don’t know much about the man, do you?”

“Hardly a thing, Boyle. We didn’t work together at the hospital. I specialize in skin conditions, or at least I did in civilian life. Here I deal with trench foot, frostbite, burns, that sort of thing. Galante was a surgeon, but he was also interested in shell shock. Nervous exhaustion. He’d talk a blue streak about it if you let him.” There was something disapproving in Bradshaw’s voice.

“You’re not as interested?”

“I served as a private in the trenches back in ’18. Saw enough shell shock to last a lifetime. Didn’t want to talk about it.” Bradshaw held the pipe stem in his mouth with grim determination and looked away from me, out the window, into the darkness.

“Did Galante talk about anything else? Interests?” I knew the topic of shell shock was closed, but I didn’t want Bradshaw to clam up totally.

“He knew Italian history, and spoke some of the language. Chatted with Signora Salvalaggio now and then. About what, I have no idea. I recall that he was intrigued by the Royal Palace. Quite a place in its time, I’m sure, but a drafty flea-ridden ruin now.”

“Fleas?” I resisted the urge to scratch.

“Fleas and rats. Never go near the place if I can help it. Ah, here’s Wilson.”

Bradshaw introduced me to the other doctor, telling him I was with CID. Close enough.

“Are we suspects?” Wilson asked as he took a seat and lit a cigarette. He was younger than Bradshaw, but not by much. Dark hair, thinning. Dark eyes, glancing at Bradshaw, who only grunted.

“Where were you the night he was killed?”

Wilson’s eyes widened. Apparently his question had been a joke.

“Here, I think. We had a lot of casualties in from the Liri Valley that day. We all worked late. Bradshaw and I were both back here by eight o’clock or so. Galante never showed, but that was normal for any of us. We often sleep at the hospital if needed. After dinner, I sacked out. We’re not really suspects, are we?”

“Listen,” I said. “Most investigations are about ruling people out. I’m sure no one thinks of you as suspects, or they wouldn’t have me staying here. Were you close with Galante? Friends?”

“Friendly,” Wilson said, relaxing into his chair. “Not pals. He hadn’t been here long, and like I said, the hours can be long.”