James Benn - A Mortal Terror

“We got Father Dare to talk to Captain Galante,” Flint said. “He’d just been assigned to the hospital here, and we knew he was an okay guy. If Colonel Schleck ever found out about Cole freezing, he would have transferred him to another company and courtmartialed him if he didn’t fight. We didn’t want that to happen.”

“Schleck claimed Galante got a squad killed,” I said. Now that everyone was in the mood to tell the truth, I wanted to get as much out of them as I could.

“Bullshit,” Gates said. “That wasn’t Cole anyway. It was another old-timer from Dog Company, couldn’t get out of his foxhole. Said he’d be dead if he did. Guy had the Bronze Star and two Purple Hearts, so he wasn’t goldbricking. Galante pulled him off the line and that very day his squad got caught in the open. The Bonesaw cut them to pieces.”

“So Galante got Cole transferred to CID?”

“Yeah,” Gates said. “That’s how it went. Cole was fine knowing he still had a job to do, but that he was off the front line. But we figured no one needed to know the whole story. No reason to embarrass him.”

“You all were okay with that? No one felt left in the lurch by Cole?”

“There but for the grace of God,” Gates said, to nods all around.

“There are no arms or weapons storage in the palace,” Kaz said as we settled in at the officer’s club. Neither of us had felt like eating, so we went directly to drinking. “There is a rule against carrying grenades within headquarters, but it is not well enforced.”

“Who’d want to go up against some guy fresh from the line?” I enjoyed the vision of a mud-encrusted, filthy GI, grenades hanging from his web belt, M1 slung over his shoulder, as he sauntered through the palace, scaring the pants off clerks and typists, not to mention the residents of the fancy mess hall upstairs. He would seem to be from another world, a wraith who lived underground and only came out to kill or die.

“The rule was made after a major posed for a photograph, kitted out like a combat soldier,” Kaz said, grinning. “Apparently he had political aspirations, and wanted a picture to impress his future constituents. Somehow he managed to pull the pin, then dropped the grenade and ran. The photographer threw it into a latrine, which thankfully was empty. The ensuing odor and destruction brought about the regulation against grenades as fashion accessories.”

“So the WP grenade probably came from a combat outfit.”

“Or it could have been stolen from a supply depot,” Kaz said.

“Basically we’ll never know. Hundreds of people were in and out of this place tonight. All of Cole’s sergeant pals, his padre, CID staff, even those Italians,” I said. I cocked my head in the direction of two Carabinieri officers in their dark-blue uniforms.

“Billy, the Italians are fighting on our side now. The First Motorized Combat Group performed admirably around Monte Cassino. They took heavy causalities.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. It’s just that Italians have done more shooting at me than I like. Takes some time to get over that.”

I finished my whiskey and got refills for both of us. I filled Kaz in on Cole’s story as I’d just heard it. When I was done, Kaz got the next round. We drank in silence; any words we might say would only seem trivial.

“What do we do now?” Kaz finally asked.

“What do you know about pearls?”

“What has that to do with anything?”

“Excellent question,” I said, leaning in closer. “There wasn’t time to tell you before, but Cole gave me something before he shot himself. Pearls.” I withdrew the necklace from my pocket, keeping it balled up in my fist. I passed it to Kaz under the table. “No one knows about this, so keep it out of sight.”

“Did Cole say anything?”

“ You’re the detective. ”

“Billy, this is-”

“Lieutenant Boyle, is it not?” I hadn’t noticed the two Carabinieri approach our table, but I was glad to see Kaz had, as his empty hand emerged from his jacket pocket.

“Yes,” I said. “Capitano Trevisi, this is Lieutenant Baron Piotr Augustus Kazimierz.” I remembered the captain from when we met the other night, but I drew a blank on the lieutenant by his side.

“Renzo Trevisi, at your service. Baron, this is Tenente Luca Amatori.”

“Please join us,” Kaz said, with a slight bow and a graciousness I would not have pulled off.

“Thank you,” Trevisi said. “We do not encounter many titled personages here, other than military, that is.” He spoke English well but with a thick accent, and slowly, so it took a second to realize he had made a little joke.

“Ah, yes. My title is a minor one from the Polish petty nobility. I was about to tell Lieutenant Boyle about the Italian House of Savoy, and the grand balls held in this very palace.”

“King Umberto and the great Queen Margherita of Savoy did reside here,” Trevisi said. “I am from this very town, and remember as a child watching their carriages parade through the streets. It was magnificent. Such a pity Umberto was assassinated.”

“At least it prevented Margherita from staying on the throne. She was a notorious Fascist supporter,” Luca Amatori said. His English was rapid and perfect. He was younger than Trevisi, and he had the impatient look of a guy who was tired of agreeing with his superior officer.

“Now Luca,” Trevisi said, in a weary parental tone. “Many of the wealthy and the aristocrats wanted stability after the last war, and they weren’t alone.”

“You’re not a fan of royalty, Tenente Amatori?” Kaz asked.

“On the contrary, Baron. I have the greatest respect for King Victor Emmanuel. He ordered the Carabinieri to arrest Mussolini, after all.”

“Yes, the Carabinieri were not great supporters of Fascism. The king felt safe to call upon us when it was time to get rid of Il Duce. Mussolini,” Trevisi clarified, for our benefit. “Old habits, you know. We had to call him that for so long, it is difficult to change.”

“Certainly,” I said, as I noticed Amatori glance away, his knuckles white where he gripped the chair. I decided it was time for a change of topic. Murder was safer than politics. “Does your jurisdiction extend to Acerra, by any chance?”

“Yes,” Trevisi said. “Does this involve your investigation?”

“Perhaps. We need to find an establishment that caters to soldiers. Liquor and women, nothing fancy from the sound of it.”

“Are you looking for a recommendation?” Trevisi asked, one eyebrow raised in conjecture.

“No, Capitano,” Kaz said. “I believe Billy is looking for a specific establishment, in connection with the investigation.”

“We have a name,” I said. “Bar Raffaele.”

“ Capisco,” he said. “Tenente Amatori would be glad to accompany you. Tomorrow? Perhaps he could meet you here in the morning.”

Luca Amatori was happy to guide us through the fleshpots of Acerra, mostly to get away from his boss, as far as I could tell. We made our arrangements, more drinks arrived, and we toasted to victory. I could picture Trevisi making the same toast with schnapps not too long ago.

“We interrupted your discussion of the palace in the last century, I think,” Trevisi said. “Little is left of its former grandeur. You should have seen it before the turn of the century. Era bello.”

“Yes, I was about to tell Billy about Queen Margherita. A very elegant woman, a patron of the arts, she revitalized the Italian court, made it fashionable. She held balls and parties that became famous all across Europe.”

“People loved her,” Trevisi said, nodding his approval. “They called her the Queen of Pearls.”