James Benn - A Mortal Terror

“I know who the killer is,” I said. Harding looked up without a trace of surprise. As soon as the all clear sounded I’d gone straight to headquarters and found him with Kearns. “Sir,” I added, having been well trained.

“Sergeant Amos Flint,” he said. “We’re already looking for him.”

“How…?”

“Lieutenant Kazimierz has returned from Naples,” Harding said. “Good to know you both agree. He’s over there, with our general and his driver.” He pointed to a far corner of the wine cellar, where Kaz, Big Mike, and Major Charles Cosgrove were huddled around a desk.

It was an unlikely crew. Staff Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski was Polish, like Kaz, but there the resemblance ended. He was over six feet tall, and so broad in the shoulders that he split seams on his uniform regularly. The nickname came naturally. Big Mike was a former Detroit cop who’d become part of our unit after helping us out in Sicily. He got into so much hot water because of it that Harding had to bail him out and take him in.

Major Charles Cosgrove was another story. We’d started off badly when I first came to London, which is a nice way of saying we’d hated each other. Long story. By now, we had both mellowed a bit, and there was a grudging respect between us, which is something for an Irish lad to say about a British intelligence officer from MI5.

“Billy,” Kaz said excitedly. “I know who the Red Heart Killer is.”

“Amos Flint?”

“I told you he’d figure it out,” Big Mike said. “How you doing, Billy?”

“Glad you’re here, Big Mike,” I said as we shook hands. “When did you get in?”

“A couple of hours ago. First thing I do is pick up Kaz down at the docks off a PT boat from Naples, and he announces the identity of the killer. Looks like the major and I spent twenty-four hours in a Catalina for nothing.”

“How are you, Major Cosgrove, or is it General Cosgrove?”

“General Bernard Paget, Commander in Chief, Middle East Command, if you don’t mind. Got to bait the hook well, don’t we? Paget recently took over as CIC, so it lends a bit of realism to the charade.”

“You look the part, General,” I said. Cosgrove was kitted out in a nicely tailored dress uniform, with the red lapel patches of a general officer. I wondered when Harding had begun to cook up this scheme, or if maybe Cosgrove had a whole closet full of disguises. “But is this really MI5 territory?” MI5 was charged with counterespionage, catching German spies, not GI killers.

“Personal requests from Winston tend to blur lines of jurisdiction. Colonel Harding asked General Eisenhower, who asked the prime minister, who said by all means. Anything to help get this invasion moving. Winston is not pleased with the progress, or lack thereof, and doesn’t wish things to get any worse if this maniac gets close to a real general. So here I am, the sacrificial lamb.”

“Don’t worry,” Big Mike said. “I ain’t leaving your side until we got this guy.”

“Very good. You make a larger target than even I do,” Cosgrove said. Which wasn’t the case with most men. Cosgrove had fought in the Boer War and the Great War, but his days of fighting trim were long gone. He was thick-waisted, with a full gray mustache and a limp. Without Big Mike as a bodyguard, he’d be a sitting duck.

“So what did you find out about Flint?” I asked Kaz.

“I found Ileana,” he said.

“How?”

“Well, I probably should not return to the Naples area for a while. An officer matching my description is wanted for the theft of penicillin from the hospital at Caserta. I knew I needed something to bargain with, and nothing will make the owner of a bordello talk more than a supply of penicillin for his girls.”

“It’s practically a public service,” Big Mike said.

“Sure it is. So you got someone to talk.”

“Yes. Ileana was recovering south of Naples, at a farm. She had been badly beaten. As it turns out, she and Landry really were in love. She rejected him at first, fearing that he would cast her aside. But he persisted, and she came to love him. They had a plan for him to take her away, but they kept up the story of her milking him for money, so Inzerillo would not be suspicious.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Landry told Flint.”

“Yes. He asked for his help. Instead, Flint went to Bar Raffaele and paid for Ileana’s services. He intended to humiliate Landry, to ruin their love. But he could not perform, and Ileana made the mistake of laughing at him. He nearly killed her. He threatened Inzerillo with the same if he said anything, and told Ileana he would kill Landry if she revealed what had happened.”

“Then what happened to Inzerillo?”

“Flint’s game was not over. He told Landry that Inzerillo had beaten Ileana, so they both went to confront him.” “That was the story about going to pay for damages,” I said.

“Yes. Landry demanded to see Ileana, but Inzerillo had already sent her off. Ileana later found out what had happened from one of the girls who had visited her. There was a fight, and that is when Flint beat Inzerillo and threatened to kill him. Apparently Landry managed to stop Flint, who had flown into a bloody rage. Inzerillo escaped, and Ileana’s friend heard Landry tell Flint that he would get him help, because he was a good friend and a good soldier. But that he needed help to control himself.”

“That was his death sentence,” I said. “Landry got Galante to talk with Flint, to treat him off the books, as a favor. Landry knew something big was about to happen, and I’m sure he didn’t want to lose a good squad leader.”

“Good?” Cosgrove said. “Hardly seems like a good solider.”

“An armed man with no remorse. No hesitation, no second thoughts. No soul. He’ll never suffer shell shock, combat fatigue, whatever you call it. And a master manipulator to boot. Makes for an effective killer. Landry just didn’t understand who he was dealing with. He probably thought Galante could treat him with some pills and sack time.”

“But why would Flint care what Galante said? He hadn’t murdered anyone yet, and the MPs wouldn’t get too worked up over a pimp with a bloody nose,” Big Mike said.

“Because Galante understood what Flint really was, and wanted to treat him for it,” I guessed. “With all good intentions, he was going to take away the one thing that Flint valued above all else. War. He’s like an alkie, or a kleptomaniac, except that instead of booze or theft, he’s addicted to killing.”

“So he kills this chap Galante, then the lieutenant, if I understand the sequence,” Cosgrove said. “But he uses the ruse of the playing cards to reverse the order, to throw off the investigation?”

“Yes, and according to Doc Cassidy, this scheme then took on a life of its own in his mind. Since he failed to kill Harding, switching to a German opened things up for him. Best bet is that he’s going to try for an international royal flush.”

“Everybody up to speed?” Harding asked as he joined the group.

“I think so, except for how we’re going to pick up Flint.”

“You know where his unit is?” Big Mike asked. “Let’s go put the cuffs on him.”

“Hold on,” Harding said. “Boyle, you were with them this afternoon, and they’re not going anywhere tonight. I don’t want to risk approaching him in the dark. Some trigger-happy GI is likely to think we’re enemy infiltrators. Let him be, and we’ll go in at dawn, with a couple of supply trucks. It will look completely normal.”

“Perhaps we could put this uniform to good use,” Cosgrove said. “Why not proceed with the plan? You said you already alerted division headquarters. What could be more normal than carrying on with the inspection? I imagine you’d like some actual proof, wouldn’t you?”