James Benn - A Mortal Terror

“Based on your extensive research there.”

“Yep. Two hours on the ground. Talked to Randolph and a bunch of other guys. Dateline Gibraltar: the unsung heroes who keep men and material moving in the Mediterranean Theater. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, and I’m sure Randolph’s mom will think so, too.”

“See, you can answer a question! So fill me in on the dead guy.”

“I can’t, Phil, sorry.”

“Listen, Billy. You’re headed to Caserta, so that’s obviously where the killing took place. I’ve been there more than a month, I know the place inside out. Odds are I’ll get the dope on this guy before I change my socks. And I really need a clean pair.”

“Okay,” I said, deciding he had a point. It had been a while since I’d been to Caserta, and Galante’s death was probably the main topic of discussion at the palace anyway. It might be interesting to hear what Einsmann had to say about it. Plus, there was no reason to mention Landry. “The name is Captain Max Galante, M.D. He was strangled two days ago-no, three days ago-his body was found two mornings ago.”

“Where was he killed?”

“Not sure, but his body was found next to that pool with the statue of Diana and the guy who got eaten by his dogs. You know it?”

“Actaeon. That’s a ritzy neighborhood,” Einsmann said.

“How so?”

“Engineers just finished building bungalows for generals, pretty close to that fountain. Tennis court and dance hall too. Seems like the palace is too run-down and drafty for the big brass, so they ordered up a little complex for themselves. The CO of the engineer unit wrote up an official complaint, saying his men came over here to win a war, not build vacation homes for generals.”

“You gotta love an idealist. How close to the fountain?”

“A stone’s throw if you have a good arm, but there’s trees and shrubs bordering the place.”

“You didn’t hear anything about this? You were still there when the body was discovered.” It was odd that a newsman wouldn’t be all over a juicy story like this, even if the censors would probably keep it under wraps.

“I went down to Naples for a couple of days there before flying out. Painted the town red with a couple of guys from the BBC. You said Galante was a doctor?”

“Yeah, he worked out of the hospital near the palace.”

“Must be the 32nd Station Hospital. I’ve interviewed lots of boys there. Nurses, too,” he said with a raise of the eyebrows.

“I bet. Ever run into Captain Galante?”

“Name doesn’t ring a bell, but I paid more attention to the female staff. CID, that’s the new Criminal Investigation Division, right? Are you CID?”

“No.”

“Who do you work for, then?”

“Listen, this has to be all off the record, okay?”

“Sure, Billy. If there is any news in this, I might follow up with you, but that’s got nothing to do with this conversation. Strictly background.”

“Okay. I work for General Eisenhower. Actually, I work for Colonel Sam Harding, who works for the general. He sent me down here to investigate.”

“Well, well. My boss turns me around and sends me back to Italy, and your boss sends you down here to check on a dead doctor. There’s more to this story, Billy. I mean, it’s terrible that Captain Galante was killed, but people are killed every day in this war.”

“Where is your boss?”

“London.”

“I can’t see how he found out, or even if he did, why he’d send you back. This is small potatoes, Phil.”

“Maybe,” he said, eyeing me. “Are you Ike’s personal cop?”

“Sort of,” I said. “It’s a long story.” I told him the whole thing, about how the Boyles viewed this war as another alliance with the British, who were seen as the real enemy in my strongly Irish Republican household. About Uncle Frank, the oldest of the Boyle brothers, who was killed in the Great War, and how Dad and Uncle Dan didn’t want to lose another Boyle in the second round. A few political strings were pulled, and after Officer Candidate School I was sent down to Washington D.C., where I was supposed to sit out the war in safety, on the staff of an obscure general laboring in the War Plans Department.

It had been a great idea. Mom was related to the general’s wife, and we’d met him a few times at family events. So it was Uncle Ike whom I went to work for, and he jumped at the chance to have an experienced investigator on his team when he was chosen to head U.S. Army forces in Europe, back in 1942. It had been quite a surprise to us all.

I left out the part about my not being all that experienced. I’d been promoted to detective, sure, but with the Boyles, the Boston Police Department was sort of a family business. Especially when Uncle Dan sat on the promotions board and Dad was a lead homicide detective.

Of course I made detective; I’d just needed a little more time to actually learn the ins and outs of detecting. A little more on-the-job training with Dad would have gone a long way. But Emperor Hirohito had other ideas, and I ended up on Uncle Ike’s staff, trying not to make a fool of myself. Because if I did, I knew I’d end up as one of those lieutenants leading an infantry platoon with a life expectancy of weeks, if not days.

Some things are better left unsaid.

We’d landed at Marcinese airport, between Naples and Caserta, where a jeep and driver were waiting. I’d let Einsmann tag along, leaving the drunken congressman and the Reuters reporter on the tarmac looking lonely and confused. We dropped Einsmann off at a cluster of tents pitched on the south lawn of the palace, and he and I agreed to meet up later at the officer’s bar.

The driver parked near the side entrance, had me sign for the jeep, and took off. A light mist began to fall and the palace loomed against the gray sky, large and formidable. I could see the gardens descending on the north side, but the rain obscured the distant fountains. I turned up the collar on my mackinaw and ran inside.

When I’d last been here, the town had just been captured. The palace was a mess, everything of value looted or destroyed. Now it hummed with activity, spruced up as purposeful men and women in the uniforms of half a dozen nations and services scurried along, a few like me pausing to gape at the high gilt ceilings. I worked my way to a desk at the base of the main staircase, where a corporal sat at a desk, directing traffic. I asked him where I could find Major John Kearns, and he pointed to a chart behind him, which contained a layout of the building.

“G-2, third floor, quadrant two,” he said, and then went back to his paperwork. The diagram showed all five floors and four sections of the building, each with its own courtyard. I figured out where I was and spotted the rooms allocated to Fifth Army Intelligence. I took the staircase, got lost a couple of times, tripped over communications wire strung across a hallway, watched a rat scamper out of an empty room, and finally found a door with G-2 painted above it. I knocked and entered. The room was cavernous, with a row of deep-set windows at the far side. Maps were mounted on the walls, desks pushed together in the middle, telephone line strung like a clothesline above my head.

There were three noncoms in the office. One staff sergeant and a master sergeant ignored me, leaving it to a corporal to handle stray officers. The corporal looked at me, one eye squinting against the cigarette smoke that drifted from the butt stuck in his mouth. He went back to the photograph he was studying through a magnifying glass, looked up again a few seconds later, and finally spoke when it was apparent I wasn’t going away. “Help you, lieutenant?”