James Benn - Evil for evil

"Hmm. No. No. This fellow, yes," he said, snapping his finger against the photo of Adrian. "He liked my apples, I remember."

"How long ago?" I asked.

"Four, maybe five days. I can't be sure, son, but he stood out because of the uniform. We don't get many Yanks shopping for apples here."

"Yanks? What do you mean?"

"This fellow you showed me, right here." He pointed to Sam, standing beside Adrian.

"The American, not the constable?"

"Aye, that's what I'm telling you. He liked my apples, he did. They come from an orchard not two miles away. Do you want to buy some for him?"

"He's dead." As if that explained everything.

"Terrible, this war. Anything else, lad?"

"Was he alone?"

"Let me think. I was stacking cabbages, I believe. He stopped by and asked, real polite, if he could buy just one apple. I said sure, and he went off, biting into it. After that, I didn't pay him any more mind. He may have stopped in front of the bank and chatted with some fellows, now that I think back, but I'm not sure. Maybe a half hour later, he came back and bought another apple. Said they were sweet and crisp, and they got no such fresh fruit on his base. And now you say he's dead."

"Where do you buy your fruits and vegetables? From Andrew Jenkins?"

"Well, aren't you full of the odd questions! Some, yes. Most from the local farmers, right outside of town. The rest from Andrew. A good man, he is."

"Thanks," I said, walking down the sidewalk, trying to figure out what this meant. What had Sam been doing here? Sightseeing? Was he meeting someone here? Who, and why? Was it a coincidence or did it have something to do with why Sam had been targeted by Red Jack? Good questions, all. Problem was, I didn't have answers, good or bad.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the city air, hints of chalky limestone, coal smoke, piss, and buried anger floating on the wind. It had grown colder, and heavy gray clouds hung in the eastern sky, promising rain before the day was out. Irish weather fit the mood of the island, bathing you in warm sunshine one minute, then pelting you with cold rain the next. It made me homesick for the constant heat of North Africa or the clammy fog of London, and I wondered how I would ever describe my feelings to Dad and Uncle Dan. Or if I would try.

I decided to transact some business, to get the wind off my back. Pushing on the brightly shined brass handle on the main door, I entered the bank. The floor gleamed as well, black and white tiles spread out in a geometric pattern. Tellers' cages ran along the wall to my left, and a series of desks, out in the open, were on my right. Straight ahead, a secretary sat at a small wooden desk near a door of pebbled opaque glass. A custodian in a dark blue workman's coverall worked a cloth around the brass doorknob with gusto.

"Is the bank manager in?" I asked, giving the secretary a smile before I added, "Miss…?" I could see she was married, but my policy with secretaries and doorkeepers of all stripes was to butter them up with the Boyle charm.

"Whom shall I say is asking?" The whom came out like the foghorn on Little Brewster Island. She fixed her eyes on me as she tapped a very sharp pencil on the nameplate at the edge of her desk. It left no doubt, she was Mrs. Turkington.

"Lieutenant William Boyle," I said. "U.S. Army."

"Quite. Mr. McBurney is unavailable." She sat with her hands folded on the desktop blotter, waiting for me to leave. She was on the distant shore of forty, lines beginning to creep in at the edges of her eyes, double chin starting to show. Her eyes, hazel with flecks of green, had zeroed in on me.

"Well, it's official business, Mrs. Turkington. He's expecting me."

"I doubt that, young man."

"I doubt that he'd reveal confidential information to you. It might be dangerous." I leaned closer to her and lowered my voice. "I'm on the trail of a German spy."

Her only response was to button the top button of her blouse.

"Pardon, sir," the custodian said. "You're in me way." I stood aside as he knocked, then opened the door to the office and stood in the doorway, applying polish to the knob on the other side.

"Bailey, really!" Mrs. Turkington said.

"Mr. McBurney, he'd have me head if I left one knob unpolished, right, Mr. McBurney? Today being polishing day, that is."

"Right you are, Bailey," came a distracted voice from inside. I leaned forward and saw a balding man at a desk, jet black hair circling his crown, nothing on top. His five o'clock shadow was getting a jump start on the afternoon. He glanced up and met my eye.

"Someone to see me, Mrs. Turkington?"

"A Mr. Boyle," she said, laying heavy emphasis on the Catholic last name. She probably imagined I had had a roasted Protestant baby for breakfast.

"Oh, well," McBurney said as he squinted and took in my uniform. "An American, is it? An officer? Show him in then."

"All done here," Bailey said, giving the knob a final polish and holding the door for me. As I passed between him and Mrs. Turkington, he winked.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant Boyle?" After checking my bars, McBurney stood and extended his hand, then gestured to the chair next to his desk. Either he was more liberal in his religious views than the Turkington outside his door or he might have hoped I was bringing the army payroll to deposit. Or maybe being American and an officer, no matter how lowly, made a Boyle acceptable here. It was clear to me that Bailey, by his name and his accent, was closer to the Boyles than the McBurneys or Turkingtons.

"I'm conducting an investigation, Mr. McBurney. Sorry, but I can't reveal the details-"

"An investigation of what? I assure you, this bank-"

"The branch is not involved, Mr. McBurney, in any way that would discredit you or the Northern Bank. But you may have been used."

"Used?" He said it as if he didn't understand the meaning of the word. Tiny beads of sweat popped out on his shiny forehead.

"By enemy agents," I whispered, leaning in over his desk.

"I can't believe it," he said indignantly.

"Exactly," I said, as if he'd proved my point. "They're very clever."

"Do you have any idea who the agents are?"

"That's what I'm working on. All I want you to do is look at some pictures and tell me if you recognize anyone. They aren't necessarily enemy agents, I just need to know if you know them or have seen them in the bank. OK?"

"Very well," he said, straightening up in his chair for the task ahead. I almost expected him to add For king and country.

I laid out the pictures, Adrian and Sam first, then Pete, then Eddie Mahoney. He stared at all of them, his eyes flitting from one to the other. He licked his lips. Nervous or hungry, who knew?

"No, I don't think so," he said.

"Look again, take your time," I said. "Give your subconscious a chance."

"I don't go in for all that Jewish claptrap," he said, shaking his head. "Freud, indeed."

"My father's not Jewish, and he sets a lot of stock in the subconscious," I said. "I didn't know the Jews invented it. You learn something new every day."

I stood and walked around his office, leaving him to study the photos. He had a grand view of the back of another building and a gravel parking lot. Lots of pictures on the walls, most including Mr. McBurney himself, shaking hands with various dignitaries a local fellow might have been impressed with. In one, he was standing with a bunch of other dark suits, all of them wearing bowler hats with red sashes around their chests. It was a parade, and they all carried flags or banners. British flags, black flags with red crosses and a crown, one with a skull and crossbones set beneath a red cross.

"No, I'm certain. I haven't seen any of these men."

"Andrew Jenkins does his banking here, doesn't he?"