Blue Madonna (2 page)

Chapter Two

“There's four charges
against you,” Scott began. “No, five. Make that five.” He shuffled his papers, and I tried to keep my temper. If I needed a lawyer, it might be nice to have one who could count. “Here we go. Five counts of violating the Articles of War.”

The first was Article 83. Willful loss or wrongful disposition of military property. No worries. Lots of guys lost equipment. Slap on the wrist, maybe restitution.

Then Article 84. Unlawful disposition or sale of military property. Slightly worse, since it involved making a profit off the army.

Article 87. Personal interest in the sale of provisions. Uh-oh. That one was usually reserved for senior officers involved in crooked dealings with suppliers. It was bad, but I had no role in what the army bought. I'd wait and see if the kid picked up on that one.

Article 93, Section G. Larceny. Now we were into the serious stuff. Loss of commission, dishonorable discharge, jail time.

Article 96. Disorder to the prejudice of good order and military discipline. The kitchen sink. If all the others fell through, they'd make this one stick.

“So what did I steal?” I asked, figuring to start with the easy stuff.

“I'm sure they'll tell us,” he said. “The trial judge advocate, that is.”

“Yeah, the prosecutor.”

“Or you could tell me now,” Scott said. “This doesn't look good, but they're not charging you with assault or anything like that, so maybe we can get the sentence reduced. What do you think?”

“Where are you from, Scott?”

“Indiana, Captain.”

“Good. If I'm ever stupid enough to move to the state that produced you, I'll know who not to get for a lawyer. Now the first thing you're going to do is ask for the Article Eighty-Seven charge to be dismissed. That only applies to commanding officers who take kickbacks. Got it?”

“You're not a commanding officer?”

“Look, kid,” I said, pointing to my SHAEF shoulder patch with the flaming sword. “This is where I work. Do I look like General Eisenhower to you?”

“Of course not,” Scott said, jotting down a note. “What else?”

“How about I'm innocent?”

“They told us at JAG school everyone says they're innocent,” he answered. It was the smartest thing out of his mouth yet.

“That's right, they do. I used to be a cop back in Boston, and I agree. You'll never hear a guy in his right mind admit his guilt. But you have to remember that doesn't mean everyone is lying when they say they didn't do it.”

“You're right, Captain, sorry. This is just so new to me.”

“When were you brought in on this?” I asked, trying for a gentle tone. I was starting to feel jittery at the thought of what was about to happen, but I didn't want Scott to pick up on it. If he got any more nervous, he might faint in the courtroom.

“Yesterday morning. They told me to keep myself available for a case. I got these charges about two hours ago.”

“Who told you, exactly?” I asked in a whisper, leaning forward.

“Major Charles Thompson, sir. He'll be prosecuting. He claimed the evidence was solid and he had a witness. Said it would be over real quick, I'd get some experience, and not to worry about losing.”

“Was Colonel Harding here yesterday?”

“Yes. He and Major Thompson were in conference most of the morning.”

I didn't know what to say. Harding must have thought I did something horrible to feed me to the lions like this. I was being fitted for a frame, and I needed someone in my corner besides this legal genius from the Midwest.

“Listen, Lieutenant Scott,” I said, drawing my ace in the hole, “I've got a relative at SHAEF who might be able to cut through all this. General Eisenhower. He's my uncle.” Well, a distant cousin on my mother's side, but I'd always called him Uncle Ike. He was older—and a damn sight wiser—than me.

“I know,” Scott said, shaking his head. “I've been warned you might bring that up. Major Thompson said if you tried to exercise undue influence, they'd prepare a list of new charges. Trying to intimidate the members of the court-martial with your family connections would not go over well, so I'd advise you to keep quiet about it.”

“I can't contact SHAEF?”

“You are waiting for your court-martial to begin, Captain. There's no time for phone calls. Listen, you're in enough trouble without dragging General Eisenhower's good name into it.” He glanced at his watch, gathered up his papers, and left the room.

I noticed the door wasn't locked. I waited a minute, then opened it, glancing up and down the corridor. No one in sight. I wasn't sure what I was doing, but odds were I'd be tempted by an available vehicle. I walked toward the exit, trying to look like I hadn't a care in the world as I passed a couple of officers engrossed in their own conversation. Daylight beckoned ahead, but was quickly blotted out by Colonel Harding opening the door for a civilian.

A civilian I recognized. A damn villain if there ever was one.

“Captain Boyle, is it now?” Archie Chapman croaked. “Come up in the world, haven't we?”

“Boyle, what the hell do you think you're doing?” Harding hissed, breaking up Old Home Week with Archie. “Get back in there.”

“Colonel, I'm being railroaded. What's the story?” I whispered, hoping he'd whisper the secret he was keeping from me. “And what's Archie doing here?”

Harding didn't answer. He snapped his fingers as he looked over my shoulder, and I sensed a couple of MPs headed my way.

“This man is threatening a witness,” he said as the MPs pinned my arms behind my back. “Take him away.”

“Don't be too rough on Peaches,” Archie said, a rheumy laugh escaping his lips and echoing off the curved metal walls.

Scott jumped out of an office and joined the procession, glancing back at Harding and his charge. “Is that the witness?” he asked as the MPs guided me into the courtroom: a few battered tables and a scattering of chairs, the American flag, and one exit, blocked by the MPs.

“That'd be my guess,” I said. “Archie Chapman. London crime boss. Runs an outfit in Shoreditch. A bit off in the head. Drinks a lot of gin and likes to quote poetry while waving his pigsticker from the Great War.”

“Pigsticker?” Scott asked, worry lines pinching his forehead tight.

“Bayonet. Big old long thing, sharp as a razor. He probably didn't bring it with him.” Scott looked worried, and I immediately regretted it. “Sorry, bad joke.”

“I wasn't worried,” he said. “If he's mentally unstable, we can use that to impeach his testimony.”

“He's not that kind of crazy,” I said, glad Scott was beginning to think like a lawyer. “Crazy like a fox, prone to violence, and damn smart. If he's here, you can be sure there's something in it for him.”

“How do you know him?” Scott asked, pen poised over his notepad. That was a tough one. A lot of what went on six months ago with Archie and his pals was hush-hush. Even given my current situation, I couldn't trust Scott with that story. Except for one part.

Peaches, Canned, Syrup, Heavy.

“In the course of an investigation, it was necessary to steal a truck,” I said, beginning to get uncomfortable with where this might lead.

“Hmmm,” Scott said, tapping his pen against his lips. “So you commandeered a vehicle in order to carry out your assignment, right?” He was certainly trying to help.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “We also commandeered the contents of the truck. Canned peaches. A lot of them.”

“So that's why he called you Peaches,” Scott said. “How many cans?”

“Sixty-four crates. Six large cans per crate,” I whispered.

He worked his fingers. “Three hundred and eighty-four cans?”

“Big ones.”

“That's worth a small fortune on the black market, Captain. You accounted for them?”

“Well, depends what you mean by ‘accounted for.' I know where they went. It just wasn't to the quartermaster.”

“Jeez, Captain, my first case and my client is going to Leavenworth.” I was worried he might cry. I knew I felt like it. “You returned the truck, didn't you?”

I shrugged. I thought they did find the chassis, minus tires, engine, fuel tank, and anything else that could be sold or traded. Even the canvas flaps had been looted. It was better for Scott not to know the details.

“Listen, kid, that's old news. Harding didn't care about the truck, not much anyway. The case was solved, and everyone was happy.” Well, again, the whole truth wouldn't do anyone any good at this point. “They're using Archie, or he's using them.”

“Ten-hut!” The MP at the door snapped his heels and came to attention as he announced the arrival of a gaggle of brass. A colonel, two majors, and two captains sat at the main table, the lesser ranks on either end. A thickset guy with jet-black hair took the table next to ours. He slammed a thick file down on the table as he gave me a sideways glance. More officers filled the chairs behind us, some of them laughing and nodding in my direction. Seemed like I was the entertainment for the day.

Colonel Timothy Beaumont was the presiding officer. Close-cropped hair going grey at the temples, cheekbones riding high above a frown that had worn lines into his chin. The other members of the court deferred to him and avoided looking at me. He went through a lot of legal mumbo jumbo that left Scott bobbing his head in agreement as he took copious notes, eager to please the judge. It gave him something to do.

“Major Thompson, please read the charges and specifications,” Beaumont finally said, leaning back in his chair.

“First charge,” Thompson said, shooting to his feet and glancing at his papers. “Violation of Article Eighty-Three, in that Captain William Boyle, beginning in January 1944, willfully suffered military property belonging to the United States to be disposed of by sale to one Archibald Chapman. This activity continued until the first of April 1944. Military stores valued in excess of one hundred thousand dollars were wrongfully disposed of.”

Scott looked at me, eyes wide, impressed at my supposed initiative. All I could think was that the date I ended my nefarious schemes was April Fools' Day.

“Second charge,” Thompson continued, his voice a low, threatening growl. “Violation of Article Eighty-Four, in that Captain William Boyle, from January through May 1944, did unlawfully sell to Archibald Chapman military property valued as above.”

The door behind me opened, and I caught a glance of Harding shepherding Archie into the back row.

“Third charge,” Thompson said. “Violation of Article Eighty-Seven.” Scott was half out of his seat, ready to object as I'd suggested. “We withdraw this charge due to lack of sufficient evidence.” Scott fell back into his seat with a sigh. It was the only point he could have hoped to score in this kangaroo court.

Then we got to the big-ticket violation. Article 93, Larceny. Same amount, same name. Thompson withdrew the charge of violating Article 96, Disorder to the prejudice of military discipline. “Unnecessary,” he said in conclusion. “We have more than enough evidence to find the defendant guilty of the three major charges.”

The message was clear. They didn't need to waste time. I looked back at Colonel Harding, who kept his eyes up front. Archie looked gleeful, as if he were enjoying an outing from the old gangster's home. The audience looked ready to stand and cheer.

Thompson called Archie to the stand, and it was a delight to watch Archie swear to tell the truth so convincingly, given that he barely had a nodding acquaintance with it.

“Please tell the court of your first encounter with the accused,” Thompson said.

“It was a cold night in January, I do remember that,” Archie said, affecting the pose of a deep thinker and rubbing the grey stubble on his chin. “Lieutenant Boyle—that was his rank then—brought me a business proposition, in the form of a truck filled with canned peaches.”

“Which he stole from me,” I whispered to Scott, who wrinkled his brow and jotted a note.

“He offered to sell you these goods, which were the property of the US Army,” Thompson said.

“Objection,” Scott said. “Leading question. Mr. Chapman is not an authority on the provenance of peaches.” I was impressed. The kid was in the game. He was sustained.

“He offered to sell you the peaches?” Thompson said, offering a slight bow in his protégé's direction.

“He did, that very night.”

“How many cans?” Thompson asked.

“More than three hundred.”

“Do you recall what was written on the cans?”

“I think it was ‘Peaches, Canned, Syrup, Heavy.' You know, that backward way of writing the army likes? And the cans were green, I recall.”

“Did you agree on a price?”

“It was two hundred and forty pounds, I believe. A good price for such a luxury item, but we never concluded the sale,” Archie said, throwing a grin my way.

“Did you conclude any other business at a later date with the accused?” Thompson asked.

“Lots, lots. After we got over that first encounter, it was smooth sailing. Lieutenant Boyle brought us all sorts of things. Sugar, liquor, blankets, coffee, cigarettes, nothing but the best!”

“And you paid him?”

“Oh, indeed! Paid him well—always in cash, of course.”

“I ask you to review this listing of dates, items sold, and prices paid,” Thompson said, handing a sheet of paper to Archie and another to Scott. “Let the record show that the defense has also been given a copy. Is this information accurate, Mr. Chapman?”

“That it is, just as I laid it out for you,” Archie said. I looked at what they said I'd sold him. If it were true, I'd be moving to Beacon Hill in Boston after the war instead of Southie.

“Very well,” Thompson said. “I also submit for the record a written statement from the quartermaster's office detailing thefts of military supplies during the period in question. These thefts match the descriptions given by Mr. Chapman. No further questions.”