Blue Madonna (21 page)

“That is not normally the case?” Kaz asked.

“Hell, no! You fly a zigzag route to confuse their defenses. Keep them guessing about what the target is. But a straight line? Might as well call ahead and let them know we're coming.”

Fawcett leaned back in the chair and rubbed his hand over his eyes, blinking away tears, or perhaps visions of that mission. He sat upright, then rested his elbows on his knees and held his face in his hands. The room was silent. The smell of limestone chalk filled my nostrils. The electric light threw harsh shadows across Fawcett, shreds of the nighttime darkness over Germany still clinging to his skin.

He blew out a long sigh. “It was a bright moonlit night. No cloud cover. The slaughter began as soon as we crossed the German border. If the flak wasn't pounding us, it was the night fighters. I started to watch bombers go down, thirty before we even got to Nuremberg. I could make out a trail of glowing fires marking our route. We dropped our bombload and got turned around as quickly as we could. It was a mess. No formation to speak of, everyone scattered across the sky. But we were in one piece, and I thought we had a chance to make it home.”

“Was this your last mission?” I asked.

“Yes. Somewhere over Belgium, a night fighter hit us from below. Miller, the new wireless operator, was killed. Babcock told us the plane was fine, and to hang on and watch for the fighter to hit us again. On the second pass, the intercom was knocked out and the fuselage began filling with smoke. I could see one engine on fire, and figured it was time to bail out. Normally the pilot would give the order, but there was no way to hear him, or anything, really. The sound of the engines drowns out everything, you know. So I rotated the turret to get out, and I see Brookes, standing over the escape hatch. He looked at me for a second, then jumped.

“The smoke got heavier, then we were hit again. The tracers made a horrible, metallic, shredding sound I'll never forget. Flames sprouted from the electrical circuits, and the sudden brightness blinded me, so I felt around for my parachute, stumbling and falling as Babcock took evasive action. Finally I got the thing on and crawled to the hatch. The midsection of the fuselage was burning, there was no way to get up front and let Babcock know I was about to jump.”

“Why would you need to tell him?” Kaz asked. “What else was there to do?”

“It was Brookes's job to help me with my parachute and notify the pilot we were ready to jump. I knew he didn't do it when I saw his face in that split second. He was saving himself, and no one else. By the time I got the 'chute on, I couldn't get through the flames to go forward.”

“And Babcock kept flying, thinking you needed more time,” I said, realizing the enormity of what Brookes had done.

“Yes. Right after my 'chute opened, I saw the night fighter hit them again. The rest of the crew was killed, except for Babcock. He jumped right before the plane exploded. I watched the burning pieces fall to the ground. If Brookes had done his duty, three good men would be alive today. He almost got me killed, and he is responsible for those three deaths. Was, I should say.”

“Do you think that's why he was murdered?” I asked. It was hard to stay focused on the interrogation after hearing that story, but I had a job to do.

“No idea,” he said.

“Did you see him in the tunnel?” I asked.

“I told you I didn't.”

“Did you kill him?” Kaz asked, getting to the point.

“No. I'll tell you I shed no tears over the man, but I had no hand in it. Think about it; we've been here for weeks, and the three of us traveled together before that. If I wanted to kill him, I'd have done it while we were hiding out in the hills.”

“How did you find him, and Babcock?” I asked.

“Once I was on the ground, I went in the direction the plane was headed. I spotted Babcock gathering up his parachute, and told him what had happened. We set off due west, looking to make contact with the Resistance. Hoping we were actually in France or Belgium, not Germany. We hid out during the day and walked for two nights before we dared approach a farmhouse. Luckily, the farmer wasn't a collaborator. He put us in touch with the Resistance, who took us to a safe house in Sissonne. A couple of days later, they brought Brookes in. I laid into him, starting with a punch to his jaw. Babcock pulled me off and calmed me down, promising he'd see to a court-martial when we got back to England.”

“That satisfied you?” Kaz asked.

“It did. The thought of telling the world what that little worm did kept me going. The last thing I wanted was for him to die before being brought to justice. Anyway, the Resistance moved us on, through a series of isolated farms and hideouts in the woods. We ended up here, and you know the rest. Traffic jam on the escape route to Spain.”

“What about Meyer? He seemed to have a grudge against Brookes,” I said.

“Grudge? No. He's a mean one, a real bully. If he can push a guy around, he will, for the fun of it. I have the feeling it wouldn't have bothered him to knife Brookes, but I can't see him caring enough to do it.”

There wasn't much more to get out of Fawcett. Kaz and I agreed we believed his story about wanting Brookes alive to be court-martialed. I could see him getting violent with Brookes in a fit of rage, but not following him into the tunnel and calmly driving a blade into his kidney. We brought in Meyers next.

“Sure, I couldn't stand the little weasel,” Meyer snapped as soon as we got seated. “But I never laid a hand on him. Ask anyone.”

“Why couldn't you stand him?” I asked.

“Fawcett told us what happened, how Brookie left him in the lurch. Bet he was surprised to find Fawcett alive and kickin'!” Meyer snickered.

“Why did you leave the salon?” Kaz said.

“You know why. To get my jacket.”

“Is it not standard procedure to have everything ready in case of a search? So you can get away with whatever you need?” Kaz asked. A good question.

“We done it so many times and nothing ever happened,” Meyer said. “This was taking longer, and I got to thinking it could be the real thing. So I wanted that flight jacket. It's warm, just the thing for spending a night out in the woods, which I did after we was shot down.”

“How'd you get along with Armstrong? Ever have any problems?” I asked.

“Nah. We had a good crew, everyone did their jobs. Armstrong was a damn good pilot. Always calm up there, even when the flak was hot and heavy. That's what you want in your skipper. You want to trust that he won't lose it when things get tough.”

“How about on the ground?” I said.

“We went our separate ways. He was a quiet guy, kind of an egghead. You might have noticed I ain't. I like the booze and the broads, Armstrong liked books and museums, that kinda stuff.”

“Do you have any idea who would want him dead?” Kaz asked.

“Nah. No reason for anyone here to do him in. Brookie, I can understand. But Armstrong, you got me.”

“I have no other questions,” Kaz said, rising from his seat. “Sergeant Boyle, you may ask any questions that come to mind. When done, bring in Dogbite, then Blake. I shall take a brief respite.”

“What's that mean, he's gotta take a leak?” Meyer said, leering, after waiting for Kaz to be out of earshot. I laughed.

“If I'd known I'd be saddled with that twerp, I'd never have volunteered,” I muttered.

“What choice did you have?”

“I could have done a two-year stretch in the stockade. The army and me had a misunderstanding about peaches.”

“What's to misunderstand?” Meyer said.

“Oh, where sixty-four cases of 'em got to,” I said. “Plus some gasoline went missing. I was cooling my heels in the stockade at Cheltenham when this Brit comes through looking for volunteers. Charges dismissed, rank reinstated—all I had to do was sign up for a vacation in France. Guess he wanted a bodyguard.”

“Two years is tough, but then you're out. And out of the army. This ain't no picnic you signed up for.”

“Listen,” I said, leaning forward and whispering, “I don't know about you, but I've never seen so many supplies, guns, fuel, you name it, as I did in England. I figure it's going to be the same here in France once the Krauts are on the run. I wouldn't mind staying put for the duration, you know what I mean?”

“Ah, a businessman,” Meyer said. “Looking to strike it rich.”

“Hey, how rich were you getting flying around in that Marauder?”

“I do okay,” he said. “Almost a hundred bucks a month. I send most of it home, otherwise I'd blow it all.”

“On booze and broads, right?”

“What else is there? We done here?”

“Sure,” I said. “Say, you ever thought about going into business yourself?”

“I'd steal sixty-four cases of peaches right now if I could. See you later, Boyle.”

“Nothing,” I said
to Kaz as I left to bring in Dogbite. “He played innocent, even when I offered him a business proposition. He liked the
brief respite
, by the way.”

“I thought it would provide for a comical observation,” Kaz said. “Did it help for you to mock me?”

“Not much, but it was fun,” I said, and went off to fetch Dogbite.

“What the hell do you want to talk to me about?” Dogbite said as I led him into the room. “It had to be Fawcett or Meyer.”

“Hey, I'm not accusing you of anything,” I said. “The lieutenant has a few questions, that's all.” Dogbite sat and shrugged, waiting for Kaz to speak.

“Let's start with Armstrong,” Kaz said. “Did you get along with him?”

“Sure. He was easygoing. Not a barrel of laughs, but a decent pilot. Quiet and calm. We didn't have a lot in common, on the ground anyway.”

“And in the air?” Kaz prompted.

“We both kept our bird flying. I'm a damn good gunner, if I do say so. And Armstrong kept his head when things got hot. We did our jobs best we could.”

“No one seems to have been close to him,” I said. “That true for Blake as well?”

“Yeah, pretty much. The only guy Armstrong was friendly with was Brookie. I think he felt sorry for him, you know? They both liked museums and all that stuff. I remember them talking about the ones they visited in London, and hoping they'd see that one in Paris everyone talks about.”

“The Louvre,” Kaz said.

“Yeah, that one. Poor bastards.”

“Do you think either of your fellow crewmen capable of killing?” Kaz asked.

“Jesus, that's what we do all day long. Drop bombs and shoot things up.”

“It's not the same,” I said.

“You don't think so? You ever been in the nose gunner position in a Marauder? That's where Meyer sat. All alone up front with that big .50 machine gun. We fly high, we fly low, and when we're low, he loves to strafe anything in sight. Hopefully it's Krauts most of the time.”

“What about you?” Kaz asked.

“I'm in the top turret with my twin fifties. Can't hit ground targets from up there, unless we're in a dive. I've shot down a few Kraut fighters, but it ain't the same as machine-gunning a convoy of trucks. Know what I mean? I'm fighting metal up there, goddamn Me-109s. But Meyer's hunting people. Krauts, but people all the same. Big difference.”

“You don't like him?” Kaz asked.

“Didn't say that.”

“Do you think he killed Armstrong or Brookes?” I asked.

“No reason for him to kill Armstrong. That old horse just won't run.”

“What about Brookes? Will that horse run?” Kaz said.

“Meyer can be nasty, that's for sure. Worse when he's drunk, but we ain't had enough liquor here to get mean over. Killing Brookes? Naw, that horse ain't even got outta the stable.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

We decided Dogbite
was exonerating Meyer with his homespun logic. Which was almost as interesting as learning Armstrong was the only person to befriend Brookes. They were both quiet guys, more bookish than the average Joe. One was steady and calm, the other shaky and frightened. Now they were both dead. Was that all they had in common?

Juliet stopped in as Kaz and I were scratching our heads over that very question.

“I'm done with the coding,” she said. “I'm taking it to Topper, and he'll transmit. I hope he's fast; it's a long message.”

“Are the Germans always listening?” I asked.

“Yes, their
Funkabwehr
section is quite good. If a mobile radio van is in the area, it could mean trouble. Or if they cut the power, as they've done before.”

“I hope you were not too wordy,” Kaz said.

“Words could be the death of us,” she said. “When we're done, I'm eager to hear this idea of yours, Billy.”

“As am I,” Kaz said. “We will be ready after we interrogate Blake. Do you have any suggestions about him?”

“He doesn't give much away, that one. Always watching and listening, letting others do the talking. He's been no trouble. No great help, either. Good luck.” Juliet left, cheerily waving her sheets of paper covered in deathly code.

I brought in Switch. He didn't complain, didn't ask why we wanted to talk with him. He studied us, trying to get a read on the situation, as Juliet had described.

“First, tell us if you have any ideas or suspicions about the deaths of Armstrong and Brookes,” I said. I knew that once we sprang our surprise about cousin Donald, it'd be hard to get him to focus, so I wanted to pump him for information first.

“First? What else do you want to talk about?” Juliet was right on target. Switch was a sharp customer.

“Something to our mutual benefit,” I said. “But answer the question, okay?”

“Meyer said you had a business proposition. I didn't know it included the Boy Scout.” He hitched a thumb in Kaz's direction. If he only knew.

“All we want is the inside dope. Who had it in for those two?” I said, leaning forward and trying for the earnest look. “Did Meyer have a beef with your pilot? Did he ride Brookes too hard, and he fought back? You must have some idea.”

“Look, I don't know anyone short of the Germans who'd want Armstrong out of the picture. He was a steady pilot, ran a tight ship, got the most out of everyone in his crew. I wish I knew who did it—I'd take care of them myself.”

“Perhaps Brookes in fact killed Armstrong, and you did just what you suggested,” Kaz said.

Blake laughed. “Brookes wouldn't have had the balls to do it, and for that matter, why kill the only guy here who'd give him the time of day?”

“They were friendly?” I prompted.

“Yeah. Armstrong took pity on him. Or maybe it was just to have someone to talk to about art. They were both crazy about art.”

“What kind of art?” Kaz asked.

“Paintings. You know,
art
.” I made a mental note to ask the count about this. He'd mentioned spending time in his library chatting with Armstrong. “The stuff they hang in museums. I never paid much attention to what they were jabbering about.”

That was the first false note in anything he said. Switch was the kind of guy who paid attention to everything.

“Do you have any ideas, anything that could help us?” Kaz asked.

“No, I'm stumped. Can't believe Fawcett killed Brookes—he was chomping at the bit to get him back to England for a court-martial. I'm outta air speed and ideas. What about you fellows?”

“We're really here to talk about something else,” I said, giving Kaz a glance. He nodded. That got Switch's attention.

“What?” he said, alert to the shift in tone.

“It's about your cousin Donald,” I said. His eyes widened.

“I told them they had nothing to worry about,” Switch said between gritted teeth. “How'd they get you here? Both of you?” He looked back and forth, shifting back far enough to widen the gap between us.

“It's not what you're thinking,” I said, reaching into my pocket for the folded photograph. Switch tensed, expecting something more lethal. “We're not from the Morgan Gang. As a matter of fact, we sprung your cousin. They were ready to shoot him.”

I unfolded the photo and laid it out on the table in front of him.

“We were with Donald in London a few days ago, as you can see,” Kaz said. “He is quite safe.”

“Where'd they have him?” Switch said, studying the photo, his voice suddenly soft.

“Bromwich,” I said. “Place next to the Spitfire factory. The noise covers up a lot.”

“Who was there?” Blake was quizzing me, making sure I was on the up and up.

“Willie and Nick, and a third mook whose name I didn't catch before I put three slugs in his chest. He was the one about to execute Donald.”

“Yeah, I know those guys. So who sent you?”

“We were loaned out to CID by our boss, Colonel Harding. Agent Hatch thought it best if this operation was handled outside CID,” I said.

“Hatch is smart,” Switch said. “Not his fault CID leaks like a sieve. So what's the deal?”

“Same deal as before, except this one includes your cousin. You testify, CID rolls up the Morgan Gang, you two have a family reunion, and everyone's happy. You both get a transfer somewhere safe and far from England.”

“Well, well. The three of you came all this way for me? I'm impressed with my own importance,” Switch said.

“Actually, Topper is a real Jedburgh. We used him as cover,” Kaz said. “We know that at least one of your aircrew is also a Morgan, but not which one.”

“Meyer. He's been watching me ever since Donnie came looking for help. I had no idea he was involved until he asked me to get him out of a jam. Meyer might have been the one who set up the grab, but that's only a guess. In any case, he was just doing what he was told.”

“Are you still willing to testify?” I asked.

“Damn right I am. I'm no angel, but I draw the line at using family against a guy. Donnie's like my kid brother. I owe his old man a lot for taking care of me, so I won't let this stand. As long as I see Donnie alive back in England, you can count on me. You sure he's safe?”

“That's his bodyguard and new best friend,” I said, tapping the image of Big Mike.

“He'll do. What's next?”

“We check on the status of the wireless. Part of the message is to bring in a Lysander to take you out,” I said.

“Obviously, Meyer can suspect nothing,” Kaz said.

“Speaking of Meyer,” Blake said, rubbing his chin as he leaned in. “There is something, now that we're pals and all. He's been acting funny lately. I can't put my finger on it, but I can't help feeling he's hiding something from me. We've been together a long time, and done a lot of things. I can tell.”

“He must know about your initial deal with Hatch,” I said. “Could it be because he's suspicious of you?”

“No. When they took Donnie, Meyer was the one who delivered the message. It was straightforward. I knew he had no more choice than I did. I didn't like it, but we still flew and worked together. I wish I could tell you more, but it's just a gut feeling.”

“Do you think it had anything to do with Brookes?”

“He wasn't acting any different toward Brookes. He always gave him a hard time. He enjoyed seeing people squirm. If Brookes put up a fight, Meyer would beat him senseless, sure. But that knifing ain't his style.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said. “We'll let you know about the Lysander.”

“I can't believe you two came all this way for me,” Switch said, shaking his head.

“Listen, I'm not the gung-ho type, but this Morgan business is way out of hand,” I said. “It's beginning to interfere with the war effort, which is another way of saying that guys on the front line aren't getting everything they need. Odds are its only going to get worse here in France.”

“They're counting on it.” Switch smiled. “It'll be like the Wild West, plenty of loot for the taking.” He had the gleam of greed in his eyes, even though he'd promised to betray his gang.

“Who are the Morgans anyway? I mean, the head honchos,” I asked.

“England and Donnie, Boyle. Then I spill. So keep me alive and get me home. If this turns out to be a double-cross, I'll clam up for good. And I'll find a way to make you pay, believe me.”

“Simmer down, Switch. We pulled little Donnie's fat out of the fire, so save your breath. The only double-cross is the one you pulled on your own side, stealing from GIs.”

“Don't snap your cap, Boyle. You wore blue before Uncle Sam's khaki, didn't you? I bet you lifted plenty back then. Boston, I'd guess by your accent. I heard half the coppers up there are on the take, and the other half are too stupid to figure the angles. Which were you?”

By this point we were both on our feet, chest to chest. My right hand was a fist, and it was headed toward his jaw until Kaz stepped between us and took a glancing blow to the shoulder for his trouble.

“Enough!” Kaz commanded, and then sat, wincing and cradling his ribs.

“Sorry,” I said, not looking at either of them so Switch might think it was directed at him. I had a job to do, and personal likes or dislikes had little to do with it. So far, I wasn't a big fan of the Blake family, but that didn't mean I needed to deck the guy. At least, not until we got back to England.

“Tend to your pal, and let me know when we're getting the hell out of here,” Switch muttered, turning on his heel. I couldn't wait to get back on English soil.

“Is it bad?” I asked Kaz, who sat stiffly in the chair, clutching his side.

“Bad enough that I wish I had let you strike him, but not terribly bad. Please, Billy, now that we've completed this part of the mission, I would like to bring Sergeant Blake back in one piece. And myself, for that matter.”

“You're right. I'm not thinking straight. Too little sleep and too much running around the countryside. I think I'll grab a catnap.”

“Not now,” Juliet said, pulling the curtain aside. “We're done with the transmission. Come along and tell us about your grand idea.”

I was beginning to think I'd oversold it.