Blue Madonna (5 page)

Chapter Six

It took awhile,
but Hammer worked it out. He got a guard to pass a message to the clerk, which resulted in Hammer being hauled away not long before lights out. A lot of rough stuff, shoving, and the waving of billy clubs. A good show for the boys.

Around midnight he was returned, hardly the worse for wear. He smelled of whiskey and cigarettes. The fix was in. For the hundred pounds they'd keep, I'd get an address outside of Birmingham where I'd be expected. I was to ask for Willie Foster and do what I was told. Willie would arrange for one set of civilian duds and provide three days of meals and lodging. Anything else I needed to pay or barter for; information on crooked GIs able to provide supplies would get me documents, a longer stay, whatever I could trade for.

“What, are you running a printing press?” I asked.

“Don't need to,” Hammer said with a wink. “These Brits leave their government buildings unguarded at night. All we have to do is break in to some bureaucrat's office in the Ministry of Trade and help ourselves to stacks of ration books, clothing coupons, whatever. I swear, sometimes they don't even know they've been burgled.”

“All you got to worry about is getting there,” Frankie said. “It's Sixty-five Goosemoor Lane, Castle Bromwich. That's on the outskirts of Birmingham. They got a big Spitfire factory there, and Goosemoor Lane is a stone's throw away on the north side. There's a bombed-out house on a corner, then number sixty-five. Two-story brick joint. It's run-down, so no one takes much notice.”

“And it's a busy street. Lots of workers at the factory rent rooms, so there's always people coming or going,” Hammer said. “It's perfect.”

“I know the area. Anyone else besides Willie there?” I asked.

“No one you need to worry about,” Hammer said. “Don't get Willie upset; he's got a temper.”

“I'll be the perfect guest,” I said. It sounded like there was somebody else in residence. Voluntary or not, that was the question. If it was our man, I'd get him out and be done with this charade. If not, then Willie would have some pressure applied to reveal the location of the second safe house. “Quiet as a mouse.”

“You let Willie know about any contacts you got,” Hammer said, leaning close and dropping his voice. “He has 'em checked out, and if they look good, you go along and make the introductions.”

“Who do I negotiate with? Willie?”

“No,” Hammer said, obviously amused at the thought. “Willie will bring you to the man. That's what Willie's good at. That and breaking bones.”

“I got a line on a shipment of blankets,” I said. “Coming in on railway cars, right off the boat. Guys from the railway battalion are ready to unlatch the doors and look the other way.”

“How many?” Frankie asked.

“Ten thousand thick wool blankets,” I said. “Ready to be made into coats or sold as is. I also know some tailors who'd be glad for the work and don't ask questions.”

“Interesting,” Hammer said. “If all that's true, there's something in it for you. But
we're
taking the risks, remember.”

“Who is ‘we,' exactly?” I asked, hoping prospects of profits would get him gabby. With rationing, cloth was a rarity, and unemployed tailors were known to work on anything to bring in a few quid. Women's brown wool coats with US Army stenciled on the inside—covered by a nice lining—would bring a high price.

“Once again, no one you need to worry about,” Hammer said, clamming up.

“So who's springing you?” Frankie asked.

“No one
you
need to worry about,” I said, smiling at the prospect of leaving this place and these two bums. Just watch morning roll call and wave goodbye. I'd be in Castle Bromwich by teatime.

I slept fitfully,
wondering how tomorrow would go and what would happen when I drove out of here a free man. From what Harding had said, this was a setup for something else, something that sounded big. But it was nothing I could figure out, so I tried to put it out of my mind, thinking instead about a decent meal I could eat sitting down.

Reveille. Roll call, and no cavalry to the rescue. Hammer and Frankie exchanged snickers as we finished up calisthenics and headed to the kitchen for powdered eggs and cold toast. As the line exited the mess hall, guards told us to form up again and look sharp about it. That was unusual, and in any prison the unusual was greeted with equal parts fear, panic, and giddy excitement. Rumors began to swirl as guards told us to cut the chatter and stand at attention. Hammer gave me a raised eyebrow of admiration.

An MP lieutenant strode out of the barracks with two men trailing him. The first was Big Mike, a head taller than the second louie and scowling as he surveyed the ranks of prisoners. Behind him was Kaz in his resplendent best, a tailored English officer's dress uniform complete with gleaming leather Sam Browne belt and his Webley revolver sidearm. He wore double lieutenant's pips, a SHAEF flaming-arrow patch on one shoulder along with
Poland
stitched on the other. A jagged scar on one cheek began under his steel-rimmed spectacles and disappeared at the edge of his lips. He walked into the yard with an air of studied nonchalance.

“Listen up!” the lieutenant bellowed. “We have a visitor. This officer is seeking volunteers for a dangerous assignment. There can be no guarantee of safe return, but if accepted, your record will be wiped clean.
If
you survive. Anyone interested in volunteering, remain in place. The rest of you, dismissed.”

With that, the parade ground emptied, survival of the fleetest the rule of the day. Besides me, only three men remained: Murphy and two others. Kaz approached each of them, asking questions, spinning some sort of plausible yarn. One by one, they were sent away. Murphy looked disappointed. Maybe he'd have a better chance for sanctioned butchery at his court-martial.

“Hello, Billy,” Kaz said, his voice a whisper. The MP stood not far behind him, so we played out the scene. “It's not like you to volunteer.” He smiled, but the scar that ran along the side of his cheek gave him a look that was vaguely terrifying.

“It's not like you to go slumming,” I said. “What's the plan?”

“Do you have everything you need?”

“An address tucked away up here,” I said, tapping my head.

“Keep it there,” Kaz said. “I'd hate for Colonel Harding to detain you here any longer, although he might find it amusing.”

“Well, let's go,” I said. “It won't take me long to pack.”

“This man will do, Lieutenant,” Kaz said. “Barely.”

Under Big Mike's watchful eye, I grabbed my ruined Class As and tucked the bundle under my arm, giving Hammer and Frankie a wink. They feigned disinterest, but I could tell they were impressed. Visions of wool overcoats danced before their eyes.

We drove out
the main gate, Big Mike at the wheel and Kaz in back, playing the role of the dashing, secretive British officer. Meaning he managed to keep it zipped until the gate closed down behind us.

“That was quite exciting,” he said, leaning forward from the jeep's backseat. “I think I gave a good performance, don't you? Perhaps I should take up acting after the war.”

“If you're such a good actor, why didn't you volunteer for the role of the surly guard?” Big Mike said. “Giving prisoners grief would have been more of a challenge than prancing around the parade ground.”

“Prance? Billy, did I prance? I think not.”

“Guys, I think you're ignoring the lead role in this play. Remember the one who was court-martialed and dumped in the stockade?”

“I heard you were great, Billy,” Big Mike said, giving me a gentle poke with his elbow that almost knocked me out of the jeep. “Sam was right not to spill the beans. You never could have pulled off that lost look he told us about.”

“Thanks,” I said, getting that the two of them had enjoyed their bit of playacting much more than I had. “You were a convincing turnkey, Big Mike. I would have been scared if I didn't know you were a cream puff at heart.”

“I can still play the part,” Big Mike said, grabbing a billy club from next to his seat. “I kept a souvenir.”

“I may have to borrow that as a prop,” I said, thinking ahead to our next move. “Where do we go from here?”

“Burton Green, a little village outside of Coventry,” Kaz said. “We meet Colonel Harding there, and you can rest up and get some decent food. Or decent compared to the stockade.”

“Sam said he'd brief us on the rest of this operation,” Big Mike said. “He's got something else cooking, but he won't say. Top priority is to spring this guy. Without him gettin' killed.”

“The guy would probably like that,” I said, lifting my face to the sun. It may have only been a short-lived ruse, but barbed-wire enclosures didn't shake off easy, and I enjoyed the freedom of a ride in the country. Especially with Big Mike at the wheel. Big Mike was broad at the shoulders, all muscle. The scuttlebutt at SHAEF was that he kept a seamstress busy resewing the split seams on his uniform jacket. Uncle Sam just didn't stock khaki in his size.

We settled into the drive, negotiating winding roads and the occasional military convoy. They were all headed south, toward the coast and the ten-mile restricted area, from the Wash to Land's End. No one but authorized personnel went in, and damn few got out. The south of England was one huge armed camp, men and supplies alike stockpiled for the coming invasion. Against the flow of lethal traffic, we headed into the Midlands.

The outskirts of Coventry revealed themselves as in any city. Fields gave way to clusters of brick houses and small factories and shops strung up along the narrow road. Then we pulled into the city center.

It was a desert.

Whole blocks were cleared of rubble from the bombing raids of 1940. Nothing was left but the outlines of buildings, granite foundations standing like tombstones. Only the roofless ruins of Coventry Cathedral hinted at what had once stood here.

“Coventried,” Kaz said once we'd left the vacant heart of the city behind. “The Germans invented a new word to describe the total destruction of a city with high explosives and firebombs.
Coventriert
.”

“Lots of Kraut cities don't look half as good right now,” Big Mike said. “Helluva war.”

I had to agree.

Thirty minutes later,
we found Burton Green, a crossroads town thick with half-timbered houses, their blackened oak beams cracked and fissured with age but still standing strong. The air war was hell on cities, but country life plodded on, especially this far northwest of London.

Our destination was The Butcher's Arms, a pub with a few rooms that Harding had commandeered for the night. The sign hanging over the narrow door was a picture of a man with a pig in one arm and a glass of beer in the other. That said it all.

Harding had taken all four rooms upstairs and provided me with a clean set of olive-drab clothing and a small bag of gear. I washed up as best I could, limiting myself to the four inches of water allowed for any bath. It was sufficient to sluice away the smell of the hoosegow but not enough to leave me really feeling clean. Given that I was supposed to be a criminal on the lam, it all worked out.

I laced up my combat boots and donned my Eisenhower jacket, checking myself in the mirror as I straightened my field scarf. It was strange wearing no badge of rank. Back when I was a cop in Boston, my shield was the most important part of my blues. Over here, even the lowly gold bar of a second louie got you into the officers' club and a host of other establishments off-limits to enlisted men. I had nothing, not even the single stripe of a PFC.

Billy Boyle, buck private.

I found Big Mike carrying two pints back to the table where Kaz and Harding were still working on theirs. He handed me one with a look that said they might have both been for him.

“Cheers,” Harding said as I took a seat. “Here's to the ex-con.”

“Escaped convict,” I said, after a healthy pull on the ale.

“Like Paul Muni in the movie,” Kaz said.
“I Am a Fugitive From a Chain Gang
.”

“It wasn't exactly a chain gang,” I said. Kaz was very enthusiastic about American gangster films. “As a matter of fact, my tent mates seemed to have the run of the place. Hammer and Frankie anyway. It looks like they bought the story, Colonel. They even arranged to have me assigned to their tent to check me out.”

“Good,” Harding said. “It means we're able to move quickly on this.”

“Yeah, as well as me not spending more time in the stockade.”

“Listen, Boyle, I'm not unsympathetic to what you've gone through,” he replied, “but this is big. We're losing so much to gangs like this that it's like having half a dozen Liberty Ships torpedoed in the North Atlantic. The Morgan Gang is the biggest we've seen, and it's very well organized. This is our chance to take them down. Right now it's as dangerous as a Kraut division.”

“Hammer explained their methods,” I said, nodding. “If they need someone's cooperation, they offer a big payoff or a beating and broken bones.”

“It works,” Big Mike said. “I tried to get a line on what they were up to while I was there, but no one bit. Guys were either clearly spooked or gave me the cold shoulder. I think everyone knew what I was talking about.”

“It's an open secret, but no one has been willing to spill the beans,” Harding added. “Until now.”

“The guy in the safe house?” I asked.

“No,” Harding said. “That's Corporal Donald Blake. The Morgans recruited him because he works at the Quartermaster Market Center outside of Bristol. Blake has access to all the supplies being shipped in from the States, mostly foodstuffs. But he's small fry.”