Blue Madonna (7 page)

“Donald Blake?” I heard a stumble from inside. Maybe he was tied up, trying to make for the door. I rattled the handle again, but it felt solid, probably a deadbolt. I stepped back, studying the door. It was as old as the house, the wood brittle and dry. Only rookies tried to force a door at the lock. I reared back and aimed a kick above the bottom hinge. Wood splintered, and the door caved in. I moved back and threw my shoulder against it, hoping to burst the top hinge.

It worked. I went down with the door, falling onto cracked panels and rolling free, holding onto the Bulldog's small grip as best I could. I saw a blurred figure in the darkened room, his arm extended.

It was a gun.

I rolled again and saw his hand waver. He fired, and the flash was blinding in the cramped space. I squeezed off two rounds in his direction and then two more as he collapsed into the corner. I got up on my knees and scrambled over to him, knocking the .38 revolver from his hand.

It didn't matter. Three holes in his chest had pretty much neutralized the threat.

“Who are you?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. I spun around and aimed the Bulldog at a form huddled against the wall.

“Don't shoot!”

He'd already been shot. Blood gushed from his shoulder and decorated the wall behind him. His hands and feet were tied. His mouth was open, drawing in gasps of air, disbelief rampant on his face. Getting shot was always such a surprise.

I'd misjudged the shooter. He hadn't been going for me; he'd been trying to get a bead on Donald, who was behind me. He was going to put Donald down like a dog.

“Are you Donald Blake?” He nodded, his eyes studying the wound. It looked bad, but not the kind of bad where you end up six feet under. “Here,” I said, grabbing a shirt from a pile of clothes on the floor and pressing it against his shoulder. “Hold this. Help is on the way.”

Chapter Eight

The sounds of
shattering and splintering wood announced Big Mike's arrival at the front door with his sledgehammer. Footsteps pounded up the stairs, and I called out.

“In here! The other rooms haven't been checked.” I doubted anybody was lying in wait; another captive was far more likely.

“All clear,” Kaz announced as he entered the room, his Webley at the ready, his eyes scanning the carnage. “My God, Billy, did you have to shoot both of them?”

“Only one. He was trying to finish off Donald here.” The poor guy was confused and uncertain of our intentions. He cowered against the wall, shivering in fear and numb with shock. “It's all right, we're friends,” I said, trying to keep him focused. “We're going to get you out of here.”

He nodded, aware enough to like the sound of that idea.

“Nobody downstairs,” Big Mike said as he lumbered into the room, sledge in one hand and .45 automatic in the other. “Hey, looks like a slaughterhouse in here.” He holstered his pistol and set down the sledgehammer, taking a medic's field kit from across his broad shoulders.

“Who . . . who are you guys?” Blake managed to say, looking frightened as Big Mike loomed over him.

“We're the cavalry, kid,” Big Mike said, getting down on his knees. “Billy, move, will ya?” He cut away the shirt around the bloody wound and sprinkled sulfa powder front and back. “Don't worry, buddy, it's a through and through, and I think it missed the bone. You'll be fine. Coupla minutes, you won't feel a thing.” He took out a morphine syrette and jabbed Blake in the thigh, squeezing the tube between his thumb and finger. Then he pinned the tube to Blake's collar to signal how much of a dose he'd been given.

“Those guys still out cold?” I asked as Big Mike wrapped a compress bandage around Blake's shoulder.

“What guys? I said the place was clear.”

“I thought you meant no one was conscious,” I said. “I clocked two guys with the billy club in the kitchen before I made my way up here.”

“Nobody there,” he said. “Give me a hand.” I helped him get Blake up, and we headed for the hall.

“Kaz, check the kitchen and the back,” I said. “There were two thugs down there.” He scampered ahead, Webley raised and ready for business.

When we got downstairs, Kaz greeted us with, “No one here.” He was definitely disappointed.

Outside, a small crowd had gathered, a few workmen, older gents resting on canes and women with grey hair tucked under their headscarves. Kaz stopped to talk to them. “Ladies and gentlemen, please be careful. Two black market criminals have escaped and may be dangerous. Please keep an eye out so they do not return to carry off the coffee and clothing stored upstairs before the police arrive.”

With a smile, he stepped off and helped Big Mike guide Blake to where they had garaged the jeep. As one, the crowd looked at the broken front door and surged into the house. One gentleman cautioned the others to let the ladies go first.

“No reason to take a chance on the villains returning,” Kaz said. “There were tins of ground coffee, stacks of wool shirts, and boxes of shoes. A gold mine for these poor folk.” In the few minutes it took to get the jeep out of the garage and on the road, we passed an elderly couple with bulging overcoats and grins on their weathered faces.

I wasn't too worried about Willie's and Nick's return. Besides losing all the goods stashed in the house, they'd let the Morgans' get-out-of-jail-free card escape on their watch. They'd be lucky to live out the week.

“There's a small hospital attached to the airfield,” Big Mike said. “I scouted it out in case we might need it. We'll get him patched up and then head out, the sooner the better.”

“I don't think we need to worry about the Morgans finding us,” I said.

“I ain't worried about them,” Big Mike said. “Sam wants us back in London with this guy in one piece.” He crooked a thumb at Blake, who gazed dully ahead.

“Let us hope he is not badly wounded,” Kaz said. “This city is dreary. I'd rather dine in London tonight.”

We arrived at the entrance to the airfield attached to the Spitfire factory. The guards let us in, and we followed signs marked with a red cross. They had their own fire station, in case of airplane crashes, and what was more a small clinic than a hospital. A nurse met us at the door and called for the doctor as she led Blake into an examination room.

“First gunshot wound,” Dr. Raymond Jeffords said. His face was lined and his hair stark white, but his hands were steady as he removed Blake's shirt and bandage. “In this place anyway. Plenty of cuts and scrapes from the factory floor, and the occasional injury when one of the airplanes doesn't behave, but no bullet holes in my patients, thank God. I had enough of that in the last war. Now steady, lad.”

He cleansed and probed the wound as Blake grimaced and groaned.

“Is it serious?” Kaz asked, probably worried about finding a decent restaurant in this neighborhood.

“Might have been, an inch or two to the left,” Jeffords said. “Or if the round were a larger caliber. But it went straight through, no broken bones or debris in the wound. Back in my day, this would only call for a few days' rest and then back to the trenches.” He smiled, and I had the sense that was to keep Blake's spirits up. Especially since there were no trenches in sight.

The doctor stitched up the bullet holes, telling Blake sternly each time he cried out that it was a fine thing to feel the pain. If he could focus on a bit of light needlework, it meant he hadn't been badly injured. It was an effective bedside manner; Blake even managed a smile when he was done.

Jeffords ushered the three of us out of the examining room while a nurse bandaged Blake. “The lad will be fine in no time,” he said. “The young heal fast. He'll need bandages changed in another day, and that arm needs to stay in a sling. A bit of rest is what he needs.”

“We have to take him to London,” Big Mike said. “We have a jeep.”

“That's a hundred and twenty miles or so,” Jeffords said. “It would probably be all right in a car with proper seats, but I'd worry about those stitches in a jeep. Why don't you take him to the Dudley Road Hospital? It's not far, and he can rest overnight.”

“No, that won't cut it. Maybe a train,” Big Mike said.

“A first-class compartment,” Kaz said. Now we were talking his language.

“Safe enough,” Jeffords said. “I'll need your names for my report. Gunshot wounds must be reported to the police, you know.”

“I'm sorry, doctor, but we can't do that,” I said.

“As I cannot let you go without the proper information,” Jeffords said. “And why is a mere private speaking for an officer and a sergeant? Damned odd.”

“Doctor Jeffords,” Kaz said, withdrawing a letter on SHAEF stationery from his jacket, “this may answer your questions.”

“Hmph,” Jeffords said, reading the letter. “Any and all assistance, eh? Well, I've given you that, but I'm wary of not reporting a gunshot wound. Can you tell me what all this is in aid of?”

“An undercover investigation into the black market,” Kaz said. “We hope you can keep this quiet. We don't want the criminals to know we've been here.”

“We can be discreet,” Jeffords said. “It's a small staff here, enough for first aid and to stabilize any serious injuries. I should be long since retired myself, but I don't mind doing my bit.”

“Thank you, Dr. Jeffords,” I said. “We'll take the patient to the train station as soon as he's ready.”

“Do you have any other compatriots, or is this a small operation? Need to know and all that?”

“Quite small,” Kaz said. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, your jeep, my lad,” Jeffords said. “If there's only the four of you, and you leave it at the station, what's to become of it?”

“Smart guy,” Big
Mike said as we watched Jeffords drive off in our jeep from outside New Street Station. “He figured the odds and came up aces.”

“Do you think we can trust him to keep quiet?” Kaz asked.

“Sure,” I said. The jeep had convinced Jeffords to deep-six the paperwork. “He's got a jeep he can fix up to take a stretcher, and he won't have to walk to the factory when there's an injury. They probably have enough surplus fuel to keep that thing running. Why would he spoil a good thing?”

“Somebody would have stolen the jeep anyway,” Big Mike said. “We couldn't call the stockade and tell them where we left it, could we? Might as well tell the Morgan Gang we're headed to London.”

Kaz organized the tickets and managed to get a first-class compartment for the next train to London's Euston Station, leaving in an hour's time. We shepherded Blake through the crowd, keeping an eye out for MPs or police who might question our motley crew. Jeffords had given Blake a shirt and a discarded overcoat, which he wore across his shoulders. He looked shaky, but he hung onto Big Mike's arm like it was a life preserver and managed to stay upright.

We let Kaz take the lead. As an aristocrat, he could talk his way out of anything. We had the SHAEF orders, but I didn't want to flash them around unless we had to. Our best bet was to get Blake out of town quickly and quietly.

Our train was already in the station, so we found our carriage and settled into the compartment, the upholstered seats just what the doctor ordered.

“Where're we going?” Blake asked weakly, his stare darting between us, still wary of some trick.

“London, like I said,” Big Mike told him. “First class all the way. You ever heard of the Dorchester Hotel? That's where these guys live. Real fancy place, room service, that sorta thing. You'll stay with them tonight. All you gotta do is answer a few questions. But not right now.”

“Okay,” Blake said. “Will you be there, too?” Kaz raised his eyebrow at Big Mike, who finally said he would. For the first time, the kid smiled. Then he went to sleep, his head resting against Big Mike's arm.

“You've made a friend,” Kaz said.

“Yeah,” Big Mike said. “But Estelle won't like it. I told her I'd take her out if we made it back tonight. Now she'll think I'm living the high life with you bums.”

Estelle Gordon was a WAC corporal who'd gotten in hot water for helping us out awhile back. She'd been issued a transfer to North Africa for her good works, but Big Mike had fallen for her—hard—and used his SHAEF connections to halt the transfer and get her a posting in London. Where he, conveniently, was also posted. She was a little more than half his height in heels, a fireball in a small package.

“I would invite her to dine with us,” Kaz said. “But we are under orders to keep Donald's presence in London a secret. So it will be the four of us and room service at the Dorchester, if that suits you both?”

It did. By Kaz's standards, dining in his room was roughing it. For me, after my time in the stockade, it sounded like heaven. Which it was anyway, for a kid from South Boston who thought the doorman at the Copley Square Hotel was the best-dressed guy in Beantown.

Chapter Nine

The weather had
turned cold and windy as we arrived at Euston Station. Blake shivered under his jacket as we piled into a cab and headed for the Dorchester.

“We should've picked up something to eat on the train,” Big Mike said. “He's weak from loss of blood and probably hasn't eaten a thing all day.”

“Two days,” Blake murmured. “I tried to get away, so they punished me. No food.”

“Jeez,” Big Mike said between his teeth. “Hang in there. How's the shoulder?”

“Not as bad as before,” Blake said. “Sorry I conked out on the train. I couldn't sleep in that place. I kept worrying they'd come for me.”

“No problem,” I said. “We can talk at the Dorchester. It'll be an improvement.”

“Fancy place, huh?” Blake asked.

“An oasis,” Kaz said. “One that I am happy to call home.”

The taxi pulled into the circular drive in front of the hotel. We'd decided Big Mike would head over to Norfolk House in Saint James's Square, report to Harding, pick up a new uniform for Blake, and return for dinner—after making apologies to Estelle, of course. Kaz and I helped Blake inside. He was wobbly, but the sleep seemed to have helped, and he gawked at the doormen and the senior officers strolling by. The hotel entrance was surrounded by sandbags, a reminder of the days when bombs rained down on London most nights.

As we made our way down the long marble hallway and past the reception desk, hotel staff smiled and nodded greetings to Kaz. He was rich, sure, and a baron to boot, but the sympathies of the Dorchester staff extended far beyond that. Posh aristocrats were a dime a dozen in this part of town.

We rode the lift to the top floor, where Kaz had his suite.

“Holy cow,” Blake exclaimed as we entered. A chandelier lit the large, wood-paneled sitting room, which looked out over Hyde Park. The sun was setting, bathing the city in a soft amber light. Holy cow, indeed.

“Please sit,” Kaz said, nodding to the couches that faced each other. “I will call room service and have some soup sent up immediately.” I took Blake's coat, which had probably been discarded months ago by an injured worker. Kaz crinkled his nose as he spoke into the telephone. I left the coat in the hall to go out with the trash.

“Some place,” Blake said, still starstruck. “You live here, too?”

“I do. But it's Kaz's place.”

“I didn't know privates and lieutenants roomed together,” Blake said. “You sure you guys are on the up and up?”

“It's a long story. I wasn't always a private.” Kaz's story was even longer. It was in this very room that he and his family had spent their last Christmas together, the year before the war started. In 1938, sensing conflict on the horizon, Kaz's father had brought the family to England to visit. The ostensible purpose was to see Kaz, who was studying at Oxford. But the real reason was to plan a move for the entire extended family to the safety of England. His father had gotten his substantial fortune transferred to Swiss accounts and was searching for suitable properties for his family and business. The idea was that by the next Christmas, the Kazimierz clan would be celebrating in their new English home. But by December 1939, Poland was under the Nazi heel, and Kaz's family was wiped out, executed along with other members of the Polish intelligentsia.

Making this suite his home was Kaz's way of staying connected to a family and a time ground into dust by war and hatred. He was the last of his line, with more money than he knew what to do with, a penchant for taking chances, and delight in taking revenge whenever he could. When I'd first met him, he was a skinny, spectacle-wearing egghead, an expert at European languages and the finest wines. Two years later, he'd built up his body to serve him as well as his intellect and resolve. Now he was a wiry, tenacious, spectacle-wearing egghead who was a terror with his Webley break-top revolver.

“A beef consommé will be here shortly,” Kaz said, setting down the phone. “That should restore you enough to wait for a proper dinner.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Blake said. “I don't know how I can thank you. All of you.”

“We'll talk about that in a while,” I said. I wanted him stronger before we discussed his cousin and bringing down the Morgan Gang.

An hour later, we were ready for dinner, provided with a flourish by waiters who swooped in, set up a table, served the food, and were gone in minutes without so much as a whisper. Big Mike had returned with a duffel bag full of clothes and supplies for our guest, along with a summons from Harding to deliver Blake to Norfolk House by 0800 hours.

“Thanks, Big Mike,” Blake said, emerging from the bedroom looking much better after a wash and a new set of khakis, his arm in a makeshift sling. “But I can't wear this shirt; it's got sergeant's stripes. I'm a corporal.”

“Not anymore, you're not, kid,” Big Mike said, smiling at Blake like he was a kid brother. “You've been promoted.”

“Cheers,” I said, raising a glass of Sémillon, one of the white Bordeaux wines Kaz favored. Blake beamed as we drank and tucked into the halibut with parsley potatoes, carrots, and new peas. Big Mike and Blake did some damage to a basket of warm rolls and a second bottle of wine before we got to the dessert of apple pudding.

We were all pleasantly sated, and Blake was a bit tipsy on the wine, so I figured it was time to nail a few things down. “Things are going well, aren't they, Sergeant? A lot better than yesterday at this time. No food, no hope, and now here you are.”

“Yeah, it's been great,” Blake agreed, his eyes shifting back and forth, watching warily for any hint of danger.

“So here's the deal,” I said. “You got your promotion, and the army's going to transfer you to Italy, probably to Naples, nice and safe, far from the front and even farther from your troubles here.”

“Okay,” Blake said, clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“All you have to do is tell us everything you know about the Morgan Gang. Names, what you stole for them, anything and everything.”

“I could get court-martialed for that,” he said.

“We don't want to arrest you, kid,” Big Mike said with a smile that turned grim in two shakes. “If we did, you'd be in a deep, dark cell somewhere, a place so dismal you'd tell us anything to get out. But instead you're here in this fancy joint, enjoying a swell meal with your new pals. So relax.”

“The other accommodations could be arranged,” Kaz said, leaning back and giving Blake a studied, languid stare. “If you'd prefer not to talk.”

“No, no,” Blake said. “I owe you guys. But that Morgan bunch, they mean business.”

“They do,” I said. “So do we.”

“You sound like them,” Blake said, his body sinking into the chair. “They promised I'd get rich if I went along with them. Or crippled if I didn't. Even when I went along, they double-crossed me. Why should I trust you?”

“Like Big Mike told you,” I said, “we could do anything we want with you. We're choosing to overlook your mistakes with these people and protect you from them.” Blake was nothing more than a frightened petty thief who'd gotten in over his head. He probably had a list of people to blame for his troubles, and like most small-time crooks, his own name wasn't anywhere on it.

“You don't have much of a choice, young man,” Kaz said, sounding authoritative even though he was no more than a couple of years older than Blake. “Unless you count being let loose for the Morgans to find you, or being transferred to a rifle platoon, which I understand includes an all-expenses-paid trip to the beaches of France.”

Blake looked to Big Mike for comfort, but all he got was a shrug. It was up to him whether he wanted to face us, the Morgans, or the Germans. We'd rescued him and given him a nice meal. Still, he hesitated, which said something about the reach of the Morgan Gang.

“I'll tell you everything,” Blake finally said, fortified by another glass of wine. “Where should I start?”

“At the beginning,” Kaz said. Big Mike took out a notebook, and Donald Blake spilled his guts.

It had started out small, a few damaged crates, their contents scattered over the warehouse floor. A suggestion that it wouldn't hurt to give them away, impress the girls at the pub with nylons, cigarettes, jars of jam, whatever happened to be subject to normal breakage that day. The kind of stuff you knew was wrong, but what the hell, everyone was doing it, so why not?

Then the demands came for falsified records, looking the other way as stolen trucks were filled with supplies at the loading dock. Payment was in cold cash, more money than an army corporal could make in a year. Blake got cold feet.

“I got a weekend pass and went to see a cousin of mine. He's the flight engineer on a B-26, flying out of Beaulieu airbase in Hampshire,” Blake said, the story flowing like water over a breached dam. Once most guys began admitting their guilt, it was hard to get them to shut up. “I had to talk to someone—I didn't know what to do. I mean the money was great, but I was the one taking all the risks. I thought Switch would know what to do.”

“Switch?” I asked.

“Well, his name's Alvin. But he's been Switch since we were little, on account of the switchblade he stole from a kid who was pushing him around. Switch Blake, sounds like
switchblade
, see?”

“Yeah, I get it. He sounds like a tough customer,” Big Mike said. “What was his advice?”

“I shouldn't tell you, not now.”

“Why not?” I asked, hoping he'd tell us about his cousin freely. It'd be nice to know he was being straight with us.

“Switch was going to take care of everything,” Blake said, his voice beginning to waver. “He said he knew people, he could have the whole gang arrested, or at least the top men.”

“Who was he going to talk to?” Big Mike asked, his tone soothing.

“It doesn't matter,” Blake said.

“Let us be the judge of that,” Kaz said, his voice firm. Blake remained silent, his hands clasped as if in prayer.

“We know about Alvin,” I said. “We know why the Morgan Gang was holding you.”

“What about Alvin?” Blake said, an echo of hope as he spoke his name.

“We know that Alvin—Switch—was deeply involved with them. And that he suffered a case of remorse when you came to him. He was high enough in the gang to know the major players, and he was ready to cooperate with CID and name names. That's why the Morgans snatched you. For leverage.”

“Jesus, I almost got him killed. I had no idea,” Blake said, slamming his hand on the table. “I guess it wasn't all bad luck then, huh?”

“What wasn't?” I asked, not following him.

“That he got shot down about ten days ago. I called his base, and a pal of his told me.”

“Shot down?” I said, dully repeating the obvious as I tried to work out the implications.

“Yeah. Over France. All seven crewmen were spotted bailing out, so there's a good chance he's alive. Probably in a POW camp.”

“Did your kidnappers know this?” Big Mike asked.

“They grabbed me a couple of days after I found out, but they never made mention of it. They couldn't have known about it any quicker than me. But I overheard the guys downstairs arguing, and they made some mention of a bomber, so I thought they might have found out. Then the next morning, you guys came along.”

“Did Cousin Alvin tell you how involved he was with the Morgans?” Kaz said.

“Sure,” Blake said. “When I went to see him, he told me if it was anyone else, he'd have me killed. But since I was family, he'd help. He figured the army would let us both walk if he gave evidence against the others.”

“Were you surprised?” Big Mike asked.

“At first, yeah. But then Switch was always working the angles, you know? Even when we were kids, he liked to shoplift comic books and candy, small-time stuff like that. Or he'd send me into a store to distract the guy at the counter while he swiped the empty soda bottles they stashed out back. Then he'd cash 'em in for the deposit, cool as could be.”

Me, I'd pulled the deposit scam a few times myself at a store down the block from my house, so I kept mum.

“Switch is a good guy,” Blake said, evidently putting aside the fact that old Switch would have had him iced if they weren't related. “Smart, too. He had guys working for him at Beaulieu siphoning off fuel, diverting food deliveries, hijacking everything from fountain pens to lumber. The army's got so much stuff, it's like it doesn't even notice when you take a bit here and there. And the Brits, Jesus, they'll buy anything. You ever go into the stores over here? Hardly anything on the shelves.”

“Yeah, I hear there's a war on,” I said, tired of listening to his complaints and rationalizing. I was still stuck on Alvin Blake bailing out over Nazi-occupied France. Colonel Harding had failed to mention that little tidbit.