‘Young fellow?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Colonel Martland has a mind like a razor, particularly about World War Two. In fact, he’s a goddamn bore about it. There’s one thing. He’s a little whacko, if you know what I mean. His wife died about two years ago and he’s been somewhat out to lunch ever since.’
‘Oh.’
‘He has his moments. I’m not saying he’s a goddamn loony bird. He’s just, uh. . . a little loose in the attic. What I’m saying, son, is it may take a little patience. So be kind to him, all right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And don’t get hit by any goddamn golf balls. I don’t want to be sued by the police department.’
It was a tidy street with tidy lawns trimmed neatly to the sidewalk and tidy white frame bungalows, each one a replica of the one next to it, each one sitting exactly the same distance back from the road. The only distinction among the houses was the landscaping, an obvious attempt by the officer tenants to bring some individuality to their homes.
A white Cadillac, several years old but in mint condition, sat in the driveway. They waited for several minutes after ringing the bell before the door was opened by a wiry little man, trim and erect, with pure white hair and a white moustache which might have been elegant had it not been trimmed slightly shorter on the right side than on the left. He was dressed in a tight-fitting Army jumpsuit with a white silk scarf at his throat. He was also wearing a baseball cap, tennis shoes, and held a riding crop in one hand.
‘Yes?’ he said, squinting out through the screen door, ‘Colonel Martland?’ Sharky said.
‘I am Colonel Martland.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m Detective Sharky and this is Sergeant Livingston.’
Martland stared from one to the other. ‘Yes?’
‘From the Atlanta Police Department, sir. Sergeant Weinstock called about us?’
‘Oh, yes. Weinstock. Of course. Well, won’t you come in’?’
He held the door and they entered a house whose walls were barren of paintings or photographs. There was little light inside. He led them into the living room, a room so bleak, so obvious, that Sharky immediately felt burdened by its sadness. Propped against the mantelpiece was an oil painting of a woman in riding clothes with a smoking volcano in the background. That and a chintz sofa were the only furnishings in the room. No tables, no lamps, no chairs, only unopened crates shoved into the corners.
Martland pointed to the sofa and then sat down on the edge of one of the crates, his knees together, the riding crop resting on his thighs as he held it at each end.
‘You must forgive the place. I don’t entertain much anymore. Not since my wife, Miriam’ — and he turned and looked up at the painting and smiled, ‘went away’ -. he said. ‘I really must. . . do something. . .‘ and then the words died as he stared around the oppressive room. He looked back at Sharky and stared at him.
Sharky said, ‘Uh, Colonel, if you have a few minutes, we’d like to ask you some questions.’
He continued to stare at Sharky and frowned. ‘Is it something to do with the car? Did somebody hit the car?’
‘Oh, no, sir, it hasn’t got anything to do with, uh, this isn’t a personal matter. It, uh, we’re conducting an investigation.’
Martland did not change his expression. He continued to stare at Sharky.
‘What it is, sir, we uh, this relates to some things that happened in Italy during the war.’
Martland still did not speak.
‘You were in Italy during the war, weren’t you, sir?’
‘Is that World War Two?’
‘Yes, sir, World War Two.’
‘Oh, yes.’ And he stopped again, staring past Sharky now, frowning for perhaps a full minute before a smile spread over his face.
‘North Africa, Sicily, Italy. 1942 through 1945. Then we, were in West Germany for three years and then on to Schofield Barracks. That’s in Honolulu, you know. We lived there for ten glorious years, my wife and L’ He looked back up at the painting and smiled again. ‘I believe the years in Hawaii were the best years in our career.’
And he stopped and stared again.
‘Do you remember during the time in Sicily and Italy, meeting a man named Scardi? Angelo Scardi? He was a civilian who was there in some kind of advisory capacity.’
Another frown. Another blank stare. Martland stared past Sharky into a dark corner of the room. A full minute crept painfully by, then suddenly he almost bellowed:
‘The American racketeer!’ And began laughing. ‘Dom, that’s what he preferred to be called. For Dominic, his middle name. Hah! Haven’t thought about that rascal for years. Quite a fellow, you know. Very tough. And courageous, oh, yes, particularly for a civilian. Knew him well. Told some shocking stories about the underworld. He was assigned to an intelligence unit commanded by one of my junior officers. Lieutenant McReady. John Sisson McReady from Virginia. Killed at Cassino. Bloody shame. But then...’
He stopped in mid-sentence, as abruptly as he had started, his mind searching back in time for other memories.
‘Uh, what did this Scardi do? In Sicily I mean?’
