“I went over there as soon as I heard. Landry was next to the tent, and a set of guy wires ran above his legs. He couldn’t have fallen there. So someone stashed his body, out of sight.”
“Makes sense. Can you show me?” The photo I’d seen of Landry hadn’t shown the lower part of his body, so I’d missed the fact that he’d been placed there. And Cole hadn’t mentioned it. Was he a rookie at this, or did he have something to hide?
“Come on,” Gates said with a sigh. He donned a poncho, his helmet, and slung his Thompson, barrel down, over his shoulder. We headed out into the rain. The supply tents were at the edge of the area, a double row, back to back. There was just enough space between the guy wires from each tent to walk without tripping over them. The ground was soaked, but it hadn’t been ground up into mud yet.
“It was dry when he was found,” I said.
“Yeah, we had a clear spell for a while. It’s been raining off and on since. You looking for anything special?”
“No, just trying to get a feel for things. I saw one photograph, but it only showed his upper body. You’re right, he wasn’t killed here. So someone had to carry him from someplace else.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Don’t know yet. Maybe he didn’t want the body found until he got to Galante.”
“I heard his body was sort of hidden too. Tucked away by those fancy fountains.”
“Rusty, for a guy who doesn’t care about this investigation, you seem to know a lot about it.”
“Not much else to do around here but clean weapons and listen to scuttlebutt. You seen enough?”
“Yeah,” I said, looking down the long row of tents, a back alley of olive-drab canvas. Landry had been killed somewhere close and hidden here. It had to be close. It took some nerve to snap a man’s neck and then carry him when you could be seen at any moment. Even in the dark, you could trip over a tent stake, create a racket, and be done for. I didn’t have a good feeling about this.
“Let’s get out of the rain,” Gates said.
CHAPTER NINE
We sat in the mess tent, clutching mugs of hot coffee as rainwater dripped from our clothes. Gates wiped his Thompson down and leaned it against the bench.
“Not everybody here goes around armed,” I said.
“Not everybody here has been around since Tunisia, Sicily, and Salerno. I notice you keep your. 45 close at hand.”
“You never can tell,” I said. “Especially in my line of work.”
“That’s what I tell the men. If you’re always loaded for bear, the bear won’t win. It’s got to become a habit, if you want to stay alive.”
“Evans hasn’t picked it up yet,” I said. He was a couple of tables away, playing cards with three other lieutenants. Not a weapon among them.
“No. He says it’s safe here.” He shook his head at the futility of explaining things to officers, and sipped his coffee. “He hasn’t fired a weapon since he’s been in Italy, so you can’t blame him. Too much.”
“Do you know Sergeant Jim Cole?”
Gates’s eyes flickered for a second. “Jimmy Cole? Sure. He’s over at CID now, right?”
“Yeah, he’s working this case with me. How about Captain Galante? Did you know him when he was with 3rd Division?”
“Knew of him,” Gates said. He looked away at nothing in particular.
“What did you think of him?”
“I think he’s dead, and I have the living to worry about. Now I have a question for you.”
“Okay.”
“Do you think I killed them?”
“That’s not how it works. If I could-”
“Do you think I killed them?”
I looked at his hard eyes. I looked at his strong arms, and at his weapon close by. He held ready violence like a whip at his side.
“I don’t think so. But I’ve been wrong before.”
“Fair enough,” Gates said. “You want to talk to the other sergeants?”
“Sure,” I said. “But tell me about Cole and Galante first.”
“No need for that. Come on.” Gates rose, and I followed him out of the mess tent. I knew I wasn’t going to get anything more out of him about Cole, but I didn’t know why. Rusty Gates was hiding something, but I didn’t think it was murder. He was a deadly killer, yes. But everything he did was about surviving. He wanted to live, and he wanted his men to live. Landry had been a good platoon leader, and there was no percentage in seeing him dead. But as I told Gates, I’d been wrong. Dead wrong.
The rain was heavier now, and we dashed along the plank boardwalks to a tent in the Easy Company area. Gates held the flap as we entered, and the warmth from a glowing tent stove was welcome. Crates of supplies were stacked to the rear, and next to the stove a table was set up, with three noncoms lounging around it. Two lanterns hung from the ceiling, shedding light on a stack of cash, empty bottles, cigar butts, and other debris from what looked like a long night of poker.
“Game busted up, boys?” Gates asked.
“Yeah. Flint finally cleaned the padre out. He was the big winner all night, and when he caved, the other guys left. Couple of corporals from Baker Company, they shoulda quit hours ago. Who’s this?” A stubby hand gripping a smoldering cigar waved in my direction.
“Lieutenant Boyle. He’s looking for whoever killed Landry and Galante. He wants to talk to you guys.”
“Call me Billy, fellas. Everyone does. Who made the killing?” All three of them looked at me, mouths agape. “I mean, who was the big winner?” I pointed to the pile of scrip.
“That’d be me, Billy. Amos Flint.”
“Flint has Second Squad,” Gates said. “Louie with the stogie there has First Squad, Stump the Third.”
I shook hands with Flint. He had a ready grin, but who wouldn’t, after raking in all that dough? He had startlingly blue eyes, and was neatly attired in a chocolate-brown wool shirt, usually reserved for officers. He had the satisfied calmness of a winner who’d known he’d win all along.
“Louie Walla, from Walla Walla,” the cigar-chomping sergeant said as he extended his callused hand. “Last name is Walla, and I’m from Walla Walla, Washington. How ’bout that?”
“Amazing, Louie,” was all I could say. Louie was short, with black curly hair, a raspy voice, and an easy grin wrapped around his cigar.
“Don’t mind Louie, he gives everyone that speech,” the next sergeant said. “Marty Stumpf. They call me Stump, on account of the Kraut-sounding name.” Stump was sandy-haired, with high cheekbones and eyes that didn’t seem to miss a thing.
“Yeah, if we called him Stumpf up on the line, one of his cousins might answer,” Flint said, and they all laughed at what sounded like a familiar joke. Stump rolled his eyes.
“You guys answer Billy’s questions. I’m going to pull Evans away from his bridge party. Weapons inspection in one hour. Have your men ready.”
“Aw, Rusty, we been up all night,” Louie said.
“Yeah, and look where that got you. One hour,” Gates said as he left.
“He’s right,” Flint said to the others. “We gotta stay on our toes, and show the rookies what’s what.” The other sergeants groaned but did not argue.
“Anybody have an idea about who might want Landry dead?” I asked, watching their eyes for the downward glance, the rapid flicker, anything that would signal hesitation, the censoring of thought into words.
“Nobody south of the Bernhardt Line,” Flint said, referring to the name the Germans gave to their current main line of defense, stretching across the Italian mountains south of Monte Cassino.
“You got that right,” Stump said. “Landry was one of the best.”
