“Okay,” I said. I knew he was right, but I didn’t like giving in. Then again, I wouldn’t be the one paying the price. I’d seen it all before, back in Boston, but that didn’t mean it sat well with me. Maybe I just felt guilty about how things had fallen apart with Tree, and wanted to make it up to him. We didn’t salute or shake hands. I turned and boarded the train without a word, just as Tree had done a lifetime ago.
Kaz and I squeezed past squads of British soldiers with their tin-pot helmets and rifles slung over their shoulders. American swabbies in their pea coats were crammed into one corner of the car and GIs on leave slouched in the other corner, garrison caps pulled down over their eyes, recovering from last night’s bash or resting up for tonight’s.
We grabbed the last two seats and watched as more servicemen boarded the train until it seemed that it might not be able to bear the weight. Air force personnel and paratroopers from the 101st added to the train’s burden, until finally, with a blast of the whistle and a release of steam, it slowly departed the station.
“Which do you want to explain first?” Kaz said. “What happened between you and Tree-marvelous nickname-or why you are certain Angry Smith is innocent?”
“I’ll start with the easy one,” I said, trying to get comfortable on the narrow seat. The track took us close to the canal, and I could see the tents of the 617th Tank Destroyer Battalion spread out beyond it. “There was something very methodical about the murder of Constable Eastman, which hints at a premeditated act.”
“And according to his nickname, Abraham Smith is prone to sudden acts,” Kaz said.
“Yes. If Eastman had been found outside a pub, near his sister’s house, anywhere like that, it would point to Smith. But that graveyard scene means Eastman was there for a reason. Either brought there already dead, likely on that trail you spotted, or lured there alive by his killer.”
“Or, he arranged a meeting there, or simply strolled to that spot with someone he trusted.”
“Would he have trusted Angry Smith? At night? In a graveyard? After they had argued and he’d called him a damned darkie? I don’t think so.”
“You’re right, Billy,” Kaz said as the coach lurched forward, taking a small rise. Smoke from dozens of cigarettes turned the air grey as voices rose, laughter and banter turning louder as bottles were passed around. The Americans were all on leave, while the British Tommies were under orders, carrying their gear and weapons with them, no leave passes in their pockets. They looked resentful, maybe scared. “Perhaps someone took advantage of the fact that Angry would be a suspect.”
“Or it could have nothing to do with him. A family feud, maybe. Or a warning.”
“The killer might go after other members of the Eastman family,” Kaz said, thinking it through. “If they don’t get what they want.”
“Be nice to know what that was,” I said.
“What are you going to do?” Kaz said.
“Should be easy to get a look at the CID report. See how serious this is. I’d like to talk to the local police, too.”
“But they have no jurisdiction. The Visiting Forces Act, you know.” I knew. The act gave the army the right to arrest and try our servicemen for crimes committed on English territory. It made a lot of sense, and took a lot of pressure off the English justice system. But I also knew that no police force in the world would look kindly upon outsiders taking over a case that involved the killing of one of their own.
“They’ll still have information, and maybe a few leads that CID overlooked in their rush to close the case. Angry Smith is the most convenient suspect you could imagine,” I said.
“But your leave,” Kaz said. “You and Diana are going to Seaton Manor tomorrow, are you not?”
“Sure we are,” I said. “It’s all planned out. We’re heading up there on the three o’clock train from King’s Cross Station. I can’t wait for some peace and quiet.” There hadn’t been much peace in Italy, and the Anzio Beachhead was definitely not the quietest spot around. I had been looking forward to this leave, but thoughts of Angry Smith in prison mingling with memories of Tree Jackson in Boston didn’t put me in a happy mood.
“I can make inquiries while you are away,” Kaz said. “You and Diana deserve the time together.” He was right, especially about Diana. She’d been arrested in Rome by the Gestapo and spent some unpleasant days in a prison there. Diana Seaton worked for the Special Operations Executive, and had been on an assignment within the Vatican in German-occupied Rome. Disguised as a nun, she’d been arrested on black market charges. Luckily, the Gestapo and the Italian secret police hadn’t uncovered her real identity.
“Thanks, Kaz. If you have time, pay a visit to the Berkshire Constabulary and see what the local office has to say.”
“I will have time,” Kaz said, and turned his head to stare out the window. Kaz had been granted leave as well, but his dance card was empty. He’d been invited to Seaton Manor along with me, but the memories there were still too painful for him. When I first arrived in England, Kaz was head over heels in love with Daphne Seaton, Diana’s younger sister. Daphne had felt the same way about Kaz. They were my first friends over here, and they both became involved in my first case for the general. Kaz lived through it. Daphne hadn’t. Things were rough for Kaz after that, and I know at one point he thought about killing himself. But he was tough, and curious, and the investigation business kept him getting up each morning.
Kaz was a real bookworm who could speak half a dozen languages fluently. He was also rich. Beacon Hill rich. Unfortunately it was because his father had seen the writing on the wall and transferred the family wealth from Polish to Swiss banks shortly before the Nazi invasion. Kaz had been attending school in England, and his father was planning to move the entire family there. But his prescience did not extend to the exact date of the invasion, and on September 1st, 1939 the Kazimierz family was still in Poland. They were all killed, exterminated as part of the Polish upper class. Kaz was alone in the world, with memories, a big fat bank account, and me.
“Tell me the story of you and Tree,” Kaz said, drawing his gaze from the countryside flowing by outside the window.
“It was years ago. We were just kids.”
“You didn’t want to talk about it on the way down from London,” Kaz said. “That was fine; it allowed me to meet Tree without preconceptions. But now that we are involved, you must open up. Besides, it will ease the boredom of this locomotive ride.”
Kaz hated being bored. I think some of his interest in keeping himself alive had to do with the hot water I often managed to get myself into. It amused him.
“Okay,” I said, leaning in closer to Kaz and trying to block out the conversations going on around us. There were three GIs opposite our seats and one next to me, but they were deep into a discussion about the kind of girl they’d like to meet in London, a topic that could last a good long time.
“It was nineteen thirty-six,” I began.
I’d delivered newspapers, shoveled sidewalks, done all the odd jobs kids do since I was old enough to cross the street by myself. That summer, with my sixteenth birthday a month behind me, I was ready for a real job. Meaning regular pay, greenbacks doled out in small manila envelopes every Friday. I wasn’t greedy, but there was something I wanted-no, needed-to have. It was a 1922 Indian Scout. It needed a new oil pump, and the brakes were bad, but it was still a beautiful motorcycle. Low slung, red, with a 606 cc engine. And best of all, old man Warner, who’d last ridden it the year the market crashed, was willing to let it sit in his garage until I came up with the dough. And not say anything to my folks about it.
Mom had put the kibosh on the idea of a motorcycle half a dozen times. Dad would shake his head and tell me to listen to my mother, which I interpreted as practically a green light to proceed as long as I didn’t get caught. So that was my plan: get a job, pay old man Warner, fix up the Scout in secret, and then show it off to my friends. Not the most well-thought-out plan, but remember, I was sixteen years old.
“I bought the Chief model,” a corporal sitting next to me said, cutting into my story. “Got it up to one hundred on a flat stretch of road in Kansas once. But then I got drafted and left it with my girl. Some 4-F is probably out riding it now. Sorry, Lieutenant, go on.”
“No problem, Soldier. I did stop to take a breath, after all.”
“Don’t mind him, Lieutenant,” one of his pals said. “What happened next?” I hadn’t realized I had an audience. The GIs seated with us had ceased their conversation and were leaning in, nodding at me to continue. I did.
What happened next is that I kept asking my dad to get me a summer job at the police department. There weren’t a lot of them to go around, but police work in Boston was largely a family affair. When Dad and Uncle Dan
