all. No sign of Crowley.
“Let’s check the stables,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Kaz and the others should be here in a few minutes.” We rolled open the stable door and six horses gazed at us with their dark, inscrutable eyes. It was quiet, no sound other than the soft exhalations from the horses’ nostrils. I pointed to the door leading to Crowley’s room. We checked our backs, drew our guns, then trod quietly through the stable, looking for any sign of our man.
We turned at the end of the stalls and with gentle footfalls made our way to Crowley’s door. Midway, one of the horses reared and neighed, his head held high, as if he was looking for Crowley as well. We froze, waiting for the door to open, but all was silent. Two GIs passed by outside, not giving a glance our way. I nodded toward the door and we moved forward.
I pointed to the knob and gestured for Tree to open it, then stay put. He laid his hand on it and turned, but nothing happened.
“Locked,” he mouthed. I raised my foot and slammed it against the door, right by the lock. Wood splintered and the door swung open. I nearly fell into the room, my.38 revolver pointed ahead of me, looking for a threat.
The room was empty. It was exactly as I’d seen it last time. Except the picture of Alan Wycks looked more sad and tragic, now that I knew his story.
“I’m going to search the place,” I said to Tree. “Keep an eye on the door.”
“Sure,” Tree said, swinging the door on its broken hinge. “What’s left of it.”
“And here I thought you were a certified criminal.”
“Hey, I’m just a driver. You got to explain these things to me,” Tree said. He smiled, and it felt like we were kids again, out on some grand adventure. We were about to right a great wrong, free Tree’s pal from jail. Everything was going to work out, at least better than it had last time around. I felt good.
I checked under the mattress, went through the bureau, moved the cans and supplies on his shelf around, and satisfied myself there was nothing in any of those spots. Then I sat down at the desk. It was scraped and scarred from years of use, and one of the legs was broken, propped up by a brick. It was like everything in the room, discards from an attic or basement. Which is probably where Crowley got it all from, to create the illusion of a caretaker’s room when the army arrived.
The desk held little of interest. Musty paperwork from years ago. Pencil stubs. A photograph of a woman, possibly his mother, folded and shoved in the back of a drawer. Did Crowley despise his mother for leaving his father? It didn’t matter. What mattered was what I found in the bottom drawer. A box of shotgun shells, half empty, on top of the newspaper article about the trial of Alan Wycks. I took them out and set them on the desk.
“Bird shot,” Tree said from the doorway.
“Can still kill a man,” I said. I unfolded the article. The creases were nearly worn through from being opened and closed so many times. It was a different article from the one in the scrapbook. This was from a newspaper in Reading, where the trial was held. It detailed the testimony given by then Detective Sergeant Payne, and mentioned that Wycks had gotten hysterical and had to be removed from the courtroom. The local paper had given Sam Eastman as the arresting officer, but this reporter gave that honor to Payne, either by error or because of the transfer to the headquarters lockup.
“First Brackmann, then Eastman,” I said to myself.
“What?” asked Tree.
“Never mind. There’s got to be something else here, he wouldn’t keep only one article. He was obsessed by his father’s imprisonment, so he’s bound to have more.” I pulled out desk drawers and emptied them on the floor. I dumped out the contents of the bureau, tore the sheets from the bed, looked in every corner of the pathetic little room.
Nothing.
Everything in the room was junk. Everything except the framed photograph of his father. I took it down and removed the cardboard backing. Tucked inside were sheets of paper, covered in writing, words in lines straight across, curving down the margins, filled with underlines, cross-outs, and capital letters. It was addressed to Angus Wycks, “my dear son.”
It was nearly incomprehensible. Alan Wycks was no longer a former schoolteacher, ex-soldier, or stonemason. He was a man driven mad by confinement, who felt the demons that pressed in on him from every stone surface that imprisoned him. Four names stood out, each underlined in a fury of ink.
The men who had destroyed his life, cheated him, driven his wife away, torn his son from his grasp, and laid terror upon his soul. Angus had a mission, and he was halfway home.
“Let’s go,” I said, putting the letter in my pocket. “We have to find Crowley.”
“Where’s Kaz and the others?” Tree asked as we looked around outside. “They should be here.” He was right.
“Maybe they got held up by troops on the road. Listen, we have to find Crowley. I don’t like the thought of him loose with a loaded shotgun.”
“You think he might have gotten Cook on his way here?” Tree said as we got into the jeep.
“Kaz is pretty good with his Webley revolver,” I said. “I’m more worried about Inspector Payne. He’s all alone; he wouldn’t stand a chance. Let’s drive down the lane toward the cemetery, then back up here in case we missed him.”
“Wait a minute,” Tree said, standing up in the jeep and giving a sharp whistle through his fingers. He waved his arm and I saw Charlie hustle over in our direction.
“Not another fight, Tree.”
“Hell no, Billy. Charlie is okay. He didn’t want to fight, he’s just not smart enough to stand up for himself. If he’d wanted to, he coulda laid me out any time he wanted.”
“You didn’t mention that before,” I said.
“Man’s got his pride. Hey Charlie, how you feeling?”
“Okay, Sergeant. Captain,” Charlie said, giving a decent salute.
“Hey, it’s just Billy and Tree, Charlie, long as there’s no other officers around. We’re looking for Angus Crowley. You see him around?”
“Yeah, Billy. I saw him this morning. He rode down the road on his bicycle.”
“We didn’t see him coming in,” Tree said.
“No, that road,” Charlie said, pointing to the track. “The one that goes to the church. Why do you guys want Crowley?”
“Damn! How long ago?” I asked.
“An hour, tops.”
“Was he carrying a shotgun?”
“Not that I saw. He was wearing a raincoat. Doesn’t look like rain, now that I think about it.” Charlie glanced up at the clear skies, and even he understood.
“Charlie, we need your help,” I said. “Get to a telephone and call the police station in Hungerford. Tell Inspector Payne that Crowley is on his way, and he’s armed. We’re headed back. We’ll be there with Constable Cook and the others in ten minutes. Can you do that?”
“Sure. If Sergeant Evans lets me use the telephone.”
“Tell him Crowley has been cheating the army, and that I said I’d share the credit for catching him with Sobel.”
“He’ll love that, Billy,” Charlie said, and went off at a run as Tree gunned the jeep, fishtailing in the gravel drive and sending a squad of men flying as we sped away from the base.
I had a bad feeling as we barreled down the road. Crowley had been waiting all this time, and he’d probably heard about Payne and his broken leg, and also assumed Kaz and I would be gone now that the Neville case was wrapped up. No armed soldiers, just a few unarmed English coppers between him and the revenge he sought.
