the key. Might be worth a truckload of Spam.”
“Don’t bother bringing that around,” Flack said. “Worse than bully beef, that stuff.”
“Whatever you use, Boyle,” Scutt cut in, putting an end to a comparison of American and British canned meats, “it will have to come from your stores. The Met cannot provide supplies illegally. But we will assist in any way we can. Now we have some questions to put to you.”
“OK,” I said. I watched Scutt and Flack exchange glances. No more philosophical comments about Londoners at war, no more jokes about Spam and tinned beef. They had questions to put to me, and that was a shift. When a cop has something routine to ask another cop, he simply asks him. When a cop is about to interrogate someone, he tells him he has questions.
“Yesterday you were at the Rubens Hotel, correct?” Scutt began.
“Yes, I was visiting a friend.”
“Do you usually enter the Rubens via the staff entrance?”
“What does that matter?”
“We have been informed that you accosted a member of the staff there.”
“He was spying on my friend.”
“Who is your friend,” Flack said, studying a file Scutt had handed him, “and who was this Edward Miller spying for?”
“Lieutenant Baron Piotr Augustus Kazimierz,” I said, giving them Kaz’s name and title, thinking that might impress the royalty conscious. “He used to work on General Eisenhower’s staff, and now he’s with the Polish Government in Exile.”
“Edward Miller?”
“He was being paid off by Kiril Sidorov, the Russian officer you met, to supply information on the Poles.”
“We knew he was an informer, but not for whom. We have our own informants, but the data they provide only goes so far. What do you think Sidorov was after?”
“Information, of course, just like you.” I didn’t like how this was going.
“I think the stakes are a bit higher in this case,” Scutt said. “This is more than routine gossip and information gathering, and you know it. You’ve been holding out on us, Boyle.”
“About what?” I tried to sound irritated.
“About your friend, Lieutenant Kazimierz. His role in the controversy regarding the Kaytn Forest killings. That brings him in direct conflict with the Russians. Any reason you didn’t mention that to us? To your brother officers, investigating the murder of an NKVD man on their own patch?” Scutt’s voice had grown louder, and he leaned forward at the end, slamming his fist on the desk.
“Yes,” I said, willing myself to speak calmly, letting a few seconds of silence creep between us. “Because he’s my friend, and I’d trust him with my life.”
“That’s a fine answer,” Scutt said, studying me as he leaned back into his chair. “One I might be satisfied with if not for the fact that Lieutenant Kazimierz goes about London armed with a. 32-caliber pistol. The same caliber as the bullet that killed Egorov.”
“That bullet was too damaged to measure accurately,” I said, and regretted it instantly. I didn’t want to sound like a lawyer. “Kaz carries that for protection, that’s all.”
“So far, it’s been dangerous for one Russian, dead, and one Englishman, whom you apparently beat senseless.”
“Sheila,” I said, remembering the girl who had seen Eddie and me in the hallway. “She’s your informant. She’s the only one who saw me slap Eddie around. She must be sweet on him to claim I beat him senseless, not that he had much sense to begin with.”
“Keep that to yourself, Boyle,” Flack said in a low, angry voice. “Your friend bears watching, and so do you, as far as I can tell.”
“You’ve been watching him already. If you thought he was responsible for killing Egorov, then you would have picked him up.”
“No, we don’t have enough at this point,” Flack said. “We know he’s armed with a weapon similar to the one used on Egorov. We know that he’s made inflammatory statements about the Russians, but we don’t know where he was that Friday night.”
“Meaning you don’t have someone watching him at the Dorchester,” I said.
“Boyle, please understand this,” Scutt said. “We are not watching any one individual. We employ informants to keep us updated on the comings and goings of the many foreigners we have in London. They are our allies, but they often don’t see eye to eye with each other. The fact that Lieutenant Kazimierz goes about armed was just one detail in a routine report.”
“Sheila didn’t strike me as someone who could tell the difference between a. 32 caliber and a blunderbuss. How did you find that out?”
“It was determined in the routine course of investigation,” Scutt said. In other words, none of my business. They obviously had someone else inside. Or had they searched our rooms at the Dorchester?
“Are we working together, or are we not?” I said. “Either way is fine, I just want to know.” I waited, watching Flack fume and Scutt consider. They were a good team, the experienced, calm inspector and the angry younger detective.
“We are still working together,” Scutt said finally. “Detective Sergeant Flack will continue to monitor the Poles. Frankly, theirs is the only motive we have. If you believe your friend and his associates are not involved at all, then I suggest you pursue other leads.”
“OK,” I said. I had to agree with them, although I wouldn’t do it out loud. “I’ll try Chapman again. Tell me, does Eddie know that Sheila is working for you?”
“No, not according to her, anyway,” Flack said. “She’s been reporting to us for two months now, and she swears no one’s the wiser. Anything else you’ve failed to tell us?”
“Just one thing I heard at High Wycombe. That the Russian delegation stopped coming right after they had a meeting there with some Royal Navy officers.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Flack said.
“I have no idea. The Russians, the American Eighth Air Force, and the Royal Navy. The first two aren’t talking, so I thought you might try your guys. Maybe ask our friend from MI5, Major Charles Cosgrove.”
“Why don’t you?” Flack said.
“Because the last time I saw him, I almost punched his fat face in.”
“I think we will make the inquiry, Lieutenant Boyle,” Scutt said. “For the sake of Allied unity.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
It wasn’t far from the Met to Norfolk House, but I wished it was farther so I’d have more time to work on my pitch to Colonel Harding. I didn’t think he’d take kindly to my stealing U.S. Army supplies, no matter how good the cause, or the fact that I’d get paid for them, black market wholesale rate.
The sky was filled with low, dark clouds, just the thing to keep the Luftwaffe at bay. It would keep our bombers grounded as well, if the cloud cover extended over the Continent. How did our aircrew feel about that? Happy at another day of life on the ground, or wishing they could get in another mission toward the twenty-five they needed to be rotated home? All I knew for sure was that there must be a helluva lot of civilians all over Europe who prayed for lousy weather.
“How did it go last night?” Harding said, before I’d gotten my trench coat off.
“I survived the air raid.”
“I can see that, Boyle. I mean with Chapman. You were headed to Liverpool Street when you left here yesterday.”
“I can safely say he’s a homicidal maniac,” I said as I settled into an armchair across from Harding’s desk. “He’s set up at one end of the shelter like it was home sweet home, complete with bodyguards, a bedroom, and a pig sticker from the last war. But the one thing I thought he’d react to, he didn’t.”
“Egorov?”
