London was preferable to cooking in some battalion kitchen out on maneuvers. They consulted clipboards, yelled into the telephone, searched shelves, and looked under counters, stirring up a cloud of flour in their haste and panic, until a kid wearing an apron bigger than he was triumphantly told us they’d be serving canned peaches in a couple of hours, and had enough coming in to keep Beetle in thick syrup for weeks. They were happy, I was happy, Big Mike was happy. But there would be no peaches tonight for the weary warriors of Norfolk House.
We waited on Charles Street, watching the traffic, wrapped in our trench coats and scarves, stomping our feet to keep warm. The weather was turning colder, the clouds still blanking out the sun, the pavement chill creeping up our boots. Finally, what we were waiting for showed up. One supply truck, driven by a corporal, with a PFC dead asleep in the passenger’s seat. I stepped out in front of them as they turned off the street.
“Show me your orders!” I barked, imitating a combination of Beetle, Harding, and a rabid dog as I peered inside the truck cab. “How dare you show up to headquarters like this? You’re both out of uniform. I ought to put you on report.”
“Gee, Lieutenant,” the PFC said, “we’ve been loading and unloading crates all day. We always wear our fatigues on work detail. These are uniforms, ain’t they?”
“Looks like you’ve been rolling around in the dirt all day, soldier. Plus, no field scarf, and that wool cap isn’t regulation wear without a steel helmet on top of it. If General Smith sees you, you’ll lose what stripes you have. Pull the vehicle over then go inside, both of you. Wash up, make yourselves presentable, and then unload this stuff.”
“But, Lieutenant, we can’t leave this-”
“I’ll sign for your shipment, Corporal, don’t worry. And we’ll wait right here. Now move!”
“I don’t know, Lieutenant,” he said, handing me the clipboard. I scrawled on the signature line and kept the clipboard.
“Trust me, I know. I used to be a captain. Then I showed up one day with mud on my trousers. Busted. Do yourself a favor-hustle inside, clean up, get back here on the double, and you might be all right. I can’t wait all day.”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” he said, getting out of the truck and reaching for the clipboard. “I’ll take my receipt now.”
“You’re not putting those greasy fingers on my copy,” I said, tossing the clipboard on the seat. “Clean those hands and then we’ll finish the paperwork.”
They both went off, shaking their heads, slightly unsure if they owed me thanks or if it was more of the usual chickenshit. Big Mike and I watched them go in, waited a couple of seconds in case they looked back, and jumped into the truck. I threw the clipboard out the window. They’d find it, signed, and maybe their story would be believed. I shoved the gear into reverse, backed into Charles Street, and took off, trying not to hit the statue of Florence Nightingale as I turned right onto Waterloo Place, watching the rearview mirror for cooks, bakers, MPs, or quartermaster troops on our tail.
“You got a can opener on you, Billy?” Big Mike asked. I didn’t stop laughing until I realized I had to find a place in the heart of London to hide a three-quarter-ton U.S. Army truck, loaded with crates labeled PEACHES, CANNED, SYRUP, HEAVY.
Fortunately, Walter was on duty at the Dorchester, manning the front desk and unflappable as I told him we needed a place to park a truck for a few hours, out of sight. I hesitated to use the word hide, but he understood. He made a phone call and told me to head around the back of the hotel, between the two wings that extended from the rear of the hotel. I signaled Big Mike, who was circling the block, and he turned in, a Dorchester Rolls-Royce pulling in behind us, partially blocking the view from the side street. As long as the MPs didn’t start searching fancy hotels for stolen peaches, we’d be OK. I untied the canvas cover at the rear and counted crates. Neatly stacked, there were four rows, four high, four deep. Sixty-four crates of canned peaches. I grabbed a pry bar from a tool kit bolted to the floor and popped the top of one crate, the thin pine giving way easily. Six industrial-sized cans in each crate, enough peaches to feed an army.
“Jeez, Billy, what do you think it’s all worth?” Big Mike asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But we have some time to figure it out.” I handed him the open crate, got down and secured the canvas tarp. We left the one crate with the Rolls driver, since it wouldn’t do to carry contraband through the lobby, and told Walter to divvy it up as he saw fit. When I told him what it was, his eyes widened.
“I haven’t seen peaches since, since, I can’t remember when,” Walter said. “There’s four staff involved, Lieutenant, and one more coming on duty soon. Ah, are there sufficient supplies?”
“Six cans this high, Walter,” I said, holding my hands about a foot apart. “I need to know what this stuff would cost on the black market. And don’t worry, this is all in the course of an investigation. I’m working with Scotland Yard.”
“Very well, Lieutenant. I shall make inquiries,” he said in a whisper. “The sixth can will go to the chef, who should be able to find out.”
“Thanks. We’ll be out of here after dark.” I swear I saw him lick his lips. He’d be a hero at home tonight.
I ordered room service, since it would be a late night, and Big Mike had gone without food for about four hours. As we worked on the lamb chops and boiled potatoes, we tried to figure out what to ask Chapman for the peaches.
“I know a carton of smokes goes for about twenty bucks,” Big Mike said. “That’s a lot because you can trade American cigarettes for just about anything.”
“Yeah, but there’s a built-in appeal for smokers, they gotta have them. Peaches, well, they taste good, but you can go without and not really be bothered.”
“Maybe,” Big Mike said. “They’re a luxury. Some folks will pay top dollar for what everyone else can’t have.” There was a knock on the door and we both jumped, like a couple of heisters on the run. But it was only Walter.
“Our chef wishes to know how many of these cans you are looking to sell,” he asked.
“Sixty-four,” I said.
“He would pay five pounds each.”
“Wow” was all I could say.
“Billy, remember it’s sixty-three crates now, since we gave these guys one.”
“You have sixty-three crates?” Walter asked, amazement registering in his normally cultured and calm voice.
“Yeah,” I said. “Did you mean five pounds per crate?”
“Blimey, no,” Walter said, dropping the high-society accent. “Five quid per can!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We left another crate with Walter and his pals, just to let them know there were no hard feelings. I didn’t know if the chef and Walter were in cahoots, planning to sell off the peaches at an even greater profit, or if it was all for the glory of the hotel’s kitchen. I thought it might be the glory, the desire for the Dorchester to be seen as able to conjure up anything for their guests. The government limit of five shillings for any meal on the menu was still in effect, but that didn’t mean the hotel couldn’t charge separately for a dessert of peaches. The rumor of peaches alone would probably bring in droves of diners, all the Mayfair set ready to plunk down whatever it took for a delicacy out of reach for the common folk.
But we were headed to a different neighborhood, one where you didn’t dress for dinner. Big Mike took Oxford Street and left the West End behind, the roadway changing to names that better suited the surroundings. Cheapside turned to Threadneedle Street, and that took us close to the Liverpool Tube Station.
“Pull in next to those trucks,” I said. As I’d hoped, there were vehicles parked near the burned-out buildings a block away from the Underground. Work was still going on to clear the debris, and a couple of flatbed trucks and a van had been backed into the cleared space. Big Mike joined them and killed the engine. “You stay here, make sure no one noses around.”
“I can’t let you go in there alone, Billy,” Big Mike said, but without a lot of enthusiasm. He knew our precious cargo might not last unguarded.
