and that he’d come right over.
I set the receiver down and tried to get my jumbled thoughts in order. Kaz was in trouble, or damn close to it. If I was right about his going to St. Albans, it would give me a chance to warn him of Scutt’s suspicions. Nothing made sense about Eddie Miller’s killing. If Sidorov figured out Eddie had turned on him, the smart money would bet on his playing along. Knowing Eddie was feeding him bad information could point him to the truth, or at least to its neighborhood. As for Kaz and any of the other Poles, Eddie was too valuable alive; there was no percentage in killing him. As for what I was supposed to be investigating, the murder of Gennady Egorov, the only loose thread I had to pull was Topper. He and his father didn’t see eye to eye on his wish to serve king and country, and while I could appreciate the elder Chapman’s desire to keep his offspring alive it also gave me something to exploit. If I could drive them apart, the truth might have a chance to slither out between them. There seemed to be a link between the truck hijackings and Egorov’s murder. Somewhere in all this, there were connections that made sense, connections that would explain everything. I just couldn’t see them yet.
I took the street map of London, figuring Radecki wouldn’t need it while he was at Station Number Eight. I opened it up to see if by chance he’d marked the location with a nice big 8, but no dice. One street in Camberwell, south of the Thames, was marked. Penford Street, number 420. He had made a show of giving Eddie Miller the message that he knew where Eddie lived, reciting the address when he looked through Eddie’s wallet. Was this simply a reminder, or had he planned on making a visit? Probably a reminder, I decided, since he could always talk to Eddie at the hotel. But if he needed to make good on his threat, a home visit would be more intimidating.
I stood, taking in the framed pictures Radecki kept on the shelves behind his desk. Family pictures-Valerian Radecki in civilian clothes with a pretty wife and two young children, the oldest no more than six. It looked like a picnic, blankets spread by a lake, smiling faces drenched in sunlight. Another was of Radecki in uniform, standing with an older man who was probably his father, in front of a small factory.
“All dead,” Horak said. I hadn’t heard him come in, intent on studying photographs of a happier time. “His father was killed when the Germans bombed Warsaw. He owned a steelworks, and was in the building when it took a direct hit.”
“His wife and children?”
“Stuka dive-bombers. They were in a column of refugees, heading out of Warsaw, when the road was bombed and strafed. They and many others were killed.”
“Senseless,” I said, stunned once again at the scale of the losses endured.
“From a strictly military point of view, it is not senseless. Such attacks are designed to deny the enemy freedom of movement. If civilians cannot move, neither can troops. The road is left littered with burning hulks of automobiles and carts. Dead horses, dead civilians. Soldiers must dismount from their vehicles and walk around the carnage, demoralizing and weakening them. Is it not terrible, that we live in a time where such a horrible thing is done with purpose? Personally, I would prefer unthinking evil.”
I didn’t answer Horak. I left, descending the elegant staircase, passing under the crystal chandelier, pulling my coat on, and turning my collar up before I’d even gone outside, wishing I could shield myself from the ghosts and memories haunting the exiled and doomed Poles.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“ Where to, Billy? ” Big Mike said as I got into the jeep.
“Camberwell, across the river. Take the Vauxhall Bridge.”
“That where Kaz is?” Big Mike said as he turned left in front of Victoria Station.
“No. It’s where Eddie Miller lived. He was the snitch for Sidorov.”
“Past tense?”
“Yeah. Somebody put a Polish bayonet through his heart early this morning. It belonged to Valerian Radecki, one of the Polish officers Kaz worked with. Major Horak saw Kaz handling it yesterday.”
“Fingerprints,” Big Mike said, nodding his head as he drove, visualizing the frame with his inner cop’s eye. “Who showed it to him, Radecki?”
“Yes, it was one of his souvenirs.”
“Then it’s going to have his prints, Kaz’s, and the killer’s. Or none.”
“Right,” I said, agreeing silently that Kaz was not the murderer.
“We trying to beat Scotland Yard to Eddie’s house?”
“We might not have to try too hard,” I said as we crossed the bridge, Big Ben visible downriver, its sharp spire silhouetted against white clouds drifting over the city. “Scutt says he’s shorthanded. He had to send men out to hunt for Krauts.”
“Harding said the docks took some scattered hits, but we shot down a dozen bombers, between flak and the night fighters,” Big Mike said. “Not that you’d know from the newspapers. The Brits play their cards close in, know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I do,” I said as I pointed out our next turn, onto Brixton Road. Big Mike had a point, and I wondered what connections I might be missing entirely. Connections between Major Cosgrove, MI5, and who else? The Poles, the Russians, the Chapman gang, or the local Communist Party?
Penford Street was one of several short side streets about a block from the railroad. A tall brick wall screened the view but not the noise as a freight train lumbered by. The street was neat and well kept, three-story row houses in uniform brown brick, white-painted trim, and the typical London door, lacquered in different colors. Eddie’s was deep blue, and as we walked up the steps, it opened, and out came Sheila Carlson.
“Oh,” she said, startled by the near collision. She seemed to be in a hurry, her eyes darting out to the street, in a rush to leave Eddie’s house behind her. Her eyes took a second to settle down and focus on my face, and then they widened as she recognized me from the hotel.
“Oh no, please don’t. Oh no, no,” she muttered, as she took in my presence there and the towering form of Big Mike behind me. She thought she was looking at death itself. She put her hands on the door frame to steady herself, her face gone white, her mouth a gaping circle, little puffs of air escaping with each oh, oh, and none going in, like a gasping fish on dry land. I went to take her arm, which was a mistake.
“No!” she shouted, her voice finding anger as she swung her pocketbook, slamming me in the side of my face. I felt a sharp pain, a razor slice on my cheekbone, as a reinforced metal corner of the purse ripped at my skin. The bag flew out of her hand, opening and scattering all sorts of female accoutrements on the landing. Mixed in among the lipstick, compact, handkerchief, and change purse was a creamy white envelope from the Rubens Hotel, a thick wad of pound notes bulging out of it.
“Oh no,” Sheila said again, a resigned sadness replacing the anger. Her hand went to her mouth to contain the sobs that were building. Her eyes were red, crusted with dried tears, and I knew there would be no more exclamations from her. Everything was lost now; she knew about Eddie, her bankroll was at my feet, and she was sure her neck was about to be broken by the Yank who’d slapped around her boyfriend, if not the giant standing behind him.
I felt a warm, thin trickle inch its way down my cheek. Big Mike knelt to gather the contents of the handbag, and handed me the handkerchief. “Hold this to your cheek, Billy. And you, lady, inside.” He pointed to the interior, and she turned, seeming to understand from his tone that these might not be her last moments. She shuffled along with the certainty that they would not be among her best.
Big Mike introduced us, told her to sit on the couch, pushed me down into an armchair, and told both of us not to move. We didn’t. He came back with a towel, bandages, and iodine, having raided the bathroom cabinet. Sheila dabbed at her eyes with a small lace handkerchief she took from her coat pocket. It was a plain utility coat, one of the government designs to reduce the use of rationed material. Sheila had tried to spice it up with a bright blue scarf, but drab was drab.
“Ow! Easy on the iodine, Big Mike.” I jerked my head away.
“I’m sorry,” Sheila said, in a timid voice.
“Me, too,” I said. I looked around the room. It was furnished with the bare necessities-one floor lamp, the couch and chair, a radio, a side table, and a threadbare carpet. Dreary. A utility room. But a porcelain figure of a woman holding a vase was displayed on the side table. It was colorful, like Sheila’s scarf. Light streamed in through
