We drank some more, but that sigh told me everything I needed to know. I relaxed, and Archie filled in the details, his mind clear even as his belly filled with gin. Names on fake identity papers and ration books. Make and model of the stolen car, plus stolen license plates. Dates and amounts of payments. Details on the split Sidorov would have received if the gold shipment had been taken. It was impressive.
Sidorov had controlled security for the gold shipment, and had talked his superiors into the low-profile approach. Egorov had been suspicious from the get-go, and Sidorov thought he had gotten too close, so one night he led Egorov to Liverpool Street and gave him the Polish treatment, down to the hands tied with twine. He planted the map on him to draw suspicion toward Egorov as a victim of thugs, Poles, or both.
Sidorov had traded information about the earlier produce shipment with Archie, to establish his bona fides and to put his hands on enough money to purchase the phony papers and rent the cottage in Shepherdswell, disguised as a crippled RAF pilot. That way, he’d be ready to pull his disappearing act once the gold was snatched and Archie supplied a body.
“It was our good fortune Jerry came back,” Archie said. “I’ve got a stiff on ice, didn’t even have to kill the poor bastard. Concussion did him in. Sidorov had given me enough of his uniform gear over time that we got him all outfitted. Need a dead Russian, Peaches? Fire sale, you might say. Ha! Wasted effort, that was, with him going off to Dover, and you spoiling our grand plans.”
“It was clever, the way you used a staff car to tail me,” I said, wanting to steer the conversation away from my monkey wrenching and on to how brilliant Archie was. “You didn’t have any other way to contact Sidorov?” I said it casually as I filled my glass for what I hoped was the last time. I didn’t want Archie to know how important this was. Otherwise, there’d be a price tag I might not be able to pay.
“Sure we did, Peaches. But we couldn’t wait. There’s a blind drop at the railway station in Shepherdswell. One or both of them was to check it every third day, five o’clock in the morning. It was a place to leave emergency messages, or to rendezvous if things went south. I didn’t want to wait three more days.”
“It had just been checked?”
“Aye. Sheila had been there the morning we last met, but my men told me she’d had no word from Sidorov. She was frantic, so they said, desperate for her cut. I thought we’d lost our opportunity, but with you willing to carry our message to Vatutin himself, it was easier to ride your coattails, so to speak.”
“Cheers,” I said, raising my glass and finishing off the gin. The stuff was beginning to grow on me. Now I knew where Sidorov would be in two days. No need to beat the countryside, just let him come to us, to the rendezvous with his lover at the station. It was more than I could ask for, but I had one more question.
“Did you give Sidorov a book of poetry?” I asked.
“Why, Peaches? Are you hurt I haven’t given you a gift?”
“Just curious. Did you mark that passage, the one about the ladder?”
“I did give him the Yeats, yes. Marked it, no. I’m too careful with my books for that,” Archie said, pouring himself another glass and smacking his lips as he drank. He leaned back in his chair, and we could have been sitting in a warm room by the fire, from all you could tell by the expression on his face.
“Did you write the Latin inscription?”
“Latin? No, I didn’t go to no toff school to learn Latin! Didn’t go to school much at all. What did it say?”
“The bodies are asleep, the souls are awake,” I said. “That’s what was written in Latin.”
“I showed him Yeats, and pointed out the poem he should read. The book had no inscription when I gave it to him. I wouldn’t chance some bright detective snooping around and finding my hand in Sidorov’s book. But he had a need of poetry, that man.”
“Why?”
“Oh, he’s a tortured soul, did you not see that, Peaches? For all the brains you’ve got in that Yank head, couldn’t you see into his heart? It was ruined, and this was his way back.”
“His way back where?” Now I was confused.
“To himself, foolish boy! That’s what he’s escaping, don’t you know? The Bolsheviks are bad enough, and worth fleeing, but he’s running from something deeper and blacker, rooted in his very soul.”
“What?”
“Haven’t a clue, and don’t give a goddamn. Ha! There you go. But mark my words, there’s torment under that sharp mask he wears. I gave him the book so when he was free of Stalin and that bloody bunch, he’d understand. That there’s no escaping the foul rag and bone shop of the heart. I know, Peaches. Believe me, I know.”
“I’m sorry, Archie.” I didn’t know exactly for what, but I was. And for some reason, it was important for this half-mad criminal to know it.
“You must be a good son, Peaches,” he said, clapping a friendly hand on my arm. I couldn’t help but wonder what Dad would make of Archie. I was glad I’d never find out.
“Thanks,” I said, and saw Archie grin as he stared past me.
“Now lookit those two. No sense of propriety, they should be fighting to the death! Ha!” Archie pointed to Big Mike and Charlie, who were sitting next to each other on a cot, the shotgun resting between them, as Big Mike lit up a Lucky for the ex-boxer.
“If Big Mike starts in about Detroit, he’ll talk him to death,” I said as I got up.
“Tell Charlie to come over and have a drink with me, willya? Then you go your way and I’ll go mine, and neither of us will speak of who said what here tonight. Agreed?”
I agreed. Again, it seemed the only sensible thing to do.
CHAPTER THIRTY
When it came down to it, they gave up without a fuss. We had the station staked out all night, and spotted Sidorov in the shadows about four o’clock in the morning. He was watching for a trap, as I knew he’d be. So we kept our distance. There were two MPs in the locked station, along with a constable, sitting in the dark. Big Mike and I were in a windowed garage across from the station, the jeep ready to go. We had men stationed at every intersection, but we’d been careful not to have any military or police vehicles visible. Sheila was careful, too. She’d parked her automobile a few streets away and walked to the station, whistling a tune. Maybe it was a signal, or maybe she was looking forward to seeing her lover.
We knew Sidorov had been busy, stealing a motorbike outside of Dover, and there had been two reports of break-ins that matched his likely route to Shepherdswell. Clothes, blankets, and food. Odds were that he’d been living rough, waiting for the scheduled meet with Sheila. I watched him through my binoculars as he came out into the open. He was unshaven and dirty, but he’d gotten rid of the German uniform, and looked enough like a farm laborer not to attract undue attention.
They were pros, I had to hand it to them. They didn’t immediately go to each other, but walked the perimeter of the platform in opposite directions, checking to see if anyone was around. When they satisfied themselves they were alone, they embraced. That was the signal. We wanted them both, and the moment Sidorov put his arms around Sheila Carlson and held her close, rocking in that way that people do when happiness overcomes them, the station doors burst open and the MPs took them. I opened the garage door and Big Mike floored it, getting us to the platform in five seconds. Detective Sergeant Flack, trailed by several constables, came out from another building to the sound of police whistles. Above it all, as Sheila Carlson was pulled away, her arms outstretched, fingertips clawing at emptiness, I could hear her wailing.
“Kiril! Kiril! Kiiirilll!”
Sidorov was silent, his eyes locked on to hers as they handcuffed him.
That had been four hours ago. Now we were seated in an interview room at Scotland Yard. Detective Inspector Scutt, Detective Sergeant Flack, and me, across the table from Sidorov. Tea had been served. It was almost civilized. Sidorov had not spoken, except to say thank you for the tea, and more sugar, please. I had wanted to interrogate him in Shepherdswell, right in the station if need be. I wanted to get to him before the shock of his capture had time to wear off. But Scutt had ordered him taken to the Yard, and that was that. He’d been allowed to wash up, and now with his hair combed back and a teacup in his hand, he looked almost normal, in spite of the well-worn working clothes he had on.
“Captain Sidorov,” Flack began, after a nod from Scutt. “You are facing very serious charges. Two murders
