Rag and Bone (31 page)

“Peaches, my boy,” Archie shouted. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, and his skin glowed as if he’d just stepped from a bath. It was a different look than his subterranean guise. “Good of you to come. Grand to see you again.”

“Archie, the last time we met, you told me to never set foot in Shoreditch. Why the hoodlum-engraved invitation?”

“Ha! Good one, Peaches. I meant to say never return without a proper invite. Welcome to the Eastcheap Gentleman’s Club. It’s where I come after a night underground. Refreshing.”

“Nothing looks cheap. And where are the gentlemen?”

“Billy,” Topper said from his post at the bar. “Have a seat and take the chip off your shoulder, will you? Don’t let that business with the truck get under your skin.”

“Smart advice that,” Archie said. “We had a good go-round with the truck, me takin’ it and you gettin’ it back. Shows you learn fast, and know how to get what’s yours without burning your bridges. And that you have connections, to get the Shoreditch pubs declared off-limits. Impressive that. So listen to Topper and have some coffee. The real thing. American. Gisèle, more coffee,
s’il vous plaît
.”

“
Oui
, Archie,” she said with a smile that left her eyes dead.

“I own this establishment, Peaches,” Archie continued, pausing to sip his coffee. “And you might be surprised at how many senior American officers partake of the delights here. Maybe some you know. Plenty of high-class toffs as well, military and politico. We even let in enlisted men one night a week. Supply sergeants get a special rate.”

“So business is good?”

“Very good. We did well before, but since the war, with the Americans flooding in and so much talent coming from the Continent, it’s all we can do to keep the place off the map.”

“The Continent?”

“All of our girls are from Europe, Billy,” Topper said. “When the war started, a lot of refugees came over, and many young girls were looking for work. Your average Englishman who uses our club wants something a bit different. He doesn’t want someone who reminds him of his wife or his maid. One of the odd consequences of the class structure. Continental girls are another species altogether. Frees the stodgy old men up, especially the ones with money.”

“Now, your average American, he doesn’t care. Most of ’em couldn’t tell the difference between a countess and a scrubwoman,” Archie said. “Right, Dalenka?”

“I’ve been both,” the woman at the piano said, not turning her head. “I scrubbed floors for the money when I first came to England, and now I tell them I am a countess for the money. Both I’ve done on my knees, and I tell you, scrubbing floors is much harder. And yes, the Americans are a bit naive. Sometimes it is endearing. Usually it is boring.” She blew smoke toward the ceiling.

“Dalenka is from Czechoslovakia,” Archie said. “She runs the place for me. Very smart, she is. Speaks several languages, and has a head for numbers. She is truly a countess in my book.” Archie looked almost smitten, but I knew it was for show, to bolster the morale of the talent.

Dalenka put her cigarette out, sat silently for a minute, and then began playing with both hands. She sat up straight, her long, arched fingers gliding smoothly over the ivories. Gisèle put a tray of coffee down and served me, the vacant smile unwavering. The music rose slowly, building and then fading, joyous at moments, but ending on a downward slide of sorrowful deep notes that lingered in the smoky air. Dalenka’s hands remained poised on the keys where the last notes had been played. Even Archie was silent.

“What was that, Dalenka?” Topper asked in a whisper.

“A requiem by Anton Dvorák. A Czech composer. It was written as a funeral mass for soldiers.” She shut the keyboard cover, swiveled around on the stool, and looked at us as if we were dead men. Without a word, she left the room, putting her arm around Gisèle, who was still smiling as tears rolled down her cheeks.

Archie nodded solemnly, acknowledging the unspoken truth that lingered where Dalenka had been. Staring at the open door, he spoke, in hushed tones.

A Wounded Deer—leaps highest—

I’ve heard the Hunter tell—

’Tis but the Ecstasy of death—

And then the Brake is still!

“Emily Dickinson,” I said, stunned that I’d remembered. I wasn’t much for school, or poetry, for that matter, but the sadness of that poem had stayed with me since I’d heard it in senior English class. The wounded dear, leaping for life, finding death.

“So you’re not a complete philistine, Peaches. Yes, your fellow American, Miss Emily Dickinson. ‘A Wounded Deer Leaps Highest,’ she called it, and she must’ve known about wounds, that poor one.”

“What about Dalenka?”

“She and her lover were involved with the Three Kings,” Topper said. “They were leaders of the Czech Resistance. The Nazis got all of them in 1941. Dalenka and her boyfriend were couriers, carrying everything from explosives to messages from London in and out of Prague. One spring day in 1940, the Gestapo was waiting; someone had betrayed them. The boyfriend was killed in a gunfight, but Dalenka escaped. Lucky for her that he was killed, otherwise they would have made him talk. She had false papers that got her out through Yugoslavia, then on to Portugal and finally here.”

“They all have stories,” Archie said. “Not all of them are heroic, either. But you don’t start off in Nazi-occupied Europe and end up in an East End bordello without a tale worth telling. Or not telling, as the case may be.”

“What story am I here to be told?”

“We both now seem to be looking for Russians, Peaches. Topper told me you want to know who killed that Egorov fellow. Fair enough. It had nothing to do with us. You know about the business with the delivery trucks, you’ve seen the map. Again, you’re smart enough to leave well enough alone there. Tells me you’re focused on the killer, not on farm produce. Right?”

“Right.”

“Just to get it out in the open. We’re not at cross-purposes here. There’s a certain Russian we want to find. Seeing as how you are thick with them, I figured you might be able to point us in the right direction.”

“Does this have anything to do with Osip Nikolaevich Blotski?”

“Who the hell is that?” Archie demanded.

“No one,” Topper said. “A message. One that was apparently not received.”

“Oh, that,” Archie said, scoffing. “Told you, boy, that wouldn’t smoke him out.”

“A Russian from the embassy owes you something, and you can’t find him. You crippled an associate of his, and probably gave him a message to pass on. That didn’t work, and you remembered my questions about Egorov, and thought I might be able to ferret him out?”

“See, Topper, I told you he had half a brain in his head! Yes, Peaches, that’s it in a nutshell. Will you help us?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Well, there’s the other half of that brain. Good for you, Peaches. What do we have for him, Topper?”

“Gisèle? Perhaps her and a friend?”

“No thanks, my dance card is full. Who is it you’re looking for?”

“Peaches, we are asking so nicely here. Over coffee, after beautiful music. As we offer you the delights of the flesh. Why be obstinate then? We aren’t going to offer up a name until we have a deal of some sort. A handshake will do, but there has to be something between us, not simply a gift to your curiosity.”

I thought about it, and had to admit I was curious. Who were they after, and for what? I still thought there had to be a connection between Egorov, where he was killed, and the truck hijackings. I also wondered what a Russian from the embassy had that the Chapmans wanted so badly.

“I want a cut,” I said, deciding to see where this took things.

“So do we,” Topper said grimly. I think he meant my throat, not a percentage.

“Deal gone bad?”

“All is not yet lost,” Archie said, with a stern look at his son. “There is a man who we had an arrangement with. We’re not certain if he’s done a runner. We are prepared to provide a finder’s fee if you can assist us in locating him.”

I recalled Scutt telling me that there had been no more truck hijackings recently, and I wondered if it had anything to do with the movement of Russian personnel to Dover. Did Archie think he’d been betrayed when his contact moved out, probably under secret orders? Maybe I could turn this to some benefit.

“I think I may know where he is,” I said. “But I can’t tell you.”

“What do you want?” Archie said, moving out of his chair faster than I thought he could, leaning over me. “More money, or more of the blade? Either will do the job.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t take a message,” I said. “But it’s a military secret. A group of them moved out a couple of days ago, for security reasons. So if your boy hasn’t been in touch, it’s because he can’t get away.”

“How far away, Billy?” Topper asked, taking his father by the arm and moving him back to his chair. “Take it easy, Dad, we’ll work this out.”

“Not far. I’m supposed to go there today, as a matter of fact.”

“Is this on the up-and-up, Peaches? I’d hate to think you’d try to fool an old man.”

“Why would I? There’s no reason for me to make anything up. As you said, we each have our own concerns.”

“There’s that, yes,” Archie said, nodding to himself. “What do you want for your cut?”

“Not money. If I need some help with the Egorov business, I’ll come to you. For a favor, in exchange for the one I’ll do for you.”

“You’ll deliver a message directly to this person for us?” Topper said, clarifying the terms of the deal.

“Yes, but not a lead-pipe message. I’ll talk to him and let you know what he says as soon as I can get back. I’ll probably be able to move more freely than the Russians.” I felt a little twinge of guilt at being a messenger boy for Archie, but I thought it might help before this was over to have him owe me one. And anything I could learn about his operation wouldn’t hurt either.

“All right,” Archie said. He nodded to Topper to shut the door. Topper checked the hallway, then sat next to us. Archie nodded again, and he spoke in a low voice, keeping their secrets close.

“As you know, we’ve had a relationship with someone who provides us with the routes the delivery trucks take going to the Russian Embassy. We’ve had other dealings with him, and came to trust him, as far as that goes in this business. We were in negotiations for another exchange of information for cash. We made a down payment, and before we could complete the transaction, he dropped out of sight. The timing is right from what you just told us.”

“Without betraying any military secrets, Peaches, what can you tell us that will lend a bit more credence to your tale?” Archie broke in, trying for more than I wanted to give.

“It is directly related to military planning, so I can’t say anything else. I should get there tonight if the fog lifts.”

“Go on then,” Archie said to Topper.

“We need to be assured that plans are still set. We have not received the time and place. That’s the message. We’ve done everything on our end; now we need to know. Time and place. He’ll understand.”

“And who is he?”

“Captain Rak Vatutin. Red Army chap.”

The last and only time I’d seen Rak Vatutin, he was serving Kaz and me drinks at the Soviet Embassy. Had he been trying to get Kaz looped, in hopes he would make a fool of himself once he saw the film? There had been something nasty in
Vatutin’s look, a glimpse of viciousness behind the diplomatic facade and automatic smile. But that could have been the vodka or simply his nature. I needed to find out more about what Vatutin did at the embassy, and if he’d had access to the delivery routes. And the “time and place”—but for what?

I took the Underground back to Norfolk House, wondering about Harding’s reaction when he saw that, once again, I hadn’t made it to Dover. I’d learned a few things, though. Scotland Yard was still looking for Kaz; MI5 was in the murder business and had contracted with Sheila Carlson to kill Tad, and then turned on her to eliminate loose ends; MI6, represented by Kim Philby, didn’t seem to care very much; and Major Cosgrove had acted suspiciously out of character. Did all this violate his sense of fair play? Maybe.

I’d also learned about the Eastcheap Gentleman’s Club, where Archie had female refugees from all across Europe on offer, and that Archie and Topper had something big planned, and the top-secret move to Dover had sent them into a panic, thinking they’d been betrayed. Now I was the messenger boy, my job to find Rak Vatutin and ask him what was the time and place.

It was finally time to get to Dover. All I had to do was endure Harding’s wrath, find Big Mike, and figure out what to do with Kaz while the heat died down. Then find Vatutin, figure out what the target was, and somewhere along the way find out what Egorov’s death had to do with it all.

The only thing that was guaranteed was how steamed Harding would be, but I came up empty on that one. I found Big Mike at his desk, apologetic at not finding me in Berkeley Square. I told him I’d made my way back OK, filling him in on my bordello detour.

“Sam won’t be back until late this afternoon,” Big Mike said. “He’s up at Bletchley Park, whatever that is. Something hush-hush. But you got someone waiting for you in his office. Cosgrove.”

“Interesting. Where’s Kaz?”

“I stashed him at a pub across from the Rubens. I figured he could watch for Sheila to show herself, if the fog lifts, while I waited for you.”

I filled Big Mike in about Sheila, then opened the door to Harding’s office. Cosgrove stood by the window, hands behind his back. He gave a quick glance in my direction, then brought his gaze back to the green square below.

“I thought we ought to talk, Boyle.”

“Sure, Major,” I said as I took a seat opposite Harding’s desk. It gave me a side view of Cosgrove’s face, the best I could do. “Strange bunch in your office this morning. I got the distinct impression you didn’t see eye to eye.”

“Yes. I thought the hail-fellow-well-met routine would tell you as much.”