A Bitter Wind, page 10
“Don’t need to, not after living on the coast for fifty-odd years. I can feel air changing, or at least I did before I came down to pay a visit to Flight Sergeant David Cohen,” Doctor Yates said. “Am I to understand you wish a comparison with the wounds sustained by Major Brockman?”
“Yes. I’d like to know if it looks like the same weapon was used,” I said. “Far as I could tell, the blow was struck in the same general area.”
“First, tell me about how the body was found,” Yates said as he checked Cohen’s fingernails.
“On the ground by a Lancaster’s rear hatch,” I said. “Looked to me like he was hit from behind and fell onto the concrete.”
“Half right, Captain. You likely thought that these abrasions and grit on his cheek were due to the fall. But look here,” Yates said as he moved aside a patch of hair on the back of Cohen’s skull. “At first it seems like a wider impact than Major Brockman’s wound. But a closer inspection reveals something else. Can you make it out?” He swiveled the light closer, and I studied the point of impact. It looked different from Brockman’s. Rounder, in an uneven sort of way.
“Two blows to the head,” I said. “The weapon has a rounded edge, and I can see the second impression overlapping the first.”
“Exactly,” Doctor Yates said. “The first strike would have stunned the flight sergeant, certainly. It might have resulted in death, but not immediately. However, the next undoubtedly killed him in seconds.”
“He was inside the bomber,” I said as I visualized the scene near the rear turret. “His killer had less room to wind up for the initial blow, so it wasn’t as forceful as the one that killed Brockman. Cohen makes it to the doorway, falls, or is thrown out. Then came the second hit.”
“Yes, and the bruising on his face was not a result of the fall,” Yates said, and pointed to the grit embedded in Cohen’s cheek. “It was from being hit in the back of the head while face down on the concrete.”
“Any notion as to what the weapon was?” I asked.
“There were traces of oil in the wound,” Yates said. “Which doesn’t help to identify it, other than to say it came into contact with that substance. The weapon was narrow but heavy, possibly weighted at the end. A tool of some sort. Perhaps fresh from being used on machinery.”
“I may have a clue myself,” I said, taking off my coat. “Literally. Someone tried to smack me on the head when the lights were out. Fortunately, it wasn’t lights out for me, but I did get a good whack on the shoulder.” I pulled off my shirt and showed Doc Yates my left shoulder and the reddish bruise.
“Hmm,” he said as he poked and prodded. “Does that hurt?”
“Yes, but not as much as the original hit. Does it look like the same weapon? I know it left a helluva mark.”
“Nothing appears to be broken. You’re lucky you have a well-developed deltoid muscle, which absorbed the blow. And you were clothed. I can’t say it was the same weapon, but I am fairly sure such a weapon could have left this mark. Among others. Sorry to be so imprecise, but that is the nature of my business.”
“Thanks, Doc,” I said, and buttoned my shirt. “At least now I have a sequence of events. But as for the weapon, this base has no shortage of tools, oils, or machinery, and I’m still in the dark. No defensive wounds on our friend?”
“No,” Yates said, “and nothing under the fingernails either. Wish I had more to offer, Captain. It’s a shame that this lad didn’t have the chance to see if he’d survive the war. Pity.”
“As I understand it, the odds here aren’t good. Do you know anything about 101 Squadron?” I figured if he didn’t know, I could change the subject without giving away military secrets.
“Radar jamming, as far as I can understand,” Yates said. He stepped away from the slab and folded his arms. “Was Cohen one of the German refugees? I’ve heard they are highly valued for their native-language skills. One can easily imagine a number of ways in which they are used.”
“But does everyone value their presence?” I asked as I thought about the double blows to Cohen’s head.
“Obviously there may be some closed-minded types about,” Yates said. “But I’ve not heard of any violence directed at any of them for being either German or Jewish. We had a football match in town a few months ago, RAF versus the locals. Some of the German lads played and they got along well. I had a chance to chat with a few when I taped up a sprained ankle for one of them. I sensed a certain wariness at first, only natural given what they’d gone through in that unfortunate land of their birth. But soon it was handshakes and slaps on the back all round.”
“I’ve been asking people, and I haven’t gotten the sense there was any serious problem with prejudice against them,” I said.
“No. The few comments I heard were directed at them being German. That was before people learned who they really were. Does this have anything to do with the murder of Major Brockman?” he asked.
“It might, but I have nothing to go on other than the fact that Brockman was also Jewish,” I said. “Had you noticed his dog tags?”
“No, I was more concerned with the flesh itself and just put his clothing and effects aside,” Yates said. “Will someone arrange to have his body picked up? Soon?”
“I’ll get in touch with his commanding officer,” I said. I wished I had thought of that earlier in the day.
“Is there any reason for you to suspect these killings are based on religion, Captain?” Yates said as he washed his hands energetically.
“No, it simply struck me as an unusual situation. German-born Jews in the RAF performing vital tasks might breed resentment. When clues are lacking, sometimes it helps to turn over a rock and see if anything crawls out.”
“Well, we English have been known to view foreigners with a jaundiced eye. But I surmise the common goal of defeating the Nazis has bound us to those who have come here to aid in the fight,” Yates said.
“Seems to be the case,” I said. “There’s nothing I can see, yet, to connect Brockman and Cohen, other than Judaism and their role in radar jamming.”
“They must have something else in common,” Yates said. “Other than how they were killed. That would be the why of the thing, and I’ll leave that to you, Captain.” Yates drew a sheet over Cohen’s body and folded his hands for a moment.
Flight Sergeant David Cohen, dead too soon. His death might have come tomorrow, or it might have come fifty years from tomorrow. If not for the killer’s desire to silence him.
Chapter Fifteen
“YOU HAVE A party waiting for you in the conference room,” Sergeant Halfpenny said as I entered the lobby at Elham House. “Squadron Officer Conan Doyle is waiting for you. Again.”
“If I knew there was a party, I would have come here instead of the morgue. It’s bound to be cheerier,” I said.
“Flight Sergeant Cohen, poor man,” Halfpenny said as she signed me in. “We just heard who it was. Everyone’s talking about a madman on the loose, or a German spy.”
“I doubt it’s the work of a spy, but we’ll get to the bottom of it. Did you know Cohen?” I asked.
“Yes. He was quite pleasant. We had the SOs here a few times to meet with our German-born WAAFs,” she said. “Tea and scones, all very proper, of course. Go on upstairs. The conference room is next to Conan Doyle’s office.”
I hoofed it up the steps and knocked before entering.
“Kaz!” I said, shocked to see him here already. But also surprised to see his sister, Angelika, deep in conversation with Jean Conan Doyle. “How’d you get here so quickly?”
“I had just purchased an automobile in London,” Kaz said. “An Aston Martin prewar two-seater. Just the thing for Angelika to drive when she’s ready. I planned on motoring back to Seaton Manor, but when Diana called, I decided to put it through its paces and show Angelika the famous White Cliffs.”
“Kaz, we’re in the middle of a murder investigation,” I said, even as I worked to hold back a grin at his enthusiasm, not to mention at the sight of Angelika. She looked healthier than the last time I’d seen her. She brushed back a lock of her straw-colored hair, tucking it behind her ear as she looked at me with her deep blue eyes.
“Please excuse me, Squadron Officer,” Angelika said to Conan Doyle, and stood to greet me. I watched her steady herself, then walk four steps in my direction. It wasn’t long ago that she couldn’t have made it. After the horrific medical experiments at Ravensbrück, it was only through surgery and excellent nursing care that she’d come this far.
“Billy, I’m so happy to see you,” Angelika said, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I promise to stay out of the way and not bother Piotr with anything. I will be the church mouse.”
“I’ve been having a delightful conversation with Miss Kazimierz,” Conan Doyle said. “It’s not often that we are graced with a visitor from the Polish Home Army.”
“Thank you,” Angelika said. “I’d like to learn more about what you do here, but I should leave you to your work. I can wait downstairs.”
“No need for that, Miss Kazimierz,” Conan Doyle said. “If you were trusted as a courier in Nazi-occupied Poland, you can be trusted to hear our sad story. Sir Richard Seaton has vouched for you, so you come to us highly recommended. Take a seat, Captain Boyle. Lieutenant Kazimierz already knows the basic situation.”
“Yes, we saw Diana for a moment when we arrived, and she explained how you two found the body. Yesterday’s body, I mean,” Kaz said. Angelika took a chair against the wall. Kaz and I sat across from the squadron officer, who nodded for me to begin.
“I’ve been to the morgue. Cohen was killed in much the same manner as Major Brockman,” I said. “It took two hits for Cohen, but it was a similar weapon. Narrow, weighted at the end, with oil or grease adhered to it.”
“No witnesses?” Conan Doyle asked.
“None. Apparently, Cohen left the luncheon early. He was interested in seeing the new rear turret that had just been installed in his Lancaster. The first blow was struck inside the aircraft near the turret. Then he was finished off outside,” I said.
“Captain Seaton mentioned you were interested in any incidents of anti-Semitic behavior on base,” she said. “While there’s been nothing reported to me, there’s likely been the occasional snide comment. But nothing that rises to the level of violence, threatened or otherwise.”
“Major Brockman and Flight Sergeant Cohen were both Jewish,” I said. “Cohen’s religion was obviously well known. It was less so with the major, so I can’t claim any connection to the murders.”
“Cohen must have known and trusted his assailant,” Kaz said.
“Yes, but unfortunately there’s no evidence of who that was,” I said. “Although I do know they’re worried. When the lights went out, someone took a swing at me in the hangar. I turned just in time to avoid a crack on the head, but they got away.”
“I’m glad you escaped serious injury, Captain,” Conan Doyle said. “You have no idea who it was?”
“No. All I saw was a shadow. They clipped my shoulder hard enough to send me reeling,” I said. “Then they ran out into the darkness.”
“This business about the religion of these two men. Is it relevant as a motive at all?” Conan Doyle asked, her eyes narrowing as she studied me.
“I see no evidence of it,” I said. “Nothing as simple as prejudice. But Captain Seaton and I did find evidence in Major Brockman’s office that may point to a real motive.”
“Good. This second murder has people worried,” Conan Doyle said. “We don’t need religious animosities making things even worse.”
A knock on the door announced Diana’s arrival. She entered, breathless, obviously having hurried from her shift. She explained that a WAAF was monitoring the Italian frequencies but was under orders to fetch her if anything vital came up. I quickly brought Diana up to speed on Cohen.
“Have you gotten to the major’s list yet?” she asked.
“Just about to. Major Brockman had ordered an inventory of parts, but no one on his crew had gotten around to doing anything,” I said.
“They claimed to be quite busy, which does seem to be the case,” Diana said. “But evidently the major was concerned about missing hardware.”
“We found this in his room,” I said, and brandished the list he’d hidden in a book. “APT-3 remote power control, H2S radar scope, high-speed scanner, S27 control box, VCR-97 cathode-ray tube, 5FP7 radar display tube, Mandrel high power transmitter. Sounds like high-end stuff.”
“All those items are missing?” Conan Doyle asked, her wide eyes betraying her alarm.
“I’d guess stolen,” I said. “Otherwise, why kill the major? And Sergeant Cohen, if he has anything to do with this.”
“Flight Sergeant Cohen was one of our special operators,” Conan Doyle said. “And those are all valuable components. Each plays a part in radio jamming and interference.”
“Which would be of interest to the Germans, of course,” Kaz said.
“Quite. It’s often a cat-and-mouse game we play,” Conan Doyle said. “Any increase in their understanding of our techniques can be catastrophic. Our current casualties are worrisome enough. This is not to be repeated outside this room, but for every hundred men who join Bomber Command, forty-five are killed. We cannot bear the losses to grow higher.”
“We still have leads to follow up. Enough to warrant Lieutenant Kazimierz being brought in. I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it,” I said with more conviction than our progress to date warranted.
“There’s something else,” Diana said. “This afternoon I telephoned Major Brockman’s base in Cheddington to notify them of his death and to arrange for his body and personal effects to be picked up. The commanding officer had his clerk take the details. A most helpful young man.”
By the glint in her eye, I could tell Diana had discovered something. “The reports?” I asked.
“Yes. When Billy and I searched the major’s office, we noticed that the carbon papers of his recent reports were out of order,” she said. “We thought someone had merely leafed through them. But it seems one carbon copy was taken. Major Brockman had written up Lieutenant Harker for gambling. The report arrived at Cheddington just this morning.”
“Gambling? Between dice and poker, half the GIs in Britain gamble every day,” I said. “How serious can it be?”
“Harker was gambling with his crew and other enlisted men,” Diana said.
“Bad form for an officer to gamble with his men,” Conan Doyle said.
“The army has a fine and a possible three-month imprisonment for gambling with subordinates,” I said. “They say it erodes discipline. I always thought it was to prevent an officer from sending a private on a suicide mission after he lost to him at craps.”
“It is a bit different with a bomber crew,” Kaz pointed out. “Every mission is almost suicide. Still, it is against regulations. Harker must be an inveterate gambler for things have gotten to this point.”
“You mean shoving Major Brockman off a cliff?” Diana asked.
“I am not taking it that far. I mean his gambling must be out of control for the charges to have been brought at all. As Billy said, games of chance are endemic in the military. Surely the major would have warned him off at first,” Kaz said.
“Add to that the desperation he must have felt to try and steal the report,” Conan Doyle said. “Simply rifling through his commanding officer’s paperwork is a serious enough offense. He clearly did so to determine what action Major Brockman was taking against him.”
“It shows poor judgment at best,” I said.
“Even if he isn’t our killer, this should be followed up, don’t you think?” Conan Doyle said, an eyebrow raised in Diana’s direction.
“Yes, ma’am,” Diana said, understanding it was an order, no matter how nicely phrased. “Now that Piotr is here, we should discuss divvying up the next steps in our investigation.”
We settled on Diana handling the questioning on base, since her time between shifts was limited. She’d tackle Flight Sergeant Cohen’s crew and then speak to Americans on Lieutenant Harker’s bomber about his gambling. Kaz and I would follow up with Constable Sallow about his contacts at the train station and anything else he’d come up with. Then a drive to Sergeant Sally Miller, exiled to the St. Margaret’s at Cliffe listening post, to ask why Major Brockman came specifically to see her at Elham House before she was shipped out.
“I’m curious as to who snitched on Sally Miller,” I said to Conan Doyle. “Was it a jealous boyfriend?”
“No. Lieutenant Walters brought it to my attention,” she said. “Not a competitor for Sally’s affections, as far as I know. And since I trust his judgment, I didn’t think to inquire as to his source.”
“Kaz and I will ask Sally about that tomorrow,” I said. “I don’t suppose there’s any news about Flight Sergeant Adler’s whereabouts? It might help our questioning to bring her news.”
“None, sadly,” Conan Doyle said. “There is hope, though. I checked and found that Johnny Adler had his religion changed from Jewish to Protestant on his identity tags. So it is less likely the Nazis will shoot him immediately. A wise precaution that several special operators have taken.”
“I shall ask about Adler when I question Cohen’s crew,” Diana said. “Perhaps he mentioned something to them.”
“Major Brockman’s interest in Sally Miller is curious,” Conan Doyle said. “I’d like to know more about that. For now, I shall also order an inquiry into the missing parts to be handled by RAF personnel.”
“That would be useful,” I said. “I don’t know if you’re considering Lieutenant Walters for the job, but he’s a little too close to the investigation, in my opinion.” I guessed Walters might be her choice given his responsibilities for security, but with a murderer running around this base, I wasn’t exactly sure of his qualifications. Or motives.
“Jack Walters is with the RAF Regiment,” Diana said for Kaz’s edification.
