Blue Madonna, page 7
“We’re the cavalry, kid,” Big Mike said, getting down on his knees. “Billy, move, will ya?” He cut away the shirt around the bloody wound and sprinkled sulfa powder front and back. “Don’t worry, buddy, it’s a through and through, and I think it missed the bone. You’ll be fine. Coupla minutes, you won’t feel a thing.” He took out a morphine syrette and jabbed Blake in the thigh, squeezing the tube between his thumb and finger. Then he pinned the tube to Blake’s collar to signal how much of a dose he’d been given.
“Those guys still out cold?” I asked as Big Mike wrapped a compress bandage around Blake’s shoulder.
“What guys? I said the place was clear.”
“I thought you meant no one was conscious,” I said. “I clocked two guys with the billy club in the kitchen before I made my way up here.”
“Nobody there,” he said. “Give me a hand.” I helped him get Blake up, and we headed for the hall.
“Kaz, check the kitchen and the back,” I said. “There were two thugs down there.” He scampered ahead, Webley raised and ready for business.
When we got downstairs, Kaz greeted us with, “No one here.” He was definitely disappointed.
Outside, a small crowd had gathered, a few workmen, older gents resting on canes and women with grey hair tucked under their headscarves. Kaz stopped to talk to them. “Ladies and gentlemen, please be careful. Two black market criminals have escaped and may be dangerous. Please keep an eye out so they do not return to carry off the coffee and clothing stored upstairs before the police arrive.”
With a smile, he stepped off and helped Big Mike guide Blake to where they had garaged the jeep. As one, the crowd looked at the broken front door and surged into the house. One gentleman cautioned the others to let the ladies go first.
“No reason to take a chance on the villains returning,” Kaz said. “There were tins of ground coffee, stacks of wool shirts, and boxes of shoes. A gold mine for these poor folk.” In the few minutes it took to get the jeep out of the garage and on the road, we passed an elderly couple with bulging overcoats and grins on their weathered faces.
I wasn’t too worried about Willie’s and Nick’s return. Besides losing all the goods stashed in the house, they’d let the Morgans’ get-out-of-jail-free card escape on their watch. They’d be lucky to live out the week.
“There’s a small hospital attached to the airfield,” Big Mike said. “I scouted it out in case we might need it. We’ll get him patched up and then head out, the sooner the better.”
“I don’t think we need to worry about the Morgans finding us,” I said.
“I ain’t worried about them,” Big Mike said. “Sam wants us back in London with this guy in one piece.” He crooked a thumb at Blake, who gazed dully ahead.
“Let us hope he is not badly wounded,” Kaz said. “This city is dreary. I’d rather dine in London tonight.”
We arrived at the entrance to the airfield attached to the Spitfire factory. The guards let us in, and we followed signs marked with a red cross. They had their own fire station, in case of airplane crashes, and what was more a small clinic than a hospital. A nurse met us at the door and called for the doctor as she led Blake into an examination room.
“First gunshot wound,” Dr. Raymond Jeffords said. His face was lined and his hair stark white, but his hands were steady as he removed Blake’s shirt and bandage. “In this place anyway. Plenty of cuts and scrapes from the factory floor, and the occasional injury when one of the airplanes doesn’t behave, but no bullet holes in my patients, thank God. I had enough of that in the last war. Now steady, lad.”
He cleansed and probed the wound as Blake grimaced and groaned.
“Is it serious?” Kaz asked, probably worried about finding a decent restaurant in this neighborhood.
“Might have been, an inch or two to the left,” Jeffords said. “Or if the round were a larger caliber. But it went straight through, no broken bones or debris in the wound. Back in my day, this would only call for a few days’ rest and then back to the trenches.” He smiled, and I had the sense that was to keep Blake’s spirits up. Especially since there were no trenches in sight.
The doctor stitched up the bullet holes, telling Blake sternly each time he cried out that it was a fine thing to feel the pain. If he could focus on a bit of light needlework, it meant he hadn’t been badly injured. It was an effective bedside manner; Blake even managed a smile when he was done.
Jeffords ushered the three of us out of the examining room while a nurse bandaged Blake. “The lad will be fine in no time,” he said. “The young heal fast. He’ll need bandages changed in another day, and that arm needs to stay in a sling. A bit of rest is what he needs.”
“We have to take him to London,” Big Mike said. “We have a jeep.”
“That’s a hundred and twenty miles or so,” Jeffords said. “It would probably be all right in a car with proper seats, but I’d worry about those stitches in a jeep. Why don’t you take him to the Dudley Road Hospital? It’s not far, and he can rest overnight.”
“No, that won’t cut it. Maybe a train,” Big Mike said.
“A first-class compartment,” Kaz said. Now we were talking his language.
“Safe enough,” Jeffords said. “I’ll need your names for my report. Gunshot wounds must be reported to the police, you know.”
“I’m sorry, doctor, but we can’t do that,” I said.
“As I cannot let you go without the proper information,” Jeffords said. “And why is a mere private speaking for an officer and a sergeant? Damned odd.”
“Doctor Jeffords,” Kaz said, withdrawing a letter on SHAEF stationery from his jacket, “this may answer your questions.”
“Hmph,” Jeffords said, reading the letter. “Any and all assistance, eh? Well, I’ve given you that, but I’m wary of not reporting a gunshot wound. Can you tell me what all this is in aid of?”
“An undercover investigation into the black market,” Kaz said. “We hope you can keep this quiet. We don’t want the criminals to know we’ve been here.”
“We can be discreet,” Jeffords said. “It’s a small staff here, enough for first aid and to stabilize any serious injuries. I should be long since retired myself, but I don’t mind doing my bit.”
“Thank you, Dr. Jeffords,” I said. “We’ll take the patient to the train station as soon as he’s ready.”
“Do you have any other compatriots, or is this a small operation? Need to know and all that?”
“Quite small,” Kaz said. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, your jeep, my lad,” Jeffords said. “If there’s only the four of you, and you leave it at the station, what’s to become of it?”
“Smart guy,” Big Mike said as we watched Jeffords drive off in our jeep from outside New Street Station. “He figured the odds and came up aces.”
“Do you think we can trust him to keep quiet?” Kaz asked.
“Sure,” I said. The jeep had convinced Jeffords to deep-six the paperwork. “He’s got a jeep he can fix up to take a stretcher, and he won’t have to walk to the factory when there’s an injury. They probably have enough surplus fuel to keep that thing running. Why would he spoil a good thing?”
“Somebody would have stolen the jeep anyway,” Big Mike said. “We couldn’t call the stockade and tell them where we left it, could we? Might as well tell the Morgan Gang we’re headed to London.”
Kaz organized the tickets and managed to get a first-class compartment for the next train to London’s Euston Station, leaving in an hour’s time. We shepherded Blake through the crowd, keeping an eye out for MPs or police who might question our motley crew. Jeffords had given Blake a shirt and a discarded overcoat, which he wore across his shoulders. He looked shaky, but he hung onto Big Mike’s arm like it was a life preserver and managed to stay upright.
We let Kaz take the lead. As an aristocrat, he could talk his way out of anything. We had the SHAEF orders, but I didn’t want to flash them around unless we had to. Our best bet was to get Blake out of town quickly and quietly.
Our train was already in the station, so we found our carriage and settled into the compartment, the upholstered seats just what the doctor ordered.
“Where’re we going?” Blake asked weakly, his stare darting between us, still wary of some trick.
“London, like I said,” Big Mike told him. “First class all the way. You ever heard of the Dorchester Hotel? That’s where these guys live. Real fancy place, room service, that sorta thing. You’ll stay with them tonight. All you gotta do is answer a few questions. But not right now.”
“Okay,” Blake said. “Will you be there, too?” Kaz raised his eyebrow at Big Mike, who finally said he would. For the first time, the kid smiled. Then he went to sleep, his head resting against Big Mike’s arm.
“You’ve made a friend,” Kaz said.
“Yeah,” Big Mike said. “But Estelle won’t like it. I told her I’d take her out if we made it back tonight. Now she’ll think I’m living the high life with you bums.”
Estelle Gordon was a WAC corporal who’d gotten in hot water for helping us out awhile back. She’d been issued a transfer to North Africa for her good works, but Big Mike had fallen for her—hard—and used his SHAEF connections to halt the transfer and get her a posting in London. Where he, conveniently, was also posted. She was a little more than half his height in heels, a fireball in a small package.
“I would invite her to dine with us,” Kaz said. “But we are under orders to keep Donald’s presence in London a secret. So it will be the four of us and room service at the Dorchester, if that suits you both?”
It did. By Kaz’s standards, dining in his room was roughing it. For me, after my time in the stockade, it sounded like heaven. Which it was anyway, for a kid from South Boston who thought the doorman at the Copley Square Hotel was the best-dressed guy in Beantown.
Chapter Nine
The weather had turned cold and windy as we arrived at Euston Station. Blake shivered under his jacket as we piled into a cab and headed for the Dorchester.
“We should’ve picked up something to eat on the train,” Big Mike said. “He’s weak from loss of blood and probably hasn’t eaten a thing all day.”
“Two days,” Blake murmured. “I tried to get away, so they punished me. No food.”
“Jeez,” Big Mike said between his teeth. “Hang in there. How’s the shoulder?”
“Not as bad as before,” Blake said. “Sorry I conked out on the train. I couldn’t sleep in that place. I kept worrying they’d come for me.”
“No problem,” I said. “We can talk at the Dorchester. It’ll be an improvement.”
“Fancy place, huh?” Blake asked.
“An oasis,” Kaz said. “One that I am happy to call home.”
The taxi pulled into the circular drive in front of the hotel. We’d decided Big Mike would head over to Norfolk House in Saint James’s Square, report to Harding, pick up a new uniform for Blake, and return for dinner—after making apologies to Estelle, of course. Kaz and I helped Blake inside. He was wobbly, but the sleep seemed to have helped, and he gawked at the doormen and the senior officers strolling by. The hotel entrance was surrounded by sandbags, a reminder of the days when bombs rained down on London most nights.
As we made our way down the long marble hallway and past the reception desk, hotel staff smiled and nodded greetings to Kaz. He was rich, sure, and a baron to boot, but the sympathies of the Dorchester staff extended far beyond that. Posh aristocrats were a dime a dozen in this part of town.
We rode the lift to the top floor, where Kaz had his suite.
“Holy cow,” Blake exclaimed as we entered. A chandelier lit the large, wood-paneled sitting room, which looked out over Hyde Park. The sun was setting, bathing the city in a soft amber light. Holy cow, indeed.
“Please sit,” Kaz said, nodding to the couches that faced each other. “I will call room service and have some soup sent up immediately.” I took Blake’s coat, which had probably been discarded months ago by an injured worker. Kaz crinkled his nose as he spoke into the telephone. I left the coat in the hall to go out with the trash.
“Some place,” Blake said, still starstruck. “You live here, too?”
“I do. But it’s Kaz’s place.”
“I didn’t know privates and lieutenants roomed together,” Blake said. “You sure you guys are on the up and up?”
“It’s a long story. I wasn’t always a private.” Kaz’s story was even longer. It was in this very room that he and his family had spent their last Christmas together, the year before the war started. In 1938, sensing conflict on the horizon, Kaz’s father had brought the family to England to visit. The ostensible purpose was to see Kaz, who was studying at Oxford. But the real reason was to plan a move for the entire extended family to the safety of England. His father had gotten his substantial fortune transferred to Swiss accounts and was searching for suitable properties for his family and business. The idea was that by the next Christmas, the Kazimierz clan would be celebrating in their new English home. But by December 1939, Poland was under the Nazi heel, and Kaz’s family was wiped out, executed along with other members of the Polish intelligentsia.
Making this suite his home was Kaz’s way of staying connected to a family and a time ground into dust by war and hatred. He was the last of his line, with more money than he knew what to do with, a penchant for taking chances, and delight in taking revenge whenever he could. When I’d first met him, he was a skinny, spectacle-wearing egghead, an expert at European languages and the finest wines. Two years later, he’d built up his body to serve him as well as his intellect and resolve. Now he was a wiry, tenacious, spectacle-wearing egghead who was a terror with his Webley break-top revolver.
“A beef consommé will be here shortly,” Kaz said, setting down the phone. “That should restore you enough to wait for a proper dinner.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Blake said. “I don’t know how I can thank you. All of you.”
“We’ll talk about that in a while,” I said. I wanted him stronger before we discussed his cousin and bringing down the Morgan Gang.
An hour later, we were ready for dinner, provided with a flourish by waiters who swooped in, set up a table, served the food, and were gone in minutes without so much as a whisper. Big Mike had returned with a duffel bag full of clothes and supplies for our guest, along with a summons from Harding to deliver Blake to Norfolk House by 0800 hours.
“Thanks, Big Mike,” Blake said, emerging from the bedroom looking much better after a wash and a new set of khakis, his arm in a makeshift sling. “But I can’t wear this shirt; it’s got sergeant’s stripes. I’m a corporal.”
“Not anymore, you’re not, kid,” Big Mike said, smiling at Blake like he was a kid brother. “You’ve been promoted.”
“Cheers,” I said, raising a glass of Sémillon, one of the white Bordeaux wines Kaz favored. Blake beamed as we drank and tucked into the halibut with parsley potatoes, carrots, and new peas. Big Mike and Blake did some damage to a basket of warm rolls and a second bottle of wine before we got to the dessert of apple pudding.
We were all pleasantly sated, and Blake was a bit tipsy on the wine, so I figured it was time to nail a few things down. “Things are going well, aren’t they, Sergeant? A lot better than yesterday at this time. No food, no hope, and now here you are.”
“Yeah, it’s been great,” Blake agreed, his eyes shifting back and forth, watching warily for any hint of danger.
“So here’s the deal,” I said. “You got your promotion, and the army’s going to transfer you to Italy, probably to Naples, nice and safe, far from the front and even farther from your troubles here.”
“Okay,” Blake said, clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“All you have to do is tell us everything you know about the Morgan Gang. Names, what you stole for them, anything and everything.”
“I could get court-martialed for that,” he said.
“We don’t want to arrest you, kid,” Big Mike said with a smile that turned grim in two shakes. “If we did, you’d be in a deep, dark cell somewhere, a place so dismal you’d tell us anything to get out. But instead you’re here in this fancy joint, enjoying a swell meal with your new pals. So relax.”
“The other accommodations could be arranged,” Kaz said, leaning back and giving Blake a studied, languid stare. “If you’d prefer not to talk.”
“No, no,” Blake said. “I owe you guys. But that Morgan bunch, they mean business.”
“They do,” I said. “So do we.”
“You sound like them,” Blake said, his body sinking into the chair. “They promised I’d get rich if I went along with them. Or crippled if I didn’t. Even when I went along, they double-crossed me. Why should I trust you?”
“Like Big Mike told you,” I said, “we could do anything we want with you. We’re choosing to overlook your mistakes with these people and protect you from them.” Blake was nothing more than a frightened petty thief who’d gotten in over his head. He probably had a list of people to blame for his troubles, and like most small-time crooks, his own name wasn’t anywhere on it.
“You don’t have much of a choice, young man,” Kaz said, sounding authoritative even though he was no more than a couple of years older than Blake. “Unless you count being let loose for the Morgans to find you, or being transferred to a rifle platoon, which I understand includes an all-expenses-paid trip to the beaches of France.”
Blake looked to Big Mike for comfort, but all he got was a shrug. It was up to him whether he wanted to face us, the Morgans, or the Germans. We’d rescued him and given him a nice meal. Still, he hesitated, which said something about the reach of the Morgan Gang.
