A Bitter Wind, page 7
“I just figured he’d been killed, that’s all,” Sparks said as he took an involuntary half step back. “By someone, I mean, not like being hit by a bus.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I dunno, I guess because we don’t have a lot of accidental deaths over here,” Sparks said. “Sorry, sir.”
“Sparks, the guys could use a hand with the electrical connections,” Harker said. He crooked a thumb in the direction of the B-24 as it was wheeled back into the hangar. Harker watched him go, then turned his attention toward us. “Sparks is a gunner as well as a radio operator. On our last mission, the other waist gunner took a 20-millimeter explosive shell to the chest. He and Sparks were buddies. You can excuse him for thinking it was a violent death.”
“Sure. What was your first reaction, Lieutenant?” I asked.
“As soon as I heard they were sending two captains to investigate, I knew it meant trouble,” Harker said. “Especially one from Elham House, ma’am. The house of secrets, they call it.”
“We like our secrets well kept, so don’t even mention there is such a place, especially off base,” Diana said. “Getting back to the point, Lieutenant, did you observe any unusual behavior on the part of Major Brockman or anyone else?”
“No, nothing that wasn’t part of our job here,” Harker said. “Leading Aircraftman Bigsby probably spent more time with the major, so you can ask him this afternoon. I guess 101 Squadron wanted him back for some job.”
“When did you last see Major Brockman?” Diana asked.
“Yesterday morning. We’d had a big Christmas Eve dinner the night before, and the skipper told us we could start a couple of hours late in the morning. I saw him when I went to breakfast. He said he was going off base for a few hours to take a walk. First time I’d seen him take any time off from the job, but hey, it was Christmas. Then he got into his vehicle.”
“Did he go off in a jeep?” I asked.
“No. The skipper used a staff car. Ford sedan,” Harker said. Now we knew what to look for. An olive-drab four-door with a big white star ought to be plenty easy to find.
“Okay, let’s meet the rest of your crew,” I said. “Then we’ll need to look at the major’s office and quarters.”
“There’s only two others here,” Harker said. “The bombardier and the other gunners are back at the base flying missions. We have Sergeant Sparks here for his electronics specialty. And Sergeant Levinson, the flight engineer. He mans the top turret and is responsible for the engines and overall mechanics. Then there’s my copilot Doug Slade, and our navigator, Stan Bailey. Bailey was just assigned to us and only arrived a couple of days ago, so I don’t know how much help he’ll be.”
“We will start with the major’s office and leave you to work with your men,” Diana said.
Harker led us to a partitioned section at the rear of the hangar. We passed a long workbench strewn with tools, radio sets, and electrical components. I could see why Sparks hadn’t gotten around to that inventory. Harker opened the door to Brockman’s office and said he’d take us to the major’s quarters when we were done.
“Unlocked,” I said when Harker was gone. “Clues may be lacking.”
“At least we learned something from Harker,” Diana said as we entered the office. “Brockman drove himself to the cliffs. The question is, what happened to his vehicle?”
“Maybe it was simply a theft,” I said, not really believing it. Diana raised an eyebrow of doubt at the idea.
“Well, at least Major Brockman was neat and organized,” she said. She surveyed the nicely aligned stacks of papers and files. “It makes searching easier and tampering noticeable.”
She was right. Brockman’s office was as squared away as he was. Personnel reports were held in several files on the left side of the desk: Harker’s, along with the rest of his crew’s. Comments about performance and readiness. Other than a few quibbles here and there, the fitness reports were exemplary. Not surprising, since I expected the 36th Bomb Squadron would be assigned top-notch aircrew given their special jamming role.
Opposite his desk, a typewriter sat on a small table. A three-tiered inbox held carbon paper, two recently typed memos, and their carbon copies. One was to his squadron commander, dated on Christmas Day. Brockman must have typed it in the morning before he left for the cliffs. Not the most cheerful way to start Christmas Day, but war has its demands. The note said that Jostle should be operational in both bombers in three days and then he’d be ready to receive two more. The second was dated the day before, addressed to the supply officer for 101 Squadron, requesting a new Mandrel jammer.
“Diana, what’s Mandrel? Brockman wanted a new one,” I said.
“It targets German radar,” she said with barely a glance up from her search of a four-drawer file cabinet. “It’s usually used as the bombers approach enemy territory to broadcast radio noise on known radar bands. Disrupts the Nazi early-warning radar quite nicely.”
“I guess we use it too,” I said, after I’d read through Brockman’s request.
“Oh yes, standard-issue, especially for this squadron,” Diana said as she flipped through files.
I tossed the paper back into the tray and moved on to the desk drawers, reminding myself to tell Harker about the memos. The drawers held little more than discarded pencil stubs, paper clips, a few requisition forms, and the kind of dust that ends up in desks everywhere.
“Nothing,” I said. “It doesn’t look like Brockman spent a lot of time in here. Probably too busy with the aircraft.”
“These files are of no help either,” Diana said. “Manuals, schematics, reports on enemy radar frequencies, and operating instructions for various radios, British and American. Not to mention blackout procedures from 1940.”
“Okay,” I said as I stood to survey the office. Not much else other than a few wooden shelves holding boxes of tools and spools of wire. Brockman did what he had to do in here and not much more.
“Did you check the carbon paper?” Diana said. “You never know.”
No, you never do. I remembered a clue once being found on carbon paper, but I think that was in a movie. Real life is never that easy, but I pulled out the dark, flimsy sheets to check them. The request for the Mandrel jammer was right on top, a worn, well-used sheet that had seen its final roll around the platen. Even so, I could make out the salutation to the 101 Squadron supply officer. The sheet under that was the memo to Brockman’s commanding officer at the 36th, the unit’s name clearly visible on the fresh page.
“Wait a minute,” I said, and set the sheets down side by side. “Brockman typed this one yesterday, using a new piece of carbon paper. He typed the supply request the day before, using a sheet that was on its last legs.”
“Very economical of him,” Diana said as she waited for me to make my point.
“This is how they came out of the tray,” I said, and placed the well-used sheet on top.
“Oh, I see,” she said. “It’s in the wrong order. Someone went through the carbon papers to see what the major had typed. Someone who got here before us.”
“Which means Brockman took both the original and carbon copy with him, which is why our intruder was reduced to riffling through the carbon paper,” I said.
“Or Major Brockman made a simple mistake,” Diana said with a sigh. “Out of character, but still possible. This is thin gruel, Billy.”
“If we didn’t find him with his head bashed in, I’d agree it was just a mistake. But you’re right, it’s not much,” I said. “This must have something to do with what Conan Doyle had you investigating.”
“Yes. And the request for a new Mandrel unit is interesting,” she said. “I’d like to know if the machine it replaced was broken, stolen, or lost. Clearly no one here is bothering to work on an inventory of missing parts. There’s enough pressure on them to get back in the air as it is.”
We decided to try Major Brockman’s quarters next, then follow up with the rest of Harker’s crew. The lieutenant told us where to find Brockman’s room and said he’d arrange for his personal effects to be sent to his family.
We drove the short distance to the American barracks and found Brockman’s quarters, right where Harker had indicated. It was on the third floor with a view of the hangar and the runway beyond, and it looked just like I’d expected.
“Neat as a pin,” Diana said, echoing my thoughts.
The bunk was made the way they’d always insisted back in basic training. I was tempted to bounce a quarter off it for old times’ sake. Uniforms were hung carefully, and drawers were full of neatly folded clothes.
A nightstand held a gooseneck lamp and a paperback Western by Zane Grey, one of the Armed Forces Editions. A table and two chairs completed the decor. A copy of Stars and Stripes was open on the table, next to stationery and a bottle of Scotch. A musette bag hung from the chair, and Diana went through it as I snooped around for anything of interest. There wasn’t much. It looked like Brockman worked hard and long hours, spent little time in his quarters, and less in his office.
“Oh dear,” Diana said. She was leafing through letters. “They’re from his girlfriend. It’s heartbreaking. And his mother as well. Nothing else, just plans that will never be.” She put the letters back and laid the musette bag on the table. Personal effects.
“Here,” I said, and tossed the paperback novel onto the table. It wasn’t much, but perhaps it would hint at some leisure time that Frederick Brockman had enjoyed and bring a smile to his mother’s face. The book slid off the musette bag onto the floor. I picked it up, along with the bookmark, which was nothing more than a page from a notepad, folded in half the long way.
“Whoa,” I said, reading what Brockman had written. “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.”
“Hidden in plain sight,” Diana said. “Well done, Major.”
“Brockman did his own inventory of missing parts,” I said. “Which got him killed.”
Chapter Eleven
WE’D GONE BACK to the hangar and found Harker’s crew ready to break for lunch. They weren’t happy about being held up, but the chance to sit and gab with Diana seemed to soften the blow. We had a quick talk with Lieutenant Stan Bailey, the navigator who’d only recently arrived. He was new to radar countermeasures as well as to the crew and couldn’t offer much of anything. The same with Lieutenant Doug Slade, copilot. He’d been laid up with an ear infection and hadn’t been around the crew for a week. We sent them both off to chow and brought Sergeant Levinson into Brockman’s office.
“Sergeant Felix Levinson?” Diana asked, her notebook at the ready.
“Technical Sergeant, ma’am. I’m the flight engineer.” Levinson leaned back in his chair and sat quietly. Usually people being questioned by investigators are nervous, even those as innocent as babes. But Levinson had a calmness about him, which probably was useful for a guy who had to sit in the top turret and fight off Me 109s while he watched his four big Pratt & Whitney engines for any sign of trouble. He had thick black hair and a fair imitation of a Clark Gable mustache.
“You’ve got a big job,” I said. “How involved are you with these jamming devices?”
“Plenty, Captain. I used to work for Ma Bell back in Jersey,” Levinson said. “Installing telephones. All that experience with wiring comes in handy, especially getting all the fittings tight. You can’t have a loose connection at thirty thousand feet.”
“It doesn’t look like you could easily open the Jostle container if you did,” Diana said.
“No, the thing is pressurized to keep the hardware stable,” Levinson said. “It’s a beast, weighs about six hundred pounds. But it looks like it’ll do the job.”
“Are the other devices pressurized? Mandrel, for instance?” Diana asked. I knew where she was going with this. How easy was it to pop open these electronics and steal parts?
“No, Mandrel is not as sophisticated as Jostle. Does the job, don’t get me wrong,” he said. “But all it has to do is bounce back a Kraut radar signal onto itself.”
“Ever have to repair Mandrel in flight?” I asked.
“No. Had one shot up, but there was no fixing it. Why? I can’t see what that has to do with Major Brockman buying the farm,” he said.
“Maybe nothing,” Diana said. Levinson’s gaze rested on Brockman’s desk as if he expected to see him sitting there. “When was the Mandrel destroyed?” Diana asked, smiling to keep Levinson relaxed.
“Oh, about two weeks before we were sent here,” he said. “We were given a newer model as a replacement, which came in handy. Works like a charm.”
“You have everything you need here? Any equipment shortages, that sort of thing?” I asked.
“We have to do the paperwork dance, you know how the army goes,” Levinson said. “And some days you just gotta scrounge as best you can. Now, tell me what this has to do with the skipper.”
“We’ll let you know when we know more,” Diana said. “Now, tell us if you noticed anything odd in the days leading up to his death. Was anything upsetting him?”
“Major Brockman was a stickler for doing things by the book,” Levinson said. “Nothing wrong with that, but he did get bothered if we were behind schedule. Or scrounging too much, not to mention gambling. He warned us off gambling with the RAF guys since we’re paid more, and it wouldn’t be right to take their dough. The major wanted us on our best behavior, on account of us being guests here.”
“Are you behind schedule?” I asked.
“Maybe a half day’s work. All this going to help you catch whoever killed the major?”
“Too soon to tell, Sergeant Levinson. What’s the story with pilferage here? Anybody scrounging their way through your supplies?” I asked.
“We’ve had a few items go missing,” he said with a shrug. “Lost in the shuffle, who knows? We got bigger things to worry about.”
“Do you need a new Mandrel unit?” Diana asked.
“Yeah, I think so,” Levinson said. “The major had the spare tested last week and it was on the fritz. I don’t know if it was repaired or not.” We’d have to check that out. Maybe someone had sabotaged the spare and that was how it got onto Brockman’s list.
“We’ve learned that Major Brockman was looking into the theft of parts,” Diana said. “Electronic parts. Do you know anything about that?”
“Hey, don’t look at me,” Levinson said. “I ain’t the sticky-fingered type.”
“We’re only looking for information,” I said. “You haven’t heard of any vital components going for a walk?”
“Nope. Not that I would. I help out with the wires and cables, but my main focus is on those four engines. I make sure I have everything I need to keep them working, but I don’t keep track of the radar countermeasures gear. That was the skipper’s domain,” he said.
“Understood,” Diana said, and raised an eyebrow in my direction. Time for the next topic.
“You have any problems with the British here?” I asked. “Any fights?”
“Nah, not really,” Levinson said. “We’re all in the radar countermeasures business, so we got a lot in common. Everyone’s been helpful, especially Bigs.”
“That’s Leading Aircraftman Bigsby, right?” Diana asked.
“Yeah. He’s just a kid, but he’s been fiddling with radios since he was old enough to hold a screwdriver,” Levinson said. “Told us he was recruited into the Voluntary Interceptors when he was fourteen.”
“What’s that?” I asked. I looked to Diana, who gave a quick shrug.
“Amateur radio buffs worked, using their own gear for signals interception,” he said. “I never heard of it, but Bigs said it was secret. Sounded pretty smart to me.”
“Okay,” I said, and tried to steer the conversation back to my question. “Have you seen any prejudice against Jews on base?”
“Sure,” Levinson said. “I’m Jewish. You learn to pick up on things quickly. Whispers and muted laughter, people who look away rather than acknowledge your presence. Saves you the trouble of associating with jerks.”
“British or American jerks?” Diana asked.
“Both, I guess, but my crew is solid,” Levinson said. “Our navigator is new, but he seems okay. I really haven’t had any serious guff from the RAF guys.”
“What about Major Brockman?” I asked.
“What about him?” Levinson said.
“Did he ever have any problems? You know he was Jewish, don’t you?”
“No. We never talked religion. He was an officer and kept to himself anyway. I wouldn’t think about chewing the fat with him. Not like Lieutenant Harker, who’s practically one of the guys. Brockman, huh? Whaddya know?”
“So, no one on this base ever gave you a hard time about your religion?” I asked.
“Hell, Captain, I ain’t religious. Never even been inside a synagogue. Maybe you ought to talk to some of the Lancaster crews about that sort of thing.”
“Why?” I asked. Levinson shifted in his seat and looked around.
“Listen, I know we’re supposed to cooperate with you, but I don’t think it’s my place to tell tales out of school,” Levinson said. “Ma’am, if you work at Elham House, you should know what the deal is.”
“I’m fairly new here,” Diana said. “Perhaps they haven’t filled me in yet. It would be helpful if you would.”
“I don’t think so,” Levinson said. “I just heard some gossip, that’s all. You want to ask about wires, cables, radios, or engines, I’m your man. Otherwise, I need to get some chow.”
“Come on, Levinson,” I said. “Give us something to go on. A hint, at least.”
“Ask about Jonah,” Levinson said. He stood and folded his arms. The gesture said it all. He was done talking.
“That’s all, Sergeant,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
“Such as it was,” Diana said after he’d left. “I should press Jean to see what she knows.”
