A Blind Goddess (4 page)

“That’s all I can ask,” Tree said as they shook hands. A group of GIs moved around us, one of them muttering “goddamn nigger” as he brushed by Tree, throwing him off balance.

“Hey, Private!” I shouted, but he was lost in the crowd of GIs changing trains.

“It’s not worth it, Billy,” Tree said. “You dress him down, then the MPs come, and I get beat up for causing a disturbance. That’s how it goes. Just help Angry, and don’t fight my battles. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said. I knew he was right, but I didn’t like giving in. Then again, I wouldn’t be the one paying the price. I’d seen it all before, back in Boston, but that didn’t mean it sat well with me. Maybe I just felt guilty about how things had fallen apart with Tree, and wanted to make it up to him. We didn’t salute or shake hands. I turned and boarded the train without a word, just as Tree had done a lifetime ago.

Kaz and I squeezed past squads of British soldiers with their tin-pot helmets and rifles slung over their shoulders. American swabbies in their pea coats were crammed into one corner of the car and GIs on leave slouched in the other corner, garrison caps pulled down over their eyes, recovering from last night’s bash or resting up for tonight’s.

We grabbed the last two seats and watched as more servicemen boarded the train until it seemed that it might not be able to bear the weight. Air force personnel and paratroopers from the 101st added to the train’s burden, until finally, with a blast of the whistle and a release of steam, it slowly departed the station.

“Which do you want to explain first?” Kaz said. “What happened between you and Tree—marvelous nickname—or why you are certain Angry Smith is innocent?”

“I’ll start with the easy one,” I said, trying to get comfortable on the narrow seat. The track took us close to the canal, and I could see the tents of the 617th Tank Destroyer Battalion spread out beyond it. “There was something very methodical about the murder of Constable Eastman, which hints at a premeditated act.”

“And according to his nickname, Abraham Smith is prone to sudden acts,” Kaz said.

“Yes. If Eastman had been found outside a pub, near his sister’s house, anywhere like that, it would point to Smith. But that graveyard scene means Eastman was there for a reason. Either brought there already dead, likely on that trail you spotted, or lured there alive by his killer.”

“Or, he arranged a meeting there, or simply strolled to that spot with someone he trusted.”

“Would he have trusted Angry Smith? At night? In a graveyard? After they had argued and he’d called him a damned darkie? I don’t think so.”

“You’re right, Billy,” Kaz said as the coach lurched forward, taking a small rise. Smoke from dozens of cigarettes turned the air grey as voices rose, laughter and banter turning louder as bottles were passed around. The Americans were all on leave, while the British Tommies were under orders, carrying their gear and weapons with them, no leave passes in their pockets. They looked resentful, maybe scared. “Perhaps someone took advantage of the fact that Angry would be a suspect.”

“Or it could have nothing to do with him. A family feud, maybe. Or a warning.”

“The killer might go after other members of the Eastman family,” Kaz said, thinking it through. “If they don’t get what they want.”

“Be nice to know what that was,” I said.

“What are you going to do?” Kaz said.

“Should be easy to get a look at the CID report. See how serious this is. I’d like to talk to the local police, too.”

“But they have no jurisdiction. The Visiting Forces Act, you know.” I knew. The act gave the army the right to arrest and try our servicemen for crimes committed on English territory. It made a lot of sense, and took a lot of pressure off the English justice system. But I also knew that no police force in the world would look kindly upon outsiders taking over a case that involved the killing of one of their own.

“They’ll still have information, and maybe a few leads that CID overlooked in their rush to close the case. Angry Smith is the most convenient suspect you could imagine,” I said.

“But your leave,” Kaz said. “You and Diana are going to Seaton Manor tomorrow, are you not?”

“Sure we are,” I said. “It’s all planned out. We’re heading up there on the three o’clock train from King’s Cross Station. I can’t wait for some peace and quiet.” There hadn’t been much peace in Italy, and
the Anzio Beachhead was definitely not the quietest spot around. I had been looking forward to this leave, but thoughts of Angry Smith in prison mingling with memories of Tree Jackson in Boston didn’t put me in a happy mood.

“I can make inquiries while you are away,” Kaz said. “You and Diana deserve the time together.” He was right, especially about Diana. She’d been arrested in Rome by the Gestapo and spent some unpleasant days in a prison there. Diana Seaton worked for the Special Operations Executive, and had been on an assignment within the Vatican in German-occupied Rome. Disguised as a nun, she’d been arrested on black market charges. Luckily, the Gestapo and the Italian secret police hadn’t uncovered her real identity.

“Thanks, Kaz. If you have time, pay a visit to the Berkshire Constabulary and see what the local office has to say.”

“I will have time,” Kaz said, and turned his head to stare out the window. Kaz had been granted leave as well, but his dance card was empty. He’d been invited to Seaton Manor along with me, but the memories there were still too painful for him. When I first arrived in England, Kaz was head over heels in love with Daphne Seaton, Diana’s younger sister. Daphne had felt the same way about Kaz. They were my first friends over here, and they both became involved in my first case for the general. Kaz lived through it. Daphne hadn’t. Things were rough for Kaz after that, and I know at one point he thought about killing himself. But he was tough, and curious, and the investigation business kept him getting up each morning.

Kaz was a real bookworm who could speak half a dozen languages fluently. He was also rich. Beacon Hill rich. Unfortunately it was because his father had seen the writing on the wall and transferred the family wealth from Polish to Swiss banks shortly before the Nazi invasion. Kaz had been attending school in England, and his father was planning to move the entire family there. But his prescience did not extend to the exact date of the invasion, and on September 1st, 1939 the Kazimierz family was still in Poland. They were all killed, exterminated as part of the
Polish upper class. Kaz was alone in the world, with memories, a big fat bank account, and me.

“Tell me the story of you and Tree,” Kaz said, drawing his gaze from the countryside flowing by outside the window.

“It was years ago. We were just kids.”

“You didn’t want to talk about it on the way down from London,” Kaz said. “That was fine; it allowed me to meet Tree without preconceptions. But now that we are involved, you must open up. Besides, it will ease the boredom of this locomotive ride.”

Kaz hated being bored. I think some of his interest in keeping himself alive had to do with the hot water I often managed to get myself into. It amused him.

“Okay,” I said, leaning in closer to Kaz and trying to block out the conversations going on around us. There were three GIs opposite our seats and one next to me, but they were deep into a discussion about the kind of girl they’d like to meet in London, a topic that could last a good long time.

“It was nineteen thirty-six,” I began.

I’
D DELIVERED NEWSPAPERS, shoveled sidewalks, done all the odd jobs kids do since I was old enough to cross the street by myself. That summer, with my sixteenth birthday a month behind me, I was ready for a real job. Meaning regular pay, greenbacks doled out in small manila envelopes every Friday. I wasn’t greedy, but there was something I wanted—no, needed—to have. It was a 1922 Indian Scout. It needed a new oil pump, and the brakes were bad, but it was still a beautiful motorcycle. Low slung, red, with a 606 cc engine. And best of all, old man Warner, who’d last ridden it the year the market crashed, was willing to let it sit in his garage until I came up with the dough. And not say anything to my folks about it.

Mom had put the kibosh on the idea of a motorcycle half a dozen times. Dad would shake his head and tell me to listen to my mother, which I interpreted as practically a green light to proceed
as long as I didn’t get caught. So that was my plan: get a job, pay old man Warner, fix up the Scout in secret, and then show it off to my friends. Not the most well-thought-out plan, but remember, I was sixteen years old.

“I bought the Chief model,” a corporal sitting next to me said, cutting into my story. “Got it up to one hundred on a flat stretch of road in Kansas once. But then I got drafted and left it with my girl. Some 4-F is probably out riding it now. Sorry, Lieutenant, go on.”

“No problem, Soldier. I did stop to take a breath, after all.”

“Don’t mind him, Lieutenant,” one of his pals said. “What happened next?” I hadn’t realized I had an audience. The GIs seated with us had ceased their conversation and were leaning in, nodding at me to continue. I did.

What happened next is that I kept asking my dad to get me a summer job at the police department. There weren’t a lot of them to go around, but police work in Boston was largely a family affair. When Dad and Uncle Dan joined in 1919, fresh from the war, they were filling in the ranks after the police strike, which Governor Coolidge broke up. Best thing that ever happened to the Boston Irish. After years of
No Irish Need Apply
, there was finally a place to get a job, and better yet, a place to get jobs for your relatives. Everyone else had their cut of the American pie, so why not us?

Dad and Uncle Dan were both homicide detectives, and both had connections. Uncle Dan’s were more along the lines of the Irish Republican Army, but Dad was friendly with politicians and the unions. When he finally gave in, it took one phone call. At dinner that night, he told me to report to work at headquarters the next morning, and to wear my old clothes. I was to report to Mr. Jackson, and Dad said it was important to do what I was told and not embarrass the family. That was pretty much what he said about most things. I asked what the job was, and he told me to be thankful I had one, and to stop bothering him.

That night I thought about the possibilities, too excited to fall asleep. I was hoping it might have something to do with cars or even
motorcycles. The Boston PD had plenty of both, and they all needed maintenance and cleaning. There was a shooting range and armory, too. Didn’t they need all those weapons cleaned? I briefly entertained the notion that they’d want a kid for undercover work, and finally fell asleep imagining myself on a Hardy Boys adventure.

It wasn’t any of those. When I got to headquarters, lunch pail in hand, I was told to go down into the basement and see Jackson. The desk sergeant didn’t even look up, just crooked a thumb in the direction of the stairs. A sign above the stairwell did say
PUBLIC NOT ALLOWED
, and that bucked me up. I was going where the public could not go. I was practically a rookie policeman.

Not even close. At the end of a dark, narrow hallway, I saw a sign over the door.
H
.
JACKSON
,
CUSTODIAL SERVICES
. Mr. Jackson was the janitor, and I was going to spend my summer mopping floors. I was lucky to have a job, as my dad said. But back then, it was the greatest disappointment of my life, and I hadn’t even opened the door.

When I recovered enough to pull myself together and enter, I got my first look at Mr. Jackson. He was a Negro. Not that I didn’t see Negroes in Boston, but I had assumed my boss would be a white man. Hell, every boss I’d ever seen was white. The surprise must’ve showed on my face, because Mr. Jackson frowned and shook his head, the kind of slow, deliberate head-shaking you save up for the profoundly stupid.

“You don’t like the idea of working for me, son, you turn around go home. Won’t miss you none,” he said. Mr. Jackson was about average height, but wide in the shoulders and thick at the waist. Not fat, but built like a fireplug. He was dark, too, the kind of skin that makes you think of pictures in the
National Geographic
. His curly hair was shot through with grey, and he wore blue overalls and a dark blue shirt with his name stitched over the pocket.

“Sorry, Mr. Jackson,” I said. “It’s just that I didn’t know … I didn’t expect … you know …” I sort of let it trail off and stared at the floor, then let my eyes drift around the room. There was a big
sink in the corner and a drain in the floor. Shelves held cleaning supplies, tools, dusty boxes, and heaps of broken fans, radios, and other appliances. Above all that was a single narrow barred basement window with a parade of feet passing by, mostly heavy cop shoes and blue trousers, the busy men oblivious to Mr. Jackson’s domain below.

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Mr. Jackson said. “But your daddy’s a decent man, and I’m sure he meant no harm. Doesn’t mean I want you around if you can’t take orders and get the job done.”

“I can do the job, Mr. Jackson,” I said, remembering my father’s injunction. “You can count on me.”

“Not looking forward to it,” he said, pointing to a broom. “Start sweeping.”

“Where?” He was silent. “I mean, where, Mr. Jackson?”

“Start at the top, work your way down. That’s six floors. Don’t leave a speck of dust.”

“P
ADDINGTON
S
TATION
,”
THE conductor proclaimed. “Next stop, Paddington Station.”

“Wait, Lieutenant, that’s our stop,” the corporal said. “Why was he so sore?”

“Yeah,” another GI with a southern accent said. “No colored boy oughta talk like that.”

“Aw shuddup,” responded a guy with a New York accent. “Come on, Lieutenant, wrap it up, huh?”

“There’s still a lot of story to go,” I said. “But the reason he was upset is that his son was supposed to get the job. Had it, actually, until my old man made that call. As soon as he did, Tree Jackson lost it and young Billy Boyle had it handed to him.”

“Ain’t right, if you don’t mind me saying so, Lieutenant,” the corporal said. “Colored folk got it hard enough.” The southern fellow shook his head at this misplaced sympathy.