A Mortal Terror (6 page)

“Landry’s sergeants are a good bunch?”

“Sure. Steady guys, you know?”

“Any of them make Landry look bad? Did he make life miserable for any of them?”

“Lieutenant Landry wasn’t like that. He got his guys out of scrapes when they had too much to drink, and in the field he was always up front with them.”

“Sounds like a stand-up guy,” I said.

“So why would someone want to kill him?”

“Good question, Cole. Any of his men have a theory?”

“No, nothing.”

“What about Galante?”

“What about him? He was a doctor, he helped people. Killing him makes no sense.”

“Unlike Landry?”

“No, I didn’t mean it that way.” Cole shook a fresh cigarette out of a pack and lit it from the stub of the other one. His hand shook, the faintest of tremors sending ash onto the playing cards on the desk. I sat back and waited as he crushed the first butt out in an ashtray. A wisp of smoke curled up from it, but Cole didn’t notice. He inhaled deeply, and blew smoke toward the ceiling, his politeness a good cover for not looking me in the eye. I didn’t speak.

“What I meant was, why would anyone kill a doctor? There are plenty of captains around here. Why pick one who actually helps people?” His voice had a tinge of panic to it, as if the thought of anyone who’d murder a doctor was too much for him to bear.

“Sergeant Cole, what did you do before you were assigned to CID?”

“I was with the Third Division. Squad leader, after Sicily.”

“Been with them long?”

“Since Fedala,” he said, and brought the cigarette to his lips with his left hand. The right sat on his lap, out of sight. Fedala was the invasion of North Africa, fourteen months ago. That had been a long haul, being shot at by the Vichy French, Italians, and Germans along the way.

“Let me guess,” I said. “You got your stripes because you were the only one of the original squad still standing.”

“You learn something by staying alive, can’t deny that,” Cole said, as if he were confessing a mortal sin. “All the other guys—killed, wounded, captured. I lost track of dead lieutenants, and saw four sergeants killed before they promoted me. Replacements kept coming, most getting it pretty quick. Not much I could do about it either. They’d panic, forget everything I told them, run around when they should stay put, stay put when they should advance. They weren’t ready.”

“Were you? At Fedala, fourteen months back?”

“Hard to remember. That was a lifetime ago.” He lit another butt, unable to hide his shakes. He gripped his left arm with his right hand, over the stripes, as if he’d been wounded.

“After Sicily they made you squad leader. Then Salerno.”

“Then Salerno. Then the Volturno River crossing. That’s where I got hit. Shrapnel in my leg.”

“Not a million-dollar wound,” I said. Not bad enough for a stateside ticket on a Red Cross ship headed westward.

“Nope.” Cole smoked with a determination that was impressive. He didn’t talk with smoke flowing out of his mouth like some guys. He savored each inhale and exhale, as if the burning tobacco held the kiss of an angel.

“Anything else I should know?”

“Nope. What are you going to do next?” Cole was a cross between nervous and relieved. Relieved that I was here to tell him what to do, and nervous that he might have to do it. Buying up playing cards seemed to be his limit.

“Find where I’m billeted, dump my stuff, and get some sleep. I’ve been in the air more hours than I care to count.” I wanted to meet Einsmann and see what he’d found out, and there was no reason to take Cole away from his cards and smokes. I handed him my billeting papers and asked him how I could find the place I’d been assigned.

“On the Via Piave?” he said when he looked at the address. “Jesus, that’s Captain Galante’s apartment!”

CHAPTER SIX

K
EARNS HAD APOLOGIZED
, saying that the corporal was supposed to have told me. Space was at a premium, and his idea had been that I might as well be given that bunk, where I could talk to the two doctors who shared the apartment. It did have a certain logic, but I wondered what Galante’s pals would think of it. Their feelings weren’t high on Kearns’s list, so I headed out of the palace to meet my new friends and interrogate them.

I swung the jeep out of the parking area and onto the Via Roma, watching for the turn Cole told me would take me to the Via Piave, a side street of relatively intact structures, two- and three-story stone buildings, most closed off by large iron gates or strong wooden double doors leading into a courtyard. Halfway down the street, two homes were destroyed, heaps of blackened rubble still spilled out onto the roadway. The rain was falling harder now, and the smell of charred timbers and ruined lives filled my nostrils. Through the gap where the houses had been I saw a row of B-17s lined up, their giant tail fins shadowed against the darkening sky. Except for when weather like this grounded them, it was going to be a noisy neighborhood.

I found the building, its masonry decorated by a spray of bullet holes. Most centered around one window on the upper story where hinges held the remnants of wooden shingles. A sniper, maybe, drawing fire from every GI advancing up the street, as they edged from door to door, blasting at any sign of movement, not wanting to die from the last shot of a rearguard Nazi. Or a curtain fluttering the breeze, catching the eye of a dogface who empties his Garand into the window as the rest of his squad joins in, excitement and desperation mingling with sweat and noise until all that remains is the smell of concrete dusk and nervous, jumpy laughter.

I parked the jeep in the courtyard and turned off the engine. Rain splattered on the canvas top, reminding me of distant machinegun fire. I took a deep breath, telling myself this was way behind the lines, and there would be no snipers lurking in third-story windows. Wet as everything was, I swore I could smell concrete dust in my nostrils. Shaking off the memory, I grabbed my duffle and took the stairs up to the main door. I was about to knock when it opened and a short, stout, gray-haired Italian woman unleashed a torrent of language at me, beckoning me in with one hand and pointing to my feet with the other. I didn’t need to understand Italian to get it. I wiped my wet boots on the mat and hung my dripping mackinaw on a peg. She must have decided I passed inspection, and led me down a hallway into a kitchen, allowing me on the tile floor as she pointed to another room beyond. I wanted to linger and savor the smells coming from the pots on the stove, but the old woman had her back to me, busy with whatever was cooking.

“You must be Boyle,” said a figure in an armchair, seated before an old coal stove. I was glad of the warmth, and stood close, rubbing my hands. He watched me, folding the newspaper he’d been reading, as if he thought I might be of greater interest. He was a British captain, the Royal Army Medical Corps insignia obvious on his lapels.

“You were expecting me?”

“Yes. We got a note that you’d be taking Max Galante’s room. Terrible thing, him getting it like that. Bradshaw’s the name,” he said, extending his hand. “Harold Bradshaw.”

“Doctor Bradshaw?”

“Oh, please. Leave the doctor and military business out of our little home, will you? There’s enough of that outside these walls. Hope that doesn’t spoil things for you, Boyle. Sit down, why don’t you?”

“If I wasn’t taking a dead man’s bed, I think I’d feel at home here,” I said, settling into another chair drawn near the fire. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Can’t say I knew Galante all that well, and this is war, isn’t it? Still, one hopes for a quick bullet on the field of battle, if one has to buy it. Not a brutish attack by one of your own.”

Bradshaw packed a pipe and fussed with it the way pipe smokers do. He was in his forties, with a bit of a paunch and receding hairline. His uniform was worn and wrinkled, and I guessed this was about as much spit and polish as the army was going to get out of him. I stretched my legs and let the stove warm my boots.

“You’re both doctors at the same hospital, and you lived together, but you didn’t know him well? How come?”

“What’s your concern with this, Boyle?”

“They didn’t tell you I was investigating the murders?”

“No,” Bradshaw said as he blew out a plume of smoke. He admired the coals for a moment before continuing. “Only your name and that you were to be billeted here. So you’re with the American CID?”

“Working with them. I’m curious about your remark, if you don’t mind me asking.” I figured the best way to interrogate Bradshaw was to keep it casual, pal to pal after a tough day at work.

“Not at all. Galante kept to himself. There were four of us here, all medical men. Two American, two English. We work long hours, not much time for socializing. And at my age, not the same inclination as the younger lads.”

“There are two other doctors living here?”

“One, at the moment. Stafford got transferred, then Galante got himself killed. That leaves Wilson. Captain Jonas Wilson. Yank, like you.”

“Was he any friendlier with Galante than you were?”

“Well, I wasn’t unfriendly. The way you put it makes it sound like I disliked the fellow. No, he was pleasant enough company. He and I often chatted at meals. We all tried to arrange our schedules to be here for dinner. Signora Salvalaggio can work wonders with any kind of ration. Even bully beef.”

“The lady in the kitchen?”

“Yes. She lives downstairs. Keeps house for us, cooks and cleans. We all pool our rations and share with her, pay her a bit as well.”

“Is Captain Wilson here?”

“Not yet. Should be soon, though. You’re welcome to stay and eat with us, but if it’s going to be a regular thing you’ll have to throw in your share.”

“Thanks. Not tonight. I have to meet someone. Is there anything else you can tell me about Captain Galante? Did he have any enemies you know of?”

“He never mentioned anyone. He was transferred to the hospital only a month ago, hardly time to generate a blood feud.”

“Where was he before the transfer?” That was something that hadn’t been covered in the file I’d been given.

“An infantry division, part of the medical battalion,” Bradshaw said. “Can’t recall which one.”

“You really don’t know much about the man, do you?”

“Hardly a thing, Boyle. We didn’t work together at the hospital. I specialize in skin conditions, or at least I did in civilian life. Here I deal with trench foot, frostbite, burns, that sort of thing. Galante was a surgeon, but he was also interested in shell shock. Nervous exhaustion. He’d talk a blue streak about it if you let him.” There was something disapproving in Bradshaw’s voice.

“You’re not as interested?”

“I served as a private in the trenches back in ’18. Saw enough shell shock to last a lifetime. Didn’t want to talk about it.” Bradshaw held the pipe stem in his mouth with grim determination and looked away from me, out the window, into the darkness.

“Did Galante talk about anything else? Interests?” I knew the topic of shell shock was closed, but I didn’t want Bradshaw to clam up totally.

“He knew Italian history, and spoke some of the language. Chatted with Signora Salvalaggio now and then. About what, I have no idea. I recall that he was intrigued by the Royal Palace. Quite a place in its time, I’m sure, but a drafty flea-ridden ruin now.”

“Fleas?” I resisted the urge to scratch.

“Fleas and rats. Never go near the place if I can help it. Ah, here’s Wilson.”

Bradshaw introduced me to the other doctor, telling him I was with CID. Close enough.

“Are we suspects?” Wilson asked as he took a seat and lit a cigarette. He was younger than Bradshaw, but not by much. Dark hair, thinning. Dark eyes, glancing at Bradshaw, who only grunted.

“Where were you the night he was killed?”

Wilson’s eyes widened. Apparently his question had been a joke.

“Here, I think. We had a lot of casualties in from the Liri Valley that day. We all worked late. Bradshaw and I were both back here by eight o’clock or so. Galante never showed, but that was normal for any of us. We often sleep at the hospital if needed. After dinner, I sacked out. We’re not really suspects, are we?”

“Listen,” I said. “Most investigations are about ruling people out. I’m sure no one thinks of you as suspects, or they wouldn’t have me staying here. Were you close with Galante? Friends?”

“Friendly,” Wilson said, relaxing into his chair. “Not pals. He hadn’t been here long, and like I said, the hours can be long.”

“So the 32nd Station Hospital does more than care for calluses on the backsides of HQ types?”

“Fair amount of that,” Bradshaw offered. “When you get this many generals in one place, you tend to see a lot of normal ailments, the type of things you’d see in peacetime. Colds, influenza, gout, bad back, the list goes on.”

“A lot of them would like their own personal physician too,” Wilson said. “But we get a lot of battle casualties brought in from the line. Wounds and illnesses. We’ve had over a thousand cases of trench foot, not to mention frostbite.”

“Worse among you Americans,” Bradshaw said. “Your army needs better waterproof boots. The way it rains around here, your chaps end up living in constant mud in the mountains.”

“Could Galante have been at the palace to treat a general?” I wanted to get the conversation back to the main topic. Shortage of winter gear was a whole separate crime.

“Maybe,” Wilson said. “Hasn’t CID checked that already?” “I’ll check tomorrow. I only got in today, so I need to get up to speed.”

“From where?” Wilson asked.

“I was on vacation in Switzerland,” I said.

“Just what we need, a joker. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”

The room was spare. One bureau with a washstand. One narrow bed. One small table and chair. One light hanging from the ceiling. One window. I tossed my duffle on the floor and sat on the bed. The springs creaked. The room smelled faintly of dust and stale air. I went to the window and opened it, despite the weather. I leaned out and lifted my face to the cold rain, hoping it would help me rally against the tiredness that was creeping through my bones. It was fully dark now, the B-17s on the airstrip lost in the gloom. I heard a jeep start up and saw headlights casting their thin glare on the rain-slicked road. Time for me to go too. Drinks at the palace. What a war.