The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) by James R. Benn
Authors: James R. Benn
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to report it to the authorities. As it stands, I was aware of an emissary sent to Mr. Sabini, who did not return to my client for reasons unknown. I never knew his name or was acquainted with him in any way.”
“Sorry,” I said, hands up in surrender, worried that he’d blow a fuse. “I did not mean to imply any knowledge of wrongdoing. I am certain you had no inkling of any criminal activity.” That seemed to calm him down. The response was automatic, built up from years of denying what he knew, hiding the truth even from himself. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Yes,” Fraser said. “Be very careful. Sabini has vowed never to return to prison, and he has a violent temper. He has also developed a vehement hatred of the British government. Days before he was due to be released from prison, his son Michael, an RAF pilot, was killed in North Africa.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said, hoping he was being completely truthful. “If this pans out, how would you and the missus like an invitation to the Mayor’s Ball at the Dartmouth Royal Regatta this summer?”
“That would be just the thing,” Fraser said, beaming. Respectable. I left him a happy man, which was what I needed. I didn’t want him to have any regrets that might prompt a telephone call to his old pals, or worse yet, Sabini himself.
It was a cruel world, I thought as I walked back to the station. Even a crook would be proud of a son fighting in the RAF, but it would take a villain’s mind to make his death an affront, turning his grief intoanger at a government that had had good reason to jail him. Lots of professional criminals look at what they do as a job, with risks and rewards. They go up against law enforcement, but it’s all part of the game. For Sabini, the game had become personal, and that made him dangerous.
The train had passed through Newton Abbot, and on the return trip I watched for a glimpse of the racecourse. It was easy to spot. The train ran along the banks of the River Teign, and as we neared the town it was visible across the river, the oval track fronting the water along one curve, the grandstand and stables at the far end. I had a fleeting glimpse of a small boathouse and dock off a dirt path that led down from the track. A private little spot, if no train was running.
The rail yard was busy. Another set of tracks joined ours at the station, and I could see cars on a siding being unloaded. Maybe some of Sabini’s men were hard at work replenishing his stocks, courtesy of Uncle Sam.
The train pulled out of the station, and I watched the river widen into an estuary, the tide running out, a tree branch floating and bobbing on the current, until finally the locomotive picked up speed and we left the Teign behind on its journey to the cold Channel waters.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
K AZ AND D AVID Martindale were waiting for me in Dartmouth. It was nearly dusk, and I’d spent most of the day on a crowded train dodging packs and rifles as GIs and Tommies got on and off in droves. We weren’t expected for dinner at Ashcroft, so David suggested the Dartmouth Arms, which was close by. “They have excellent fish and ales,” he said, which was all I needed to hear.
“Was your trip successful?” Kaz said as we walked to the pub.
“I’ll tell you about it after dinner,” I said, not certain about what we should share with David.
We ordered three pints and got a snug booth in the corner. “ Na zdrowie ,” Kaz said, raising his glass and giving the Polish version of cheers. We clinked glasses and drank. After a day of train travel and talking with a crooked lawyer, it went down smooth. As we drank, I watched David and Kaz. It was easy to see them as chums at school. Both good-looking—war injuries notwithstanding—with thin features, sharp eyes, and easy grins. I could visualize them up to their elbows in books, discussing the finer points of Romanian grammar or some rare book.
I went to see a man about a
“Sorry,” I said, hands up in surrender, worried that he’d blow a fuse. “I did not mean to imply any knowledge of wrongdoing. I am certain you had no inkling of any criminal activity.” That seemed to calm him down. The response was automatic, built up from years of denying what he knew, hiding the truth even from himself. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Yes,” Fraser said. “Be very careful. Sabini has vowed never to return to prison, and he has a violent temper. He has also developed a vehement hatred of the British government. Days before he was due to be released from prison, his son Michael, an RAF pilot, was killed in North Africa.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said, hoping he was being completely truthful. “If this pans out, how would you and the missus like an invitation to the Mayor’s Ball at the Dartmouth Royal Regatta this summer?”
“That would be just the thing,” Fraser said, beaming. Respectable. I left him a happy man, which was what I needed. I didn’t want him to have any regrets that might prompt a telephone call to his old pals, or worse yet, Sabini himself.
It was a cruel world, I thought as I walked back to the station. Even a crook would be proud of a son fighting in the RAF, but it would take a villain’s mind to make his death an affront, turning his grief intoanger at a government that had had good reason to jail him. Lots of professional criminals look at what they do as a job, with risks and rewards. They go up against law enforcement, but it’s all part of the game. For Sabini, the game had become personal, and that made him dangerous.
The train had passed through Newton Abbot, and on the return trip I watched for a glimpse of the racecourse. It was easy to spot. The train ran along the banks of the River Teign, and as we neared the town it was visible across the river, the oval track fronting the water along one curve, the grandstand and stables at the far end. I had a fleeting glimpse of a small boathouse and dock off a dirt path that led down from the track. A private little spot, if no train was running.
The rail yard was busy. Another set of tracks joined ours at the station, and I could see cars on a siding being unloaded. Maybe some of Sabini’s men were hard at work replenishing his stocks, courtesy of Uncle Sam.
The train pulled out of the station, and I watched the river widen into an estuary, the tide running out, a tree branch floating and bobbing on the current, until finally the locomotive picked up speed and we left the Teign behind on its journey to the cold Channel waters.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
K AZ AND D AVID Martindale were waiting for me in Dartmouth. It was nearly dusk, and I’d spent most of the day on a crowded train dodging packs and rifles as GIs and Tommies got on and off in droves. We weren’t expected for dinner at Ashcroft, so David suggested the Dartmouth Arms, which was close by. “They have excellent fish and ales,” he said, which was all I needed to hear.
“Was your trip successful?” Kaz said as we walked to the pub.
“I’ll tell you about it after dinner,” I said, not certain about what we should share with David.
We ordered three pints and got a snug booth in the corner. “ Na zdrowie ,” Kaz said, raising his glass and giving the Polish version of cheers. We clinked glasses and drank. After a day of train travel and talking with a crooked lawyer, it went down smooth. As we drank, I watched David and Kaz. It was easy to see them as chums at school. Both good-looking—war injuries notwithstanding—with thin features, sharp eyes, and easy grins. I could visualize them up to their elbows in books, discussing the finer points of Romanian grammar or some rare book.
I went to see a man about a
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