A Blind Goddess (3 page)

“It’s something you can’t understand, Billy,” Tree said. “After going through camps in Louisiana and Georgia, Hungerford was like finding the Promised Land. Folks here never learned to hate Negroes. The first time I walked into a shop here and got a friendly greeting, I nearly cried, and that’s the truth. No one telling me to go ’round back, or to get the hell out. Instead, they say, ‘Good morning, Sergeant.’ You got any idea what that means, especially after what we went through down South?”

I wanted to say it would be like my Irish great-grandfather being asked to tea by an Ulsterman, but I’m not so thick that I didn’t know it wasn’t time for comparing ancestral agonies. “Probably not. It must have been tough.”

“Tough was on a good day,” Tree said as we passed more houses made of brick with roofs of thick, grey thatch, like a postcard of a typical English village. “I’m happy here, can you believe that? I like the people, I like walking down the street and chatting with the old fellows. And now the army wants to take this town away from us to spare white GIs the sight of us walking out with English girls.”

Tree sped up, the anger in his voice playing out in his driving. His hands flexed on the steering wheel as houses thinned out to
reveal fields and pastures. It was cold in the open jeep, and we pulled up our collars and tucked our heads down as the wind whipped around us. I’d thought about Tree a lot over the past years, wondering what had become of him, and why he hadn’t shown up for his father’s funeral. I’d heard he’d been in town for a few days after, but never ran into him. Not that I tried. Now I knew why he wasn’t there, and why he liked it so much here in England, a place where calling a conductor “buddy” wouldn’t get you thrown off a train at gunpoint.

We drove along a dirt road lined with trees. Ahead, on a slight rise, were lines of canvas, rows and rows of six-man pyramidal tents. Sentries stood outside a hut by the road and waved Tree through as he slowed down. They looked sharp and gave us a quick once-over, but it was obvious they knew Tree. There was no fence, no real security.

“It appears you are well known here as well,” Kaz said from the backseat.

“We’re only four companies, plus battalion headquarters,” Tree said. “Not hard for guys to know every non-com in the outfit.” That was true enough, especially in an independent battalion like this one. But it was also true that Tree was the kind of guy who kept his ear to the ground, and made sure he had pals everywhere. Like any kid from the hard back streets of Boston.

“Here we are,” he said, parking the jeep at the end of a row of tents. “This is our platoon area. Each crew has a tent, plus a couple for supplies.” Stovepipes stuck out from the tent tops and wood planks had been laid between them, creating a rough walkway inches above the ground.

“Can we look at his gear?” I asked.

“Sure, come on in,” Tree said, holding the tent flap open for us. “The boys are working on the engine, so no one’s home. This is maintenance day, so they’ll be busy for a while.”

Inside were five bunks, five footlockers, and several empty crates used for tables. There was a wood plank floor, which at least kept everything from sinking into the damp earth. Tree pointed out Angry’s spot, and I went through his meager belongings. Everything
was army-issue except for a half-empty bottle of whiskey, a straight-edge razor, and a packet of letters tied with string.

“Nice that you’re holding his whiskey for him,” I said. “Is the straight-edge for protection?”

“Yeah, almost everyone carries something. I got a switchblade in my back pocket. Man has to have an advantage if he gets himself surrounded.”

“Angry didn’t have it on him when he was arrested?”

“No, he was on duty here. No need.”

“Have you looked through the letters?” I asked.

“No, that’s his personal stuff. Have some respect, Billy.”

“Nothing’s personal when it comes to murder. One man is dead and another falsely charged, right? That trumps privacy, and the army doesn’t care about privacy anyway. I’ll get them back to you after I’ve looked through them.”

“How long have you been here?” Kaz said, distracting Tree while I pocketed the letters.

“Me? Six months. I was a last-minute replacement in the States. They were short a radio operator, and I’d finished communications school, top of my class. I came here a corporal, made sergeant, and got my own TD last month. Tank Destroyer,” he added, for our benefit.

“Seven years and you only made corporal?” I said.

“Got my buck sergeant stripes after two years. Lost them when I tried to stop some MPs from cracking my buddy’s skull down at Fort Huachuca. Didn’t care much about getting them back for a while. Then the war came along and that changed things.”

“How?” I asked as we left the tent and walked back to the jeep.

“The draft brought in a lot of new guys and at first we had some lousy redneck officers. I figured the men deserved non-coms who believed in them. So I kept my mouth shut and played by the rules. Now I got my stripes and my own crew. And we need Angry back.” We followed Tree out of the tent, and I was aware of men watching us. Strange white officers wandering around a Negro unit might mean trouble. I could sense things relaxing when it became evident we weren’t taking Tree away in cuffs.

“Were you in tanks from the beginning?” Kaz asked.

“We don’t call them tanks,” Tree said. “We destroy tanks. They’re TDs.” He started up the jeep and we headed out of the camp. “I was in a service company at first, which meant I loaded and unloaded trucks all day. Then I got a transfer to an anti-aircraft unit, then radio school, then here. I asked for a transfer to a combat outfit right after Pearl Harbor, and it finally came through. Angry Smith is the best damn gunner in the company, so when we head over to France, I want him back in my crew.”

“Can’t blame you,” I said, glancing at my watch. “What time did you say you last saw Angry the night of the murder?”

“Around twenty-one hundred hours. I had a pass to go into town and saw him as I was driving out with two other guys from my crew.”

“He didn’t have a pass?”

“No. He had guard duty until twenty-two hundred hours, patrolling the vehicle park.”

Tree drove us through Hungerford again, over the canal and out past the pub where we’d met. In ten minutes we crossed a small bridge, this one spanning a marshy river, and found ourselves in the one-lane village of Chilton Foliat. Gently rolling hills of farmland and pasture rose up from the roadway and the river. The houses were made of the same brick as in Hungerford, as well as the dark, thick thatch for roofs. We passed a few shops and The Wheatsheaf, a small pub that seemed to be the center of things in this tiny village. Tree pulled over in front of a church, one of those typical English types, all grey stone and short steeple. He nodded in the direction of the graveyard.

“He was found in there,” Tree said. “The constable.”

“What was his name?” Kaz asked.

“I’ll show you,” Tree said. “Come on.” I thought Tree had misunderstood when Kaz asked for the name of the constable, unless he’d been buried in the same graveyard where he was found. We passed weathered gravestones covered in lichen, dates fading back centuries.

“His name was Thomas Eastman, and he was found right here,”
Tree said, pointing to a grave marker. It read Samuel Eastman, 1888-1937. Next to it was Samuel’s wife, Mary. The whole row was Eastmans, generations of them.

“Is this a joke?” I asked.

“Nope,” Tree said. “Police Constable Thomas Eastman was found right here, at the foot of his pappy’s grave. Head bashed in.”

“Why?” I said, and Tree shrugged. I wasn’t really asking him anyway. This was odd. Beyond odd. “Did Angry and Eastman know each other?”

“They had words, a couple of weeks back.”

“Tree, now’s the time to tell me everything. Did they fight?”

“No,” Tree said as Kaz wandered off to the edge of the cemetery. “Eastman told him to stay away from his sister.”

“He didn’t want a Negro walking out with her?”

“He did call him a damned darkie, but that wasn’t what it was about. His sister is married. Her husband came home wounded from Burma a few days ago. Eastman didn’t want Angry around her.”

“But he had been around her, right?”

“Yeah. The first word they got was that her husband had been killed. I got the impression he was a real bastard, and no one was shedding any tears. That’s when Angry began spending more time with her.”

“But then they find out he was only wounded, and is on his way home. Is that when Eastman and Angry had words?”

“Yeah. I think he was afraid for his sister if Malcolm found out. Malcolm Adams, he’s the husband.”

“Angry could’ve made it up here after he was off duty. I’ve seen how loose security is at your bivouac. Maybe he arranged to meet Constable Eastman here, to try and work things out. Maybe it didn’t go well. Eastman might have called him names, got him to live up to his reputation.”

“I don’t believe it,” Tree said, shaking his head. “Why here? Why would anyone meet at their family plot in a graveyard in the dead of night? It’s crazy.”

“It made sense to someone,” I said, looking back to the road. A
column of GIs in full packs trotted by, the insignia of the Hundred-and-First Airborne visible on their shoulders. “They from around here?”

“The Hundred-and-First is spread out in every direction. They have a Jump School here in Chilton Foliat and one of their regiments is headquartered about a mile down the road, at Littlecote House. Big mansion, where they got their brass bunked.”

The stomp of boots on pavement faded as the unit passed by. No shortage of combat-trained men around here. But who did Constable Eastman in, and why did they leave him on his father’s grave?

“What evidence did they have against Angry? Anyone see him with Eastman?”

“Sure they did. Eastman lived here but was on duty in Hungerford most days. MPs from the Criminal Investigations Division came nosing around the next morning, after Eastman’s body was found. We’d all come in late and not entirely sober, so none of us could say we’d seen Angry. I think someone must’ve tipped them off about the argument.”

“Malcolm Adams? Could he have done this and blamed it on Angry?”

“Maybe. But he was shot up pretty bad in the legs. Not sure he could’ve managed it. From what I hear, he prefers beating up on women.”

“What did Angry say when they came for him?”

“Said he’d been in camp all night, and hadn’t seen Eastman since they last had words.”

“Jesus, what a mess,” I said, as I heard Kaz call us from the stone wall near the woods.

“Look,” Kaz said. He pointed to a trail that came up to a gate in the wall. It was wide enough for a vehicle, barely. “Where does this lead?”

“I think that would take you to the Jump School,” Tree said. “There’s a lane up that hill that takes you to a horse farm where they have a parachute training school. I hear it’s for training medics, doctors, chaplains, and any other non-combat support personnel joining the Hundred-and-First.”

“So anyone could have brought a body in, unseen, and dumped it here,” Kaz said.

“Goddamn, you’re right,” Tree said. “Think CID looked at this?”

“I’ll find out,” I said. “It doesn’t get Angry off the hook, but it opens up a range of possibilities.”

“You’ll investigate, then?” Tree said. I saw the hope in his eyes, and I thought for a second that this might patch things up between us. But I didn’t know if I could.

“Tree, I’m on leave, remember? After today I have only four days left. I have to be at SHAEF in the morning, then I’m catching a train north for a few days of rest.”

“Billy has been in Italy,” Kaz said, leaving so much unsaid.

“So you won’t,” Tree said, and walked back toward the jeep.

“It’s not that,” I said, trying to convince myself as I followed him. “There’s a dozen things to do; talk to CID, talk to the local cops, talk to the girl, and then move on to whatever that brings up. I’m not even on duty, I won’t have any resources.”

“Okay, I get it,” Tree said. “You’re getting a promotion and then you’re going off with your girl. Can’t blame a man for that. What about when you get back?”

“I’ll make inquiries to CID before I leave. When I return, I’ll see what I can do. Unless we get an assignment.”

“What kind of assignments do you get?” Tree asked, obviously thinking his pal’s troubles should come first.

“Kaz and I are part of General Eisenhower’s Office of Special Investigations. We look into things for the general. Quietly.”

“You’re still a cop then. Still in the Boyle family business,” Tree said, as if that might be a curse. I couldn’t really blame him if he thought that. Which told me that Tree was damn certain Angry Smith wasn’t a murderer. He’d never ask me for a favor without being a hundred percent certain he was right. He was too damn proud to take a chance on being wrong.

“Yes, I am. And based on what you’ve told us, I know two things for certain.”

“What are they?” Tree said, starting up the jeep.

“That Angry Smith is innocent, and that you’re both damned lucky I am still a cop. Now if you don’t mind, we have a train to catch.”

CHAPTER FOUR

I
T WAS A quiet ride to the train station. My head was awash with memories and murder. I didn’t know if Tree and I were friends again, or if this was simply a truce so he could get his gunner back. I didn’t know if I wanted to be his friend again. Sometimes there’s no going back. We were both older now, old enough to understand that those years when we yearned to grow into adults and leave our youthfulness behind may have been the best years of our lives. The passage of time, and the war, had conspired to dull the sense of anticipation we had felt before everything fell apart. Tree today wasn’t the Tree I had known. I wasn’t the same guy he’d hung around with either.

“Thanks for coming, Billy,” Tree said as we stood on the station platform. “You too, Lieutenant Kazimierz.” He gave Kaz a snappy salute.

“It was good to meet you, Sergeant,” Kaz said, returning the salute and extending his hand. “We will do what we can.”