The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) Read Online Free PDF

what did it matter anyway? Not my business.
    Traffic was backed up with military vehicles in every direction. In a few minutes, we were idling on a residential street of neat red-brick semi-detached houses, flower boxes in spring bloom. A boy zipped by on his bicycle, his dark blue cap and leather pouchmarking him as a telegraph messenger. Lace curtains fluttered in his wake, closing in relief as he passed each residence, until he braked and stopped farther up the lane, racing up the steps and knocking at the door of a house where moments before a wife or mother had been sitting in blissful ignorance that a husband or son had been killed in Burma or Italy, over Germany or under the sea, in any of the terrible far-flung battles of this war. That was what a telegraph meant these days. Bad news, each and every one. The traffic moved, and we watched as the boy stood at the door, clutching the telegram, waiting to confront the face of grief.
    We drove out of town, past the red-brick Royal Naval College high up on the hills overlooking Dartmouth. The slopes were blindingly green in the sunlight, the River Dart flowed peacefully to the Channel on our right, and I was pretty sure I didn’t smell like death anymore. I banished thoughts of corpses and Tom Quick from my mind. It was like playing hooky, something I’d been pretty good at back in Boston.
    My mental vacation was interrupted by the blast of a jeep’s horn behind us. “It’s Colonel Harding,” Kaz said from the passenger seat. “Pull over.” We got out and approached the colonel’s jeep. Several staff cars and other jeeps passed us, Harding giving a friendly wave to the occupants. I tossed off a lazy salute and Kaz did the British equivalent, palm out, with a lot more élan. As always.
    “I’m glad I spotted you,” he said. “Saves me a trip. I telephoned Ashcroft House, but a fellow named Williams said you hadn’t arrived.”
    “What’s up, Colonel?” I asked.
    “We just finished a planning meeting at the Royal Naval College, preparing for upcoming maneuvers. I need you at Slapton Sands early tomorrow. The local police will be out in force, keeping people as far as possible from the exercise area, several miles out from the regular boundary.”
    “Why?” Kaz asked.
    “There’s going to be a live-fire exercise tomorrow morning, and we don’t want any civilian sightseers anywhere near the place. Plus, with senior brass thick on the ground, we want to have as muchsecurity in place as possible. A lot of them will be out on ships observing from the Channel, but others will want to watch on land. To complicate matters, in a few days there’s an even bigger exercise, codenamed Operation Tiger. All eyes are going to be on Slapton Sands, so I don’t want any screw-ups.”
    “What’s our job?” I asked.
    “I need you to be my eyes and ears while I’m offshore with Ike. I spoke to Inspector Grange of the Dartmouth police, and he has agreed to provide a liaison officer for you.”
    “We were just looking for him,” I said. “About the dead man who washed up at Slapton Sands.”
    “Grange was at the meeting,” Harding said, hooking his thumb in the direction of the Royal Naval College up on the hill. “Any news on the body?”
    “We met the constable who found the corpse. The general consensus is that it was likely a black-market deal gone bad. Colonel, if we’re going to work with a local cop, Tom Quick would be the fellow.”
    “He is the constable who found the body,” Kaz added. “He knows the area.”
    “Fine,” Harding said. “I’m headed back to Dartmouth, so I’ll see Grange and have Quick made available. Pick him up at police headquarters at zero five hundred.” I groaned at the early hour.
    “What are we looking for?” Kaz asked.
    “Whatever shouldn’t be there,” Harding said. “Your theory of a black-market killing makes sense, but I’m not taking any chances. Watch for anyone who shouldn’t be in the area. It’s a long