The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Gray Man's Grim Tidings, Part 1 of 3

Mickey Malloy is the go-to guy in the southeast for the utterly weird. When Doriane Tremblay stumbles across another odd pattern, it is up to her and Mickey to track down the source of her concerns. Her conclusions lead in only one direction: the Gray Man of Pawley’s Island, the legendary ghost that portends deadly storms, is real, and he works for the Reich.

This story is featured in the anthology Bourbon, Bullets, Broads, and Bourbon, which is now available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, or as a DRM-free ePub.

The Case of the Gray Man’s Grim Tidings follows close on the heels of The Case of the Rooksford Glen Horror. If this is your first Billy Club case, we recommend (but don’t require) checking out the Smiling Smuggler, the Candy-Coated Dynamite, the Holy City Head Hunter, and the Rooksford Glen Horror first.

Content Warnings: Mild Swearing, Alcohol Use

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, JULY 8, 1942
THE ISLAND ANGLERS' CLUB
RIVERSIDE, PAWLEY'S ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA

“I still don't understand why I was required to be here, Inspector Malloy,” Analyst First Class Doriane Tremblay whispered.

“Listen, the last time you found something hinky I got thrown in deep end,” Mickey Malloy grunted. He took a long sip of rye and settled his elbows on their table. He smacked his lips as he added: “I figured that you're so intent on finding trouble, you might be inclined to see it for yourself.”

“Inspector,” she objected, but he held up one finger to shush her.

“You got to know what happens after you type up those reports,” Mick said. “Clearly, your boss agreed with me.”

“Yes, sir,” Doriane said, almost a whisper. She eyed the restaurant around them warily. It looked welcoming enough, a sparsely populated fish-fry. Inside, it stank of hot oil, while outside it was ripe with old fish. Cats prowled the area, circling the waste bins like sharks. Shrieking gulls mirrored their patrols above. She had not expected her first visit to America to be spent in such a place, with potential Nazis filling the booths around her.

Mick watched her eyeball the place. Her hair was curly and honey-brown, and her eyes were hazel green, but the way she studied the room reminded him of someone. Maybe it was the freckles.

“Stop looking around like that, you look suspicious,” Mick said. He couldn't help but smile.

“I am suspicious,” Doriane hissed.

“Tell me why we're here,” Mick said. He dug a fork into his fillet, breaking it apart. Steam rose from flakey white meat. It smelled much more appetizing than it looked. She could smell red and black pepper, perhaps even garlic, in the cornmeal breading. She hadn't had garlic since war rationing had begun. Mick could see that look in her eye. “Changed your mind? I'll order you one after you finish talking.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. It only took a second to organize her thoughts. “Last month, on June the eighth, we intercepted a transmission and reply that we were able to triangulate to this island. The transmissions contained no discernible words or numbers, just one different tone each. A natural E, with a B flat in response. I dug into the past months' archives and found similar instances occurring in May and April, as well.”

“What was it?”

“We're not sure who made either the initial transmission or response,” Doriane said. “But I reached out to Cataloguer Beasley, and she - !”

“I've been hearing her name too much, too,” Mick snorted. “I'm going to have to drag her out on one of these next.”

“Yes, sir. She thinks a series of Axis weapons captured from Silver Legion and Tridente Cremisi groups correlate to the April and May intercepts,” Doriane reported. “Over the last few months, caches of brand-new German and Italian arms have been discovered by officials all over the country, as far west as Chicago. When the reports were fed into ADA, it was determined that the dates and locations of discovery could correlate to transit times from this island.”

“I'm following you so far,” Mick said as he speared an especially juicy chunk of fish. He stuffed it in my trap then asked around the mouthful: “Cremisi, that's the Italian ones?”

“Yes, sir,” Doriane replied, ignoring his manners. “We believe most of the original Silver Legion cells were founded and funded by the Abwehr, and that the Tridente Cremisi is a sister organization under the direction of the SIM.”

“Too many acronyms,” Mick muttered. Whoever was funding these jokers, they were getting what they paid for. These little knots of fascists, nationalists, and racists were cropping up everywhere. A homegrown terrorist army sprouting like mushrooms in the night.

“It stands for Servizio Informazioni Militare, Reparto de Guerra Metodico, sir. The Military Information Service, Methodical Warfare Detachment,” Doriane chirped.

“I get it, another Department Three, another Office,” Mick said.

“I hardly think the Office can compare to - !”

“You know what I mean. Secret clubs doing spooky shit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So tell me the spooky shit,” Mick said. “What's special about this place? There's a hundred little beaches and bays up and down the coast.”

“Beasley ran ADA's date and location analysis for this island and found two more interesting correlations. The first is that within forty-eight hours days of each paired transmission, severe, violent thunderstorms struck the island with no warning from meteorologists. Gale-force winds and centimeters of rain on par with a hurricane.”

“How did we not hear about three damn hurricanes?” Mick wondered. He was from hurricane country. It wasn't exactly something you could ignore.

“The storms appear to have been extremely localized, only affecting this island. The one analyst at Zoo Base who had time to look said they didn't seem natural, but had no explanation to offer.”

“Jesus, so it might be some kind of weapon? How many people were hurt?”

“There were no casualties, because, during each instance, the island had been voluntarily evacuated,” Doriane answered.

“You said there was no warning,” Mick pointed out.

“No warning from meteorologists,” Doriane said. “The second correlation ADA dug up was via regional newspapers. Reports about sightings of a local apparition.”

“An apparition? What, a ghost?” Mick said.

“Did you read my report?” Doriane asked.

“Didn't have time, so I brought you instead,” Mick replied. He shoveled more fish into his mouth, but he kept his eyes on her. He was huge, bigger even than the printmaster's bodyguard, Trip, and he ate like a hungry dog. Despite his gruffness, he was interested in what she had to say and took it at face value. She enjoyed that others had started to see her as a reliable resource since she had broken the Calhoun-Grace incident.

“According to Doctor Ogden - !” she started, but Mickey cut her off.

“That's the fairytale lady, isn't it?” he said around a mouthful.

“Yes, sir, Doctor Ogden is a consultant folklorist,” she replied.

“Stop with the 'sir' thing, Tremblay, we're eating fried fish and mashed lima beans here,” Mick said. “Tell me about your apparition.”

“Doctor Ogden's report indicates that a spectral figure is known to appear to residents of the island as a warning that a dangerous storm is imminent.”

“Some ghoul just shows up and tells people it's going to rain, and they pack up and go?” Mick asked.

“It appears so. The Gray Man has been observed here before major storms since at least 1822. When his warnings are taken seriously, the people here suffer little damage and no loss of life. Ignoring him has proven disastrous.”

“That is absurd,” Mick huffed. He had no time for ghosts haunting folks out here in the world, there were already enough of them doing that behind his eyelids.

“Agreed, but each report, dating back even to the first sighting one-hundred-twenty-one years ago, is identical. A semi-transparent figure, dressed all in gray, offering warnings. Most observers do not realize who they are talking to until they see right through him, then he is gone in the mist.”

“'The Gray Man?'” Mick snorted, a little too loudly. Several heads popped up in booths around them like concerned prairie dogs. He looked around warily and lowered his voice: “Okay, so this might be a real thing.”

“It is given great deference locally,” Doriane said.

“So what's your timeline here?” Mick asked. “Two parties send confirmation transmissions, indicating that the op is on. Then the next day the Gray Man runs off anyone around. The day after that, this storm crops up. When it dies down, everything returns to normal and in a couple weeks some Silver Legionnaire in Ohio winds up with a machine gun.”

“That is about it,” Doriane said. “We recorded another pair of tonal transmissions yesterday.”

“So that's what the rush was all about,” Mick said. He took another bite of fish. Its batter was perfectly crisped. He couldn't help but smile.

The aroma of Mick's simple but inviting meal wafted across the narrow table, eliciting a feral growl from Doriane's stomach. She grimaced, embarrassed to be making gastric sounds in front of a legend of the Office. Mick knew the look. These young officials were always so damn awkward around him.

“Okay, partner, so what are we thinking, U-boat?”

“That is the logical conclusion,” she said quickly, loud enough to cover up her gurgling belly.

“U-boats are no problem, I got a U-boat guy. So these... we're definitely thinking krauts?” he paused, she nodded, he continued: “These krauts wait below the surface 'til the island is evacuated, start up a little weather, then unload weapons galore on the beach?”

“Yes,” she peeped. Another waft of perfectly-fried fish, and garlic, whispered across her nostrils, setting off another round of snarls from her stomach.

“Well hell, you can't go ghost hunting with an empty tummy, kiddo,” Mick said. He waved down a waiter. Doriane sat mortified, red as a beet. Mick grinned; he loved ribbing these kids, they were always so serious.

“She needs one of these,” he said, pointing at his near-cleaned plate. He rattled the ice cubes in his empty tumbler like a dinner bell, adding: “And I'll take another one of those.”

THURSDAY AFTERNOON, JULY 6, 1916
THE BACKLINE OVERLOOKING THE TRÔNES WOOD
MONTAUBAN RIDGE, THE SOMME, FRANCE

“How old are you, private?” the lieutenant asked, looking Harold Queen up and down over his glasses with a critical eye.

“Nineteen, sir,” Queen lied. He'd said it enough that he was comfortable with it. Heck, between sneaking out of Uncle Dwayne's house, borrowing some cash, getting himself to New York, traveling overseas, bluffing his way into the army, and getting to go to war, he almost believed he'd earned those extra three years. A journey like that was enough to turn any boy into a grown man.

“Indeed,” was all the lieutenant had to say. He handed Queen's transfer papers back to him. “Sergeant Hayes!”

A stout man with a fresh shave and a shorn scalp ambled over. He was clean, a distinction only made obvious by the filthiness of his uniform. Yes, the fabric had been washed, but the black stains from what had to be mud remained to tarnish it.

“Leftenant,” Sergeant Hayes said.

“Private Queen has rotated into our unit. Since you already have an American, I should think your squad would be the most accommodating,” the lieutenant said.

“Yes, sir,” Hayes replied. “Come along then, lad. Sir.”

Queen saluted as sharply as he could, but the lieutenant wandered away, flipping through a stack of papers as he walked. After a moment, Queen lowered his hand to find Hayes already on the move. Queen snatched up his things and dashed to catch up.

“This your first rotation then, yeah?” the sergeant asked.

“Yes, sergeant,” Queen replied. He'd barely been in France a week and all he'd seen was the inside of horrendously smelly sleeper cars and the beds of back-firing trucks. He had no idea what his mother found so enchanting about the place. Now that he was finally on solid, stationary ground, he still had yet to be convinced. There were only trenches and trash, for as far as he could see. There were two endless columns of soldiers trudging past: clean ones going to the front, and men leaving that were so filthy it looked like they'd been buried for a month. Neither acknowledged the other.

“Keep your head down, unless it's me or the lieutenant telling you to put it up,” Hayes said. “When I say jump, you say...”

“How high?” Queen offered.

“No, you don't say a bloody thing because you're already in the air.”

Hayes was leading them down a side road, toward a group of soldiers lounging in the distance. The men all appeared to be in various states of undress and were crowded around a small wooden stall.

“Every man still in this squad has survived the front for weeks, if not months. They've stayed alive, I've no idea how. So, you do what they do, you'll stay alive, clear?”

“Yes, sergeant,” Queen said.

“Do you know how to use that rifle?”

“I do,” Queen said, beaming. He'd been the captain of the rifle team before he'd left for Europe. He could ping a nickel at thirty yards. “In fact, I - !”

“Good,” Hayes snapped, uninterested in Queen's extracurriculars. “Keep it clean and keep it close. And keep your bayonet sharp. Do not use it as a stake or a can opener. If I see an improperly used bayonet, I take it. You'll miss it when it is gone, trust that, private.”

“Yes, sergeant,” Queen said. The SMLE rifle was heavier than the .22-caliber target rifle he was used to. He shifted the heavy piece of equipment where its strap was digging into his shoulder. He had been stewing for weeks. First on the steamer over, then in training, then on another crawling series of boats, trains, and trucks. He was eager to see what he had come to see. “Where are the Germans?”

The sergeant didn't look back at him.

“Private, you'd best hope you never see one of them, and they never see you, do you understand me?”

“No, what I mean is - !”

“The only time you should see Fritz is down the sights of that rifle, and there's a good chance someone else will be looking at you down their's. Are you ready for that?”

“Yes, I can shoot, and what I mean to say is that, I can do it.”

“Whether you are or not, I haven't seen a kraut in three weeks and I'm glad for it,” Hayes told him. “We made it through our last rotation without an enemy charge, a direct artillery hit, or a gassing.”

“I thought I was a replacement,” Queen said.

“Oh, we've had our share of trench foot. And Private Williams got bit by a rabid rat,” Sergeant Hayes said. “We even had a man finish his term. Here are the boys now.”

The men waiting around the stall nodded at Hayes. They had all stripped down to their britches and were waiting to use the single shower. Wet ones were leaving, dry ones entering. A thin man with a narrow mustache had a large set of shears and was trimming other soldiers' hair down to the scalp to match the sergeant. They all had the look of old chums who'd been caught in the middle of an inside joke. Mostly they stared at Queen. He suddenly felt small.

Outside the tight-knit group of tommies waiting to shower, Queen spotted another man, an oaf if he'd ever seen one. This gorilla sat apart from the rest, a true galoot who looked like he could eat a leatherhead for breakfast and a prize fighter for lunch. He kept running his mitt across his freshly-trimmed pate as if he expected to find something different with each inspection.

“Boys, this is Private... ahem, what was it?”

“Queen, sergeant. Harold Queen,” Queen said. His voice sounded like a squeaking mouse.

“Private Queen,” Hayes said.

“Your grace,” someone in the group said, eliciting snickers all around.

“He knows how to shoot, you lot just show him how we do things,” Hayes said. “How many more you got to go, Millie?”

“Just Gord and Polt,” the man with the shears said.

“You need a trim, Queen?” Hayes asked. Queen looked around at the men who'd just gotten the treatment. Shorn to their pink scalps, one and all. He shook his head. The sergeant shrugged. “You'll change your mind when the lice get in that mop. Suit yourself.”

“Lice?” Queen whispered.

Hayes called out to the muttering platoon:

“Boys, leftenant says we’re moving up in three hours. Finish washing, gather your things.”

“Where to, sarge?” someone asked.

“Back home, boys, to Inchworm,” Hayes answered. The entire squad groaned in unison and began grousing.

“What a heap.”

“We did our time.”

“We just got out of there.”

“Fritz is hitting there next, we all know it.”

“Oy, command didn't ask for your opinions, boys, they asked for your rifles,” Hayes yelled over them. The grumbling dissipated after that.

“Three hours, boys,” Hayes reminded them.

The squad burst into activity, running in every direction. Two and three men crowded under the shower head, suddenly more intent on being clean than being bashful. Those already dressed crowded around an ammunition carrier and began taking rifle clips by the handful.

“Uh, sergeant?” Queen called out. Hayes was distracted by the hubbub. He cleared his throat and tried again, louder: “Sergeant Hayes?”

“What is it?” Hayes demanded. He stared at Queen for a moment like he’d never seen him before. “Oh, right. You.”

“What should I be doing?” Queen asked.

“You should be inventorying your pack and getting ready to move. You can get rid of half of that stuff they send you with, you want my two pence.”

“What items are those?” Queen wondered.

“I don't have bloody time for this,” Hayes grumbled. He looked around the milling soldiers, then shouted: “Malloy! On me, on the double.”

On the other side of the clearing, the gigantic lout stood up. He was even taller and broader than Queen had thought. He was a steam trawler made out of brick. The giant lumbered past the other soldiers, rifle and pack slung across his back. He had a Neanderthal brow and a neck as thick as a tree trunk.

“Oy, Queen, listen to me,” Hayes said. “I can't be your nursemaid out there, you understand?”

Queen nodded, but his eyes were on Malloy. The tommies parted as he passed through them.

“This lad, he's been here a few weeks now, and not a scratch on him,” Hayes whispered. “You stick by him, listen to what he says, you'll make it through this shite in one piece. You hear me?”

Queen stood frozen. Malloy towered over him, a slab of frowning muscle.

“Malloy, thank you for joining us,” Hayes said. “I got you something.”

“I'm not on rat-catching duty 'til Tuesday, sergeant,” Malloy grunted. His voice rumbled like summer thunder. He was American.

“This here is Private Queen,” Hayes said, clapping Queen so hard on the back that he almost stumbled into Malloy's arms. The big man huffed through flared nostrils. “I'm going to need you to keep an eye on this one. Can you do that?”

Malloy looked Queen up and down. After a moment, he huffed like a rhinoceros:

“This is just a kid.”

“Don't call me that, you gorilla,” Queen snapped, which made Malloy chuckle. He spoke over top of Queen's head:

“Can't make any promises about his condition, sarge, but I won't let him out of my sight.”

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Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Tyrelle Smith.