Message For Hitler Page 7

  I was done for.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” said Daphne.

  Geraldine, Blanche, Beetle, and Alice were all there too. Alice had her arm around Fräu Sheffield, who was wiping tears from her eyes.

  “He gave me such a fright,” she said. “He really did.”

  “Nothing to worry about, Lady Sheffield. He’s harmless—usually,” said Daphne in my defense. She turned and gave me the evil eye.

  “You’re a little thief,” said Alice, almost spitting. “Caught in the act again.”

  “Did I miss the first act?” asked Geraldine.

  Fräu Sheffield grabbed me by the arm. She reached down into my trouser pocket, retrieving the paperback. Shaking her head, she said, “The Man in the Queue. And I wasn’t half through reading it.”

  “Thomas,” said Daphne, sighing. “There’s a well-stocked library at Warfield Hall.”

  When you’re caught red handed, there’s only one course to take. I took it. “I apologize, Fräu Sheffield, with all my heart and soul. I’m addicted to reading, you see. Have mercy on me, a sinner. I’m begging you.” I got on one knee—like I was proposing to the woman. Daphne swiped my head before pulling me to my feet.

  “He’s my fiancés little brother,” she said. “Perhaps we might work out a deal.”

  “What sort of deal?” said Fräu Sheffield.

  “Might I suggest chores in exchange for jail time?” said Daphne. I started to answer back but Daphne gave me a look that said, Don’t you dare open your trap.

  “Well, I could use help with the garden,” said Fräu Sheffield. She spoke with a perfect upper crust British accent, but she didn’t fool me. My finely tuned hearing could detect German undertones—when she said garden, she hit the G too hard. Like when she said, “The ga—ardener has been called up, and I do so want to trim back the shrubs and rose bushes.” She stopped to think up more chores. “And pick up leaves and dead ga—rass,” she said.

  As much as I hated chores, all and all, I couldn’t of asked for a better turnout. I’d have one eye on the shears and the other on Fräu Sheffield. I said: “Please, ma’am. I love yard work—and, and—I was hoping to find out how the book ended. I stupidly left my copy back in Southampton.”

  “Then tomorrow after church you’ll start work,” said Fräu Sheffield. “And because I’m such a good sport, you may borrow the paperback in the meantime.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BACK IN THE MAIN HOUSE, we sat around the kitchen table dunking digestive biscuits in tea. A digestive biscuit is a fancy way to say vanilla cookie. Alice said she had a splitting headache and went up to bed without one.

  “Please let me sleep on your couch,” I begged.

  “Don’t tell me the Nazis have taken over Jack’s mess,” said Daphne. “Don’t even start.” She was wearing a frilly bathrobe, borrowed no doubt.

  “Ghosts,” I said. “The place is haunted.”

  “Really?” asked Blanche, eyes wide open, “how very exciting.”

  “You’re making this up,” said Daphne, on to me. There was practically no one in the world who knew me better. It was getting harder and harder to fool her. If I even veered toward a little white lie, a slight exaggeration or elaboration, she caught it. I winked—to let her know I knew she knew I was making this story up—but she looked at her engagement ring just then and yawned with her eyes closed tight.

  “It’s the ghost of a dead pilot,” I said.

  I could hear the mantle clock ticking, it was that quiet. I’d hit too close to home. One of Jack’s friends had been killed in action a month before. The base had already lost 16 men and the year wasn’t even out. “Pilots of the Boar War,” I said, before they got weepy.

  I’d heard something about Churchill fighting African boars when he was a wet-behind-the-ears soldier. The Boar War was one of them wars we never learned about in America, same as how English kids didn’t study the Mexican-American War or the Civil War. I tried to change the subject: “Back in New York we got a brand of cold cuts named Boar’s Head—the label’s got an ugly-as-get-out pig on it.”

  Someone started laughing and everyone joined in.

  “It’s the Boer War. Not the Boar War,” said Geraldine. “Boars are wild pigs, of a sort. Boers were Dutch Afrikaners.”

  “Was the ghost awfully handsome?” asked Blanche. “Dutch or English?”

  “The Boer War?” asked Daphne, raising an eyebrow. “And he came all the way to England from South Africa to haunt the Eagle Squadron officer’s mess? Fascinating.”

  “It’s quite possible that he was Dutch and wanted revenge,” said Blanche, shaking a bit. “Was he very tall? Dutchmen often are.”

  “My grandfather fought in the Boer War,” said Daphne. “It began in 1880 and ended in 1902. And if I’m not mistaken, there wasn’t a single airplane used in that war. Really, Thomas, you’ll have to do better than that.”

  I laughed extra hard, like it was a joke all along. But I needed to find another excuse for sleeping over or they’d kick me out. “It’s too quiet over at the officer’s mess, what with most of the pilots out. Besides,” I said, “you know how it is—those pilots take off their flight boots and boy, oh boy.” I squeezed my nostrils. “Get’s so a fella can’t sleep. But it smells just fine here. Like a bouquet of pansies.”

  That buttered them up good and had them pulling extra blankets out of the linen closet and putting clean sheets on the couch in the main parlor. Geraldine fluffed up a pillow and threw it at me, along with a kiss. Daphne tucked me in and turned the light off as she left the room.

  “Any word from Jack?” I called after her.

  “Nothing,” she said, biting her lower lip. “I’m sure he’ll turn up in the morning.”

  I tried to think what could be holding my brother up. It didn’t make sense. Jack loved to fly. He wouldn’t waste time getting back. On top of that, he knew that Daphne and me were waiting for him at the base, and he was crazy about the both of us. If only I can get my hands on a set of car keys, I thought. I might head up to Garsington while it was still too dark for a cop to spot me behind the wheel. Getting off the couch, I pulled back the blackout curtain and took a look at the driveway. My wish was answered instantly. Just then, a military jeep came driving up the circular driveway, stopping in front of the door.

  A man in an RAF issue jumpsuit was in the driver’s seat. On his sleeve was the insignia of a sergeant. He opened the passenger door for a WAAF. Even after he helped her out of the car, he kept hold of her hand. He spun the WAAF around, so that her back was against the tailgate, kissing her in a way that had me squirming.

  They drifted to the front door, his mouth chewing on her ear the whole time. The lovebirds stopped inches from the window I was standing behind. That’s when I seen it was Wilson—the aviation mechanic assigned to Jack’s squadron. His jumpsuit was covered in grease, meaning he was a fitter. They’re the ones who work on the engines. A rigger, on the other hand, patches a bullet-ridden plane.

  A key turned in the lock and I jumped behind the couch.

  “I can’t let you in, Henry,” said the WAAF.

  “Just for a minute, Dot,” said Wilson. “Give a chap a drink, would you?”

  “All right, darling, but we’ll have to be quiet. Take your boots off.” She was whispering, but I heard every word.

  Wilson sat on the couch, not noticing that it was made up like a bed. He was putting grease all over the clean sheets. The room was still dark, no one had turned on a light. I heard the clinking of crystal glasses.

  Dot sat on the couch next to Wilson and began a sniffly kind of cry. “I can’t bare it much longer,” she said.

  “Then you needn’t,” said Wilson.

  “All this sneaking around behind people’s backs—having to look people right in the eye and tell bald lies. I’m telling you, Henry, it’s doing me in. It can’t go on—I swear, I’ll have a breakdown.”

  “Then we finish this business once and for all, Dot. You know that I�
�m ready at the drop of a hat. I’m only waiting until you are absolutely certain. Because once the deed is done, there will be no turning back. And I can’t have you regretting the decision later—blaming me. Growing to hate me in the process.”

  Dot sucked in air and then blew it out like a hurricane. After that, they were so quiet I worried they’d nodded off. But before long, there was the sound of ice being swished around an empty glass. Liquored up, Wilson had a temper:

  “What does it matter if your family disowns you?”

  “Henry, please.”

  “You say they’ll no longer welcome you and that you’ll be the scourge of polite society. Well, good riddance to the lot of them is what I say.”

  “I’ll have to leave the country,” said Dot, whimpering.

  “There’s always Australia. We can get ourselves a nice little ranch. A few herd of cattle.” He shifted his weight and the couch springs creaked.

  “Tasmania shan’t be far enough,” said Dot with a sigh. “And could you see me as a cowgirl?”

  I’d only gotten a glimpse of Dot, and that in the dark. But I’d been through her drawers and, in my opinion, she wasn’t cut out to be a cowgirl. Maybe a socialite, like Lady Sop. Or a cigarette girl in a fancy night club. She might get a job at one of them chichi Bond Street stores, selling cuff-links to royalty. But they weren’t asking for my opinion, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “Whatever comes, it will be worth it all,” said Wilson. “I can promise you that. And I don’t think we have a choice.”

  I wanted to interrupt and suggest they go to India. In India they had princesses living in swank buildings like the Taj Mahal. I’d seen a Kodachrome View-Master slide of the place. Dot would fit in great there. They probably wore silk underwear, too.

  “I need a little time, Henry,” she said. “I know that I’ve been a complete coward up until now, and I hope you can forgive me. I ought to be braver. You know how I feel, you know the passion I—” They were moving around on the couch, rearranging themselves in what I suspected was a horizontal position.

  “Stop, darling,” said Dot, jumping from the couch so that the springs whined. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go now.”

  “I get it,” said Wilson, his fuse getting shorter by the second. “Stop, go, stop, go, STOP!” He changed moods and laughed it off. It reminded me of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. They walked back to the front door, me peeking over the couch. Dot kissed Henry Wilson one last time before he left, then locked the door behind him. She came back into the parlor, poured herself another drink and sat back on the couch. That’s when she had the breakdown she was so worried about earlier. Meanwhile, I was stuck sleeping on the hardwood floor.

  Besides that, Henry had driven off with the jeep.

  By and by, Dot rose from the couch and went upstairs. I was wide-awake and thinking hard about her and Wilson. Didn’t somebody say she was dating one of the Millionaire pilots from Squadron 601? What was she doing getting all smoochy with a fitter? Two-timing, was my guess. Now that the squadron was stationed in Malta, she figured she could get away with it.

  She and Wilson had something they were hiding—even from Dot’s family. When it came out, they were going to have to leg it to Tasmania, go undercover as ranchers. It was on account of being sleepy that it took me so long to put it together: What if they’re German spies? I thought. I remembered the letter I’d taken from Dot’s underwear drawer, crumpled in my front pocket. But I couldn’t take the chance of getting caught red-handed with it. At any minute one of the WAAFs might come downstairs for a glass of water or a mid-night snack. Whenever my sister Mary claimed to be on a weight-reduction diet, she’d make raids on the kitchen when everyone was asleep. “The evidence is hanging on your waist,” I’d say, when she blamed me for the missing pies.

  I found a flashlight hanging from a nail in the kitchen. They call it a torch in England, like it would burn you or something. A narrow door led to a basement. I’d be able to read the letter in peace down there. No one had been down them stairs in a long while. I walked smack into a wall of spider webs soon as I opened the door. Looking around the kitchen, I spotted a broom, which I used to blaze a path. The door slammed behind me, but not loud enough to wake anybody. The steps were made of stones and turned my feet to ice. The flashlight beam fell on junk furniture: broken chairs, a sofa without cushions, a table with three legs, a grandfather clock without hands. A giant chest sat in the corner, a pile of old moldy quilts on top of it.

  I needed to take a look inside the chest, before anything. The old padlock was so rusty it fell to pieces the second I laid hands on it. Inside the chest were worm eaten ledger books, green with mold. Each book was engraved with a year. From what I could tell, they all dated back to the time of Queen Victoria. She was the one who took the Koh-Noor diamond from India. There could be a clue leading to another diamond in the ledgers. But it turned out that they were for a hotel called the Inn at Branch Fork. All sorts of people had registered to stay back between 1824 and 1912.

  I turned my mind back to Dot’s letter. It was one of them letters that turn into an envelope when you fold and paste the sides shut. The paper was thin and blue, printed with a faint cartoon of an airplane. Written on the front was ARMED FORCES AIR LETTER and than Air Mail. The stamp was the current King George, of course. The post-mark was Egypt, not Malta. I was getting more excited by the minute. Another hand-stamp showed that the letter had passed through a censor, with the censor’s personalized number written under. If anyone let a German coded letter through by mistake, the right head would roll. The handwriting was in blue fountain ink. Some of the letters were rubbed off—like maybe it got caught in a sandstorm.

  The opening, which should’ve said Dear Dot, instead said: To my own Nefertiti. No one but a budding Egyptologist would have gotten the reference. Holy mackerel, did this fella know how to write a love letter! Nefertiti was the wife of Ramses II, famous for her swan neck. Dot had a long neck too, come to think of it. I tried to remember where I’d seen a picture of Nefertiti, in a magazine probably. I racked my brain for the details: might have been National Geographic, on the side-table at the dentist in East Hempstead, right before I had ten cavities filled—not an experience I was likely to forget. In the magazine article they showed a statue of Nefertiti. And under the photo was a caption saying where that statue was located. Suddenly it came to me:

  Berlin!

  I scan through line after line of mushy love-talk, until my eye caught the name of the letter-writer: Chas. Which stood for Charles. This Chas fella sure was keen on Dot, that much was clear. He couldn’t wait to get hitched, wished they’d done it before he’d gone off to XXXXXXXX. (A black censor’s mark covered the word.)

  I scanned down to where the letter picked up. He’d written something cryptic about a tomb he and his friends were exploring, excited about a line of hieroglyphs they were hoping to decode. Then right there on the page were the symbols—amazing that it got past the censor—because chances were, it was a Nazi message:

  A falcon, an eye, and waves of water.

  I knew that a falcon was part of the Nazi party symbol. Didn’t I just see that very symbol on Yonkers’ lighter? The eye could mean, keep an eye out, and the water symbol might be letting a Nazi secret agent, disguised as a WAAF, know that the Germans were coming by sea.

  The naval base! I swallowed hard.

  The letter was mailed just before the Germans attacked Southend. From what my brother told me, two Messerschmitts showed up in broad daylight, dropping bombs and doing serious damage to the downtown shopping strip. Jack and his friends chased them away, but not in time to save the jewelry store. Why I didn’t think of this earlier is anyone’s guess, but now I had an interesting thought: Maybe they were aiming for the jewelry shop all along!

  I heard on the radio that the Germans were running out of money. They were making airplane petrol out of potatoes, that’s how hard up they were. What better way to fund the Nazi war machine than bomb Britis
h jewelry shops, and then have secret agents ready to run in and grab the loot? I remembered the dozy of a diamond ring on Fräu Sheffield’s finger. It could be that she and Dot were in cahoots, just waiting for an opportunity to sneak the diamonds out of the country. In the morning, I decided, I’d go scout out the wreckage, see if I could find clues. If not, maybe find leftover jewelry—a little trinket the Nazis overlooked.

  I crept up the cellar stairs and back to the sofa. I was dead tired, so I stuffed some tissue into my ears. That way the ladies wouldn’t wake me when they all got up for church in the morning. All but Alice, that is.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MI5 Headquarters,

  Wormwood Scrubs, East London

  THERE IS A KNOCK on the door, three quick taps. “Good morning, sir,” says Agent Ellis. “Thought I’d pop around and bring you up to date on the latest citizen report.”

  “What now?” says Brigadier A.W.A. Harker—Deputy Director General of MI5—adding a “harrumph.”

  “We’ve gotten a report from a woman out in Dover, sir.” Ellis opens a manila folder and flips two pages, finding the one he wants. “Yes, here it is. A Mrs. Charles Sanders, widow, age 62, seamstress. Says that she’s an insomniac. Only thing for it is to take a stroll in the middle of the night.” He glances over the rim of his reading glasses, not surprised to see a look of impatience on Harker’s face. He buries his head in the folder. “Yes, well—Mrs. Charles Sanders claims to have seen a fishing boat returning to the pier at all sorts of odd hours, during the curfew…always with the lights shut off in the cabin.”

  Harker slaps his desk.

  Even from his vantage point at the door, Ellis sees that the man’s left eye is twitching.

  “That again?” says Harker. “Does she not realize how difficult it is for fishermen ever since this bloody war began? I know there’s no excuse for breaking the curfew, but, that said. As any sport-fisherman will tell you, the best catch is had in the hours before sunrise. How are we to keep food on our tables, I ask you?” Harker waves a hand dismissively. “Impound the boat, if you must.”