Message For Hitler

by Cate M. Ruane

  “Might I have the key, Constable, so that this child might be loosed?” said Lady Sop.

  Sullivan went through his pockets coming up empty. He moved things around on his desk, looking under the ledger, then bending down and searching the floor. “I’m afraid, ma’am, the key has gone AWOL.”

  “We can pick the lock with one of your hairpins,” I told Lady Sop.

  “Quite right, Tommy. You are full of ingenious ideas.” She removed a hairpin from her bun and handed it to me. “I feel confident you are more skilled in this craft than I. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try a hatpin.” I eyed the hat pin stuck near a yellow feather—topped with a fat diamond with two little rubies on either side. Before I could ask for it, the glass door swung open.

  And there stood Daphne. No introductions were necessary—she and Jack had once spent a weekend at Warfield Hall, the Sopwith place.

  “My dear,” said Lady Sop, kissing her cheek. “You look a fright. Please have a seat.” Lady Sop rushed to an empty chair, took a hankie from her pocketbook and wiped the seat. She made Daphne sit down.

  “I got here on the first train out of Southend-on-Sea,” said Daphne. She was breathing hard, like she’d run the whole way. “Thank you so much for coming to his rescue, your ladyship. When I called Warfield Hall last night, hoping that Thomas had returned home, I was told that you were in London at your sister’s. Mr. O’Reilly was good enough to give me the telephone number.”

  “No trouble at all,” said Lady Sop. “We were having a rather uneventful evening, sitting before the fireplace with dreadfully dull books, nothing whatsoever on the wireless. This certainly livened things up nicely.” She clapped her hands gleefully.

  “You are too good,” said Daphne.

  “Now that’s done, let’s not keep Duncan waiting,” said Lord Sopwith, recapping his pen. “I insist that we drop you home, Daphne. You look unwell, my dear. East End, is it?” He said the destination with some trepidation. They’d come in the Rolls and the East End was the equivalent of the Bowery, no place for a luxury car. The car had a 6½ liter engine—there was still a chance of getting to Dover before Fritz.

  Lord Sopwith, being the gentleman he is, opened the door for the ladies. When he seen I was still sitting in the chair, he said, “Come along now, boy.”

  I rattled the chains, so to speak, and he got my drift. I said, “Daphne, mind picking this lock? You promised to teach me.”

  “Watch carefully, then,” said Daphne. Everyone crowded in, as she took a hairpin from her Victory roll hairdo. First she blew on the tip, warming it no doubt. I was counting the seconds, waiting for the sound of freedom: six seconds flat—that’s how long it took her.

  “Well, I never,” said Sullivan. “Who would have guessed a nice young lady like yourself?”

  Lord Sopwith held my elbow as we made our way to the car. On route, we passed a bun shop. The aroma made me dizzy again. “Sir,” I said, “My ribs are starting to stick out. I haven’t had anything but chewing gum since breakfast. Please—may I have a cinnamon bun?”

  “Good God. You sound like Oliver Twist,” he said, reaching for his wallet. Raising his voice, he called after his wife, who was walking ahead of us, arm and arm with Daphne. “Phyl,” he said, “we must feed our young charge here.”

  “Oh, we mustn’t,” said Lady Sop, looking at the bun shop with utter contempt. She glanced at her diamond encrusted platinum wristwatch. “What do you know? It’s tea-time! But really dear, we mustn’t eat refreshment room food. Not when the Savoy is right up the street.”

  “You make an excellent point, what? The Savoy it is!” Lord Sopwith raced over to the Rolls, jumping in the front. He didn’t even give Duncan time to open the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THINGS WERE SPINNING out of control. I saw it all: us sitting in gilded chairs sipping Earl Grey tea from gold-rimmed cups, while Fritz rowed his way to Calais, a spanking new Messerschmitt waiting for him. But I was rough-housed into the waiting Rolls by Daphne, stuck in the back seat between her and Lady Sop.

  “The Savoy, Duncan,” said Lord Sopwith, sliding the partition window shut.

  “They do an excellent job with finger food,” said Lady Sop. “Really—first rate.”

  Nigel Duncan moved the car from the curb, gliding along the Strand toward the Savoy Hotel. I had about one minute to talk them into changing direction. Honest to God, I was starving. But duty called. “You’ve got to listen to me!” I begged. “There’s a Luftwaffe pilot making his way to Dover with the help of a Nazi secret agent dressed as an RAF navigator. And I’m the only living human being who can identify them. We shouldn’t be eating crumpets at a time like this!”

  Lord Sopwith slid open the glass window that divided our sections. I started to repeat myself. “I’m telling you—”

  “I heard every word you said, Tommy. Now you can take it down an octave or two.” He turned his head toward Daphne. “What do you make of this outburst? Is there even a germ of truth in what the boy is saying?”

  “I’m afraid, my lord, that there might just be,” said Daphne. “You see, it’s true that a Luftwaffe pilot was shot down—by my Jack, I’m proud to say—and that he’s on the run. Jack and the whole base are out searching for him as we speak. And there was evidence found”—she bit her lip—“evidence pointing to the possibility that Tommy had been in the vicinity of the pilot. You see we found—”

  “A marble, a photograph of my ma and da, a one-leafed clover and a postcard from the Empire State Building. Near a Luftwaffe pilot’s jacket. I threw everything from my pocket when he kidnapped me and Beatrix at gun point.”

  “Beatrix? Beatrix?” asked Lady Sop with wide eyes. “You don’t mean little Princess Beatrix of the Netherlands? I thought the family was safely in Canada?”

  Daphne explained that Beatrix was a nurse who had gone missing from the base. “And then there’s the Polish pilot who was shot and found near the—”

  “Postcard!” I said.

  “And this Beatrix? Tell me she wasn’t gunned down as well,” said Lady Sop.

  “I bet she’s still holding onto the pharaoh’s toe,” I said. “At least, that’s the last I seen—I mean saw—of her. Just before the Luftwaffe pilot forced me to take him to his grandmother in Mayfair. Mrs. Wigglesworth is her name. She’s A-Okay.”

  “My head is spinning,” said Lady Sop. “Please slow down.” She meant me, but Duncan misunderstood and pulled the Rolls to the curb.

  Lord Sopwith stopped me speaking again. “Let me think in quiet for just one confounded second.”

  “Oh, do let’s go to Dover!” said Lady Sop, wiggling the rings on her finger anxiously. “I relish the idea of a chase. So thrilling!”

  “Dear, p-lease,” said Lord Sopwith, drawing out the last part until he was out of breath. It was so quiet in the car you could hear the tick of the dashboard clock and the sound of traffic dulled by thick tinted windows. Lord Sopwith knit his eyebrows. He looked at me, “You would recognize these men?”

  “Where’s the Bible, sir. I’d know their mugs anywhere. And—”

  “That will be all,” he said, slamming the glass partition shut.

  As Duncan pulled the car from the curb, the three of us in the backseat leaned toward the glass, watching Lord Sopwith’s lips. He spoke one syllable.

  “Hip-hip-hurrah!” said Lady Sop.

  Daphne moaned. She leaned back in the glove leather seat and closed her eyes. Once the car was rolling, Lady Sop looked at her and said, “My dear, are you well? You look a fright.”

  “She was just in the hospital,” I said.

  “Should you be out, then? Whatever is the matter, my dear?”

  Daphne opened her eyes slowly. “I’ll be fine. I’m recovering from some sort of poisoning. The doctor says all I need is rest and plenty of liquids from this point on. And besides, there’s a shortage of beds at the hospital. They put me in a room with an awful bore—she kept going on and on about her silly Jack Russell Terrier
s. I think I know everything there is to know about their bowel movements. Truth be told, I took the IV out of my hand and snuck out without telling the nurses. I’ve had a little nurse’s training, you know.”

  “Take some brandy then, my dear.” Lady Sop opened a cabinet by her knees—low and behold, in there was a minibar. But Daphne waved her off, her not being a drinker. Lady Sop poured herself a shot. “Was it food poisoning, dear?”

  “No one can be certain what caused it,” said Daphne, wore out. “But it had the earmarks of hemlock poisoning—paralysis and all that.”

  “Like Socrates!” said Lady Sop, who was up on Shakespeare and Greek philosophers.

  “Precisely,” said Daphne. “By all means, marry. If you get a good wife, you’ll become happy; if you get a bad one, you’ll become a philosopher.”

  “You were quoting Socrates as you passed out?” I asked.

  “That’s right, Thomas. He was killed by means of hemlock poisoning. It’s one of my favorite quotes. I plan on having it recited at the wedding.”

  “Very apropos,” said Lady Sop. “Quite. Usually people choose Corinthians, chapter 13.”

  So Daphne suspected even then—back when she fell off the bicycle—that it was hemlock poisoning. She said: “Yes. I’d put two and two together, you see. The paralysis and then the fact that there is hemlock growing rampant in the yard at the manor house where I’d been having tea. I’m sure it must have been a simple mistake. There’s chamomile growing right next to it. And lavender. It will be such a lovely garden come Spring.”

  “I think I touched the hemlock!” I said. “Lady Sheffield made me wash my hands afterwards. She must’ve known.” I examined my hands, worried that I didn’t washed them good enough.

  “Well—it could have been hemlock, anyway,” said Daphne. “I hadn’t had anything to eat at the base, not with so many people coming down with food poisoning.”

  “Why would someone want to poison you?” I asked.

  “Jealousy,” said Lady Sop, slapping her knee. “Can I venture a guess and say you were with a group of single women—in want of a husband, as Jane Austin says.”

  “Jealousy is one of the seven deadly sins, and one of the big ten, too,” I said, rolling out my Bible knowledge. Blanche, I thought. She was always the one going on about wanting to marry a handsome pilot.

  “It’s true I was at the billet of a group of single WAAFs,” said Daphne “And yet, I’m certain that no one intentionally poisoned me. Jealously? Maybe—but to go to that extreme? No, I can’t see it. I mean, it’s true Jack is the most handsome man on the base—maybe in the entire RAF—but there are plenty of others nearly as dashing.”

  “I can think of one or two—the king, being one,” said Lady Sop. “He is stunning when he dons his uniform, you must admit. But I’m afraid the queen hasn’t kept her figure, sadly.”

  We were nearing the edge of the city, which was taking forever because of fallen bricks and rubble in the road. Some streets were blocked off where a bomb blew. But traffic was finally getting thinner, just as houses got more rundown. Nigel Duncan drove the Rolls into a gas station. The glass partition slid back.

  “We need petrol,” said Lord Sopwith. “And besides, I think it would be wise to alert the authorities. It will take but a moment. Meanwhile, if anyone must use the WC, Carpe Diem, as the Romans said. We won’t want to stop again.”

  “I could use a leak,” I said.

  “Thomas! Where are your manners?” said Daphne, finally getting color in her cheeks. Duncan opened the door for us. He bowed from the waist.

  “Hurry along, my dears,” said Lady Sop, scooting us out of the car. “We must make haste. And Daphne, dear—the facilities are bound to be filthy. Be sure not to touch anything.”

  Lord Sopwith walked over to a phone booth and the women were directed to the bathroom by a grease monkey. Duncan handed the attendant a ration book and then the two of us stood by the fender, doing our business. Just as I finished buttoning up my pants, Lord Sopwith called me to the telephone. “Describe the two fugitives to the Detective Chief Inspector, Tommy.” He put the receiver in my hand and I stood on my tippy toes to reach the mouth piece.

  “The Luftwaffe pilot is not much more than 17-years-old….” I gave a blow-by-blow description, remembering Fritz’s pathetic attempt at a Hitler mustache and the secret agent’s beak nose. “They’re armed and dangerous,” I said.

  When we hung up the phone, Lord Sopwith removed his solid gold Patek Philippe pocket watch from a watch pocket on his vest, popping open the lid. The watch was attached to a gold chain, making it impossible to steal.

  “What could be taking the ladies, I wonder?” he said, like this was a first.

  “Can I sit in front with you and Duncan, sir?”

  “Want to be with the men folks, do you? All right, hop in.”

  By the time we got back on the road, the sun was getting low. Duncan ignored the posted speed limit signs. He even went through a couple of stop signs. At one red stop light, he blew the horn and drove straight through. Since Lord Sopwith wasn’t complaining, I guessed it was at his instructions. Duncan usually wasn’t such a dare devil. I was glad to be up front. We stopped only once, to let a shepherd cross the street with his flock of goats; they were taking forever, but the babies sounded awful cute with their ba-ba-bas.

  “We are to go straight away to the police station in the town center, Duncan, where Tommy will identify the fugitives. Victoria Avenue, wouldn’t you know. I’ve already spoken to the DCI. He’ll be waiting for us. So make haste while the day—”

  “Meaning the Jerries ’ave been apprehended, your lordship?” asked Duncan.

  “No, no—as far as we know they are still on the run. And we’ve been sternly instructed not to approach the fugitives ourselves. We’re not armed, you see.”

  “Why, your lordship,” said Duncan. “We’ve got the Webly in the glove box. Just in case of stick-ups, if you remember?”

  “So we have. So we have. Yet, better to leave these matters to the professionals.”

  “But you’re professional soliders!” I said, knowing already that they’d both served in the Great War, and that Duncan was Lord Sopwith’s batman before he was his chauffeur—the solider who cleans an officer’s boots, presses his uniform, and polishes his buttons.

  “That’s right, Tommy. I were his lordship’s driver then, too.” Duncan pat the steering wheel. “As such. But that were near the end, after so many fell. And what with all the drivers needed for the Ambulance Corp.”

  “For dear sakes, ol’ chap,” said Lord Sopwith. “We were on home soil the entire show. Building biplanes.”

  “Still, it were an important job, sir. ’Em two-winged birds won us the war, didnit? I practice from time to time with the Webly. Keep it oiled, too. In case of armed bandits on the road.”

  “You mean Robin Hood and his gang?” I said.

  “That’s it, exactly—Robin Hood. Like to burgle the rich and give to the poor, don’t they?” Duncan laughed and then gunned the engine.

  “Harrumph,” said Lord Sopwith. “More like rob the rich and line their own blasted pockets.”

  Lady Sop slid the glass partition open and said, “My dear—please refrain from the use of profanity around the child. We are here to set the example.”

  “Quite right,” he said. “—line their own confounded pockets, I meant.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Somewhere in Dover, England

  SPECIAL AGENT, Charles “Charlie” Ellis, consults a small spiral notebook before pushing open a gate. He notices a wooden plaque attached to the gate: Seamstress Within, Alterations, Expert Tailoring, it says, even though what he is looking at is a simple cottage—well-kept, with a Victorian era cast-iron table and chairs set placed under a barren tree. He removes his hat before knocking on the door.

  A woman, her hair hennaed but the roots grey, comes to the door. Ellis can see her behind the lace curtains in the sidelight. He expects the do
or to open, but instead hears a voice say, “Who’s calling?” while the door remains closed.

  “Special Agent Charles Ellis, ma’am. I’ve been sent from London.”

  There is no reply. He sees the woman shuffle to a telephone, lift it from the table and return with it to the door.

  Finally, “How’d I know it’s you? You ‘ave identification, do you? I’ll want to call your office and make sure you aren’t an impostor.” She lifts the receiver; with the same hand she gets ready to dial.

  Ellis reaches into his jacket pocket, coming out with a billfold, which he opens and presses to the window glass in the door. He sees the curtain move aside.

  “Let me get me reading glasses,” says the woman, he assumes to be Mrs. Sanders.

  Who, to date, has lodged twenty-six reports of enemy agents present in Dover. He’s read through every one of the reports in preparation for this interview.

  A few minutes later, Mrs. Sanders appears at the door, now wearing half rim glasses perched on the end of her nose. Ellis positions his identify card so that it is level with her eyes. The door is opened and he is invited to step inside. The phone call to London will not be necessary, it seems.

  “Mrs. Sanders, I believe,” he says. “Might I have a word with you? Concerning a report you made about a suspicious fishing boat.”

  “It’s about time,” she says.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  WE WERE PASSING through Canterbury, with about half an hour to go, when Lord Sopwith began reciting The Canterbury Tales, a book that babbled on in Middle-English, written by a fella named Chaucer. He’d once made me slog through the thing, and I’d thrown the illuminated vellum book against the library wall after only three pages. For that, I was sent to bed without supper. Lord Sopwith had studied what they called The Classics at school and couldn’t get enough of the stuff. He deepened his voice so he sounded like Boris Karloff in Frankenstein: