This frere bosteth that he knoweth helle,
And God it woot, that it is litel wonder;
Freres and feendes been but lyte asonder.
For, pardee, ye han ofte tyme herd telle
How that a frere ravyshed was to helle
In spirit ones by a visioun;
And as an angel ladde hym up and doun…
I could barely understand Lord Sopwith when he was speaking plain English, now it was impossible. Duncan was speeding through Canterbury, a regular kind of guy like me and not a fan of Chaucer. I could tell by the way he tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel as Lord Sopwith recited his poem.
I’d never been to Dover. Only seen the cliffs once, and that was from Lord Sopwith’s speedboat, when Daphne and me made our way to Belgium to rescue Jack. I remembered seeing a silhouette of the medieval castle that night. I wanted to visit the place but we were on a rescue mission not a sightseeing tour. The castle was set up on a hill. Haunted, for sure. So imagine my joy when, approaching Dover, the castle loomed in front of us. It was straight out of The Count of Monte Cristo—I’d seen all three movie versions: the first one was silent, the second two were talkies.
“Slow down, Duncan,” said Lord Sopwith, tapping the leather dash. “We want Tommy here to make a reconnaissance of the place. Pay attention, boy.”
“My eyes are peeled, sir.”
The Rolls rolled into town, passing row after row of whitewashed buildings, all facing the sea. Loads of them had been demolished by German bombs. Workers, wearing face masks to keep the dust out, shoved bricks into baskets, then carted off rubble in horse drawn wagons. The front had come right off one building and we looked into a child’s bedroom. A teddy bear dangled from an exposed beam, like it was holding on for dear life. Fritz would get goose bumps looking at that.
Along the seaside were dozens of fishing boats, something Lord Sopwith made note of: “Most of the sportsmen have moved their crafts elsewhere—to safer harbors. Ireland, often.” He shook his head sadly. Lord Sopwith loved nothing better than sailing.
“We’re only twenty-two miles from occupied Europe,” I said. “A mother once swam across—we’re that close to France.”
“She was a champion swimmer, Thomas,” said Daphne. “Don’t you dare try it.” After saying that I shut my mouth, embarrassed that I couldn’t even dog paddle well.
“We should stop and walk along the docks,” I said. “The Luftwaffe pilot might be looking for a boat right now. Besides, this will be a good spot to get fish and chips, not that I like fish.” I kept one eye open for a shop, the other eye for Nazis. I’d had nothing to eat since Mrs. Wigglesworth stomach-popping breakfast. My ma said I had the appetite of a killer whale and it was proving to be true.
“My guess is they’ll wait until the cover of dark to nick a boat,” said Daphne. “After all, that’s what we did, Thomas. I mean, who would be so brazen as to nick a boat in broad daylight?”
“Let’s change the subject,” said Lady Sop, quickly. “My husband has an ulcer and you know how mention of the Chris-Craft upsets him. We don’t want him on a diet of milk and cauliflower again.” Lord Sopwith was still was sore about us taking his speedboat to Belgium. It was a beaut, too.
But Lord Sopwith let his hand go limp at the wrist, meaning that nothing bothered him; that all was forgiven; that he was happy to contribute to rescuing an RAF pilot; that he’d already forgotten about the Chris-Craft boat and why mention it now? I loved the man, I really did. He was what you called a good sport, a straight-shooter, an all-around-good-guy. I leaned into him on a turn so’s he’d know how I felt. He patted my knee in response. He said we must “push on” to the police station “with all due haste.” After all, maybe they’d captured Fritz already. We didn’t want to waste our time scoping out the docks when we could be chowing down on French fries.
“DCI Harris,” said the head detective, shaking Lord Sopwith’s hand. Detective Chief Inspector. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m a big fan of the Hawker Hurricane. May I say that the nation is grateful.”
“The Spitfire has surpassed it,” said Lord Sopwith, taking a stab at humility.
“I’m sure you have something even better than the Spit waiting in the wings!” He laughed at his own humor. “Waiting in the wings!”
“Have you caught the Germans?” I asked, taking a look around. An oak paneled hallway led to offices, all with name plaques on the doors. If I wasn’t mistaken, there was a blood stain on the floor.
“I’m afraid not,” said the DCI. “But we have all hands on deck. Ha! All hands on deck—why my men are searching the docks as we live and breathe.”
“No boats have been reported missing?” asked Daphne.
“None that we know of thus far,” said the DCI. “Of course the coast is littered with row boats, tethered to rocks with no one keeping an eye on.”
I wondered if it was even possible to rowboat to France. I remembered the size of the waves on the Channel—scary even in a high-speed Chris-Craft motor boat. “Daphne’s right, sir,” I said. “They are hiding out and waiting till it’s pitch dark. Meanwhile, they’re probably holed up at the castle or in one of those tunnels I’ve heard about. Maybe I can—”
“Highly unlikely,” said the DCI. “The Royal Air Force has that place on lockdown. Very highest security. But we should say no more.”
“Loose lips, sink ships,” said Lord Sopwith, his favorite phrase. Mostly he just used it to shut me up.
“I have to sit down,” said Daphne. “Do you mind?”
The DCI took one look at her and rushed into his office. He brought over a rolling desk chair. “Where are my manners?” he said, hitting his forehead. “May I offer you something to drink?”
“A stiff scotch wouldn’t be refused,” said Lord Sopwith.
“I wouldn’t mind a little tipple myself,” said Lady Sop, giggling.
“Water, please,” said Daphne.
I looked around for a Coke machine. They had them in police stations on Long Island. I’d been just a few feet from one once, stuck behind bars, unjustly accused of a petty crime. The proximity had been tormenting.
The DCI filled us in on the manhunt. He had undercover cops watching the train station and the streets surrounding it. Two trains from London had already arrived and there’d been no suspicious characters aboard—at least, none the undercover cops were able to identify.
“Not less than an hour ago,” the DCI told us, “we had a tip-off from a very reliable source. I’ll say no more. Very highest in the land.” He leveled a hand above his head. “Be sure of it—a certain fishing boat won’t be leaving the pier tonight.”
I mentioned that Daphne was a trained artist and suggested the two of us get to work on a wanted poster: the kind they had up in post offices when Bonnie and Clyde were on the run from the Feds back in 1934.
“I’m game,” said Daphne. “Just bring me a pad of unlined paper and a pencil,”
The DCI shouted over to a woman dressed in plainclothes and she went in search of the materials. The two of us were shown to an empty office, where the same woman cleared the desk top for us. Meanwhile, my guardians were having cocktails in the DCI’s office.
“Let’s start with Fritz,” I said. “Since I’m most acquainted with his mug. His real name is Peter Albert Loehlein. Picture Mickey Rooney, only taller and with a narrower face.”
Daphne began sketching away. “Like this?”
“His cheekbones are higher.” I motioned across my face. She took an eraser and redrew the cheeks. “Now put some freckles on them and on his nose—that’s it. Now the eyes need to be larger and darker. Think Rudolf Valentino… Yeah, and with long black eyelashes.”
“You got a good look at him, did you?”
“I’m a master observer, Daphne. You should know that by now. Treasure hunters and budding Egyptologists got to be.” I asked her to put a tweed cap on Fritz’s head and to draw fuzz over his lip. She drew the shoulders of his over
coat so it looked a few sizes too small. When she showed me the drawing, I nearly fell over. “You could get a job as one of them characterture artists who work the Coney Island boardwalk,” I said. “Gee, you’re good.”
She drew the other man in profile, because what I remembered best was the shape of his beak nose. Everything else was a blur, seeing that he’d knocked me out before the details could solidify in my mind. Daphne seemed satisfied though: “It looks like a portrait of Lorenzo de’ Medici, who ruled Renaissance Florence.”
“Make sure you draw him with a gold tooth.”
“Now he looks like Lorenzo de’ Medici snarling.”
We took the two drawings into the DCI’s office. “You say this is a good rendition?” he asked me, laying down his tumbler.
“Spitting-image.”
“Then I’ll have my girl take this to the printers to make facsimiles on the mimeograph machine.” He looked at me: “And that might be the perfect job for you, young man—handing them out, posting them in shop windows, on telephone poles and whatnot.” He called out for the girl. “Run these over to Henderson’s, would you? Ask for a hundred copies. Have him typeset WANTED NAZIS as a banner. And add these notes to the bottom of the page.” He tore a piece of paper from a pad.
“Is there a reward, sir?” asked the woman.
“Tea with the queen,” said Lady Sop.
“That will be all, Smith. Now, chivvy along,” said the DCI.
The woman saluted and raced from the office. The rest of us sat there like lumps on a log.
“Shouldn’t we join the manhunt?” I said.
“You’ve told us that at least one of the men is armed,” said the DCI.
“The Luftwaffe pilot has already shot one man,” said Daphne. “A pilot with No. 303 Polish Fighter Squadron, on loan to a Czechoslovakian squadron.” The details were wrong, I knew, but I didn’t correct her.
“Are they on our side?” asked Lady Sop, looking concerned. “I thought the Nazis had Eastern Europe?”
“They do, dear,” said Lord Sopwith patting her knee, “but some managed to escape in ‘39 and join the Allies.”
“Marvelous!” she said, clasping her hands together. “At this rate, we’ll win the war before Christmas.”
“One can only hope,” said Lord Sopwith, raising one eyebrow. He’d heard that Christmas line before and wasn’t buying it.
Daphne told us that Ciesielski, the Polish pilot, was alive—but just barely. He’d lost plenty of blood before someone spotted my postcard and went searching through the corn field. You could say I saved his life. I mentioned to them that the secret agent, disguised as an RAF navigator, also had a revolver. Lady Sop swooned.
“An Enfield service revolver, you say?” said the DCI. “And an RAF uniform… my guess is the Gestapo took it off one of our downed men.”
“Ghastly!” said Lady Sop. “Tragic. And no one to give him a proper C of E funeral.” (C of E meant Church of England, as opposed to the Holy Roman Catholic Church, which didn’t have an abbreviation.)
“It’s likely the RAF navigator, from whom the uniform was stolen, is in a German prison camp, my dear,” said Lord Sopwith.
“This dreadful war,” said Lady Sop.
“Aren’t downed airmen supposed to get out of their uniforms as soon as they crash?” I asked. “Maybe the navigator evaded capture but the Gestapo found the uniform he left behind.”
“Well, that’s a positive spin on things,” said Daphne. “I do love your optimism.”
“Not to put a damper on the subject,” said Lord Sopwith, “but downed airmen, hoping to evade capture, are instructed to bury or burn their uniforms. If there’s time, that is. I’ll have to inform our intelligence people of this new ploy—the RAF uniform, I mean. Brilliant, what? To think—the enemy agent would be given preferential treatment wherever he went. One can only hope he wouldn’t be given access to RAF bases wearing the uniform.”
“There’s one detail I forgot about,” I said. “Tell your intelligence friends that the Luftwaffe pilot’s jacket had Jagdgeschwader Mölders embroidered on the sleeve. That’s what made it so terrifying.”
“Play them at their own game,” said the DCI. “That’s the idea!”
“Good thinking,” said Daphne, before passing out on the floor.
Lady Sopwith loosened the top button of Daphne’s blouse, fanning her face with a manila folder she’d taken from the DCI’s desk. “Back away and give her some air,” she told us.
“In the movies, they slap the person’s face,” I said.
“You watch too many movies, Thomas,” said Daphne, coming to and resting on her elbows.
“My dear, you should be in bed,” said Lord Sopwith, asking the DCI to recommend a good hotel. “At least three stars, what?”
My hopes were soaring as they spoke. I came to learn that the Royal Navy had taken over one hotel and were calling it HMS Wasp. Meanwhile, the Burlington Hotel was a bombed out shell. The Grand Hotel got a direct hit too, leaving it in rubble. “Sixteen people killed that day and scores wounded,” said the DCI, leading us in a moment of silence where everyone looked down at their shoes and shook their head.
I wanted to break in with, “There’s always the castle,” but I knew to keep quiet.
Finally the DCI said, “Oh, the futility of war,” shaking his head. “But no use crying over spilt milk. Seems to me that we have Jerry on the run finally.”
“Let’s stay in the castle,” I said.
“I’d prefer to sleep in the Rolls,” said Lady Sop. “Castles are so drafty.”
“The castle is being used as a military installation,” said the DCI. “As well as the underground tunnels. I’m afraid the whole place is off-limits to civilians due to—’
“Loose lips,” said Lord Sopwith.
“Maybe they’ll make an exception for us,” I said. “Being that I’m the brother of an RAF pilot and Daphne here is a fiancée. And let’s not forget that Lord Sopwith builds airplanes.”
“And where does that leave me?” asked Lady Sop, genuinely perplexed.
“In the Rolls. With Duncan,” said Lord Sopwith.
After racking his brain, the DCI recommended a guesthouse run by a Mrs. Hill, a lady friend of his. He said she served a “bang-up breakfast,” whatever that was. For another thing, Mrs. Hill kept the paraffin heaters running night and day. We piled into the Rolls and drove around the block, parking in the gravel driveway of a Victorian brick house. Lady Sop said it reminded her of her great-aunt’s house.
Mrs. Hill was a white-haired thing about my height but 100 pounds heavier. She greeted us like her long-lost relatives. “Been ever so busy since The Grand was hit. My feet are run off. One good thing to come out of this—not that I’m happy what the Jerries did to The Grand, mind you. They served a lovely tea. On Saturday afternoons in the summer they’d have a four piece orchestra playing.”
“Must’ve seemed like the Titanic the day the bomb dropped,” I said, remembering the eight-piece orchestra that played as the ship sank, hoping to calm the passengers.
Mrs. Hill only had two rooms available. Lady Sop insisted on sharing a room with Daphne so she could watch for signs of another faint. That left me with Lord Sopwith. Mrs. Hill showed us to adjoining rooms. She opened a windows to air the place out and left to find a chamber pot. The bathroom was down the hall, she said. The boiler was old, so we’d best space out our baths, she told us.
“Fine with me,” I said, “I don’t need one.”
“You do too,” said Daphne before heading to her room.
“She’ll be fighting for that bathroom with the riff-raff,” I said.
“Now Tommy, don’t become a snob,” said Lord Sopwith, sitting down on the bed nearest the door. I threw myself horizontally onto the other bed. The springs made it like a trampoline. A salty breeze came through the open window.
“So what’s the plan, sir? You don’t mean for us to come all this way and stay out of the action, do you? And now it’s dark
out, the German’s will be looking for a boat.”
“There is a plan, Tommy. And unfortunately it must include you.” He looked troubled, rubbing the red marks on the bridge of his nose after removing his glasses.
“Swell. Lay it on me, sir.”
Turned out Lord Sopwith’s plan was to sneak out without alerting the ladies. He explained that Daphne needed rest, obviously, and that he didn’t want his wife caught in the middle of crossfire. He was being chivalrous, one of the things he was best at. He always opened doors for ladies and stood whenever one entered a room. On top of that, whilst walking on a sidewalk, he took the place closest to the curb in case a car came along and splashed into a puddle. I imagined him throwing his coat over the puddle and letting the lady step right on it. He had a book in his library called Rules of Etiquette For Gentlemen.
My stomach rumbled like the San Francisco earthquake. I said, “We might need food first. To build up our manly strength.”
“I’m a bit peckish myself,” said Lord Sopwith.
There was a pad and pencil laying on a small desk. He made me write a note that said, Taking a rest, please do not disturb. I still had tape stuck to my trousers and we used some of it to attach the note to the bedroom door. Then we tip-toed down the hallway and descended a service staircase that led to the kitchen. Mrs. Hill was there putting food on a tray.
“Where are you two off to?” she asked. “Your wife asked me to bring up a tray. I have the remains of a nice bubble and squeak for you. And then there’s my Wartime Banoffee Pie—you’d never know it was made with substitutes.”
“Sounds delightful,” said Lord Sopwith. “But I’ve promised the boy fish and chips. And a gentleman never goes back on his word.” I followed him out a back exit. He turned and said, “And, Mrs. Hill. You’ll keep that to yourself, won’t you?”
“Like I wasn’t even a fly on the wall. And if you’re still here tomorrow night, I’ll prepare for you the best fish and chips in the entire Empire. It’s only that I don’t have potatoes that I don’t offer now.”
Message For Hitler Page 18
