by Alan Glenn
“I’m sure you’re right. What’s wrong, then?”
“You and Toby need to leave town during the summit.”
“Sam, you can’t be serious.”
“I’m very serious. There’s going to be roadblocks, protestors. People out in the streets. Lots of chances for punches being thrown, people getting arrested, maybe even people getting shot. I don’t want you or Toby caught in the middle.”
“We could just stay home.”
“And suppose the Secret Service or the Department of the Interior do some digging, talking to people, and hear about you and your school friends? Or if the Long’s Legionnaires decide to finally act on what they know about the cellar? You two could be in a boxcar headed west before I knew it, before I could do anything about it.”
“Sam …”
“Look, a department employee just got himself arrested, and his boss, the city marshal, couldn’t do a damn thing. Someone who worked for him! How much pull do you think I’d have if anything happened to you and Toby?”
“But my dad—”
“Sarah,” he interrupted. “Your dad, he could help. His summer place up at Lake Winnipesaukee. In Moultonborough. It would be a good place to stay for a few days. Quiet, remote, far away from this madhouse.”
“Take Toby out of school? And not go to work?”
“Schools are going to be closed, Sarah. You know it makes sense. With my brother out there, the place crawling with cops and feds and all that …”
She sat back in the chair. “Sam … okay, we’ll talk about it later, okay? After you eat.”
“Sure,” he said. “But you know it makes sense. Just for a few days. That’s all.”
She took a breath. “Okay. For now—I hate to say this, but after you’re done, I need you to go upstairs and see Walter.”
“Why? What’s up? His typewriter too loud?”
“No, nothing like that. He’s got a visitor up there, and they were talking loud a while ago, keeping Toby awake. You know Walter promised to keep quiet. Could you just remind him, please?”
“Sure,” he said. “Anything else I should know?”
“Yeah. I hate it when you’re right.”
That should have brought a witty response, but he kept his mouth shut. They ate silently for a little bit, and then, remembering something from the morning, he said, “Sarah, do you know anyone from school who drives a yellow Rambler? Four-door, a big car.”
She sliced a piece of meat. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”
He hesitated. Should he tell her the car was connected to his murder investigation? And if he did that, suppose it belonged to someone in the Underground Railroad movement—could he trust her to keep quiet? Sarah might warn this person and—
“Oh, just something that happened when I dropped off Toby this morning,” he led quietly. “Yellow Rambler came up the street, nearly clipped me. Ticked me off a bit, that’s all.”
“Oh,” she said, bringing her fork up to her mouth. “I see.”
No, he thought, you don’t. What you don’t see is that earlier, when you didn’t tell me about Paul Robeson coming to our house, you had kept it a secret from me. And now I don’t know what other secrets you might be keeping. And if I don’t trust you, then our marriage has just taken a big hit, but I can’t say that to you, because then there would be more and more questions, voices and tempers raised, and I just don’t have the energy for it.
So he kept quiet, as a good inspector—and lousy husband—should.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
After Sam finished dinner, he grabbed his coat and went to the outside staircase. He trotted up the steps and knocked on the door, calling out, “Walter! It’s Sam. Open up, please.”
It took three more knocks before Walter opened the door. “Sam!” he said a bit too enthusiastically. “How good of you to join us. Of course, I assume you’re here as a landlord and neighbor and not as part of your duties in the constabulary … constabulation … the police force.”
“Walter, can I please come in?”
“But of course!”
Walter opened the door wider, and Sam stepped inside. A one-legged man was sitting at Walter’s table, smoking a cigarette, crutches leaning against his wooden chair. He had on a shapeless black sweater and khaki trousers, the right leg of the pants folded over and pinned just above the knee. His brown hair was cut very short, and the way he held his cigarette said “foreigner” to Sam. “Sam, may I present my guest … my boon companion for the evening … Reginald Hale, late flying lieutenant in His Majesty’s Royal Air Force. Reggie, this is Sam Miller, inspector for the Portsmouth Police Department, good neighbor, and kindly landlord. Gentlemen.”
Reggie said in a drawling British accent, “Charmed, I’m sure.”
“Hi, yourself,” Sam said.
Walter put both hands on the back of a chair, as if depending upon it for support. On the chair was his leather valise. “Reggie is helping me with a bit of technical advice. You see, I’m working on a story in which the hero is a fighter pilot suddenly transported in time to the future, where civilization is under siege and the civilized ones have forgotten how to fight and—”
The professor must have noticed the look on Sam’s face, for he swallowed hard and continued, “But of course, my plotting means nothing to you. What was important was knowing the technical details of flying, which the good lieutenant”—Walter pronounced it in the British fashion, “leftenant”—“was going to help me. And then we started listening to the news about this wonderful bit of bloody diplomatic business that the butcher of Europe and the Kingfish of Louisiana managed to pull off, and well, a bottle emerged and other tales were told.”
“I see,” Sam said. “Walter, look, no offense, but Sarah heard some loud noises up here, Toby’s trying to sleep and—”
The RAF man stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, struggled upright, reaching for his crutches. “Not a problem, Inspector, it was time for me to leave anyway. Professor, thank you for your hospitality.” He hopped, grabbed his crutches, and Sam didn’t know whether to keep looking or glance away. So he did nothing. The crutches went underneath the man’s arms and Sam said, “Do you need a hand getting down the steps?”
“Thanks awfully, but I’ve had lots of practice. Months and months, if you must know. First time I’ve ever met an American copper. You wouldn’t be interested in my immigration status, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t, but others might.”
Reggie smiled, leaned on his crutches. “Bloody awful, this. Hopping around like a toad. Once upon a time I was somebody important, one of those knights of the air, ready to do battle against the invading Hun. We were the last hope for our island, and we were going to repulse those bloody bastards. That was the plan, at any rate. Too bad nobody told Jerry about the plan. They had their own ideas. Bomb the shit out of our airfields and radar sites, clearing the way for the paratroopers to seize ground and hold it for the follow-up invasion troops. Still, we fought, against terrible odds … It sounds strange, but I was the lucky one. Lost my leg after an ME-109 jumped me, and managed to get out on one of the evacuation ships.”
Reggie made his way to the doorway, turned awkwardly, and said wistfully, “We might have made it, you know. If Winnie hadn’t been tossed out, if the Cabinet hadn’t sued for peace after the first landings, if the king hadn’t died in the bombings, if you … if you bloody Yanks hadn’t sat on your hands and decided not to help us. We might have made it. And then Herr Hitler would be fighting both us and the Bolshies.”
“Bunch of us thought we had done enough last time,” Sam said. “It just looked like another European squabble, and the last one didn’t end well. So most of us didn’t want to get involved.”
Reggie shook his head. “Oh, you’ll get involved. Maybe not this year or next year, but I guarantee this, Inspector: Once that fucking German housepainter gets the Reds hammered down, he’s going to turn west again. And your mighty wide ocean won’t h
elp. Maybe then you’ll wish you had helped us.”
Walter opened the door, and Reggie hobbled out. Cold air came in, and when the door was shut, Walter turned to Sam and said, “I’m sorry again for disturbing your lovely wife.”
“Apology accepted, Walter. There’s one more thing … and I swear to God, you haven’t heard it from me.” Sam never thought he would do this, but after the past few days, he couldn’t stay quiet any more. “Tomorrow night. You might want to tell Reginald, and any other similar friends, that they shouldn’t be in their usual haunts. Something’s going on. Do I make myself clear?”
“As clear as crystal. Sam … I cannot tell you how much I owe you, this is going to be—”
“Walter, I have no idea what you’re talking about. And neither do you.”
His tenant grabbed his arm. “I’m not a religious man, but God bless you for what you’ve done.”
Sam broke free from the man’s grasp. “I think God’s got His hands full enough without worrying about me.”
* * *
Before going to bed, Sam checked in on Toby. His boy had his crystal radio set on low; thankfully, it was just playing soft dance music from someplace where people had enough money and time to go dancing. He reached down to unplug it, and Toby stirred and said, “Dad?”
He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, sport. What is it?”
“Mmm, Mommy said we’re gonna go on a trip tomorrow … up to Grandpa’s camp.”
He touched Toby’s hair. “That’s right. Just a few days. You and Mom.”
“And I won’t get in trouble at school?”
“No, no trouble at all.”
“Good. I’ve been in trouble enough.”
His boy’s breathing eased, and Sam stood up to leave. Toby stirred and said, “I told ’em, you know. That my dad wasn’t a rat. I had to tell ’em you’re not a rat. So I did okay. I didn’t fight, Dad, but I didn’t let him get away with it, either …”
Sam went out, closing the door softly behind him.
* * *
He slid into bed next to Sarah, who rolled over and nuzzled up against him and said, “You win.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Dad’s coming to pick me and Toby up tomorrow.”
“He’ll get over it,” he said, kissing her and feeling the silkiness of lace on her body. She kissed him back and then pressed her lips against his ear and whispered with urgency, “Sam … forgive me, will you?”
“For what?” he whispered back. Both of them kept their voices low from habit, being so close to their dozing son.
“For who I am. A disappointment … a shrew … and … oh, just forgive me.”
He kissed her again, deeper, as she moaned and moved underneath him. “Forgiven, Sarah, always forgiven. Though I don’t agree with what you just said.”
“Shhh,” Sarah replied, lowering her hand on his belly, “let’s stop talking for a while. Here’s the rain check I promised you from a long time ago, big guy.”
In the darkness he sighed at the touch of his cheerleader. “Not that big.”
Her warm hand lowered some more. “Just you wait.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
At breakfast that morning, his heart nearly broke at the sight of the two suitcases—one large, the other small—at the door, huddled there like frightened children. It was wrong, it was awful, but he knew it was the right thing to do.
Sarah had made a good breakfast for them all, pancakes and bacon. Toby kept on asking if the water was warm enough up at Grandpa’s camp, could he do some swimming when he got there if Mom was there to watch him?
Sam said, “If your mother says so, then it’s fine.”
Now the dishes had been gathered and he stood behind Sarah, hands on her hips, and kissed the curve of her neck, and said, “Leave them. I’ll do them later.”
“Please. It gives me something to do. Something to keep me busy. All right?” Her voice quivered.
Sam ran his hands up and down her slim hips, recalled with delight the passion that these same hips had brought him last night. He brought his lips to her ear and said, “What did you mean last night, asking for forgiveness? Where did that come from?”
In an instant, her body tensed, as if she had heard something disquieting. She shook off his hands with a sharp movement. “Can we not talk about this now, please? Dad will be here any moment, and I need to get the dishes done.”
Message received. Once again he was struck by the contradiction that was his wife: the passionate lover of last night and the irritated housewife this morning. Sam went out to the living room to get his revolver, coat, and hat and, through the front window, saw his father-in-law, Lawrence Young, striding up the walkway as if he owned the damn place, which he once wished to do. Back during those long days and nights as a newlywed, when Sam had struggled to come up with the down payment, Larry had hinted at how his new son-in-law could get the desperately needed money: Sam’s ass working weekends at the furniture store.
Larry had never gotten what he wanted, Sam thought. But Sam had gotten something else. Bloody hands and a memory that would never leave him.
Larry came in, dressed in a fine dark gray overcoat, looking pleased with himself. “Morning, Sam.”
“Hello, Larry.”
“I understand my daughter and grandson need some protection.”
“In a manner of speaking,” he replied.
“I thought that was your job.”
Sam felt his shoulders tense. “It is. Which is why I’m getting them out of town during the summit.”
“Maybe you’re getting them out of town, but I’m putting them up, driving up there and back, taking the better part of my workday. I hope you appreciate that.”
From the kitchen, Sarah came out, smiling. “Dad, thanks for helping us out.”
Toby was there, saying, “Grandpa!,” his face radiant.
Sam picked up the two suitcases. “Tell you what, Toby. You two get your coats, and I’ll put your suitcases out in Grandpa’s car. Okay?”
Before anybody said anything, he was outside in the blessedly cool and free air, carrying both suitcases.
* * *
Sarah said, “I’ll try to call you the moment we’re settled in if the damn phone’s working.”
He kissed her and said, “You sure you’ve got everything packed?”
She squeezed the back of his neck and whispered, “Not really, but I’m leaving all my frilly things behind for later … for another rain check.”
Another kiss exchanged. “When it’s all over, I’ll come up to fetch you. The city’ll owe me some time.”
Sarah got into the front seat of the Oldsmobile. “Dad could come get us.”
“I owe him too much already.”
From the rear seat, Toby called out, “So I can go swimming? Really?”
“If your mother says so.”
“Good,” his boy said, and then, “Dad? Make sure my models are okay, will you?”
“Sure, Toby,” he promised. “Nothing will happen to them.”
He closed both car doors and walked up to his father-in-law. “Larry, thanks. I mean it. Thanks.”
“Always nice to know I can fill in when you can’t. Just need to discuss—”
For the benefit of his wife and boy watching from the Oldsmobile, Sam smiled up at his father-in-law. “Let’s not keep my wife and boy waiting. All right?”
Lawrence said, “Just one moment, that’s all. Look, I understand you’ve taken my advice. To become more active in the Party.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“I see.” Lawrence’s voice turned frosty. “But I’ve been told you’re probably going to become more active under the sponsorship of Marshal Harold Hanson.”
“Look, can we get into this some other time, because—”
“No, we don’t have to go into it some other time. You’ve made your choice, and you’ll have to live with it. You’ve tossed your lot in with the marshal. That
’s fine. And when budget time comes, don’t think you can come to me looking for help if your position in the police department is eliminated. When it’s eliminated.”
“Is that a threat, Larry? What, you think I’m your slave? Someone you can order around because I owe you?”
“Owe me? For what? Taking my daughter and grandson up to Moultonborough?”
“You know what I mean,” Sam said. “Everyone knows how I got my inspector’s job. You pulled some strings and talked to the Police Commission and—”
Lawrence laughed. “You stupid little dope. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“It was common—”
“Some smart inspector you are. I lobbied against you, you numbskull. Even knowing it might hurt Sarah. It would have been worth it to see you fail and stay a sergeant. Got that? And I still don’t want you to make it—a punk like you, son of a drunk and brother of a criminal, with my only girl. And having you active in the Party … besides everything else, I just wanted you somewhere I had you by the short hairs. That’s all. And now that you’re sponsored by that fool Hanson, I know you’re going to fail. I’m going to enjoy every damn second of it.”
Sam took a breath, thinking of the secret he knew about this man, the one he had pledged he would never divulge. “The only thing I’m looking for now is to see you get the hell off my porch.”
Sam went in and closed the door, then stood at the window to see the Oldsmobile back out of the driveway and head away. He watched until it made the corner, turned, and his family was gone.
* * *
He didn’t bother going to the police station after his family left. Instead, he headed straight to the Rockingham Hotel. Two army MPs stood at the entrance, clipboards in their hands. Their khaki uniforms were pressed and their boots and helmets gleamed. So did their Sam Brown belts and the holsters for their Colt .45 pistols. Their faces were lean and serious, as if they spent a lot of time saying no to people.
“Sorry, pal,” the MP on the left told Sam. “Place is closed for the duration.”
