Amerikan Eagle

At his desk again, he tossed aside the old message from Mrs. Walton to contact the medical examiner. As he dove through a pile of burglary reports, trying to find some pattern, some new angle of attack, a woman’s voice said: “Inspector? Inspector Miller?”

He swiveled in his chair.

“Yes?” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“The desk sergeant. He told me to come see you.”

He got up and dragged over an empty chair, trying to hide his displeasure. He hated these refugee matters. “Please, do sit down.”

“Thanks,” she said carefully. The women had blond hair cut in a bob, and her worn light blue cotton dress spoke of careful mending. She sat down and gripped a battered black purse in her lap. Her accent was British.

“So,” he said, picking up a fountain pen and a notepad. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Alicia Hale,” she told him. “I’m looking for my husband. Your Red Cross helped locate him, so I know he’s in your city, and I know who he’s been seen with. Some kind of writer. This is the third time I’ve come here looking for help, and I hope you can do something.”

From her purse, she took out a black-and-white snapshot of a smiling man wearing a British military uniform. Sam studied the photo and said, “Is it Reginald Hale?”

She smiled in astonishment. “You know my Reggie?”

He handed the photo back to her. “I’ve run into him a couple of times. We have a mutual acquaintance. Your husband’s missing a leg, correct?”

She placed the photo carefully into her purse, as if afraid someone might steal it. “Yes, he lost that during the invasion. We were separated soon afterward; Reggie was evacuated with some of the wounded, and I stayed behind. We’ve only managed to exchange a few letters over the years.”

“Oh. And if I may ask, how did you get here?”

She frowned. “Through bribes, what else? The new government has been issuing travel visas for humanitarian reasons. Just a drop in the bucket, but it makes for nice propaganda. If you pay enough for them, the government grants them. The visas work only in North America. Mothers and wives aren’t allowed to see the POWs in Germany, now, are they?”

“Prisoners are still being kept? I remember reading a story a couple of months ago saying the last of the POWs had been sent home.”

“Ha,” she said, and he noted how rigidly her hands were holding the purse. “A load of cod swollop, that is. Most of our boys are working in arms factories in France and Germany. Half starved and overworked, that’s what they are.”

He wondered what she would say if she knew what he had done yesterday to save Hitler’s life and prolong the POWs’ misery. He said, “So. You can’t find your husband, is that it?”

“Not in this soddin’ mess, can I? But I found out he spends time with this writer—”

“Walter Tucker,” Sam supplied. Alicia Hale nodded and continued.

“I had to pay a taxi man a hefty fare to bring me to the man’s flat, but he wasn’t there, and the desk sergeant, he said maybe you could help me.”

Sam asked, “Mrs. Hale, is it possible your husband’s papers are no longer in order?”

“Who the hell knows? Does that make any difference?”

“Not to me, but it may explain why he’s hiding out—with all the hoopla over this summit.”

She seemed to shiver. “To think you Yanks are treating that bloody bastard like royalty! Should ’ave sunk his boat when it got here, you should ’ave.”

“Maybe so,” he said, not wanting to think any more of the summit, “but if we can find Walter, I’m sure we can find your husband.”

“That would be brilliant.”

He put his pen down, “Are you here to take him back to England?”

A violent shake of her head. “Not bloody likely. No, I’ve got a cousin who has a farm up in Manitoba. Once I get my Reggie, we’re going there and never going back. Not ever.”

“Good for you,” Sam said. “Look. Let’s go see if we can find your husband. I have an idea of where to start.”

CHAPTER SIXTY

He took her to his Packard, dented and scratched from the previous day’s desperate drive. A part of him was still mourning his brother and aching at the thought of Sarah and Toby behind barbed wire, but he forced his focus to the job, and he closed the passenger door after she slid in.

When he started the car, he asked, “What part of England are you from, Mrs. Hale?”

“London.”

“Oh. What’s London like nowadays?”

He headed toward the center of the city. The checkpoints had all come down. With the summit over and a success, it looked as though security had dissolved, although there were still armed National Guardsmen at each corner.

“Horrible, the city is, simply horrible.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”