Mrs. John Doe

by Tom Savage

  Craig shrugged. “Who knows? But let’s not chance it. Louis runs a smuggling trade out of Boulogne, and he’s all kinds of a villain, so he’s got an instinct for trouble. We should stay here.”

  They watched through an open hatchway as the two policemen arrived at the Bardot and hailed Louis Reynard, who replied with a hearty laugh. The cops laughed too, and much rapid-fire French was exchanged, something about a tall, attractive, fortyish woman with light brown hair and a beige trench coat. Non, Louis assured them, he hadn’t seen such a person, but if he did, he’d invite her aboard. If she refused his invitation, he’d be sure to call the police immediately. More laughter.

  “Don’t worry, Nora,” Craig told her. “We’ll be across the Channel soon.”

  The gendarmes were still laughing as they moved away down the dock. Nora exhaled.

  “Not soon enough for me,” she said.

  Chapter 24

  Nora stood at the prow of the Bardot, gazing out at the gray sea, the darkening sky, and the distant lights of England. They’d set off from Calais immediately after the gendarmes had walked away, but only when the trawler was surrounded by open water had her breathing returned to something close to normal. Now the chilly breeze struck her face and played with the silk scarf that covered her gray old-lady hair, but she didn’t mind it. The new coat and her jacket kept out the worst of it, and there was something distinctly soothing about the bracing wind. The cold tingled on her skin, assuring her that she was alive and alert.

  She was thinking about all the people she knew. Not many, really. Her husband and daughter were the primary characters in her life, as they should be. She had Aunt Mary in Great Neck, her last living relative. Well, there were some cousins in the Midwest somewhere—Minneapolis?—but she’d only met them a few times over the years, at weddings and funerals. She’d worked with a lot of people back in her theater, film, and TV days, but show business was a nomadic profession, not conducive to long-term relationships. She would do a play or film for a few weeks or months, bonding with a motley assortment of actors and technicians who became her temporary best friends, and then she would move on to the next gig, the next makeshift family. Only a few of these people were still in touch.

  The faculty at the university was the only semi-constant group around her these days. The students came and went; four years was the limit for knowing them. She had a couple of pals in the teachers’ lounge, and she’d had several favorite students over the years. When one of her grads appeared on a stage or a TV screen, or in a movie, she was duly informed beforehand and duly effusive afterward. Her former charges now claimed two Tony nominations with one win, one Oscar nomination, one Emmy award, and—at the moment—one Broadway musical, one off-Broadway play, several summer stock companies, and one TV series. An excellent record for one acting teacher, and the award winners always mentioned her in their acceptance speeches. But the kids weren’t close friends, not really—holiday cards and the occasional lunch in town.

  She had two close girlfriends, Liz Ryan and Janelle Waller, her best friends since NYU. The three had met in the theater department there and ventured out into the world together, even sharing an apartment briefly. Liz was a fellow Irish descendant, now married with two children and a solid career as a character actress in New York theater and television. Janelle lived out in L.A. with her husband, Behrouz, who was also an actor. The two of them got a steady stream of work in film and television, mainly what Janelle only half jokingly called “the token black BFF and the token Islamic terrorist.” Janelle and Behrouz were the only Muslims Nora knew. She thought of the Pakistani—she didn’t know what else to call him—and wondered what zealous fervor inspired him. She rarely got together with her two friends these days, and then only when husbands and children could spare them all at the same time. Nowadays, it was mostly phone calls and emails.

  So, Jeff and Dana. They were her life, her world, and now that world was threatened.

  She looked over at the lights of a ship on her left, a barge or ferry moving steadily south toward Calais. Louis Reynard had cleverly—foxily—avoided the main shipping lanes between the two countries; the trawler was well to the east of the heavy traffic. The English Channel was the busiest body of water in the world, according to Craig Elder, with constant movement between England and France, and even more vessels coming down from the North Sea to the Atlantic. Reynard’s plan, Craig told her, was to avoid detection by slipping into a small cove somewhere to the east of Dover, between St. Margaret’s and Deal. Nora didn’t know the coast of England, and she didn’t recognize the names of these places, so she simply left the navigation to the navigators and hoped for the best.

  The best. What would that be? She could just make out the forms looming ahead in the last light of day, the famous white cliffs. These vertical barriers seemed to run along most of this stretch of southeast England, with occasional bays and seaside towns nestled at their feet, as it were. She wondered if she and Craig were going to have to do some climbing…

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Nora started at the sudden voice. Craig had arrived at the rail beside her.

  “From here, yes,” she said, “but I wouldn’t want to try my hand at scaling those things.”

  He laughed. “Afraid you’ll break a fingernail?”

  “I’m thinking more of my neck! Please tell me there’s an alternate route.”

  Another laugh from Craig. “Don’t worry, Louis has thought of everything. Well, actually, Mr. Howard did, and we’re following his instructions to the letter. He came up with an interesting way to enter England without, um, going through the usual channels, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  “Interesting?” Nora didn’t like the sound of this.

  “You’ll see,” he said.

  Nora shivered and clutched the collar of her coat.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No, not really. I’m just worried about—”

  She caught her breath as the very thing she was worried about arrived before them, looming up like a specter in the gathering dark. With three sharp blasts of a horn, a British Coastguard cutter crossed their bow, traveling west. The cutter was a safe distance ahead of the Bardot but close enough that Nora could see two uniformed men leaning at the port rail. One of the men doffed his cap and waved it at them, and Craig waved back as Louis Reynard, in the wheelhouse behind them, gave the answering hail. The patrol boat glided by and continued on her way along the coast toward the Atlantic.

  “They’re watching the shores,” Nora said. “How on earth does Bill Howard think we’re going to slip past them? Don’t they have, I don’t know, radar and things? We can’t just sail right into England, can we?”

  He grinned. “May I draw your attention to the flag?”

  Nora turned around and peered up at the rigging above the wheelhouse. There, fluttering in the evening breeze, was a Union Jack.

  “Oh, so now the Bardot is a British vessel?” she asked. “How does that work?”

  “Louis Reynard is a man for all seasons,” Craig said, laughing. “And all nations. Believe it or not, this trawler is registered in four or five different countries.”

  Thinking of the wily little man with the sly smile who even now grinned out at them from his place at the helm, Nora nodded. “I don’t doubt it for a minute. But we have to land somewhere, and won’t there be questions?”

  “Not if we play our cards right,” he said.

  “How do we do that?”

  In answer, Craig pointed toward the coast they were fast approaching. Nora followed his gaze, taking in the sight of a cluster of lights on a beach in an inlet to their right, with a few lit buildings behind them: a seaside village. She could just make out people on the beach, tiny figures moving around a bonfire. A string of lights extended out into the water: a dock, possibly a marina, with several boats moored here and there in the bay. Then she heard faint music from the bonfire crowd, an amateur band of flutes and fiddles playing an old song
. It took her a moment to place it: “The White Cliffs of Dover.” Of course.

  “What’s going on over there?” she said.

  Craig smiled and winked at her. “Put on your dancing shoes, Mother. We’re going to a party!”

  Chapter 25

  Nora climbed the ladder from the dinghy to the dock, with Craig right behind her. The silent Reynard nephew who’d ferried them here in the rickety launch handed up Nora’s Coach bag and Craig’s backpack, then turned the boat around and puttered back out to where the Bardot waited. With a last wave to Louis, who waved from the distant deck, they made their way down the length of the dock to the beach.

  “Let me do the talking,” Craig whispered to her. “Wait here.”

  She stood at the edge of the dock, looking around at the figures on the sand. It was a local event, perhaps fifty people in little groups, some sitting on blankets eating and drinking, some dancing near the fire to the scratchy tunes of the ragtag band, three men and a woman who made up for their lack of musical training with good-natured energy. At the moment, they were blissfully desecrating “The Lambeth Walk.” A boisterous group of children ran everywhere through the scene, shrieking and laughing, accompanied by two rowdy dogs. A young couple walked together farther down the beach, away from the others, their arms entwined, the girl’s head resting on the boy’s shoulder. The strings of lights she’d seen from the Bardot turned out to be paper lanterns, and a long table made of plywood and sawhorses was weighed down with platters of food and beer bottles. Nora smiled, remembering similar beach parties near her house on Long Island. As English as this was, it wasn’t all that different from home.

  Of course her husband had usually been with her on those occasions. Gazing at the distant lovers, she thought of him. Jeff, tall and dark and almost ridiculously handsome, with that wonderful laugh, dancing with her, barefoot in the sand. Jeff, who always seemed to know what she was thinking, who could always cheer her up, who would never let anything bad happen to her. Jeff, who wasn’t here tonight.

  Despite the chill of the evening, she felt a sudden warmth. She unbuttoned her coat, watching as Craig went up to two old men who sat together on folding chairs near the food table. The older one, a bearded gent in a peacoat puffing on a pipe, rose as Craig arrived in front of them, and he and Craig spoke together briefly. He used his pipe to point to the waterfront street beyond the beach, the weathered row of stone buildings that fronted the village. Craig nodded, thanked him, and came back to the dock.

  “Okay,” he said. “The man we want to see is in the pub at the end of that street over there. We can get food there too—unless you’d rather join the festivities.” He jerked a thumb at the plywood table.

  “Oh, let’s not crash their party,” Nora said, eyeing the piles of fried chicken and shrimp and homemade potato chips with longing. She was hungry again, but she didn’t know anyone here, and being out in the open made her feel vulnerable. Better to get inside, and quickly. She looked over at the row of buildings in the distance. The one at the farthest end had a hanging sign on a pole above the door: the lucky dolphin. The band swung into “Swinging on a Star” as they left the dock and headed for the street. This was a narrow cobblestone lane on top of a low seawall, so they climbed the steps from the sand and continued toward the sign. The music and laughter faded behind them.

  The first thing Nora saw when she entered through the thick oak door Craig held open for her was the reason for the pub’s name, or so she supposed. A blue dolphin was mounted above the mirror behind the long bar at the back of the room, with a snub nose and a glassy eye, frozen in an arched leap. Despite the name of the establishment, this dolphin didn’t look very lucky to Nora—quite the opposite. She was relieved to see, on closer inspection, that it was made of plastic. The tall, stout, thickly bearded bartender who stood just under the faux trophy was very real, however, as were the three similarly bearded old salts he was serving. These customers probably had their names carved in those stools, she mused. They had swiveled to face the room at the sound of the little bell that had tinkled when Craig opened the door, foaming mugs in their fists. All four men eyed the newcomers with undisguised curiosity as they came up to the counter.

  “Evening,” Craig said, and the big bartender nodded. The three regulars turned back to their original positions and resumed their conversation, but Nora got the impression that they were half listening. “My mother and I have just come over from Deal, and we could use some supper. Would that be possible?”

  “Aye,” the big man grunted, “but only sandwiches tonight. Most of our trade is yonder.” He nodded toward the door they’d just entered and the beach beyond it.

  “Sandwiches will be fine,” Craig said, and the man nodded again. Message understood. He turned his massive head and bellowed, “Betty!”

  The door at the end of the wall behind him swung open, and a plump, pretty young woman bustled into the room. “Yes, Dad?”

  “Customers,” her father said.

  “Oh aye. Good evenin’, ma’am, sir. Welcome.”

  Two dining booths stood back-to-back along one side wall, and there were two freestanding tables with chairs by the big front window, looking out on the beach. Craig took his “mother’s” arm and led her to the booth in the front corner, farthest from the little crowd at the counter. A candle glowed in a netted glass on the gleaming wood table, and Betty slapped down placemats, flatware, and napkins as soon as they were seated, Craig with his back to the wall, facing the bar, and Nora with a good view of the bonfire and the revelers. Betty offered pea soup and ham-and-cheese sandwiches, and Craig asked for two bowls and four sandwiches, with beer for him and white wine for “me mum.” With a grin, the girl bustled back to the kitchen.

  Nora studied his face in the light of the candle between them. “We’ve just come over from Deal?” she said. “Was that some kind of password?”

  Craig nodded. “The barman’s name is Palmer. He owns this place. He should have news for us.”

  “What sort of news?”

  “Wheels,” Craig said. “I hope.”

  Nora shook her head in wonder. “Did Bill Howard arrange all this?”

  “Yeah. Well, Louis Reynard was my idea—he’s helped us out before, you know, transporting people. Louis told Mr. Howard about Palmer over there, who’s a business associate of his. So, Mr. Howard called Palmer and told him to expect us.”

  “And the password was Deal,” Nora said, glancing over her shoulder at the bar. “Louis Reynard and Mr. Palmer are obviously smugglers. Does the British government work with people like them on a regular basis?”

  Craig laughed. “We use all sorts of people in our work, when and if we need them. So do the Americans and every other country. Your husband will tell you the same thing; just ask him sometime. Saving the world can make strange bedfellows. Think of all this as an acting lesson, Mother.”

  “I don’t want to be in that play,” Nora said. “And stop calling me Mother!”

  They were still laughing when Mr. Palmer brought over their drinks, but their smiles faded when he leaned down and spoke in a low voice.

  “Have a care,” he said. “Our local constable, Sam Dawson, is all round this e’en, askin’ questions. Wants to know if anyone’s seen any strangers about. I got him in here and poured a couple o’ pints down him while ye landed. Very suspicious, our Sammy, but he dear loves his Watneys, so he didn’t see ye come ashore, and he went back to his station t’other end o’ the high street just afore ye came in here. He’s there now, and I’ve spread the word in case he comes round again—there’s none here’ll tip the Bill on ye.”

  “Thank you,” Craig said. “Why is Constable Dawson asking questions? Who alerted him?”

  Mr. Palmer grunted. “I asked him that very thing. He says he got an email from London—the Yard, no less. All puffed up about it, he is. Never gets word from them, not all the way out here, but they’re alerting all the coastal stations. Lookin’ for a woman from France, they are.”
He glanced at Nora and winked. “A much younger woman than thee, beggin’ yer pardon.”

  “Oh aye, an’ ye may say it,” Nora drawled in a perfect imitation of his accent. She scrunched up her wrinkled face and nodded her gray head. The two men laughed.

  “My Betty’s young man, Adam, is waitin’ in the garage across the high street,” Palmer continued. He nodded toward an archway beside the bar. “He has a car for ye, an old Focus of his pa’s. Nothin’ like new, but it’ll get ye where ye’re goin’. I’d offer ye lodgin’ for the night, but our Sammy’s put the stopper in that. Ye’d best be off as soon as ye’ve et.”

  Craig nodded and pulled out his wallet. Nora stared as he placed several large British notes on the table. Palmer’s meaty hand came down and swept them away in one swift, practiced move. With a nod and a muttered “Ta,” he went back behind the bar.

  Nora was actually beginning to relax when two things happened simultaneously. Betty arrived from the kitchen and placed sandwiches and soup in front of them just as a big man in a blue jacket with brass buttons arrived in the room through the archway, from the direction of the high street. Betty gave Nora and Craig a brief, warning glance before turning around to face him.

  “Evenin’, Constable,” she said.

  Chapter 26

  Nora froze, staring at the young man across the table from her.

  “What do we do now?” she whispered.

  Craig grinned and reached for his plate. “We eat, of course. Have a sandwich, Mother.”

  Nora nodded and made herself busy with the food, watching the activity across the room out of the corner of her eye. The smiling Betty sashayed over to the bar and patted a stool. Now Nora had to turn her head to follow the action behind her.

  “Sit yerself down here, Sammy,” Betty cooed, “and I’ll fetch ye a lovely ham-and-Stilton, just the way ye like it.” Her father was already setting a full mug down there. With a grunt, the big policeman ambled over and took the stool she indicated. When he turned to her, her bosom was practically in his face. He stared.