by Sarah Sundin
“I’m glad I can help.” Her breath hitched. With his arm curved behind her and his face so close in the darkened car, how could she think straight?
“So, you say you’re sorting it out. What have you been up to? Taking the suspects downtown and grilling them under a solitary lightbulb?”
She smiled. “They cower under my interrogation.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
Behind Jim, lights and buildings flashed past. “I’m a secretary. I take notes.”
“Notes?”
She hadn’t told anyone about her rapidly filling notebook, but discussing it with friends would be all right as long as she didn’t seek praise. “I record what people say. Separate pages for each person, noting what they say and what was said about them. The workers are used to me taking notes anyway. I’m sure it sounds silly.”
“No, it sounds useful.” Jim shifted in his seat. “What if something happens at the Navy Yard? Then you have all that information.”
An image flew through her mind—an FBI agent flipping through her notebook, stabbing his finger at the page—“That’s him! Why didn’t I think of it?” Then they’d arrest the guilty party and hold a press conference and drag Mary to the podium . . .
She shuddered and shut off the movie in her mind. “I hope it never comes to that.”
“I hope so too. But I’m sure they’re doing their own investigation.”
“They are, but the men don’t talk to the agents like they talk to me.”
“What do you mean?”
Mary fiddled with the supple leather of her cream-colored handbag. “I’m quiet, so people open up to me and know I won’t blab. And—well, I tend to fade into the background and people forget I’m there, so they speak in an unguarded way.”
Jim fell silent. Perhaps he’d forgotten her presence too.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced over. He looked straight at her with a rather unnerving gaze.
“Here we are.” Arch leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.
The taxi pulled to the curb in front of the Hotel Statler.
Up in the Terrace Room, the maître d’hôtel led them to a table inside the ballroom, where Howard Jones and his orchestra played “Stompin’ at the Savoy” and couples danced.
Mary smoothed the skirt of her periwinkle spring dress. With short sleeves, a scoop neckline, and a flared knee-length skirt, it was simple enough for the movies but elegant enough for dancing.
They settled around the table, ordered beverages, and then Jim turned question-filled eyes to Mary.
No more talk about her. “How’s life at sea?”
“At sea?” Jim crossed his ankle over his knee. “I wish. Nothing but inventories and training and stocking supplies and installing equipment.”
“Since Roosevelt promised American escort to British convoys, I’m sure they’re trying to get you ready as soon as possible.”
Jim ducked his chin and sent Arch a sidelong glance. “Well . . .”
Mary’s chest tightened. “I’m sorry. I know you can’t say anything.”
Arch draped his arm around Gloria’s shoulder. “We just have to be careful to only discuss public information and keep classified information secret.”
“Roosevelt’s promise to send you boys to protect British ships was in the papers.” Gloria shuddered. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Remember, those British ships carry American supplies,” Arch said.
Gloria sniffed. “Let them use their own escorts.”
Jim and Arch laughed together. “They don’t have many left,” Jim said. “And the British have to cover the Mediterranean too. Hitler just took Yugoslavia, Greece won’t last long, and he’s driving across Libya toward Egypt. If the Germans take the Suez Canal, Britain won’t stand a chance.”
Mary tensed at the chilliness in Gloria’s eyes, a look she’d seen from the diehard isolationists at work, those who said, “Fine. Let Britain fall. Just leave us out of it.”
The chill transformed to worry. “Do you think the war in the Mediterranean will distract Hitler from what we’re doing? Not only are we sending supplies to his enemy, but we just set up bases in Greenland. Won’t he see that as aggressive?”
“That’s the idea.” Arch squeezed Gloria’s shoulder.
Jim leaned his elbows on the table. “Not aggressive, necessarily, but strong. And smart.”
Mary traced the lines of her artfully folded napkin. “It’s only a matter of time, isn’t it? If we come between U-boats and their prey, eventually something will happen. If it’s big enough . . .”
The silence and solemnity around the table answered her question.
“All this heavy talk depresses me.” Gloria sprang to her feet. “Please, Arch.”
“Shall we dance?” He stood and led her to the dance floor.
“Shall we join them?” Jim offered his elbow. “Although I doubt this song will lift anyone’s mood.”
Mary took Jim’s arm and tuned her ears to the band, which played “I’ll Never Smile Again.” She laughed. “I don’t suppose that song’s good for morale.”
“No, but it’s good for dancing.” He pulled her into his arms at a friendly distance, appropriate for conversation.
Mary followed his lead in a foxtrot. “Back to my original question—how’s life on board ship?”
“Cramped, stuffy, and smelly.”
“Is the food all right?”
“Excellent. The Navy’s famous for feeding sailors well.”
“And you and Arch share a cabin. That’s wonderful. Is it better than on the battleship?”
Jim tilted his head and peered at her with one eye, like a comical detective. “I see what you’re doing, Miss Stirling.”
“You do? What am I doing?”
“This is how you do your spy work. You ask lots of questions and listen with that intent little look on your face as if every word were fascinating, and your victim keeps talking and talking.”
“You make me sound sinister.” The thought tugged up the corners of her lips.
He rocked her into a turn. “Not sinister, just modest. I’ve noticed you don’t talk about yourself if you can help it. Why is that?”
Mary glanced away, at the swirling mass of dancers, the men in tailored suits, the women in colorful spring dresses thanks to the unseasonably warm weather.
“Come on.” He squeezed her hand. “’Fess up.”
The warmth of the room pressed on her. “I don’t like attention.”
“And why is that?”
The teasing look in his hazel eyes coaxed up a teasing smile in response. “Gloria didn’t come for heavy conversation, and I didn’t come for psychoanalysis.”
A shift in the musical tempo, and the band transitioned into “You Turned the Tables on Me.”
“The song inspired me.” Jim swung her around. “I’m turning the tables and interrogating you.”
“Must you?”
“I must. Favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“I can tell.” He glanced at her dress. “You wear it a lot.”
“You’re very observant for a man. And what’s your favorite color?”
“I’m a Navy man. Of course it’s blue, but you’re being naughty and trying to flip things around again and I won’t have it. Why’d you choose secretarial school?”
Giggles fluttered in her throat. She’d never been called naughty before. “I’m too squeamish to be a nurse and not authoritative enough to be a teacher, but I can type like lightning and I was second in my class in shorthand.”
“Second? Why not first?”
Why had she bragged? Mary’s step faltered. At graduation, the top student was presented a plaque up on stage. “I . . . I let her win. She wanted it more than I did.”
“You failed deliberately?”
She stared at the knot of his black tie, stark against his white shirt. “Yes.”
“Out of kindness, or modesty, or . . .”
Fear.
“Yes. All of those, all mixed up.”
“Hmm.”
Mary couldn’t bear to see his expression. Would it be pity? Or disgust? Or confusion?
“There’s definitely a saboteur at the Boston Navy Yard.”
“What?” Her gaze jerked up to him, to warm eyes and an understanding smile.
“You. Sounds like you sabotage your own success to avoid attention. Am I right?”
A sour gelatinous mass formed in her throat, but she swallowed it and nodded. “I suppose.”
“There. You survived my psychoanalysis. Now for my spiritual advice—don’t hide your candle under a bushel.”
She smiled her thanks, even though that advice ran counter to the spiritual theme of her life, avoiding the evils of putting herself above others.
“Now for the fun part of the evening.” He grinned at her and whipped her around in a wild circle.
She laughed and held on to his broad shoulder. She’d have to be very careful not to fall for this man.
6
Saturday, April 26, 1941
“It’s been a while since I’ve had a blonde on my arm.” Jim scratched at his upper lip as they stepped out of the orange El train at the Park Street station.
“Don’t scratch. You’ll undo my artwork.” Mary swatted his hand. “I worked hard to make it halfway realistic. Besides, if I can resist scratching under this wig, you can control yourself too.”
Jim rubbed at the dark eyebrow pencil marks staining the tips of his fingers. “Still have my mustache?”
“For now. But if you keep it up, you’ll blow our cover.” Her accent sounded for all the world like some gun moll in a gangster movie.
“Unlikely.” Not only was Jim new to town, but the contrast of his gray civilian suit, fedora, and fake mustache to his usual dress blues would throw off anyone but his shipmates.
And Mary? He couldn’t help but laugh again. She wore the curly blonde wig Arch had bought for a roast at the Academy, a red suit borrowed from her roommate Yvette, and a giant red disc of a hat perched on the side of her head. Only her soft eyes and the notebook in her hand would identify her as Mary Stirling.
That notebook was why they wore disguises. While everyone expected Mary to take notes at the Navy Yard, why would she do so on a Saturday stroll downtown? She didn’t want to draw attention to her detective work. Better to play the role of lady reporter.
“This is so much fun.” Her step bounced as they headed down the platform. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“More fun than visiting the Bunker Hill Monument.” Arch had taken Gloria to Connecticut to visit his family for the weekend, and Jim had hoped to coax Mary on a historical excursion this morning. But when he arrived at her apartment, he found her working on her saboteur notebooks. The more they talked about the escalating situation at the Navy Yard, the more Mary wanted to investigate. Then Jim remembered the America First rally at Boston Common this afternoon, and their plan flew together.
“Oh!” Mary’s gloved hand pulled on Jim’s arm. “I was so busy showing you my notebooks I forgot to tell you about the incident this week.”
“Incident?” He gave her his best attempt at a detective scowl.
But she laughed at him. “You have a hard enough time looking serious, much less dangerous.”
The curse of having a boyish face. “Just tell me about the incident.”
She scanned the station as if her suspects might be listening. “They installed some decking on one of the destroyers. It passed inspection before installation, but then it failed.”
“So the inspector . . .”
Mary smiled and adjusted her hat. “Frank Fiske. He’s been at the Yard over twenty years. He catches a lot of mistakes. In fact, he told me Heinrich Bauer has made some errors lately.”
“The German, right? Did he do it?”
“Ira Kaplan worked on that section. Bauer’s most vocal opponent. Fiske says Kaplan must have gone back and altered his work after the inspection, and Kaplan says Bauer did it to frame him. He got everyone stirred up, and Fiske had to break up a fight. It’s a mess.”
Jim climbed the stairs. “Do you think it’s Bauer? Or Kaplan?”
She waved her notebook. “Those are just two of the men. Over ten thousand people work at the Yard.”
“But they targeted your bottle of champagne. It must be someone who knows your work habits and routines.”
“I agree. And this incident, if it’s really sabotage, narrows it down to one crew.”
“So let’s look at motive. Bauer’s would be obvious. A Nazi—”
“If he is one.”
Jim nodded. “A Nazi would want to keep our ships off the seas so the U-boats can hunt unmolested. But what about Kaplan? He’s an interventionist, right?”
“Right. Here’s where it gets tricky. Kaplan wants us to fight, wants us to enter the war. What would be a better motive for America to join the battle than if the enemy attacked us on our own shores?”
Jim paused outside the exit, right on Boston Common, and he blinked in the sunshine. “So if they could make it look like Nazis were sabotaging our ships in our own harbors, the American people would get riled up.”
“That’s the theory.” Mary pointed to Park Street Church rising in red brick stateliness in front of them, with its tall white steeple pointing to heaven. “Say, do you think I should dress like this for church tomorrow?” She sent Jim an exaggerated wink. Completely out of character.
Yet it wasn’t. For a quiet girl, she had a nice adventurous streak. “I dare you.”
“I don’t think so. Now, where’s the rally?”
“The paper said it was at the Parkman Bandstand.”
“I know where that is.” Mary led him around the station entrance and away from the church.
On the green in Boston Common, people headed toward the bandstand. Some would go because they agreed with the America First organization, which wanted to keep the United States out of the war. Some would go out of curiosity. And some would go to heckle.
Jim’s civilian suit felt like a coat of protective armor. Boston, like New York, tended to strong isolationism. Many of the immigrants, especially the Irish, Italians, and Germans, had no interest in supporting Britain or in fighting their own cousins overseas.
“Let’s stick to the fringes of the crowd,” Jim said.
“Yes.” Mary’s gaze darted around the mass of people, several hundred perhaps.
“We won’t let that happen!” a man cried from the bandstand, a round platform with a domed roof suspended on white pillars.
“Who is that?” Mary said. “I don’t recognize him.”
“Me neither.”
The speaker stabbed the air with his finger. “They fooled us during the First World War. Remember all the propaganda the British fed us? The Germans were committing grave atrocities, butchering Belgian babies, and ravishing Frenchwomen. We believed it. We fell for it. Then we got over there and what did we find? Did we find those atrocities?”
“No!” the crowd roared.
“No, we didn’t. All lies. All so we’d go and fight Britain’s battle for them. All so Britain could maintain their mighty empire—with American blood. Will we let that happen again?”
“No!”
Next to Jim, Mary scribbled in her notebook, filling the page with loops and lines.
Jim looked over her shoulder. “If I didn’t know you were using shorthand, I’d say you had the worst handwriting in the world.”
“It’s my secret spy skill.” Mischief sparked in her eyes. “Except every secretary in America can read it.”
“What are you writing?”
She gestured to the crowd. “Harvey Mills, George O’Donnell, Curly Mulligan, Ralph Tucker. Let’s go that way.”
He followed her around the edge of the crowd, gripping her elbow but glancing over his shoulder at the speaker.
The speaker tugged on the hem of his suit jacket. “And now what are the British telling us?
Oh, those Germans. They’re committing atrocities, butchering Jewish babies, ravishing Frenchwomen. Do they think we’re stupid?”
“You’re stupid if you don’t believe it!” someone shouted from the far side of the crowd.
Mary peered over. “We need to go over there.”
Jim let her lead but kept her to the fringe. If things turned violent, he’d want to get her away in a hurry.
The speaker rocked back and forth on his heels and gestured to his hecklers. “And now a word from London, eh, folks?”
Laughter romped through the crowd.
“No! A word from the real world. You’re a Fifth Columnist, that’s what you are, convincing people to weaken our defenses so when the Germans—”
The crowd booed so loudly Jim couldn’t hear, but Mary plunged onward. Perhaps now was not a good time to float with the current.
“Weaken our defenses?” the speaker said. “Who’s weakening our defenses? Our president, that’s who. Sending our new ships and planes to England. If anyone attacked us, where would we be? Undefended, that’s what. No arms to Britain. Arm America first!”
The crowd cheered and punched the air with their fists.
Mary stopped and wrote hard and fast.
Jim nudged her to the side a bit. “See someone?”
“Yes. The hecklers. Morton Anders, Ira Kaplan. My goodness.”
“You want to defend America?” one of the hecklers called. “Then defend freedom. Defend the democracies. Defend Britain. We’re stronger together. Down with the dictators!”
Several members of the crowd surged forward, shouting insults. The hecklers shouted back, brandished fists.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Jim steered Mary away across Boston Common toward the Public Garden.
Mary resisted and glanced back, like Lot’s wife. “Oh! Al Klingman, Weldon Winslow—and he brought his wife? But she’s English.”
“That’s enough for today, Agatha Christie.”
She kept writing as they walked. “Oh my. Oh my. It sure got heated, didn’t it?”
“That’s why we’re going to the lagoon, where sweet little families sail on Swan Boats and feed the ducks and eat wholesome picnics.”
Mary closed her notebook and stashed her pen in her purse. “I’ll fill in details tonight. Goodness. One page per person is no longer enough.”