Love Comes Calling

by Siri Mitchell

  I turned around, spoon in my hand.

  He caught it as it dropped from my fingers, then put it back in the cabinet. “It’s from Siam.” Dressed in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of white flannel trousers, he didn’t look at all the way he did on the Yard: like some football hero or campus royalty. He looked . . . tired.

  “How’s your job?”

  “Hard.”

  Then that made two of our jobs. I glanced up into his eyes. How was I supposed to ask if he was doing anything that might be making some king mad? Or if he knew any Irish? “Well . . . how?”

  “How what?”

  “How is it hard?”

  “Oh. I don’t know . . .” He shrugged. “It’s a lot of numbers.”

  Numbers? How could numbers get him into trouble with Irish people? “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. That’s all I did all day. Sit in the commission’s office and add up a bunch of numbers that didn’t seem to want to be added up.”

  They sounded like the numbers in my mathematics class.

  He sighed as he sat in an armchair and stretched out those long legs of his. “How’s your job?”

  “My what?” How did he know what I was doing?

  “Your job. Your mother said you were working down at the orphan asylum.”

  “My mother said that?” I went back to the spoon collection. I really didn’t see how a triangular spoon worked. Did people in Siam have different-shaped mouths than we did?

  “I think it’s really terrific, what you’re doing.”

  “You do?”

  He rose and came to stand beside me, resting his arm on the top of the cabinet. “I do.”

  His eyes were truly blue. You couldn’t really say they were gray or hazel or anything else but a clear, strong, deep blue.

  He leaned toward me.

  The evening light touched his hair, sparking it into a golden fire. He reached out and pried the spoon from my hand.

  I hadn’t realized I was holding it again.

  After he set it back on the shelf, he kept hold of my hand.

  “Do you know any Irish, Griff?”

  He blinked. “What?”

  Oysters and clambakes! This figuring things out might be trickier than I thought it would be. Should I just tell him what I’d heard?

  He was looking at me, puzzlement clouding his eyes.

  No, I shouldn’t. I couldn’t tell him. He was the one person who never despaired of me, and I didn’t want him to start now. If I told him I suspected he was about to be murdered, I just knew I’d hear him say, “Oh, Ellis!” He’d wonder how I’d managed to hear it, and I’d have to tell him about my real job, and then he wouldn’t think I was terrific anymore . . . even though I didn’t really need him to think I was more terrific than he already did because that’s why I was leaving in the first place. The truth was I’d never been as terrific as he seemed to think I was.

  No, I’d figure it all out by myself and then I’d save him . . . and maybe I wouldn’t even ever have to tell him about the telephone call and he’d be able to go on thinking I really was terrific. I wouldn’t feel so bad about ducking off to go to Hollywood, then. Saving his life would be like . . . a going-away present. My gift to him.

  “What were you saying about Irish people?”

  Irish people? Oh! “Do you know any?”

  “I don’t—I don’t think so.” He rocked back onto his heels, leaning against the wall. “Although, now that I think about it, the cook is Irish. And the driver.”

  “Have you ever done anything to make them mad at you?”

  “When I was little . . .” He looked away and then looked back. Was he blushing?

  “You remember, Ellis! We used to sneak cookies from the kitchen all the time. But I don’t think Mrs. O’Malley ever got mad at us.”

  No. She hadn’t. In fact, I suspected she used to leave those plates in a place where we didn’t have to stretch too far to reach them.

  “Why are you worried about Irish people?”

  “Um . . . well . . . don’t you ever worry about people?”

  “I worry about you. About us. I was thinking . . .” He put a hand down into his pocket.

  Oh dear. This was headed toward dangerous territory. I could tell by the look in his eyes. He had the pin there in his trousers, didn’t he? “What’s to worry about?” I turned and walked over toward the divan, running a hand across that nice, scrumptious, glossy wood framing on its camel back.

  “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?” I walked on, putting a chair, as well as the divan, between us.

  “You’re running away again.”

  I was. But not in the way he thought. Or maybe I was running away in addition to the way he thought I was. I was running away from him and his fraternity pin, and I was also running away from Boston. Just two more weeks.

  He brought his hand out, fist closed around something.

  It seemed far more important to hurry up and leave than to figure out if he knew anyone else who was Irish. “Well . . .” I made a dash toward the entry hall. “Good luck tomorrow. I hope the numbers add up. Bye.”

  “Ellis, wait!”

  Waiting is what I’d been doing for far too long. I’d save Griff—with or without his help—and then I was finally going to leave.

  10

  Saving someone is far easier said than done. Especially when you don’t quite know what it is you’re saving him from. I found a pack of cards in my desk drawer and sat down to shuffle them. Griff wasn’t going to be any help, that was clear. He couldn’t even remember which Irish he knew!

  I arched the cards and watched as they fell into place when the arch collapsed.

  But he’d made someone mad, that’s for sure!

  I struck the edge of the cards against the desk to align them, then shuffled the pack again.

  He’d just started his job, so it’s not like he had time to do much else but work with numbers on that commission.

  I hated numbers.

  But how could numbers get a person into trouble? Besides not being the right ones on a test?

  Beats me.

  Putting the cards aside, I got up and dug around the chest I’d brought from school, pulling out my phonograph. Now, where had I put all my records? I pawed around through piles of sweaters and stacks of skirts, most of them marked by wine stains. Why hadn’t Irene just obeyed the rules? If she’d done what she was supposed to do, then my clothes wouldn’t all be ruined. Which made me wonder about her clothes again and where she was getting the money for them. When I’d shared the room with her, she’d been worse than I had at begging money from people. Which reminded me about the money I owed Mary and Louise. Maybe I could use some of the money I got from working Janie’s job to repay them.

  There was my little book! A lot of good it had done me. I turned around and dropped it into the wastepaper basket.

  Oh! I was doing it again. If I was going to keep Griff from getting murdered before I left, then I had to concentrate on figuring out what those men on the telephone were talking about. They’d mentioned a king, hadn’t they? Which didn’t make any sense at all. We didn’t have kings anymore in America.

  I pulled a sweater from the trunk, set it aside, and plunged my hand to the bottom. There were the records. I pulled them out and set them in a pile on the floor. Then I sat down right beside them to think.

  What was it they’d said again about that king?

  Banana oil! Why did I have to be so stupid? The king was going to . . . something about a throne. Knock Griff off his throne. That was it! And take him out of the picture.

  That’s why I had to do something.

  But what?

  That was the problem. What was I supposed to do? I could go to the police, but then what would I say? That I’d heard someone say something about a prince, and I’d decided they were talking about Griff? Even to me, it sounded like nonsense. They’d ask me who it was I’d heard, and I�
�d tell them the men were Irish.

  Well, there were thousands of Irish in Boston, so that didn’t help any.

  And when they asked me where the call had come from . . . I didn’t know. And where had the call gone to? I didn’t know that either. And even if I knew, what would it tell me?

  At least I knew one thing for certain: Whatever they were planning on doing, it would be out in the open so everyone could see it. That sounded awfully ominous, but at least I wouldn’t have to worry about Griff during the day when he was at work. Or at night when he was home. So that meant . . . what did it mean? When did I have to worry about him?

  Something wasn’t making any sense.

  I listened to my records for a while as I shuffled my cards, but when I went to bed, I still didn’t have any answers.

  “Janie or . . . whoever you are!” Doris hissed at me when I walked into the bathroom and gestured me over with a waving of her hands. “What did you do yesterday?”

  I shrugged. “I worked. Right alongside you.”

  “But some of the girls are complaining to Miss Hastings that they couldn’t pass their telephone calls to you. And when they did, they were disconnected or connected to the wrong numbers.”

  “I only did it once.” Or twice. Although there was that incident with my beads. “Today I’ll get it right. I promise.”

  “You’d better. The chief is going to listen in on you!”

  Miss Hastings? The one I’d promised Janie wouldn’t notice me? “What should I do?”

  “You do it right. You have to. Janie really needs this job.”

  Janie needed it? I needed it! I still had to figure out what was supposed to happen to Griff, and I still had to earn the money.

  I put my pocketbook up on the shelf and turned to follow Doris, but then I remembered that old receipt and pencil from the day before. I grabbed them and pushed them into my pocket before leaving. Once I got settled on my stool, I pulled them out and set them on the shelf before me. My goodness but I’d taken a lot of calls the day before. One, two . . . I counted them all up and there were sixty-three of them. I turned the paper over.

  Sixty-three calls yesterday. That was more than I remembered, but it had to be right because I’d written down all of those numbers. At least the ones from the afternoon. I shuddered when I thought about those Irish voices on the other end of the telephone line.

  Wait a minute. Wait just a minute!

  I’d written all of those numbers down. That meant . . . that meant one of them belonged to the call I’d overheard. But which one was it? I’d folded and refolded the paper so many different times I didn’t know where I’d started.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, expecting to see Doris, but it wasn’t her. It was Miss Hastings. She was staring over the top of her glasses at me. “Janie Winslow.”

  Janie. I had to be Janie. I lowered my gaze and smiled at the floor.

  “I need you to come with me.”

  “But I—I have telephone calls to patch through.”

  “Not right now, you don’t. And not yesterday, apparently, either! I had a lot of complaints about you.” She marched me down the hall and up the stairs.

  If she were going to fire me, wouldn’t she be marching me toward the door instead? “May I ask where we’re going?”

  “There’s a policeman here who wants to talk to you.”

  A policeman? Was she going to have me arrested? Just for transferring calls to a wrong number or two?

  She flung the door open and pushed me through.

  “I—” I forgot everything I was going to say because standing right there in front of me was Rod La Rocque in the flesh—with a squared-off cleft chin and dark, brooding eyes—or at least a very close approximation of him.

  He winked at me.

  “This is Janie Winslow. As I told you, she’s usually very reliable. There have been no complaints at all in her service.” She turned toward me. “Until yesterday.”

  He put out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Winslow.”

  As Miss Hastings left us, I put my hand into his, feeling like I’d just walked into a real live movie. And the best of it was, I actually felt like I imagined Janie always did: good and smart and capable.

  He drew me off to one of the round tables in the center of the room and we sat down.

  “Pleased to meet you, Officer . . . ?”

  “Officer Jack Feeney. If it’s all right with you, I need to ask you some questions.”

  I nodded.

  “Can you state your full name and your address?”

  “El . . . I mean, Janie . . . Winslow?” Did she have a middle name? Probably. Didn’t everyone have a middle name? But . . . what was I supposed to give as my address? “I’ve just moved in with a girlfriend, but I’m only staying with her until I find a place of my own, so I don’t really have an address right now, at least not one I’d want to give you, but if you need to find me, you know where I work, so why don’t you just use this one?”

  “Can you give me the address of your parents, then? They’d always know where to find you, wouldn’t they?”

  “They would, I suppose, if they were alive, but my mother died just this past weekend and I don’t have any brothers and sisters.” At least I didn’t think Janie had any brothers and sisters, but then again, I hadn’t thought she had a father either. “Maybe the best thing to do is just not try to contact me for a while. At least, not until I get settled somewhere.”

  As I’d been talking, he’d started to look as if his collar was too tight. Now his face had gone flush. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up . . . that. You have my sympathies. So . . . er . . . how long have you been working here?”

  “Just—” Oops. Not just since yesterday. I had, but Janie hadn’t. “I . . .” didn’t know. How long had Janie been here? I kicked myself in the shin to get my brain to start working again. Ow! Of all the times to be stupid, this was not one of them. Janie. I was supposed to be Janie. “It seems like forever, but I suppose it’s only been a few years now.”

  “I have great admiration for people like you.”

  “You—you do?”

  “Of course I do. Do you know how many emergency calls you hello girls have taken in the past year?”

  “Well . . . no, I don’t. How many?”

  He smiled. “I don’t know either. Not exactly, anyway. But quite a few. I can tell you must be very dedicated to your work.”

  “You can?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  For the next two weeks I was. I nodded, smiling a Janie smile.

  “But it must get a little boring sometimes.”

  “Boring?” Boring was the one thing it was not. The switchboard had been so busy yesterday I’d hardly had a chance to breathe. “I don’t think boring is the right word.”

  “Dull? Dreary? Unexciting? What would you call it?”

  “Hard.”

  “Hard?” His brows peaked in surprise.

  “Hard.”

  “Even after all those years you’ve worked here? I’d think you’d be able to almost transfer a telephone call in your sleep.”

  “I did last night. In my dreams.” I’d patched through endless telephone calls from one Irish man to another.

  Officer Feeney laughed outright. “I think I like you, Miss Winslow.” He crossed his arms, putting his elbows on the tabletop, and leaned toward me. “I’m a policeman, Miss Winslow, so you can trust me.”

  I found myself nodding, even though he hadn’t asked me a question.

  “Don’t you ever listen in on a telephone call or two just to pass the time?”

  “Only when I—” I put a hand to my mouth as I felt a blush color my cheeks.

  “Only when . . . ?”

  Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut? “Only when I don’t mean to.”

  “You only listen in when you don’t mean to?” He leaned back and scratched at his ear. “How does that work?”

  “When you patch throug
h a call you have to . . . well . . . there are two cords you have to plug in. I’m a B operator, so I take a call from the A operator. She passes it to me through one cord and then I plug in the second cord and patch the call through. Only I have to flip a switch when I do it. And sometimes I forget to.”

  “But the chief operator said normally you’re—”

  “I know, I know.” Normally Janie really was Janie. “But . . . yesterday was . . . hard. So many calls came in all at the same time I just . . . I just . . . forgot.”

  “And so you listened in?”

  “I didn’t mean to. And it was only until I could flip the switch, and once I did, I didn’t hear anything else.”

  The officer drummed his fingertips on the table as he looked at me. Then he looked away. “You didn’t hear anything surprising, did you?” His gaze swung back.

  I kept my eyes down the way Janie would have. My shoulders were already rolled forward. “Surprising? Of course I was surprised! I thought I’d remembered to flip the switch. But then I heard the voices . . .”

  “You didn’t happen to say anything to them, did you?”

  “To whom?”

  “To whoever it was that was talking.”

  “I don’t know.” I said the words in Janie’s careful way, as if I were truly trying to remember. There was something important about all those questions he was asking! I wished I could work out what it was.

  “You don’t know?” He seemed puzzled.

  “What?” What was it I wasn’t supposed to know?

  “What?”

  “What don’t I know?” I wished he’d make more sense.

  “You said you didn’t know.”

  “Didn’t know what?”

  “What you didn’t know.”

  Did he have to be so mean about it? Now I was confused.

  He threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you don’t know!” He muttered something to himself. Then he leveled a look at me. “It’s not right to listen in on other people’s telephone calls, Miss Winslow.”