moods. But back there, when she was asking about his case, it was as if he were looking at a blank wall.
What was going on with Sarah? That had always been part of her allure, that at one moment she could joke about dragging him up to the balcony for some loving and then be hard as stone when it came to running the Underground Railroad station. A lover and a fighter, all mixed in one pretty, exasperating package.
Sam knew he should ask her, but now her mood was cheerful, upbeat, and he wanted it to last. He also wanted to stop thinking of Donna and that sweet, uncomplicated smile.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When they got home, Walter tottered back upstairs, declaring Toby had been a peach of a boy. Sarah went to check on their son as Sam hung up their coats. When Sarah came back, he walked to the cellar door. “Going to the basement for a second.”
“All right. And it’s the last one. Promise. And be nice to him, whoever he is.”
“I’ll be nice,” he replied, trying to keep his voice even. “And you’re the one telling me to be careful, my little revolutionary.”
He was rewarded with a smile. “When you come back up, sweetie, I’ll show you just how dangerous I can be.”
As he turned the knob, the doorbell rang. Sarah stopped, shocked. He said more sharply than he intended, “Any chance there’s been a foul-up? That your passenger thought he had to come to the front door?”
Sarah had paled. “No, impossible. They all know the routine.”
The doorbell rang again, followed by a pounding at the door and muffled voices. To his wife, in a low and determined tone, Sam said, “No argument, Sarah. No discussion. Go to Toby’s room now. If you hear me shouting, grab him. Climb out the window. Go to one of the neighbors and call your dad. Do you understand?”
Lips pursed, she left the room. Sam went to the vestibule, looked at the upper shelf, where his service revolver rested.
“Just a sec,” he called out. He switched on the porch light and opened the door.
Before him stood two Long’s Legionnaires.
He took a breath. “Something I can do for you?”
He’d never seen these two before. They looked so alike that they could have been brothers. But the one on the left was taller and carried a clipboard, and the other one was shorter, squatter, and had his arms crossed across his uniform jacket, as though he was impatient about everything.
“Evenin’, sir,” the one carrying the clipboard said. “My name is Carruthers. This here is LeClerc. We’re doin’ a survey of our local Party members, lookin’ for some information.”
Sam held the doorknob tight. “What kind of information?”
An insolent shrug from LeClerc. “Stuff. You know how it is.”
“No. I don’t know how it is.”
Carruthers said, “All right if we come in?”
“No, it’s not all right. It’s late. My boy’s in bed, and my wife is getting ready to retire.”
LeClerc made a point of leaning to one side, looking over Sam’s shoulder. “Your wife getting’ ready by goin’ into your cellar? Door’s open.”
Sam didn’t move. “I was just down there, checking on the furnace.”
LeClerc said, “With the light off?”
“I turned the light off when I came up, when I heard you fellows ringing and banging on our door. Now, if you don’t—”
Carruthers smiled. “Well, sir, we do mind, if you don’t mind me sayin’, and we’d like to come in and ask a few questions…”
LeClerc started moving forward. Sam stayed where he was, blocking the doorway. “It’s late,” he said. “You know who I am and where I work. If this is so damn important, you can talk to me there. Otherwise, get the hell off my porch.”
Carruthers glanced to his companion, then looked at Sam. Sam tensed, wondering if Sarah was ready; if these two clowns made one more step in his direction, he was going to start throwing punches, and—
The Legionnaire on the left—Carruthers—smiled. “If you say so, sir. We’ll try to get to you tomorrow. At the police station. Tell your wife and boy good night, now, okay?”
Their heavy boots clattered on the worn planks, as they went down the porch stairs. Sam closed and locked the door, then switched off the light. He realized his hands were shaking.
The door to Toby’s room was open, the night-light on. Sarah sat on the end of the sleeping boy’s bed. Sam said in a quiet voice, “They’re gone.”
“Who are they?” Sarah whispered back.
“Long’s Legionnaires. Two of them.”
“Oh, Sam…”
“They said they were conducting some kind of survey. I told them to come to my office tomorrow.”
“Sam—”
“I’m going to the cellar,” he said curtly. “I’ll be up in a bit. And Sarah… that was a damn close thing. I hope you know just how damn close it was.”
His frightened wife just nodded, not saying a word.
He went through the open door to the cellar, walked down a few steps, then switched on the light. The basement snapped into view, and there, behind the hanging sheet, he could make out a shape.
“Hey there,” he called, descending the rest of the stairs. “You okay?”
A hand came up to draw the blanket aside, and Sam stopped. The man was a Negro, huge, with penetrating eyes and… hard to put a finger on it, but a presence.
“Hello, and thank you for your help,” the man said. His voice was deep and unexpectedly cultured. Sam came closer, tried not to stare. In this part of the world, one didn’t see too many Negroes.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Is there anything you need?”
“No. I’m told that my travels will continue in just a few hours, and by tomorrow evening, I should be in Montreal.”
Just a few seconds earlier, Sam had been ready to dislike the man who was putting his family in jeopardy, but that feeling was now—inexplicably—gone. He said, “I hope it works out all right.”
The visitor laughed, a full sound that echoed in the old root cellar. “Ironic, isn’t it, that I should find myself here. My own father was a slave on a plantation in North Carolina. He had high hopes for me, he did, and now here I am, a hunted man on a new Underground Railroad. I was in Britain for a while, working before the Nazis invaded, and I came back here, hoping to continue the fight. And look where I am. Alone, hunted, just like my daddy, like a fugitive slave from the last century, on the run from the South. All because of that man in the White House.”
Sam looked at the man closely. Damn, he looked familiar. Hadn’t he seen him in a newsreel or a newspaper? He wanted to ask but didn’t want to pry. “You take care. I’ve got to go back upstairs to my wife and boy.” He held out his hand to the Negro. “Sam. Sam Miller.”
The man shook his hand warmly. “Nice to meet you, Sam. I’m Paul. Paul Robeson.”
The name was familiar, but it was time to go.
“Good luck, Paul.”
“Thank you, Sam. I appreciate that.”
Sam left the man and went back upstairs.
Sarah was in bed, the radio off, and he changed into his pajamas and slid under the sheets. Sarah gently touched his chest, and he rolled to her. “Close. We were that close to being arrested and sent away. Do you understand, Sarah?”
“Yes,” she murmured. “I promise, Sam. He’s the very last one.”
“It’s too late,” he said. “Somebody knows, somewhere, that there’s an Underground Railroad station here.
