coming to Portsmouth. A quicker trip. Plus, the Navy Yard’s an easy place to secure.”
Sarah put the potato pancakes on a plate, brought it over to the table. “Security, hah. Maybe if we’re lucky, a crane will fall on Long and Hitler at the same time. Make the world a safer place.”
He picked up his knife and fork as she sat across from him. “Maybe so, but if Long goes, some other creep takes over. What’s-his-name. That senator from Missouri. Same with Hitler.”
She placed her chin in her hand. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t get the feeling our Vice President likes being Long’s lackey, the poor son of a gun. And I heard that—”
He put his silverware down, looked at the cheerleader who once won his heart, no longer listening to what she was saying. He thought of the boy at the Fish Shanty with the dollar in his hand. Sean warning him to watch his back. The train of prisoners heading up to Maine. The families outside the police station, the children crying. His brother, Tony, on the loose. Donna Fitzgerald and her man, Larry, back together. Leo Gray being picked up by the Black Maria. The visit last night from the two Long’s Legionnaires, who made a point of knowing the door in his living room led to the cellar. And what Hanson had said not over an hour ago.
Her head came up. “Everything all right? Sam?”
He kept his face calm, picked up his knife and fork again, then laid them down. “Sarah… the next few days are really going to be hell around here. The FBI, the Secret Service, army and navy, you name it, they’ll be here. Not to mention Long’s bully boys.”
“I’m sure you’re right. What’s wrong, then?”
“You and Toby need to leave town during the summit.”
“Sam, you can’t be serious.”
“I’m very serious. There’s going to be roadblocks, protestors. People out in the streets. Lots of chances for punches being thrown, people getting arrested, maybe even people getting shot. I don’t want you or Toby caught in the middle.”
“We could just stay home.”
“And suppose the Secret Service or the Department of the Interior do some digging, talking to people, and hear about you and your school friends? Or if the Long’s Legionnaires decide to finally act on what they know about the cellar? You two could be in a boxcar headed west before I knew it, before I could do anything about it.”
“Sam…”
“Look, a department employee just got himself arrested, and his boss, the city marshal, couldn’t do a damn thing. Someone who
“But my dad—”
“Sarah,” he interrupted. “Your dad, he could help. His summer place up at Lake Winnipesaukee. In Moultonborough. It would be a good place to stay for a few days. Quiet, remote, far away from this madhouse.”
“Take Toby out of school? And not go to work?”
“Schools are going to be closed, Sarah. You know it makes sense. With my brother out there, the place crawling with cops and feds and all that…”
She sat back in the chair. “Sam… okay, we’ll talk about it later, okay? After you eat.”
“Sure,” he said. “But you know it makes sense. Just for a few days. That’s all.”
She took a breath. “Okay. For now—I hate to say this, but after you’re done, I need you to go upstairs and see Walter.”
“Why? What’s up? His typewriter too loud?”
“No, nothing like that. He’s got a visitor up there, and they were talking loud a while ago, keeping Toby awake. You know Walter promised to keep quiet. Could you just remind him, please?”
“Sure,” he said. “Anything else I should know?”
“Yeah. I hate it when you’re right.”
That should have brought a witty response, but he kept his mouth shut. They ate silently for a little bit, and then, remembering something from the morning, he said, “Sarah, do you know anyone from school who drives a yellow Rambler? Four-door, a big car.”
She sliced a piece of meat. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”
He hesitated. Should he tell her the car was connected to his murder investigation? And if he did that, suppose it belonged to someone in the Underground Railroad movement—could he trust her to keep quiet? Sarah might warn this person and—
“Oh, just something that happened when I dropped off Toby this morning,” he led quietly. “Yellow Rambler came up the street, nearly clipped me. Ticked me off a bit, that’s all.”
“Oh,” she said, bringing her fork up to her mouth. “I see.”
So he kept quiet, as a good inspector—and lousy husband—should.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
After Sam finished dinner, he grabbed his coat and went to the outside staircase. He trotted up the steps and knocked on the door, calling out, “Walter! It’s Sam. Open up, please.”
It took three more knocks before Walter opened the door. “Sam!” he said a bit too enthusiastically. “How good of you to join us. Of course, I assume you’re here as a landlord and neighbor and not as part of your duties in the constabulary… constabulation… the police force.”
“Walter, can I please come in?”
“But of course!”
Walter opened the door wider, and Sam stepped inside. A one-legged man was sitting at Walter’s table, smoking a cigarette, crutches leaning against his wooden chair. He had on a shapeless black sweater and khaki trousers, the right leg of the pants folded over and pinned just above the knee. His brown hair was cut very short, and the way he held his cigarette said “foreigner” to Sam. “Sam, may I present my guest… my boon companion for the evening… Reginald Hale, late flying lieutenant in His Majesty’s Royal Air Force. Reggie, this is Sam Miller, inspector for the Portsmouth Police Department, good neighbor, and kindly landlord. Gentlemen.”
Reggie said in a drawling British accent, “Charmed, I’m sure.”
“Hi, yourself,” Sam said.
Walter put both hands on the back of a chair, as if depending upon it for support. On the chair was his leather valise. “Reggie is helping me with a bit of technical advice. You see, I’m working on a story in which the hero is a fighter pilot suddenly transported in time to the future, where civilization is under siege and the civilized ones have forgotten how to fight and—”
The professor must have noticed the look on Sam’s face, for he swallowed hard and continued, “But of course, my plotting means nothing to you. What was important was knowing the technical details of flying, which the good lieutenant”—Walter pronounced it in the British fashion, “leftenant”—“was going to help me. And then we started listening to the news about this wonderful bit of bloody diplomatic business that the butcher of Europe and the Kingfish of Louisiana managed to pull off, and well, a bottle emerged and other tales were told.”
“I see,” Sam said. “Walter, look, no offense, but Sarah heard some loud noises up here, Toby’s trying to sleep and—”
The RAF man stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, struggled upright, reaching for his crutches. “Not a problem, Inspector, it was time for me to leave anyway. Professor, thank you for your hospitality.” He hopped, grabbed his crutches, and Sam didn’t know whether to keep looking or glance away. So he did nothing. The crutches went underneath the man’s arms and Sam said, “Do you need a hand getting down the steps?”
