out in Grandpa’s car. Okay?”
Before anybody said anything, he was outside in the blessedly cool and free air, carrying both suitcases.
Sarah said, “I’ll try to call you the moment we’re settled in if the damn phone’s working.”
He kissed her and said, “You sure you’ve got everything packed?”
She squeezed the back of his neck and whispered, “Not really, but I’m leaving all my frilly things behind for later… for another rain check.”
Another kiss exchanged. “When it’s all over, I’ll come up to fetch you. The city’ll owe me some time.”
Sarah got into the front seat of the Oldsmobile. “Dad could come get us.”
“I owe him too much already.”
From the rear seat, Toby called out, “So I can go swimming? Really?”
“If your mother says so.”
“Good,” his boy said, and then, “Dad? Make sure my models are okay, will you?”
“Sure, Toby,” he promised. “Nothing will happen to them.”
He closed both car doors and walked up to his father-in-law. “Larry, thanks. I mean it. Thanks.”
“Always nice to know I can fill in when you can’t. Just need to discuss—”
For the benefit of his wife and boy watching from the Oldsmobile, Sam smiled up at his father-in-law. “Let’s not keep my wife and boy waiting. All right?”
Lawrence said, “Just one moment, that’s all. Look, I understand you’ve taken my advice. To become more active in the Party.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“I see.” Lawrence’s voice turned frosty. “But I’ve been told you’re probably going to become more active under the sponsorship of Marshal Harold Hanson.”
“Look, can we get into this some other time, because—”
“No, we don’t have to go into it some other time. You’ve made your choice, and you’ll have to live with it. You’ve tossed your lot in with the marshal. That’s fine. And when budget time comes, don’t think you can come to me looking for help if your position in the police department is eliminated. When it’s eliminated.”
“Is that a threat, Larry? What, you think I’m your slave? Someone you can order around because I owe you?”
“Owe me? For what? Taking my daughter and grandson up to Moultonborough?”
“You know what I mean,” Sam said. “Everyone knows how I got my inspector’s job. You pulled some strings and talked to the Police Commission and—”
Lawrence laughed. “You stupid little dope. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“It was common—”
“Some smart inspector you are. I lobbied
Sam took a breath, thinking of the secret he knew about this man, the one he had pledged he would never divulge. “The only thing I’m looking for now is to see you get the hell off my porch.”
Sam went in and closed the door, then stood at the window to see the Oldsmobile back out of the driveway and head away. He watched until it made the corner, turned, and his family was gone.
He didn’t bother going to the police station after his family left. Instead, he headed straight to the Rockingham Hotel. Two army MPs stood at the entrance, clipboards in their hands. Their khaki uniforms were pressed and their boots and helmets gleamed. So did their Sam Brown belts and the holsters for their Colt .45 pistols. Their faces were lean and serious, as if they spent a lot of time saying no to people.
“Sorry, pal,” the MP on the left told Sam. “Place is closed for the duration.”
“I’m sure, but I’m here to see Agent LaCouture of the FBI.”
“Name and identification?” the MP on the right said.
“Sam Miller. Of the Portsmouth Police Department.” He showed his inspector’s badge, his police identification card, and just for the hell of it, his officer’s commission in the New Hampshire National Guard. All three were scowlingly examined by the MP on the right while his companion checked the clipboard and nodded. “Yeah, he’s on the list. ID check out all right?”
“Sure enough,” the other MP said, passing the identity cards back to Sam, who pocketed them. The lobby was chaotic, with piles of luggage, army and navy officers in full-dress uniform, and newsreel and radio reporters all thrust up against one another. He slipped through the crowd, went upstairs, and knocked on the door of Room Twelve.
Agent LaCouture opened the door, dressed for the day in shirt and tie and seersucker suit. Groebke was sitting at the room’s round table, a pile of papers in front of him. The Gestapo man was dressed plainly again, in a severe black suit with a white shirt and black necktie.
“Glad to see you, Inspector,” LaCouture told him. “You’re early.”
“Want to get a jump on the day,” Sam answered. The room smelled of cologne and stale tobacco and strong coffee. He wondered what the two of them talked about when they were alone together. Did they trade war stories about the Kingfish and the Fuhrer?
LaCouture went to the desk, picked up a set of papers. “Here,” he said, handing them over. “Your task for the day. Here’s a listing of restaurants, hotels, and boardinghouses in your fair city. I want you to go to each of them, see how many people they can feed and house on a daily basis, get a master list together, and be back here by five o’clock. Got it?”
Sam looked at the papers. “This looks like something a clerk can do.”
“I’m sure, but this particular clerk I’m looking at is a police inspector and thereby knows everybody he’ll be talking to. And this particular clerk will know if someone is bullshitting him. So yeah, Inspector—a clerk can do this job, but I’m giving it to you.”
Sam said nothing, just folded the papers in half. The Gestapo officer was grinning. LaCouture said, “You don’t like it, do you?”
“I’ve had worse jobs,” Sam replied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The day became a long slog of going through most of Portsmouth. As much as he hated to admit it, LaCouture was right: Anybody else would have been faced with some bullshit talk about availability and prices, but such crap wasn’t going to fly with him today. From the Irish landlady to the White Russian exile to the descendant of the first family into Portsmouth from 1623, he knew all of the lodging house owners, and he got the information he needed about the number of available rooms.
He was chilled at how quickly the checkpoints had been set up. It was like a newsreel from occupied Europe: soldiers with rifles over their shoulders, standing in the streets, mobile barriers made of wood and barbed wire blocking intersections and sidewalks. Several times he saw people held apart at the checkpoints as their papers were checked and rechecked by FBI or Department of Interior agents in dark suits with grim faces.
Now, having given the list to LaCouture, who appeared to have a phone receiver permanently attached to his ear, with Groebke sitting next to him, scribbling furiously with a fountain pen… well, he could now head home.
But home to what?
He went back to the police station, back to what he knew was ahead for him, another long night.
He had a dinner of fish chowder and hard rolls at his desk, watching the clock hands wander by, waiting and waiting. He had tried to call Moultonborough three times through the New England Telephone operator, and each
