“So you’re at the Bell?” Tensing said and thankfully didn’t wait for an answer. “Is this pub where you take your meals?”
Not after tonight. “Usually, unless the doctor’s treatments go too long.”
“Good. I’ll see you when I return.” Tensing stood up. “It’s odd your happening to turn up here. Almost as if it was meant.” He turned to Ferguson. “Come on, let’s catch that train,” he said, and they left.
What the hell had just happened? Was Tensing suspicious, or did he just want to reminisce about their time together in the hospital? And if he was suspicious, what had given Mike away?
I need to talk to Polly, he thought, but the only secure phone was at the station, and Tensing and Ferguson were on their way there. If they missed their train, he’d run smack into them.
Besides, Polly and Eileen wouldn’t be home. They’d be at the shelter.
He waited till the pub closed, then walked over to the station and called, hoping the all clear might have gone early, but it apparently hadn’t. They weren’t there.
He waited till the pub closed, then walked over to the station and called, hoping the all clear might have gone early, but it apparently hadn’t. They weren’t there.
They weren’t there the next morning either. Were there raids in London this week? He should have asked Polly. If there were, it could take all week to get them.
He went over to the Bell and, after making sure Welchman wasn’t in the lobby, bought a paper, tore out its crossword, wrote “URGENT WILL CALL WED
NITE” in it, mailed it, and then walked out to the Park. He didn’t find Gerald, but on the way back he overheard a conversation between two Wrens. “Do you know anything about the new man in Hut Eight?” one asked.
“Yes,” the other Wren said disgustedly. “His name’s Phillips. He’s billeted in Stoke Hammond, and you can have him. He’s a dreadful stick.”
The “dreadful stick” part definitely sounded like Phipps, and Phillips would be a natural cover name for him. Mike took the bus to Stoke Hammond and spent the rest of the day and half of Wednesday pretending to look for a room there and asking, “You don’t happen to have a lodger named Phillips, do you?”
On the tenth try Wednesday, the landlady said, “No, a young man by that name came looking for a room, Monday it was. I sent him to Mursley.”
Mursley was six miles farther on. By the time Mike had caught the bus there, tried half a dozen places without success before he found a woman who said she remembered someone named Phillips and that she’d sent him over to Little Howard, and Mike had come back to Bletchley, it was nearly seven. He took off immediately for the train station to call Polly.
And ran straight into Dilly’s girls. “Hullo!” Elspeth said happily. “We’d been wondering what happened to you!”
“We’ve looked for you every day at the Park,” Joan said.
“This is the American we were telling you about, Wendy,” Mavis said to the fourth girl. “The one Turing nearly killed.”
“The handsome one,” Wendy—who looked none the worse for sleeping in the larder—said, batting her eyes at him. “I’ve been dying to meet you!”
“I saw him first,” Joan said.
“I picked him up after Turing ran him down,” Elspeth said, linking her arm possessively in his.
“Girls, girls, this is no time to be greedy,” Mavis said, taking his other arm. “In wartime we must share and share alike.” How the hell was he going to get away from them? He couldn’t even get a word in edgewise. “Did the billeting officer find you a place to stay?” Mavis asked him.
“Of course he hasn’t,” Wendy said bitterly. “I’ve been after him for weeks. There hasn’t been a vacancy anywhere for months.”
“We’ve been out looking for a room for Wendy,” Elspeth explained.
“Not only does she have to sleep among the bottled peaches,” Mavis said, “but now the billeting officer’s assigned her two roommates.”
“We heard a rumor there was a vacancy on Albion Street,” Wendy told him, “but when we got there it was already taken.” She sighed. “I should have known it was too good to be true.”
“And now you’ve got to come buy all of us a drink to cheer us up,” Joan said.
“I’d love to, but I can’t. I’m meeting someone—”
“I knew it,” Elspeth said morosely.
“Is she pretty?” Joan asked.
“Not a girl, an old friend,” Mike said.
“Well, then, Friday,” Mavis said.
“Friday,” he said, “and I promise I’ll let you know if I hear of any vacant rooms,” and was finally able to escape, but it was nearly eight. Please, please, let Polly still be there, he thought, hobbling to the station.
Eileen answered. “Have you found Gerald?” she asked eagerly, and there was a terrific crashing sound on her end.
“What was that?” Mike asked.
“An HE. We’re in the middle of a raid.”
Of course. Jesus, could their luck get any worse?
