want no record of this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, then?”
The sergeant thought about it, but he didn’t know what to say. He was merely following procedure—and what the woman had requested.
“Make sure first that the widow has left the premises,” said the inspector. “Then take that document out back and toss it in the incinerator. The letter, too.”
“As you wish,” said the sergeant. He tried not to let his expression show what he thought of the matter. He exited the office.
The inspector breathed a sigh of relief and sat back behind his desk. This had not gone well. But at least it was over.
Outside the closed door of the inspector’s office, Sergeant Turner paused for a moment and considered whether he should knock and openly revisit the issue with the inspector.
There was a protocol about such things. The letter should go in the filing cabinet that the Yard had already set up for such correspondence. And the signed document should go in the records department, to be saved for the archives or until hell froze over, whichever came first.
Somehow, it just didn’t seem quite right to burn either of them.
The sergeant walked out into the corridor. He paused and stretched a kink out of his neck, as if that might make the issue go away. But it didn’t.
And then, instead of walking down the stairs to the incinerator—he went up the stairs to the archives.
4
LONDON, 1944
The American army captain on Marylebone High Street walked in full uniform, and with a limp that was so obvious that he no longer tried to conceal it.
In October of 1944, this hitch in his gait told the locals all they needed to know about him, and he was greeted with smiles and “g’morning, guv” by everyone he passed.
It had not been quite so when he first arrived in England several months earlier. After four years of holding off the Nazis on their own, after enduring the bombs and the deprivation, and the deaths of civilians and soldiers alike, there were some who viewed the Americans as arriving a bit too late to the party.
But not so now, not after the invasion had begun at Normandy. Everyone knew the price that was being paid, and everyone knew where the American army captain had been to sustain his wound.
And he was older than most, close to fifty, even allowing for the aging from war—which meant he had not been drafted, he had volunteered, and clearly some of the Londoners he met on the street understood that.
He had never before been to this city himself. But he knew his parents had spent some time here, before he was born. And today—the last day before he would be sent home with his wound—he had an errand on their behalf.
He entered the lobby of the Marylebone Grand Hotel and a young woman at the reception desk greeted him.
Just as he started to tell her his name, an air-raid siren went off. He stopped speaking, and they both just froze in place for a moment, as the siren went through one repetition, and then another. They looked at each other. He was too battle hardened to run at the mere sound of an alarm. And, he realized, so was she.
She made no move to head for a shelter, and so he didn’t, either.
The siren stopped. They both listened for a moment, for the guttural, chugging sounds of a V-2 engine overhead.
They didn’t hear one.
The young woman breathed a sigh of relief, and then smiled.
“I’m sorry, Captain, I didn’t catch that. What did you say your name is?”
“My name is Moriarty.”
“Yes, thank you. I’m very sorry for the interruption. I don’t like these buzz bombs one bit, do you?”
“No.”
“I hope you don’t get them in America. Now let me see if we have who you’re looking for: Redbull, Redfern, Redgrave—oops, backing up, it would be before that, wouldn’t it—Redgil, Redgil. Ah, here we are; it— No, sorry, false alarm, that one’s Redfil. So, so—let me see.…”
Now she looked up apologetically.
“I’m very sorry. There doesn’t seem to be a
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, then?”
The sergeant thought about it, but he didn’t know what to say. He was merely following procedure—and what the woman had requested.
“Make sure first that the widow has left the premises,” said the inspector. “Then take that document out back and toss it in the incinerator. The letter, too.”
“As you wish,” said the sergeant. He tried not to let his expression show what he thought of the matter. He exited the office.
The inspector breathed a sigh of relief and sat back behind his desk. This had not gone well. But at least it was over.
Outside the closed door of the inspector’s office, Sergeant Turner paused for a moment and considered whether he should knock and openly revisit the issue with the inspector.
There was a protocol about such things. The letter should go in the filing cabinet that the Yard had already set up for such correspondence. And the signed document should go in the records department, to be saved for the archives or until hell froze over, whichever came first.
Somehow, it just didn’t seem quite right to burn either of them.
The sergeant walked out into the corridor. He paused and stretched a kink out of his neck, as if that might make the issue go away. But it didn’t.
And then, instead of walking down the stairs to the incinerator—he went up the stairs to the archives.
4
LONDON, 1944
The American army captain on Marylebone High Street walked in full uniform, and with a limp that was so obvious that he no longer tried to conceal it.
In October of 1944, this hitch in his gait told the locals all they needed to know about him, and he was greeted with smiles and “g’morning, guv” by everyone he passed.
It had not been quite so when he first arrived in England several months earlier. After four years of holding off the Nazis on their own, after enduring the bombs and the deprivation, and the deaths of civilians and soldiers alike, there were some who viewed the Americans as arriving a bit too late to the party.
But not so now, not after the invasion had begun at Normandy. Everyone knew the price that was being paid, and everyone knew where the American army captain had been to sustain his wound.
And he was older than most, close to fifty, even allowing for the aging from war—which meant he had not been drafted, he had volunteered, and clearly some of the Londoners he met on the street understood that.
He had never before been to this city himself. But he knew his parents had spent some time here, before he was born. And today—the last day before he would be sent home with his wound—he had an errand on their behalf.
He entered the lobby of the Marylebone Grand Hotel and a young woman at the reception desk greeted him.
Just as he started to tell her his name, an air-raid siren went off. He stopped speaking, and they both just froze in place for a moment, as the siren went through one repetition, and then another. They looked at each other. He was too battle hardened to run at the mere sound of an alarm. And, he realized, so was she.
She made no move to head for a shelter, and so he didn’t, either.
The siren stopped. They both listened for a moment, for the guttural, chugging sounds of a V-2 engine overhead.
They didn’t hear one.
The young woman breathed a sigh of relief, and then smiled.
“I’m sorry, Captain, I didn’t catch that. What did you say your name is?”
“My name is Moriarty.”
“Yes, thank you. I’m very sorry for the interruption. I don’t like these buzz bombs one bit, do you?”
“No.”
“I hope you don’t get them in America. Now let me see if we have who you’re looking for: Redbull, Redfern, Redgrave—oops, backing up, it would be before that, wouldn’t it—Redgil, Redgil. Ah, here we are; it— No, sorry, false alarm, that one’s Redfil. So, so—let me see.…”
Now she looked up apologetically.
“I’m very sorry. There doesn’t seem to be a
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