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?”
“Thanks awfully, but I’ve had lots of practice. Months and months, if you must know. First time I’ve ever met an American copper. You wouldn’t be interested in my immigration status, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t, but others might.”
Reggie smiled, leaned on his crutches. “Bloody awful, this. Hopping around like a toad. Once upon a time I was somebody important, one of those knights of the air, ready to do battle against the invading Hun. We were the last hope for our island, and we were going to repulse those bloody bastards. That was the plan, at any rate. Too bad nobody told Jerry about the plan. They had their own ideas. Bomb the shit out of our airfields and radar sites, clearing the way for the paratroopers to seize ground and hold it for the follow-up invasion troops. Still, we fought, against terrible odds … It sounds strange, but I was the lucky one. Lost my leg after an ME-109 jumped me, and managed to get out on one of the evacuation ships.”
Reggie made his way to the doorway, turned awkwardly, and said wistfully, “We might have made it, you know. If Winnie hadn’t been tossed out, if the Cabinet hadn’t sued for peace after the first landings, if the king hadn’t died in the bombings, if you … if you bloody Yanks hadn’t sat on your hands and decided not to help us. We might have made it. And then Herr Hitler would be fighting both us and the Bolshies.”
“Bunch of us thought we had done enough last time,” Sam said. “It just looked like another European squabble, and the last one didn’t end well. So most of us didn’t want to get involved.”
Reggie shook his head. “Oh, you’ll get involved. Maybe not this year or next year, but I guarantee this, Inspector: Once that fucking German housepainter gets the Reds hammered down, he’s going to turn west again. And your mighty wide ocean won’t help. Maybe then you’ll wish you had helped us.”
Walter opened the door, and Reggie hobbled out. Cold air came in, and when the door was shut, Walter turned to Sam and said, “I’m sorry again for disturbing your lovely wife.”
“Apology accepted, Walter. There’s one more thing … and I swear to God, you haven’t heard it from me.” Sam never thought he would do this, but after the past few days, he couldn’t stay quiet any more. “Tomorrow night. You might want to tell Reginald, and any other similar friends, that they shouldn’t be in their usual haunts. Something’s going on. Do I make myself clear?”
“As clear as crystal. Sam … I cannot tell you how much I owe you, this is going to be—”
“Walter, I have no idea what you’re talking about. And neither do you.”
His tenant grabbed his arm. “I’m not a religious man, but God bless you for what you’ve done.”
Sam broke free from the man’s grasp. “I think God’s got His hands full enough without worrying about me.”
* * *
Before going to bed, Sam checked in on Toby. His boy had his crystal radio set on low; thankfully, it was just playing soft dance music from someplace where people had enough money and time to go dancing. He reached down to unplug it, and Toby stirred and said, “Dad?”
He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, sport. What is it?”
“Mmm, Mommy said we’re gonna go on a trip tomorrow … up to Grandpa’s camp.”
He touched Toby’s hair. “That’s right. Just a few days. You and Mom.”
“And I won’t get in trouble at school?”
“No, no trouble at all.”
“Good. I’ve been in trouble enough.”
His boy’s breathing eased, and Sam stood up to leave. Toby stirred and said, “I told ’em, you know. That my dad wasn’t a rat. I had to tell ’em you’re not a rat. So I did okay. I didn’t fight, Dad, but I didn’t let him get away with it, either …”
Sam went out, closing the door softly behind him.
* * *
He slid into bed next to Sarah, who rolled over and nuzzled up against him and said, “You win.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Dad’s coming to pick me and Toby up tomorrow.”
“He’ll get over it,” he said, kissing her and feeling the silkiness of lace on her body. She kissed him back and then pressed her lips against his ear and whispered with urgency, “Sam … forgive me, will you?”
“For what?” he whispered back. Both of them kept their voices low from habit, being so close to their dozing son.
“For who I am. A disappointment … a shrew … and … oh, just forgive me.”
He kissed her again, deeper, as she moaned and moved underneath him. “Forgiven, Sarah, always forgiven. Though I don’t agree with what you just said.”
“Shhh,” Sarah replied, lowering her hand on his belly, “let’s stop talking for a while. Here’s the rain check I promised you from a long time ago, big guy.”
In the darkness he sighed at the touch of his cheerleader. “Not that big.”
Her warm hand lowered some more. “Just you wait.”