“So?” Kramer took off his hat and coat and sat down. It was the weekend. Only a skeleton crew was working, all of them exhausted from last week’s false alarm.
“After the transmission, the Japanese Embassy has been instructed to burn their code books and destroy their decryption machines.” Bratton’s eyes shone with determination, and his jaw was clenched. “This is it! This means war! I don’t care—I’ll stake my reputation on it! I’ll stake my very life on it! The Japs are going to attack us!”
“Calm down,” Kramer snapped. “You nearly gave me a heart attack last week. No one’s in the mood for another false alarm, especially not on the weekend. Let me tell you, my wife sure was sore at me. I’m not going through that again.”
“I’m sorry about your wife,” Bratton said. “And I’m sorry I was wrong about the date. But I know I’m not wrong about the plan to attack. I know it.”
Kramer began to think. “What about their aircraft carriers? Where are they?”
“We don’t know,” Bratton replied, his expression dour.
“We don’t know?”
“We’ve lost them.”
“You’ve lost the Japanese aircraft carriers?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this just gets better and better, now, doesn’t it,” Kramer grumbled, shaking his head. “Have any scotch?”
Bratton pulled a bottle out from a desk drawer, handed it to Kramer, then pulled out two glasses. Kramer poured and both men sipped, lost in their own thoughts.
“I know it looks as if I’m crying wolf again, but I’m convinced they’re going to attack us on Sunday. This Sunday. Sunday, December seventh.”
“So, what can we do?” Kramer sounded resigned.
“Tokyo’s holding the final part until morning, but if you would make the rounds with what we have, I’d appreciate it, Al.”
Kramer started at the first use of his Christian name. “All right, Ruf,” he replied at last, returning the compliment. “Let’s wait for a few more parts to come in—and if they do, then I’ll go to the President.”
Maggie took Sarah by taxi back to her room at the Caledonian, where she fussed over her, fluffing her pillows, tucking a rose silk quilt over her, and making her tea. The blackout curtains were drawn, and the radiator clinked and hissed.
The telephone in the hall rang. It was one of the men from the front desk, saying there was a Mr. Mark Standish in the lobby for Miss Hope. “Do you mind if I meet with him?” Maggie asked Sarah, who was drifting in and out of sleep.
“Go … I’ll be fine, kitten …”
“All right, but I won’t be long, I promise.”
Downstairs, Maggie crossed the lobby quickly. Mark started when he saw her. “How’s our patient?” he asked, taking off his hat.
“Better,” she said with a smile. “It’s going to take a while, but I have no doubt she’ll pull through.”
Mark nodded. “Come, let me get you some tea to celebrate. Or something stronger?”
“Stronger, definitely.”
The bar at the Caledonian had dark wood paneling hung with Sir David Wilkie paintings, full of shadow and menace. Picture lights glinted off the oils, and a fire crackled on the far side of the room.
They sat at a table in a corner near the fireplace. Mark ordered them both scotch. “ ‘The best thing for a case of nerves is a case of scotch,’ as W. C. Fields likes to say,” Mark remarked as the waiter set down two heavy glass tumblers.
“I’m not sure I’ll need that much, but this is lovely, thank you.”
“Least I could do.” He lifted his glass. “To you, Miss Hope. I spent a lot of time thinking you were a waspish shrew and a willful, dangerous girl. But now I can see where ‘winging it’ can be a valid course of action.”
Maggie lifted her glass and they clinked. “Thank you, Mr. Standish. Whatever my mistakes may be—and I know I’ve made plenty—at least I don’t make them twice.” She took a sip of the scotch. “And I am only occasionally a waspish shrew.”
“Cheers. And please call me Mark. I think, after this case, Christian names are permitted?”
“Please call me Maggie.” She smiled. Then, “What’s happening with Diana Atholl?”
“She’s been formally charged with the murders of Estelle Crawford and Mildred Petrie. She’ll be in prison until the trial, which is scheduled for January of the new year.”
Maggie watched the flames dance behind the grate. “Meanwhile, Richard Atholl, the man who had the affair, goes free.”