Message For Hitler (A Tommy Mooney Mystery Book 2) by Cate M. Ruane

Author:Cate M. Ruane [Ruane, Cate M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Foxford Press
Published: 2018-07-19T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MI5 Headquarters,

Wormwood Scrubs, East London

THERE IS A KNOCK on the door, three quick taps.

“Good evening, sir,” says Ellis. “Working late again, I see. Thought I’d pop around before pushing off—bring you up to date on the latest citizen report.”

“What now?” says Brigadier A.W.A. Harker—Deputy Director General of MI5.

“It came in the evening post.” Ellis holds up a letter. “Shall I read it to you, sir?”

“Paraphrase, would you?” says Harker. “I was just about to head home myself.”

“It’s from a woman in Cornwell, sir. At least, I think it’s a woman by the look of the handwriting. The name is Frances, which I suppose settles the question. I mean Frances, ending in E.S.—rather than Francis, ending in I.S.—which would have indicated a letter sent by a male citizen.” Ellis holds the envelope to his nose, as if there might be a whiff of perfume to prove his point. “She reports that several bicycles have gone missing during the last month. The police, it seems, are satisfied that it’s the work of juveniles—pranksters, sir. I’ve already had a word with them. Frances McAllister, she believes otherwise. She is convinced that Nazi agents are making their way from their drop points, by bicycle.”

Hacker wipes his brow with a handkerchief and then refolds it into a tidy square before returning it to his pocket. “Who do they think we are—Miss Marple? Amateur sleuths? Send off the boiler-plate response thanking Mrs. McAllister for her vigilance.”

Ellis shuffles the letter to the bottom of a short stack. “I suppose you’d like me to do the same with the others, sir?”

Hacker coughs into his hand, the sort of cough that signals the end of a conference. Ellis doesn’t seem to get the hint. “You’ll be pleased to know, sir, that we’ve solved the mystery of the suspicious foreigners, overheard speaking German in a pub over in Chelsea. If you recall, it was a barmaid who made the report. I decided to take the initiative on that one, sir. Did the surveillance myself. I wouldn’t mention it but for the bar tab, sir. I have it here along with a reimbursement form, number 3674. If you could just initial it, sir.” Ellis steps forward and lays a form on Hacker’s desk.

Hacker glances at the receipt, paperclipped to the form. He says, “£10.5! Are you mad?”

“It was a long few nights until the suspects returned, sir.”

“Did you at least round up a ring of Nazi spies, Ellis?”

“No, sir. It appears that the suspects were pilots of the RAF, wearing civvies. From Czech Fighter Squadron 310, to be exact.”

Hacker waves a hand toward the door. “Close it when you leave, Ellis,” he says.

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