Max in the House of Spies by Adam Gidwitz

Author:Adam Gidwitz [Gidwitz, Adam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2024-02-27T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

Twenty-Six

Uncle Ewen piloted the car off the narrow road and up to a small white-painted guard station with a lowered gate. An officer of the Military Police—you could tell because he wore a red beret—stepped out toward the car, and Ewen cranked down the window.

“Morning!” Uncle Ewen said. “Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montagu, Naval Intelligence.”

“One moment, sir,” the man said. He had a rich bass voice, beautiful deep brown skin, a thick black mustache, and an accent that Max could not place. In the small guard station, on a white wooden pedestal, sat a large book, which the military policeman walked to. He ran his finger down the page, and then came back out. “Welcome to Tring Park, sir. I’m Sergeant Toby Thompson, Head of Security.”

“Nice to meet you, Sergeant! And this is Max Bretzfeld.”

“Yessir. I saw him in the book. Welcome, young man!”

Sergeant Thompson opened the gate and waved them through.

As they pulled away from the guardhouse, Ewen said, “Always make friends with security. You never know when Sergeant Toby Thompson might get you out of a jam.”

“Yes, Uncle Ewen,” said Max.

“And we’d better change that to ‘Lieutenant Commander’ now, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, Lieutenant Commander,” Max replied dutifully.

The winding dirt and pebble drive led into the middle of a number of squat brick houses, pleasantly matching, with white windowsills and steeply slanting slate roofs. Uncle Ewen stopped the car in front of a cottage marked 3 and pulled up on the parking brake.

“I think Jean should be waiting inside for us,” said Uncle Ewen.

“Jean, Lieutenant Commander?” Max asked.

“Jean Leslie is your Mother.”

Max swallowed. That term was going to be very hard to get used to.

Max’s Mother wasn’t inside waiting for them.

She’d burst out of the front door of cottage number 3 and was now waving a hand above her head in an exaggerated gesture.

Jean Leslie was tall and athletic, with brown hair that fell in waves to her shoulders, deep dimples, and the most frank and friendly smile that Max had ever seen. Also, her teeth were very yellow and fairly crooked.

Ewen and Max climbed out of the car, and Jean walked straight up to Max and stuck out her hand. Her elbow bent just beyond a hundred and eighty degrees, which was somehow incomprehensibly charming. She was wearing a pale blue shirt, rolled up above the elbows, and olive trousers that looked like they would be suitable for both the office and a hike, and sensible shoes that you could walk in for days. Max shook her hand.

“Jean Leslie,” she said.

“Max Bretzfeld,” said Max. Something about the way Jean held herself made Max want to do what she did, exactly as she did it.

“She’s very pretty,” said Stein, nudging Max’s ear.

“Except for her teeth,” said Berg. “Those look like they were rearranged by a blind dentist.”

Max snapped at them, “That’s enough.”

Stein and Berg were caught off guard. Berg crowed, “Maybe the boy is in love with her!”

But it wasn’t love.

It was recognition.

Max recognized instantly that Jean was strong, clever, and confident enough to be kind.

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