“I thought so.” Using a handkerchief, Agent Sheffield lifted a pen. “I was told I might find this here.”
“What is that?” Yvette’s voice crimped.
Mary peered closer—a pen, but a strange one, with a wooden handle stained dark brown at the end, two tips, and a screw to adjust the distance. She knew exactly what it was.
“Is that—” Yvette frowned at it, her eyes frantic. “Is that a drafting pen?”
“Yes.” Sheffield examined the pen with a smug expression. “I believe we’ll find this pen matches the marks on the incorrect blueprints. And I believe this stain is the same color as the chewing tobacco favored by Mr. O’Donnell, and that these tooth marks will match his bite. And I believe we’ll find the pen wiped clean of all fingerprints.”
Yvette’s chest heaved. “You think—I could not. I did not.”
However, the agent’s tone and words didn’t sound accusatory, merely satisfied. He was up to something. Mary rubbed Yvette’s shoulder. “I know you didn’t.”
“That—” Yvette fluttered her hand at the purse. “I do not take that to work. It is too dressy.”
“No.” A cold rock formed in Mary’s throat. “But it is the purse you took when we went shopping at Filene’s this weekend. When we ran into Mr. Fiske.”
Horror flashed through Yvette’s brown eyes. “He held my purse.”
“He was wearing gloves.” Mary’s eyes drifted shut, bringing the memory into focus. “I thought it was strange to wear heavy leather work gloves in a heated department store.”
“So he wouldn’t get fingerprints on the pen,” Quintessa said.
Mary locked her gaze with Agent Sheffield. “There was a black ink stain on the right forefinger. Not a smudgy stain like you’d see with grease, but crisp. His reports are always in blue ink, not black. I know, because it bothers Mr. Pennington.”
Agent Sheffield bowed slightly to Yvette. “Miss Lafontaine, I need to take you in for questioning.”
She gasped and gripped her hands together. “But I—”
“Didn’t do anything. However, this is a game of chess, and he’s an excellent player. I’m pretending to fall for his move.”
“That makes sense, Yvette.” Mary rubbed the tense muscles in her friend’s shoulder. “You’ll be safer too. If the FBI doesn’t take you in, he might get desperate enough to hurt you.”
“You’ll keep her safe, won’t you?” Quintessa asked.
“Of course. Grab your hat and coat, Miss Lafontaine.” Agent Sheffield tipped his fedora to Mary and winked. “Fiske doesn’t realize it, but I control this game. The next move is mine, and it’ll be good. Just watch.”
Mary nodded but wrapped her arms around her middle. As long as she didn’t have to watch anyone get hurt.
37
South of Iceland
Monday, November 24, 1941
Jim followed Arch through his routine in the engine room, partly to kill time before midnight when he took the mid-watch in the gun director, partly to learn the job, partly to chat with his friend, but mostly to keep warm in the toastiest compartment on the ship.
This convoy escort had been cold and stormy. No ships had been lost, but several sound contacts and depth-charge attacks kept the destroyers hopping and alert. Tomorrow morning TU 4.1.5 would pass Convoy HX-160 to the Royal Navy and escort a handful of ships to Iceland, then later they’d meet up with Convoy ON-41 and return to Halifax.
Jim ducked around the deaerating feed tank, memorizing connections and positions. Durant planned to rotate the junior officers when they returned to Boston so they could learn other duties.
Arch tightened a valve. “This new escort-of-convoy policy works well.”
“Makes more sense, that’s for sure.” The earlier policy required the escorts to stay within two thousand yards of the merchant ships, which allowed the U-boats to sink ships while outside the range of the destroyers’ sonar. Now they kept station up to five thousand yards away.
Arch made a notation on his clipboard. “We should be back in Boston before Christmas. If they give us leave, will you go home?”
That depended on Mary and Quintessa’s reactions to his declarations, and on their plans. Either he’d be avoiding both ladies or enjoying a romantic week with Mary. “I hope to.”
