“Hello. This is Miss Stirling from the Boston Navy Yard. May I speak to Mr. Winslow? I have a question for him.”
“He isn’t at home,” she said in a crisp British accent.
Mary worked her finger through the coil of the phone cord. “Is he working late?”
“No, he had to return for—for an item he left at the office. He should be home any minute.”
Any minute? But he’d just called Mr. Bauer. “Perhaps you can help me solve a little mystery. I was just talking to Mrs. Heinrich Bauer. Her husband is a welder at the shipyard. Fifteen minutes ago he received a phone call from your husband summoning him to the docks so he could ask a question.”
“That can’t be. He went in for only one reason and promised he’d be home immediately. He’s a man of his word, Miss—Miss—”
“Miss Stirling. I know he is. That’s why it seems odd to me.”
“Oh dear. With everything happening at the shipyard, I don’t like the idea of him being there alone at night. Someone worked hard to arrange his arrest, and he must not be happy that Weldon’s been released.”
Mary twisted the cord around her finger. “If you wouldn’t mind, would you please tell me why he went in?”
Silence hummed on the wires. Then Mrs. Winslow cleared her throat. “His pills. He has a—a condition, and he needs to take pills regularly.”
Mary murmured sympathetically.
“Oh dear. He always keeps one bottle at home and one at the office. This morning I received a call from his office saying his bottle at work was empty, and would I please bring the other bottle to the gatehouse?”
“You said the call came from his office, not that your husband called.”
“I didn’t think anything of it. I know how busy he is, but Weldon is not happy with me.”
The fishy smell grew stronger. “He didn’t make the call, did he?”
“No. The man had—well, I thought it was a German accent, but thinking about it, I realize it sounded like the bad German accents the American actors use in the cinema.”
The cord tangled into a knot between Mary’s finger and the phone. “Could you tell? Was he young, old, middle-aged?”
“Middle-aged, I think.”
Like Mr. Fiske, although half the men at the yard were middle-aged.
“I did as he asked.” Anxiety tinged Mrs. Winslow’s voice. “I put the bottle in a lunch bag with a sandwich and brought it to the gatehouse. That sounded like something Weldon would ask. He’s a private person.”
“I understand.”
“The guard took the bag and set it on a bench with several other lunch bags.”
“And Mr. Winslow never even knew.”
“No, he didn’t. When he came home this evening and needed to take a pill—well, he was quite cross.”
“How long ago did he leave?”
“Oh, it must have been a quarter to six.”
Almost an hour ago. “How long should it take him?”
“We don’t live but ten minutes away. He—he should be home by now.”
Yes, he should. In Mary’s mind, the situation changed from fishy to alarming, and she yanked her finger free from the telephone cord. “Excuse me, Mrs. Winslow. I’m going to make another phone call. I’ll call you back if I hear anything. And please call me if you hear something.” She gave her phone number and hung up.
The FBI. Mary could scarcely rotate the dial, her finger shook so much. Finally the phone exchange answered. “Hello, this is Mary Stirling from the Boston Navy Yard. It’s imperative that I speak to Agent Paul Sheffield or Agent Walter Hayes immediately. Something is terribly wrong.”
