“So, you say you’re sorting it out. What have you been up to? Taking the suspects downtown and grilling them under a solitary lightbulb?”
She smiled. “They cower under my interrogation.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
Behind Jim, lights and buildings flashed past. “I’m a secretary. I take notes.”
“Notes?”
She hadn’t told anyone about her rapidly filling notebook, but discussing it with friends would be all right as long as she didn’t seek praise. “I record what people say. Separate pages for each person, noting what they say and what was said about them. The workers are used to me taking notes anyway. I’m sure it sounds silly.”
“No, it sounds useful.” Jim shifted in his seat. “What if something happens at the Navy Yard? Then you have all that information.”
An image flew through her mind—an FBI agent flipping through her notebook, stabbing his finger at the page—“That’s him! Why didn’t I think of it?” Then they’d arrest the guilty party and hold a press conference and drag Mary to the podium...
She shuddered and shut off the movie in her mind. “I hope it never comes to that.”
“I hope so too. But I’m sure they’re doing their own investigation.”
“They are, but the men don’t talk to the agents like they talk to me.”
“What do you mean?”
Mary fiddled with the supple leather of her cream-colored handbag. “I’m quiet, so people open up to me and know I won’t blab. And—well, I tend to fade into the background and people forget I’m there, so they speak in an unguarded way.”
Jim fell silent. Perhaps he’d forgotten her presence too.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced over. He looked straight at her with a rather unnerving gaze.
“Here we are.” Arch leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.
The taxi pulled to the curb in front of the Hotel Statler.
Up in the Terrace Room, the maître d’hôtel led them to a table inside the ballroom, where Howard Jones and his orchestra played “Stompin’ at the Savoy” and couples danced.
Mary smoothed the skirt of her periwinkle spring dress. With short sleeves, a scoop neckline, and a flared knee-length skirt, it was simple enough for the movies but elegant enough for dancing.
They settled around the table, ordered beverages, and then Jim turned question-filled eyes to Mary.
No more talk about her. “How’s life at sea?”
“At sea?” Jim crossed his ankle over his knee. “I wish. Nothing but inventories and training and stocking supplies and installing equipment.”
“Since Roosevelt promised American escort to British convoys, I’m sure they’re trying to get you ready as soon as possible.”
Jim ducked his chin and sent Arch a sidelong glance. “Well...”
Mary’s chest tightened. “I’m sorry. I know you can’t say anything.”
Arch draped his arm around Gloria’s shoulder. “We just have to be careful to only discuss public information and keep classified information secret.”
“Roosevelt’s promise to send you boys to protect British ships was in the papers.” Gloria shuddered. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Remember, those British ships carry American supplies,” Arch said.
Gloria sniffed. “Let them use their own escorts.”
Jim and Arch laughed together. “They don’t have many left,” Jim said. “And the British have to cover the Mediterranean too. Hitler just took Yugoslavia, Greece won’t last long, and he’s driving across Libya toward Egypt. If the Germans take the Suez Canal, Britain won’t stand a chance.”
