“Who is that?” Mary said. “I don’t recognize him.”
“Me neither.”
The speaker stabbed the air with his finger. “They fooled us during the First World War. Remember all the propaganda the British fed us? The Germans were committing grave atrocities, butchering Belgian babies, and ravishing Frenchwomen. We believed it. We fell for it. Then we got over there and what did we find? Did we find those atrocities?”
“No!” the crowd roared.
“No, we didn’t. All lies. All so we’d go and fight Britain’s battle for them. All so Britain could maintain their mighty empire—with American blood. Will we let that happen again?”
“No!”
Next to Jim, Mary scribbled in her notebook, filling the page with loops and lines.
Jim looked over her shoulder. “If I didn’t know you were using shorthand, I’d say you had the worst handwriting in the world.”
“It’s my secret spy skill.” Mischief sparked in her eyes. “Except every secretary in America can read it.”
“What are you writing?”
She gestured to the crowd. “Harvey Mills, George O’Donnell, Curly Mulligan, Ralph Tucker. Let’s go that way.”
He followed her around the edge of the crowd, gripping her elbow but glancing over his shoulder at the speaker.
The speaker tugged on the hem of his suit jacket. “And now what are the British telling us? Oh, those Germans. They’re committing atrocities, butchering Jewish babies, ravishing Frenchwomen. Do they think we’re stupid?”
“You’re stupid if youdon’tbelieve it!” someone shouted from the far side of the crowd.
Mary peered over. “We need to go over there.”
Jim let her lead but kept her to the fringe. If things turned violent, he’d want to get her away in a hurry.
The speaker rocked back and forth on his heels and gestured to his hecklers. “And now a word from London, eh, folks?”
Laughter romped through the crowd.
“No! A word from the real world. You’re a Fifth Columnist, that’s what you are, convincing people to weaken our defenses so when the Germans—”
The crowd booed so loudly Jim couldn’t hear, but Mary plunged onward. Perhaps now was not a good time to float with the current.
“Weaken our defenses?” the speaker said. “Who’s weakening our defenses? Our president, that’s who. Sending our new ships and planes to England. If anyone attacked us, where would we be? Undefended, that’s what. No arms to Britain. Arm America first!”
The crowd cheered and punched the air with their fists.
Mary stopped and wrote hard and fast.
Jim nudged her to the side a bit. “See someone?”
“Yes. The hecklers. Morton Anders, Ira Kaplan. My goodness.”
“You want to defend America?” one of the hecklers called. “Then defend freedom. Defend the democracies. Defend Britain. We’re stronger together. Down with the dictators!”
Several members of the crowd surged forward, shouting insults. The hecklers shouted back, brandished fists.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Jim steered Mary away across Boston Common toward the Public Garden.
Mary resisted and glanced back, like Lot’s wife. “Oh! Al Klingman, Weldon Winslow—and he brought his wife? But she’s English.”
“That’s enough for today, Agatha Christie.”
