O’Donnell cursed. “You and your hoity-toity ways. Questioning my work and rushing me.”
“I hardly think asking you to be at your desk during working hours is rushing you.” Winslow’s voice quavered.
Mary’s pen flew over the paper, but she kept a nonchalant look on her face as if she were doodling to pass the time.
“You can’t fool us.” O’Donnell’s voice lowered to a growl. “We all know why you’re rushing us—to get more ofourships into British hands.”
“As you know, these ships are being commissioned into the United States Navy.”
“Yeah. To do England’s dirty work for her, escorting ships carrying American goods across the Atlantic to feed them—and for free. Lend-Lease? It’s outright theft. Why should we help them when they’ve never done anything to help us?”
“We help them...” Winslow’s voice rose and shook. “We help them so more innocent people don’t die. I’ll have you know my wife’s nephew died in London a few weeks ago—ten years old—killed in a German air raid. If we don’t help them, who will?”
Mary drew in her breath. Ten years old. What horrors the British faced.
Mr. O’Donnell snorted. “And I’ll have you know my cousin was killed in the Irish War of Independence back in 1920. By the British. America didn’t send help to Ireland. Why should we help the Brits now?”
“I’m not asking you to help Britain. I’m asking you to do your job.”
“My job? My job is to build ships for America. For America. Lindbergh’s right, I tell you. We need new leadership in the United States.”
Mary scribbled hard and fast. A few days earlier, Charles Lindbergh’s speech at an America First rally in Philadelphia raised an uproar. What did the aviator mean by “new leadership”? Some said he was calling for an immediate overthrow of Roosevelt’s presidency. Some said he was referring to the lawful election process.
O’Donnell stormed out of the office, chomping on his tobacco, rolled blueprints in hand. Every eye in the drafting room watched him leave.
Mary waited a few seconds to finish her notes and to give Mr. Winslow time to gather himself. Then she pulled out the report from Mr. Pennington and entered the office. “Good morning, Mr. Winslow.”
He set down a glass of water and swallowed hard. “A bit late for that, I’m afraid.”
“From Mr. Pennington.” She offered him the report and a soft smile.
“Thank you.” He took the papers with a shaking hand and turned his chair away from her.
She had no intention of further assaulting his dignity by asking questions about the incident, so she made her exit.
And she made up her mind. Mr. Winslow allowed Mr. O’Donnell to intimidate him, but Mary refused to let her fears intimidate her any longer.
It was time for her lunch break and time to visit the FBI agent.
Mary returned to Mr. Pennington’s office in Building 39 and grabbed her new loose-leaf notebook filled with her typed-up notes. The carbon copies resided in a similar notebook in her apartment. This past weekend while she typed, Yvette kept peeking over her shoulder and warning her, but Mary wouldn’t be swayed.
She poked her head into her boss’s office. “I’m going on my lunch break.”
“Yes. Yes. You’re welcome.” His snowy head was bent over the papers on his desk.
Mary smiled. He never made sense when he was immersed in his work. “I’ll see you in half an hour.” She hadn’t asked his permission, but she didn’t need it. As a private citizen, she had a right and a duty to share her suspicions.
Down on the first floor, Mary entered the cramped temporary office set up by the FBI.
Agent Paul Sheffield stood at his desk, his back to Mary, loading papers into a cardboard box. With his slight build and thin sandy hair, he looked nothing like the dark and dashing G-men in the movies.
“Excuse me?” Mary rapped on the back of the door with her knuckles. “Agent Sheffield?”
“Yes?” He shoved his glasses up his nose and squinted at Mary. “We’ve met, haven’t we?”
Memorable as always. “Yes, sir. I’m Mary Stirling, Barton Pennington’s secretary. I set up the champagne.”
“Ah yes.” He grinned and motioned for her to take a seat. “Have you come to confess?”
