He waved one hand to the door. “How can I say no to the FBI?”
“Why does he need me? What’s happening?” She sat up straighter, her toes tapping.
“You won’t believe this. I certainly didn’t. The FBI received an anonymous tip last night. They searched Mr. Winslow’s home and found a bomb.”
Mary gasped and covered her mouth. “A bomb?”
“I find it hard to believe. A civilized young man like that.”
“Oh dear.” Apparently he had the expertise after all. She’d underestimated him.
“They arrested him last night, and they brought him to his office this morning for some reason. They want you to take notes.” He tugged down his suit vest. “Do me a favor, young lady, and tell this FBI agent to hire his own secretary.”
How sweet he was. If he weren’t her boss, she’d kiss him on the cheek. After she thanked him, she grabbed her pen and notebook and hurried to the drafting room.
Just inside the doorway, George O’Donnell and Frank Fiske stood talking together.
Mr. Fiske greeted Mary. “Did you hear the news? Mr. Winslow got himself arrested.”
“I heard. I can’t believe it.”
“I can.” O’Donnell crossed his big arms over his chest. “Always knew that pansy was up to no good.”
Fiske shook his head. “Never thought he’d be building bombs in his basement. They found a whole crate of equipment down there. Didn’t know he had it in him.”
“Excuse me. Agent Sheffield is expecting me.” A polite smile, and Mary headed into Mr. Winslow’s office.
Agents Sheffield and Hayes stood in front of the desk, and Mr. Winslow sat in his chair, his head in his hands, his suit rumpled.
When she entered, the agents looked her way. “Thank you for coming, Miss Stirling. Shut the door and have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Mary did as asked and readied her pen and notebook.
“I swear it isn’t mine.” Mr. Winslow dug his fingers into his unkempt hair. “It’s my friend’s.”
“Is it common for your friends to bring bombs to Sunday night supper?”
Winslow groaned and shook his head in his hands. “It was a meeting, nothing more. English expatriates and Anglophiles like me. We discuss ways to aid Britain, ways to show America the dangers of trusting Nazi Germany. Peaceful ways.”
Sheffield released a hard chuckle. “Nothing more peaceful than a good bombing.”
Winslow raised his head, revealing dark shadows under his eyes. “It’s my friend’s. I—”
“Your friend Cyril—”
“Cecil. Cecil Dalton. Yes, he wanted to set it off at an America First rally, but I talked him out of it, talked him into giving me the bomb. I planned to dismantle it and dispose of it today. Then you showed up.”
“So we did.”
Mary frowned as she transcribed their words. Mr. Winslow was lying. His story didn’t explain the crate of bomb-making equipment in his basement. He was either building the bombs or providing a location for Cecil Dalton to do so.
Mr. Winslow opened his drawer and rummaged inside, shoving aside items.
“Looking for this?” Agent Sheffield pulled an amber prescription bottle from his suit pocket.
Winslow’s face stretched long, and he reached for it. “Please. I need it. I have pains in my arms and legs from an old childhood illness. It’s a legal prescription, I assure you.”
Mary ducked her chin. Her conscience had led her to call Agent Sheffield last week to report what she’d seen and heard at Dixon’s Drugs.
