Paul settled back into his seat and ran his tongue inside his dry mouth. “The RAF?”
“They get shot down over France and the Low Countries.” Bentley leaned over the desk, his voice low. “Britain is in bad straits, and they need all the trained pilots they can get. The hospital is an important stop on the escape line, because the Germans don’t come in here. They leave us alone. But we’re out of room. I have a few airmen in my home, but we need more safe houses. Mr. Pendleton suggested your name.”
“My house,” Paul whispered. He had room, and he trusted his staff. But ... Josie. What if she said something in public? What if the police followed airmen to his house?
“Josie,” he said. “What I’m doing now—she’s already at risk of losing her father. But this would bring the danger right to her.”
Bentley waved his hand before his chest, erasing his request. “That’s all right. If my children were still at home, I’d feel the same.”
Paul racked his brain. Who could he ask? He’d lost the confidence of all who might be inclined to help.
Besides, he was doing enough already. This past week they’d sent out a shipment of trucks with sabotaged tires. The menhad filed grooves in the tread so they’d wear out quickly, putting the trucks out of commission and depleting Germany’s stock of scarce rubber.
In the next shipment the dipsticks would be recalibrated so the drivers wouldn’t know the oil was low until it was too late.
His factory. His mind flew over the schematics.
“Thank you anyway,” Bentley said. “And once again—”
“Aubrey Automobiles.”
“Pardon?”
“My factory. I have storage rooms, sheds. Only certain people have the keys. Hundreds of workers come and go each day. It’s perfect.”
“For—”
“The airmen.”
Bentley’s eyebrows lowered. “Are you sure?”
Paul held his breath. This concerned more than him. “I’ll discuss it with my foreman. He’s on our side.”
Bentley pulled out a notepad. “My nurse will schedule an appointment for you next week. That ulcer you’re developing—we need to discuss treatment.”
Paul cracked a smile and rubbed his belly. “Thanks, doc.”
After he finished his note, Bentley stood and extended his hand to Paul. “Thank you.”
“Thank you. For trusting me.” His voice thickened, and he coughed to cover it.
“You realize, in public I’ll have to pretend not to trust you.” Bentley frowned.
“I know.” He kept shaking hands. “You can’t see me socially. You’ll shun me at church.”
“I can’t tell anyone. Even Alice.”
“I understand.” For once, he didn’t mind. And he gripped Bentley’s hand hard.
21
SATURDAY, JULY26, 1941
“Simon says, ‘Flap your arms like a chicken.’” Lucie flapped her arms, and a dozen children in Green Leaf Books did likewise, giggling.
“Peck like a chicken.” She pecked at imaginary corn.
Half the children pecked, and the others squealed, “She didn’t say ‘Simon says!’”
