“Worried?” Color mottled Chastain’s hollow cheeks. “I’m enraged. A fortnight! He didn’t ring. He didn’t send a message. Do you know how I’ve scrambled to fill his broadcast times?”
Hugh lowered his arm, his handshake ignored. “That must be a dreadful bother.”
“Reporters! Irresponsible lot. When he returns, I might just murder him.”
Sourness swelled and filled Hugh’s mouth. Without replying, he left the office.
If Uncle Elliott hadn’t been murdered two months earlierwith Jouveau involved in the intrigue, and if German bombers didn’t continue to leave hundreds of victims in their wake, Hugh might have humored Chastain’s remark.
Not when his friend had been missing a fortnight and no one seemed to notice or care. Had anyone filed a report with the police?
He strode down the curving hallway, past offices filled with a symphony of languages. The European Services’ shortwave broadcasts beamed to every occupied nation on the continent, providing unbiased news to ears hungry for truth.
A woman laughed, then spoke in Dutch.
Since the night Aleida had followed him home, their friendship had grown closer than ever. Their day at the Savoy and the zoo had been jolly good fun.
But she’d ducked her chin that rainy evening when he’d leaned in to kiss her.
Hugh trotted down the stairs to the lobby. Was it too soon? Or would she ever be ready after what Sebastiaan had done to her?
He passed the guard at the door, put on his hat, and shivered in the cool mist. Might it have nothing to do with trust at all? She’d seen Hugh gasping for breath, tethered to his Pneumostat, tended like an invalid.
What a fine romantic hero he made.
Hugh marched south. He refused to feel sorry for himself. He had far more pressing matters, like finding Jouveau.
His new notebook poked in stiff corners inside his coat pocket, not supple like the notebook he’d left with Jouveau by mistake.
A notebook filled with information for the story he was scheduled to broadcast tomorrow. He’d delayed as long as possible, determined to check his quotes. He should have rung the ministers to check, but he hadn’t. He was too distractible. Too foolhardy. Too hopeful in his conviction that Jouveau would breeze into the pub one evening.
Hugh could no longer delay his broadcast. The story was too important.
He passed the Hart and Swan. If only he’d been more careful when he’d left that evening. Now he’d have to trust his memory.
That was the last time he’d seen Jouveau. His friend had been so smug about his lead on Uncle Elliott’s murder, and he’d promised to tell Hugh what had transpired.
It wasn’t like Jouveau to break a promise.
Hugh walked faster, swinging his arms hard. Was Jouveau’s disappearance connected to the murder? To that appointment with the odd initials?
JI-GB.
If only he could find Jouveau’s notebook. It might contain clues to his whereabouts—appointments or excursions or names. Hugh had tossed Jouveau’s notebook onto his desk whilst Aleida sat in his favorite armchair with Lennox in her lap.
Now he couldn’t find it, despite diligent searching.
Hugh released a grunt into the chilly air. An irresponsible lot indeed.
In ten minutes, he entered the West End Central Police Station on Savile Row.
A constable in a blue uniform greeted him at the front desk.
Hugh introduced himself and showed his BBC identification card, which always opened doors. “A friend of mine has been missing a fortnight. I’m inquiring whether a report has been filed.”
After the constable checked and found nothing about Jouveau, Hugh filed a report.
“I’m afraid it’ll be some time until we can investigate,” the constable said. “You can imagine how many people are missing.”
