Eye of the Needle(29)

Bloggs suppressed a smile—he was used to people assuming he must be older simply because he was a detective.

The Commander added, “I’m sure he didn’t do it, you know. I know a bit about character—you can’t command a ship without learning—and if that man was a sex maniac, I’m Hermann Goering.”

Bloggs suddenly connected the blonde in trousers with the mistake about his age, and the conclusion depressed him. He said, “You know, you should always ask to see a policeman’s warrant card.”

The Commander was slightly taken aback. “All right, then, let’s have it.”

Bloggs opened his wallet and folded it to display the picture of Christine. “Here.”

The Commander studied it for a moment, then said, “A very good likeness.”

Bloggs sighed. The old man was very nearly blind.

He stood up. “That’s all, for now,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Any time. Whatever I can do to help. I’m not much value to England these days—you’ve got to be pretty useless to get invalided out of the Home Guard, you know.”

“Good-bye.” Bloggs went out.

The woman was in the hall downstairs. She handed Bloggs a letter. “The boy’s address is a Forces box number,” she said. “Parkin’s his name…no doubt you’ll be able to find out where he is.”

“You knew the Commander would be no use,” Bloggs said.

“I guess not. But a visitor makes his day.” She opened the door.

On impulse, Bloggs said, “Will you have dinner with me?”

A shadow crossed her face. “My husband is still on the Isle of Man.”

“I’m sorry—I thought—”

“It’s all right. I’m flattered.”

“I wanted to convince you we’re not the Gestapo.”

“I know you’re not. A woman alone just gets bitter.”

Bloggs said, “I lost my wife in the bombing.”

“Then you know how it makes you hate.”

“Yes,” said Bloggs. “It makes you hate.” He went down the steps. The door closed behind him. It had started to rain….





IT HAD BEEN RAINING then too. Bloggs was late home. He had been going over some new material with Godliman. Now he was hurrying, so that he would have half an hour with Christine before she went out to drive her ambulance. It was dark, and the raid had already started. The things Christine saw at night were so awful she had stopped talking about them.

Bloggs was proud of her, proud. The people she worked with said she was better than two men—she hurtled through blacked-out London, driving like a veteran, taking corners on two wheels, whistling and cracking jokes as the city turned to flame around her. Fearless, they called her. Bloggs knew better; she was terrified, but she would not let it show. He knew because he saw her eyes in the morning when he got up and she went to bed; when her guard was down and it was over for a few hours; he knew it was not fearlessness but courage, and he was proud.

It was raining harder when he got off the bus. He pulled down his hat and put up his collar. At a tobacconist’s he bought cigarettes for Christine—she had started smoking recently like a lot of women. The shopkeeper would let him have only five, because of the storage. He put them in a Woolworth’s bakelite cigarette case.

A policeman stopped him and asked for his identity card; another two minutes wasted. An ambulance passed him, similar to the one Christine drove; a requisitioned fruit truck, painted grey.

He began to get nervous as he approached home. The explosions were sounding closer, and he could hear the aircraft clearly. The East End was in for another bruising tonight; he would sleep in the Morrison shelter. There was a big one, terribly close, and he quickened his step. He would eat his supper in the shelter, too.

He turned into his own street, saw the ambulances and the fire engines, and broke into a run.

The bomb had landed on his side of the street, around the middle. It must be close to his own home. Jesus in heaven, not us, no—

There had been a direct hit on the roof, and the house was literally flattened. He raced up to the crowd of people, neighbors and firemen and volunteers. “Is my wife all right? Is she out? Is she in there?”

A fireman looked at him. “Nobody’s come out of there, mate.”

Rescuers were picking over the rubble. Suddenly one of them shouted, “Over here!” Then he said, “Jesus, it’s Fearless Bloggs!”

Frederick dashed to where the man stood. Christine was underneath a huge chunk of brickwork. Her face was visible; the eyes were closed.

The rescuer called, “Lifting gear, boys, sharp’s the word.”

Christine moaned and stirred.

“She’s alive!” Bloggs said. He knelt down beside her and got his hand under the edge of the lump of rubble.

The rescuer said, “You won’t shift that, son.”

The brickwork lifted.

“God, you’ll kill yourself,” the rescuer said, and bent down to help.

When it was two feet off the ground they got their shoulders under it. The weight was off Christine now. A third man joined in, and a fourth. They all straightened up together.

Bloggs said, “I’ll lift her out.”

He crawled under the sloping roof of brick and cradled his wife in his arms.