D-Notice Bill Walker (online e book reading txt) 📖

The driver shifted in his seat, then checked his watch. “Shouldn’t we wait for them?”

Karl shook his head. “No. I have enough, and there is nothing I can do until this evening. Besides, I’m hungry. Killing always makes me hungry.”

The driver laughed and started the car’s engine. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said.

A moment later the silver-gray Jaguar XJ-12 pulled out from the curb, made a U-turn and sped away.

Although it shouldn’t have surprised him, the inside of the home was even more depressing. Extremely utilitarian, it looked for all the world like a cross between a college dormitory and a hospital, with hard linoleum floors and painted brick walls. Their feet echoed as they walked.

Stopping first at the front desk, they asked the duty nurse where Martin Cadwallader’s room was located. The woman had sneered, shaking her head. “It’s on the second floor,” she said. “Just follow the bloody music and you’ll find him.”

Michael thanked her and got a grunt in return. Dodging carts piled high with dirty dishes left over from lunch, they ignored the lift and took the stairs. On the second-floor landing, Michael heard the music, and recognized the tune as Glen Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade.” It made him smile in spite of his dark mood.

They found Cadwallader’s room at the end of the hall, the door standing ajar. The music was so loud, Miller’s trombone made the walls throb. Peering in, Michael spied a frail-looking old man sitting in a sagging easy chair, eyes closed and a blissful smile on his face, his half-eaten lunch on a tray in front of him. A quick scan of the room revealed a lifetime of knickknacks crammed into every available space. There were also several ancient wooden filing cabinets lining one wall. Michael was wondering what they might contain when the music ended. Taking advantage of the silence, he knocked on the doorjamb. The old man remained oblivious and he knocked harder. This time Cadwallader cracked open his eyes and turned toward the door, an expectant look on his face. When his eyes connected with Michael’s, they widened in astonishment, his lips trembling.

“M—Michael? Michael Thorley?”

Now it was Michael’s turn to be astonished. How could he know me? Had Ripley called ahead? It would seem unlikely, but—

The old man spoke again. “Dear God, Man, you look bloody wonderful. But I thought the Jerries got you last year.”

A wave of disappointment rushed through him. Cadwallader was confusing him with his father.

Michael and Erika approach him, not quite sure what to expect.

“Mr. Cadwallader? I’m Michael Thorley, Junior. Michael’s son.”

The old man looked nonplused. “Junior? Michael’s son?”

Cadwallader suddenly began to cry, big fat tears coursing down his pale wrinkled face.

Panicked, Michael looked to Erika, who knelt by the old man and comforted him. His manner abruptly changed. He eyed her with suspicion and began to sniff the air around her.

“You’re German, aren’t you?” he said, continuing to sniff. Michael could see Cadwallader’s question and his odd manner had taken her off-guard. She backed off from him, a puzzled frown on her face.

“How did you know?” she asked.

Cadwallader’s eyes were wild.

“Can smell ‘em. I know a Jerry from their stink!” He turned to Michael and screamed, “Why have you brought one of them? You’ve gone over, haven’t you? A traitor to King and country!”

Suddenly fearful the old man would draw attention—the last thing they needed—Michael moved to the door. “Mr. Cadwallader,” he said, returning to his place in front of the old man, “I’ve come for what you’ve been keeping for my father.”

Confusion flashed across Cadwallader’s face, and then he appeared to relax, a friendly grin creasing his face.

“Michael? Michael Thorley is that you? Where’s that beautiful wife of yours?” He turned to Erika, the smile widening. “Lillian! You look absolutely ravishing! I’m always telling Michael he should bring you round when he comes to visit. I’m so glad you’re here.”

Erika shot a glance at Michael, who nodded for her to play along.

“It’s good to see you, Martin. It’s been much too long.”

Michael winced inwardly at Erika’s atrocious English accent. Fortunately, Cadwallader was submerged too far into his fantasy to notice.

“Michael and I have come for the items you have been keeping for him,” she continued. “Do you remember what they are?”

“Items?”

Erika leaned close to the old man’s ear. “The Eagle Flies,” she whispered.

Cadwallader stiffened and the glaze left his eyes, replaced by a measure of lucidity and a sly smile.

“Damn doodle-bug hit the firm in ‘44. Blew it all to hell. For some reason I can’t explain, something made me remove certain items from the firm’s safe beforehand. Yours were among them. I put them in a safe place.” The old man grinned like a schoolboy and tapped the side of his head.

For one horrifying moment, Michael believed the old man meant that he’d memorized whatever had been in the safe. And then Cadwallader struggled to his feet and hobbled over to one of the file cabinets. He kept up a steady patter of muttering while he pulled open drawers and rifled through them, sometimes extracting a file, brown and crumbling with age. Each time the old man yanked open a drawer, wood shrieked against wood, making Michael wince. It was like the proverbial chalk on a blackboard. He looked to Erika and saw that she wore an eager, expectant expression. His own face must look much the same, he thought.

“I know the bloody thing’s around here somewhere....” Cadwallader said. “Blast! They’ve been mucking about in here again.”