Another glance at the clock, and Van pursed his lips. Only two minutes later than the last time he checked the time. He shoved his hands into his pockets and marched to the doorway. The corridor was empty. Returning to the room, he coughed and waved away the cigarette smoke that permeated the room. Movement near the window caught his attention. Two of the correspondents from United Press laughed and pointed at something outside.
Curious.
He nudged his way through the rows of tables holding typewriters until he was behind the men. “Something amusing, guys?”
Mustached with a shaggy head of hair, Edwin Hodgdon chuckled and gestured to the sidewalk across the street where a young boy and his dog performed tricks. “One smart pup. Nice to see something cute for a change.”
A correspondent with one of the Idaho papers, Warren Thompson nodded. “I’ve had my fill of death and destruction. Seemed like a great opportunity to be here, but I’m looking forward to reporting on 4H fairs and town elections.”
Hodgdon tugged at his tie. “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind a fluff piece or two.”
“Or three.” Van sighed. “Think I’ll run down and give the kid a couple of quid.”
Thompson dug into his pocket. “Count me in.”
“Me, too.” Hodgdon handed him a fistful of coins.
“Righto.” Van glanced out the glass and froze. A petite woman in a charcoal-colored suit hurried along the pavement. Blonde hair flowing from under a narrow-brimmed fedora, she ducked her head. An unwieldy satchel hung from her shoulder. Cora?
The woman stopped and watched the performer and his dog, then clapped her gloved hands. She pulled something out of her pocketbook and tucked it into the boy’s hand. With a wave, she continued along the sidewalk.
Look up. Look up. Van strained to catch a glimpse of the woman’s face.
As if she heard his silent plea, the blonde turned her face skyward.
Not Cora.
Van frowned.
“Everything all right, Toppel?” Hodgdon cocked his head. “You seem enamored with that dish in the gray suit.”
“Fine. Yeah, fine.” Van tore his eyes from the view and turned. “I’m going to make our contribution to the boy and get going. Good luck on your stories.”
“Let us know if you need anything.”
“Sure.” Van sent them a distracted wave then made his way out of the room and down the stairs. He trotted through the lobby and out the front door. After waiting for traffic to clear, he crossed the street, then pressed the money into the boy’s palm. A quick pat of the dog, and he headed down the street in the direction of Cora’s lodging.
“Thanks, mister!” The youngster’s high-pitched voice sounded awestruck.
Van pressed his lips together. The kid deserved a real childhood, not one in which he had to collect coins on the street. Maybe he’d misread the situation, but the boy’s threadbare clothes and haggard appearance seemed to indicate the family was poor and needy. How many other families were out there struggling to provide for themselves?
How had his mood gone from amused to morose in a split second? He shook his head to clear the melancholy thoughts and dodged pedestrians. The streets were more crowded than usual. Was there a story in the making?
He snickered. Always a newsman.
Twenty minutes later, he arrived at Cora’s boardinghouse. Five years into the war, yet the brick façade was barely nicked. Sparkling windows crisscrossed with tape featured window boxes filled with pink blooms that bobbed in the breeze. The landlady apparently took pride in keeping the Georgian home pristine and in order.
He climbed the stairs and stepped onto the small columned portico. A pot of flowers sat in the corner by the door. Hand fisted, he knocked on the brightly colored blue door. Tapping his foot, he blew out a breath. What would Cora think about him chasing her down at home? They’d stayed out of each other’s personal lives, preferring to meet at Broadcasting House.
Raising his hand to pound again, he paused as footsteps sounded inside. The door swung open. A slender brunette woman, perhaps in her twenties, smiled at him through the screen door. “Yes?”
“I’m…uh…Van Toppel to see Cora Strealer. We…uh…work together. Is she here?”
“No. She’s gone. Was she expecting you?”
“Not here…at work. She didn’t show up. I’m shipping out, but we’re collaborating on one final article, and I need her input.”
The woman cocked her head. “Perhaps she’ll bring it by on her way out of town.”
“What?” Van’s eyes widened, and his pulse skipped. “Where is she going?”
“She didn’t say, but then she seemed in a big hurry and wasn’t in a talkative mood. Maybe she had a bus to catch. All I know is that she packed all her things and told the landlady she could let the room.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?” He winced at the whining tone in his voice. “I mean…we’ve been partners, so I thought she’d inform me if she received a new assignment.”
“Check with the Red Cross.” She started to close the door. “They should be able to help you.”
“The Red Cross? Why would they know anything about a reporter?”
“Because she was wearing one of their uniforms, borrowed from one of the girls who lives here.”
“But—”
“Look, mister. I’ve told you all I know. Now, I just got off the night shift and would like to grab some shut-eye.”
His face heated. “Of course…I’m sorry…thank you for your help.”
The woman yawned and shut the door with a quiet thud.
Mind racing, Van stared at the door for a long moment then pivoted and galloped down the steps. What was Cora doing? Had something happened to make her quit the newspaper business and join the Red Cross? She’d never expressed interest in medicine, but maybe she had a hidden desire that rose to the surface. Overnight? Hardly. There was something else going on.
Where was the Red Cross’s London office? He needed to get to the bottom of her disappearance.
Rummaging in his pocket, he retrieved a coin and hurried toward the burgundy-and-glass telephone booth. He shoved the money into the slot and dialed the operator. After a short conversation, he secured the location of the office and disconnected the call. Perspiration trickled down his spine. He wouldn’t look like much when he found Cora.
Feet slapping the pavement, he jogged past shops that lined the street. Loud in his ears, his breath came in gasps, and his thighs burned as his legs ate up the distance to the headquarters. He sidestepped the few pedestrians remaining in his path, glad for the agility he’d learned during track-and-field training in high school. Hurdling was probably out of the question, but at least he was beginning to get his rhythm back. With any luck, he wouldn’t collapse when he arrived at his destination.
He glanced at his watch. Time was slipping away. He lengthened his stride. Would he find her before he needed to give up the search and work on his assignment? Oh, Cora, where are you?
Five blocks. Four blocks. Almost there. Three blocks. His heart hammered in his chest. Two blocks. Slowing his pace, he took deep breaths and wiped the sweat from his face. Turning the corner, he dropped to a walk as he read the signs on the buildings.
Red Cross: London Headquarters.
Finally. He brushed the wrinkles from his slacks and smoothed his shirt. He raked his fingers through his hair and peered at his reflection in the window. Other than a flushed face, he didn’t look too bad. With a deep breath, he pulled open the door and entered the foyer.
Bright and airy, the room was decidedly cooler than outside. A middle-aged woman in a gray-blue seersucker uniform sat behind a massive desk. Stacks of folders covered most of the desk’s surface except for the woman’s typewriter. She looked up and smiled, her vibrant hazel eyes crinkling at the edges.
“Hello, sir. How may I help you?”
“I telephoned a short time ago, and someone indicated they might be able to help me find my friend.”
“Ah, yes. That was me. We don’t release information over the phone, and I’m not sure how much I can tell you, but let’s give it a go, shall we?”
His breath expelled in a loud gasp. “Sorry, but I’m worried about her, you see, and I’m up against a deadline. I’ve run all the way here.”
She gestured to a beat-up folding chair. “Then you should have a seat and rest.” She lifted the phone receiver. “Jenny, can you bring me a cup of tea? Thank you.” The woman hung up then folded her hands. “Now, tell me about your friend.”
“Her name is Cora Strealer, and she has long, blonde hair, almost the color of ripe wheat, and her eyes are blue.” He stood and held his hand below his chin. “She’s small, fitting under my chin, like so.” Van dropped back into the chair.
“That could be any number of our girls. Does she have any distinguishing marks, a birthmark perhaps?”
“No, but she’s quite beautiful.”
The woman chuckled. “Also could be any number of our members.”
His face warmed as if seared. She must think him an idiot. “Of course. Well, she would have come through here today. One of her housemates saw her this morning in one of your uniforms.”
“Hmmm. We’ve only had two gals join us today, and both were brunettes. Perhaps she joined yesterday? Was Miss Strealer’s friend sure it was one of our uniforms?”
“Cora was with me at work all day yesterday, and I didn’t quiz the girl heavily. The young woman seemed sure of herself that Cora was in a Red Cross outfit. In fact, she indicated she’d borrowed it from one of the other girls in the house.”
“We would have issued her clothing.” She shook her head. “Nonetheless, let me check.” She slid open the bottom drawer and flipped through the folders one by one, her lips moving as she read the names. Saunders, Shores, Skinner, Smith, Sturdivant, Summers. I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t have a file on Miss Strealer.”
“I don’t understand.” Van clenched his hands. “Why would she be wearing a Red Cross uniform if she’s not a member of your organization?” A chill swept over him. “Wait. You have hospital ships that are heading out with invasion forces. Where are they?”
“I can’t tell you that, sir. It’s classified. I’ve already said too much.”
He banged his fists on the desk. “Where!”
She squealed. “Sir, I can have you removed from here.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m concerned she’s done something foolish. I have to save her.”
“I—”
Van held up his hand. “Don’t say anything.” Which deepwater port would they send thousands of ships from?” He snapped his fingers. “Southampton.”
The woman’s eyes shuttered, but she sent him an imperceptible nod.
His heart soared then fell. He had a location, but the amount of time required to get there would preclude him from submitting an article. He raced from the building. Cora’s life took precedence over the newspaper. He’d apologize to his editor later. For now, he had a train to catch.