Blue Madonna by James R. Benn Page B

jeep, my lad,” Jeffords said. “If there’s only the four of you, and you leave it at the station, what’s to become of it?”
    â€œSmart guy,” Big Mike said as we watched Jeffords drive off in our jeep from outside New Street Station. “He figured the odds and came up aces.”
    â€œDo you think we can trust him to keep quiet?” Kaz asked.
    â€œSure,” I said. The jeep had convinced Jeffords to deep-six the paperwork. “He’s got a jeep he can fix up to take a stretcher, and he won’t have to walk to the factory when there’s an injury. They probably have enough surplus fuel to keep that thing running. Why would he spoil a good thing?”
    â€œSomebody would have stolen the jeep anyway,” Big Mike said. “We couldn’t call the stockade and tell them where we left it, could we? Might as well tell the Morgan Gang we’re headed to London.”
    Kaz organized the tickets and managed to get a first-class compartment for the next train to London’s Euston Station, leaving in an hour’s time. We shepherded Blake through the crowd, keeping an eye out for MPs or police who might question our motley crew. Jeffords had given Blake a shirt and a discarded overcoat, which he wore across his shoulders. He looked shaky, but he hung onto Big Mike’s arm like it was a life preserver and managed to stay upright.
    We let Kaz take the lead. As an aristocrat, he could talk his way out of anything. We had the SHAEF orders, but I didn’t want to flash them around unless we had to. Our best bet was to get Blake out of town quickly and quietly.
    Our train was already in the station, so we found our carriage and settled into the compartment, the upholstered seats just what the doctor ordered.
    â€œWhere’re we going?” Blake asked weakly, his stare darting between us, still wary of some trick.
    â€œLondon, like I said,” Big Mike told him. “First class all the way. You ever heard of the Dorchester Hotel? That’s where these guys live. Real fancy place, room service, that sorta thing. You’ll stay with them tonight. All you gotta do is answer a few questions. But not right now.”
    â€œOkay,” Blake said. “Will you be there, too?” Kaz raised his eyebrow at Big Mike, who finally said he would. For the first time, the kid smiled. Then he went to sleep, his head resting against Big Mike’s arm.
    â€œYou’ve made a friend,” Kaz said.
    â€œYeah,” Big Mike said. “But Estelle won’t like it. I told her I’d take her out if we made it back tonight. Now she’ll think I’m living the high life with you bums.”
    Estelle Gordon was a WAC corporal who’d gotten in hot water for helping us out awhile back. She’d been issued a transfer to North Africa for her good works, but Big Mike had fallen for her—hard—and used his SHAEF connections to halt the transfer and get her a posting in London. Where he, conveniently, was also posted. She was a little more than half his height in heels, a fireball in a small package.
    â€œI would invite her to dine with us,” Kaz said. “But we are under orders to keep Donald’s presence in London a secret. So it will be the four of us and room service at the Dorchester, if that suits you both?”
    It did. By Kaz’s standards, dining in his room was roughing it. For me, after my time in the stockade, it sounded like heaven. Which it was anyway, for a kid from South Boston who thought the doorman at the Copley Square Hotel was the best-dressed guy in Beantown.

Chapter Nine
    The weather had turned cold and windy as we arrived at Euston Station. Blake shivered under his jacket as we piled into a cab and headed for the Dorchester.
    â€œWe should’ve picked up something to eat on the train,” Big Mike said. “He’s weak from loss of blood and probably hasn’t eaten a thing all