her mouth and fled. Agatha handed Rosa to her mother and set off in unhurried pursuit.
Dart shook hands with Trixie. “I seem to have upset Sidona,” he said.
“She’ll be fine. She worries about strangers overhearing her when she’s reporting on angels. She’s quite security conscious in her own way.” She smiled. “Now, if you want to get your things, we’ll walk to town. We’re expected at the Marionette House at ten o’clock.”
The road into Mendlo was not in good condition. It had been hastily patched up, here and there, with rubble or concrete. In several places the verges had been crushed down into the ditch by the caterpillar tracks of German tanks. At one point, the road had been reduced to half its width by a British bomb; fifty metres off to the right, a second bomb had exploded in a field, and the crater was now a small pond. A single moorhen trailed ripples across it. Dart and Trixie took turns to push the bike and its trailer. Dart’s medical bag with the pistol in it was slung over the handlebars. He was worried about what the jolting might do to the suitcase transceiver concealed below Rosa’s slumbering body.
Trixie glanced sideways at him. Was he good-looking? Well, yes. Nice hair, a profile like that American movie actor whose name she could never remember. In fact, the two of them, he and Christiaan, looked similar. This one was tense, though. You could see all the muscles in his jaw standing out under the skin.
“So then, Dr. Lubbers,” she said, “tell me what you know about the Marionette House.”
Dart thought back to his briefing at Ashgrove. Only six days ago. And a world away.
“It’s at the corner of two small streets that run down from Old Church to the market square. The building is wedge-shaped, with the narrow end facing the square. It’s got three floors. The ground floor is the shop, with a workshop at the back. The living rooms are on the first floor. There’s a single attic room at the top of the house, which is where I’ll be operating from. It has a shuttered window overlooking the square. The shop entrance is on Church Lane, but I can come and go via the workshop if I need to. The owners are Pieter Grotius and his wife, Barbara.”
“Bibi,” Trixie corrected him. “No one calls her Barbara.”
“Bibi. Thank you. They’re in their sixties. Used to run a travelling puppet theatre called the, er . . . Blue Moon Theatre. Toured all over Europe during the twenties and thirties.”
“All over the world,” Trixie said. “America, everywhere. They were quite famous.”
“Okay. They bought the Marionette House in . . . 1936, was it? They make, repair, and sell puppets of all sorts. I don’t suppose business is very good right now.”
“No. You’re not going to be disturbed by hordes of customers. Actually, the place is more like a museum. Pieter and Bibi collect all kinds of stuff. Books, toys, all sorts. It’s a crazy place.”
Dart saw that the morning mist had condensed on Trixie’s auburn hair. It was coated in beads of moisture, tiny glass pearls.
“Bibi suffers from a terrible ulcer on her leg,” she continued. “The dressings need to be changed every few days.”
“Ah,” Dart said. “That’s why I am a frequent visitor.”
“Of course. It’s also why Bibi spends long periods sitting in her parlour, keeping an eye on the square. She’s resting her leg.”
So that’s my lookout, Dart thought. An old woman with a bad leg. “What about German radio detector cars?”
Trixie drew in a long breath. “Well, the nearest ones are in Apeldoorn. We’ve positively identified two of them — a dark blue delivery van and a black car that used to be a taxi.”
“There’s got to be more than that. It takes at least three to get a fix on a transmitter.”
“I know. We think they use ordinary army vehicles as well.”
Trying to keep his voice level, Dart said, “And what’s the procedure if they show up in Mendlo?”
“While
Dart shook hands with Trixie. “I seem to have upset Sidona,” he said.
“She’ll be fine. She worries about strangers overhearing her when she’s reporting on angels. She’s quite security conscious in her own way.” She smiled. “Now, if you want to get your things, we’ll walk to town. We’re expected at the Marionette House at ten o’clock.”
The road into Mendlo was not in good condition. It had been hastily patched up, here and there, with rubble or concrete. In several places the verges had been crushed down into the ditch by the caterpillar tracks of German tanks. At one point, the road had been reduced to half its width by a British bomb; fifty metres off to the right, a second bomb had exploded in a field, and the crater was now a small pond. A single moorhen trailed ripples across it. Dart and Trixie took turns to push the bike and its trailer. Dart’s medical bag with the pistol in it was slung over the handlebars. He was worried about what the jolting might do to the suitcase transceiver concealed below Rosa’s slumbering body.
Trixie glanced sideways at him. Was he good-looking? Well, yes. Nice hair, a profile like that American movie actor whose name she could never remember. In fact, the two of them, he and Christiaan, looked similar. This one was tense, though. You could see all the muscles in his jaw standing out under the skin.
“So then, Dr. Lubbers,” she said, “tell me what you know about the Marionette House.”
Dart thought back to his briefing at Ashgrove. Only six days ago. And a world away.
“It’s at the corner of two small streets that run down from Old Church to the market square. The building is wedge-shaped, with the narrow end facing the square. It’s got three floors. The ground floor is the shop, with a workshop at the back. The living rooms are on the first floor. There’s a single attic room at the top of the house, which is where I’ll be operating from. It has a shuttered window overlooking the square. The shop entrance is on Church Lane, but I can come and go via the workshop if I need to. The owners are Pieter Grotius and his wife, Barbara.”
“Bibi,” Trixie corrected him. “No one calls her Barbara.”
“Bibi. Thank you. They’re in their sixties. Used to run a travelling puppet theatre called the, er . . . Blue Moon Theatre. Toured all over Europe during the twenties and thirties.”
“All over the world,” Trixie said. “America, everywhere. They were quite famous.”
“Okay. They bought the Marionette House in . . . 1936, was it? They make, repair, and sell puppets of all sorts. I don’t suppose business is very good right now.”
“No. You’re not going to be disturbed by hordes of customers. Actually, the place is more like a museum. Pieter and Bibi collect all kinds of stuff. Books, toys, all sorts. It’s a crazy place.”
Dart saw that the morning mist had condensed on Trixie’s auburn hair. It was coated in beads of moisture, tiny glass pearls.
“Bibi suffers from a terrible ulcer on her leg,” she continued. “The dressings need to be changed every few days.”
“Ah,” Dart said. “That’s why I am a frequent visitor.”
“Of course. It’s also why Bibi spends long periods sitting in her parlour, keeping an eye on the square. She’s resting her leg.”
So that’s my lookout, Dart thought. An old woman with a bad leg. “What about German radio detector cars?”
Trixie drew in a long breath. “Well, the nearest ones are in Apeldoorn. We’ve positively identified two of them — a dark blue delivery van and a black car that used to be a taxi.”
“There’s got to be more than that. It takes at least three to get a fix on a transmitter.”
“I know. We think they use ordinary army vehicles as well.”
Trying to keep his voice level, Dart said, “And what’s the procedure if they show up in Mendlo?”
“While
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