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On the way to the Dorchester, Bitter was given the answer to the question he dared not ask. The Princess was the Austin Princess limousine Canidy had had at the airport.
The entrance to the Dorchester Hotel was protected by sandbags stacked high around the revolving door, and the plate-glass windows that looked out onto Park Lane and Hyde Park were painted black and crisscrossed with tape to keep glass shards from flying if a bomb struck nearby.
But inside, the hotel was much as Bitter remembered it. The only difference seemed to be that most of the men and many of the women in the lobby and bar were in uniform.
Bitter was surprised that the British lady sergeant was at the table against the wall with the others. Another manifestation of Canidy’s contempt for military customs. Enlisted people were not supposed to socialize with officers.
And officers were not supposed to demonstrate affection in public, either, he thought, when he saw that Ann Chambers was cuddled affectionately against Dick Canidy.
“Commander Don Winslow of the Navy,” Canidy said, “and his ambulance chaser.”
“The ambulance chaser,” Fine said, “has been sent to reclaim the Princess. ”
“Oh, damn,” the British enlisted woman said. “And it’s such fun to drive!”
"Besides,” Whittaker said, “the steering wheel is where it’s supposed to be, right?”
Whittaker, Bitter saw, was holding the duchess’s left hand, on which she wore a wedding ring.
“Now that you’ve had your lectures, Edwin,” Canidy said,“show us how you can charm the natives.”
“Richard,” the British woman sergeant said, “for Christ’s sake, leave him alone.”
That was astonishing behavior for an enlisted woman, Bitter thought, precisely the reason the customs of the service kept enlisted people separated socially from officers.
“Commander,” the duchess said,“it seems only fair to tell you that for the last four days, we have heard nothing from Richard but glowing reports about you. I can’t imagine why he’s being such a shit to you now that you’re actually here.”
A waiter appeared with one chair.
“I’m terribly sorry, Your Grace,” he said. “But this is the only chair.”
Bitter saw that she quickly pulled free the hand Whittaker had been holding.
“We’ll manage,” the duchess said. “Thank you very much.”
Bitter found himself sitting beside the English female sergeant. That made him uncomfortable, but there seemed to be nothing he could do about it.
Whittaker reached under the table and came up with two gray paper sacks.
“Scotch and applejack,” Eddie,” he said. “We’re out of bourbon and rye.”
“I hate to admit this,” Fine said, “but I’m growing to like the applejack.”
Under the circumstances, Bitter decided that he could not refuse a drink, even though he really didn’t want one.
“Scotch, please,” he said.
The English sergeant shifted on the banquette seat so she could reach the ice bucket. With long delicate fingers she dropped ice in a glass, then extended it to Whittaker for the Scotch.
Bitter remembered her name: Agnes Draper.
When she handed him the glass, their fingers touched, and he wondered if Canidy was actually capable of trying to fix him up with a female sergeant.
He decided that he was.
Fifteen minutes later, Lt. Colonel Stevens came into the bar.
“I hate to break in on this happy little gathering,” Stevens said. “But I need a word with you, Dick. And you too, Stan.”
