Ernest yanked the sheet of paper he was working on out of the typewriter, slid it under a stack of papers, and threaded a new one in. He called out, “In here!” and began typing, “On Tuesday, the Welcome Committee of Derringstone held a ‘Hands Across the Sea concert.’ Mrs. Jones-Pritchard—”

“There you are,” Cess said, carrying in some papers. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Didn’t you hear me?”

“No,” Ernest said, typing, “—sang ‘America the Beautiful’—”

“What does Mrs. Jones-Pritchard have to do with the First United States Army Group?” Cess asked, coming around the desk to read it as Ernest had been afraid he might.

“ ‘—and Privates First Class Joe Makowski, Dan Goldstein, and Wayne Turicelli,’ ” Ernest recited, typing, “of the Seventh Armored Division, who gave a spirited rendition of ‘Yankee Doodle’ on the spoons. A good time was had by all,” he typed with a flourish. He pulled the sheet out of the typewriter and handed it to Cess.

“Ingenious,” Cess said, reading it. “The Seventh Armored Division only moved to Derringstone last week, though. Would they have had time to practice?”

“All Americans are born knowing how to play ‘Yankee Doodle’ on the spoons.”

“True,” Cess said, handing the sheet of paper back.

“Did you come to tell me something?” Ernest asked.

“Yes, we must go to London.”

“London?”

“Yes, and don’t say you’ve got to stay here and finish your newspaper stories because you’ve been in here typing all day.”

“But I have to deliver them to Ashford and Croydon,” Ernest protested.

“Not a problem. Lady Bracknell said we can drop them off on the way.”

“Exactly where in London are we going?” Ernest asked, wondering if he was going to have to fake a sudden toothache.

“Bookshops. We’re buying up travel guides to northern France and copies of Michelin Map 51. The Pas de Calais area.”

Bookshops should be safe enough. He just needed to be careful. And Cess said they were going as British Expeditionary Force officers, but after he handed in his articles to Mr. Jeppers at the Call in Croydon, he put on a false mustache just to be certain. He talked Cess into doing Oxford Street while he did the secondhand bookshops on Charing Cross Road, which meant he was able to make several calls, and the whole thing went off without a hitch, but he was still relieved when it was over—so much so that he didn’t even complain when Lady Bracknell sent him to pick up a load of old sewer pipe for the dummy oil depot Shepperton Film Studios was building in Dover.

The assignment left him smelling so bad no one would come near him for two days, and he took advantage of the time to get caught up on his fake wedding announcements and roadway-accident reports and irate letters to the editor, all referencing Americans and the fictional First United States Army Group. And to work on his own compositions. He also tried to wangle ways to deliver his work to the newspaper offices on his own, but without success, and on Saturday Cess informed him they had to go to London again.