Borrowing his pencil and pad, I take a seat and we develop a plan: a tiny dot on Free Parking indicates the inclusion of a France-Germany map; one on Marylebone Station signifies a map of Italy, and so forth. Then to safeguard the loaded games from falling into the factory’s ordinary stock, I suggest a seemingly errant period on the box’s outer label.

“Also,” he interjects, midpuff on his cigarette, “we must include money.”

Funds being handy for bribes, food, and train passes, that’s actually an addition I had already entertained. “I do wish we could. There’s just no room for another false pocket.”

“No, no, not in the board. We’ll swap out the bound stacks of play money for genuine currency. Reichsmarks or lire, in accordance with the intended camp.”

In a rush, my concerns over his judgment return. I lower the notepad to my lap. “You know, I’m not confident that’s the best idea, having the real funds so visible.” It’s a softened statement of the obvious, but he retorts as if I’m the foolish one.

“Naturally we’ll place a few bills of play money on the top and bottom of the stacks to help disguise them.”

“Yes, but if the board is searched close enough, a camp guard is sure to discover the money.”

Hutton winks. “That, my girl, is correct.”

Oh heavens. His mental faculties are impaired after all.

“Guards are but human,” he continues. “Strained by war and desperation for family, temptation to pocket those funds shall be irresistible. And if that guard fancies another delivery of its kind…”

I realize aloud: “He won’t report it to the watch list.”

Hutton smirks. “Righto.” He takes another quick puff. “Now, before presenting this to Crockatt, you will need to compose a memo, stamped ‘Secret,’ and send it straightaway to Norman Watson at Waddington’s.”

Pencil back on the notepad, I scramble to keep up.

“Request a sum of three games with these exact specifications. One each to include the following pictures: an emerald, a double eagle, and a Dutch girl.”

I transcribe the instructions, unquestioning, until the last words sink in. “Dutch girl?”

“Ah. Yes. ‘Pictures’ being maps, of course, each reference is code for a respective region. I shall teach you my terms for all of them.”

Reflecting on his earlier memo about an urgent solution needed for a troublesome “Dutch girl”—referring not to me but a map—I can’t help but burst into laughter. While Hutton surveys me peculiarly, I resolve to explain in full, recognizing that we would both do well to trust each other more.

***