Night Over Water (21 page)

“My mother, Lady Oxenford. My father, the marquis. And this is my brother, Lord Isley.”

Harry had heard of them all, of course: they were a famous family. He shook hands all round with a hearty, overfriendly manner that the Oxenfords would think typically American.

Lord Oxenford looked like what he was: an overfed bad-tempered old Fascist. He wore a brown tweed suit with a waistcoat that was about to pop its buttons, and he had not taken off his brown trilby hat.

Harry spoke to Lady Oxenford. “I’m thrilled to meet you, ma’am. I’m interested in antique jewelry, and I’ve heard you have one of the finest collections in the world.”

“Why, thank you,” she said. “It is a particular interest of mine.”

He was shocked to hear her American accent. What he knew about her came from his careful reading of society magazines. He had thought she was British. But now he vaguely remembered some gossip about the Oxenfords. The marquis, like many aristocrats with vast country estates, had almost gone bankrupt after the war because of the world slump in agricultural prices. Some had sold their estates and gone to live in Nice or Florence, where their dwindling fortunes bought a higher standard of living. But Algernon Oxenford had married the heiress to an American bank, and it was her money that had enabled him to continue to live in the style of his ancestors.

All of which simply meant that Harry’s act was going to have to fool a genuine American. It had to be faultless, and he would have to keep it up for the next thirty hours.

He decided to be charming to her. He guessed she was not averse to compliments, especially from good-looking young men. He looked closely at the brooch pinned to the bosom of her burned orange traveling suit. It was made of emeralds, sapphires, rubies and diamonds in the form of a butterfly landing on a wild rose spray. It was extraordinarily realistic. He decided it was French from about 1880 and took a guess as to the maker. “Is your brooch by Oscar Massin?”

“You’re quite right.”

“It’s very fine.”

“Thank you again.”

She was rather beautiful. He could understand why Oxenford had married her, but it was harder to see why she had fallen for him. Perhaps he had been more attractive twenty years ago.

“I think I know the Philadelphia Vandenposts,” she said.

Harry thought: Blimey, I hope not. However, she sounded rather vague.

“My family are the Glencarries of Stamford, Connecticut,” she added.

“Indeed!” said Harry, pretending to be impressed. He was still thinking about Philadelphia. Had he said he came from Philadelphia, or Pennsylvania? He could not remember. Maybe they were the same place. They seemed to go together. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Stamford, Connecticut. He remembered that when you asked Americans where they came from they always gave two answers. Houston, Texas. San Francisco, California. Yeah.

The boy said: “My name’s Percy.”

“Harry,” said Harry, glad to be back on familiar ground. Percy’s title was Lord Isley. It was a courtesy title, for the heir to use until his father died, whereupon he would become the Marquis of Oxenford. Most of these people were ludicrously proud of their stupid titles. Harry had once been introduced to a snot-nosed three-year-old named Baron Port-rail. However, Percy seemed all right. He was courteously letting Harry know that he did not want to be addressed formally.

Harry sat down. He was facing forward, so Margaret was next to him across the narrow aisle, and he would be able to talk to her without the others hearing. The plane was as quiet as a church. Everyone was rather awestruck.

He tried to relax. It was going to be a tense trip. Margaret knew his true identity, and that created a big new risk. Even though she had accepted his subterfuge, she could change her mind, or let something slip by accident. Harry could not afford to arouse misgivings. He could get through U.S. Immigration if no searching questions were asked, but if something happened to make them suspicious, and they decided to check up on him, they would quickly find out that he was using a stolen passport, and it would be all over.

Another passenger was brought to the seat opposite Harry. He was quite tall, with a bowler hat and a dark gray suit that had once been all right but was now past its best. Something about him struck Harry, who watched the man taking off his overcoat and settling in his seat. He had on stout well-worn black shoes, heavyweight wool socks and a wine-colored waistcoat under his double-breasted jacket. His dark blue tie looked as if it had been tied in the same place every day for ten years.

If I didn’t know the price of a ticket on this flying palace, Harry thought, I’d swear blind that man was a copper.

It was not too late to stand up and get off the plane.

No one would stop him. He could simply walk away and disappear.

But he had paid ninety pounds!

Besides, it might be weeks before he could get another transatlantic passage, and while he was waiting he might be rearrested.

He thought again about going on the run in England; and once again dismissed the idea. It would be difficult in wartime, with every busybody on the lookout for foreign spies; but more important, life as a fugitive would be unbearable—living in cheap boardinghouses, avoiding policemen, always on the move.

The man opposite him, if he were a policeman, was certainly not after Harry, of course; otherwise he would not be sitting down and making himself comfortable for the flight. Harry could not imagine what the man was doing; but for the moment he put it out of his mind and concentrated on his own predicament. Margaret was the danger factor. What could he do to protect himself?

She had entered into his deception in a spirit of fun. As things stood he could not rely on her to keep it up. But he could improve his chances by getting close to her. If he could win her affection she might begin to feel a sense of loyalty to him; and then she would take his charade more seriously, and be careful not to betray him.

Getting to know Margaret Oxenford would not be an unpleasant duty. He studied her out of the corner of his eye. She had the same pale autumnal coloring as her mother: red hair, creamy skin with a few freckles, and those fascinating dark green eyes. He could not tell what her figure was like, but she had slender calves and narrow feet. She wore a rather plain camel-colored lightweight coat over a red-brown dress. Although her clothes looked expensive, she did not have her mother’s sense of style: that might come as she grew older and more confident. She wore no interesting jewelry: just a plain single strand of pearls around her neck. She had neat, regular features and a determined chin. She was not his usual type—he always picked girls with a weakness, because they were so much easier to romance. Margaret was too good-looking to be a pushover. However, she seemed to like him, and that was a start. He made up his mind to win her heart.

The steward, Nicky, came into the compartment. He was a small, plump, effeminate man in his middle twenties, and Harry thought he was probably a queer. A lot of waiters were like that, he had noticed. Nicky handed out a typewritten sheet with the names of the passengers and crew on today’s flight.

Harry studied it with interest. He knew of Baron Philippe Gabon, the wealthy Zionist. The next name, Professor Carl Hartmann, also rang a bell. He had not heard of Princess Lavinia Bazarov, but her name suggested a Russian who had fled from the Communists, and her presence on this plane presumably meant she had got at least part of her wealth out of the country. He had most certainly heard of Lulu Bell, the film star. Only a week ago he had taken Rebecca Maugham-Flint to see her in
A Spy in Paris
at the Gaumont in Shaftesbury Avenue. She had played a plucky girl, as usual. Harry was very curious to meet her.

Percy, who sat facing the rear and could see into the next compartment, said: “They’ve closed the door.”

Harry began to feel nervous again.

For the first time he noticed that the plane was rising and falling gently on the water.

There was a rumble, like the gunfire of a distant battle. Harry anxiously looked out of the window. As he watched, the noise increased, and a propeller began to turn. The engines were being started. He heard the third and the fourth give voice. Although the noise was muffled by heavy soundproofing, the vibration of the mighty motors could be felt, and Harry’s apprehension increased.

On the floating dock a seaman cast off the flying boat’s moorings. Harry had a foolish feeling of inevitable doom as the ropes tying him to the land were carelessly dropped into the sea.

He was embarrassed about being afraid, and did not want anyone else to know how he felt, so he took out a newspaper, opened it and sat back with his legs crossed.

Margaret touched his knee. She did not need to raise her voice to be heard: the soundproofing was amazing. “I’m scared, too,” she said.

Harry was mortified. He thought he had succeeded in appearing calm.

The plane moved. He grabbed the arm of his chair, holding on tight; then he forced himself to let go. Of course she could tell be was scared. He was probably as white as the newspaper he was pretending to read.

She was sitting with her knees pressed close together and her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She seemed apprehensive and excited at the same time, as if she were about to take a roller-coaster ride. Her flushed cheeks, wide eyes and slightly open mouth made her look sexy. Harry wondered again what her body was like under that coat.

He looked at the others. The man opposite him was calmly fastening his safety belt. Margaret’s parents were gazing out of the windows. Lady Oxenford appeared unperturbed, but Lord Oxenford kept clearing his throat noisily, a sure sign of tension. Young Percy was so thrilled he could hardly sit still, but he did not seem in the least frightened.

Harry stared at his paper but he could not read a word, so he lowered it and looked out of the window instead. The mighty aircraft was taxiing majestically out into Southampton water. He could see the ocean liners in a row along the dockside. They were already some distance away, and there were several smaller craft between him and the land. Can’t get off now, he thought.

The water became choppy as the aircraft moved into the middle of the estuary. Harry was not normally seasick, but he felt distinctly uncomfortable as the Clipper began to ride the waves. The compartment looked like a room in a house, but the motion reminded him that he was sailing in a boat, a fragile craft of thin aluminum.

The plane reached the middle of the estuary, slowed and began to swing around. It rocked with the breeze, and Harry realized it was turning into the wind for takeoff. Then it seemed to pause, hesitating, pitching a little with the wind and rolling with the slight swell, as if it were a monstrous animal sniffing the air with its enormous snout. The suspense was almost too much: it took an effort of will for Harry to restrain himself from leaping out of his seat and yelling to be let off.

Suddenly there was a terrific roar, like a fearsome storm breaking out, as the four huge engines were pushed to full power. Harry let out a cry of shock, but it was drowned out. The aircraft seemed to settle a little in the water, as if it were sinking under the strain; but a moment later it surged forward.

It picked up speed rapidly, like a fast boat, except that no boat this big could accelerate so quickly. White water sped past the windows. The Clipper still pitched and rolled with the movement of the sea. Harry wanted to close his eyes, but he was afraid to. He felt panicky. I’m going to die, he thought hysterically.

The Clipper went faster and faster. Harry had never traveled at such a pace across water: no speedboat could reach this velocity. They were doing fifty, sixty, seventy miles an hour. Spray flew past the window, hazing his view. We’re going to sink, explode or crash, Harry thought.

There was a new vibration, like a car driving over ruts. What was it? Harry felt sure something was terribly wrong, and the plane was about to break up. It occurred to him that the plane had begun to rise, and the vibration was caused by its bumping across the waves like a speedboat. Was that normal?

Suddenly the water seemed to exert less drag. Peering through the spray, Harry saw that the surface of the estuary appeared to have tilted, and he realized that the plane’s nose must be up, although he had not felt the change. He was terrified and wanted to throw up. He swallowed hard.

The vibration changed. Instead of bumping across ruts they seemed to be jumping from wave to wave, like a stone skimming the surface. The engines screamed and the propellers thrashed the air. It might be impossible, Harry thought; maybe such a huge machine could not take to the air after all; perhaps it could only ride the waves like an overweight dolphin. Then, suddenly, he sensed that the plane had been set free. It surged forward and up, and he felt the restraining water fall away underneath him. The view from the window cleared as the spray was left behind, and he saw the water receding below as the plane went up. Gorblimey, we’re flying, he thought; this huge great palace is actually bloody flying!

Now that he was in the air, his fear dropped away and was replaced by a tremendous feeling of exhilaration. It was as if he were personally responsible for the fact that the plane had succeeded in taking off. He wanted to cheer. Looking around, he saw that everyone else was smiling with relief. Becoming conscious of other people again, he realized he was wet with sweat. He took out a white linen handkerchief, surreptitiously wiped his face, and quickly stuffed the damp handkerchief back into his pocket.

The plane continued to rise. Harry saw the south coast of England disappear beneath the stubby lower sea-wings; then he looked ahead and saw the Isle of Wight. After a while the plane leveled out and the roar of the engines was suddenly reduced to a low hum.

Nicky the steward reappeared in his white jacket and black tie. He did not have to raise his voice, now that the engines had been throttled back. He said: “Would you care for a cocktail, Mr. Vandenpost?”