Night Over Water (17 page)
She closed up her bags.
“Your bill, Mrs. Lenehan.”
She scribbled a check and handed it over with a tip.
“Very kind of you, Mrs. Lenehan. The taxi is waiting.”
She hurried outside and climbed into a cramped little British car. The porter put her overnight case on the seat beside her and gave instructions to the driver. Nancy added: “And go as fast as you can!”
The car went infuriatingly slowly through the city center. She tapped the toe of her gray suede shoe impatiently. The delay was caused by men painting white lines down the middle of the road, on the curbs and around roadside trees. She wondered irritably what their purpose was; then she figured out the lines were to help motorists in the blackout.
The taxi picked up speed as it wound through the suburbs and headed into the country. Here she saw no preparations for war. The Germans would not bomb fields, unless by accident. She kept looking at her watch. It was already twelve thirty. If she found an airplane, and a pilot, and persuaded him to take her, and negotiated a fee, all without delay, she might take off by one o’clock. Two hours’ flight, the porter had said. She would land at three. Then, of course, she would have to find her way from the airfield to Foynes. But that should not be too great a distance. She might well arrive with time to spare. Would there be a car to take her to the dockside? She tried to calm herself. There was no point in worrying that far ahead.
It occurred to her that the Clipper might be full: all the ships were.
She put the thought out of her mind.
She was about to ask her driver how much farther they had to go when, to her grateful relief, he abruptly turned off the road and steered through an open gate into a field. As the car bumped over the grass Nancy saw ahead of her a small hangar. All around it, small brightly colored planes were tethered to the green turf, like a collection of butterflies on a velvet cloth. There was no shortage of aircraft, she noted with satisfaction. But she needed a pilot too, and there seemed to be no one about.
The driver took her up to the big door of the hangar.
“Wait for me, please,” she said as she jumped out. She did not want to get stranded.
She hurried into the hangar. There were three planes inside but no people. She went out into the sunshine again. Surely the place could not be unattended, she thought anxiously. There had to be
someone
around; otherwise the door would be locked. She walked around the hangar to the back, and there at last she saw three men standing by a plane.
someone
around; otherwise the door would be locked. She walked around the hangar to the back, and there at last she saw three men standing by a plane.
The aircraft itself was ravishing. It was painted canary yellow all over, with little yellow wheels that made Nancy think of toy cars. It was a biplane, its upper and lower wings joined by wires and struts, and it had a single engine in the nose. It sat there with its propeller in the air and its tail on the ground like a puppy begging to be taken for a walk.
It was being fueled. A man in oily blue overalls and a cloth cap was standing on a stepladder pouring petrol from a can into a bulge on the wing over the front seat. On the ground was a tall, good-looking man of about Nancy’s age wearing a flying helmet and a leather jacket. He was deep in conversation with a man in a tweed suit.
Nancy coughed and said: “Excuse me.”
The two men glanced at her but the tall man continued speaking and they both looked away.
That was not a good start.
Nancy said: “I’m sorry to bother you. I want to charter a plane.”
The tall man interrupted his conversation to say: “Can’t help you.”
“It’s an emergency,” Nancy said.
“I’m not a bloody taxi driver,” the man said, and turned away again.
Nancy was angered sufficiently to say: “Why do you have to be so rude?”
That got his attention. He turned an interested, quizzical look at her, and she noticed that he had arched black eyebrows. “I didn’t intend to be rude,” he said mildly. “But my plane isn’t for hire, nor am I.”
Desperately, she said: “Please don’t be offended, but if it’s a matter of money, I’ll pay a high price—”
He was offended: his expression froze and he turned away.
Nancy observed that there was a chalk-striped dark gray suit under the leather jacket, and the man’s black Oxford shoes were the genuine article, not inexpensive imitations such as Nancy made. He was obviously a wealthy businessman who flew his own plane for pleasure.
“Is there anybody else, then?” she said.
The mechanic looked up from the fuel tank and shook his head. “Nobody about today,” he said.
The tall man said to his companion: “I’m not in business to lose money. You tell Seward that what he’s getting paid is the rate for the job.”
“The trouble is, he has got a point, you know,” said the one in the tweed suit.
“I know that. Say we’ll negotiate a higher rate for the next job.”
“That may not satisfy him.”
“In that case he can get his cards and bugger off.”
Nancy wanted to scream with frustration. Here was a perfectly good plane and a pilot, and nothing she said would make them take her where she needed to go. Close to tears, she said: “I just have to get to Foynes!”
The tall man turned around again. “Did you say Foynes?”
“Yes—”
“Why?”
At least she had succeeded in engaging him in conversation. “I’m trying to catch up with the Pan American Clipper.”
“That’s funny,” he said. “So am I.”
Her hopes lifted again. “Oh, my God,” she said. “You’re going to Foynes?”
“Aye.” He looked grim. “I’m chasing my wife.”
It was an odd thing to say, she noticed, even though she was so wrought up: a man who would confess to that was either very weak or very self-assured. She looked at his plane. There appeared to be two cockpits, one behind the other. “Are there two seats in your plane?” she asked with trepidation.
He looked her up and down. “Aye,” he said. “Two seats.”
“Please
take me with you.”
take me with you.”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “Why not?”
She wanted to faint with relief. “Oh, thank God,” she said. “I’m so grateful.”
“Don’t mention it.” He stuck out a big hand. “Mervyn Lovesey. How do you do?”
She shook hands. “Nancy Lenehan,” she replied. “Am I pleased to meet you.”
Eddie eventually realized he needed to talk to someone.
It would have to be someone he could trust
absolutely;
someone who would keep the whole thing secret.
absolutely;
someone who would keep the whole thing secret.
The only person he discussed this kind of thing with was Carol-Ann, She was his confidante. He would not even have discussed it with Pop when Pop was alive: he never liked to show weakness to his father. Was there anyone he could trust?
He considered Captain Baker. Marvin Baker was just the kind of pilot that passengers liked: good-looking, square-jawed, confident and assertive. Eddie respected him and liked him, too. But Baker’s loyalty was to the plane and the safety of the passengers, and he was a stickler for the rules. He would insist on going straight to the police with this story. He was no use.
Anyone else?
Yes. There was Steve Appleby.
Steve was a Lumberjack’s son from Oregon, a tall boy with muscles as hard as wood, a Catholic from a dirt-poor family. They had been midshipmen together at Annapolis. They had become friends on their first day, in the vast white mess hall. While the other plebes were bitching about the chow, Eddie cleaned his plate. Looking up, he saw that there was one other cadet poor enough to think this was great food: Steve. Their eyes had met and they understood one another perfectly.
They had been pals through the academy; then later they were both stationed at Pearl Harbor. When Steve married Nella, Eddie was best man; and last year Steve did the same service for Eddie. Steve was still in the navy, stationed at the
shipyard in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. They saw each other infrequently now, but it did not matter, for theirs was a friendship that would survive long periods with no contact. They would not write letters unless they had something specific to say. When they both happened to be in New York, they would have dinner or go to a ball game and would be as close as if they had parted company only the day before. Eddie would have trusted Steve with his soul.
shipyard in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. They saw each other infrequently now, but it did not matter, for theirs was a friendship that would survive long periods with no contact. They would not write letters unless they had something specific to say. When they both happened to be in New York, they would have dinner or go to a ball game and would be as close as if they had parted company only the day before. Eddie would have trusted Steve with his soul.
Steve was also a great fixer. A weekend pass, a bottle of hooch, a pair of tickets for the big game
—
he could get them when no one else could.
—
he could get them when no one else could.
Eddie decided to try to get in touch with him.
He felt a little better having made some kind of decision. He hurried back into the hotel.
He went into the little office and gave the number of the naval base to the hotel’s proprietress; then he went to his room. She would come and fetch him when the call came through.
He took off his overalls. He did not want to be in the tub when she came, so he scrubbed his hands and washed his face in the bedroom, then put on a clean white shirt and his uniform pants. The routine activity calmed him a little, but he was feverishly impatient. He did not know what Steve would say but it would be a tremendous relief to share the problem.
He was tying his tie when the proprietress knocked at the door. He hurried down the stairs and picked up the phone. He was connected with the switchboard operator at the base.
He said: “Would you put me through to Steve Appleby, please?”
“Lieutenant Appleby cannot be reached by telephone at this time,” she said. Eddie’s heart sank. She added: “May I give him a message?”
Eddie was bitterly disappointed. He knew Steve would not have been able to wave a wand and rescue Carol-Ann, but at least they could have talked, and maybe some ideas would have come out of the discussion.
He said: “Miss, this is an emergency. Where the hell is he?”
“May I ask who is calling, sir?”
“This is Eddie Deakin.”
She dropped her formal tone immediately. “Oh, hi, Eddie! You were his best man, weren’t you? I’m Laura Gross. We met.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Unofficially, Steve spent last night off the base.”
Eddie groaned inwardly. Steve was doing something he shouldn’t—at just the wrong time. “When do you expect him?”
“He should have been back before daybreak, but he didn’t show up.”
Worse yet
—
Steve was not just absent but possibly in trouble too.
—
Steve was not just absent but possibly in trouble too.
The operator said: “I could put you through to Nella. She’s in the typing pool. ”
“Okay, thanks.” He could not confide in Nella, of course, but he could find out a little more about where Steve might be. He tapped his foot restlessly while he waited for the connection. He could picture Nella: she was a warmhearted, round-faced girl with long curly hair.
At last he heard her voice. “Hello?”
“Nella, this is Eddie Deakin.”
“Hello, Eddie. Where are you?”
“I’m calling from England. Nella, where’s Steve?”
“Calling from England! My goodness! Steve is, uh, out of touch right now.” She sounded uneasy as she added: “Is something wrong?”
“Ayuh. When do you think Steve will be back?”
“Sometime this morning, maybe in an hour or so. Eddie, you sound really shook. What is it? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Maybe Steve could phone me here if he gets back in time.” He gave her the phone number of Langdown Lawn.
She repeated it. “Eddie, won’t you please tell me what’s goin’ on?”
“I can’t. Just get him to call. I’ll be here for another hour. After that, I have to go to the plane—we fly back to New York today. ”
“Whatever you say,” Nella said doubtfully. “How’s Carol-Ann ?”
“I have to go now,” he said. “Goodbye, Nella.” He hung up the phone without waiting for her reply. He knew he was being discourteous but he was too upset to care. His insides felt tied in knots.
He did not know what to do, so he climbed the stairs and went to his room. He left the door ajar so that he would hear the ring of the phone from the hall, and sat down on the edge of the single bed. He felt close to tears, for the first time since he was a child. He buried his head in his hands and whispered: “What am I going to do?”
He recalled the Lindbergh kidnapping. It had been in all the papers when he was at Annapolis, seven years ago. The child had been killed. “Oh, God, keep Carol-Ann safe,” he prayed.
He did not often pray, nowadays. Prayer had never done his parents any good. He believed in helping himself. He shook his head. This was no time to revert to religion. He had to think it out and do something.
The people who had kidnapped Carol-Ann wanted Eddie on the plane—that much was clear. Maybe that was a reason not to go. But if he stayed away he would never meet Tom Luther and find out what they wanted. He might frustrate their plans, but he would lose any slight chance of gaining control of the situation.
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