Night Over Water

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Diana Lovesey was furious with her husband, Mervyn, for board ing the Clipper at Foynes. She was, first of all, painfully embar rassed by his pursuit of her, and afraid people would think the whole situation highly comical. More important, she did not want the opportunity to change her mind that he was giving her. She had made her decision, but Mervyn had refused to accept it as final, and somehow that cast doubt on her determination. Now she would have to make the decision again and again, as he would keep asking her to reconsider. Finally, he had completely spoiled her pleasure in the flight. It was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime, a romantic journey with her lover. But the exhilarating sense of freedom she had felt as they took off from Southampton had gone for good. She got no pleasure from the flight, the luxurious plane, the elegant company or the gourmet food. She was afraid to touch Mark, to kiss his cheek or stroke his arm or hold his hand, in case Mervyn should happen to pass through the compartment at that moment and see what she was doing. She was not sure where Mervyn was sitting, but she expected to see him at every moment.

Mark was completely flattened by this development. After Diana turned Mervyn down at Foynes, Mark had been elated, affectionate and optimistic, talking about California and making jokes and kissing her at every opportunity, quite his usual self. Then he had watched in horror as his rival had stepped on board the plane. Now he was like a punctured balloon. He sat silently beside her, leafing disconsolately through magazines without reading a word. She could understand his feeling depressed. Once already she had changed her mind about running away with him: with Mervyn on board, how could he be sure she would not change it again?

To make matters worse, the weather had become stormy, and the plane bumped like a car crossing a field. Every now and again a passenger would pass through the compartment on the way to the bathroom, looking green. People said it was forecast to get worse. Diana was glad now that she had been feeling too upset to eat much at dinner.

She wished she knew where Mervyn was sitting. Perhaps if she knew where he was she would stop expecting him to materialize at any moment. She decided to go to the ladies’ room and look for him on the way.

She was in number 4 compartment. She took a quick look into number 3, the next one forward, but Mervyn was not there. Turning back, she walked aft, holding on to anything she could grab as the plane bucked and swayed. She passed through number 5 and established that he was not there either. That was the last big compartment. Most of number 6 was taken up by the ladies’ powder room, on the starboard side, leaving room for only two people on the port side. These seats were occupied by two businessmen. They were not very attractive seats, Diana thought: fancy paying all that money and then sitting outside the ladies’ toilet for the whole flight! Beyond number 6 there was nothing but the honeymoon suite. Mervyn must be seated farther forward, then—in number 1 or 2—unless he was in the main lounge, playing cards.

She went into the powder room. There were two stools in front of the mirror, one already occupied by a woman Diana had not yet spoken to. As Diana closed the door behind her, the plane plunged again, and she almost lost her balance. She staggered in and fell into the vacant seat.

“Are you all right?” the other woman said.

“Yes, thanks. I hate it when the plane does this.”

“So do I. But someone said it’s going to get worse. There’s a big storm ahead.”

The turbulence eased, and Diana opened her handbag and started to brush her hair.

“You’re Mrs. Lovesey, aren’t you?” the woman said.

“Yes. Call me Diana.”

“I’m Nancy Lenehan.” The woman hesitated, looking awkward, then said: “I got on the plane at Foynes. I came over from Liverpool with your ... with Mr. Lovesey.”

“Oh!” Diana felt her face go pink. “I didn’t realize he had a companion. ”

“He helped me out of a jam. I needed to catch the plane, but I was stuck in Liverpool with no way of getting to Southampton in time, so I just drove out to the airfield and begged for a ride.”

“I’m glad for you,” Diana said. “But it’s frightfully embarrassing for me.”

“I don’t see why you should be embarrassed. It must be nice to have two men desperately in love with you. I don’t even have one.”

Diana looked at her in the mirror. She was attractive rather than beautiful, with regular features and dark hair, and she wore a very smart red suit with a gray silk blouse. She had a brisk, confident air. Mervyn would give you a lift, Diana thought; you’re just his type. “Was he polite to you?” she asked.

“Not very,” Nancy said with a rueful smile.

“I’m sorry. His manners aren’t his strong point.” She took out her lipstick.

“I was just grateful for the ride.” Nancy blew her nose delicately on a tissue. Diana noticed that she wore a wedding ring. “He is a little abrupt,” Nancy went on. “But I think he’s a nice man. I had dinner with him, too. He makes me laugh. And he’s terribly handsome.”

“He is a nice man,” Diana found herself saying. “But he’s as arrogant as a duchess and he’s got no patience at all. I drive him mad, because I hesitate and change my mind and don’t always say what I mean.”

Nancy ran a comb through her hair. It was thick and dark, and Diana wondered whether she dyed it to conceal gray streaks. Nancy said: “He seems willing to go a long way to get you back.”

“That’s just pride,” Diana said. “It’s because another man has taken me away. Mervyn’s competitive. If I’d left him and gone to live at my sister’s house he wouldn’t have cared tuppence.”

Nancy laughed. “It sounds as if he has no chance of getting you back.”

“None whatsoever.” Suddenly Diana did not want to talk to Nancy Lenehan any longer. She felt unaccountably hostile. She put away her makeup and her comb and stood up. She smiled to cover her sudden feeling of dislike, saying: “Let’s see if I can cakewalk back to my seat.”

“Good luck!”

As she left the powder room, Lulu Bell and Princess Lavinia came in, carrying their overnight cases. When Diana got back to the compartment, Davy, the steward, was converting their seat into a double bunk. Diana was intrigued to see how an ordinary-looking divan seat could be made into two beds. She sat down and watched.

First he took off all the cushions and pulled the armrests out of their slots. Reaching over the seat frame, he pulled down two flaps in the wall at chest level, to reveal hooks. Bending over the seat, he unfastened a strap and lifted out a flat frame. He hung this from the wall hooks to form the base of the upper bunk. The outward side slotted into a hole in the side wall. Diana was just thinking that it did not look very strong when Davy picked up two stout-looking struts and attached them to both upper and lower frames to form bedposts. Now the structure looked more sturdy.

He replaced the seat cushions on the lower bed and used the back cushions as a mattress for the upper one. He took pale blue sheets and blankets from under the seat and made up the beds with fast, practiced movements.

The bunks looked comfortable, but frightfully public. However, Davy broke out a dark blue curtain, complete with hooks, and hung it from a molding on the ceiling that Diana had thought was merely decorative. He attached the curtain to the bunk frames with snap fasteners, making a tight fit. He left a triangular opening, like the entrance to a tent, for the sleeper to climb inside. Finally he unfolded a little stepladder and placed it convenient to the upper bunk.

He turned to Diana and Mark with a faintly pleased look, as if he had performed a magic trick. “Just let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll make up your side,” he said.

“Doesn’t it get stuffy in there?” Diana asked him.

“Each bunk has its own ventilator,” he replied. “If you look just above your head you can see yours.” Diana looked up and saw a grille with an OPEN/CLOSED lever. “You’ve also got your own window, electric light, clothes hanger and shelf; and if you need anything else, press this button and call me.”

While he had been working, the two passengers on the port side, handsome Frank Gordon and bald Ollis Field, had picked up their overnight bags and trooped off to the men’s room; and now Davy began to make up the bunk on that side. The arrangement was slightly different over there. The aisle was not in the center of the plane, but nearer to the port side, so on that side, there was only one pair of bunks, placed lengthwise rather than across the width of the plane.

Princess Lavinia returned in a floor-length navy blue peignoir trimmed with blue lace, and a matching turban. Her face was a mask of frozen dignity: obviously she found it painfully uncomfortable to appear in public in her nightclothes. She looked at the bunk in horror. “I shall die of claustrophobia,” she moaned. No one took any notice. She stepped out of little silk slippers and climbed into the lower bunk. Without saying good night, she pulled the curtain shut and fastened it tight.

A moment later Lulu Bell appeared in a rather flimsy pink chiffon ensemble that did little to conceal her charms. She had been stiffly polite with Diana and Mark since Foynes, but now she seemed to have suddenly forgotten her pique. She sat down beside them on the divan and said: “You’ll never guess what I just heard about our companions!” She jerked a thumb at the seats vacated by Field and Gordon.

Mark looked nervously at Diana and then said: “What did you hear, Lulu?”

“Mr. Field is an F.B.I. man!”

That was not so startling, Diana thought. An F.B.I. agent was only a policeman.

Lulu went on: “And what’s more, Frank Gordon is a prisoner!”

Mark said skeptically: “Who told you this?”

“Everyone’s talking about it in the ladies’ room.”

“That doesn’t make it true, Lulu.”

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me!” she said. “That kid overheard a row between Field and the captain of the plane. The captain was mad as hell because the F.B.I, didn’t warn Pan American that they had a dangerous prisoner on board. There was a real set-to and in the end the crew took away Mr. Field’s gun!”

Diana recalled thinking that Field seemed like Gordon’s chaperon. “What do they say Frank did?”

“He’s a mobster. He shot a guy and raped a girl and torched a nightclub.”

Diana found that hard to believe. She had talked to the man herself! He was not very refined, it was true; but he was handsome and nicely dressed, and he had flirted with her politely. She could see him as a confidence trickster or a tax dodger, and she could imagine his being involved in illegal gambling, say; but it did not seem possible that he had deliberately killed people. Lulu was an excitable person who would believe anything.

Mark said: “It’s kinda hard to credit.”

“I give up,” Lulu said with a deprecating wave of her hand. “You guys have no sense of adventure.” She stood up. “I’m going to bed. If he starts raping people, wake me up.” She climbed the little stepladder and crawled into the top bunk. She pulled the curtains, then looked out again and spoke to Diana. “Honey, I understand why you got ticked off at me back there in Ireland. I been thinking about it, and I figure I asked for what I got. I was kind of all over Mark. Dumb, I know. I’m ready to forget it as soon as you are. Good night.”

It was close enough to an apology, and Diana did not have the heart to reject it. “Good night, Lulu,” she said.

Lulu closed the curtain.

Mark said: “It was my fault as much as hers. I’m sorry, baby.”

By way of reply, Diana kissed him.

Suddenly she felt comfortable and at ease with him again. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on the seat, still kissing him. She was conscious that her right breast was pressing up against his chest. It was nice to be getting physical with him again. The tip of his tongue touched her lips and she parted them a fraction to let him in. He began to breathe harder. This was going a bit too far, Diana thought. She opened her eyes—and saw Mervyn.

He was passing through the compartment, going forward, and he might not have noticed her, but he turned and glanced over his shoulder, and froze, almost in midstride. His face paled with shock.

Diana knew him so well that she could read his mind. Although he had been told that she was in love with Mark, he was too downright stubborn to accept it, and so it came as a blow to him to see her actually kissing someone else, almost as bad as if he had had no warning.

His brow darkened and his black eyebrows contracted in an angry frown. For a split second Diana thought he was going to start a fight. Then he turned away and walked on.

Mark said: “What’s the matter?” He had not seen Mervyn—he had been too busy kissing Diana.

She decided not to tell him. “Someone might see,” she murmured.

Reluctantly he drew away from her.

She was relieved for a moment; then she began to feel angry. Mervyn had no right to follow her across the world and frown at her every time she kissed Mark. Marriage was not slavery: she had left him, and he had to accept that. Mark lit a cigarette. Diana felt the need to confront Mervyn. She wanted to tell him to get out of her life.

She stood up. “I’m going to see what’s happening in the lounge,” she said. “You stay there and smoke.” She left without waiting for a reply.

She had established that Mervyn was not seated to the rear, so she went forward. The turbulence had eased enough for her to walk without holding on. Mervyn was not in number 3 compartment. In the main lounge the cardplayers were settling down to a long game, their seat belts fastened, clouds of smoke around them and bottles of whiskey on the tables. She went into number 2. The Oxenford family took up one side of the compartment. Everyone on the plane knew that Lord Oxenford had insulted Carl Hartmann, the scientist, and that Mervyn Lovesey had sprung to his defense. Mervyn had his good points: she had never denied that.

Next she came to the kitchen. Nicky, the fat steward, was washing dishes at a tremendous pace while his colleague was making beds farther back. The men’s room door was opposite the kitchen. After that was the staircase to the flight deck, and beyond that, in the nose of the plane, number 1 compartment. She assumed Mervyn had to be there, but in fact it was occupied by off-duty flight crew.

She went up the stairs to the flight cabin. It was as luxurious as the passenger deck, she noticed. However, the crew all looked terrifically busy, and one of them said to her: “We’d love to show you around at another time, ma’am, but while we’re flying through this bad weather we have to ask you to remain seated and fasten your safety belt.”

Mervyn had to be in the men’s room, then, she thought, as she went down the stairs. She still had not found out where he was sitting.

When she reached the foot of the staircase, she bumped into Mark. She gave a guilty start. “What are you doing?” she said.

“I was wondering that about you,” he said, and there was something unpleasant in his tone of voice.

“I was just looking around.”

“Looking for Mervyn?” he said accusingly.

“Mark, why are you angry with me?”

“Because you’re sneaking off to see him.”

Nicky interrupted them. “Folks, would you return to your seats, please? We’re getting a smooth ride for the moment, but it’s not going to last.”

They made their way back to their compartment. Diana felt foolish. She had been following Mervyn and Mark had been following her. It seemed silly.

They sat down. Before they could continue their conversation, Ollis Field and Frank Gordon came in. Frank wore a yellow silk dressing gown with a dragon on the back, Field a grubby old woolen one. Frank took off his dressing gown to reveal red pajamas with white piping. He stepped out of his carpet slippers and climbed the little ladder to the top bunk.

Then, to Diana’s horror, Field took a pair of gleaming silvery handcuffs from the pocket of his brown robe. He said something to Frank in a low voice. Diana could not hear the reply, but she could tell that Frank was protesting. However, Field insisted, and in the end Frank offered one wrist. Field clapped one cuff on him and attached the other to the frame of the bunk. Then he drew the curtain on Frank and fastened the snaps.

It was true, then. Frank was a prisoner.

Mark said: “Well, shit.”

Diana whispered: “I still don’t believe he’s a murderer.”

“I hope not!” Mark said. “We would have been safer paying fifty bucks and traveling steerage in a tramp steamer!”

“I wish he hadn’t put the handcuffs on. I don’t know how that boy can sleep chained to his bed. He won’t even be able to roll over!”

“You’re softhearted,” Mark said, giving her a hug. “The man is probably a rapist and you’re feeling sorry for him because he might not be able to sleep.”

She put her head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair. He had been mad at her a couple of minutes ago, but that seemed to have passed. “Mark,” she said, “do you think two people can get into one of these bunks?”

“Are you frightened, honey?”

“No.”

He gave her a puzzled look; then he understood and grinned. “I guess you could get two in—though not side....”

“Not side by side?”

“It looks too narrow.”

“Well”—she lowered her voice—“one of us will have to get on top.” He murmured into her ear: “Would you like to get on top?”

She giggled. “I think I might.”

“I’ll have to consider that,” he said thickly. “What do you weigh?”

“Eight stone and two breasts.”

“Shall we get changed?”

She took off her hat and put it down on the seat beside her. Mark pulled their cases from under the seat. His was a well-used cordovan Gladstone bag, hers a small, hard-sided, tan leather case with her initials in gold lettering.

Diana stood up.

“Be quick,” Mark said. He kissed her.

She gave him a swift hug, and as he pressed against her she felt his erection. “Goodness,” she said. In a whisper she added: “Can you keep it like that until you get back?”

“I don’t think so. Not unless I pee out the window.” She laughed. He added: “But I’ll show you a quick way to make it hard again.”

“I can’t wait,” she whispered.

Mark picked up his case and went out, going forward toward the men’s room. As he left the compartment, he passed Mervyn coming the other way. They looked at one another like cats across a fence, but they did not speak.

Diana was startled to see Mervyn dressed in a coarse flannel nightshirt with broad brown stripes. “What on earth have you got on?” she asked incredulously.

“Go on, laugh,” he said. “It was all I could find in Foynes. The local shop has never heard of silk pajamas—they didn’t know whether I was queer or just daft.”

“Well, your friend Mrs. Lenehan won’t fancy you in that getup.” Now why did I say that? Diana wondered.

“I don’t suppose she’d fancy me in anything,” Mervyn said crossly, and he passed on out of the compartment.

The steward came in. Diana said: “Oh, Davy, would you make up our beds now, please?”

“Right away, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” She picked up her case and went out.

As she passed through number 5 compartment, she wondered where Mervyn was sleeping. None of these bunks was made up yet, nor any in number 6; and yet he had disappeared. It dawned on Diana that he must be in the honeymoon suite. An instant later she realized that she had not seen Mrs. Lenehan seated anywhere when she walked the length of the plane a few moments earlier. She stood outside the ladies’ room, with her bag in her hand, frozen still with surprise. It was outrageous. Mervyn and Mrs. Lenehan must be sharing the honeymoon suite!

Surely the airline would not allow it. Perhaps Mrs. Lenehan had already gone to bed, and was out of sight in a curtained bunk in a forward compartment.

Diana had to know.

She stepped to the door of the honeymoon suite and hesitated.

Then she turned the handle and opened the door.

The suite was about the same size as a regular compartment, and had a terra-cotta carpet, beige walls and the blue upholstery with the pattern of stars that was also in the main lounge. At the rear of the room was a pair of bunks. On one side were a couch and a coffee table, and on the other a stool, a dressing table, and a mirror. There were two windows on each side.

Mervyn stood in the middle of the room, startled by her sudden appearance. Mrs. Lenehan was not present, but her gray cashmere coat was draped over the couch.

Diana slammed the door behind her and said: “How could you do this to me?”

“Do what?”

It was a good question, she thought in the back of her mind. What was she so angry about? “Everyone will know that you’re spending the night with her!”

“I had no choice,” he protested. “There were no other seats left.”

“Don’t you know how people will laugh at us? It’s bad enough your following me like this!”

“Why would I care? Everyone laughs at a chap whose wife runs off with another fellow.”

“But this is making it worse! You should have accepted the situation and made the best of it.”

“You ought to know me better than that.”

“I do—that’s why I tried to prevent you following me.”

He shrugged. “Well, you failed. You’re not clever enough to outwit me.”

“And you’re not clever enough to know when to give in gracefully!”

“I’ve never pretended to be graceful.”

“And what kind of tramp is she? She’s married—I saw her ring!”

“She’s a widow. Anyway, what right have you got to be so damn superior? You’re married, and you’re spending the night with your fancy man.”

“At least we’ll be in separate bunks in a public compartment, not tucked away in a cozy little bridal suite,” she said, suppressing a guilty pang as she recalled how she had planned to share a bunk with Mark.

“But I’m not having an affair with Mrs. Lenehan,” he said in an exasperated tone, “whereas you’ve been dropping your drawers for that playboy all bloody summer, haven’t you?”

“Don’t be so vulgar,” she hissed; but she felt somehow he was right. That was exactly what she had been doing: whipping her panties off as quick as she could every time she got near Mark. He was right.

“If it’s vulgar to say it, it must be worse to do it,” he said.

“At least I was discreet—I didn’t flaunt it and humiliate you.”

“I’m not so sure about that. I’ll probably find I was the only person in Greater Manchester who didn’t know what you were up to. Adulterers are never as discreet as they think.”

“Don’t call me that!” she protested. It made her feel ashamed.

“Why not? It’s what you are.”

“It sounds vile,” she said, looking away.

“Be thankful we don’t stone adulteresses like they did in the Bible.”

“It’s a horrible word.”

“You should be ashamed of the deed, not the word.”

“You’re so bloody righteous,” she said wearily. “You’ve never done anything wrong, have you?”

“I’ve always done right by you!” he said angrily.

She became thoroughly exasperated with him. “Two wives have run away from you, but you’ve always been the innocent party. Will it ever occur to you to wonder where you might be going wrong?”

That got to him. He grabbed her, holding her arms above the elbow, and shook her. “I gave you everything you wanted,” he said angrily.

“But you don’t care how I feel about things,” she shouted. “You never did. That’s why I left you.” She put her hands on his chest to push him away—and at that moment the door opened and Mark came in.

He stood there in his pajamas, staring at the two of them, and said: “What the hell is this, Diana? Are you planning to spend the night in the honeymoon suite?”

She pushed Mervyn away and he let her go. “No, I’m not,” she said to Mark. “This is Mrs. Lenehan’s accommodation—Mervyn’s sharing it.”

Mark laughed scornfully. “That’s rich!” he said. “I have to put this in a script sometime!”

“It’s not funny!” she protested.

“But it is!” he said. “This guy comes chasing his wife like a lunatic. Then what does he do? He shacks up with a girl he meets on the way!”

Diana resented his attitude, and found herself unwillingly defending Mervyn. “They’re not shacked up,” she said impatiently. “These were the only seats left.”

“You should be glad,” Mark said. “If he falls for her, maybe he’ll stop chasing you.”

“Can’t you see I’m upset?”

“Sure, but I don’t understand why,” he said. “You don’t love Mervyn anymore. Sometimes you talk as if you hate him. You’ve left him. So why do you care who he sleeps with?”

“I don’t know, but I do! I feel humiliated!”

Mark was too cross to be sympathetic. “A few hours ago you decided to go back to Mervyn. Then he annoyed you and you changed your mind. Now you’re mad at him for sleeping with someone else.”

“I’m not sleeping with her,” Mervyn put in.

Mark ignored him. “Are you sure you’re not still in love with Mervyn?” he said angrily to Diana.

“That’s a horrible thing to say to me!”

“I know, but is it true?”

“No, it isn’t true, and I hate you for thinking it might be.” She was in tears now.

“Then prove it to me. Forget about him and where he sleeps.”

“I was never any good at tests!” she shouted. “Stop being so bloody logical! This is not the debating society!”

“No, it’s not!” said a new voice. The three of them turned around and saw Nancy Lenehan in the door, looking very attractive in a bright blue silk robe. “In fact,” she said, “I believe this is my suite. What the hell is going on?”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Margaret Oxenford was angry and ashamed. She felt sure the other passengers were staring at her and thinking about the dreadful scene in the dining room, and assuming that she shared her father’s horrible attitudes. She was afraid to look anyone in the eye.

Harry Marks had rescued the shreds of her dignity. It had been clever of him, and so gracious, to step in and hold her chair like that, then offer her his arm as she walked out: a small gesture, almost silly, but for her it had made a world of difference.

Still, it was only a vestige of her self-respect that she had retained, and she boiled with resentment toward Father for putting her in such a shameful position.

There was a cold silence in the compartment for two hours after dinner. When the weather started to get rough, Mother and Father retired to change into their nightclothes. Then Percy surprised Margaret by saying: “Let’s apologize.”

Her first thought was that this would involve further embarrassment and humiliation. “I don’t think I’ve got the courage,” she said.

“We’ll just go up to Baron Gabon and Professor Hartmann, and say we’re sorry Father was so rude.”

The idea of somehow mitigating her father’s offense was very tempting. It would make her feel a lot better. “Father would be furious, of course,” she said.

“He doesn’t have to know. But I don’t care if he is angry. I think he’s going round the bend. I’m not even afraid of him anymore.”

Margaret wondered whether that was true. As a small boy, Percy had often said he was not afraid when in fact he was terrified. But he was not a small boy anymore.

She was actually a little worried by the thought that Percy might no longer be under Father’s control. Only Father could restrain Percy. With no rein on his mischief, what might he do?

“Come on,” Percy said. “Let’s do it now. They’re in number three compartment—I checked.”

Still Margaret hesitated. She cringed at the thought of walking up to the men Father had insulted. It could cause them more pain. They might prefer to forget the whole thing as quickly as possible. But they might also be wondering how many other passengers secretly agreed with Father. Surely it was more important to make a stand against racial prejudice?

Margaret decided to do it. She had often been fainthearted and she had usually regretted it. She stood up, steadying herself by holding on to the arm of her seat, for the plane was bucking every few moments. “All right,” she said. “Let’s apologize.”

She was trembling a little with apprehension, but her shakiness was masked by the unsteadiness of the plane. She led the way through the main lounge into number 3 compartment.

Gabon and Hartmann were on the port side, facing each other. Hartmann was absorbed in reading, his long, thin body in a curve, his close-cropped head bent, his arched nose pointing at a page of mathematical calculations. Gabon was doing nothing, apparently bored, and he saw them first. When Margaret stopped beside him and held on to the back of his seat for support, he stiffened and looked hostile.

Margaret said quickly: “We’ve come to apologize.”

“I’m surprised you are so bold,” Gabon said. He spoke English perfectly, with only the trace of a French accent.

It was not the reaction Margaret had hoped for, but she plowed on regardless. “I’m most dreadfully sorry about what happened, and my brother feels the same way. I admire Professor Hartmann so much. I told him earlier.”

Hartmann had looked up from his book, and now he nodded agreement. But Gabon was still angry. “It’s too easy for people like you to be sorry,” he said. Margaret stared at the floor and wished she had not come. “Germany is full of polite wealthy people who are ‘most dreadfully sorry’ for what is happening there,” Gabon went on. “But what do they do? What do you do?”

Margaret felt her face flush crimson. She did not know what to do or say.

“Hush, Philippe,” Hartmann said softly. “Can’t you see that they’re young?” He looked at Margaret. “I accept your apology, and thank you.”

“Oh, dear,” she said, “have I made everything worse?”

“Not at all,” Hartmann said. “You have made it a little better, and I’m grateful to you. My friend the baron is terribly upset, but he will see it my way eventually, I think.”

“We’d better go,” Margaret said wretchedly.

Hartmann nodded.

She turned away.

Percy said: “I’m terribly sorry.” He followed her out.

They staggered back to their compartment. Davy was making up the bunks. Harry had disappeared, presumably to the men’s room. Margaret decided to get ready for bed. She picked up her overnight case and made her way to the ladies’ room to change. Mother was just coming out, looking stunning in her chestnut-colored dressing gown. “Good night, dear,” she said. Margaret passed her without speaking.

In the crowded ladies’ room she changed quickly into her cotton nightdress and toweling bathrobe. Her nightclothes seemed dowdy among the brightly colored silks and cashmeres of the other women, but she hardly cared. Apologizing had brought her no relief, in the end, because Baron Gabon’s remarks had rung true. It was too easy to say sorry and do nothing about the problem.

When she returned to her compartment, Father and Mother were in bed behind closed curtains, and a muffled snore came from Father’s bunk. Her own bed was not ready, so she had to sit in the lounge.

She knew very well that there was only one way out of her predicament. She had to leave her parents and live on her own. She was now more determined than ever to do so; but she was no nearer to solving the practical problems of money, work and accommodation.

Mrs. Lenehan, the attractive woman who had joined the plane at Foynes, came and sat beside her, wearing a bright blue robe over a black negligee. “I came to ask for a brandy, but the stewards seem so busy,” she said. She did not seem very disappointed. She waved a hand to indicate all the passengers. “This is like a pajama party, or a midnight feast in the dormitory—everyone wandering around in dishabille. Don’t you agree?”

Margaret had never been to a pajama party or slept in a dormitory, so she just said: “It’s very strange. It makes us all seem like one family.”

Mrs. Lenehan fastened her seat belt: she was in a mood to chat. “It’s not possible to be formal when you’re in your nightclothes, I guess. Even Frankie Gordino looked cute in his red p.j.s, didn’t he?”

At first Margaret was not sure who she meant; then she remembered that Percy had overheard an angry exchange between the captain and an F.B.I., agent. “Is that the prisoner?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you afraid of him?”

“I guess not. He won’t do me any harm.”

“But people are saying he’s a murderer, and worse than that.”

“There will always be crime in the slums. Take Gordino away and somebody else will do the killing. I’d leave him there. Gambling and prostitution have been going on since God was a boy, and if there has to be crime it might as well be organized.”

This was a rather shocking speech. Perhaps something about the atmosphere of the plane led people to be unusually candid. Margaret also guessed that Mrs. Lenehan would not have talked like this in mixed company: women were always more down-to-earth when there were no men around. Whatever the reason, Margaret was fascinated. “Wouldn’t it be better for crime to be disorganized?” she said.

“Certainly not. Organized, it’s contained. The gangs each have their own territory and they stay there. They don’t rub people out on Fifth Avenue and they don’t demand protection money from the Harvard Club. So why bother them?”

Margaret could not let this pass. “What about the poor people who waste their money gambling? What about the wretched girls who ruin their health?”

“It’s not that I don’t care about them,” Mrs. Lenehan said. Margaret looked carefully at her face, wondering whether she was sincere. “Listen,” she went on. “I make shoes.” Margaret must have looked surprised, for Mrs. Lenehan added: “That’s what I do for a living. I own a shoe factory. My men’s shoes are cheap, and they last for five or ten years. If you want to, you can buy even cheaper shoes, but they’re no good—they have cardboard soles that last about ten days. And believe it or not, some people buy the cardboard ones! Now I figure I’ve done my duty by making good shoes. If people are dumb enough to buy bad shoes there’s nothing I can do about it. And if people are dumb enough to spend their money gambling when they can’t afford to buy a steak for supper, that’s not my problem either.”

“Have you ever been poor yourself?” Margaret asked.

Mrs. Lenehan laughed. “Smart question. No, I haven’t, so maybe I shouldn’t shoot my mouth off. My grandfather made boots by hand and my father opened the factory that I now run. I don’t know anything about life in the slums. Do you?”

“Not much, but I think there are reasons why people gamble and steal and sell their bodies. They aren’t just stupid. They’re victims of a cruel system.”

“I suppose you’re some kind of Communist.” Mrs. Lenehan said this without hostility.

“Socialist,” Margaret said.

“That’s good,” Mrs. Lenehan said surprisingly. “You may change your mind later—everyone’s notions alter as they get older—but if you don’t have ideals to start with, what is there to improve? I’m not cynical. I think we should learn from experience but hold on to our ideals. Why am I preaching at you like this? Maybe because today is my fortieth birthday.”

“Many happy returns.” Margaret normally resented people who said she would change her mind when she was older: it was a condescending thing to say, and often said when they had lost an argument but would not admit it. However, Mrs. Lenehan was different. “What are your ideals?” Margaret asked her.

“I just want to make good shoes.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. “Not much of an ideal, I guess, but it’s important to me. I have a nice life. I live in a beautiful home. My sons have everything they need. I spend a fortune on clothes. Why do I have all this? Because I make good shoes. If I made cardboard shoes I’d feel like a thief. I’d be as bad as Frankie.”

“A rather socialist point of view,” Margaret said with a smile.

“I just adopted my father’s ideals, really,” Mrs. Lenehan said reflectively. “Where do your ideals come from? Not your father, I know.”

Margaret blushed. “You heard about the scene at dinner.”

“I was there.”

“I’ve got to get away from my parents.”

“What’s keeping you?”

“I’m only nineteen.”

Mrs. Lenehan was mildly scornful. “So what? People run away from home at ten!”

“I did try,” Margaret said. “I got into trouble and the police picked me up.”

“You give in pretty easy.”

Margaret wanted Mrs. Lenehan to understand that it was not from lack of courage that she had failed. “I’ve no money and no skills. I’ve never had a proper education. I don’t know how I’d make a living.”

“Honey, you’re on your way to America. Most people arrived there with a lot less than you, and some of them are millionaires now. You can read and write English. You’re personable, intelligent, pretty.... You could get a job easily. I’d hire you.”

Margaret’s heart seemed to turn over. She had begun to feel resentful of Mrs. Lenehan’s unsympathetic attitude. Now she realized she was being given an opportunity. “Would you?” she said. “Would you hire me?”

“Sure.”

“As what?”

Mrs. Lenehan thought for a moment. “I’d put you in the sales office: licking stamps, going for coffee, answering the phone, being nice to customers. If you made yourself useful you’d soon be promoted to assistant sales manager.”

“What does that involve?”

“It means doing the same things for more money.”

To Margaret it seemed like an impossible dream. “Oh, my goodness, a real job in a real office,” she said longingly.

Mrs. Lenehan laughed. “Most people think of it as drudgery!”

“To me it would be such an adventure.”

“At first, maybe.”

“Do you really mean it?” Margaret asked solemnly. “If I come to your office in a week’s time, will you give me a job?”

Mrs. Lenehan looked startled. “My God, you’re deadly serious, aren’t you?” she said. “I kind of thought we were talking theoretically.”

Margaret’s heart sank. “Then you won’t give me a job?” she asked plaintively. “All this was just talk?”

“I’d like to hire you, but there’s a snag. In a week’s time I may not have a job myself.”

Margaret wanted to cry. “What do you mean?”

“My brother is trying to take the company away from me.”

“How can he do that?”

“It’s complicated, and he may not succeed. I’m fighting him off, but I can’t be sure how it will end.”

Margaret could hardly believe that this chance had been snatched away from her after only a few moments. “You must win!” she said fiercely.

Before Mrs. Lenehan could reply, Harry appeared, looking like a sunrise in red pajamas and a sky blue robe. The sight of him made Margaret feel calmer. He sat down and Margaret introduced him. “Mrs. Lenehan came to get a brandy but the stewards are busy,” she added.

Harry pretended to look surprised. “They may be busy, but they can still serve drinks.” He stood up and put his head into the next compartment. “Davy, just bring a cognac for Mrs. Lenehan right away, would you please?”

Margaret heard the steward say: “Sure thing, Mr. Vandenpost!” Harry had a way of getting people to do what he wanted.

He sat down again. “I couldn’t help noticing your earrings, Mrs. Lenehan,” he said. “They’re absolutely beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said with a smile. She seemed pleased by the compliment.

Margaret looked more closely. Each earring was a simple large pearl inside a latticework of gold wire and diamond chips. They were quietly elegant. She wished she had on some exquisite jewelry to excite Harry’s interest.

“Did you get them in the States?” Harry asked.

“Yes, they’re from Paul Flato.”

Harry nodded. “But I think they were designed by Fulco di Verdura.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mrs. Lenehan said. “Jewelry is an unusual interest for a young man,” she added perceptively.

Margaret wanted to say He’s mainly interested in stealing it, so watch out! But in fact she was impressed by his expertise. He always noticed the finest pieces, and often knew who had designed them.

Davy brought Mrs. Lenehan’s brandy. He seemed able to walk without staggering despite the tossing of the plane.

She took it and stood up. “I’m going to get some sleep.”

“Good luck,” Margaret said, thinking of Mrs. Lenehan’s battle with her brother. If she won it, she would hire Margaret—she had promised.

“Thanks. Good night.”

As Mrs. Lenehan staggered off toward the rear of the plane, Harry asked a little jealously: “What were you talking about?”

Margaret hesitated to tell him about Nancy offering her a job. She was thrilled about it, but there was a snag, so she could not ask Harry to rejoice with her. She decided to hug it to herself a little longer. “We started off talking about Frankie Gordino,” she said. “Nancy believes that people like him should be left alone. All they do is organize things like gambling and... prostitution... which do no harm except to people who choose to take part in them.” She felt herself blush faintly: she had never spoken the word prostitution aloud before.

Harry looked thoughtful. “Not all prostitutes are volunteers,” he said after a minute. “Some are forced into it. You’ve heard of white slavery.”

“Is that what it means?” Margaret had seen the phrase in newspapers, but had vaguely imagined that girls were kidnapped and sent off to be chambermaids in Istanbul. How silly she had been.

Harry said: “There’s not as much of it as the papers make out. There’s only one white slaver in London—his name’s Benny the Malt. He’s from Malta.”

Margaret was riveted. To think all this was going on under her nose! “It might have happened to me!”

“It could have, that night you ran away from home,” Harry said. “That’s just the kind of situation Benny can work with. A young girl on her own, with no money and nowhere to sleep. He’d have given you a nice dinner and offered you a job with a dance troupe leaving for Paris in the morning, and you’d think he was your salvation. The dance troupe would turn out to be a strip show, but you wouldn’t find that out until you were stuck in Paris with no money and no way of getting home, so you’d stand in the back row and wiggle as best you could.” Margaret put herself in that situation and realized that she would probably do exactly that. “Then one night they’d ask you to ’be nice’ to a drunk stockbroker from the audience, and if you refused they’d hold you down for him.” Margaret closed her eyes, revolted and scared to think what might have happened to her. “Next day you might walk out, but where would you go? You might have a few francs, but it wouldn’t be enough to get you home. And you’d start thinking about what you were going to tell your family when you arrived. The truth? Never. So you’d drift back to your lodgings with the other girls, who at least would be friendly and understanding. And then you’d start to think that if you’ve done it once you can do it again; and the next stockbroker would be a little easier. Before you know it you’re looking forward to the tips the clients leave on the nightstand in the morning.”

Margaret shuddered. “That’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s why I don’t think Frankie Gordino should be left alone.”

They were both quiet for a minute or two; then Harry said meditatively: “I wonder what the connection is between Frankie Gordino and Clive Membury.”

“Is there one?”

“Well, Percy says Membury’s got a gun. I’d already guessed he might be a copper.”

“Really? How?”

“That red waistcoat. A copper would think it was just the thing to make him look like a playboy.”

“Perhaps he’s helping to guard Frankie Gordino.”

Harry looked dubious. “Why? Gordino’s an American villain on his way to an American jail. He’s out of British territory and in the custody of the F.B.I. I can’t think why Scotland Yard would send someone to help guard him, especially given the cost of a Clipper ticket.”

Margaret lowered her voice. “Could he be following you?”

“To America?” Harry said skeptically. “On the Clipper? With a gun? For a pair of cuff links?”

“Can you think of another explanation?”

“No.”

“Anyway, perhaps all the fuss about Gordino will take people’s minds off my father’s appalling behavior at dinner.”

“Why do you think he let rip like that?” Harry said curiously.

“I don’t know. He wasn’t always like this. I remember him being quite reasonable when I was younger.”

“I’ve run into a few Fascists,” Harry said. “They’re normally frightened people.”

“Is that so?” Margaret found the idea surprising and rather implausible. “They seem so aggressive.”

“I know. But inside, they’re terrified. That’s why they like marching up and down and wearing uniforms—they feel safe when they’re part of a gang. That’s why they don’t like democracy—too uncertain. They feel happier in a dictatorship, where you know what’s going to happen next and the government can’t be turned out all of a sudden.”

Margaret realized that this made a lot of sense. She nodded thoughtfully. “I remember, even before he got so bitter, he would get unreasonably angry about Communists, or Zionists, or trade unions, or Fenians, or fifth columnists—there was always someone about to bring the country to its knees. Come to think of it, it was never very likely that Zionists would bring England to its knees, was it?”

Harry smiled. “Fascists are always angry, too. They’re often people who are disappointed in life for some reason.”

“That applies to Father as well. When my grandfather died, and Father inherited the estate, he found it was bankrupt. He was broke until he married Mother. Then he stood for Parliament, and never got in. Now he’s been thrown out of his country.” She suddenly felt she understood her father better. Harry was surprisingly perceptive. “Where did you learn all this?” she said. “You’re not much older than I am.”

He shrugged. “Battersea is a very political place. Biggest Communist party branch in London, I believe.”

Understanding her father’s emotions better, she felt a little less ashamed of what had happened. It was still no excuse for his behavior of course, but all the same it was comforting to think of him as a disappointed and frightened man rather than a deranged and vindictive one. How clever Harry Marks was. She wished she could have his help in escaping from her family. She wondered whether he would still want to see her after they got to America. “Do you know where you’re going to live now?” she said.

“I suppose I’ll get lodgings in New York,” he said. “I’ve got some money and I can soon find more.”

He made it sound so easy. Probably it was easier for men. A woman needed protection. “Nancy Lenehan offered me a job,” she said impulsively. “But she may not be able to keep her promise, because her brother is trying to take the company away from her.”

He looked at her, then looked away with an uncharacteristically diffident expression on his face, as if he were a little unsure of himself for once. “You know, if you want, I wouldn’t mind, I mean, giving you a hand.”

It was what she had been hoping to hear. “Would you, really?” she said.

He seemed to think there was not much he could do. “I could help you look for a room.”

The relief was tremendous. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “I’ve never looked for lodgings. I don’t know where to begin.”

“You look in the paper,” he said.

“What paper?”

“The newspaper.”

“Newspapers tell you about lodgings?”

“They have advertisements.”

“They don’t advertise lodgings in The Times.” It was the only newspaper Father took.

“The evening papers are best.”

She felt foolish, not knowing such a simple thing. “I really need a friend to help me.”

“I guess I can protect you from the American equivalent of Benny the Malt, at least.”

“I feel so happy,” Margaret said. “First Mrs. Lenehan, then you. I know I can make a life for myself if I have friends. I’m so grateful to you. I don’t know what to say.”

Davy came into the main lounge. Margaret realized the plane had been flying smoothly for the past five or ten minutes. Davy said: “Look out of the port windows, everyone. You’ll see something in a few seconds.”

Margaret looked out. Harry unfastened his seat belt and came closer to look over her shoulder. The plane tilted to port. After a moment Margaret saw that they were flying low over a big passenger liner, all lit up like Piccadilly Circus. Someone said: “They must have put the lights on for us: they normally sail without lights, since war was declared—they’re afraid of submarines.” Margaret was very conscious of Harry’s closeness to her, and she did not mind in the least. The crew of the Clipper must have talked by radio with the crew of the ship, for the ship’s passengers had all come out on deck, and stood there looking up at the plane and waving. They were so close that Margaret could see their clothes: the men wore white dinner jackets and the women long gowns. The ship was moving fast, its pointed bows knifing through the huge waves effortlessly, and the plane passed it quite slowly. It was a special moment: Margaret felt enchanted. She glanced at Harry and they smiled at one another, sharing the magic. He rested his right hand on her waist, on the side shielded by his body where no one could see it. His touch was featherlight, but she felt it like a burn. It made her hot and confused, but she did not want him to take his hand away. After a while the ship receded, and its lights were dimmed, then extinguished altogether. The Clipper passengers returned to their seats and Harry moved back.

More people drifted off to bed, and now only the cardplayers were left in the main lounge with Margaret and Harry. Margaret was bashful and did not know what to do with herself. She felt so awkward that she said: “It’s getting late. We’d better go to bed.” Why did I say that? she thought; I don’t want to go to bed!

Harry looked disappointed. “I guess I’ll make a move in a minute.”

Margaret stood up. “Thank you so much for your offer of help,” she said.

“Not at all,” he said.

Why are we being so formal? Margaret thought. I don’t want to say good night like this! “Sleep well,” she said.

“You too.”

She turned away, then turned back. “You do mean it, about helping me, don’t you? You won’t let me down.”

His face softened and he gave her a look that was almost loving. “I won’t let you down, Margaret. I promise.”

Suddenly she felt terribly fond of him. On impulse, without thinking about it, she bent down and kissed him. It was a fleeting brush of her lips on his, but she felt desire like an electric shock when they touched. She straightened up immediately, startled by what she had done and the way she felt. For an instant they stared into one another’s eyes. Then she stepped into the next compartment.

She felt weak-kneed. Looking around, she saw that Mr. Membury had taken the top bunk on the port side, leaving the lower one free for Harry. Percy had also taken a top bunk. She got into the one below Percy’s and fastened the curtain.

I kissed him, she thought; and it was nice.

She slid under the covers and turned off the little light. It was just like being in a tent. She felt quite cozy. She could see out of the window, but there was nothing to look at: just clouds and rain. All the same it was exciting. It reminded her of times when she and Elizabeth had been allowed to pitch a tent in the grounds and sleep out, on warm summer nights when they were little girls. She had always felt she would never go to sleep, it was so exciting; but the next thing she knew it would be light, and Cook would be tapping on the canvas and handing in a tray of tea and toast.

She wondered where Elizabeth was now.

Just as she was thinking that, there was a soft tap on her curtain. At first she thought she had imagined it because she was thinking of Cook. Then it came again, a sound like a fingernail, tap, tap, tap. She hesitated, then lifted herself, leaning on her elbow, and pulled the sheet up around her throat.

Tap, tap, tap.

She opened the curtain a fraction and saw Harry.

“What is it?” she hissed, although she thought she knew.

“I want to kiss you again,” he whispered.

She was both pleased and horrified. “Don’t be silly!”

“Please.”

“Go away!”

“No one will see.”

It was an outrageous request, but she was sorely tempted. She remembered the electric tingle of the first kiss and wanted another. Almost involuntarily, she opened the curtain a little more. He put his head through and gave her a pleading look. It was irresistible. She kissed his mouth. He smelled of toothpaste. She intended a quick kiss like the last one, but he had other ideas. He nibbled her lower lip. She found it exciting. She instinctively opened her mouth a fraction, and she felt his tongue brush her lips dryly. Ian had never done that. It was a weird sensation, but nice. Feeling depraved, she put out her own tongue to meet his. He began to breathe heavily. Suddenly Percy moved in the bunk over her head, reminding her of where she was. She felt panicked: how could she do this? She was publicly kissing a man she hardly knew! If Father should see, there would be hell to pay! She broke away, panting. Harry pushed his head in farther, wanting to kiss her again, but she pushed him away.

“Let me in,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she hissed. “Please.”

This was impossible. She was not even tempted: she was scared. “No, no, no,” she said.

He looked crestfallen.

She softened. “You’re the nicest man I’ve met for a long time, perhaps ever, but you’re not that nice,” she said. “Go to bed.”

He realized she meant it. He gave a rueful half smile. He seemed about to speak, but Margaret closed the curtain before he could.

She listened intently and thought she heard a soft footfall as he went away.

She turned off the light and lay back, breathing hard. Oh my God, she thought, that was dreamy. She smiled in the dark, reliving the kiss. She had really wanted to go farther. She caressed herself gently as she thought about it.

Her mind went back to her first lover, Monica, a cousin who had come to stay the summer Margaret was thirteen. Monica was sixteen, blond and pretty, and seemed to know everything, and Margaret adored her from the beginning.

She lived in France, and perhaps because of that, or perhaps just because her parents were more easygoing than Margaret’s, Monica naturally walked around naked in the bedrooms and bathroom of the children’s wing. Margaret had never seen a grown-up naked, and she had been fascinated by Monica’s big breasts and the bush of honey-colored hair between her legs: she herself had only a small bust and a little downy hair, at that age.

But Monica had seduced Elizabeth first—ugly, bossy Elizabeth, who had spots on her chin! Margaret had heard them murmuring and kissing in the night, and she had been by turns mystified, angry, jealous and finally envious. She saw that Monica became very fond of Elizabeth. She felt hurt and excluded by the little glances that went between them and the apparently accidental touch of hands as they walked in the woods or sat at tea.

Then, one day, when Elizabeth went to London with Mother for some reason, Margaret came upon Monica in the bath. She was lying in the hot water with her eyes closed, touching herself between the legs. She heard Margaret, and blinked, but she did not stop, and Margaret watched, scared but fascinated, while Monica masturbated to a climax.

That night Monica came to Margaret’s bed instead of Elizabeth’s; but Elizabeth threw a tantrum and threatened to tell all, so in the end they shared her, like wife and mistress in a jealous triangle. Margaret felt guilty and deceitful all summer, but the intense affection and the new-found physical delight was too wonderful to give up, and it ended only when Monica went back to France in September.

After Monica, going to bed with Ian had been a rude shock. He had been awkward and clumsy. She realized that a young man such as him knew next to nothing about women’s bodies, so naturally he could not give her pleasure as Monica had. She soon got over the initial disappointment, however; and Ian loved her so desperately that his passion made up for his inexperience.

Thinking of Ian made her want to cry, as always. She wished with all her heart that she had made love to him more willingly and oftener. She had been very resistant at first, although she longed for it as badly as he did; and he had pleaded with her for months before she finally gave in. After the first time, although she wanted to do it again, she had made difficulties. She had been unwilling to make love in her bedroom in case someone should find the door locked and wonder why; she had been frightened of doing it in the open air, even though she knew lots of hiding places in the woods around their home; and she had been uncomfortable about using his friends’ flats for fear she would get a bad reputation. Behind it all had been the terror of what Father would do if ever he found out.

Tom apart by conflicting desire and anxiety, she had always made love furtively, hurriedly and guiltily; and they had managed it only three times before he went to Spain. Of course, she had blithely imagined that they had all the time in the world ahead of them. Then he had been killed, and with the news came the dreadful realization that she would never touch his body again; and she had cried so hard that she thought her heart would burst. She had thought they would spend the rest of their lives learning how to make one another happy; but she never saw him again.

She wished she had given herself to him freely right from the start, and made love recklessly at every opportunity. Her fears seemed so trivial now that he was buried on a dusty hillside in Catalonia.

Suddenly it occurred to her that she might be making the same mistake again.

She wanted Harry Marks. Her body ached for him. He was the only man who had made her feel this way since Ian. But she had turned him down. Why? Because she was afraid. Because she was on a plane, and the bunks were small, and someone might hear, and her father was close by, and she was terrified of being caught.

Was she being foolishly fainthearted again?

What if the plane should crash? she wondered. They were on a pioneering transatlantic flight. Right now they were halfway between Europe and America, hundreds of miles from land in any direction: if something should go wrong they would all die in minutes. And her last thought would be regret that she had never made love to Harry Marks.

The plane was not going to crash, but even so this might be her last chance. She had no idea what was going to happen when they got to America. She planned to join the armed forces as soon as she possibly could, and Harry had spoken about becoming a pilot in the Canadian air force. He might die fighting, like Ian. What did her reputation matter, who could worry about parental anger, when life could be so short? She almost wished she had let Harry in.

Would he try again? She thought not. She had given him a very firm no. Any boy who ignored that kind of rejection would have to be a complete pest. Harry had been persistent, flatteringly so, but he was not mulish. He would not ask her again tonight.

What a fool I am, she thought. He might be here now: all I had to say was yes. She hugged herself, imagining that Harry was hugging her; and in her mind she put out a tentative hand and stroked his naked hip. There would be curly blond hair on his thighs, she thought.

She decided to get up and go to the ladies’ room. Perhaps Harry would get up at the same time, by lucky chance; or he might call the steward for a drink, or something. She put her arms into her robe, unfastened her curtains and sat up. Harry’s bunk was tightly curtained. She slid her feet into her slippers and stood up.

Almost everyone had gone to bed now. She peeped into the galley: it was empty. Of course, the stewards needed sleep, too. They were probably dozing in compartment number 1 with the off-duty crew. Going in the opposite direction, she passed through the lounge and saw the diehards, all men, still playing poker. There was a whiskey bottle on the table, and they were helping themselves. She continued toward the back, weaving from side to side as the plane lurched. The floor rose toward the tail, and there were steps between the compartments. Two or three people sat up reading, with the curtains drawn back, but most bunks were closed and silent.

The ladies’ powder room was empty. Margaret sat in front of the mirror and looked at herself. It struck her as odd that a man should find this woman desirable. Her face was rather ordinary, her skin very pale, her eyes an odd shade of green. Her hair was her only good feature, she sometimes thought: it was long and straight, and the color was a glowing bronze. Men often noticed her hair.

What would Harry have thought of her body, if she had let him in? He might be revolted by big breasts: they might make him think of motherhood or cows’ udders or something. She had heard that men liked small, neat breasts, the same shape as the little glasses in which champagne was served at parties. You couldn’t get one of mine into a champagne glass, she thought ruefully.

She would have liked to be petite, like the models in Vogue magazine, but instead she looked like a Spanish dancer. Whenever she put on a ballgown she had to wear a corset underneath it otherwise her bust wobbled uncontrollably. But Ian had loved her body. He said model girls looked like dolls. “You’re a real woman,” he had said one afternoon, in a snatched moment in the old nursery wing, kissing her neck and stroking both her breasts at the same time with his hands under her cashmere sweater. She had liked her breasts then.

The plane entered a bad patch of turbulence, and she had to hold on to the edge of the dressing table to avoid being thrown off the stool. Before I die, she thought morbidly, I’d like to have my breasts stroked again.

When the plane steadied, she went back to her compartment. All the bunks were still tightly buttoned up. She stood there for a moment, willing Harry to open his curtain, but he did not. She looked along the aisle, up and down the length of the plane. No one stirred.

All her life she had been fainthearted.

But she had never wanted anything this much.

She shook Harry’s curtain.

For a moment nothing happened. She had no plan: she did not know what she was going to do or say.

There was no sound from inside. She shook the curtain again.

A moment later Harry looked out.

They stared at one another in silence: he startled, she tongue-tied. Then she heard a sound behind her.

Looking over her shoulder, she saw movement behind her father’s curtain. A hand grasped it from inside. He was about to get up and go to the bathroom.

Without another thought, Margaret pushed Harry back onto his bed and clambered in with him.

As she closed the curtain behind her she saw Father emerge from his bunk. By a miracle, he did not see her, thank God!

She knelt at the foot of the bunk and looked at Harry. He was sitting at the other end with his knees under his chin, staring at her in the dim light that filtered through the curtain. He looked like a child who had seen Santa Claus come down the chimney: he could hardly believe his good fortune. He opened his mouth to speak, and Margaret silenced him with a finger on his lips.

Suddenly she realized she had left her slippers behind when she jumped in.

They were embroidered with her initials, so anyone could tell whose they were; and they were lying on the floor beside Harry’s, just like shoes outside a hotel bedroom, so everyone would know she was sleeping with him.

Only a couple of seconds had passed. She peeped out. Father was climbing down the stepladder from his bunk, and his back was to her. She reached out between the curtains. If he should turn around now, she was finished. She scrabbled for the slippers and found them. She picked them up just as Father put his bare feet on the airline carpet. She whipped them inside and closed the curtain a split second before he turned his head.

She should have been scared, but instead she felt thrilled.

She did not have a clear idea of what she wanted to happen now. She just knew she wanted to be with Harry. The prospect of spending the night lying in her own bunk wishing he were there had become intolerable. But she was not going to give herself to him. She would like to—very much—but there were all sorts of practical problems, not the least of which was Mr. Membury, fast asleep a few inches above them.

In the next moment she realized that, unlike her, Harry knew exactly what he wanted.

He leaned forward, put his hand behind her head, pulled her to him and kissed her lips.

After a momentary hesitation she abandoned all thought of resistance and gave herself up to the sensation.

She had been thinking about it for so long that she felt as if she had already been making love to him for hours. But this was real: there was a strong hand on her neck, a real mouth kissing hers, a real person mingling his breath with her own. It was a slow, tender kiss, gentle and tentative, and she was aware of every small detail: his fingers moving in her hair, the roughness of his shaved chin, his warm breath on her soft cheek, his moving mouth, his teeth nibbling her lips, and finally his exploring tongue pressing between her lips and seeking her own. Yielding to an irresistible impulse, she opened her mouth wide.

After a moment they broke apart, panting. Harry’s gaze dropped to her bosom. Looking down, she saw that her robe had fallen open, and her nipples were pressing against the cotton of her nightdress. Harry gazed as if hypnotized. Moving in slow motion, he reached out with one hand and lightly brushed her left breast with his fingers, stroking the sensitive tip through the fine fabric, causing her to gasp with pleasure.

Suddenly clothing seemed intolerable. She shrugged off her robe quickly. She grasped the hem of her nightdress, then hesitated. A warning voice in the back of her mind said After this, there’s no turning back, and she thought Good! and pulled her nightdress over her head and knelt in front of him naked.

She felt vulnerable and shy, but somehow the anxiety heightened her excitement. Harry’s eyes roamed over her body and she saw in his face both adoration and desire. Twisting in the cramped space, he got on his knees and leaned forward, bringing his head down to her bosom. She felt a moment of uncertainty: what was he going to do? His lips brushed the tops of her breasts, first one then the other. She felt his hand beneath her left breast, first stroking, then weighing, then squeezing softly. His lips tracked down until they came to her nipple. He nibbled gently. Her nipple was so taut it felt as if it would burst. Then he began to suck, and she groaned with delight.

After a while she wanted him to do the same to the other one, but she was too shy to ask. However, perhaps he sensed her desire, for he did what she wanted a moment later. She stroked the bristly hair at the back of his head, then, yielding to an impulse, she pressed his head to her breast. He sucked harder in response.

She wanted to explore his body. When he paused, she pushed him away, and undid the buttons of his pajama jacket. Both of them were breathing like sprinters but neither spoke for fear of being heard. He shrugged out of his jacket. There was no hair on his chest. She wanted him to be completely naked, as she was. She found the drawstring of his pajama trousers and, feeling wanton, pulled it undone.

He looked hesitant and a little startled, giving Margaret the uneasy feeling that she might be bolder than other girls in his experience; but she felt that she had to continue what she had begun. She pushed him back until he was lying down with his head on the pillow, then grasped the waistband of his trousers and tugged. He raised his hips.

There was a thatch of dark blond hair at the base of his belly. She drew the red cotton down farther, and then gasped as his penis sprang free, sticking up like a flagpole. She stared at it, fascinated. The skin was stretched taut over the veins and the end was swollen like a blue tulip. He lay still, sensing that this was what she wanted; but her looking at it seemed to inflame him, and she heard his breathing become hoarse. She felt impelled, by curiosity and some other emotion, to touch it. Her hand was drawn forward irresistibly. He gave a low groan as he saw what she was about to do. She hesitated at the last instant. Her pale hand wavered next to the dark penis. He made a sound like a whimper. Then, with a sigh, she grasped it, her slender fingers wrapping around the thick shaft. The skin was hot to her touch, and soft, but when she squeezed slightly—making him gasp—she found it was as hard as a bone underneath. She glanced at him. His face was flushed with desire and he was breathing hard through his mouth. She longed to please him. Shifting her grip, she began to rub his penis in a motion she had learned from Ian: gripping firmly to push down, then easing her grasp for the upward stroke.

The effect took her by surprise. He moaned, closed his eyes tight, and pressed his knees together; and then, as she pressed down a second time, he jerked convulsively, his face screwed up in a grimace, and white semen spurted from the end of his penis. Astonished and mesmerized, Margaret continued the action, and with each downstroke more came out. She herself was possessed by lust: her breasts felt heavy, her throat was dry, and she could feel moisture trickling down the inside of her thigh. At last, at the fifth or sixth stroke, it ended. His thighs relaxed, his face became smooth, and his head slumped sideways on the pillow.

Margaret lay down beside him.

He looked ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be sorry!” she replied. “It was amazing. I’ve never done that. I feel wonderful.”

He was surprised. “Did you enjoy it?”

She was too abashed to say yes aloud, so she just nodded.

He said: “But I didn’t ... I mean, you didn’t ...”

She said nothing. There was something he could do for her, but she was afraid to ask.

He rolled onto his side so that they faced one another in the narrow bunk. He said: “In a few minutes, maybe...”

I can’t wait a few minutes, she thought. Why shouldn’t I ask him to do for me what I did for him? She found his hand and squeezed it. Still she could not say what she wanted. She closed her eyes, then drew his hand to her groin. Her mouth was next to his ear, and she whispered: “Be gentle.”

He got the idea. His hand moved, exploring. She was wet, dripping wet. His fingers slid easily between her lips. She put her arms around his neck and hugged him hard. His finger moved inside her. She wanted to say Not there, higher! and as if reading her thoughts he drew his finger out and slid it up to the most sensitive place. She was instantly transfixed. Her body was racked with spasms of pleasure. She shuddered convulsively, and to stop herself crying out she sank her teeth into the flesh of Harry’s upper arm and bit. He froze, but she rubbed herself against his hand and the sensations continued unabated.

When at last the pleasure eased, Harry moved his finger again, and she was abruptly shaken by another climax as intense as the first.

Then finally the spot became too sensitive, and she pushed his hand away.

After a moment Harry eased away from her and rubbed his shoulder where she had bitten him.

Breathlessly, she panted: “I’m sorry—did it hurt?”

“Yes, it bloody did,” he whispered; and they both began to giggle. Trying not to laugh aloud made it worse, and for a minute or two they were both helpless with suppressed laughter.

When they calmed down he said: “Your body is wonderful—wonderful.”

“So is yours,” she said fervently.

He did not believe her. “No, I mean it,” he said.

“So do I!” She would never forget his swollen penis standing up from the thatch of golden hair. She ran her hand over his stomach, searching for it, and found it lying across his thigh like a hosepipe, neither stiff nor shriveled. The skin was silky. She felt she would like to kiss it, and was shocked by her own depravity.

Instead she kissed his arm where she had bitten him. Even in the near-dark she could see the marks her teeth had made. He was going to have a bad bruise. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, too low for him to hear. She felt quite sad that she had damaged his perfect flesh after his body had given her such joy. She kissed the bruise again.

They were limp with exhaustion and pleasure, and they both drifted into a light doze. Margaret seemed to hear the drone of the engines all through her sleep, as if she were dreaming of planes. Once she heard footsteps pass through the compartment and return a few minutes later, but she was too contented to be curious about what they meant.

For a while the motion of the plane was smooth, and she fell into a real sleep.

She woke with a shock. Was it daytime? Had everyone got up? Would they all see her climbing out of Harry’s bunk? Her heart raced.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“What’s the time?”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

He was right. There was no movement outside, the cabin lights were dim, and there was no sign of daylight at the window. She could sneak out in safety. “I must go back to my own bunk, right now, before we’re discovered,” she said frantically. She began looking for her slippers and could not find them.

Harry put a hand on her shoulder. “Calm down,” he whispered. “We’ve got hours.”

“But I’m worried that Father—” She stopped herself. Why was she so worried? She took a deep breath and looked at Harry. When their eyes met in the semidarkness, she remembered what had happened before they went to sleep, and she could tell he was thinking the same thing. They smiled at one another, a knowing, intimate, lovers’ smile.

Suddenly she was not so worried. She did not need to go yet. She wanted to stay here, so she would. There was plenty of time.

Harry moved against her, and she felt his stiffening penis. “Don’t go yet,” he said.

She sighed happily. “All right, not yet,” she said, and she began to kiss him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Eddie Deakin had himself under rigid control, but he was a boiling kettle with the lid jammed on, a volcano waiting to blow. He sweated constantly, his guts ached and he could hardly sit still. He was managing to do his job, but only just.

He was due to go off duty at two a.m., British time. As the end of his shift approached, he faked one more set of fuel figures. Earlier he had understated the plane’s consumption, to give the impression that there was just enough fuel to complete the journey so that the captain would not turn back. Now he overstated, to compensate, so when his replacement, Mickey Finn, came on duty and read the fuel gauges there would be no discrepancy. The Howgozit Curve would show fuel consumption fluctuating wildly, and Mickey would wonder why; but Eddie would say it was due to the stormy weather. Anyway, Mickey was the least of his worries. His deep anxiety, the one that held his heart in the cold grip of fear, was that the plane would run out of fuel before it reached Newfoundland.

The aircraft did not have the regulation minimum. The regulations left a safety margin, of course; but safety margins were there for a reason. This flight no longer had an extra reserve of fuel for emergencies such as engine failure. If something went wrong, the plane would plunge into the stormy Atlantic Ocean. It could not splash down safely in mid-ocean: it would sink within a few minutes. There would be no survivors.

Mickey came up to the flight cabin a few minutes before two, looking fresh and young and eager. “We’re running very low,” Eddie said right away. “I’ve told the captain.”

Mickey nodded noncommittally and picked up the flashlight. His first duty on taking over was to make a visual inspection of all four engines.

Eddie left him to it and went down to the passenger deck. The first officer, Johnny Dott, the navigator, Jack Ashford, and the radio operator, Ben Thompson, followed him down the stairs as their replacements arrived. Jack went to the galley to make a sandwich. The thought of food nauseated Eddie. He got a cup of coffee and went to sit in number 1 compartment.

When he was not working he had nothing to take his mind off the thought of Carol-Ann in the hands of her kidnappers.

It was just after nine p.m. in Maine now. It would be dark. Carol-Ann would be weary and dispirited at best. She tended to fall asleep much earlier since she got pregnant. Would they give her somewhere to lie down? She would not sleep tonight, but perhaps she could rest her body. Eddie just hoped that the thought of bedtime did not put ideas into the heads of the hoodlums who were guarding her....

Before his coffee was cold, the storm hit in earnest.

The ride had been bumpy for several hours, but now it became really rough. It was like being on a ship in a storm. The huge aircraft was like a boat on the waves, rising slowly, then dropping fast, hitting the trough with a thump and climbing again, rolling and tossing from side to side as the winds caught it. Eddie sat on a bunk and braced himself with his feet on the comer post. The passengers began to wake up, ring for stewards and rush to the bathroom. The stewards, Nicky and Davy, who had been dozing in number 1 compartment with the off-duty crew, buttoned their collars and put on their jackets, then hurried off to answer the bells.

After a while Eddie went to the galley for more coffee. As he got there, the door of the men’s room opened and Tom Luther came out, looking pale and sweaty. Eddie stared at him contemptuously. He felt an urge to take the man by the throat, but he fought it down.

“Is this normal?” Luther said in a scared voice.

Eddie felt not a shred of sympathy. “No, this is not normal,” he replied. “We ought to fly around the storm, but we don’t have enough fuel.”

“Why not?”

“We’re running out.”

Luther was scared. “But you told us you would turn back before the point of no return!”

Eddie was more worried than Luther, but he took grim satisfaction in the other man’s distress. “We should have turned back, but I faked the figures. I have a special reason for wanting to complete this flight on schedule, remember?”

“You crazy bastard!” Luther said despairingly. “Are you trying to kill us all?”

“I’d rather take the chance of killing you than leave my wife with your friends.”

“But if we all die, that won’t help your wife!”

“I know.” Eddie realized he was taking a dreadful risk, but he could not bear the thought of leaving Carol-Ann with the kidnappers for another day. “Maybe I am crazy,” he said to Luther.

Luther looked ill. “But this plane can land on the sea, right?”

“Wrong. We can only splash down on calm water. If we went down in the mid-Atlantic in a storm like this, the plane would break up in seconds.”

“Oh, God,” Luther moaned. “I should never have got on this plane.”

“You should never have messed with my wife, you bastard,” Eddie said through his teeth.

The plane lurched crazily, and Luther turned and staggered back into the bathroom.

Eddie stepped through number 2 compartment and into the lounge. The cardplayers were strapped into their seats and hanging on tight. Glasses, cards and a bottle rolled around the carpet as the aircraft swayed and shuddered. Eddie looked along the aisle. After the initial panic the passengers were calming down. Most had returned to their bunks and strapped themselves in, realizing that was the best way to ride the bumps. They lay with their curtains open, some looking cheerfully resigned to the discomfort, others clearly scared to death. Everything that was not tied down had fallen to the floor, and the carpet was a litter of books, spectacles, dressing gowns, false teeth, change, cuff links, and all the other things people kept beside their beds at night. The rich and the glamorous of the world suddenly looked very human, and Eddie suffered an agonizing stab of guilty conscience: were all these people going to die because of him?

He returned to his seat and strapped himself in. There was nothing he could do now about the fuel consumption, and the only way he could help Carol-Ann was make sure the emergency splashdown went according to plan.

As the plane shuddered on through the night, he tried to suppress his seething anger and run over his scenario.

He would be on duty when they took off from Shediac, the last port before New York. He would immediately begin to jettison fuel. The gauges would show this, of course. Mickey Finn might notice the loss, if he should come up to the flight deck for any reason; but by that time, twenty-four hours after leaving Southampton, off-duty crew were not interested in anything but sleep. And it was not likely that any other crew member would look at the fuel gauges, especially on the short leg of the flight, when fuel consumption was no longer critical. He loathed the thought of deceiving his colleagues, and for a moment his rage boiled up again. He balled his fists, but there was nothing to hit. He tried to concentrate on his plan.

As the plane approached the place where Luther wanted to splash down, Eddie would jettison more fuel, judging it finely so they would almost have run out when they reached the right area. At that point he would tell the captain that they were out of fuel and had to come down.

He would have to monitor their route carefully. They did not follow exactly the same course every time: navigation was not that precise. But Luther had selected his rendezvous cleverly. It was clearly the best place within a wide radius for a flying boat to splash down, so even if they were some miles off course, the captain was sure to head there in an emergency.

If there was time, the captain would ask—angrily—how come Eddie had not noticed the dramatic loss of fuel before it became critical. Eddie would have to answer that all the gauges must have got stuck, a wildly unlikely notion. He ground his teeth. His colleagues relied on him to perform the crucial task of monitoring the aircraft’s fuel consumption. They trusted him with their lives. They would know he had let them down.

A fast launch would be waiting in the area and would approach the Clipper. The captain would think they had come to help. He might invite them aboard, but failing that Eddie would open the door to them. Then the gangsters would overpower the F.B.I, man, Ollis Field, and rescue Frankie Gordino.

They would have to be quick. The radio operator would have sent out a Mayday before the plane touched water, and the Clipper was big enough to be seen from some distance, so other vessels would approach before too long. There was even a chance the Coast Guard might be quick enough to interfere with the rescue. That could ruin it for Luther’s gang, Eddie thought; and for a moment he felt hopeful—then he remembered that he wanted Luther to succeed, not fail.

He just could not get into the habit of hoping that the criminals would get what they wanted. He racked his brains constantly for some way of foiling Luther’s plan, but everything he came up with had the same snag: Carol-Ann. If Luther did not get Gordino, Eddie would not get Carol-Ann.

He had tried to think of some way to ensure that Gordino would get caught twenty-four hours later, when Carol-Ann was safe; but it was impossible. Gordino would be far away by then. The only alternative was to persuade Luther to surrender Carol-Ann earlier, and he had more sense than to agree to that. The trouble was, Eddie had nothing with which to threaten Luther. Luther had Carol-Ann, and Eddie had ...

Well, he thought suddenly, I’ve got Gordino.

Wait a minute.

They’ve got Carol-Ann, and I can’t get her back without cooperating with them. But Gordino is on this plane, and they can’t get him back unless they cooperate with me. Maybe they don’t hold all the cards.

He wondered whether there was a way for him to take charge, seize the initiative.

He stared blindly at the opposite wall, holding on tight, lost in thought.

There was a way.

Why should they get Gordino first? An exchange of hostages should be simultaneous.

He fought down surging hope and forced himself to think coolly.

How would the exchange work? They would have to bring Carol-Ann to the Clipper on the launch that would take Gordino away.

Why not? Why the hell not?

He wondered frantically whether it could be arranged in time. He had calculated that she was being held no more than sixty or seventy miles from their home, which in turn was about seventy miles from the location of the emergency splashdown. At worst, then, she was four hours’ drive away. Was that too far?

Suppose Tom Luther agreed. His first chance to call his men would come at the next stop, Botwood, where the Clipper was due at nine a.m. British time. After that the plane went on to Shediac. The unscheduled splashdown would take place an hour out of Shediac, at about four p.m. British time, seven hours later. The gang could get Carol-Ann there with a couple of hours to spare.

Eddie could hardly contain his excitement as he contemplated the prospect of getting Carol-Ann back earlier. It also occurred to him that it might give him a chance, albeit slender, of doing something to spoil Luther’s rescue. And that might redeem him, in the eyes of the rest of the crew. They might forgive his treachery to them if they saw him catch a bunch of murdering gangsters.

Once again he told himself not to raise his hopes. All this was only an idea. Luther probably would not buy the deal. Eddie could threaten not to bring the plane down unless they met his terms; but they might see that as an empty threat. They would reckon that Eddie would do anything to save his wife, and they would be right. They were only trying to save a buddy. Eddie was more desperate, and that made him weaker, he thought; and he plunged once more into despair.

But still he would be presenting Luther with a problem, creating a doubt and a worry in the man’s mind. Luther might not believe Eddie’s threat, but how could he be sure? It would take guts to call Eddie’s bluff, and Luther was not a brave man, at least not right now.

Anyway, he thought, what do I have to lose? He would give it a try.

He got up from his bunk.

He thought he probably should plan the whole conversation carefully, preparing his answers to Luther’s objections; but he was already screwed up to screaming pitch and he could not sit still and think any longer. He had to do it or go mad.

Holding on to anything he could grab, he picked his way along the rocking, swaying plane to the main lounge.

Luther was one of the passengers who had not gone to bed. He was in a comer of the lounge, drinking whiskey, but not joining in the card game. The color had returned to his face, and he appeared to have got over his nausea. He was reading The Illustrated London News, a British magazine. Eddie tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up, startled and a little frightened. When he saw Eddie his face turned hostile. Eddie said: “The captain would like a word with you, Mr. Luther.”

Luther looked anxious. He sat still for a moment. Eddie beckoned him with a peremptory jerk of the head. Luther put down his magazine, unfastened his seat belt and stood up.

Eddie led him out of the lounge and through number 2 compartment, but instead of going up to the flight deck he opened the door of the men’s room and held it for Luther.

There was a faint smell of vomit. Unfortunately, they were not alone: a passenger in pajamas was washing his hands. Eddie pointed to the toilet and Luther went inside while Eddie combed his hair and waited. After a few moments the passenger left. Eddie tapped on the cubicle door and Luther came out. “What the hell is going on?” he said.

“Shut your mouth and listen,” Eddie said. He had not planned to be aggressive, but Luther just made him mad. “I know what you’re here for. I’ve figured out your plan, and I’m making a change. When I bring this plane down, Carol-Ann has to be on the boat waiting.”

Luther was scornful. “You can’t make demands.”

Eddie had not expected him to cave in immediately. Now he had to bluff. “Okay,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster. “The deal is off.”

Luther looked a little worried, but he said: “You’re full of shit. You want your little wife back. You’ll bring down this plane.”

It was the truth, but Eddie shook his head. “I don’t trust you,” he said. “Why should I? I could do everything you want and you could double-cross me. I’m not going to take that chance. I want a new deal.”

Luther’s confidence was not yet shaken. “No new deal.”

“Okay.” It was time for Eddie to play his trump card. “Okay, so you go to jail.”

Luther laughed nervously. “What are you talking about?”

Eddie felt a little more confident: Luther was weakening. “I’ll tell the captain the whole thing. You’ll be taken off the plane at the next stop. The police will be waiting for you. You’ll go to jail—in Canada, where your hoodlum friends won’t be able to spring you. You’ll be charged with kidnapping, piracy—hell, Luther, you may never come out.”

At last Luther was rattled. “Everything’s set up,” he protested. “It’s too late to change the plan.”

“No, it’s not,” Eddie said. “You can call your people from the next stop and tell them what to do. They’ll have seven hours to get Carol-Ann on that launch. There’s time.”

Luther suddenly caved in. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

Eddie did not believe him: the switch had been too quick. His instinct told him Luther had decided to double-cross him. “Tell them they have to call me at the last stop, Shediac, and confirm that they’ve made the arrangements.”

A look of anger passed briefly across Luther’s face, and Eddie knew his suspicion had been correct.

Eddie went on. “And when the launch meets the Clipper, I have to see Carol-Ann, on the deck of the boat, before I open the doors, you understand? If I don’t see her I’ll give the alarm. Ollis Field will grab you before you can open the door, and the Coast Guard will be here before your goons can break in. So you make sure this is done exactly right or you’re all dead.”

Luther got his nerve back suddenly. “You won’t do any of this,” he sneered. “You wouldn’t risk your wife’s life.”

Eddie tried to foster doubt. “Are you sure, Luther?”

It was not enough. Luther shook his head decisively. “You ain’t that crazy.”

Eddie knew he had to convince Luther right now. This was the moment of crisis. The word crazy gave him the inspiration he needed. “I’ll show you how crazy I am,” he said. He pushed Luther up against the wall next to the big square window. For a moment the man was too surprised to resist. “I’ll show you just how goddamn crazy I am.” He kicked Luther’s legs away with a sudden movement, and the man fell heavily to the floor. At that moment Eddie felt crazy. “You see this window, shitheel?” Eddie took hold of the venetian blind and ripped it from its fastenings. “I’m crazy enough to throw you out this fucking window—that’s how crazy I am.” He jumped up onto the washstand and kicked at the windowpane. He was wearing stout boots, but the window was made of strong Plexiglas, three-sixteenths of an inch thick. He kicked again, harder, and this time it cracked. One more kick broke it. Shattered glass flew into the room. The plane was traveling at 125 miles per hour, and the icy wind and freezing rain blew in like a hurricane.

Luther was scrambling to his feet, terrified. Eddie jumped back onto the floor and stopped him getting away. Catching the man off balance, he pushed him up against the wall. Rage gave him the strength to overpower Luther, although they were much the same weight. He took Luther by the lapels and shoved the man’s head out the window.

Luther screamed.

The noise of the wind was so loud that the scream was almost inaudible.

Eddie pulled him back in and shouted in his ear: “I’ll throw you out, I swear to God!” He pushed Luther’s head out again and lifted him off the floor.

If Luther had not panicked, he might have broken free, but he had lost control and was helpless. He screamed again, and Eddie could just make out the words: “I’ll do it, I’ll do it, let me go, let me go!”

Eddie felt a powerful urge to push him all the way out; then he realized he was in danger of losing control too. He did not want to kill Luther, he reminded himself, just scare him half to death. He had achieved that already. It was enough.

He lowered Luther to the floor and relaxed his grip.

Luther ran for the door.

Eddie let him go.

I do a pretty good crazy act, Eddie thought; but he knew he had not really been acting.

He leaned against the washstand, catching his breath. The mad rage left him as quickly as it had come. He felt calm, but shocked by his own violence, almost as if someone else had done it.

A moment later a passenger came in.

It was the man who had joined the flight at Foynes, Mervyn Lovesey, a tall guy in a striped nightshirt that looked pretty funny. He was a down-to-earth Englishman of about forty. He looked at the damage and said: “By heck, what happened here?”

Eddie swallowed. “A broken window,” he said.

Lovesey gave him a satiric look. “That much I worked out for myself.”

“It sometimes happens in a storm,” Eddie said. “These violent winds carry lumps of ice or even stones.”

Lovesey was skeptical. “Well! I’ve been flying my own plane for ten years and I never heard that.”

Eddie was right, of course. Windows did sometimes break on trips, but it usually happened when the plane was in harbor, not in mid-Atlantic. For such eventualities they carried aluminum window covers called deadlights, which happened to be stowed right here in the men’s room. Eddie opened the locker and pulled one out. “That’s why we carry these,” he said.

Lovesey was convinced at last. “Fancy that,” he said. He went into the cubicle.

Stowed with the deadlights was the screwdriver that was the only tool required to install them. Eddie decided that it would minimize the fuss if he did the job himself. In a few seconds he took off the windowframe, unscrewed the remainder of the broken pane, screwed the deadlight in its place, and replaced the frame.

“Very impressive,” said Mervyn Lovesey, coming out of the toilet. Eddie had a feeling he was not completely reassured, all the same. However, he was not likely to do anything about it.

Eddie went out and found Davy making a milk drink in the galley. “The window’s broken in the john,” he told him.

“I’ll fix it as soon as I’ve given the princess her cocoa.”

“I’ve installed the deadlight.”

“Gee, thanks, Eddie.”

“But you need to sweep up the glass as soon as you can.”

“Okay.”

Eddie would have liked to offer to sweep up himself, because he had made the mess. That was how his mother had trained him. However, he was in danger of appearing suspiciously overhelpful, and betraying his guilty conscience. So, feeling bad, he left Davy to it.

He had achieved something, anyway. He had scared Luther badly. He now thought Luther would go along with the new plan and have Carol-Ann brought to the rendezvous in the launch. At least he had reason to hope.

His mind returned to his other worry: the plane’s fuel reserve. Although it was not yet time for him to go back on duty, he went up to the flight deck to speak to Mickey Finn.

“The curve is all over the place!” Mickey said excitably as soon as Eddie arrived.

But have we got enough fuel? Eddie thought. However, he maintained a superficial calm. “Show me.”

“Look—fuel consumption is incredibly high for the first hour of my shift. Then it comes back to normal for the second hour.”

“It was all over the place during my shift, too,” Eddie said, trying to show mild concern where he felt terrible fear. “I guess the storm makes everything unpredictable.” Then he asked the question that was tormenting him. “But do we have enough fuel to get home?” He held his breath.

“Yeah, we have enough,” Mickey said.

Eddie’s shoulders slumped with relief. Thank God. At least that worry was over.

“But we’ve got nothing in reserve,” Mickey added. “I hope to hell we don’t lose an engine.”

Eddie could not worry about such a remote possibility: he had too much else on his mind. “What’s the weather forecast? Maybe we’re almost through the storm.”

Mickey shook his head. “Nope,” he said grimly. “It’s about to get an awful lot worse.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Nancy Lenehan found it unsettling to be in bed in a room with a total stranger.

As Mervyn Lovesey had assured her, the “honeymoon suite” had bunk beds despite its name. However, he had not been able to wedge the door open permanently, because of the storm: whatever he tried, it kept banging shut, until they both felt it was less embarrassing to leave it closed than to continue fussing about keeping it open.

She had stayed up as long as possible. She was tempted to sit in the main lounge all night, but it had become an unpleasantly masculine place, full of cigarette smoke and whiskey fumes and the murmured laughter and cursing of gamblers, and she felt conspicuous there. In the end there was nothing for it but to go to bed.

They put out the light and climbed into their bunks, and Nancy lay down with her eyes closed, but she did not feel in the least sleepy. The glass of brandy that young Harry Marks got for her had not helped at all: she was as wide awake as if it had been nine o’clock in the morning.

She could tell that Mervyn was awake, too. She heard every move he made in the bunk above her. Unlike the other bunks, those in the honeymoon suite were not curtained, so her only privacy was the darkness.

She lay awake and thought about Margaret Oxenford, so young and naive, so full of uncertainty and idealism. She sensed great passion beneath Margaret’s hesitant surface, and identified with her on that account. Nancy, too, had had battles with her parents, or, at least, with her mother. Ma had wanted her to marry a boy from an old Boston family, but at the age of sixteen Nancy fell in love with Sean Lenehan, a medical student whose father was actually a foreman in Pa’s own factory, horrors! Ma campaigned against Sean for months, bringing wicked gossip about him and other girls, snubbing his parents viciously, falling ill and retiring to bed only to get up again and harangue her daughter for selfishness and ingratitude. Nancy had suffered under the onslaught but stood firm, and in the end she had married Sean and loved him with all her heart until the day he died.

Margaret might not have Nancy’s strength. Perhaps I was a little harsh with her, she thought, saying that if she didn’t like her father she should get up and leave home. But she seemed to need someone to tell her to stop whining and grow up. At her age I had two babies!

She had offered practical help as well as tough-minded advice. She hoped she would be able to fulfill her promise and give Margaret a job.

That all depended on Danny Riley, the old reprobate who held the balance of power in her battle with her brother. Nancy began to worry about the problem all over again. Had Mac, her lawyer, been able to reach Danny? If so, how had Danny received the story about an inquiry into one of his past misdemeanors? Did he suspect that the whole thing had been invented to put pressure on him? Or was he scared out of his wits? She tossed and turned uncomfortably as she reviewed all the unanswered questions. She hoped she could talk to Mac on the phone at the next stop, Botwood in Newfoundland. Perhaps he would be able to relieve the suspense by then.

The plane had been jerking and swaying for some time, making Nancy even more restless and nervous, and after an hour or two, the movement got much worse. She had never been frightened in a plane before, but on the other hand she had never experienced such a storm. She held on to the edges of her bunk as the mighty aircraft tossed in the violent winds. She had faced a lot of things alone since her husband died, and she told herself to be brave and tough it out. But she could not help imagining that the wings would break off or the engines would be destroyed and they all would plunge headlong into the sea; and she became terrified. She screwed her eyes up tight and bit the pillow. Suddenly the plane seemed to go into free fall. She waited for the fall to stop, but it went on and on. She could not suppress a whimper of dread. Then at last there was a bump and the plane seemed to right itself.

A moment later she felt Mervyn’s hand on her shoulder. “It’s just a storm,” he said in his flat British accent. “I’ve known worse. There’s nothing to fear.”

She found his hand and gripped it tightly. He sat on the edge of her bunk and stroked her hair during the moments when the plane was stable. She was still frightened, but it helped to hold hands during the bumpy bits, and she felt a little better.

She did not know how long they stayed like that. Eventually the storm eased. She began to feel self-conscious, and she released Mervyn’s hand. She did not know what to say. Mercifully, he stood up and left the room.

Nancy turned on the light and got out of bed. She stood up shakily, put on an electric blue silk robe over her black negligee, and sat at the dressing table. She brushed her hair, which always soothed her. She was embarrassed about having held his hand. At the time she had forgotten about decorum, and had just been grateful for someone to comfort her; but now she felt awkward. She was glad he was sensitive enough to guess at her feelings and leave her alone for a few minutes to collect herself.

He came back with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He poured drinks and gave one to Nancy. She held the glass in one hand and gripped the edge of the dressing table with the other: the plane was still bumping a little.

She would have felt worse if he had not been wearing that comical nightshirt. He looked ridiculous, and he knew it, but he behaved with as much dignity as if he were walking around in his double-breasted suit, and somehow that made him funnier. He was obviously a man who was not afraid to appear foolish. She liked him for the way he wore his nightshirt.

She sipped her brandy. The warm liquor immediately made her feel better, and she drank some more.

“An odd thing happened,” he said conversationally. “As I was going into the men’s room, another passenger came out looking scared to death. When I went inside, the window was broken, and the engineer was standing there looking guilty. He gave me a cock-and-bull story about the glass being smashed by a lump of ice in the storm, but it looked to me as if the two of them had had a fight.”

Nancy was grateful to him for talking about something, just so that they did not have to sit there thinking about holding hands. “Which one is the engineer?” she said.

“A good-looking lad, about my height, fair hair.”

“I know. And which passenger?”

“I don’t know his name. Businessman, on his own, in a pale gray suit.” Mervyn got up and poured her some more brandy.

Nancy’s robe unfortunately came only just below her knees, and she felt rather undressed with her calves and her bare feet exposed; but once again she reminded herself that Mervyn was in frenzied pursuit of an adored wife, and he had no eyes for anyone else; indeed, he would hardly notice if Nancy were stark naked. His holding her hand had been a friendly gesture from one human being to another, pure and simple. A cynical voice in the back of her mind said that holding hands with someone else’s husband was rarely simple and never pure, but she ignored it.

Searching for something to talk about, she said: “Is your wife still mad at you?”

“She’s as cross as a cat with a boil,” Mervyn said.

Nancy smiled as she recalled the scene she had found in the suite when she returned from getting changed: Mervyn’s wife yelling at him, and the boyfriend yelling at her, while Nancy watched from the doorway. Diana and Mark had quieted down immediately and left, looking rather sheepish, to continue their row elsewhere. Nancy had refrained from commenting at the time because she did not want Mervyn to think she was laughing at his situation. However, she did not feel inhibited about asking him personal questions: intimacy had been forced on them by circumstances. “Will she come back to you?”

“There’s no telling,” he said. “That chap she’s with.... I think he’s a weed, but maybe that’s what she wants.”

Nancy nodded. The two men, Mark and Mervyn, could hardly have been more different. Mervyn was tall and imperious, with dark good looks and a blunt manner. Mark was an altogether softer person, with hazel eyes and freckles, who normally wore a mildly amused look on his round face. “I don’t go for the boyish type, but he’s attractive in his way,” she said. She was thinking: If Mervyn was my husband, I wouldn’t exchange him for Mark; but there’s no accounting for taste.

“Aye. At first I thought Diana was just being daft, but now that I’ve seen him, I’m not so sure.” Mervyn looked thoughtful for a moment, then changed the subject. “What about you? Will you fight your brother off?”

“I believe I’ve found his weakness,” she said with grim satisfaction, thinking of Danny Riley. “I’m working on it.”

He grinned. “When you look like that, I’d rather have you for a friend than an enemy.”

“It’s for my father,” she said. “I loved him dearly, and the firm is all I have left of him. It’s like a memorial to him, but better than that, because it bears the imprint of his personality in every way.”

“What was he like?”

“He was one of those men nobody ever forgets. He was tall, with black hair and a big voice, and you knew the moment you saw him that he was a powerful man. He knew the name of every man who worked for him, and if their wives were sick, and how their children were getting along in school. He paid for the education of countless sons of factory hands who are now lawyers and accountants: he understood how to win people’s loyalty. In that way he was old-fashioned—paternalistic. But he had the best business brain I ever encountered. In the depths of the Depression, when factories were closing all over New England, we were taking on men because our sales were going up! He understood the power of advertising before anyone else in the shoe industry, and he used it brilliantly. He was interested in psychology, in what makes people tick. He had the ability to throw a fresh light on any problem you brought to him. I miss him every day. I miss him almost as much as I miss my husband.” She suddenly felt very angry. “And I will not stand by and see his life’s work thrown away by my good-for-nothing brother.” She shifted in her seat restlessly, reminded of her anxieties. “I’m trying to put pressure on a key shareholder, but I won’t know how successful I’ve been until—”

She never finished the sentence. The plane flew into the most severe turbulence yet, and bucked like a wild horse. Nancy dropped her glass and grabbed the edge of the dressing table with both hands. Mervyn tried to brace himself with his feet, but he could not, and when the plane tilted sideways he rolled onto the floor, knocking the coffee table aside.

The plane steadied. Nancy reached out a hand to help Mervyn up, saying: “Are you all right?” Then the plane tossed again. She slipped, lost her handhold and tumbled to the floor on top of him.

After a moment he started to laugh.

She had been afraid she might have hurt him, but she was light and he was a big man. She was lying across him, the two of them making the shape of an X on the terra-cotta carpet. The plane steadied, and she rolled off and sat up, looking at him. Was he hysterical, or just amused?

“We must look daft,” he said, and recommenced laughing.

His laughter was infectious. For a moment she forgot the accumulated tensions of the last twenty-four hours: the treachery of her brother, the near-crash in Mervyn’s small plane, her awkward situation in the honeymoon suite, the ghastly row about Jews in the dining room, the embarrassment of Mervyn’s wife’s anger, and her fear of the storm. She suddenly realized there was also something highly comical about sitting on the floor in her nightclothes with a strange man in a wildly bucking aircraft. She, too, started to giggle.

The next lurch of the plane threw them against one another. She found herself wrapped in Mervyn’s arms, still laughing. They looked at one another.

Suddenly she kissed him.

She surprised herself totally. The thought of kissing him had never even crossed her mind. She was not even sure how much she liked him. It seemed like an impulse that came from nowhere.

He was clearly shocked, but he got over it quickly enough, and kissed her back enthusiastically. There was nothing tentative about his kiss, no slow burn: he was instantly aflame.

After a minute she pulled away from him, gasping. “What happened?” she said foolishly.

“You kissed me,” he said, looking pleased.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I’m glad you did, though,” he said, and he kissed her again.

She wanted to break away, but his grip was strong and her will was weak. She felt his hand steal inside her robe, and she stiffened: her breasts were so small that she was embarrassed, and afraid he would be disappointed. His large hand closed over her small round breast, and he groaned deep in his throat. His fingertips found her nipple, and she felt embarrassed all over again: she had had enormous nipples since nursing the boys. Small breasts and big nipples—she felt peculiar, almost deformed; but Mervyn showed no distaste, quite the contrary. He caressed her with surprising gentleness, and she gave herself up to the delicious sensation. It was a long time since she had felt this way.

What am I doing? she thought suddenly. I’m a respectable widow, and here I am rolling on the floor of an airplane with a man I met yesterday! What’s come over me? “Stop!” she said decisively. She pulled away and sat upright. Her negligee had ridden up over her knees. Mervyn stroked her bare thigh. “Stop,” she said again, pushing his hand away.

“Whatever you say,” he said with obvious reluctance. “But if you change your mind, I’ll be ready.”

She glanced at his lap and saw the bulge in his nightshirt made by his erection. She looked away quickly. “It was my fault,” she said, still panting from the kiss. “But it was a mistake. I’m acting like a tease, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “It’s the nicest thing that’s happened to me for years.”

“But you love your wife, don’t you?” she said bluntly.

He winced. “I thought I did. Now I’m a bit confused, to tell you the truth.”

That was exactly how Nancy felt: confused. After ten years of celibacy she now found herself aching to embrace a man she hardly knew.

But I do know him, she thought; I know him quite well. I’ve traveled a long way with him and we’ve shared our troubles. I know he’s abrasive, arrogant and proud, but also passionate and loyal and strong. I like him despite his faults. I respect him. He’s terribly attractive, even in a brown striped nightshirt. And he held my hand when I was frightened. How nice it would be to have someone to hold my hand any time I was frightened.

As if he had read her mind, he took her hand again. This time he turned it up and kissed her palm. It made her skin tingle. After a few moments he drew her to him and kissed her mouth again.

“Don’t do this,” she breathed. “If we start again we won’t be able to stop.”

“I’m just afraid that if we stop now we may never start again,” he murmured, and his voice was thick with desire.

She sensed in him a formidable passion, only just kept under control, and that inflamed her more. She had had too many dates with weak, obliging men who wanted her to give them reassurance and security— men who gave up all too easily when she resisted their demands. Mervyn was going to be insistent, powerfully so. He wanted her, and he wanted her now. She longed to surrender.

She felt his hand on her leg beneath her negligee, his fingertips stroking the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. She closed her eyes and, almost involuntarily, parted her legs a fraction. It was all the invitation he needed. A moment later his hand found her sex, and she groaned. No one had done this to her since her husband, Sean. That thought suddenly overwhelmed her with sadness. Oh, Sean, I miss you, she thought; I never let myself admit how much I miss you. Her grief was sharper than at any time since the funeral. Tears squeezed between her closed lids and ran down her face. Mervyn kissed her and tasted the tears. “What is it?” he murmured.

She opened her eyes. Through a blur of tears she saw his face, handsome and troubled; and beyond that, her negligee pushed up around her waist, and his hand between her thighs. She took his wrist and moved his hand away gently but firmly. “Please don’t be angry,” she said.

“I won’t be angry,” he said softly. “Tell me.”

“No one has touched me there since Sean died, and it made me think of him.”

“Your husband.”

She nodded.

“How long ago?”

“Ten years.”

“It’s a long time.”

“I’m loyal.” She gave a watery smile. “Like you.”

He sighed. “You’re right. I’ve been married twice, and this is the first time I’ve come close to being unfaithful. I was thinking of Diana and that chap.”

“Are we fools?” she said.

“Maybe. We should stop thinking about the past, seize the moment, live for today.”

“Perhaps we should,” she said, and she kissed him again.

The plane bucked as if it had hit something. Their faces banged together and the lights flickered. The aircraft tossed and bumped violently. Nancy forgot all about kissing and clung to Mervyn for stability.

When the turbulence eased a little she saw that his lip was bleeding. “You bit me,” he said with a rueful grin.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m glad. I hope there’s a scar.”

She hugged him hard, feeling a surge of affection.

They lay together on the floor while the storm raged. In the next pause, Mervyn said: “Let’s try and make it to the bunk—we’ll be more comfortable than on this carpet.”

Nancy nodded. Getting up on her hands and knees, she crawled across the floor and scrambled up onto her bunk. Mervyn followed her and lay down beside her. He put his arms around her and she snuggled up to his nightshirt.

Each time the turbulence got worse, she held him hard, like a sailor tied to the mast. When it lessened she relaxed, and he stroked her soothingly.

At some point she fell asleep.

She was awakened by a knock at the door and a voice calling: “Steward!”

She opened her eyes and realized she was lying in Mervyn’s arms. “Oh, Jesus!” she said, panicking. She sat up and looked around frenziedly.

Mervyn put a restraining hand on her shoulder and called out in a loud and authoritative tone: “Wait a moment, steward.”

A rather frightened voice replied: “Okay, sir, take your time.”

Mervyn rolled off the bed, stood up and pulled the bedclothes over Nancy. She smiled gratefully at him, then turned away, pretending to be asleep so that she would not have to look at the steward.

She heard Mervyn open the door and the steward come in. “Good morning!” he said cheerfully. The smell of fresh coffee wafted into Nancy’s nostrils. “It’s nine thirty in the morning British time, four thirty in the middle of the night in New York, and six o’clock in Newfoundland.”

Mervyn said: “Did you say it’s nine thirty in Britain but six o’clock in Newfoundland? They’re three and a half hours behind British time?”

“Yes, sir. Newfoundland Standard Time is three and a half hours behind Greenwich Mean Time.”

“I didn’t know anyone took half hours. It must make life complicated for the people who write the airline timetables. How long until we splash down?”

“We’ll be coming down in thirty minutes, just one hour later than scheduled. The delay is because of the storm.” The steward padded out and the door closed.

Nancy turned over. Mervyn pulled up the venetian blinds. It was daylight. She watched him pour coffee, and the previous night came back to her in a series of vivid images: Mervyn holding her hand in the storm, the two of them falling on the floor, his hand on her breast, her clinging to him while the plane lurched and swayed, the way he had stroked her to sleep. Holy Jesus, she thought, I like this man a lot.

“How do you take it?” he said.

“Black, no sugar.”

“Same as me.” He handed her a cup.

She sipped it gratefully. She suddenly felt curious to know a hundred different things about Mervyn. Did he play tennis, go to the opera, enjoy shopping? Did he read much? How did he tie his tie? Did he polish his own shoes? As she watched him drinking his coffee, she found she could confidently guess a great deal. He probably did play tennis, but he did not read many novels and he definitely would not enjoy shopping. He would be a good poker player and a bad dancer.

“What are you thinking?” he said. “You’re eyeing me as if you’re wondering whether I’m a good risk for life insurance.”

She laughed. “What sort of music do you like?”

“I’m tone deaf,” he said. “When I was a lad, before the war, ragtime was all the rage in the dance halls. I liked the rhythm, although I was never much of a dancer. What about you?”

“Oh, I danced—had to. Every Saturday morning I went to dancing school in a white frilly dress and white gloves, to learn social dancing with twelve-year-old boys in suits. My mother thought it would give me the entree into the uppermost layer of Boston society. It didn’t, of course; but fortunately I didn’t care. I was more interested in Pa’s factory—much to Ma’s despair. Did you fight in the Great War?”

“Aye.” A shadow crossed his face. “I was at Ypres.” He pronounced it “Wipers.” “And I swore I’d never stand by and see another generation of young men sent to die that way. But I didn’t expect Hitler.”

She looked at him compassionately. He glanced up. They held each other’s eyes, and she knew he was also thinking of how they had kissed and petted in the night. Suddenly she felt embarrassed all over again. She looked away, toward the window, and saw land. It reminded her that when they reached Botwood she was hoping for a phone call that would change her life, one way or the other. “We’re almost there!” she said. She sprang out of bed. “I must get dressed.”

“Let me go first,” he said. “It looks better for you.”

“Okay.” She was not sure she had a reputation left to protect, but she did not want to say that. She watched him pick up his suit on its hanger, and the paper bag containing the clean clothes he had bought along with his nightshirt in Foynes: a white shirt, black wool socks and gray cotton underwear. He hesitated at the door, and she guessed he was wondering if he would ever kiss her again. She went to him and lifted her face. “Thank you for holding me in your arms all night,” she said.

He bent down and kissed her. It was a soft kiss, his closed lips on hers. They held it for a long moment, then separated.

Nancy opened the door for him and he went out.

She sighed as she closed it behind him. I believe I could fall in love with him, she thought.

She wondered if she would ever see that nightshirt again.

She glanced out of the window. The plane was gradually losing height. She had to hurry.

She combed her hair quickly at the dressing table then took her case into the ladies’ room, which was right next door to the honeymoon suite. Lulu Bell and another woman were there, but mercifully not Mervyn’s wife. Nancy would have liked a bath, but had to make do with a thorough wash at the basin. She had clean underwear and a fresh blouse, navy instead of gray, to go under her red suit. As she dressed she recalled her morning conversation with Mervyn. The thought of him made her feel happy, but beneath the happiness was a strain of unease. Why was that? Once she had asked herself the question, the answer became obvious. He had said nothing about his wife. Last night he had confessed himself “confused.” Since then, silence. Did he want Diana back? Did he still love her? He had held Nancy in his arms all night, but that did not wipe out a whole marriage, not necessarily.

And what do I want? she asked herself. Sure, I’d love to see Mervyn again, go on dates with him, probably even have an affair with him; but do I want him to abandon his marriage for me? How can I tell, after one night of unconsummated passion?

She paused in the act of applying lipstick and stared at her face in the mirror. Cut it out, Nancy, she told herself. You know the truth. You want this man. In ten years he’s the first you’ve really fallen for. You’re forty years and one day old and you’ve met Mr. Right. Stop kidding around and start nailing his foot to the floor.

She put on Pink Clover perfume and left the room.

As she stepped out, she saw Nat Ridgeway and her brother, Peter, who had the seats next to the ladies’ room. Nat said: “Good morning, Nancy.” She remembered instantly how she had felt about this man five years ago. Yes, she thought, I might have fallen in love with him, given time; but there wasn’t time. And maybe I was lucky: could be he wanted Black’s Boots more than he wanted me. After all, he’s still trying to get the company, but for sure he’s not still trying to get me. She nodded curtly to him and went into her suite.

The bunks had been dismantled and remade as a divan seat, and Mervyn was sitting there, shaved and dressed in his dark gray suit and white shirt. “Look out of the window,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

Nancy looked out and saw land. They were flying low over a dense pine forest streaked with silver rivers. As she watched, the trees gave way to water—not the deep, dark water of the Atlantic, but a calm gray estuary. On the far side she could see a harbor and a cluster of wooden buildings crowned by a church.

The plane came down rapidly. Nancy and Mervyn sat on the divan with their seat belts fastened, holding hands. Nancy hardly felt the impact when the hull cleaved the surface of the river, and she was not sure they were down until, a moment later, the windows were obscured by spray.

“Well,” she said, “I’ve flown the Atlantic.”

“Aye. There’s not many can say that.”

She did not feel very brave. She had spent half the trip worrying about her business and the other half holding hands with someone else’s husband. She had thought about.the flight itself only when the weather got rough and she became scared stiff. What was she going to tell the boys? They would want all the details. She did not even know how fast the plane flew. She resolved to find out all that sort of thing before they got to New York.

When the plane taxied to a halt, a launch came alongside. Nancy put on her coat and Mervyn his leather flying jacket. About half the passengers had decided to get off the plane and stretch their legs. The rest were still in bed, closed in behind the tightly fastened blue curtains of their bunks.

They passed through the main lounge, stepped out onto the stubby sea-wing, and boarded the launch. The air smelled of the sea and of new timber: there was probably a sawmill nearby. Near the Clipper’s mooring was a fuel barge marked SHELL AVIATION SERVICE, with men in white overalls waiting to refill the plane’s tanks. There were also two quite big freighters in the harbor: the anchorage here must be deep.

Mervyn’s wife and her lover were among those who had decided to land, and Diana glared at Nancy as the launch headed for the shore. Nancy was uncomfortable and could not meet her eye, although she had less to feel guilty about than Diana herself: after all, Diana was the one who had actually committed adultery.

They landed via a floating dock, a catwalk and a pier. Despite the early hour, there was a small crowd of sightseers. At the landward end of the pier were the Pan American buildings, one large and two small, all made of wood painted green with red-brown trim. Beside the buildings was a field with a few cows.

The passengers entered the large airline building and showed their passports to a sleepy exciseman. Nancy noticed that Newfoundlanders spoke fast, with an accent more Irish than Canadian. There was a waiting room, but it attracted no one, and the passengers all decided to explore the village.

Nancy was impatient to speak to Patrick MacBride in Boston. Just as she was about to ask for a phone, her name was called: the building had a voice-hailer system like a ship’s. She identified herself to a young man in a Pan American uniform.

“There’s a telephone call for you, ma’am,” he said. Her heart leaped. “Where’s the phone?” she said, looking around the room.

“In the telegraph office on Wireless Road. It’s less than a mile away.”

A mile away! She could hardly contain her impatience. “Then let’s hurry, before the connection is broken! Do you have a car?”

The youngster looked as startled as if she had asked for a space rocket. “No, ma’am.”

“So we’ll walk. Lead the way.”

They left the building, Nancy and Mervyn following the messenger. They went up the hill, following a dirt road with no sidewalk. Loose sheep grazed the verges. Nancy was grateful for comfortable shoes—made by Black’s, of course. Would Black’s still be her company tomorrow night? Patrick MacBride was about to tell her. The delay was unbearable.

In ten minutes or so they reached another small wooden building and went inside. Nancy was shown to a chair in front of a phone. She sat down and picked up the instrument with a shaking hand. “This is Nancy Lenehan speaking.”

An operator said: “Hold the line for Boston.”

There was a long pause; then she heard: “Nancy? Are you there?”

It was not Mac, contrary to what she expected, and it took a moment to recognize the voice. “Danny Riley!” she exclaimed.

“Nancy, I’m in trouble and you have to help me!”

She gripped the phone harder. It sounded as if her plan had worked. She made her voice calm, almost bored, as if the call was a nuisance. “What sort of trouble, Danny?”

“People are calling me about that old case!”

This was good news! Mac had put the wind up Danny. His voice was panicky. This was what she wanted. But she pretended not to know what he was talking about. “What case? What is this?”

“You know. I can’t talk about it on the phone.”

“If you can’t talk about it on the phone, why are you calling me?”

“Nancy! Stop treating me like shit! I need you!”

“Okay, calm down.” He was scared enough: now she had to use his fear to manipulate him. “Tell me exactly what has happened, leaving out the names and addresses. I think I know what case you’re talking about.”

“You have all your pa’s old papers, right?”

“Sure, they’re in my strong room at home.”

“Some people may ask to look through them.”

Danny was telling Nancy the story she herself had concocted. The ploy had worked perfectly so far. Blithely Nancy said: “I don’t think there’s anything you need worry about—”

“How can you be sure?” he interrupted frantically.

“I don’t know—”

“Have you been through them all?”

“No, there are too many, but—”

“Nobody knows what’s in there. You should have burned that stuff years ago.”

“I guess you’re right, but I never thought ... Who wants to see the stuff anyway?”

“It’s a bar inquiry.”

“Do they have the right?”

“No, but it looks bad if I refuse.”

“And it looks all right if I refuse?”

“You’re not a lawyer. They can’t pressure you.”

Nancy paused, pretending to hesitate, keeping him in suspense a moment longer. Finally she said: “Then there’s no problem.”

“You’ll turn them down?”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll burn everything tomorrow.”

“Nancy ...” He sounded as if he might weep. “Nancy, you’re a true friend.”

She felt a hypocrite as she replied: “How could I do anything else?”

“I appreciate this. God, I really do. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Well, since you mention it, there is something you could do for me.” She bit her lip. This was the delicate bit. “You know why I’m flying back in such a rush?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been so worried about this other thing—”

“Peter is trying to sell the company out from under me.”

There was a silence at the other end of the line.

“Danny, are you there?”

“Sure, I’m here. Don’t you want to sell the company?”

“No! The price is way too low and there’s no job for me in the new setup—of course I don’t want to sell. Peter knows it’s a lousy deal but he doesn’t care so long as he hurts me.”

“Is it a lousy deal? The company hasn’t been doing too well lately.”

“You know why, don’t you?”

“I guess ...”

“Come on, say it. Peter is a lousy manager.”

“Okay ...”

“Instead of letting him sell the company cheap, why don’t we fire him? Let me take over. I can turn it around—you know that. When we’re making money, we can think again about selling out—at a much higher price.”

“I don’t know.”

“Danny, a war has just started in Europe and that means business is going to boom. We’ll be selling shoes faster than we can make them. If we wait two or three years we could sell the company for double, three times the price.”

“But the association with Nat Ridgeway would be so useful to my law firm.”

“Forget what’s useful—I’m asking you to help me out.”

“I really don’t know if it’s in your own interests.”

Nancy wanted to say: You goddamn liar, it’s your interests you’re thinking about. But she bit her tongue and said: “I know it’s the right thing for all of us.”

“Okay, I’ll think about it.”

That was not good enough. She was going to have to lay her cards on the table. “Remember Pa’s papers, won’t you?” She held her breath.

His voice became lower and he spoke more slowly. “What are you saying to me?”

“I’m asking you to help me, because I’m helping you. You understand that type of thing, I know.”

“I think I do understand it. Normally it’s called blackmail.”

She winced. Then she remembered who she was talking to. “You hypocritical old bastard, you’ve been doing this sort of thing all your life.”

He laughed. “You got me there, kid.” But that sparked another thought. “You didn’t initiate the damn inquiry yourself, just to have some way of putting pressure on me, did you?”

This was dangerously close to the truth. “That’s what you would have done, I know. But I’m not going to answer any more questions. All you need to know is that if you vote with me tomorrow, you’re safe; and if you don’t, you’re in trouble.” She was bullying him now, and that was the kind of thing he understood; but would he knuckle under or defy her?

“You can’t talk to me like that. I knew you when you wore diapers.”

She softened her tone. “Isn’t that a reason for helping me?”

There was a long pause. Then he said: “I really don’t have a choice, do I?”

“I guess not.”

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll support you tomorrow, if you’ll take care of that other thing.”

Nancy almost cried with relief. She had done it. She had turned Danny around. Now she would win. Black’s Boots would still be hers. “I’m glad, Danny,” she said weakly.

“Your pa said it would be like this.”

The remark came out of nowhere and Nancy did not understand it. “What do you mean?”

“Your pa. He wanted you and Peter to fight.”

There was a sly note in Danny’s voice that made Nancy suspicious. He resented giving in to her, and he wanted to get in a parting shot. She was reluctant to give him that satisfaction, but curiosity overcame caution. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“He always said the children of rich men were normally bad businessmen because they weren’t hungry. He was really worried about it—thought you might throw away everything he’d earned.”

“He never told me he felt that way,” she said suspiciously.

“That’s why he set things up so you’d fight one another. He brought you up to take control after his death, but he never put you in place; and he told Peter it would be his job to run the company. That way you’d have to fight it out, and the toughest would come out on top.”

“I don’t believe this,” Nancy said; but she was not as sure as she sounded. Danny was angry because he had been outmaneuvered, so he was being nasty to relieve his feelings; but that did not prove he was lying. She felt chilled.

“Believe what you like,” Danny said. “I’m telling you what your father told me.”

“Pa told Peter he wanted him to be chairman?”

“Sure he did. If you don’t believe me, ask Peter.”

“If I didn’t believe you, I wouldn’t believe Peter.”

“Nancy, I first met you when you were two days old,” Danny said, and there was a new, weary note in his voice. “I’ve known you all your life and most of mine. You’re a good person with a hard streak, like your father. I don’t want to fight with you over business, or anything else. I’m sorry I brought this up.”

Now she believed him. He sounded genuinely regretful, and that made her think he was sincere. She was shocked by his revelation, and felt weak and a little dizzy. She said nothing for a moment, trying to recover her composure.

“I guess I’ll see you at the board meeting,” Danny said.

“Okay,” she said.

“’Bye, Nancy.”

“’Bye, Danny.” She hung up.

Mervyn said: “By God, you were brilliant!”

She smiled thinly. “Thanks.”

He laughed. “I mean, the way you worked him around—he never stood a chance! The poor beggar never knew what hit him—”

“Oh, shut up,” she said.

Mervyn looked as if she had slapped him. “Whatever you say,” he said tightly.

She was sorry right away. “Forgive me,” she said, touching his arm. “At the end Danny said something that shocked me.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked cautiously.

“He says my father set up this fight between me and Peter so that the toughest would end up running the company.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I do. That’s the terrible thing. It really rings true. I’ve never thought about it before, but it explains a lot of things about me and my brother.”

He took her hand. “You’re upset.”

“Yeah.” She stroked the sparse black hair on the backs of his fingers. “I feel like a character in a motion picture, acting out a scenario that was written by someone else. I’ve been manipulated for years, and I resent it. I’m not even sure I want to win this fight with Peter, now that I know how I was set up.”

He nodded understandingly. “What would you like to do?”

The answer came to her as soon as he asked the question. “I’d like to write my own script—that’s what I’d like to do.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Harry Marks was so happy he could hardly move.

He lay in bed remembering every moment of the night: the sudden thrill of pleasure when Margaret had kissed him; the anxiety as he worked up the courage to make a pass at her; the disappointment when she turned him down; and the amazement and delight when she had jumped into his bunk like a rabbit diving into its hole.

He cringed as he remembered how he had come the moment she touched him. This always happened to him the first time with a new girl: he had not owned up to it. It was humiliating. One girl had been scornful and mocked him. Mercifully, Margaret had not been disappointed or frustrated. In a funny way she had been aroused by it. Anyway, she had been happy in the end. So had he.

He could hardly believe his luck. He was not clever, he had no money, and he did not come from the right social class. He was a complete fraud and she knew it. What did she see in him? There was no mystery about what attracted him to her: she was beautiful, lovable, warmhearted and vulnerable; and if that were not enough, she had the body of a goddess. Anyone would have fallen for her. But him? He was not bad-looking, of course, and he knew how to wear clothes, but he had a feeling that sort of thing did not count much with Margaret. However, she was intrigued by him. She found his way of life fascinating, and he knew a lot of stuff that was strange to her, about working-class life in general and the criminal underworld in particular. He guessed that she saw him as a romantic figure, like the Scarlet Pimpernel, or some kind of outlaw, Robin Hood or Billy the Kid, or a pirate. She was extraordinarily grateful to him for holding her chair in the dining room, a trivial thing he had done without even thinking about it, but it meant a lot to her. In fact he was pretty sure that that was the moment when she had really fallen for him. Girls are peculiar, he thought with a mental shrug. Anyway, it no longer mattered what the original attraction had been: once they took off their clothes it was pure chemistry. He would never forget the sight of her white breasts in the dim, filtered light, her nipples so small and pale they were hardly visible; the riot of chestnut hair between her legs; the scattering of freckles at her throat....

And now he was going to risk losing it all.

He was going to steal her mother’s jewelry.

It was not something a girl could laugh off. Her parents were awful to her, and she probably believed their wealth should be redistributed, anyway; but all the same she would be shocked. Robbing someone was like a slap across the face: it might not do much damage, but it angered people out of all proportion. It could be the end of his affair with Margaret.

But the Delhi Suite was here, on this plane, in the baggage hold, just a few steps from where he lay: the most beautiful jewels in the world, worth a fortune, enough for him to live on for the rest of his life.

He longed to hold that necklace in his hands, feast his eyes on the fathomless red of the Burmese rubies, and run his fingertips over the faceted diamonds.

The settings would have to be destroyed, of course, and the suite broken up, as soon as it was fenced. That was a tragedy, but inevitable. The stones would survive, and end up in another suite of jewelry on the skin of some millionaire’s wife. And Harry Marks would buy a house.

Yes, that was what he would do with the money. He would buy a country house, somewhere in America, maybe in the area they called New England, wherever that was. He could see it already, with its lawns and trees, the weekend guests in white trousers and straw hats, and his wife coming down the oaken staircase in jodhpurs and riding boots—

But the wife had Margaret’s face.

She had left him at dawn, slipping out through the curtains when there was no one to see. Harry had looked out of the window, thinking of her, while the plane flew over the spruce forests of Newfoundland and splashed down at Botwood. She had said she would stay on board during the stopover, and snatch an hour’s sleep; and Harry said he would do the same, although he had no intention of sleeping.

Now he could see, through his window, a straggle of people in overcoats boarding the launch: about half the passengers and most of the crew. Now, while most people on the plane were still asleep, would be his chance of getting into the hold. Luggage locks would not delay him long. In no time at all he could have the Delhi Suite in his hands.

But he was wondering whether Margaret’s breasts were not the most precious jewels he would ever hold.

He told himself to come down to earth. She had spent a night with him, but would he ever see her again after they got off the plane? He had heard people talk of “shipboard romances” as being notoriously ephemeral: seaplane affairs had to be even more fleeting. Margaret was desperate to leave her parents and live independently, but would it ever happen? A lot of rich girls liked the idea of independence, but in practice it was very hard to give up a life of luxury. Although Margaret was one hundred percent sincere, she had no idea how ordinary people lived and when she tried it she was not going to like it.

No, there was no telling what she would do. Jewelry, by contrast, was completely reliable.

It would have been simpler if he had had to make a straight choice. If the devil came to him and said: “You can have Margaret or steal the jewels, but not both,” he would choose Margaret. But the reality was more complicated. He might leave the jewels and still lose Margaret. Or he might get both.

All his life he had been a chancer.

He decided to try for both.

He got up.

He stepped into his slippers and pulled on his bathrobe then looked around. The curtains were still drawn over Margaret’s bunk and her mother’s. The other three bunks were vacant: Percy’s, Lord Oxenford’s and Mr. Membury’s. The lounge next door was empty but for a cleaning woman in a head scarf who had presumably come aboard from Botwood and was sleepily emptying the ashtrays. The outside door was open, and cold sea air blew around Harry’s bare ankles. In number 3 compartment, Clive Membury was talking to Baron Gabon. Harry wondered what they were talking about: waistcoats, perhaps? Farther back, the stewards were converting bunks back into divan seats. There was a seedy morning-after air about the whole plane.

Harry went forward and climbed the stairs. As usual, he had no plan of action, no prepared excuses, not the faintest idea what he would do if he should be caught. He found that thinking ahead, and figuring out how things might go wrong, got him too anxious. Even winging it, like this, he found himself suddenly breathless from tension. Calm down, he said to himself; you’ve done this a hundred times. If it goes wrong you’ll make something up, the way you always do.

He reached the flight deck and looked around. He was in luck. There was no one there. He breathed easier. What a break!

Glancing forward, he saw a low hatch open under the windshield between the two pilots’ seats. He looked through the hatch into a big empty space in the bows of the aircraft. A door in the fuselage was open and one of the younger crew members was doing something with a rope. Not so good. Harry pulled his head back in before he was spotted.

He passed quickly along the flight cabin and through the door in the back wall. Now he was between the two cargo holds, underneath the loading hatch that also incorporated the navigator’s dome. He picked the left-hand hold, went in and closed the door behind him. He was out of sight now, and he guessed the crew would have no reason to look into the hold.

He examined his surroundings. It was like being in a high-class luggage store. Expensive leather cases were stacked all around and roped to the sides. Harry had to find the Oxenfords’ baggage quickly. He went to work.

It was not easy. Some cases were stacked with their name tags underneath, some were covered by other cases that were hard to dislodge. There was no heating in the hold and he was cold in his bathrobe. His hands shook and his fingers hurt as he untied the ropes that prevented the cases shifting in flight. He worked systematically, so that he would not miss any or check pieces twice. He retied the ropes as best he could. The names were international: Ridgeway, D’Annunzio, Lo, Hartmann, Bazarov—but no Oxenfords. After twenty minutes he had checked every piece, he was shivering, and he had established that the bags he was looking for must be in the other hold. He cursed under his breath.

He tied the last rope and looked around carefully: he had left no evidence of his visit.

Now he would have to go through the same procedure in the other hold. He opened the door and stepped out, and a startled voice cried: “Shit! Who are you?” It was the officer Harry had seen in the bow compartment, a cheerful, freckled young man in a short-sleeved shirt.

Harry was equally shocked but he covered it up quickly. He smiled, closed the door behind him and said calmly: “Harry Vandenpost. Who are you?”

“Mickey Finn, the assistant engineer. Sir, you’re not supposed to be here. You gave me a scare. I’m sorry for swearing. But what are you doing?”

“Looking for my suitcase,” Harry said. “I forgot my razor.”

“Sir, access to checked baggage is not permitted during the journey, under any circumstances.”

“I thought I couldn’t do any harm.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but it’s not allowed. I could lend you my razor.”

“I appreciate that, but I kind of like my own. If I could just find my case—”

“Boy, I wish I could do what you want, sir, but I really can’t. When the captain comes back aboard you could ask him, but I know he’s going to say the same.”

Harry realized with a sinking heart that he was going to have to accept defeat, at least for the present. Putting a brave face on it, he smiled and said as graciously as he could: “In that case I guess I’ll borrow your razor, and thank you kindly.”

Mickey Finn held the door for him and he stepped into the flight cabin and went down the stairs. What rotten luck, he thought angrily. Another few seconds, and I would have been there. God knows when I’ll get another chance.

Mickey went into number 1 compartment and returned a moment later with a safety razor, a fresh blade still in its paper wrapper, and shaving soap in a mug. Harry took them and thanked him. Now he had no choice but to shave.

He took his overnight bag into the bathroom, still thinking about those Burmese rubies. Carl Hartmann, the scientist, was there in his undershirt, washing himself vigorously. Harry left his own perfectly good shaving tackle in his case and shaved hurriedly with Mickey’s razor. “Rough night,” he said conversationally.

Hartmann shrugged. “I’ve had rougher.”

Harry looked at his bony shoulders. The man was a walking skeleton. “I bet you have,” Harry said.

They had no more conversation. Hartmann was not talkative, and Harry was preoccupied.

After he had shaved, Harry took out a new blue shirt. Unwrapping a new shirt was one of life’s small, intense pleasures. He loved the rustle of the tissue paper and the crisp feel of the virgin cotton. He slipped into it deliciously and tied a perfect knot in his wine-colored silk tie.

When he returned to his compartment he saw that Margaret’s curtains were still closed. He imagined her fast asleep, her lovely hair spread across the white pillow, and he smiled to himself. Glancing into the lounge, he saw the stewards setting out a buffet breakfast that made his mouth water, with bowls of strawberries and jugs of cream and orange juice, and cold champagne in dewy, silver ice buckets. Those must be hothouse strawberries, he thought, at this time of year.

He stowed his overnight case; then with Mickey Finn’s shaving tackle in his hand, he went up the stairs to the flight deck to try again.

Mickey was not there, but to Harry’s dismay another crew member was sitting at the big chart table doing calculations on a scratch pad. The man looked up, smiled and said: “Hi. Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Mickey, to return his razor.”

“You’ll find him in number one—that’s the forwardmost compartment.”

“Thanks.” Harry hesitated. He had to get past this guy—but how?

“Something else?” the man said pleasantly.

“This flight deck is unbelievable,” Harry said. “It’s like an office.”

“Incredible, isn’t it?”

“Do you like flying these planes?”

“I love it. Uh, look, I wish I had time to talk, but I have to finish these calculations, and it’s going to take me almost until takeoff.”

Harry’s heart sank. That meant the way to the hold would be blocked until it was too late. He could not think of an excuse to go into the hold. Once again he forced himself to conceal his disappointment. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll buzz off.”

“Normally we like to talk to passengers—we meet such interesting people. But right now ...”

“My fault.” Harry racked his brains for another moment, then gave up. He turned and went back down the stairs, cursing to himself.

His luck seemed to be failing him.

He went forward and gave the shaving kit to Mickey, then returned to his compartment. Margaret still had not stirred. Harry went through the lounge and stepped out onto the sea-wing. He took several deep breaths of the cold, damp air. I’m missing the opportunity of a lifetime, he thought angrily. The palms of his hands itched when he pictured the fabulous jewelry just a few feet over his head. But he had not given up yet. There was one more stop, Shediac. That would be his last chance to steal a fortune.