Glory Boys

by Harry Bingham

  He trailed off and Pen, keen to be on her own anyway, left the shade at the edge of the hangar and walked over the clipped grass to the little racer.

  For a second, she didn’t know why she was there. The plane had just flown up from Miami. Its little raked-back windscreen needed wiping down. No doubt the great Captain Rockwell would want her to fuss over the distributor blocks, whatever they were. But there was nothing unusual.

  Nothing, until she happened to glance into the cockpit, into the angle of the rudder bar.

  There lay a little tumble of rose petals, pale pink, pretty. She moved to touch them: they were still soft, but already beginning to wilt.

  He’d come with roses. Seen the house. Ditched the roses. Run.

  Pen felt suddenly angry. In the end, the great war hero had proved himself as small as any other man. A hero in the cockpit, he was a coward in matters of the heart. Men were men. Planes were planes. Pen knew which she liked the best.

  32

  The newspaper which Willard wanted to check was filed in a high mahogany bureau slotted with a dozen low drawers. In front of the bureau was a tall thin man with a thin greyhound face. The man wasn’t reading a newspaper or looking for one. He didn’t look like he could read one without moving his lips.

  ‘Excuse me, please,’ said Willard.

  The man said nothing.

  ‘I said excuse me.’

  The man’s deep brown greyhound eyes looked slowly up into Willard’s and there was a half-second of pointless, meaningless confrontation. Then the man produced a matchstick, held it up like a conjuror, then placed it with exaggerated care in the side of his mouth. He moved away. About sixteen inches, just enough for Willard to open the drawer.

  Willard opened the drawer, got the paper, ignored the man.

  The brief newspaper report confirmed what he’d already learned from the coroner’s report. The day that he died, Arthur Martin had been driving alone. There were no witnesses as to his speed or manner of driving. What was clear, however, was that the driver had lost control of his vehicle and crashed into a road-side tree. The Times report contained a photo showing the car buried in the trunk of a substantial maple tree. The driver’s head had been struck by the steel bar across the top of his windshield. The blow had been fatal. Verdict: death by motor accident.

  Willard’s anxieties began to subside, but there was one further check he had to make. He surreptitiously clipped the photo, then drove up into Connecticut towards New Haven. His big Packard flew along, its tyres humming a private tune of satisfaction. Birds sang. The air was sweet.

  He found the road where the accident had happened: tree lined, rural, quiet. The tree which had claimed Arthur Martin’s life was easy to pick out: a big old maple, split by lightning. A car had rammed the tree. Its driver had died. The story was sad but simple.

  Willard began to relax. The tension that had been gathering in his back, legs and head for longer than he cared to remember began suddenly to release. He pulled the photo from his pocket to check his memory one last time. He stared at it, then was about to put it away, when a leap of horror jumped to engulf him.

  The newspaper photo showed Martin’s Studebaker jammed up against the trunk of the tree. But the tree stood just fifteen feet back from the road. Given the angle at which the car had struck it, Arthur Martin must have left the road at right angles. For his death to have been an accident, one would have to believe that Martin had tugged his car around a full ninety degrees without loss of speed and accelerated at top speed into the trunk.

  Willard went cold. His back tightened. The birdsong died.

  Willard climbed into his Packard and, on an open stretch of road, Willard tried the manoeuvre himself. He couldn’t do it. The thing was impossible. To turn the full ninety degrees, Willard had to bring his automobile down to just fifteen miles an hour. At that speed, Martin could have damaged his fender, but not a lot else. If, on the other hand, Martin had been dead before his car went anywhere, somebody could have put his body in the car, put the car in the field opposite the maple tree and driven it full tilt across the field, over the road and into the tree.

  And that was when Willard knew it. Arthur Martin hadn’t died in a car accident. He’d been murdered.

  33

  Abe snapped awake.

  He was lying under a single blanket on the hangar camp bed. Something had woken him, but he wasn’t sure what. He listened in the darkness. The tin roof around him was noisy in any sort of breeze, but the air outside was still and, aside from a few creaks and aches, the hangar was quiet. He sniffed the air. He could smell gasoline and castor oil; airplane dope and the smell of paint; yesterday’s bacon and tomorrow’s coffee.

  Perhaps it had been nothing. In his dreams, Abe had been flying over Pen’s house again. He remembered the masculine stiffness of the controls. She must be strong to fly a plane like that. But in the dream, the whole episode had got muddled up. The roses, the plane, the girl, the mansion. Abe had had the feeling of searching for something and not finding it.

  He was about to lie down again when he heard a sound from outside. Something metallic, the click of a car door maybe. Abe felt for his boots and flying jacket and pulled them on over his nightshirt. He found a flashlight and slipped it into a pocket. Then, groping along the workbench, he found a crowbar, four feet long, claw-headed and heavy. He picked it up and crept around Poll’s oustretched wings to the hangar door.

  Another car door opened and closed. There was a low muttering of voices. In places where the overlaps on the tin roof were inadequate, Abe caught glimpses of a flashlight. On just the other side of the door, the voices gathered and stopped.

  ‘We knock first?’

  A second voice said, ‘We don’t need to. We’re friends, ain’t we?’

  The door pushed open. Abe held his bar back, ready to swing. There were two flashlights outside, prodding the ground. Abe saw legs: two or three pairs, dark shoes, dark pants. The door into the hangar had just been punched straight through the wall. The front arch of the hangar was braced by a solid steel girder. In the centre of the arch, a gently sloping ramp made it easy for Poll to climb in and out, but here at the side, the girder formed a hurdle a full five inches high. One of the men moved forwards, caught his foot, and began to topple. Abe kicked hard at the pair of legs still standing, grabbed a handful of coat and jerked. The second man crashed forwards onto the first. Abe raised his crowbar and flicked his flashlight on.

  The first face he lit up belonged to Bob Mason, who was lying on the ground, trapped under the second man’s body. Everyone was swearing at everyone. Abe lowered his bar.

  ‘Evening, Mason. You should have said you were coming.’

  He turned on the electric light. There were four bulbs in the hangar, none of them shaded, but it was a big space and the light was dim and heavy with shadows.

  ‘Christ, Rockwell. That any way to treat a pal?’

  Abe shrugged. He turned his back on his visitors and made for the little wooden table by his bed. He got out a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He poured one for himself and one for Mason.

  ‘Nice place,’ said Mason, pulling out a cigarette.

  Abe waited till Mason’s cigarette was lit, then pulled it from his mouth, dropped it on the floor, and stamped it out. He jerked his thumb at the aircraft and the barrels of gasoline and oil.

  ‘Not here.’

  Mason picked up his whisky glass and turned to the two other men who were hovering silently behind him.

  ‘What are you boys drinking?’

  The goons spread their hands and looked pained by the unrehearsed difficulty of the question.

  ‘They’re not drinking here,’ said Abe.

  Mason pulled a face and leaned forwards, speaking confidentially. ‘All right, I’ll level. It’s a shithole you’ve got yourself here. A shithole, but a nice business.’

  ‘Wrong. Not a nice business. My nice business.’

  ‘I got some friends who are intereste
d in it.’

  ‘Mason, did your mom never teach you the word “no”?’

  ‘Very interested. I should have said very.’

  ‘These guys?’ said Abe, pointing to the goons. ‘They’re interested?’

  ‘Not them exactly.’

  ‘Then they can get lost.’

  Mason hesitated. Abe pulled his jacket open, revealing his nightshirt and nothing else. No gun.

  ‘OK.’ Mason turned to the goons. ‘Outside.’

  ‘In the car,’ said Abe.

  Mason nodded. The goons left.

  When the hangar door clanged shut, Abe said, ‘I don’t care what business you’re in. I’ve got a business I’m happy with. I don’t want partners. I don’t want money. I don’t want help. I don’t want you.’

  Mason shook his head and rolled his whisky around his glass. ‘Maybe we’ve got things you need. Maybe things you don’t even know you need.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe. Only not.’

  ‘You sell your hooch to a guy named De Freitas. Bootlegger to the speakeasies on the north side of town.’

  Abe shrugged. It was true. So what?

  ‘I wonder how much you know about De Freitas’s business. He has to pay a cut to the cops, of course. But that’s not the payment which matters.’ Mason waited for a response but didn’t get one. He continued anyway. ‘He has to pay for his patch. He pays us. My friends and me. That way, De Freitas has all the trouble of selling hooch. Trouble and the occasional inconvenience when the cops forget what a nice guy he is. Meantime, my friends and I enjoy the profit.’

  Abe rubbed his hand over his face. Even with the electric bulbs, the room was too gloomy to see Mason’s face properly. Abe dug out an oil lamp and lit it. Mason smiled.

  ‘Maybe I will have that cigarette. If I promise not to drop it on your nice shiny airplane.’

  He lit up and watched Abe’s face for a second or two. Abe was listening.

  ‘So just suppose that we got tired of making room for De Freitas, then you wouldn’t have much of a business now, would you?’

  ‘He’s not the only whisky seller in America.’

  ‘No, but the way I figure it, you know plenty about flying planes. You probably don’t know a whole heap about the way liquor is sold in this fine country of ours. There are plenty of De Freitases, but not many with liberty to pick their suppliers.’

  There was a moment’s long silence.

  The two men stared at each other. Mason pulled on his cigarette, then held it up for Abe’s inspection. The cigarette was only a quarter-burned. Mason drew on it one more time, so the tip glowed orange, then flicked it deliberately towards the aircraft. Abe got up, stamped out the butt and returned to the table.

  ‘America’s bigger than you are, Mason. I know people who are flying the border from Mexico. There’s plenty of border with Canada. Every inch of it flyable.’

  Mason blew a puff of air from his mouth, like a deaf-and-dumb imitation of a laugh. ‘Mexico? It’s too hot and the food gives you the trots. Canada? It’s too cold and you have to sing God Save the King.’

  ‘I won’t be threatened.’

  ‘Who’s threatening you, Captain? I’m not threatening you, I’m sharing a drink.’ Mason waved his glass. ‘I told you my friends and I like your business. We’d like to see if we can work something out. Think of it like a partnership.’

  There was a long silence. Nowhere fills with silence like an aircraft hangar, no matter how many creaks may hide in the roof. Eventually Abe leaned forwards and pulled aside Mason’s jacket. Snug in a holster beneath his armpit, lay a gun, black and squat. Mason pulled it out between finger and thumb and dropped it on the table equidistant between himself and Abe. ‘I mean it. A partnership.’

  And then, and only then, did Abe relax.

  ‘No promises,’ he said, ‘but I’ll hear you out.’

  34

  Monday evening, six o’clock, and Willard had already left work, feeling reckless. Through fast-fading sun, he walked quickly uptown to the edge of Central Park. Passing a drugstore, he stepped inside. He asked for a phone and a sad Italian nodded him to a dark corner booth, lined with dirty red cotton. Willard entered and asked the operator for a local number. In the short delay, Willard could hear the operator complaining in the background. He had sudden doubts.

  Too late.

  The call came through, and Willard was already speaking.

  ‘Good evening. My name is Thornton, Willard Thornton. I was hoping to be able to speak to Miss Rosalind Sherston.’

  Willard held the line as Miss Sherston was sought. His doubts increased and only the unbreakable code of East Coast politeness kept him holding. Then a woman’s voice: ‘Rosalind Sherston speaking.’

  ‘Rosalind? Willard Thornton. I’m the gentleman whom you attempted to burglarise the other day.’

  ‘Yes. I know who you are.’ She sounded embarrassed. ‘Thank you for calling. Did you find anything?’

  ‘Your sister’s things? No, I’m afraid not. They must have been cleared before I came.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they must. Well, thank you for letting me know.’

  ‘Listen, I was wondering if you were free any time.’

  Tree…?’

  ‘Yes. To go out somewhere. I thought maybe we could stroll down Park Avenue and see if we could bust our way into one of those big modern duplexes. You could handle the jewellery, I’d take care of fine art and antiques. Cash and securities we’d split down the middle.’

  ‘I suppose you know you’re sounding a bit peculiar. I don’t just mean about your proposed entertainment.’

  ‘Am I? I am a little light-headed actually. They shouldn’t let me out of the office so early.’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘No. Coffee and water. Nothing else all day. I’m pretty much of a monk in that way.’

  There was a long pause. Willard almost thought he had lost the line, except that the crackle was still there. Eventually Rosalind spoke again.

  ‘Listen, Willard, I think you may be a very sweet man, but I think perhaps it would be better if we didn’t meet. I’m not over-fond of your employer.’

  ‘Well, perhaps it would be better if we did meet. I’m not sure I’m over-fond of my employer.’

  There was another long pause, only this time Willard was very sure that Rosalind was still there, still listening. Speaking very intently now, he added, ‘I went for a drive in the country the other day. Up towards New Haven. I found a long straight road. It looked like a very safe one to me.’

  Rosalind’s voice slowed right down. ‘Yes. It was a safe one, I believe.’

  ‘Rosalind, I have no idea what happened to your sister’s fiancé, or why. I also have no idea what happened to a former colleague of mine, who is currently in prison on a false charge of bootlegging. It really isn’t any of my business, except that I’m not marvellously keen to follow in their footsteps. On top of which –’ he paused. He wanted to say something about his debt, about his desire to join the family Firm, about the sort of life he thought he deserved and the sort of life he actually had.

  ‘On top of which?’ she prompted, the soft warm tones of her voice losing nothing over the wire.

  ‘On top of which, I would like to take you out to dinner.’

  Sometimes you can hear an expression. A smile. A look of sadness. A hint of attraction. Willard heard it now.

  ‘How soon can you get here?’ she asked.

  ‘How soon can you get downstairs?’

  35

  That afternoon, Abe dug an oblong trench, slip-sided in the sandy soil. He mixed concrete by hand in the heat of the sun and filled the trench. The globby grey mixture, already beginning to dry, would form the foundations of his new house. The next task was to lay a floor and Abe began work on the shuttering, ready for the following day.

  The sun was just flirting with the tree-tops in the western sky, when a dirty truck with blue canvas sides bumped off the Tarmac beach road and swung across the
airfield. The truck’s canvas sides were marked ‘Peterson’s Pies – My, How Delicious!’. Abe dropped his handsaw and wiped his hands free of sweat, though not the spatters of grey concrete. The hangar had a tap on its back wall and Abe drank thirstily before walking around to meet his visitors. The sloping metal roof caught the heat and radiated it, so the warm air in its shadow had the glow of an oven door.

  ‘Hey, Birdman!’

  The man leaning out of the passenger window was Bob Mason, an unlit cigarette in his mouth and a box of matches in his hand.

  ‘Mason.’ Abe nodded.

  Mason slid out of the cab, lit his cigarette. He put out a hand to Abe, but Abe showed the muck on his hands and declined the shake.

  ‘Been working?’

  ‘Building. Poll’s getting too old to share her bedroom.’

  ‘You want a builder? I know some people.’

  ‘I like building.’

  ‘Then you build away. You build the Eiffel Tower for all I care – that is a building, right?’

  ‘Kind of. Its walls aren’t too good and I don’t remember it having a whole lot of roof.’

  ‘That don’t sound like much of a building.’

  ‘It looks pretty.’

  ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘It’s for looking pretty.’

  ‘Then I guess it works just fine.’

  As they were having this dumb conversation, Mason walked through into the hangar, without asking or getting Abe’s permission. Abe kept pace. The truck driver, a huge silent man in blue overalls, followed a couple of steps behind. In the, darkest corner of the hangar, tucked out of sight of Poll’s looming wingblades, a pile of boxes was stacked under a dirty cotton sheet. Mason pulled the sheet aside and counted the boxes: nearly forty cases of booze. It was the haul of booze from one week’s flying.

  Abe’s flying, Mason’s booze.

  Because Abe had done it. He’d cut the deal, made the trade. He carried booze and not only that. Smuggling was smuggling, after all, and Abe was entrusted with the most valuable items coming through Mason’s pipeline: securities, jewellery, gold, cash, even boxes of women’s dresses all the way from Paris. In exchange, Abe got a quiet life, plus four hundred bucks a week cash.