As if by Magic

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Rackham seriously. ‘But look, Jack, you mustn’t reproach yourself. You haven’t broken any confidences or let anyone down. Anne Lassiter told an outright lie. I want to know why.’ He gave his friend an appraising look. ‘You won’t drop any hints, will you? I know you feel torn, but it’s not your fault she didn’t tell the truth. She might look as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth but that’s obviously not so. As for Mrs Culverton, I always knew she was capable of hiding her feelings. I don’t know what either of them would do if they realized we’d tumbled to it, but there’s a chance that Mrs Culverton might do a runner. She’s got enough money to be able to disappear anywhere the fancy takes her.’

  ‘Do you really think she’d do that?’

  ‘She might, if it’s a choice between that or being arrested. I’ve got a healthy respect for her resourcefulness.’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ promised Jack.

  ‘Good man. By the way,’ added Rackham, walking with Jack to the door, ‘you know you said that dancer at the Continental recognized the photo of Culverton you showed her? Well, we’ve questioned her and she said she did recognize him, but on reflection she thinks it must have been because his picture was in the paper. She’s right as far as that goes. The photo you’ve got is the same one we issued to the press.’

  ‘D’you think she knew him apart from that? She seemed pretty startled when I produced the photo. She didn’t like it.’

  ‘No, she said she didn’t. She wondered what your game was, if you were a reporter or someone trying to stir up trouble.’ Rackham shrugged. ‘I can’t prove she’s wrong. And the Continental seems all right, Jack. We’ve checked it.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Jack thoughtfully, putting on his coat. ‘Which is frustrating, isn’t it, Bill? Where the devil is this club?’

  ‘I only wish I knew. We haven’t had a sniff of it.’

  ‘That’s odd, isn’t it? I mean, they must get their clients from somewhere. How does anyone know it exists?’

  ‘Invitation only? It must be a very select group indeed.’

  Jack shuddered. ‘Don’t. That makes it more creepy than ever.’ He picked up his hat. ‘I’ll let you know if anything interesting happens this afternoon.’

  With George beside him, Jack nosed the Spyker through the lodge gates of the factory and the lodge-keeper directed them to the main building where a workman, dressed in what were obviously his best clothes, escorted them into the building.

  ‘I’ve heard how hard everyone’s been working to get the Pegasus ready,’ said Jack.

  ‘I’ve never known anything like it, sir,’ said the workman earnestly. ‘It’s been worth it, though. Wait till you see the plane, sir. She’s a rare beauty.’

  Although George had said, casually enough, that Anne Lassiter ‘had arranged all the social side of things’, neither of them had any idea of the scale of the preparations.

  Production had been stopped for the day and the inside street that ran the length of the factory was virtually unrecognizable. Where workmen usually trundled cargoes of aeroplane parts, tables, white with shining cloths and glinting with silver dishes and ice-buckets with green gold-topped bottles, stood waiting. The factory wasn’t full, but the crowd was very select indeed, thought Jack. Samuel Hoare, the air minister, was among a group of black-coated men standing round old Mr Lassiter, and there were other faces he knew from the newspapers.

  Most of the hands had been given a very welcome day off, whilst a carefully picked selection of the workforce stood by their machines, ready to answer any questions that might occur to the guests. Howgrave and Cheriton, the leading London caterers, had transformed the street with flowers and decorations. Waiters weaved their way respectfully through the crowd of fur-coated, cloche-hatted women and morning-suited men, ensuring that no glass was unfilled and no plate empty. Lassiter’s were really pushing the boat – or should that be flying-boat? thought Jack – out in style. The swell of noise rose, and under the high glass roof, glistening with the autumn sun, the factory resembled a Soviet poster of Ideal Labour mixed up with a society ball in a conservatory.

  Anne Lassiter was standing halfway down the factory, flanked by Roger Maguire and Stella Aldryn, chatting animatedly to a group of pressmen. Jack recognized Joe Hawley of Aviation Monthly, Freddie Talbot of Modern Flight and Eric Laing of Twentieth Century Transport amongst them.

  ‘Anne’s terrific,’ said George quietly to Jack as they walked through the crowd towards her. ‘It was her idea to make this more like a party, rather than just a press event. She must have worked like a galley slave to bring it all off and yet you’d never guess to hear her talk. I’m not surprised my grandfather thinks the world of her, you know. So does David.’ Jack privately winced. ‘She’s tried to get Grandfather to see sense about Stella. He listens to Anne, you know, but it’s an uphill struggle.’

  ‘Has he said anything to you?’ asked Jack. He didn’t know and, even as he asked the question, he was surprised he didn’t know. That showed, more than anything, the barrier that had sprung up between them in the last few days.

  George nodded. ‘Didn’t I mention it? My grandfather made a couple of pointed remarks when he joined David and me in the billiard room on Sunday. He wasn’t happy.’ He looked at Anne and sighed. ‘Anne’s made an effort to get to know Stella.’ A waiter stopped beside them and they took a glass of champagne each. ‘I don’t see why my grandfather shouldn’t come round. She’s a corker, you know, Jack.’

  ‘Who? Miss Aldryn?’

  ‘No, Anne, I mean. Roger Maguire’s a lucky devil. I wonder if he knows how lucky he is?’

  Anne Lassiter caught sight of them. ‘Come and join us,’ she said cheerfully and Jack, who was feeling like an absolute heel, managed a smile. Looking at Anne, with her expression of sincere friendliness, it was hard to believe she’d made a deliberately false statement. Damn it, what was wrong with everyone? The most trustworthy people seemed to be able to lie like troopers without turning a hair and she wasn’t suffering from delusions, that was for sure. He knew that if he tried to speak to her at that moment he would give something away so, with an abruptness that made George look at him very oddly, he turned and made a point of talking to Freddie Talbot. ‘What sort of press are you giving Lassiter’s?’ he asked.

  Talbot, glass of champagne in hand, shrugged. ‘So far, so good, if I was writing about food and drink, but I’m here to see the aeroplane. I’ll say this, all the right people have been invited. Did you see Hoare? It’s quite a coup getting him here, and there’s Gilbert Sanderson of London and Colonial, as well as Sir Samuel Instone. Instone Air Lines might go for it. This India idea isn’t so bad if the Pegasus lives up to the publicity. I want to see the plane put through its paces, though. I gathered from the grapevine that should have happened today but it’s had to be put off until next week. It’d help if Nigel Lassiter could make an appearance. He hasn’t shown up yet.’ There was a buzz in the crowd and Talbot glanced round. ‘Hello, where’s Joe Hawley off to? Blow me, if that isn’t Lassiter himself.’ He slugged down the rest of his champagne. ‘S’cuse me, Jack,’ and taking out his notebook, he joined the rest of the pressmen who had formed an eager circle round Nigel at the door.

  Anne, suddenly deprived of conversation, glanced round. Stella Aldryn, having claimed George, was talking exclusively to him, so that left only Maguire and Jack in the immediate vicinity. ‘Perhaps we’d better mingle with the other guests, Roger,’ she said, looking round the room. The only guest who was alone was a stout, middle-aged man by the table, ladling down food together with generous amounts of champagne. ‘I suppose I should go and have a word with Mr Ridge way,’ said Anne unenthusiastically.

  ‘I didn’t think you liked him,’ said Maguire.

  ‘I don’t much but I’d better be polite.’ She looked at George. ‘He’s Nigel’s chief investor after Culverton’s and, consequently, a very important person. He’s a senior partner in Croft and Ridgeway, the mercha
nt bankers.’

  George detached his arm from Stella’s. ‘I’ll come with you, Anne.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Jack, trying to make up for his earlier curtness.

  Anne gave them a glance of gratitude and led them over to the table. Mr Ridgeway looked up expectantly.

  ‘Hello, Mr Ridgeway,’ said Anne politely. ‘You know Dr Maguire, of course, but I’d like to introduce you to Miss Stella Aldryn, Nigel’s confidential clerk. This is Mr George Lassiter and his friend, Major Haldean.’

  Ridgeway dabbed his bulldog jowls with his napkin. ‘Pleased to meet you. I must say, Mrs Lassiter, this is excellent champagne. Excellent.’ He looked at the men. ‘Nigel Lassiter tells me this project will transform aviation. It sounds a magnificent achievement. Quite outstanding.’ His enthusiasm, Jack noticed, didn’t animate his face. Martin Ridgeway leaned forward confidentially to George. ‘You’re a Lassiter, eh? As a member of the family, sir, you are in a privileged position to know what sort of return can be expected on the project.’ Now that did animate him, Jack noticed, seeing how the small, shrewd eyes lit up. ‘I would like to know what interest has been expressed by the commercial air companies.’

  George looked blank and Anne stepped into the breach. ‘The best person to ask about future sales is Nigel himself, Mr Ridgeway. Unless Miss Aldryn knows anything?’

  Martin Ridgeway glanced at Stella Aldryn, then, his eyes widening, gave her the benefit of his full attention. He looked her up and down slowly, with an expression amounting to a leer. The colour sprang up in Anne’s face, Maguire frowned in disapproval and George, two white spots on his cheeks, curled his hands into fists.

  Jack felt as if someone had drenched him with cold water. He knew that expression and he knew those eyes, those lascivious, cold, appraising, Holbein eyes. The face was different but this man was essentially the same sort as Alexander Culverton.

  The leer broadened. ‘I can’t believe that such a pretty young thing likes to bother her head about such dull matters as sales, eh, my dear?’

  Of all the people present, Stella Aldryn seemed to be the only one not to realize what was so evidently passing through Ridgeway’s mind. She was either completely innocent or completely dumb, thought Jack. Whatever the reason, he mentally applauded her tact.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re right, Mr Ridgeway,’ she said affably, ‘Mr Nigel Lassiter’s the person that you have to speak to.’ She glanced across the factory. ‘He’s engaged at the moment but he’ll be happy to see you once he’s free.’

  ‘I’m sure Mr Ridgeway can speak to Nigel in his own time,’ said George stiffly, drawing her away. He nodded his head abruptly. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, curtly and quite untruthfully.

  ‘George?’ asked Stella once they were out of earshot. ‘What’s wrong?’

  George’s face was like thunder. ‘Didn’t you see how he looked at you? The man’s an absolute creep. I felt like hitting him.’

  Stella Aldryn giggled delightedly and caught hold of his arm. ‘Are you jealous? That’s so sweet of you.’

  George’s frown melted into a sheepish look and Stella giggled again. Jack, feeling that three was definitely a crowd, faded into the background. He might as well listen to Nigel Lassiter, he decided, and edged his way into the group of pressmen. Nigel, his face alive with enthusiasm, was going at full throttle.

  ‘. . . we have encountered various problems connected with the sheer size of the machine that have had to be overcome. The top wing span is a hundred and fifty feet and we had to go back to fundamentals when it came to the interior construction of the wings. If you would care to visit the spar shop, the foreman will show you the radical solution we employed. As far as the passengers are concerned, the most striking innovation concerns the seating. Instead of building a car into the fuselage, the pontoons, or floats, which are sixty feet in length, are designed to serve as commodious saloons. We hear a great deal about the luxurious conditions aboard airships. I can safely say, gentlemen, that the passenger accommodation will easily rival, if not surpass, any airship either in existence or currently under construction, without, of course, the appalling hazard of fire justly associated with lighter-than-air flight.’

  Freddie Talbot of Modern Flight ventured a question.

  Nigel Lassiter nodded gravely. ‘Safety has been our major preoccupation, as it is with all our machines.’ It was just as well the pressmen didn’t know about the wings trying to twist apart, thought Jack. ‘I am pleased to say that most parts of the seaplane have a safety factor of five and certain parts, which endure the biggest stress, have a safety factor of six.’ The men from the aviation papers looked impressed. The men from Fleet Street looked baffled. ‘Which means, of course,’ said Nigel, so smoothly that no one would suspect him of talking down to his audience, ‘that the machine is capable of sustaining at least five or six times the strain which it will ever be called upon to bear.’ The crowd made approving noises and Jack slipped away.

  Old Mr Lassiter had briefly escaped his guests and was having a breather with David by the entrance to the dope and varnish room. David caught sight of him and beckoned an invitation to join them.

  ‘Those were very impressive statistics Mr Lassiter was quoting,’ said Jack, hoping for a reaction. He got one.

  ‘Lies, damned lies and statistics,’ said David ironically. ‘It’s all right,’ he said in response to his father’s anxious frown. ‘I’m not going to say anything out of turn. It’s just that with all the emphasis on the Pegasus, any other ideas have been kicked into touch. Perhaps now the aeroplane’s finished I’ll be able to go ahead with my plans.’

  ‘Do you have a new aircraft in mind?’ asked Jack.

  David Lassiter shook his head. ‘Not so much a new aircraft but a new way of owning an aircraft.’ Jack looked a question and David Lassiter warmed to his theme. ‘You’re a pilot, Haldean, and knowledgeable about aviation. You might not know this, but as far as most people are concerned, buying a private plane is still a rather daring thing to do.’

  It was a shatteringly expensive thing to do, thought Jack as he looked at David Lassiter, schooling his face into blank and polite enquiry.

  ‘What I want to do is to take the average man and show him how easy it is to own an aeroplane. We’d build him a hangar – the Urbis has fold-back wings, so the hangar need be no bigger than a garage – lay out an airstrip in his garden or fields, sell him a flying kit, provide flying lessons if he wants to fly it himself or hire out pilots to act as chauffeurs if he doesn’t. I wanted to set up lorries which would act as mobile garages staffed by our mechanics to repair and service the planes regularly at the customers’ own homes. I did manage to get a decent insurance deal arranged through a City firm. It’s honest and more economical than anything an individual could arrange for himself. We make a small but worthwhile profit on that but it’s nothing compared to what we could make if only I could get things under way.’

  Jack, whilst boggling slightly at David Lassiter’s conception of the average man, was intrigued.

  ‘You see,’ continued Lassiter enthusiastically, ‘I want to make owning a plane as easy as owning a car. It could be done. And when I say “man” don’t think I just mean “men”. There’s a huge unplumbed women’s market out there, and women make excellent pilots. They have a light touch which men often can’t master, but it’s the mechanical side of things that puts them off. I’d take care of all of that.’ He finished his drink. ‘Anyway, I suppose I’d better go and do my bit.’

  ‘You won’t say anything out of turn, will you?’ asked his father. ‘After all, the whole company, you included, needs the Pegasus to be successful.’

  David Lassiter suddenly grinned. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. I want the plane to succeed as much as anyone else. We’ve put far too much in to see it thrown away.’

  ‘Why don’t you talk to Mrs Culverton?’ suggested his father. ‘I know she had to warn us on Sunday that she might pull out but the India route is still a good commercial prop
osition. There’s a lot of money to be made there, David.’ He put down his glass. ‘There are some people I could do with seeing, as well.’ He looked across the room. ‘Instone’s taken up with Samuel Hoare but there’s Burton of City and Commercial and John Frazier of Capital Air. I know Frazier had hopes of a directorship in any state airline, so if you’ll excuse us, Major Haldean, we’d better be off.’

  Jack, temporarily alone, looked round the crowded room. Nigel Lassiter had finished addressing the crowd and was talking earnestly to Martin Ridgeway.

  Anne Lassiter and Roger Maguire joined him. ‘Wasn’t Mr Ridgeway horrible?’ she said in a low voice. ‘Did you see how he looked at Stella Aldryn? I thought George was going to hit him.’

  ‘It’s as well he didn’t,’ murmured Maguire. ‘That would really spoil the party. You’re making too much of it, Anne.’

  ‘You must be blind,’ said Anne with a toss of her head. ‘The kindest explanation I can think of is that he’s drunk too much. What’s your opinion, Major Haldean?’

  ‘I think if Ridgeway sinks any more of that champagne he’d buy a brick balloon,’ said Jack. Maguire grinned. ‘He’s been shovelling it down. I didn’t like the way he goggled at Miss Aldryn, either.’

  ‘In vino veritas?’ suggested Maguire. He took Anne’s arm. ‘She’s a pretty girl and he noticed. So what? Don’t get so upset. Hello, what’s Nigel doing now?’

  Nigel Lassiter had finished talking to Ridgeway and, in a consciously dynamic pose, mounted the first few steps of the ladder up to the crane. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began in a carrying voice. ‘Thank you for your attention.’

  The hum of conversation in the room petered out and the crowd looked at Nigel obediently and expectantly. ‘On behalf of the Lassiter Aircraft Company and all the Lassiter family, I am happy to welcome you this afternoon. I am not going to make a speech.’