As if by Magic

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  She nodded. ‘Nigel didn’t have much of an idea what people would actually need on a long-distance flight, so I made some suggestions. One thing I thought about was where everyone would sit after dinner while this room is being prepared for the night. They can either go back in the lounge or outside.’

  ‘Outside?’ said George, startled. She nodded. ‘Er . . . won’t they fall off?’

  He was pleased to see Anne’s eyes crinkle in a smile. ‘We won’t let people outside while we’re flying. No, this is for the evening, when the Pegasus has landed.’ She opened a door in the hull. ‘Come and have a look, George. I know it was my idea but I think it’s a nice touch.’

  He followed her out of the door on to a small landing on the outside of the pontoon. It was surrounded by a guard-rail, and steps, just as on a ship, ran up to the side of the craft. The entire top of the pontoon was laid out as a promenade deck.

  ‘You see the idea?’ said Anne. ‘I can just imagine sitting up here after the day’s flying is over and the Pegasus has come down for the night. We could be anywhere on earth, watching the sunset in the Mediterranean, the Indian Ocean or even the Pacific. Who knows?’ She walked to the rails. ‘It sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?’ and she added, more to herself than to him, ‘It must be wonderful to be so far away.’

  George stood beside Anne at the rails, looking down on to the silent propellers, the black river chopping into strings of crystal where it was caught in the lights from the bridges and the bank. It was a fine, cold night, the distant moon scudding behind dark clouds. The Pegasus rocked quietly in the water, a soothing, gentle motion. ‘Would you like to be far away?’ he asked hesitantly.

  She looked at him with a cynical lift of her eyebrows. ‘Is that so surprising? To escape? Yes, I’d like that.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said. It sounded clumsy and he tried to explain. ‘We need you, Anne.’ He looked at her unhappy face. He wanted to say I need you, but something stopped him. He suspected Anne felt very vulnerable and he didn’t want to take advantage of her weakness. She was engaged to Roger Maguire and that was that. He tried to think of Stella, but she seemed very remote. ‘The family needs you.’

  She shook herself. ‘Forget it. Even if I could leave, I wouldn’t, not with Grandfather in the state he is. No, I wouldn’t go anywhere.’ She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. ‘Come on, we’ve got work to do. This dinner won’t arrange itself.’ She turned back to the steps. ‘Thanks for helping me tonight, George. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Well, I am a member of the family, after all,’ said George, following her across the deck. ‘Who’s coming, anyway? I don’t actually know.’

  ‘As many of the great and the good and the seriously rich as Nigel could persuade.’ She laughed. ‘It didn’t take much doing.’ She paused by the rail and opened her bag. ‘I’ve got a copy of the guest list here. It’s been printed in the papers, of course. It’s a shame we’ve had to limit the numbers so severely. What are you doing afterwards?’

  ‘Nothing very much.’

  ‘Could you stay on board? Nigel wanted me to supervise the clearing-up but I’d rather take Grandfather home. He’s insisted on coming but I think a full evening will be too much for him. I’d be grateful if you’d stay, George. All it really involves is making sure the caterers have done everything and seeing they’re safely ashore before Nigel flies back to Tilbury.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said George.

  ‘I’m not spoiling your evening, am I?’ she asked.

  ‘No. I wasn’t planning on doing anything after the flight. I’ll be glad to know Grandfather’s being looked after. I wish I could make things better,’ he added impulsively. ‘Better for you, I mean. I think it’s really sporting of you to do what you’re doing.’

  He must have looked concerned for she reached out and squeezed his arm. ‘Come on. We can’t solve anybody’s problems by feeling miserable about them and we really do have to start work. There’s one thing, at any rate,’ she added. ‘You’re happy. I mean, you’ve got Stella, haven’t you?’

  Stella: it seemed almost impossible to bring her vibrant, colourful beauty to mind in this quiet, lamplit place. George tried but his image of Stella seemed garish and artificial. The water slapped against the sides of the pontoons, and on the Embankment the traffic sounded far away. Anne was looking at him quizzically and he smiled. ‘Happy? Yes, I suppose I am,’ he said.

  She shivered. ‘Let’s go back inside.’

  At nine o’clock that evening Jack walked to the police station on Saffron Place. Rackham, wearing a heavy overcoat and muffled up against the cold, was standing by the entrance. He was clearly on edge and greeted Jack with relief.

  ‘I’m glad to see you.’ He glanced behind him to the police station. ‘This is a massive affair, Jack,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s thirty men involved, including me, and the Assistant Commissioner himself is turning up.’

  Jack’s eyebrows rose. ‘As big as that, eh?’

  Rackham nodded. ‘Yes, this is it, all right.’ Although Saffron Place was deserted, he lowered his voice still further. ‘It’s a big case in any event but it was the names you read in the diary in the office that did the trick. As soon as we learned that Sholto Bierce really was a guest on the Pegasus, the AC more or less had to be involved. We’re dealing with some very important people and we can’t afford to get it wrong.’ He half-smiled. ‘It’s a bit like the war, when we went over the top. Everyone standing round, filling in time until the whistles blew, and then into action. It was always the waiting that got to me then, too.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I did wonder, granted just how important it all is, if the AC would let me see the case through to the end but he’s decided to let me stay with it.’ He glanced at the sky. ‘Funny to think that the Pegasus is up there, somewhere. It must be strange, flying at night. How on earth can you see anything?’

  Jack followed his gaze, looking to where dark, silver-rimmed clouds scudded across the sky. ‘I’ve done some night flying. With any sort of moon the visibility’s pretty good. Any reflective surface such as the roof of a house or a sheet of water turns into a sort of opaque mirror.’ He grinned. ‘Flying’s easy. It’s landing that’s the problem. Nigel Lassiter will get her down all right. He can hardly miss the Thames. I’d liked to have been on board,’ he added.

  ‘You’re needed here.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Jack acknowledged. ‘When are you going to take the men into Dainty Alley?’

  ‘After the Pegasus has landed. I’ve arranged for them to go in ones and twos, so with any luck they won’t draw too much attention to themselves. I’m taking fifteen men in with me and the rest will be stationed on the street. I’ll go in first and you bring up the rear. You needn’t worry about the men. They’re a hand-picked bunch. Most of them were in the infantry during the war and all the men who are coming in with us are experienced trench-raiders. I couldn’t ask for a better crowd. We’ve got a constable posted on the Embankment who’s going to telephone when the Pegasus touches down but we’ll be able to see it from here, won’t we?’

  ‘We’ll certainly see her approach the river.’ Jack glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll come and introduce myself to the men, then I’ll keep an eye out for the plane.’ He stiffened as the wind changed, bringing the far-off, distinctive growl of a series of Rolls-Royce Condor engines. ‘There she is now,’ he said, pointing.

  It took a few minutes for Rackham to pick out what the experienced pilot had noticed right away, then he saw it, a tiny dark moving smudge against the clouds.

  ‘She’s got time for a couple of circuits more before she lands,’ said Jack knowledgeably. ‘Come on. Let’s get indoors.’

  The moon was riding higher now, high enough for the occasional gleam of light to penetrate the filthy window of the attic overlooking Dainty Alley. Jack stood beside Rackham, once again listening intently for any noise. Although he had been reassured by Rackham, he could hardly believe how quietly the men had made th
e passage along the eaves from the deserted draper’s shop. Now they all waited patiently, their breathing very quiet. Down below, from the Continental, came the far-off thump of music and from the window came the muted sounds of London.

  In the distance the chime of the clock of St Clement Danes, caught and flurried by the wind and traffic, sounded the hour.

  ‘It’s time,’ whispered Rackham close to Jack’s ear. ‘Get ready.’

  Jack stripped off the hat, gloves and overalls he had worn for his passage through the eaves, emerging, like a butterfly from a chrysalis, in full evening dress with a gleaming shirt-front. He took a black mask from his pocket and adjusted it over his eyes. ‘How do I look?’

  Despite himself, Rackham couldn’t restrain a smile. ‘Very sinister. Well done.’

  Rackham gave a signal to the men and with a quiet sound, almost like the rustle of leaves, they filed out of the attic and on to the top landing. The music from the Continental was clearer now, sounding up the back stairs. Rackham raised his hand to indicate the men should wait then followed Jack down to the door of the office.

  Jack tried the handle. ‘It’s locked,’ he mouthed rather than said.

  Rackham nodded and took a bunch of keys from his pocket, the keys which had been made from the wax impressions Jack had brought back. He had a collection of picklocks with him but, if this worked, it was easier. He put the key in the lock, hearing the rewarding click as it turned.

  Rackham nodded in approval and gingerly opened the door. The office was in darkness. ‘I bet the door into Paris is locked too,’ he said very quietly. Together the two men glided across the room to the door of the club. They could hear noises from the other side of the door. There was no music but they could hear the muffled sound of voices.

  Jack took the key and unlocked the door, put the keys in his pocket and opened the door a crack, peering into the room. He drew back and shut the door. ‘They’re all wearing lapel badges,’ he said quietly. ‘I saw them glint in the light.’

  Rackham drew his breath in. ‘Damn! What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll have to risk it.’

  ‘I don’t like changing the plan.’

  Jack smiled grimly. ‘Remember what we used to say in the war. No plan survives an encounter with the enemy. Here goes.’ He opened the door again, waited his moment, and slipped into Paris.

  It should, George Lassiter thought, have been a perfect evening. The novelty of dining five hundred feet over London had paid off and the guests, hardly any of whom had been on that rare thing, a night flight, had gasped in wonder as the bowl of London stretched out beneath them, rimmed by the moonlit Surrey hills, the Thames like a pewter ribbon, the city a vibrant blaze of light. Then came one of Howgrave and Cheriton’s best dinners, with service easily the equal of the Ritz or the Savoy, in a dining room rich with starched linen, fine bone china, gleaming silver and the sparkle of glass.

  As the Pegasus finally nosed her graceful way back on to the river the guests had broken into spontaneous applause. When Nigel Lassiter, changed from flying kit to evening dress, had joined the guests in the dining room, he was hailed as a hero. With brandy in hand and the scent of cigars mingling with that of the bouquets of flowers, Nigel had never had a more receptive audience for any of his speeches.

  And yet . . . And yet. Whenever Anne relaxed there were tired lines etched on her face, Peggy Culverton hardly spoke, and as for his grandfather . . . George twisted inside as he looked at the old man, a frail caricature of what he had been only days before.

  It was over now and the guests had departed. Anne had taken old Mr Lassiter home and Nigel was on shore, discussing the plane’s performance with the Lassiter men. The evening had been a triumph. It just didn’t feel like it.

  Jack stood in the shadows beside the back wall of the club. The room was full but no one had seen him come in. The club was dimly lit, concealed lights shedding a pinkish glow across the sofas and chairs. The only brightly lit area was the bar which stretched across the back wall, gleaming with green bottles and glass. There were, at a guess, thirty or so people in the room, but there was hardly any noise. In front of him was the back of a sofa. He started to walk past it when a sudden burst of laughter made him pause. A girl, naked apart from a few wisps of scarf, leapt up. A man’s arms pulled her down and she relapsed back into the seat and out of his line of sight with a brief cry. Jack assumed an expression of unconcern, but no one looked round. Curiosity was evidently not encouraged in Paris.

  Here goes, thought Jack, mentally crossing his fingers. He walked with apparent idleness round the side of the room towards the door. A man, his white shirt-front showing pink under the lights, collar open and tie discarded, got up, bottle in hand, reached down and brought a woman to her feet. She, too, was naked, except for a belt of glistening jewels. He put his arm around her with arrogant ownership, then, staggering slightly, led her past Jack and out of the door at the far end. Again, no one showed any interest in their activities. A light flared and shone down, a hard single light, focused on the stage, and a drum started to tap in a subdued rhythm. A woman dressed in translucent gauze, a whip in one hand and holding a thin chain in the other, came on to the stage. She cracked the whip and tugged the chain, dragging another, younger woman in high heels, jewels and chains, with her hands tied behind her back. Jack tore his attention away from the ritualized surrender on stage and worked out his route to the far door.

  Rackham wanted the door locked; that was the scheme which they had worked out together with the AC. No one, said the AC resolutely, was going to walk away from this raid. Hands in pockets, he reached the door and lounged against the wall. When he was sure no one was looking, he took the key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. He let his breath out in a silent sigh of relief. Now to get back . . .

  He was halfway there when a waiter, who was clearing glasses from a table beside a sofa on which were two partially dressed women and a man in evening dress, stepped back unexpectedly, jarring into him. ‘Sorry, sir,’ muttered the man, turning round and looking into Jack’s face. A startled expression leapt into his eyes.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but where’s your badge?’

  ‘I lost it,’ said Jack, attempting to walk away.

  The man put his hand out and grasped his arm. ‘I’m sorry, sir, you know the rules. You’ll have to see the manager. You can’t come in here without a badge.’ He beckoned to another waiter who hurried over to join them. ‘This gentleman’s lost his badge. Can you ask the manager to join us?’ He turned to Jack. ‘You’ll have to stay with me, sir, until the matter is attended to.’

  Jack had no intention of waiting until reinforcements arrived. Without giving any hint of his intentions he drove his fist into the waiter’s ribs, a short, effective punch. The waiter doubled up with a groan and Jack ran for it, back towards the comparative safety of the office. Two more waiters loomed up in front of him, blocking his way, fists at the ready. He tried to duck past them when a third clipped him on the jaw. His head jerked back and his legs were kicked from under him. Sprawling on the floor, he heard the drum stop beating, a woman’s scream and the anxious, questioning voices of men. He attempted to get to his feet when a voice stopped him.

  ‘What the hell . . .?’ A rough hand grabbed his collar, hauling him to his feet. His arms were pinned to his sides and the mask ripped from his face.

  He heard the quick intake of breath from the man looking at him and saw the eyes narrow behind the mask. ‘Major Haldean?’

  The voice was unmistakable. It was Roger Maguire.

  Jack felt a thrill of satisfaction surge through him. He had guessed who was behind the Continental, and he was right.

  ‘Take off the fancy dress, Maguire, old man,’ said Jack evenly, looking into the masked face. ‘You’re finished. I know exactly who you are and what you’ve done.’

  Maguire started back, his mouth working in fury. He turned to address the crowd behind him. ‘It’s all right,’ he called over
the noise of the club. ‘Nothing to worry about. Please, gentlemen, resume your seats. This is just a little matter I have to clear up.’ He turned back to Jack and his captors. ‘Take him downstairs,’ he said to the waiters. ‘We’ll use the red room. Major Haldean needs to answer a few questions. A few painful questions,’ he added viciously.

  That was no good. He had to get his arms free but he was firmly held. ‘It’s no use, Maguire,’ he said. ‘I know all about you.’ For God’s sake, couldn’t Bill Rackham see what was happening? Out of the corner of his eye Jack risked a glance towards the office. A waiter was standing outside the door, blocking the entrance. Bloody hell!

  ‘Take him away,’ spat out Maguire.

  Jack laughed. He had to win more time and he wasn’t going to be taken out of Paris for anyone. ‘Do drop it, Maguire. What do you think you look like, dressed up as Zorro? It’s over.’

  Maguire snarled and, stepping forward, struck Jack hard across the face with the flat of his hand. ‘How did you get in here?’

  Jack, temporarily blinded by the blow, didn’t answer.

  Maguire hit him again. ‘How did you get in here?’

  Jack, his face throbbing with pain, shrank back defensively. ‘I didn’t mean any harm!’ He was desperate to get his arms free, to make Maguire believe he was really scared. Where the devil was Bill?

  Maguire smiled at the terror in his voice. ‘Hit him again,’ he said to one of the waiters.

  Jack struggled, twisting to ward them off. Another blow went home and he sank to his knees. The two waiters holding him dragged him round to face Maguire once more.

  Maguire threw his cigarette on the floor and, stepping forward, launched a kick into Jack’s ribs. Torn away from the waiters’ restraining hands by the impact, Jack rolled away with a grunt. There were dancing lights in his head but with an explosion of triumph he knew his arms were free at last.

  He fumbled in his pocket, found the police whistle he was looking for and, with as much strength as he could muster, blew an ear-splitting blast. ‘Bad luck, old chap,’ he gasped, scrambling to his feet. ‘The party’s over.’