The Courtney Entry

by Max Hennessy

  ‘As soon as we’ve checked the engine and got the right weather,’ Ira said.

  ‘How about tomorrow?’

  ‘Not a chance. The weather’s shut down.’

  ‘How about charts, Captain? What kind you going to use?’

  ‘Same as ships use. No reason why they should object to us using their sea, is there?’

  Everybody laughed.

  ‘What happens if you’re blown off course?’

  ‘I’ve got a thousand miles of coastline to aim for. I ought to hit it somewhere.’

  ‘How about a radio?’

  ‘We’re not carrying one. Too heavy.’

  ‘Byrd’s carrying one, Captain. So’s Chamberlin. How about a sextant?’

  ‘Captain Penaluna’ – this time it was a woman reporter – ‘that’s a romantic name you’ve got.’

  Ira sighed. It was a familiar line. ‘There are plenty funnier in Cornwall where I come from,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Captain’ – she was almost breathing down his neck now – ‘is that right you’ve come here from China and that you were a general in their army?’

  Before she could go any deeper into the subject another questioner pushed forward.

  ‘Will Miss Courtney be flying to Paris with you, Captain?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I guess she’ll be the last to say goodbye, though, Captain, eh?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Hell, don’t spoil the story! Why not, Captain?’

  Ira grinned. ‘It’ll more likely be one of the National Aeronautical officials sealing the tanks and fixing the barograph to prove we haven’t landed anywhere en route.’

  They were determined not to let the romantic angle go. ‘You married, Captain?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Got any plans?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘How about Miss Courtney? You got her down as a possible?’

  ‘No comment,’ Alix interrupted, and there was a laugh, and Ira knew that the papers would be full next morning of suggestions of romance.

  The newspapermen were pushed out at last and as Loerner shut the door behind him, Alix turned to her father.

  ‘This Loerner,’ she snapped. ‘He said you hired him.’

  Courtney looked uneasy. ‘Sure, I did,’ he said.

  ‘We can’t afford a publicity agent. I told you we couldn’t.’

  ‘Rats, Alix, the other outfits have got publicity men! What are we, poor relations or something?’

  ‘If we get across, we’ll get all the publicity we need without trying. We didn’t need him and you owe me two and a half thou already.’

  Courtney looked uncomfortable. ‘I’ll pay you, Alix,’ he said. ‘He came and asked. It was hard to put him off. It isn’t just what’s in the paper. These guys stop the press getting the wrong picture. They look after things.’

  She looked tense and angry and it seemed as though a quarrel was brewing up. Boyle stepped forward quickly. ‘We’ve got you and Sammy in at Erwin’s Hotel on Fifty-Eighth Street, Ira,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in there, too, because they’ll try to picture you coming out of the johnny if they get a chance. Loerner’s just round the corner and Alix and Felton won’t be far away.’

  They all seemed slightly drunk on the excitement, and it seemed to be time to step into the realistic world of fact.

  ‘Never mind the hotel,’ Ira said shortly. ‘And for the moment let’s forget the press. We have things to do. We had to hand-pump fuel all the way to San Antonio.’

  There was a long silence so that they could hear the rain on the window and the drips from the great doors into the puddles where the crowd still splashed to get a good view of the Dixie.

  Courtney leaned across the desk, frowning. ‘What the hell’s wrong with the Hughesden?’ he demanded.

  Alix turned on him. ‘It doesn’t work,’ she said bluntly. ‘See that your damned Loerner hands that out to the press. It might shut Joe Hughesden up.’

  Courtney scowled and glanced at Boyle. ‘Hughesdens said it was OK,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Well, it isn’t,’ Alix retorted.

  Courtney turned to Boyle. ‘Check that, Lave,’ he said. ‘I want a run-down on it. I want to know about this pump.’ He swung round to Ira. ‘I want to see it work.’

  ‘And I want a Viking, Felton,’ Ira said quietly. ‘The Wright engineer advised a Viking and that’s good enough for me. The Hughesden’s too light.’

  Courtney waved his hand airily, as though he were trying not to hear. ‘We’ll make it work. I’ll set up a new one. I’ll see we get a guarantee with it, too, this time. A sure-fire guarantee.’

  Ira raised his voice angrily. ‘I don’t want a Hughesden, Felton,’ he said. ‘We have a Viking on order. The Wright people have it ready.’

  Courtney stopped dead, staring at him. In the silence another gust of rain splashed against the window. Courtney opened his mouth, then he changed his mind.

  ‘OK, OK,’ he said unwillingly. ‘A Viking it is.’

  Loerner had reappeared while they were talking and Courtney turned to him as though to avoid facing the problems they were pushing at him. ‘Everything fixed?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure, Mr Courtney. Do you want the details of the party now?’

  Alix whirled. ‘Party? What party?’

  Courtney looked embarrassed. ‘We have to meet some of the people interested in the flight,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Listen, Miss Courtney,’ Loerner interrupted, ‘these people want to know.’

  ‘We can’t afford parties,’ Alix snapped.

  ‘These are press and magazines, Miss Courtney,’ Loerner explained. ‘Aeronautical Society representatives. You’ll need ’em all before you leave. I fixed it for us all to assemble at Mr Courtney’s hotel. Folks’ll be received by Mr Courtney, yourself, and the crew of the aeroplane.’

  ‘I shan’t be there!’ The smouldering eyes flashed and Courtney shot her a sidelong glance but pretended not to hear.

  Loerner gave a few more details, reading them out so that they sounded like a regimental order. As he turned away, the telephone rang. Boyle answered it. He had been standing silently behind Courtney, old-fashioned, ugly and critical, but rigid with self-honesty. He had been watching Courtney ever since they had arrived, his old yellow eyes on him thoughtfully, like an ancient watchful hound outside a gate.

  He spoke a few words into the telephone and looked at Ira. ‘It’s the Pioneer Instrument Company,’ he announced. ‘They’re sending a man to check the earth-inductor compass.’

  Courtney’s head jerked round. ‘Pioneer?’ he snapped. ‘Why aren’t we using Hughesden instruments?’

  ‘Pa!’ – Alix clapped a hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and glared at him – ‘the Pioneer’s the best earth inductor there is.’

  Courtney stared round at the others uneasily. ‘I thought we were using Hughesden instruments,’ he said.

  ‘If they’re as good as the pump they’ll have us flying over the North Pole!’ Alix snapped.

  Trying to ignore the quarrelling, Boyle spoke into the telephone and replaced the receiver, then he turned to Ira, his eyes flickering in Courtney’s direction. ‘I’ve contacted the oil companies, Ira,’ he said. ‘They’ve promised to put in gas and oil whenever you want it, day or night, and they’ll make sure it’s checked and filtered. They’ll do it OK. They want to see you get across – especially with their fuel. All you have to do is get the aeronautical officials to seal the tanks and instruments.’

  As he turned away, Courtney interrupted again, his manner stubborn but uncertain. ‘Don’t the Hughesden company make a goddam earth inductor?’ he demanded noisily.

  ‘It’s not like the Pioneer outfit’s,’ Alix said shortly, as though she’d lost patience with him. ‘And it’s never been proved. Leave it at that, Pa!’

  Courtney was just opening his mouth to argue again when Loerner, who’d been talking at the door to someone outside, turned
to them.

  ‘Wright man here about the motor!’

  A stocky dark-haired man stepped into the room, his face wet with the rain. ‘Harold Collins,’ he said. ‘I’m from the Wright Company, Mr Courtney. We have your pump ready to fit.’

  Courtney frowned but he said nothing and the Wright official continued. ‘Sorry we weren’t here when your ship dropped in, but you arrived before we expected. Reports we got from Texas said you’d been held up.’

  ‘Three hours, Mr Collins,’ Loerner put in quickly. ‘Three hours. That’s all.’

  Collins turned to Ira. ‘Well, either way, you made good time, Captain,’ he said. ‘I guess you’ve broken some south-north records today.’ He gestured at a fair-haired young man standing just outside in the hangar. ‘That’s Leon Ortese. He’ll work for you or with you. Just as you wish. He’ll be here all the time. He’s the best you can get.’

  He gave a crooked grin. ‘We’re in a spot,’ he went on. ‘Everybody’s using Wright engines and we’ve got to maintain strict neutrality and assign men to every one of the entrants. I guess one of you ought to get across, but it’s in the interests of our corporation to see you all get across. Because, sure as hell, if something does go wrong, we’ll get the blame, whatever it is.’

  Chapter 7

  It was exhilarating to be back in New York. The city was the very heartbeat of a nation that had suddenly found it had an appetite for publicity and sensation, and even crime was operating here on an unprecedented scale since Prohibition had closed all the saloons and bars and started up the vast warring gangs which struggled to control the illicit liquor trade.

  Sammy had been looking forward eagerly for days to seeing it again, but by evening the mist had thickened into a heavy rain that kept them indoors, and a wind had sprung up that whipped round the corners of the streets to lift the scattered paper and snatch at the coats of the pedestrians as it howled down the long straight avenues. The depression they’d been racing had slid across the country even faster than they had expected and the wind rose, changing into squalls that rattled the doors and sent the raindrops across the growing puddles in hastening flurries.

  According to the weather bureau there was a north-easterly gale blowing in the Atlantic and, according to the ships from whose reports the forecasts were worked out, there were high seas and winds strong enough to force them south before it. A let-up wasn’t expected for at least three days, and, following it, there was a whole series of lows coming in with solid headwinds for anyone trying to fly east. Though it would mean that the Bellanca group would be able to patch up their damaged plane, the delay would also enable the Courtney team to fit their new fuel pump and tyres, strip the engine and inspect it for wear and tear and make last-minute checks on airframe and instruments.

  The bad weather also enabled Cluff to catch up with them again, because the newspaper stories that Loerner was putting out gave not only their hotel but even the type of shaving soap they used and what they wore in bed, and the telephone rang on the second morning after their arrival. It was Cluff.

  ‘Cluffy! Where the hell are you?’

  ‘Here in New York.’

  Sammy, who had been studying with a cynical expression on his thin beaky face pictures in the newspapers of the exhausted competitors in a marathon dancing competition, had sat bolt upright and was now making frantic signs to know what was being said. Ira waved him away.

  ‘New York?’ he said into the telephone. ‘Why in God’s name don’t you come over, then?’

  Sammy made an agonised face and, clutching his head, flung himself on the bed. ‘Not here, for Christ’s sake,’ he mouthed.

  As it happened, Cluff was too far away to oblige.

  ‘I’m not in New York City,’ he said. ‘New York State. Around fifty miles away. Near Newburgh.’

  ‘I thought you were in Canada,’ Ira said.

  ‘I was. Congratulations on your engagement, by the way.’

  Ira’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What engagement?’

  ‘I heard you were with Courtney Aeronautics and going to marry his daughter.’

  ‘You’d better hear again. It’s the first I’ve heard.’

  ‘I’m married,’ Cluff went on. ‘I married Dulcie Van Der Wee. Do you remember her?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Ira knew Dulcie well. She was a hard-faced Johannesburg girl who’d been determined to get away from Africa. He had a feeling that she was capable of eating the easy-going Cluff alive. ‘I remember her fine.’

  Cluff’s voice came again, faint over the crackling wire. ‘I’ll be coming down to see you,’ he said. ‘I’ve got something to ask you.’

  Ira’s heart sank, remembering that most of Cluff’s requests concerned money.

  ‘Oh? What?’

  Cluff laughed. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

  They talked a little longer, their conversation chiefly the unsatisfactory trivialities of a long-distance call, then Cluff made his farewell. ‘I’ve got to ring off now,’ he said. ‘It’s costing a fortune and Dulcie’s making faces because we haven’t got one. I’ll be seeing you.’

  Ira put the telephone down and turned to Sammy, who sat bolt upright on the bed at once, his eyes fierce.

  ‘What the hell did you tell him to come here for?’ he demanded.

  Ira grinned. ‘He wanted to see you,’ he said. ‘Particularly.’

  Sammy pulled a face. ‘I don’t want to see him.’

  ‘He married that Dulcie woman.’

  ‘God help him,’ Sammy snorted. ‘She was carnivorous. He’s determined, I must say. What’s he want, for God’s sake?’

  Ira grinned again. ‘Perhaps he’s coming to borrow that money you mentioned,’ he said.

  ‘He hasn’t paid back the last lot he borrowed in South Africa,’ Sammy growled. ‘You got to hand it to him, though. He’s like that bloke who kept asking all the girls if they went to bed with men. He got a lot of slaps across the kisser, but he also got a lot of girls in his bed.’

  ‘So did Cluff,’ Ira said.

  Sammy nodded thoughtfully. ‘Fancy him marrying Dulcie,’ he said slowly. ‘Remember when she came up from Jo’burg to Moshi to stay with him? Last I saw of ’em both was the night before he left for England. He was as tight as a boiled owl and she was sitting on his bed wondering if it was worth getting in with him.’

  Ira laughed. ‘You do her an injustice, Sammy,’ he said. ‘She was trying to sober him up enough to get him to ask her to marry him.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sammy conceded reluctantly. ‘He obviously did.’

  * * *

  Because of the continued bad weather, Loerner was able to lay on his reception without difficulty, and Ira and Sammy, sticking out like sore thumbs in their hurriedly bought ready-made suits, were scrutinised by Courtney’s colleagues and friends, and a few select magazine and newspaper editors. Woolff had turned up from Medway, strangely naked-looking with a white bald head above his plump red face, and was huddled in a corner with the technical editors of aviation journals, the specifications for the Dixie spread out on a table, trying to explain the details in quotable terms.

  Though the reception was supposed to be dry, a room had been set aside where good Scotch whisky was being served, and no one said ‘No’ to good whisky when most people had to drink bootleg gin or drugstore rye. Most of the conversation, in fact, seemed to concern prohibition, the price of illegal drink, where it came from and how poisonous it was.

  ‘I found a place where you can get all the hooch you want…’

  ‘They’re smuggling it across from Canada at Detroit…’

  ‘Awful stuff it was – wood alcohol, I guess…’

  Sammy was soon more than talkative. ‘Sure,’ he was boasting, ‘we’ve seen all the sights. The Museum. Grant’s Tomb. The Zoo. The boat to the Statue of Liberty and a ride on the Elevated. We did ’em all. The best was the nightclub where we finished up.’

  There was a three-piece band, and a girl in misty chiffon with wil
d red hair was dancing an unskilful Charleston with a man old enough to be her father; and Ira was just growing bored when Alix appeared, despite her professed intention of avoiding the affair, a knockout in a daringly low-cut dress that dragged every eye over to her at once. As he caught sight of her, he was aware again how physically attractive she was.

  She was well known around the hangars of the various airfields he’d visited and he’d heard suggestions that she had no sex appeal, but he’d noticed also that, though the men who flew aeroplanes and worked on their engines were a restless lusty lot, there was never any bad language when she was around, and the observations as she’d walked past, swathed in a thick flying suit and fur collar, had always been low-voiced and admiring. And when she dressed carefully, as she had now, there was no question of a lack of femininity, because she was slim and attractive enough to appeal to any man, her mouth sensitive and soft and her eyes warm. He knew it was only the fact that she never showed helplessness that confused men and put women off, and he watched her now with frank admiration as she approached.

  She picked him out unerringly and set course for him immediately, ignoring all Courtney’s friends as they moved forward to meet her. Her eyes were bright and she was curiously elated and unexpectedly friendly. He indicated the dress. ‘You look a corker in that,’ he said. ‘What keeps it up?’

  ‘Hope, mostly.’

  They danced for a while. In that dress, holding her body against his, it was like clutching someone unclothed.

  For a while she was silent, then she began to offer comments on everyone around her in an ear-splitting whisper in her low gruff voice.

  ‘It always gives me a laugh to see this sort of thing,’ she observed, gesturing at the crowd, a cynical, completely different person from the dry efficient navigator who had brought them to New York. ‘This is the great woolly mastodon. The leading citizens of New York and the private denizens of the newspaper zoo.’

  She glanced across the room to where Woolff was now talking to a well-corseted woman with a white-powdered complexion, grey hair and a bosom drawn up to giddy heights under her chin. ‘Sob-sister,’ she said. ‘Probably mad. Poor Hal. He looks as though he’s afraid she’s going to bite him.’