‘Rotgut, more like,’ she returned.
It was a pity, she thought, as she examined Saxon while he slowly sipped his drink. There was a look something akin to bliss on his broad, handsome face. Strange how one could tell alcoholics or near-alcoholics by the puffiness of their faces, the bulging eyes and flaccid mouths. It was a pity, because Tom Saxon was a handsome man. He was tall, with fair, almost corn-coloured hair, blue eyes and what had once been an athletic figure. It was slightly paunchy now. In other circumstances, Gloria felt she could have fancied Tom Saxon. Not that Tom Saxon would fancy her. She had heard village gossip. Something about his wife being killed a few years ago. That was the cause of his drinking, so they said.
‘Fill her up again, Gloria,’ commanded Saxon, pushing his empty glass somewhat distastefully across the bar.
‘It is early, Wing Commander,’ Gloria said with emphasis. She always called him Wing Commander, even though he was no longer in the Air Force. So did everyone in the village. Wing Commander Tom Saxon AFC. They said he had been quite a celebrity once — a hero. He had been awarded the Air Force Cross for, oh … something. She couldn’t remember. He had been a hero. Such a pity.
‘Another one,’ grunted Saxon. T don’t care what the bloody time is.’
The girl coloured.
‘Sorry. I was only thinking … ’
‘Well, bloody don’t!’ snapped the man.
‘Now then, now then, Wing Commander!’
George, the landlord, emerged from a background.
‘There’s no call to use that sort of language to a young lady, is there, sir?’
Angered, Saxon hauled himself from the bar stool.
‘Very well, if you don’t want my custom … ‘He turned and slammed out of the pub.
Behind him George gave a sneer.
‘Damned souse! He’s not to be served in here again.’
*
Charles Renard’s house, in the hamlet of Balleroy, stood in the shadow of the old 17th-century château; a plain edifice whose long driveway majestically prolonged the village’s single street. Renard’s house was also of the 17th century, built by François Mansart, who had constructed the old château for the Marquises de Balleroy. Records showed that the house had been built for the mother of one of the Marquises as a dower-house. Renard, born of a small peasant farmer in the village, had made it his first ambition, when he acquired wealth, to buy the house. It satisfied some need within him. It was not enough for him to be successful but he felt the need to flaunt his triumph among the people who remembered him as a ragged-arsed little boy — especially the De Choisy family who were still regarded as the grand seigneurs of the village. If he had been able, Renard would have bought the old château itself with its extravagant library and its artefacts, but it had been turned into a museum. In fact, Renard was now fond of telling the story that as a poor peasant boy he had often gone to the château’s museum to study its renowned collection of montgolfiers and gas balloons and made a vow that one day he, too, would build airships. There was absolutely no truth in the story: as a boy he had no interest in the old château nor in balloons, but the story looked good in the press interviews connected with the airship project.
Renard turned his Mercedes into the gravel drive which circled up to his house and felt a little proprietorial glow of pride as he surveyed it. He brought the car to a halt outside, climbed out with his attaché case and had not reached the door before Bernard Elbeuf, his manservant, opened the door and greeted him with a polite ‘good evening’. Bernard helped him off with his coat but Renard stopped him taking his attaché case.
There are some letters I must go through,’ he explained. ‘Is Madame Renard at home?’
Bernard bowed gravely.
‘Madame is in the dining-room, sir.’
Renard went straight there.
Janine Renard was sitting before the fire sipping an aperitif.
‘Hello, Charles.’ She did not smile as her husband entered the room. Renard returned her greeting and, putting down his case, mixed himself a martini.
Janine Renard’s age was difficult to place. In fact, she was only thirty but she disguised a good figure by wearing clothes that would have suited a far older woman. She gave the impression of being rather dowdy and nearer forty than her true age. Her tangle of mouse-coloured hair and lack of make-up heightened the effect. She had purposely stopped taking an interest in her appearance about six months after her marriage to Renard. She had become resigned to her marriage and resigned to her life. Resignation was the key to Janine Renard’s character.
One evening, Renard had abruptly confessed that his marriage to her had simply been one of convenience — his own convenience. Her father, Marshal Dubray, was an influential man in aviation circles. Initially, Janine, who had always had a tendency to dowdiness, being bookish and introvert, had been swept off her feet by Renard’s pursuit of her. She had generally been overlooked by men and, in fact, was still a virgin on her wedding night. Yet she was a girl with a great deal of emotional warmth and hidden sexuality. Her plainness as a child had produced in her an inferiority in that she had tried to suppress her natural feelings, would shun the company of men and had almost convinced herself that her role in life was to be a spinster.
Then Renard came along. It had begun when he had been invited to her father’s house to a business dinner. Soon he was calling regularly not to see the Marshal but to see her. She could not believe it. Renard was quite an attractive man. There followed a whirlwind romance — a fiery courtship. What she had not known until after the marriage was that Renard had pursued and courted her because of her father’s wealth and position. Renard was then a struggling aircraft industrialist and Dubray was the man who could influence the placing of air defence contracts. Renard’s plan worked perfectly.
He did not become sexually bored with Janine until six months after the marriage. He had already become intellectually bored with her after a few meetings and had tried to keep up the pretence that he was interested in literature, films, ballooning (flying was only a means of transport to Renard) and other things which absorbed Janine. For Renard there was only one paramount interest — money and how to make it. Their worlds were poles apart and, finally, Renard, after a glass too much wine, confessed as much.
The confession did not make Janine angry. It merely reawoke in her all her feelings of inferiority. She turned in on herself, becoming a drudge, resigned to her role as Renard’s housekeeper, being a wife in name only. Where other women would have sought a divorce or, at least, a lover, Janine retreated into her books, into her fantasies, away from the real world.
‘Had a good day?’
It was an automatic question from Renard.
‘Yes. I was reading La Menace Invisible … ’ Janine loved fantasy tales, being so removed from her own drab existence. She was prevented from explaining further about the book by the bored expression on her husband’s face. ‘And your day? Was it good?’
‘Could have been better,’ Renard replied. ‘What time is dinner?’
‘In half an hour. My father is coming.’
Renard frowned.
‘Your father? Why didn’t you tell me? You should be dressed then. He likes things set out nicely. Have you warned Bernard and his wife?’
Janine nodded an affirmative.
‘You’d better change then. Wear your blue dress and for goodness sake put on some make-up.’
Renard scowled as he went into his study.
Damn the woman! He wondered whether there was an ulterior motive to the Marshal paying them a visit. Could she have complained to her father about him? No. Janine didn’t have the courage. Anyway, he didn’t want the Marshal breathing down his neck over his domestic life at his stage. Perhaps the Marshal had heard about the unofficial agreement with Brisset? No, he would have to play that one close to the chest.
He sat down at his desk and began to go through the letters he had not found time to deal with that day. Ah
, here was the letter of dismissal which he had already dictated and addressed to Villemur just in case the man stuck to his opinions about the safety of the construction of the Charles de Gaulle. Well, he didn’t need it now. Thankfully, Villemur had stopped bellyaching about the design problems. Renard smiled. Money always talked. When he had threatened Villemur with accepting the design factors already agreed on the Charles de Gaulle or being thrown off the project, there was no question of the option Villemur would take. He screwed the letter into a ball and threw it into the fire.
There were a few letters from airship enthusiasts, one letter from a would-be investor — he would take advantage of that — and another from … he frowned. The postmark was Maine, America. It was a plain white envelope with neat, precise printing in black ink. He opened it. There was a single sheet of white typing paper on which was the same precise printing in English. Renard had managed to obtain a working knowledge of the language. It was essential in aviation circles.
‘Airships are death machines: this was proved in the early years. God’s will is paramount and these infernal and dastardly instruments of death will not be allowed to pollute the skies. Desist from your efforts to launch your airship. I have already shown my power once. Max Prüss.’
Renard chuckled, screwed the paper up and tossed it after Villemur’s letter of dismissal.
There was a soft tap on his study door.
Janine entered. She had changed into her blue evening dress and had done something with rouge, powder and lipstick. The effect was not good, but better than before.
‘Is it alright, Charles?’ she asked anxiously. There was a plaintive note to her voice; a little girl seeking approval.
Renard uttered a sigh of exasperation.
‘It’s better, but why can’t you … ?’
He was interrupted by the sound of a car drawing up outside, the slam of a car door and the peal of the doorbell.
‘That will be your father,’ he said. ‘Now, for goodness sake, look a little happy.’
‘Yes, Charles,’ she said in a small voice.
Chapter Eleven
Tom Saxon struggled to open a bottle of Bell’s whisky and pour himself a glass. For a moment he held up the tumbler to the light and studied the amber liquid reflectively. Then he intoned:
Then trust me, there’s nothing like drinking
So pleasant on this side the grave;
It keeps the unhappy from thinking
And makes e’en the valiant more brave.
He laughed, perhaps a little too harshly, and tossed off his first drink of the day. One drink and that was all, that would steady him. He set down the glass and examined the kitchen of his cottage. Yes, today he would begin on the tidying-up. There was at least a week’s dirty crockery lying about the place. He caught sight of a dozen empty bottles. Yes, time to pull himself together. Maybe he should ring up Lancaster at the club, see if he could get his job back. He bit his lip. No, that was no damned good. He wouldn’t go bloody cap in hand to Guy Lancaster. There were plenty of other jobs about — plenty. Why, he strained to recall the incident, there was that fellow Ashton who rang up the other day — some job in America. He knew he had the telephone number somewhere. That was it. He would tidy up the cottage; spruce himself up and arrange to have a talk with Ashton. Why, with his experience … must be plenty of jobs.
The letter box vibrated.
He glanced at his wristwatch.
Ah, the morning post.
He hauled himself from the kitchen table and went through the lounge of the small Tudor cottage to the front door. There were two letters lying on the mat. One was an official brown envelope marked ‘OHMS’. It was from the Inland Revenue. In disgust he tore open the envelope and glanced at its contents. A final demand for a tax bill. Well, they would have to go and whistle for their £2,000. Funds were getting pretty low. He glanced at the second letter. It was from Lancaster with the formal dismissal. He screwed it up and threw it towards an overflowing wastepaper basket. He suddenly became aware of the mess in the lounge. He would have to tidy up in here, too. Piles of bottles. Rubbish. Half-eaten scraps of food. That’s right. Start tidying up.
He went back to the kitchen, his eyes coming to rest on the open bottle of whisky. That’s right. A short nip to start the day. He must have had one already. No matter. He poured out another glass …
There was a banging on the front door.
He set down the glass with a certain amount of hesitation and went back through the lounge.
Saxon blinked at the man who stood on the threshold.
‘Garry Carson!’
‘Hi, Tom!’ Carson stood smiling. ‘Jesus, you look a bit rough.’
Saxon gestured a little defiantly.
‘A bit of a late night, old boy. What … what brings you here?’
‘I’ve come a couple of thousand miles to see you, you sonofabitch. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
Saxon stood aside meekly.
The pungent reek of stale tobacco and alcohol hit Carson immediately he stepped over the threshold. He stared about him in surprised distaste.
‘Had a party, Tom?’
Saxon seized upon the excuse.
‘That’s it, old boy. A party. Not had time to clean up. Sit down, if you can find somewhere.’
Carson removed a pile of dirty clothes and an empty glass from an armchair and sank gingerly into it.
‘Well, well. How are you doing, Tom?’
‘I survive.’
There was an uncomfortable pause.
‘How are things with you?’ Saxon asked.
‘Just fine, Tom. I’m chief test pilot of a civil aviation company in Portland, Maine.’
‘That’s good. How’s … Helen?’
‘She’s fine.’
‘That’s good.’
There was another pause.
‘Drink?’ Saxon asked.
Carson shook his head.
‘Too early for me, Tom. Don’t let me stop you.’
While Tom went to get the drink he had already poured, Carson peered round the interior of the tiny Tudor cottage. ‘Nice place you have here. Have you had it long?’
‘It’s rented,’ explained Saxon. ‘I rented it when I moved down here and took a job with the local flying club. Pilot instructor and all that sort of thing.’
‘Not your style, Tom,’ observed Carson. ‘That’s why I came down to see you.’
Saxon frowned.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I told you I was chief test pilot for a civil aviation company in Portland, Maine,’ replied Carson. ‘It’s a subsidiary of Pan Continental Airways — called Anglo-American Airships.’
‘Oh?’ Saxon’s eyes narrowed. ‘Anything to do with a character called Ashton?’
Carson smiled.
‘That’s why I’m here, Tom. I’m the head-hunter.’
Saxon pulled a face.
‘I told Ashton that I wasn’t interested.’
Inwardly, Saxon was cursing. What a damned golden opportunity. He was being offered a job on a platter just at a time he desperately needed one. He would never find anything worthwhile in England once Guy Lancaster started spreading the word. He had already been asked to resign from two previous jobs because of what they were pleased to call his drinking problem. Hell, he could go to the States and cock a snoot at them all. But he hadn’t realised that Carson would be the fly in the ointment. Of all the people in the world — Carson!
‘You’re a qualified airship pilot, Tom. Anglo-American badly need your experience.’
Saxon gave Carson a penetrating glance.
‘And what do you say?’
‘I’m the guy who laid your name on the line when Anglo-American started pushing panic buttons. We badly need you, Tom.’
Could it be, wondered Saxon, that Carson didn’t know? It seemed incredible. He had always assumed that Helen would tell him one day. Perhaps she hadn’t. Maybe it was worth a chance.
As
much as Anglo-American badly needed him, he needed them more, especially after yesterday’s fiasco at the flying club. Of course, things might be awkward with Helen. He would have to try and live with it. He desperately needed the job. No rushing fences, though. He would have to play things in a low key.
‘It’s an exciting project, Tom,’ Carson was saying eagerly. ‘How about it?’
Saxon gazed at him for a while.
‘It’s ironic,’ he said.
‘How’s that?’ asked Carson, puzzled.
‘What fate imposes, that men must needs abide;
It boots not to resist both wind and tide.’
‘Say again?’ frowned Carson.
‘Shakespeare, old boy. Henry VI.’
There was a brief silence and then Saxon exhaled deeply.
‘Tell me about this airship project.’
Briefly, Garry Carson sketched in the basics, including the death of Westbrook. In spite of himself, in spite of his depressive thoughts that clamoured for his undivided attention, Saxon found himself excited by the idea. He started to throw some technical questions at Carson and soon they became embroiled in a discussion about the principles of airship economics. Eventually, Carson glanced at his watch.
‘How about grabbing a bite to eat, Tom?’
Saxon looked up at the clock on the mantleshelf.
They had been talking for nearly four hours; four hours and he hadn’t even touched a drop. Well, that proved it. He could lick this drink business any time he chose.
‘Let me buy you a meal, Tom,’ insisted Carson. ‘On your new employers — how about it?’
Low key, urged a voice in Saxon’s mind.
‘You can buy me a meal. But I haven’t made up my mind yet. I want to hear more.’
‘Okay, no sweat.’ Carson stood up. ‘Can you recommend a restaurant near here and we can go through the facts and figures?’
Saxon grinned. Not too near, just in case he bumped into anyone who might queer the pitch. He nodded and put on his coat.
‘Okay, Garry, old boy. You fill me in and then I’ll let you know my answer in twenty-four hours. How about that?’
‘Fair enough, Tom,’ agreed Carson as they passed out to Saxon’s MG.
Airship Page 9
