Lost Things

by Graham, Jo

  The alarm was wailing as they ran forward along the catwalk. Past the cargo bays, past the fuel tanks — please, God, well past the fuel tanks, Alma thought, and kept running, their feet loud on the metal grate. The ship was wallowing under them, heavy, heaving movements, the nose pointing up so that they were running uphill. It wouldn’t be long now, she could tell from the sounds, from the way the catwalk pitched up. Lewis grabbed her by the waist, pulled her down to the grating and pinned her under him, covering her body with his own. The nose jerked up — he’d known it was coming, she realized, seen the moment, and she squeezed her eyes tight against his shoulder. There was a sound like a thousand guitar strings snapping, and the catwalk slapped her back, knocking the wind from her. More crashes followed, and then the groan of bending metal. Under them the catwalk bent and buckled, but Lewis held them firm, his head pressed against her neck. The alarm cut out, and there was just a last screech of metal. And then, blessedly, silence. The air smelled of salt and spilled diesel oil. Alma caught her breath, coughing, and Lewis eased his weight a little, careful still to keep hold of the grating. They were lying at an angle, she realized, and as she struggled to sit up, she saw that the catwalk had been torn from its brackets only ten feet behind where they lay. It had twisted, too, and she grabbed the nearest stanchion for balance.

  “Lewis?” Her voice was a croak; she swallowed hard, and tried again. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah….” He pushed himself up and off her, going to his knees. The cut on his head was bleeding again, a new bright thread trickling down into his eyebrow. “You?”

  “Yeah.” She sat up, muscles protesting, feeling the bruises on her back and sides. Beneath them, the frame was solid, only a little crushed, but toward the stern the frame was shattered, caved in around the tattered remains of the gas bags. The frame had broken completely in two toward the tail, which, she realized, was attached to the forward part of the ship only by the fabric covering.

  Lewis had pulled himself to his feet, and was surveying the wreckage. “This way,” he said, and pointed.

  Alma took his hand, and let him help her up. The tilted catwalk felt stable enough underfoot, but she wanted out of the broken shell. One of the frame rings had cracked, pulling the girders apart, and it would be possible to climb down its slope to the ground. Or, rather, to the torn fabric of the hull, the waves already starting to seep through, and Lewis held up the rigger’s knife.

  “We’ll cut our way out.”

  Climbing down the girder was easier than it had looked. Alma balanced on the girder’s last point, the water lapping at her toes, while Lewis slashed a hole in the heavy fabric. It parted reluctantly, and Lewis climbed out onto the sand and turned to steady her. She braced herself on his forearms and he swung her out and down, so that she landed on the dry sand above the lapping of the waves. She giggled then, unable to stop herself.

  “What?”

  “I’ve just been in an airship crash, and I didn’t even get my feet wet….”

  Lewis smiled, but wrapped his arm around her waist, offering support.

  “I’m not hysterical,” Alma said.

  “I know. But we should keep moving. In case Henry —” He didn’t finish the thought, but Alma nodded, and they struggled further up the beach, stopped at the base of the hill to look back. People were streaming down the rugged slope, civilians and men in uniform, and Alma guessed they must have come down near the field at Le Havre. Independence lay broken in the low surf, the nose a good third of the way up the hill, bent up at a strange angle. The tail was shredded, sinking in the deeper water offshore, but most of the passenger section was on land, and already people were climbing out of the windows, helped by crew and by the rescuers from Le Havre. The control car had hit the sand just at the base of the hill. All the windows were broken out, but the car itself seemed intact, which should mean that Mitch and Jerry were all right….

  “My God,” Lewis said, and she clutched his hand. It was hard to believe, looking at the wreck, that anyone could have survived. But there were a dozen people on the sand beside the observation car, people she recognized, had spoken to; there was Celena Moore, being helped down by a pair of French army officers, and the Sparkling Starlet, to her credit, was holding someone else’s child. The older couple from the launch were standing arm in arm, staring up at the wreckage.

  And then she saw them, Mitch steadying Jerry on the yielding ground. They saw her, too, and Mitch lifted his free hand and waved. Alma felt tears sting her eyes as she hurried toward them and grabbed them both in a tight embrace.

  “Easy, Al,” Mitch said. “We’re Ok.”

  “Are you?” Alma let them go and leaned back to look at them. There was blood in Mitch’s hair, and they both looked wrung out. “You look terrible.”

  “We’re all right,” Jerry said. He looked back at the wreck. “The — thing?”

  “Got away from me,” Lewis said. “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” Alma said. “You did what mattered, kept him from doing anything more to the ship.”

  “We wouldn’t have gotten this far without you,” Mitch said.

  “Anyway, what we said before still holds,” Jerry said. “We can’t kill it — well, we could maybe kill Henry, but it would still jump.”

  “And that means Italy?” Mitch asked, with a groan. “Oh, my Christ, the tablet.”

  “Right here,” Jerry said, and tapped his jacket pocket. “I thought it was better not to let it out of my clutches.”

  “Genius,” Mitch said, and Jerry rolled his eyes.

  Alma took a breath, looked them all up and down. Bedraggled, yes, but a few minutes’ work in the train station’s restrooms would make them presentable. “Italy,” she said. “Do any of you have any money?”

  Mitch fumbled in his pocket, checked his wallet. “I’ve got the rest of what you gave me, Al. A little over a hundred, American.”

  “And I’ve got about fifty dollars,” Jerry said, “but no passport.” He gave Mitch a wry smile. “Not so much of a genius after all.”

  “I don’t have my passport either,” Alma said. “We’ll have to manage.”

  Lewis tucked his wallet back into his pocket. “Ten bucks. And a fifty-franc note I kept for luck.”

  “If we can get to Paris,” Jerry said, and frowned. “We do go through Paris, right? I know someone who can take care of our papers for us. And we can also pawn things there. We’ll need more than a hundred and sixty dollars to make this work.”

  Alma nodded. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Fortunately trains left Le Havre for Paris nearly every hour during the day. They made the first train of the morning with ten minutes to spare, Mitch buying tickets in rusty French, but with a charming smile that encouraged the girl at the ticket counter to see nothing else. They looked terrible, like bedraggled drifters, but there was nothing to be done about it. They could clean up in the washroom in the station a certain amount, but there was nothing to be done about the tear in Lewis' pants, or the blood on Mitch's shirt. Water would not entirely remedy that.

  There were no empty compartments, and so the four of them had to split up, Mitch politely begging the pardon of an old woman, a young woman and a little girl of three for intruding on their family outing. By Rouen they had ascertained that he had flown in the Great War, and he had ascertained that they were returning to Paris with grandmere so that she might stay some time and assist in the upcoming months until the accouchement. It was all quite friendly. Mitch hoped the other three had found compartments as agreeable. Lewis had looked pretty worn out.

  Mitch hurt. The adrenaline surge of action had worn off. He'd torn something loose and he knew it, shifting around uncomfortably in his seat. He excused himself to the ladies and went to the washroom. Not a surprise to see blood in his urine. Mitch grimaced and washed his hands carefully. It would pass. Hopefully it didn't mean anything important.

  When he came in the y
oung woman looked up keenly. "You are troubled, M. Sorley?"

  "Quite well," Mitch said, taking his seat again very gingerly. "A twinge, Madame."

  She had kind brown eyes beneath a pink cloche, and she reached under the seat to her bag, pulling out a bottle of Calvados. "It is for my husband, but he would not mind having a drink with you. He lost his right arm in the Marne, and I am certain you should drink together were you here."

  "I couldn't possibly," Mitch began, surprised at how well the pleasantries came back to him. If he just didn't move much….

  "We know pain," her mother said brusquely, taking the bottle and pouring a drink into a water glass. "Drink."

  "Thank you, Madame," Mitch said, and downed it in one gulp.

  After that the world was a kinder place. Indeed, by the time they pulled into Paris at Gare du Nord two and a half hours later, Mitch was feeling a vast sense of peace. Which probably had a lot to do with Calvados and no sleep and adrenaline let down, but he'd take it where he could.

  Mitch bid a warm goodbye to his compartment mates, and stood on the platform trying to get his bearings. He didn't think he'd been in this station before. He vaguely recollected that Paris had half a dozen, and this wasn't one he'd visited. People were getting off the train, the conductor politely assisting by opening compartment doors. This was the last stop for the train.

  A man hurried by, pulling his hat brim down, an abstracted look on his face, and Mitch felt his heart skip. It could be wearing him. It had to be wearing someone. On the unlikely chance that Henry had survived the crash, surely he would be at the center of a firestorm of questions and investigations. Most likely Henry was dead. Either way, it would have jumped. And it could be anyone.

  But there was no recognition in the man's face. His eyes slid past Mitch entirely and he vanished into the crowd.

  "It could be anyone," Alma said at his elbow and Mitch jumped a half mile. She gave him a wan smile.

  "How was your trip?" Mitch asked. Jerry was coming down the platform toward them, moving about as stiffly as Mitch thought he looked.

  "Well enough. And you?"

  "Fine," Mitch said.

  Jerry joined them, his face nearly gray. "Do you suppose there's any chance of breakfast? Or lunch? It's noon and I haven't eaten."

  "None of us have," Mitch said. "Let's find an exchange so I can change a ten and we'll get something to eat."

  Alma glanced down the platform. Porters had rushed out to carry bags and now the disappointed ones were approaching people who obviously didn't need them asking to carry bags. She gave one of them a fish eye and he backed off. "I think we probably got out of Le Havre ahead of it," she said.

  Jerry nodded, his voice low. "I didn't see anyone else at the station when we left who looked like they'd come straight from the crash site. Even the rescuers would be sandy or wet if nothing else."

  "Probably a rescuer, not a passenger," Alma said thoughtfully.

  Jerry nodded. "More resources. Most of the passengers won't have ready money or passports, and certainly aren't going to be able to leave for a while."

  Lewis had joined them, coming and standing behind Alma, not quite touching. The cut on his head had stopped bleeding and he'd washed, but with a day's growth of beard and the fresh cut he looked like a deadly ruffian, a man to be given a wide berth. "How many of the passengers do you think survived?"

  Alma saw Mitch's mouth tighten and gave him a quick glance. "More than would have without Mitch," she said. "There are a couple of dozen people alive in Le Havre this morning who would be dead now otherwise."

  Mitch felt his chest unclench and he nodded stiffly.

  "That's a win," Alma said gently, "And not a little one for them and everyone who loves them."

  "Yeah," Mitch said. He'd take it that way. There was no point in dwelling on Federman or Brooks or any of the others. No point in dwelling on Henry. He'd think instead of the others, the white jacketed waiter, his dark skinned face seamed with blood from a cut on his head, carrying an unconscious woman out of the observation car, the pretty starlet with someone's crying child in her arms. Waiter and starlet both had people at home, people who would not have telegrams and tears, and at last a memorial service beside an empty coffin for someone lost at sea. He'd call it a win.

  Jerry put his hand on his shoulder. "Let's go find some lunch," he said.

  The Café des Pyramides had not gone up in the world since the War. When Jerry was a student it had hardly been particularly salubrious, and now they blended in far too well with the midday clientele. That would have been more encouraging, Jerry thought, if he hadn’t overheard the waiters muttering to each other as he made his way back from the cabinets. They had decided, however, that if Lewis was a wanted man, it was better to keep serving him peacefully, and try to get the reward later, so Jerry thought they were safe for now. No need to mention that to the others, though.

  He settled himself back at the table — far enough in the shadowed back of the café that their presence wouldn’t discourage the other patrons, and added a tot of brandy to his coffee. Mitch was drinking his neat, and looked like he could use it.

  “Ok,” Lewis said, in a lowered voice that wasn’t going to convince anyone of his good intentions. “Now what?”

  “Money,” Jerry said, succinctly. And then clean clothes, a valise to make them respectable, and a plan. He wasn’t sure what he could do about the rest, but he was pretty sure he could get them cash. Lewis blinked, then unbuckled the strap of his wristwatch and slid it across the table.

  “Ah,” Mitch said, and did the same. He fumbled in his pockets, and came up with a silver penknife as well, slipped a gold signet ring from his finger.

  “If I had any sense, I’d wear earrings,” Alma said. She handed over her watch, and reached for the chain that held her wedding ring and the amulet.

  “Not the ring,” Lewis said, and Mitch nodded agreement.

  “The chain, then,” Alma said. “It’s gold.”

  Jerry hesitated, but they would need every franc he could raise. And, God willing, they would redeem it all in the end. Four watches, his watch fob and chain, Alma’s chain and the penknife…. It would have to do. He swept everything into his pocket, and pushed his chair back.

  Lewis looked at him. “You know a reliable pawn shop? I like that watch.”

  “This is Paris,” Jerry said. “We’re going to need a little help.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Alma said. She glanced at Lewis, who gave her the smallest of nods.

  “We’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Jerry said. “Stay here, and try not to get into any trouble.”

  Mitch gave him a tired grin. “Not much chance of that,” he said.

  The studio was only a Metro stop away, and a few blocks further down a narrow side street. Jerry hadn’t remembered the cobbles as being this uneven, but then, he hadn’t been back in Paris since he’d lost his leg. He hadn’t really thought about the three flights of stairs up to Paul’s garret, either, but he tipped his hat to acknowledge Mme. Flammand’s snarl of greeting, and started up the first flight. Alma followed, with a wary glance over her shoulder.

  “I hope her bark is worse than her bite.”

  “It never used to be.”

  Jerry was sweating by the time they reached the top floor, and his stump was starting to burn again. He rapped on the studio door with more force than he’d intended, and it was flung open in his face, a squat bear of a man scowling out at him.

  “I told you —” He stopped abruptly, the glare turning to a grin. “Jerry? I thought you were in America for good.”

  “So did I,” Jerry said, and they embraced.

  Nothing had changed, Jerry thought, except for the one thing that mattered. Paul Vallerand now wore a patch over his right eye, and tinted glasses over that. He touched his cheek below his own eye. “You never thought to mention this.”

  Vallerand shrugged. “What was there to say? The war was hell for everyone.”

 
; “Your work?”

  “I lose depth perception, I gain a new sense of composition,” Vallerand said, and the boundless enthusiasm was there, unchanged. “Wait till you see. Look, together you and I make one entire pirate.”

  Jerry laughed in spite of himself. “Paul, you’re mad.”

  “And this surprises you? But who is the lady?”

  Jerry made the introductions quickly, and Vallerand waved his hand toward the back of the studio. A lanky redhead was sitting on the edge of a worktable, smoking, and an exquisitely posed model stood on the dais, a length of fabric held to her chest, the rest falling away to leave her back completely nude.

  “You remember Robin Beriault,” Vallerand said, and the redhead lifted his cigarette in greeting. “Ok, kid, that’s it for today.”

  The model relaxed, wound the fabric deftly around herself — himself, Jerry realized — and slipped behind a screen. “It’s good to see you again, Robin,” he said.

  “But what brings you to Paris?” Vallerand asked. “And — forgive me for asking — in this kind of shape. You look dreadful.”

  “I need your help,” Jerry said frankly, and Vallerand waved him to a chair. He cleared another for Alma, and pulled over a carved chunk of wood that might have been intended for a footstool. The model emerged from behind the screen, a thin, ash-blond youth with an odd elegant face that went badly with his workman’s clothes.

  “Tomorrow?” he asked, and Vallerand nodded.

  “Same time.”

  “Ok,” the boy said, and let himself out.

  “So,” Vallerand said, as the door closed behind him. “Are you in trouble?”

  “Not yet,” Jerry said. “But I need money and papers for myself and Alma, and I was hoping you could help. We — were in a crash, and lost everything.”

  “Money,” Vallerand began, shaking his head, and Jerry shook his head.

  “Sorry, that was badly phrased. I need your help pawning some things.”

  “Oh, that I can do,” Vallerand said. “Auntie’s always happy to help. But papers —”