by Ken Follett
“That’s right, the Clipper,” said Tilly. “Danny Riley says Peter’s coming back on the Clipper and he’ll be here in time for the board meeting.”
Nancy was finding it hard to take in the shameless way her brother had lied to her. He had traveled all the way to Liverpool with her, to make her think he was taking the ship. He must have left again the moment they parted company in the hotel corridor, and driven overnight to Southampton in time for the plane. How could he have spent all that time with her, talking and eating together, discussing the forthcoming voyage, when all along he was scheming to do her in?
Aunt Tilly said: “Why don’t you come on the Clipper, too?”
Was it too late? Peter must have planned this carefully. He would have known she would make some inquiries when she discovered he was not going on the ship, and he would try to make sure that she was not able to catch up with him. But timing was not Peter’s strength, and he might have left a gap.
She hardly dared to hope.
“I’m going to try,” Nancy said with sudden determination. “Goodbye.” She hung up.
She thought for a moment. Peter had left yesterday evening and must have traveled overnight. The Clipper must be scheduled to leave Southampton today and arrive in New York tomorrow, in time for Peter to get to Boston for the meeting on Friday. But what time did the Clipper take off? And could Nancy get to Southampton by then?
With her heart in her mouth, she went to the desk and asked the head porter what time the Pan American Clipper took off from Southampton.
“You’ve missed it, madam,” he said.
“Just check the time, please,” she said, trying to keep the note of impatience out of her voice.
He took out a timetable and opened it. “Two o’clock.”
She checked her watch: it was just noon.
The porter said: “You couldn’t get to Southampton in time even if you had a private airplane standing by.”
“Are there any airplanes?” she persisted.
His face took on the tolerant expression of a hotel employee humoring a foolish foreigner. “There’s an airfield about ten miles from here. Generally you can find a pilot to take you anywhere, for a price. But you’ve got to get to the field, find the pilot, make the journey, land somewhere near Southampton, then get from that airfield to the docks. It can’t be done in two hours, believe me.”
She turned away from him in frustration.
Getting mad was no use in business, she had learned long ago. When things went wrong you had to find a way to put them right. I can’t get to Boston in time, she thought; so maybe I can stop the sale by remote control.
She returned to the phone booth. It was just after seven o’clock in Boston. Her lawyer, Patrick “Mac” MacBride, would be at home. She gave the operator his number.
Mac was the man her brother should have been. When Sean died, Mac had stepped in and taken care of everything: the inquest, the funeral, the will, and Nancy’s personal finances. He had been marvelous with the boys, taking them to ball games, turning up to see them in school plays, and advising them on college and careers. At different times he had talked to each of them about the facts of life. When Pa died, Mac counseled Nancy against letting Peter become chairman: she went against his advice, and now events had proved that Mac had been right. She knew that he was more or less in love with her. It was not a dangerous attachment: Mac was a devout Catholic and faithful to his plain, dumpy, loyal wife. Nancy was very fond of him, but he was not the kind of man she could ever fall in love with: he was a soft, round, mild-mannered type with a bald dome, and she was always attracted to strong-willed types with a lot of hair—men such as Nat Ridgeway.
While she waited for the connection, she had time to reflect on the irony of her situation. Peter’s coconspirator against her was Nat Ridgeway, her father’s onetime deputy and her old flame. Nat had left the company—and Nancy—because he could not be boss; and now, from his position as president of General Textiles, he was trying again to take control of Black’s Boots.
She knew Nat had been in Paris for the collections, although she had not run into him. But Peter must have held meetings with him and closed the deal there, while pretending to be innocently buying shoes. Nancy had not suspected anything. When she thought how easily she had been deceived, she felt furious with Peter and Nat—and most of all with herself.
The phone in the booth rang and she picked it up: she was lucky with connections today.
Mac answered with his mouth full of breakfast. “Hmm?”
“Mac, it’s Nancy.”
He swallowed rapidly. “Thank God you called. I’ve been searching Europe for you. Peter is trying to—”
“I know, I just heard,” she interrupted. “What are the terms of the deal?”
“One share in General Textiles, plus twenty-seven cents cash, for five shares in Black’s.”
“Jesus, that’s a giveaway!”
“On your profits it’s not so low—”
“But our asset value is much higher!”
“Hey, I’m not fighting you,” he said mildly.
“Sorry, Mac, I’m just angry.”
“I understand.”
She could hear his children squabbling in the background. He had five, all girls. She could also hear a radio playing and a kettle whistling.
After a moment he went on: “I agree that the offer is too low. It reflects the current profit level, yes, but it ignores asset value and future potential.”
“You can say that again.”
“There’s something else, too.”
“Tell me.”
“Peter will be retained to run the Black’s operation for five years following the takeover. But there’s no job for you.”
Nancy closed her eyes. This was the cruelest blow of all. She felt sick. Lazy, dumb Peter, whom she had sheltered and covered for, would remain; and she, who had kept the business afloat, would be thrown out. “How could he do this to me?” she said. “He’s my brother!”
“I’m really sorry, Nan.”
“Thanks.”
“I never trusted Peter.”
“My father spent his life building up this business,” she cried. “Peter can’t be allowed to destroy it.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Can we stop it?”
“If you could get here for the board meeting I believe you could persuade your aunt and Danny Riley to turn it down—”
“I can’t get there—that’s my problem. Can’t you persuade them?”
“I might, but it would do no good—Peter outvotes them. They only have ten percent each and he has forty.”
“Can’t you vote my stock on my behalf?”
“I don’t have your proxy.”
“Can I vote by phone?”
“Interesting idea ... I think it would be up to the board, and Peter would use his majority to rule it out.”
There was a silence while they both racked their brains.
In the pause she remembered her manners, and said: “How’s the family?”
“Unwashed, undressed and unruly, right now. And Betty’s pregnant.”
For a moment she forgot her troubles. “No kidding!” She had thought they had stopped having children: the youngest was now five. “After all this time!”
“I thought I’d found out what was causing it.”
Nancy laughed. “Hey, congratulations!”
“Thanks, although Betty’s a little ... ambivalent about it.”
“Why? She’s younger than I am.”
“But six is a lot of kids.”
“You can afford it.”
“Yes.... Are you sure you can’t make that plane?”
Nancy sighed. “I’m in Liverpool. Southampton is two hundred miles away and the plane takes off in less than two hours. It’s impossible.”
“Liverpool? That’s not far from Ireland.”
“Spare me the travelogue—”
“But the Clipper touches d
own in Ireland.”
Nancy’s heart skipped a beat. “Are you sure?”
“I read it in the newspaper.”
This changed everything, she realized with a surge of hope. She might be able to make the plane after all! “Where does it come down—Dublin?”
“No, someplace on the west coast. I forget the name. But you might still make it.”
“I’ll check into it and call you later. ’Bye.”
“Hey, Nancy?”
“What?”
“Happy birthday.”
She smiled at the wall. “Mac ... you’re great.”
“Good luck.”
“Goodbye.” She hung up and went back to the desk. The head porter gave her a condescending smile. She resisted the temptation to put him in his place: that would make him even more unhelpful. “I believe the Clipper touches down in Ireland,” she said, forcing herself to sound friendly.
“That’s correct, madam. At Foynes, in the Shannon estuary.”
She wanted to say So why didn’t you tell me that before, you pompous little prick? Instead she smiled and said: “What time?”
He reached for his timetable. “It’s scheduled to land at three thirty and take off again at four thirty.”
“Can I get there by then?”
His tolerant smile vanished and he looked at her with more respect. “I never thought of that,” he said. “It’s a two-hour flight in a small airplane. If you can find a pilot you can do it.”
Her tension went up a notch. This was beginning to look seriously possible. “Get me a taxi to take me to that airfield right away, would you?”
He snapped his fingers at a bellhop. “Taxi for the lady!” He turned back to Nancy. “What about your trunks?” They were now stacked in the lobby. “You won’t get that lot in a small plane.”
“Send them to the ship, please.”
“Very good.”
“Bring my bill as quick as you can.”
“Right away.”
Nancy retrieved her small overnight case from the stack of luggage. In it she had her essential toiletries, makeup and a change of underwear. She opened a suitcase and found a clean blouse for tomorrow morning, in plain navy blue silk, and a nightdress and bathrobe. Over her arm she carried a light gray cashmere coat, which she had intended to wear on deck if the wind was cold. She decided to keep it with her now: she might need it to keep warm in the plane.
She closed up her bags.
“Your bill, Mrs. Lenehan.”
She scribbled a check and handed it over with a tip.
“Very kind of you, Mrs. Lenehan. The taxi is waiting.”
She hurried outside and climbed into a cramped little British car. The porter put her overnight case on the seat beside her and gave instructions to the driver. Nancy added: “And go as fast as you can!”
The car went infuriatingly slowly through the city center. She tapped the toe of her gray suede shoe impatiently. The delay was caused by men painting white lines down the middle of the road, on the curbs and around roadside trees. She wondered irritably what their purpose was; then she figured out the lines were to help motorists in the blackout.
The taxi picked up speed as it wound through the suburbs and headed into the country. Here she saw no preparations for war. The Germans would not bomb fields, unless by accident. She kept looking at her watch. It was already twelve thirty. If she found an airplane, and a pilot, and persuaded him to take her, and negotiated a fee, all without delay, she might take off by one o’clock. Two hours’ flight, the porter had said. She would land at three. Then, of course, she would have to find her way from the airfield to Foynes. But that should not be too great a distance. She might well arrive with time to spare. Would there be a car to take her to the dockside? She tried to calm herself. There was no point in worrying that far ahead.
It occurred to her that the Clipper might be full: all the ships were.
She put the thought out of her mind.
She was about to ask her driver how much farther they had to go when, to her grateful relief, he abruptly turned off the road and steered through an open gate into a field. As the car bumped over the grass Nancy saw ahead of her a small hangar. All around it, small brightly colored planes were tethered to the green turf, like a collection of butterflies on a velvet cloth. There was no shortage of aircraft, she noted with satisfaction. But she needed a pilot too, and there seemed to be no one about.
The driver took her up to the big door of the hangar.
“Wait for me, please,” she said as she jumped out. She did not want to get stranded.
She hurried into the hangar. There were three planes inside but no people. She went out into the sunshine again. Surely the place could not be unattended, she thought anxiously. There had to be someone around; otherwise the door would be locked. She walked around the hangar to the back, and there at last she saw three men standing by a plane.
The aircraft itself was ravishing. It was painted canary yellow all over, with little yellow wheels that made Nancy think of toy cars. It was a biplane, its upper and lower wings joined by wires and struts, and it had a single engine in the nose. It sat there with its propeller in the air and its tail on the ground like a puppy begging to be taken for a walk.
It was being fueled. A man in oily blue overalls and a cloth cap was standing on a stepladder pouring petrol from a can into a bulge on the wing over the front seat. On the ground was a tall, good-looking man of about Nancy’s age wearing a flying helmet and a leather jacket. He was deep in conversation with a man in a tweed suit.
Nancy coughed and said: “Excuse me.”
The two men glanced at her but the tall man continued speaking and they both looked away.
That was not a good start.
Nancy said: “I’m sorry to bother you. I want to charter a plane.”
The tall man interrupted his conversation to say: “Can’t help you.”
“It’s an emergency,” Nancy said.
“I’m not a bloody taxi driver,” the man said, and turned away again.
Nancy was angered sufficiently to say: “Why do you have to be so rude?”
That got his attention. He turned an interested, quizzical look at her, and she noticed that he had arched black eyebrows. “I didn’t intend to be rude,” he said mildly. “But my plane isn’t for hire, nor am I.”
Desperately, she said: “Please don’t be offended, but if it’s a matter of money, I’ll pay a high price—”
He was offended: his expression froze and he turned away.
Nancy observed that there was a chalk-striped dark gray suit under the leather jacket, and the man’s black Oxford shoes were the genuine article, not inexpensive imitations such as Nancy made. He was obviously a wealthy businessman who flew his own plane for pleasure.
“Is there anybody else, then?” she said.
The mechanic looked up from the fuel tank and shook his head. “Nobody about today,” he said.
The tall man said to his companion: “I’m not in business to lose money. You tell Seward that what he’s getting paid is the rate for the job.”
“The trouble is, he has got a point, you know,” said the one in the tweed suit.
“I know that. Say we’ll negotiate a higher rate for the next job.”
“That may not satisfy him.”
“In that case he can get his cards and bugger off.”
Nancy wanted to scream with frustration. Here was a perfectly good plane and a pilot, and nothing she said would make them take her where she needed to go. Close to tears, she said: “I just have to get to Foynes!”
The tall man turned around again. “Did you say Foynes?”
“Yes—”
“Why?”
At least she had succeeded in engaging him in conversation. “I’m trying to catch up with the Pan American Clipper.”
“That’s funny,” he said. “So am I.”
Her hopes lifted again. “Oh, my God,” she said. “You’re going to Foyn
es?”
“Aye.” He looked grim. “I’m chasing my wife.”
It was an odd thing to say, she noticed, even though she was so wrought up: a man who would confess to that was either very weak or very self-assured. She looked at his plane. There appeared to be two cockpits, one behind the other. “Are there two seats in your plane?” she asked with trepidation.
He looked her up and down. “Aye,” he said. “Two seats.”
“Please take me with you.”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “Why not?”
She wanted to faint with relief. “Oh, thank God,” she said. “I’m so grateful.”
“Don’t mention it.” He stuck out a big hand. “Mervyn Lovesey. How do you do?”
She shook hands. “Nancy Lenehan,” she replied. “Am I pleased to meet you.”
Eddie eventually realized he needed to talk to someone.
It would have to be someone he could trust absolutely; someone who would keep the whole thing secret.
The only person he discussed this kind of thing with was Carol-Ann, She was his confidante. He would not even have discussed it with Pop when Pop was alive: he never liked to show weakness to his father. Was there anyone he could trust?
He considered Captain Baker. Marvin Baker was just the kind of pilot that passengers liked: good-looking, square-jawed, confident and assertive. Eddie respected him and liked him, too. But Baker’s loyalty was to the plane and the safety of the passengers, and he was a stickler for the rules. He would insist on going straight to the police with this story. He was no use.
Anyone else?
Yes. There was Steve Appleby.
Steve was a Lumberjack’s son from Oregon, a tall boy with muscles as hard as wood, a Catholic from a dirt-poor family. They had been midshipmen together at Annapolis. They had become friends on their first day, in the vast white mess hall. While the other plebes were bitching about the chow, Eddie cleaned his plate. Looking up, he saw that there was one other cadet poor enough to think this was great food: Steve. Their eyes had met and they understood one another perfectly.
They had been pals through the academy; then later they were both stationed at Pearl Harbor. When Steve married Nella, Eddie was best man; and last year Steve did the same service for Eddie. Steve was still in the navy, stationed at the shipyard in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. They saw each other infrequently now, but it did not matter, for theirs was a friendship that would survive long periods with no contact. They would not write letters unless they had something specific to say. When they both happened to be in New York, they would have dinner or go to a ball game and would be as close as if they had parted company only the day before. Eddie would have trusted Steve with his soul.
