by Ken Follett
With the other passengers, the Oxenfords retrieved their overnight bags and got off the train. While their checked baggage was being transferred from the train to the plane, they all went into Imperial House to complete the departure formalities.
Margaret felt dazed. The world around her was changing too rapidly. She had left her home, her country was at war, she had lost her sister, and she was about to fly to America. She wished she could stop the clock for a while and try to take it all in.
Father explained that Elizabeth would not be joining them, and a Pan American official said: “That’s all right—there’s someone waiting here hoping to buy an unused ticket. I’ll take care of it.”
Margaret noticed Professor Hartmann, standing in a corner, smoking a cigarette, looking around him with nervous, wary glances. He looked jumpy and impatient. People like my sister have made him like this, Margaret thought; Fascists have persecuted him and turned him into a nervous wreck. I don’t blame him for being in a hurry to get out of Europe.
They could not see the plane from the waiting room, so Percy went off to find a better vantage point. He came back full of information. “Takeoff will be on schedule at two o’clock,” he said. Margaret felt a shiver of apprehension. Percy went on: “It should take us an hour and a half to get to our first stop, which is Foynes. Ireland is on summer time, like Britain, so we should arrive there at half past three. We wait there an hour while they refuel and finalize the flight plan. So we take off again at half past four.”
Margaret noticed that there were new faces here, people who had not been on the train. Some passengers must have come directly to Southampton this morning, or perhaps stayed overnight at a local hotel. As she thought this, a strikingly beautiful woman arrived in a taxi. She was a blonde in her thirties, and she wore a stunning dress, cream silk with red dots. She was accompanied by a rather ordinary, smiling man in a cashmere blazer. Everyone stared at them: they looked so happy and attractive.
A few minutes later the plane was ready for boarding.
They went out through the front doors of Imperial House directly onto the quay. The Clipper was moored there, rising and falling gently on the water, the sun gleaming off its silver sides.
It was huge.
Margaret had never seen a plane even half this size. It was as high as a house and as long as two tennis courts. A big American flag was painted on its whalelike snout. The wings were high, level with the very top of the fuselage. Four enormous engines were built into the wings, and the propellers looked about fifteen feet across.
How could such a thing fly?
“Is it very light?” she wondered aloud.
Percy heard her. “Forty-one tons,” he said promptly.
It would be like taking to the air in a house.
They came to the edge of the quay. A gangplank led down to a floating dock. Mother trod gingerly, hanging on tight to the rail: she looked almost doddery, as if she had aged twenty years. Father had both their bags. Mother never carried anything—it was one of her foibles.
From the floating dock, a shorter gangplank took them onto what looked like a stubby secondary wing, half submerged in the water. “Hydrostabilizer,” Percy said knowledgeably. “Also known as a sea-wing. Prevents the plane from tipping sideways in the water.” The surface of the sea-wing was slightly curved, and Margaret felt as if she might slip, but she did not. Now she was in the shadow of the huge wing above her head. She would have liked to reach out and touch one of the vast propeller blades, but she would not have been able to reach it.
There was a doorway in the fuselage just under the word AMERICAN in PAN AMERICAN AIRWAYS SYSTEM. Margaret ducked her head and stepped through the door.
There were three steps down to the floor of the plane.
Margaret found herself in a room about twelve feet square with a luxurious terra-cotta carpet, beige walls and blue chairs with a gay pattern of stars on the upholstery. There were dome lights in the ceiling and large square windows with venetian blinds. The walls and ceiling were straight, instead of curving with the fuselage: it was more like entering a house than boarding a plane.
Two doorways led from this room. Some passengers were directed toward the rear of the plane. Looking that way, Margaret could see that there was a series of lounges, all luxuriously carpeted and decorated in soft tans and greens. But the Oxenfords were seated forward. A small, rather plump steward in a white jacket introduced himself as Nicky and showed them into the next compartment.
This was a little smaller than the other room, and was decorated in a different color scheme: turquoise carpet, pale green walls and beige upholstery. To Margaret’s right were two large three-seater divans, facing one another, with a small table between them under the window. To her left, on the other side of the aisle, was another pair of divans, these a little smaller, seating two.
Nicky directed them to the larger seats on the right. Father and Mother sat by the window, and Margaret and Percy sat next to the aisle, leaving two empty seats between them and four empty seats on the other side of the aisle. Margaret wondered who would be sitting with them. The beautiful woman in the dotted dress would be interesting. So would Lulu Bell, especially if she wanted to talk about Grandma Fishbein ! Best of all would be Carl Hartmann.
She could feel the plane moving up and down with the slight rise and fall of the water. The movement was not much: just enough to remind her that she was at sea. The plane was like a magic carpet, she decided. It was impossible to grasp how mere engines could make it fly: much easier to believe that it would be borne through the air by the power of an ancient enchantment.
Percy stood up. “I’m going to look around,” he said.
“Stay here,” Father said. “You’ll get in everyone’s way if you start running around.”
Percy sat down promptly. Father had not lost all his authority.
Mother powdered her nose. She had stopped crying. She was feeling better, Margaret decided.
She heard an American voice say: “I’d really rather sit facing forward.” She looked up. Nicky the steward was showing a man to a seat on the other side of the compartment. Margaret could not tell who it was—he had his back to her. He had blond hair and wore a blue suit.
The steward said: “That’s fine, Mr. Vandenpost—take the opposite seat.”
The man turned around. Margaret looked at him with curiosity, and their eyes met.
She was astonished to recognize him.
He was not American and his name was not Mr. Vandenpost.
His blue eyes flashed her a warning but he was too late.
“Good grief!” she blurted out. “It’s Harry Marks!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Moments such as this brought out the best in Harry Marks.
Jumping bail, traveling on a stolen passport, using a false name, and pretending to be American, he had the incredibly bad luck to run into a girl who knew he was a thief, had heard him speak in different accents, and loudly called him by his real name.
For an instant he was possessed by blind panic.
A horrid vision of all he was running from appeared before his eyes: a trial, prison and then the wretched life of a squaddie in the British army.
Then he remembered that he was lucky, and he smiled.
The girl looked totally bewildered. He waited for her name to come back to him.
Margaret. Lady Margaret Oxenford.
She stared at him in amazement, too surprised to say anything, while he waited for inspiration.
“Harry Vandenpost is the name,” he said. “But my memory is better than yours, I’ll bet. You’re Margaret Oxenford, aren’t you? How are you?”
“I’m fine,” she said dazedly. She was more confused than he. She would let him take charge of the situation.
He put out his hand as if to shake, and she extended her own; and in that moment inspiration came to him. Instead of shaking her hand, at the last moment he bent over it with an old-fashioned bow; and when his head was close to hers, he sa
id in a low voice: “Pretend you never saw me in a police station and I’ll do the same for you.”
He stood upright and looked into her eyes. They were an unusual shade of dark green, he noticed, quite beautiful.
For a moment she remained flustered. Then her face cleared, and she grinned broadly. She had caught on, and she was pleased and intrigued by the little conspiracy he was proposing. “Of course, how silly of me, Harry Vandenpost,” she said.
Harry relaxed gratefully. Luckiest man in the world, he thought.
With a mischievous little frown, Margaret added: “By the way—where did we meet?”
Harry fielded that one easily. “Was it at Pippa Matchingham’s ball?” “No—I didn’t go.”
Harry realized he knew very little about Margaret. Did she live in London right through the social season or hide away in the countryside? Did she hunt, shoot, support charities, campaign for women’s rights, paint watercolors or carry out agricultural experiments on her father’s farm? He decided to name one of the big events of the season. “I’m sure we met at Ascot, then.”
“Yes, of course we did,” she said.
He allowed himself a little smile of satisfaction. He had turned her into a coconspirator already.
She went on: “But I don’t think you’ve met my people. Mother, may I present Mr: Vandenpost, from....”
“Pennsylvania,” Harry said rashly. He regretted it immediately. Where the hell was Pennsylvania? He had no idea.
“My mother, Lady Oxenford. My father, the marquis. And this is my brother, Lord Isley.”
Harry had heard of them all, of course: they were a famous family. He shook hands all round with a hearty, overfriendly manner that the Oxenfords would think typically American.
Lord Oxenford looked like what he was: an overfed bad-tempered old Fascist. He wore a brown tweed suit with a waistcoat that was about to pop its buttons, and he had not taken off his brown trilby hat.
Harry spoke to Lady Oxenford. “I’m thrilled to meet you, ma’am. I’m interested in antique jewelry, and I’ve heard you have one of the finest collections in the world.”
“Why, thank you,” she said. “It is a particular interest of mine.”
He was shocked to hear her American accent. What he knew about her came from his careful reading of society magazines. He had thought she was British. But now he vaguely remembered some gossip about the Oxenfords. The marquis, like many aristocrats with vast country estates, had almost gone bankrupt after the war because of the world slump in agricultural prices. Some had sold their estates and gone to live in Nice or Florence, where their dwindling fortunes bought a higher standard of living. But Algernon Oxenford had married the heiress to an American bank, and it was her money that had enabled him to continue to live in the style of his ancestors.
All of which simply meant that Harry’s act was going to have to fool a genuine American. It had to be faultless, and he would have to keep it up for the next thirty hours.
He decided to be charming to her. He guessed she was not averse to compliments, especially from good-looking young men. He looked closely at the brooch pinned to the bosom of her burned orange traveling suit. It was made of emeralds, sapphires, rubies and diamonds in the form of a butterfly landing on a wild rose spray. It was extraordinarily realistic. He decided it was French from about 1880 and took a guess as to the maker. “Is your brooch by Oscar Massin?”
“You’re quite right.”
“It’s very fine.”
“Thank you again.”
She was rather beautiful. He could understand why Oxenford had married her, but it was harder to see why she had fallen for him. Perhaps he had been more attractive twenty years ago.
“I think I know the Philadelphia Vandenposts,” she said.
Harry thought: Blimey, I hope not. However, she sounded rather vague.
“My family are the Glencarries of Stamford, Connecticut,” she added.
“Indeed!” said Harry, pretending to be impressed. He was still thinking about Philadelphia. Had he said he came from Philadelphia, or Pennsylvania? He could not remember. Maybe they were the same place. They seemed to go together. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Stamford, Connecticut. He remembered that when you asked Americans where they came from they always gave two answers. Houston, Texas. San Francisco, California. Yeah.
The boy said: “My name’s Percy.”
“Harry,” said Harry, glad to be back on familiar ground. Percy’s title was Lord Isley. It was a courtesy title, for the heir to use until his father died, whereupon he would become the Marquis of Oxenford. Most of these people were ludicrously proud of their stupid titles. Harry had once been introduced to a snot-nosed three-year-old named Baron Port-rail. However, Percy seemed all right. He was courteously letting Harry know that he did not want to be addressed formally.
Harry sat down. He was facing forward, so Margaret was next to him across the narrow aisle, and he would be able to talk to her without the others hearing. The plane was as quiet as a church. Everyone was rather awestruck.
He tried to relax. It was going to be a tense trip. Margaret knew his true identity, and that created a big new risk. Even though she had accepted his subterfuge, she could change her mind, or let something slip by accident. Harry could not afford to arouse misgivings. He could get through U.S. Immigration if no searching questions were asked, but if something happened to make them suspicious, and they decided to check up on him, they would quickly find out that he was using a stolen passport, and it would be all over.
Another passenger was brought to the seat opposite Harry. He was quite tall, with a bowler hat and a dark gray suit that had once been all right but was now past its best. Something about him struck Harry, who watched the man taking off his overcoat and settling in his seat. He had on stout well-worn black shoes, heavyweight wool socks and a wine-colored waistcoat under his double-breasted jacket. His dark blue tie looked as if it had been tied in the same place every day for ten years.
If I didn’t know the price of a ticket on this flying palace, Harry thought, I’d swear blind that man was a copper.
It was not too late to stand up and get off the plane.
No one would stop him. He could simply walk away and disappear.
But he had paid ninety pounds!
Besides, it might be weeks before he could get another transatlantic passage, and while he was waiting he might be rearrested.
He thought again about going on the run in England; and once again dismissed the idea. It would be difficult in wartime, with every busybody on the lookout for foreign spies; but more important, life as a fugitive would be unbearable—living in cheap boardinghouses, avoiding policemen, always on the move.
The man opposite him, if he were a policeman, was certainly not after Harry, of course; otherwise he would not be sitting down and making himself comfortable for the flight. Harry could not imagine what the man was doing; but for the moment he put it out of his mind and concentrated on his own predicament. Margaret was the danger factor. What could he do to protect himself?
She had entered into his deception in a spirit of fun. As things stood he could not rely on her to keep it up. But he could improve his chances by getting close to her. If he could win her affection she might begin to feel a sense of loyalty to him; and then she would take his charade more seriously, and be careful not to betray him.
Getting to know Margaret Oxenford would not be an unpleasant duty. He studied her out of the corner of his eye. She had the same pale autumnal coloring as her mother: red hair, creamy skin with a few freckles, and those fascinating dark green eyes. He could not tell what her figure was like, but she had slender calves and narrow feet. She wore a rather plain camel-colored lightweight coat over a red-brown dress. Although her clothes looked expensive, she did not have her mother’s sense of style: that might come as she grew older and more confident. She wore no interesting jewelry: just a plain single strand of pearls around her neck. She had neat, regular features a
nd a determined chin. She was not his usual type—he always picked girls with a weakness, because they were so much easier to romance. Margaret was too good-looking to be a pushover. However, she seemed to like him, and that was a start. He made up his mind to win her heart.
The steward, Nicky, came into the compartment. He was a small, plump, effeminate man in his middle twenties, and Harry thought he was probably a queer. A lot of waiters were like that, he had noticed. Nicky handed out a typewritten sheet with the names of the passengers and crew on today’s flight.
Harry studied it with interest. He knew of Baron Philippe Gabon, the wealthy Zionist. The next name, Professor Carl Hartmann, also rang a bell. He had not heard of Princess Lavinia Bazarov, but her name suggested a Russian who had fled from the Communists, and her presence on this plane presumably meant she had got at least part of her wealth out of the country. He had most certainly heard of Lulu Bell, the film star. Only a week ago he had taken Rebecca Maugham-Flint to see her in A Spy in Paris at the Gaumont in Shaftesbury Avenue. She had played a plucky girl, as usual. Harry was very curious to meet her.
Percy, who sat facing the rear and could see into the next compartment, said: “They’ve closed the door.”
Harry began to feel nervous again.
For the first time he noticed that the plane was rising and falling gently on the water.
There was a rumble, like the gunfire of a distant battle. Harry anxiously looked out of the window. As he watched, the noise increased, and a propeller began to turn. The engines were being started. He heard the third and the fourth give voice. Although the noise was muffled by heavy soundproofing, the vibration of the mighty motors could be felt, and Harry’s apprehension increased.
On the floating dock a seaman cast off the flying boat’s moorings. Harry had a foolish feeling of inevitable doom as the ropes tying him to the land were carelessly dropped into the sea.
He was embarrassed about being afraid, and did not want anyone else to know how he felt, so he took out a newspaper, opened it and sat back with his legs crossed.
