Night Over Water

by Ken Follett

“There’s a storm over the Atlantic,” he told her.

  “Does that mean we’ll have a rough ride?”

  “Yes. They’ll try to fly around the edge of it, but all the same it’s going to be bumpy.”

  It was hard to talk to her because the stewards were constantly passing along the aisle between them, carrying food to the dining room and returning with trays of dirty dishes. Harry was impressed that just two men were able to do the cooking and serving for so many diners.

  He picked up a copy of Life magazine that Margaret had discarded and began to leaf through it while he waited impatiently for the Oxenfords to go to dinner. He had not brought any books or magazines: he was not much of a reader. He liked to see what was in the newspaper, but for entertainment he preferred the radio and the cinema.

  At last the Oxenfords were called for dinner, and Harry was left alone with Clive Membury. The man had sat in the main lounge, playing cards, on the first leg of the trip, but now that the lounge had become the dining room he had settled in his seat. Perhaps he’ll go to the carsey, Harry thought; and perhaps I’d better remember to call it the john before I get caught out.

  He wondered again whether Membury was a policeman, and if so what he was doing on the Pan American Clipper. If he was following a suspect, the crime would have to be a major one, for the British police force to fork out for a Clipper ticket. But perhaps he was one of those people who save up for years and years to take some dream trip, a cruise down the Nile or a ride on the Orient Express. He might be an aircraft fanatic who just wanted to make the great transatlantic flight. If that’s true, I hope he’s enjoying it, Harry thought. Ninety quid is a hell of a lot of money for a copper.

  Patience was not Harry’s strong point, and when after half an hour Membury had not moved, he decided to take matters into his own hands. “Have you seen the flight deck, Mr. Membury?” he asked.

  “No—”

  “Apparently it’s really something. They say it’s as big as the entire interior of a Douglas DC-3, and that’s a pretty big airplane.”

  “Goodness.” Membury was only politely interested. He was not an aircraft enthusiast, then.

  “We ought to go look at it.” Harry stopped Nicky, who was going by with a tureen of turtle soup. “Can passengers visit the flight deck?”

  “Yes, sir, and welcome!”

  “Is now a good time?”

  “It’s a very good time, Mr. Vandenpost. We’re not landing or taking off, the crew aren’t changing watches, and the weather is calm. You couldn’t pick a better moment.”

  Harry had been hoping he would say that. He stood up and looked expectantly at Membury. “Shall we?”

  Membury looked as if he were about to refuse. He was not the type to be easily bullied. On the other hand, it might seem churlish to refuse to go and see the flight deck; and perhaps Membury would not want to seem disagreeable. After a moment’s hesitation, he got to his feet, saying: “By all means.”

  Harry led him forward, past the kitchen and the men’s room, and turned right, mounting the twisting staircase. At the top he emerged onto the flight deck. Membury was right behind him.

  Harry looked around. It was nothing like his picture of the cockpit of an airplane. Clean, quiet and comfortable, it looked more like an office in a modem building. Harry’s dinner companions, the navigator and the engineer, were not present, of course, as they were off duty; this was the alternative shift. However, the captain was here, sitting behind a small table at the rear of the cabin. He looked up, smiled pleasantly and said: “Good evening, gentlemen. Would you like to look around?”

  “Sure would,” said Harry. “But I gotta get my camera. Is it okay to take a picture?”

  “You bet.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  He hurried back down the stairs, pleased with himself but tense, too. He had got Membury out of the way for a while, but his search would have to be very quick.

  He returned to the compartment. One steward was in the galley and the other in the dining room. He would have liked to wait until both were busy serving at tables, so that he could feel confident they would not pass through the compartment for a few minutes; but he did not have time. He would just have to take a chance on being interrupted.

  He pulled Lady Oxenford’s bag out from under her seat. It was too big and heavy for a cabin bag, but she probably did not carry it herself. He put it on the seat and opened it. It was not locked: that was a bad sign—even she was not likely to be so innocent as to leave priceless jewelry in an unlocked case.

  All the same he rummaged through it quickly, watching out of the comer of his eye in case anyone should walk in. There was scent and makeup, a silver brush-and-comb set, a chestnut-colored dressing gown, a nightdress, dainty slippers, peach-colored silk underwear, stockings, a sponge bag containing a toothbrush and the usual toiletries, and a book of Blake’s poems—but no jewels.

  Harry cursed silently. He had felt this was the likeliest place the suite would be. Now he began to doubt his whole theory.

  The search had taken about twenty seconds.

  He closed the case quickly and put it back under the seat.

  He wondered whether she had asked her husband to carry the jewels.

  He looked at the bag under Lord Oxenford’s seat. The stewards were still busy. He decided to push his luck.

  He pulled out Oxenford’s bag. It was like a carpetbag, but leather. It was fastened with a zipper at the top, and the zipper had a little padlock. Harry carried a penknife with him for moments such as this. He used the knife to snap the padlock, then unzipped the bag.

  As he was rifling through the contents, the little steward, Davy, came through, carrying a tray of drinks from the galley. Harry looked up at him and smiled. Davy looked at the bag. Harry held his breath and kept his frozen smile. The steward passed on into the dining room. He had naturally assumed the bag was Harry’s own.

  Harry breathed again. He was a master at disarming suspicion, but every time he did it he was scared to death.

  Oxenford’s bag contained the masculine equivalent of what his wife was carrying: shaving tackle, hair oil, striped pajamas, flannel underwear and a biography of Napoleon. Harry zipped it up and replaced the padlock. Oxenford would find it broken and wonder how it had happened. If he was suspicious he would check to see whether anything was missing. Finding everything in place, he would imagine the lock had been faulty.

  Harry put the bag back in its place.

  He had got away with it, but he was no nearer the Delhi Suite.

  It was unlikely the children were carrying the jewels, but, recklessly, he decided to go through their luggage.

  If Lord Oxenford had decided to be sly and put his wife’s jewelry in his children’s luggage, he would be more likely to pick Percy, who would be thrilled by the conspiracy, than Margaret, who was disposed to defy her father.

  Harry picked up Percy’s canvas holdall and put it on the seat just where he had placed Oxenford’s bag, hoping that if Davy, the steward, passed through again, he would think it was the same bag.

  Percy’s things were so neatly packed that Harry was sure a servant had done it. No normal fifteen-year-old boy would fold his pajamas and wrap them in tissue paper. His sponge bag contained a new toothbrush and a fresh tube of toothpaste. There was a pocket chess set, a small bundle of comics and a packet of chocolate biscuits—put there, Harry imagined, by a fond cook or housemaid. Harry looked inside the chess set, riffled through the comics and broke open the biscuit packet, but he found no jewels.

  As he was replacing the bag, a passenger walked through on the way to the men’s room. Harry ignored him.

  He could not believe Lady Oxenford had left the Delhi Suite behind, in a country that might be invaded and conquered within a few weeks. But she was not wearing it or carrying it, as far as he could tell. If it was not in Margaret’s bag, it had to be in the checked baggage. That would be tough to get at. Could you get into the hold while the plane was i
n the air? The alternative might be to follow the Oxenfords to their hotel in New York....

  The captain and Clive Membury would be wondering how he could take so long to fetch his camera.

  He picked up Margaret’s bag. It looked like a birthday present: a small, round-cornered case made of soft cream leather with beautiful brass fittings. When he opened it he smelled her perfume, Tosca. He found a cotton nightdress with a pattern of small flowers, and tried to picture her in it. It was too girlish for her. Her underwear was plain white cotton. He wondered whether she was a virgin. There was a small framed photograph of a boy about twenty-one, a handsome fellow with longish dark hair and black eyebrows, wearing a college gown and a mortarboard hat: the boy who died in Spain, presumably. Had she slept with him? Harry rather thought she might have, despite her schoolgirl underpants. She was reading a novel by D. H. Lawrence. I bet her mother doesn’t know about that, Harry thought. There was a little stack of linen handkerchiefs embroidered “M.O.” They smelled of Tosca.

  The jewels were not here. Damn it to hell.

  Harry decided to take one of the scented handkerchiefs as a souvenir; and just as he picked it up, Davy passed through carrying a tray stacked high with soup bowls.

  He glanced at Harry and then stopped, frowning. Margaret’s bag looked quite different from Lord Oxenford’s, of course. It was plain that Harry could not be the owner of both bags; therefore he had to be looking in other people’s.

  Davy stared at him for a moment, obviously suspicious but also frightened of accusing a passenger. Eventually he stammered: “Sir, is that your case?”

  Harry showed him the little handkerchief. “Would I blow my nose in this?” He closed the case and replaced it.

  Davy still looked worried. Harry said: “She asked me to fetch it. The things we do ...”

  Davy’s expression changed and he looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, sir, but I hope you understand—”

  “I’m happy you’re on your toes,” Harry said. “Keep up the good work.” He patted Davy’s shoulder. Now he had to give the damn handkerchief to Margaret, in order to lend credence to his story. He stepped into the dining room.

  She was at a table with her parents and her brother. He held the handkerchief out to her, saying: “You dropped this.”

  She was surprised. “Did I? Thank you!”

  “You bet.” He got out fast. Would Davy check his story by asking her whether she had told Harry to fetch her a clean handkerchief? He doubted it.

  He went back through his compartment, passed the galley where Davy was stacking the dirty dishes, and climbed the spiral staircase. How the hell was he going to get into the baggage hold? He did not even know where it was: he had not watched the luggage being loaded. But there had to be a way.

  Captain Baker was explaining to Clive Membury how they navigated across the featureless ocean. “Most of the time we’re out of range of the radio beacons, so the stars provide our best guide—when we can see them.”

  Membury looked up at Harry. “No camera?” he said sharply.

  Definitely a copper, Harry thought. “I forgot to load it with film,” he said. “Dumb, huh?” He looked around. “How can you see the stars from in here?”

  “Oh, the navigator just steps outside for a moment,” the captain said, straight-faced. Then he grinned. “Just kidding. There’s an observatory. I’ll show you.” He opened a door at the rear end of the flight deck and stepped through. Harry followed and found himself in a narrow passage. The captain pointed up. “This is the observation dome.” Harry looked up without much interest: his mind was still on Lady Oxenford’s jewelry. There was a glazed bubble in the roof, and a folding ladder hung on a hook to one side. “He just climbs up there with his octant any time there’s a break in the cloud. This is also the baggage loading hatch.”

  Harry was suddenly attentive. “The baggage comes in through the roof?” he said.

  “Sure. Right here.”

  “And then where is it stowed?”

  The captain pointed to the two doors on either side of the narrow passage. “In the baggage holds.”

  Harry could hardly believe his luck. “So all the bags are right here, behind those doors?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harry tried one of the doors. It was not locked. He looked inside. There were the suitcases and trunks of the passengers, carefully stacked and roped to the struts so they would not move in flight.

  Somewhere in there was the Delhi Suite, and a life of luxury for Harry Marks.

  Clive Membury was looking over Harry’s shoulder. “Fascinating,” he murmured.

  “You can say that again,” said Harry.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Margaret was in high spirits. She kept forgetting that she did not want to go to America. She could hardly believe she had made friends with a real thief! Ordinarily, if someone had said to her, “I’m a thief,” she would not have believed him; but in Harry’s case she knew it was true because she had met him in a police station and seen him accused.

  She had always been fascinated by people who lived outside the ordered social world: criminals, bohemians, anarchists, prostitutes and tramps. They seemed so free. Of course, they might not be free to order champagne or fly to New York or send their children to a university—she was not so naïve as to overlook the restrictions of being an outcast. But people such as Harry never had to do anything just because they were ordered to, and that seemed wonderful to her. She dreamed of being a guerrilla fighter, living in the hills, wearing trousers and carrying a rifle, stealing food and sleeping under the stars and never having her clothes ironed.

  She never met people like that; or if she met them she did not recognize them for what they were—had she not sat on a doorstep in “the most notorious street in London” without realizing she would be taken for a prostitute? How long ago that seemed, although it was only last night.

  Getting to know Harry was the most interesting thing that had happened to her for ages. He represented everything she had ever longed for. He could do anything he liked! This morning he had decided to go to America, and this afternoon he was on his way. If he wanted to dance all night and sleep all day, he just did. He ate and drank what he liked, when he felt like it, at the Ritz or in a pub or on board the Pan American Clipper. He could join the Communist party and then leave it without explaining himself to anyone. When he needed money, he just took some from people who had more than they deserved. He was a complete free spirit!

  She longed to know more about him, and resented the time she had to waste having dinner without him.

  There were three tables of four in the dining room. Baron Gabon and Carl Hartmann were at the table next to that of the Oxenfords. Father had thrown a dirty look at them when they came in, presumably because they were Jewish. Sharing their table were Ollis Field and Frank Gordon. Frank Gordon was a boy a bit older than Harry, a handsome devil, though with something of a brutal look to his mouth; and Ollis Field was a washed-out-looking older man, completely bald. These two had attracted some comment by remaining on board the plane when everyone else had disembarked at Foynes.

  At the third table were Lulu Bell and Princess Lavinia, who was loudly complaining that there was too much salt in the sauce on the shrimp cocktail. With them were two people who had joined the plane at Foynes, Mr. Lovesey and Mrs. Lenehan. Percy said the new people were sharing the honeymoon suite although they were not married. Margaret was surprised that Pan American allowed that. Perhaps they were bending the rules because so many people were desperate to get to America.

  Percy sat down to dinner wearing a black Jewish skullcap. Margaret giggled. Where on earth had he got that? Father snatched it off his head, growling furiously: “Foolish boy!”

  Mother’s face had the glazed look it had shown ever since she stopped crying over Elizabeth. She said vaguely: “It seems awfully early to be dining.”

  “It’s half past seven,” Father said.

  “Why isn’t it getting da
rk?”

  Percy answered: “It is, back in England. But we’re three hundred miles off the Irish coast. We’re chasing the sun.”

  “But it will get dark eventually.”

  “About nine o’clock, I should think,” Percy said.

  “Good,” Mother said vaguely.

  “Do you realize that if we went fast enough, we would keep up with the sun and it would never get dark?” said Percy.

  Father said condescendingly: “I don’t think there’s any chance men will ever build planes that fast.”

  The steward Nicky brought their first course. “Not for me, thank you,” Percy said. “Shrimps aren’t kosher.”

  The steward shot him a startled look but said nothing. Father went red.

  Margaret hastily changed the subject. “When do we reach the next stop, Percy?” He always knew such things.

  “Journey time to Botwood is sixteen and a half hours,” he said. “We should arrive at nine a.m. British Summer Time.”

  “But what will the time be there?”

  “Newfoundland Standard Time is three and a half hours behind Greenwich Mean Time.”

  “Three and a half?” Margaret was surprised. “I didn’t know there were places that took odd half hours.”

  Percy went on. “And Botwood is on daylight saving, like Britain; so the local time when we land will be five thirty in the morning.”

  “I shan’t be able to wake up,” Mother said tiredly.

  “Yes, you will,” Percy said impatiently. “You’ll feel as if it’s nine o’clock.”

  Mother murmured: “Boys are so good at technical things.”

  She irritated Margaret when she pretended to be dumb. She believed it was not feminine to understand technicalities. “Men don’t like girls to be too clever, dear,” she had said to Margaret, more than once. Margaret no longer argued with her but she did not believe it. Only stupid men felt that way, in her opinion. Clever men liked clever girls.

  She became conscious of slightly raised voices at the next table. Baron Gabon and Carl Hartmann were arguing, while their dinner companions looked on in bemused silence. Margaret realized that Gabon and Hartmann had been deep in discussion every time she noticed them. Perhaps it was not surprising: if you were talking to one of the greatest brains in the world, you wouldn’t make small talk. She heard the word “Palestine.” They must be discussing Zionism. She shot a nervous glance at Father. He too had heard, and was looking bad-tempered. Before he could say anything, Margaret said: “We’re going to fly through a storm. It could get bumpy.”