Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (55 page)

Sometimes you had a passenger you wouldn’t mind seeing again. It was the ones you didn’t want to see again that asked you.

She did sleep after all. Maybe it was only five minutes, but she came out of a dream with a jolt. It hadn’t really been a dream, just an atmosphere, a very lovely ambience with the smell of flowers and the touch of a man’s hand on her face, stroking, stroking …

“Umm,” she mumbled, opening her eyes.

“Do you go to sleep too?”

It was the unaccompanied minor, Richard Comstock, tickling her face with a bit of cotton. In the orange flush of dawn high above the clouds his face looked serene and rested.

“Richard!” She glared at him resentfully.

“I thought you were supposed to guard the plane.”

“Go to hell,” she almost said, and looked at her watch. It was time to get going anyhow. “I don’t suppose it’s ever crossed your mind that we girls are human,” she snapped at him. “What are you doing back here, you little monster?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Ask one of the other girls.”

“You’re the top man,” he said. “I always deal only with the top man.”

“Ta da.”

He wheedled. “Gee, honest, I need my breakfast. Come on, okay? Give me something to eat.”

“Who do you think you are, the Duke of Windsor?”

“When is
breakfast
, that’s all I’m asking.”

“In half an hour. Does that answer your question?”

“You mean I hafta wait all that time?”

“So does everyone else.”

“You’re a big help,” he said.

“And you’re breaking my heart into little pieces. Go back to your Spanish friends.”

“They’re asleep. Snoring. She snores louder than he does.”

“I’m bleeding.”

He gave up at last and wandered back to his own territory, while Kelly got up stiffly. In no time at all she was swamped. Sure enough, someone had been sick in one of the johns, hadn’t done too good a job cleaning it up and she assigned one of the girls she’d known before, Lucille Kruz, to that unenviable task. It was something that simply couldn’t wait for the cleaning crew at the Madrid airport.

“Slobs,” Lucille muttered, gritting her teeth. “God damned tourists …”

There was a minor disaster in first class cabin. Richard had somehow gotten caught in Senora Nascimento’s beads; they broke and scattered far and wide. There was a great to-do with all present scrambling to retrieve the glossy globules. “It was only an accident,” the Senora said, scrambling along with the others. The Senor, in his croupy voice, counted the pearls as they were gathered together.
“Uno, dos, tres …”

“Nothing to worry,” he said triumphantly at long last. “All here, very good, very good.”

“Just cheap things,” the Senora assured her seat companions. “Silly cheap beads from America.”

“To tell you the truth,” Richard said to Kelly, “I can’t imagine how it happened. I think she broke them herself, the way she she was always yanking at them.” He shrugged. “Naturally I’m very sorry.” He looked a little worried. “You don’t think she’s clunked about it, do you?”

“Clunked? What do you read,
The Village Voice?
”

“Because,” he said, “I like them very much. Especially her.”

“There, she’s looking for you,” Kelly told him. “I guess she’s not clunked.”

“That helps,” he said. “It was a stupid thing to happen. I’m usually so well-behaved.”

He rejoined his friends. “Clumsy me,” Kelly heard him saying, and the Senora embraced him and kissed his cheek. She had put the pearls into one of her husband’s large linen handkerchiefs, secured the bound kerchief in a hank of her rose-colored wool and dropped the whole into her petit point knitting bag.

A short time before landing, Richard trudged back and announced that Senor and Senora Nascimento would not leave the airport until he was called for. “That’s fine,” Kelly said, making a mental note to confirm this with the Nascimentos. Otherwise she would feel bound, noblesse oblige, to see to it herself. A child traveling alone …

“Si,” the Senor and Senora assured her when she got round to discussing it. “Don’t worry about Ricardo.”

“You must tell us again your name,” the Senor said. “Mama, write it down.”

Mama fished and found a silver pen. She fished again and found some paper. “So.”

“It’s Jones. Kelly Jones. K-e-l-l-y.”

“What is this name?” the Senor asked, intrigued. “Kelly?”

“Whimsy on the part of my parents,” Kelly said. “I’m not even Irish. Kelly Jones, that’s right.”

“It was a great pleasure. A charming girl, yes, Mama?”

“Elegante. Dolce.”

“Good-bye, Richard.”

“Good-bye. I hope you have a great time.”

“And you too.”

When they put down and the plane emptied out Kelly saw them walking across the field, the three of them together, with Richard’s airline bag slung over his shoulder and the Senora’s knitting bag clutched in one hand. Not far behind them was Steve Connaught, striding along and looking exciting, the kind of man you’d be a little nervous introducing to your friends but wouldn’t care much, deep down, if they approved of him or not. A man who, just walking across the strip with those easy strides, looked different, unusual … and just a little bit dangerous.

The kind of man who, obviously, kept pretty much to himself. Oh well, I wouldn’t have gone out with him anyway, she told herself, and tried to convince herself that she meant it.

The per diem was 700 pesetas. Kelly was handed her information papers and the girls received the usual instructions. “Don’t drink the water in Spain.”

She was relaxed now, deliriously sleepy. “Oh, till about one, I guess,” she told Lucille Kruz, who wanted to know how long she was going to flake off in bed. “Can we meet in the lounge?”

“Sure. One on the dot. Let’s go back to Casa Bique. Last time I was here they had a stunning silver cigarette box. It cost an arm and a leg, but I should have bought it. If it’s still there I will.”

“As I remember, it had a stiff price tag. Just under a hundred, wasn’t it?”

“About that.”

“You’ll have a hard time writing it off for ten dollars at Customs.”

“I’ll manage it, never fear.”

The staff at the Hotel Fenix, like hotel staffs all over the world, were friendly and cooperative with airline crews. In exchange for a few civilities such as liquor for the manager and cigarettes for the clerks, they dispensed small courtesies and tips on new restaurants, what good films or shows were available, where the best buys were in the shops. There was small talk at the desk for a quarter of an hour and then the girls went up to their rooms.

Kelly, being a head stewardess, drew a single. It was early in the season, but Madrid was dry and hot. Fortunately, all first class Spanish hotels had air conditioning. Kelly undressed and crept into bed in the white-stippled room with the beautiful, dark, ornate furnishings. Spain had low rates and first-class accomodations. It was a beautiful, luxurious room.

Her alarm clock, set for twelve-thirty, ticked softly on the bedside table. It didn’t bother her; it was familiar and cozy. She was asleep almost immediately.

• • •

A scream sounded somewhere. Trouble. There was trouble. The engines didn’t sound right. There was that slight, almost imperceptible difference in the sound of the engines …

Someone was screaming.

We’re in trouble, Kelly thought, and gathered herself together. It was just that she was pinned down … under something heavy. But I have to get out of here. I’m in charge, she told herself. Norm?

She said it frantically. “Listen, Norm, you have to get me out of here …”

“Captain!”

She struggled.
Get me out of here …

She woke suddenly, breathing rapidly. The telephone was ringing, loud and clear.

It was only the telephone.

Dear God, I’m eating it and sleeping it and dreaming it, she thought, sliding out of bed. Job jitters had her down.

“Yes, hello,” she said, at the phone.
“Quien?”

The voice that answered was a man’s. It was croupy, quavering and familiar. “
Si
, it is Senor Nascimento,” the voice said. “This is the young lady from the plane? Senorita … Senorita Jones?”

“Yes.”

“I am so sorry,” he said. “Please forgive me.”

“Not at all.”

She turned and looked at her bedside clock. She’d slept for only half an hour. Half an hour, damn it. She could feel exhaustion in every muscle, every bone. What in the world did the man want? And how had he known where to reach her?

Frig it, she said silently and viciously. They didn’t even let you sleep when the flight was over.

“I am so sorry to disturb you,” the croupy voice apologized. He sounded agitated. “There have been difficulties. You understand … only that … because of these difficulties … how shall I say? Tsk tsk.” He clucked impatiently, suddenly faced with linguistic troubles out of sheer excitement.

“What difficulties?” She spoke slowly, as to a child. “What is wrong, sir?”

He cleared his throat and made an obvious effort to master his discomposure. “Yes, difficulties,” he echoed after her. “What difficulties? It is the boy, that Ricardo. He has disappeared.”

The fog abruptly left Kelly’s brain. “You mean he’s
lost?
”

“No, the bag is lost.”

“The … bag?”

“The bag of my wife. Where she has her
lana.
Her wool. The knitting, you understand.”

“But what about Richard?”

“With the bag,” he said simply. “Disappeared with the bag.”

“Disappeared where?”

“Ah, if I knew that, then there would be no difficulty.”

“But I don’t understand. Didn’t his people meet him?”

“So we were told,” the Senor said, his voice crouping up badly. “When we inquired, we were told that someone had come for him, that he was gone. It was at the
aduana.
We were delayed there.”

“You mean you got separated from Richard? But was he picked up all right? I mean, you don’t suppose he’s in any trouble, do you?”

“No, certainly not. Only we were separated and he is gone, like the wind, with the bag.”

“But it was only knitting, wasn’t it?” She tried to keep irritation out of her voice. They were old, they were good, they were kind. But did she have to lose precious sleep because of a few hanks of wool?

“Ah,” he laughed deprecatingly. “The pearls, you see. My wife’s pearls. They were in the bag.”

“Oh.” Oh, she thought, and remembered the size of the pearls, the length of the strand. So they were real after all. But she had been sure of that. Her trips to the Orient had acquainted her with the value of jewels, especially pearls, and she had sized up the strand Senora Nascimento wore around her neck.

She shifted, reevaluating the Nascimentos. The picture coalesced in her mind. Why, they had thought it out very carefully, those two. The Senora had bought fine pearls in New York, probably at Tiffany’s or Cartier’s, where there would be little likelihood of an informer … no real danger of a chit sent to Madrid. The Senora had worn the pearls and then at the last minute had gotten cold feet.

“I think she broke them herself,” Richard had said.

Undoubtedly she had. If caught, there would be only five percent on unstrung pearls … thirty-three percent if they were strung.

And then, to lessen the chances of being caught with the pearls, she had stuck them in her knitting bag, hidden in the hanks of wool, and had the child carry it for her. She probably would have gotten away with it.

Only Richard had absent-mindedly gone off with whoever called for him, with the bag still over his arm.

“Please?” the Senor said in her ear, very croupy indeed.

For a minute she was really disgusted. Then she remembered the things they all pulled. Lucille, with her costly silver cigarette box from the Casa Bique that she would manage to smuggle in. It wasn’t murder, after all. The Nascimentos were no worse than plenty of others … and apparently no better, either.

It was really more in the nature of a disappointment. Those proud El Greco faces.

“Yes, Senor. Let me think. There must be something we can do. Of course, don’t you imagine the boy will see to it that the bag is returned to you?”

“But how? Where would he look for us?”

“Certainly you’re in the telephone book.”

“Que?”

“In the — ”

“
Si, si
… yes, certainly. But he may forget. Young children do not understand about these matters.”

“I really don’t think he’ll forget. He seemed very fond of you and your wife. He’ll get in touch with you. You found me easily enough. How
did
you locate me?”

“Through the office of the airline. Yes, of course. But he is such a young boy … and he may lose … he may be careless.”

She resigned herself. The sooner she solved the Nascimento’s problems the sooner she could go back to sleep. “I’ll call the airport,” she said crisply. “If your bag has been turned in you can take it from there. If not, I’ll have them notify me if it’s turned in later today. I’ll get in touch with you one way or the other.”

“Ah, thank you, Senorita. You think it will be returned?”

“I’m almost sure it will.”

“
Gracias.
So much trouble,
si?
Oh, where you can reach us. Here is the number.”

She wrote down the number on Hotel Fenix stationery. “No trouble at all,” she said, cutting short his profuse thanks, and when she had hung up put through a telephone call to the airport. Waiting, she looked yearningly at the bed. And in the end the call was not fruitful. No petit point knitting bag “with roses and violets … about twelve by fourteen inches …” had been received by the claim office.

Would they let her know, please, if such a bag was in their possession within the next day or so? She was an employee of ITA and she was doing a service for one of the passengers on this morning’s flight from New York.

Yes, they would let her know.

She lit a cigarette impatiently. Why did this little problem have to land in
her
lap? Since she had suggested it, surely Senor Nascimento could have contacted the field. There was only one valid explanation, namely that the Spanish couple had pulled a swindle at Customs and didn’t wish to be involved as long as there was someone else to do their spade work for them.