That’s exactly what I would care for, Harry thought. “Double whiskey,” he said immediately. Then he remembered he was supposed to be American. “With lots of ice,” he added in the correct accent.
Nicky took orders from the Oxenfords and then disappeared through the forward doorway.
Harry drummed his fingers restlessly on the arm of the seat. The carpet, the soundproofing, the soft seats and the soothing colors made him feel as if he were in a padded cell, comfortable but trapped. After a moment he unbuckled his safety belt and got up.
He went forward, the way the steward had gone, and stepped through the doorway. On his left was the galley, a tiny kitchen gleaming with stainless steel, where the steward was making the drinks. On his right was a door marked MEN’S RETIRING ROOM, which he assumed was the carsey. I must remember to call it the john, he thought. Next to the john was a staircase spiraling up, presumably to the flight deck. Beyond that was another passenger compartment, decorated in different colors, and occupied by uniformed flight crew. For a moment Harry wondered what they were doing there; then he realized that on a flight lasting almost thirty hours, crew members would have to take rests and be replaced.
He walked back along the plane, passing the galley and going through his compartment and the larger compartment by which they had boarded. Beyond that, toward the rear of the plane, were three more passenger compartments, decorated in alternating color schemes, turquoise carpet with pale green walls or rust carpet with beige walls. There were steps up between the compartments, for the hull of the plane was curved, and the floor rose toward the rear. As he passed through, he gave several friendly nods in the vague direction of the other passengers, as a wealthy and self-confident young American might do.
The fourth compartment had two small couches on one side, and on the other the ladies’ powder room—another fancy name for a carsey, no doubt. Beside the door to the ladies’ room, a ladder on the wall led up to a trapdoor in the ceiling. The aisle, which ran the length of the plane, ended at a door. This must be the famous honeymoon suite that had caused so much press comment. Harry tried the door: it was locked.
Strolling back the length of the plane, he took another look at his fellow passengers.
He guessed that the man in smart French clothes was Baron Gabon. With him was a nervous fellow with no socks on. That was very peculiar. Perhaps he was Professor Hartmann. He wore a really terrible suit and looked half starved.
Harry recognized Lulu Bell but was shocked to find that she looked about forty: he had imagined she was the age she appeared in her films, which was about nineteen. She was wearing a lot of good-quality modern jewelry: rectangular earrings, big bracelets and a rock-crystal brooch, probably by Boucheron.
He saw again the beautiful blonde he had noticed in the coffee lounge of the South-Westem Hotel. She had taken off her straw hat. She had blue eyes and clear skin. She was laughing at something her companion was saying. She was obviously in love with him, even though he was not strikingly good-looking. But women like a man who makes them laugh, Harry thought.
The old duck with the Fabergé pendant in rose diamonds was presumably the Princess Lavinia. She wore a frozen expression of distaste, like a duchess in a pigsty.
The larger compartment through which they had boarded had been empty during takeoff, but now, Harry observed, it was in use as a communal lounge. Four or five people had moved into it, including the tall man who had been seated opposite Harry. Some of the men were playing cards, and it crossed Harry’s mind that a professional gambler might make a lot of money on a trip such as this.
He returned to his seat and the steward brought him his scotch. “The plane seems half empty,” Harry said.
Nicky shook his head. “We’re full up.”
Harry looked around. “But there are four spare seats in this compartment, and all the others are the same.”
“Sure, this compartment seats ten on a daytime flight. But it only sleeps six. You’ll see why when we make up the bunks, after dinner. Meanwhile, enjoy the space.”
Harry sipped his drink. The steward was perfectly polite and efficient, but not as obsequious as, say, a waiter in a London hotel. Harry wondered whether American waiters had a different attitude. He hoped so. On his expeditions into the strange world of London’s high society, he had always found it a bit degrading to be bowed and scraped to and called “sir” every time he turned around.
It was time to further his friendship with Margaret Oxenford, who was sipping a glass of champagne and leafing through a magazine. He had flirted with dozens of girls of her age and social station, and he went into his routine automatically. “Do you live in London?”
“We’ve got a house in Eaton Square, but we spend most of our time in the country,” she said. “Our place is in Berkshire. Father also has a shooting lodge in Scotland.” Her tone was rather too matter-of-fact, as if she found the question boring and wanted to dispose of it as quickly as possible.
“Do you hunt?” Harry said. This was a standard conversational ploy: most rich people did, and they loved to talk about it.
“Not much,” she said. “We shoot more.”
“Do
you
shoot?” he said in surprise: it was not considered a ladylike pursuit.
“When they let me.”
“I suppose you have lots of admirers.”
She turned to face him and lowered her voice. “Why are you asking me all these stupid questions?”
Harry was floored. He hardly knew what to say. He had asked dozens of girls the same questions and none of them had reacted this way. “Are they stupid?” he said.
“You don’t care where I live or whether I hunt.”
“But that’s what people talk about in high society.”
“But you’re not in high society,” she said bluntly.
“Stone the crows!” he said in his natural accent. “You don’t beat about the bush, do you!”
She laughed, then said: “That’s better.”
“I can’t keep changing my accent. I’ll get confused.”
“All right. I’ll put up with your American accent if you promise not to make silly small talk.”
“Thanks, honey,” he said, reverting to the role of Harry Vandenpost. She’s no pushover, he was thinking. She was a girl who knew her own mind, all right. But that made her a lot more interesting.
“You’re very good at it,” she was saying. “I would never have guessed you were faking it. I suppose it’s part of your modus operandi.”
It always baffled him when they spoke Latin. “I guess it is,” he said without having the faintest idea what she meant. He would have to change the subject. He wondered what was the way to her heart. It was clear that he could not flirt with her as he had with all the others. Perhaps she was the psychic type, interested in seances and necromancy. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he said.
That drew another sharp response. “What do you take me for?” she said crossly. “And why do you have to change the subject?”
He would have laughed it off with any other girl, but for some reason Margaret got to him. “Because I don’t speak Latin,” he snapped.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I don’t understand words like modus andy.”
She looked mystified and irritated for a moment; then her face cleared and she repeated the phrase, “Modus operandi.”
“I never stayed at school long enough to learn that stuff,” he said.
The effect on her was quite startling. She flushed with shame and said: “I’m most dreadfully sorry. How rude of me.”
He was surprised by the turnabout. A lot of them seemed to feel it was their duty to stuff their education down a man’s throat. He was glad that Margaret had better manners than most of her kind. He smiled at her and said: “All forgiven.”
She surprised him yet again by saying: “I know how it feels, because I’ve never had a proper education, either.”
“With all your money?” he asked incredulously.
She nodded. “We never went to school, you see.”
Harry was amazed. For respectable working-class Londoners it was shameful not to send your children to school, almost as bad as having the police round or being turned out by the bailiffs. Most children had to take a day off when their boots were at the menders’, for they did not have a spare pair; and mothers were embarrassed enough about that. “But children have got to go to school—it’s the law!” said Harry.
“We had these stupid governesses. That’s why I can’t go to university—no qualifications.” She looked sad. “I think I should have liked university.”
“It’s unbelievable. I thought rich people could do anything they liked.”
“Not with my father.”
“What about the kid?” Harry said with a nod at Percy.
“Oh, he’s at Eton, of course,” she said bitterly. “It’s different for boys.”
Harry considered. “Does that mean,” he said. diffidently, “that you don’t agree with your father in other things—politics, for instance?”
“I certainly don’t,” she said fiercely. “I’m a socialist.”
This, Harry thought, could be the key to her. “I used to belong to the Communist party,” he said. It was true: he had joined when he was sixteen and left after three weeks. He waited for her reaction before deciding how much to tell her.
She immediately became animated. “Why did you leave?”
The truth was that political meetings bored him stiff, but it might be a mistake to say so. “It’s hard to put into words, exactly,” he prevaricated.
He should have realized that would not wash with her. “You must know why you left,” she said impatiently.
“I guess it was too much like Sunday school.”
She laughed at that. “I know just what you mean.”
“Anyway, I reckon I’ve done more than the Commies in the way of returning wealth to the workers who produced it.”
“How is that?”
“Well, I liberate cash from Mayfair and take it to Battersea.”
“You mean you rob only the rich?”
“There’s no point in robbing the poor. They haven’t got any money.”
She laughed again. “But surely you don’t give away your ill-gotten gains, like Robin Hood?”
He considered what to tell her. Would she believe him if he pretended he robbed the rich to give to the poor? Although she was intelligent, she was also naïve—but, he decided, not that naive. “I’m not a charity,” he said with a shrug. “But I do help people sometimes.”
“This is amazing,” she said. Her eyes sparkled with interest and animation, and she looked quite ravishing. “I suppose I knew there were people like you, but it’s just extraordinary to actually meet you and talk to you.”
Don’t overdo it, girl, Harry thought. He was nervous of women who became too enthusiastic about him: they were liable to feel outraged when they found out he was human. “I’m not that special,” he said with genuine embarrassment. “I just come from a world you’ve never seen.”
She gave him a look that said she thought he was special.
This had gone far enough, he decided. It was time to change the subject. “You’re embarrassing me,” he said bashfully.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. She thought for a moment then said: “Why are you going to America?”
“To get away from Rebecca Maugham-Flint.”
She laughed. “No, seriously.”
She was like a terrier when she got hold of something, he thought: she wouldn’t let go. She was impossible to control, which made her dangerous. “I had to leave to stay out of jail,” he said.
“What will you do when you get there?”
“I thought I might join the Canadian air force. I’d like to learn to fly.”
“How exciting.”
“What about you? Why are you going to America?”
“We’re running away,” she said disgustedly.
“What do you mean?”
“You know that my father is a Fascist.”
Harry nodded. “I’ve read about him in the papers.”
“Well, he thinks the Nazis are wonderful and he doesn’t want to fight against them. Besides, the government would put him in jail if he stayed.”
“So you’re going to live in America?”
“My mother’s family come from Connecticut.”
“And how long will you be there?”
“My parents are. going to stay at least for the duration of the war. They may never come back.”
“But you don’t want to go?”
“Certainly not,” she said forcefully. “I want to stay and fight. Fascism is the most frightful wickedness and this war is dreadfully important, and I want to do my bit.” She started to talk about the Spanish Civil War, but Harry was only half listening. He had been struck by a thought so shocking that his heart was beating faster, and he had to make an effort to keep a normal expression on his face.
When people flee a country at the outbreak of war, they do not leave their valuables behind.
It was quite simple. Peasants drove their livestock before them as they ran from invading armies. Jews fled from the Nazis with gold coins sewn inside their coats. After 1917, Russian aristocrats such as Princess Lavinia arrived in all the capitals of Europe clutching their Fabergé eggs.
Lord Oxenford must have considered the possibility that he would never return. Moreover, the government had brought in exchange controls to prevent the British upper classes from transferring all their money abroad. The Oxenfords knew they might never again see what they left behind. It was certain they had brought whatever assets they could carry.
It was a little risky, of course, carrying a fortune in jewelry in your luggage. But what would be less risky? Mailing it? Sending it by courier? Leaving it behind, possibly to be confiscated by a vengeful government, looted by an invading army, or even “liberated” in a postwar revolution?
No. The Oxenfords would have their jewelry with them.
In particular, they would be carrying the Delhi Suite.