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 in 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
M
argaret 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 dark?”
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.”
“How do you know?” Percy said. There was a jealous note in his voice: he was the expert on flight details, not Margaret.
“Harry told me.”
“And how would he know?”
“He dined with the engineer and the navigator.”
“I’m not scared,” Percy said, in a tone which suggested that he was.
It had not occurred to Margaret to worry about the storm. It might be uncomfortable, but surely there was no real danger?
Father drained his glass and asked the steward irritably for more wine. Was he frightened of the storm? He was drinking even more than usual, she had observed. His face was flushed and his pale eyes seemed to stare. Was he nervous? Perhaps he was still upset over Elizabeth.
Mother said: “Margaret, you should talk more to that quiet Mr. Membury.”
Margaret was surprised. “Why? He seems to want to be left alone.”