He entered the Pan American building. There in the green-and-white painted lobby was a man in lieutenant’s uniform, presumably off the patrol boat. As Eddie walked in, the lieutenant turned around. He was a big, ugly man with small eyes set too close together and a wart on his nose. Eddie stared at him in amazement and delight. He could not believe his eyes. “Steve?” he said. “Is it really you?”
“Hi, Eddie.”
“How in the hell ... ?” It was Steve Appleby, whom Eddie had tried to call from England—his oldest and best friend, the one man above all others he wanted by his side in a tight spot. He could hardly take it in.
Steve came over and they embraced, hitting each other on the back. Eddie said: “You’re supposed to be in New Hampshire—what the hell are you doing here?”
“Nella said you sounded frantic when you called,” Steve said, looking solemn. “Hell, Eddie, I’ve never known you to seem even a little shook. You’re always such a rock. I knew you had to be in bad trouble.”
“I am. I’m ...” Suddenly Eddie was overcome with emotion. For twenty hours he had kept his feelings bottled up and tightly corked, and he was ready to explode. The fact that his best friend had moved heaven and earth to come and help him out touched him deeply. “I’m in bad trouble,” he confessed; then tears came to his eyes and his throat seized up so he could not speak. He turned away and went outside.
Steve followed. Eddie led him around the comer of the building and through the big open doorway into the empty boat room, where the launch was normally kept. They would not be seen in here.
Steve spoke to cover his embarrassment. “I can’t count how many favors I’ve called in to get here. I’ve been in the navy eight years, and a lot of people owe me, but today they all paid me back double, and now I owe them. It’s going to take me another eight years just to get back to even!”
Eddie nodded. Steve had a natural aptitude for wheeling and dealing, and he was one of the navy’s great fixers. Eddie wanted to say thank you, but he could not stop the tears.
Steve’s tone changed and he said: “Eddie, what the hell is going on?”
“They’ve got Carol-Ann,” Eddie managed.
“Who has, for Christ’s sake?”
“The Patriarca gang.”
Steve was incredulous. “Ray Patriarca? The racketeer?”
“They kidnapped her.”
“God almighty, why?”
“They want me to bring down the Clipper.”
“What for?”
Eddie wiped his face with his sleeve and brought himself under control. “There’s an F.B.I. agent on board with a prisoner, a hoodlum called Frankie Gordino. I figure Patriarca wants to rescue him. Anyway, a passenger calling himself Tom Luther told me to bring the plane down off the Maine coast. They’ll have a fast boat waiting, and Carol-Ann will be on it. We swap Carol-Ann for Gordino—then Gordino disappears.”
Steve nodded. “And Luther was smart enough to realize that the only possible way to get Eddie Deakin to cooperate was to kidnap his wife.”
“Yeah.”
“The bastards.”
“I want to get these people, Steve. I want to fucking crucify them. I want to nail the bastards up, I swear.”
Steve shook his head. “But what can you do?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I called you.”
Steve frowned. “The danger period for them is from when they come aboard the plane until they get back to their car. Maybe the police could find the car and ambush them.”
Eddie was dubious. “How would the police recognize it? It will just be a car parked near a beach.”
“It might be worth a try.”
“It’s not tight enough, Steve. There’s too much to go wrong. And I don’t want to call in the police—there’s no knowing what they might do to endanger Carol-Ann.”
Steve nodded agreement. “And the car could be on either side of the border, so we’d have to call in the Canadian police as well. Hell, it wouldn’t stay secret for five minutes. No, the police are no good. That leaves the navy or the Coast Guard.”
Eddie felt better just being able to discuss his dilemma with someone. “Let’s talk navy.”
“All right. Suppose I could get a patrol boat like this one to intercept the launch after the trade, before Gordino and Luther reach land?”
“That might work,” Eddie said, and he began to feel hopeful. “But could you do it?” It was next to impossible to get naval vessels to move outside their chain of command.
“I think I can. They’re out on exercises anyway, getting all excited in case the Nazis decided to invade New England after Poland. It’s just a question of diverting one. The guy who can do that is Simon Greenbourne’s father—remember Simon?”
“Sure I do.” Eddie recalled a wild kid with a crazy sense of humor and a huge thirst for beer. He was always in trouble, but he usually got off lightly because his father was an admiral.
Steve continued. “Simon went too far one day and set fire to a bar in Pearl City and burned down half a block. It’s a long story, but I kept him out of jail and his father is eternally grateful. I think he would do this for me.”
Eddie looked at the vessel Steve had come in. It was an SC-class submarine chaser, twenty years old, with a wooden hull, but it carried a three-inch, twenty-three-caliber machine gun and a depth charge. It would scare the pants off a bunch of citified mobsters in a speedboat. But it was conspicuous. “They might see the boat beforehand and smell a rat,” he said anxiously.
Steve shook his head. “These things can hide up creeks. Their draft is less than six feet, fully loaded.”
“It’s risky, Steve.”
“So they spot a navy patrol boat. It leaves them alone. What are they going to do—call the whole thing off?”
“They might do something to Carol-Ann.”
Steve seemed about to argue; then he changed his mind. “That’s true,” he said. “Anything might happen. You’re the only one who has the right to say we’ll take the risk.”
Eddie knew Steve was not saying what he really felt. “You think I’m running scared, don’t you?” he said testily.
“Yeah. But you’re entitled.”
Eddie looked at his watch. “Christ, I’m due back in the flight room.” He had to make up his mind. Steve had come up with the best plan he could, and now it was up to Eddie to take it or leave it.
Steve said: “One thing you may not have thought of. They could still be planning to double-cross you.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know how, but once they’re on board the Clipper it’s going to be hard to argue with them. They may decide to take Gordino and Carol-Ann, too.”
“Why the hell would they do that?”
“To make sure you don’t cooperate too enthusiastically with the police for a while.”
“Shit.” There was another reason, too, Eddie realized. He had yelled at these guys and insulted them. They might well be planning some final payoff to teach him a lesson.
He was cornered.
He had to go along with Steve’s plan now. It was too late to do otherwise.
God forgive me if I’m wrong, he thought.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
M
argaret woke up thinking: Today I have to tell Father.
It took her a moment to remember what she had to tell him: she would not be living with them in Connecticut; she was going to leave the family, find lodgings and get a job.
He was sure to throw a tantrum.
A nauseating sensation of fear and shame came over her. It was a familiar feeling. She got it every time she wanted to defy Father. I’m nineteen years old, she thought; I’m a woman. Last night I made passionate love to a wonderful man. Why am I still scared of my father?
It had been like this as long as she could remember. She had never understood why he was so determined to keep her in a cage. He was the same with Elizabeth, but not with Percy. He seemed to want his daughters to be useless ornaments. He had always been at his worst when they wanted to do something practical, like learn to swim or build a tree-house or ride bicycles. He never cared how much they spent on gowns, but he would not let them have an account at a bookshop.
It was not simply the prospect of defeat that made her feel sick. It was the way he refused her, the anger and scorn, the mocking jibes and the purple-faced rage.
She had often tried to outwit him by deceit, but that rarely worked: she was so terrified he might hear the scratching of the rescued kitten in the attic, or come across her playing with the “unsuitable” children from the village, or search her room and find her copy of Elinor Glyn’s
The Vicissitudes of Evangeline,
that forbidden delights lost their charm.
She had succeeded in going against his will only with the help of others. Monica had introduced her to sexual pleasure, and he had never been able to take that away from her. Percy showed her how to shoot; Digby, the chauffeur, taught her to drive. Now perhaps Harry Marks and Nancy Lenehan would help her to become independent.
She already
felt
different. There was a pleasant ache in her muscles, as if she had spent a day at some hard physical work in the fresh air. She lay in her bunk and ran her hands all over her body. For the past six years she had thought of herself as a thing of ungainly bulges and unsightly hair, but now suddenly she liked her body. Harry seemed to think it was wonderful.
From outside her curtained bunk came a few faint noises. People were waking up, she guessed. She peeped out. Nicky, the fat steward, was taking down the opposite bunks, the pair in which Mother and Father had slept, and remaking the divan seat. Harry’s and Mr. Membury’s had already been done. Harry was sitting down, fully dressed, looking out of the window meditatively.
She suddenly felt bashful, and closed the curtain quickly, before he could see her. It was funny: a few hours ago they had been as intimate as two people can possibly be, but now she felt awkward.
She wondered where the others were. Percy would have gone ashore. Father had probably done the same: he generally woke up early. Mother was never very energetic in the morning: she was probably in the ladies’ room. Mr. Membury was nowhere in sight.
Margaret looked out of the window. It was daylight. The plane was at anchor near a small town in a pine forest. The scene was very still.
She lay back, enjoying the privacy, savoring the memory of the night, recalling the details and storing them away like photographs in an album. She felt as if last night was when she really lost her virginity. Previously, with Ian, sexual intercourse had been hurried, difficult and quick, and she had felt like a guilty child disobediently imitating a grown-up game. Last night she and Harry had been adults taking pleasure in one another’s bodies. They had been discreet but not furtive, shy but not embarrassed, uncertain without clumsiness. She had felt like a real woman. I want more of that, she thought, lots more; and she hugged herself, feeling wanton.
She pictured Harry as she had just glimpsed him, sitting by the window in a sky blue shirt with such a thoughtful look on his handsome face; and suddenly she wanted to kiss him. She sat up, pulled her robe around her shoulders, opened her curtains, and said, “Good morning, Harry.”
His head jerked around and he looked as if he had been caught doing something wrong. She thought: What were you thinking about? He met her eyes, then smiled. She smiled back, and found that she could not stop. They grinned stupidly at one another for a long minute. Finally Margaret dropped her eyes and stood up.
The steward turned around from fixing Mother’s seat and said: “Good morning, Lady Margaret. Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you, Nicky.” She probably looked a fright, and she was in a hurry to get to a mirror and brush her hair. She felt undressed. She was undressed, whereas Harry had shaved and put on a fresh shirt and looked as bright as a new apple.
However, she still wanted to kiss him.
She stepped into her slippers, remembering how she had indiscreetly left them beside Harry’s bunk and retrieved them a split second before Father would have seen them. She put her arms into the sleeves of her robe, and saw Harry’s eyes drop to her breasts. She did not mind: she liked him to look at her breasts. She tied her belt and ran her fingers through her hair.
Nicky finished what he was doing. She hoped he would leave the compartment, so that she could kiss Harry, but instead he said: “May I do your bunk now?”
“Of course,” she said, feeling disappointed. She wondered how long she would have to wait for another chance to kiss Harry. She picked up her bag, shot a regretful look at Harry, then went out.
The other steward, Davy, was laying out a buffet breakfast in the dining room. She stole a strawberry, feeling sinful. She walked the length of the plane. Most of the bunks had now been remade as seats, and a few people were sitting around drinking coffee sleepily. She saw Mr. Membury deep in conversation with Baron Gabon, and wondered what that disparate pair found to talk about so earnestly. Something was missing, and after a moment she realized what: there were no morning newspapers.
She went into the ladies’ room. Mother was sitting at the dressing table. Suddenly Margaret felt dreadfully guilty. How could I have done those things, she thought wildly, with Mother only a couple of steps away? She felt a blush rising to her cheeks. She forced herself to say: “Good morning, Mother.” To her surprise, her voice sounded quite normal.
“Good morning, dear. You look a little flushed. Did you sleep?”
“Very well,” Margaret said, and she blushed deeper. Then she was inspired, and said: “I’m feeling guilty because I stole a strawberry from the breakfast buffet.” She dived into the toilet cubicle to escape. When she came out, she ran water into the basin and washed her face vigorously.
She was sorry she had to put on the dress she had been wearing yesterday. She would have liked something fresh. She splashed on extra eau de toilette. Harry had told her he liked it. He had even known it was Tosca. He was the first man she had ever met who could identify perfumes.