Night Over Water (48 page)

“I don’t believe this,” Nancy said; but she was not as sure as she sounded. Danny was angry because he had been outmaneuvered, so he was being nasty to relieve his feelings; but that did not prove he was lying. She felt chilled.

“Believe what you like,” Danny said. “I’m telling you what your father told me.”

“Pa told Peter he wanted
him
to be chairman?”

“Sure he did. If you don’t believe me, ask Peter.”

“If I didn’t believe you, I wouldn’t believe Peter.”

“Nancy, I first met you when you were two days old,” Danny said, and there was a new, weary note in his voice. “I’ve known you all your life and most of mine. You’re a good person with a hard streak, like your father. I don’t want to fight with you over business, or anything else. I’m sorry I brought this up.”

Now she believed him. He sounded genuinely regretful, and that made her think he was sincere. She was shocked by his revelation, and felt weak and a little dizzy. She said nothing for a moment, trying to recover her composure.

“I guess I’ll see you at the board meeting,” Danny said.

“Okay,” she said.

“’Bye, Nancy.”

“’Bye, Danny.” She hung up.

Mervyn said: “By God, you were brilliant!”

She smiled thinly. “Thanks.”

He laughed. “I mean, the way you worked him around—he never stood a chance! The poor beggar never knew what hit him—”

“Oh, shut up,” she said.

Mervyn looked as if she had slapped him. “Whatever you say,” he said tightly.

She was sorry right away. “Forgive me,” she said, touching his arm. “At the end Danny said something that shocked me.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked cautiously.

“He says my father set up this fight between me and Peter so that the toughest would end up running the company.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I do. That’s the terrible thing. It really rings true. I’ve never thought about it before, but it explains a lot of things about me and my brother.”

He took her hand. “You’re upset.”

“Yeah.” She stroked the sparse black hair on the backs of his fingers. “I feel like a character in a motion picture, acting out a scenario that was written by someone else. I’ve been manipulated for years, and I resent it. I’m not even sure I want to win this fight with Peter, now that I know how I was set up.”

He nodded understandingly. “What would you like to do?”

The answer came to her as soon as he asked the question. “I’d like to write my own script—that’s what I’d like to do.”

 

 

 

 

H
arry Marks was so happy he could hardly move.

He lay in bed remembering every moment of the night: the sudden thrill of pleasure when Margaret had kissed him; the anxiety as he worked up the courage to make a pass at her; the disappointment when she turned him down; and the amazement and delight when she had jumped into his bunk like a rabbit diving into its hole.

He cringed as he remembered how he had come the moment she touched him. This always happened to him the first time with a new girl: he had not owned up to it. It was humiliating. One girl had been scornful and mocked him. Mercifully, Margaret had not been disappointed or frustrated. In a funny way she had been aroused by it. Anyway, she had been happy in the end. So had he.

He could hardly believe his luck. He was not clever, he had no money, and he did not come from the right social class. He was a complete fraud and she knew it. What did she see in him? There was no mystery about what attracted
him
to
her:
she was beautiful, lovable, warmhearted and vulnerable; and if that were not enough, she had the body of a goddess. Anyone would have fallen for her. But him? He was not bad-looking, of course, and he knew how to wear clothes, but he had a feeling that sort of thing did not count much with Margaret. However, she was intrigued by him. She found his way of life fascinating, and he knew a lot of stuff that was strange to her, about working-class life in general and the criminal underworld in particular. He guessed that she saw him as a romantic figure, like the Scarlet Pimpernel, or some kind of outlaw, Robin Hood or Billy the Kid, or a pirate. She was extraordinarily grateful to him for holding her chair in the dining room, a trivial thing he had done without even thinking about it, but it meant a lot to her. In fact he was pretty sure that that was the moment when she had really fallen for him. Girls are peculiar, he thought with a mental shrug. Anyway, it no longer mattered what the original attraction had been: once they took off their clothes it was pure chemistry. He would never forget the sight of her white breasts in the dim, filtered light, her nipples so small and pale they were hardly visible; the riot of chestnut hair between her legs; the scattering of freckles at her throat....

And now he was going to risk losing it all.

He was going to steal her mother’s jewelry.

It was not something a girl could laugh off. Her parents were awful to her, and she probably believed their wealth should be redistributed, anyway; but all the same she would be shocked. Robbing someone was like a slap across the face: it might not do much damage, but it angered people out of all proportion. It could be the end of his affair with Margaret.

But the Delhi Suite was here, on this plane, in the baggage hold, just a few steps from where he lay: the most beautiful jewels in the world, worth a fortune, enough for him to live on for the rest of his life.

He longed to hold that necklace in his hands, feast his eyes on the fathomless red of the Burmese rubies, and run his fingertips over the faceted diamonds.

The settings would have to be destroyed, of course, and the suite broken up, as soon as it was fenced. That was a tragedy, but inevitable. The stones would survive, and end up in another suite of jewelry on the skin of some millionaire’s wife. And Harry Marks would buy a house.

Yes, that was what he would do with the money. He would buy a country house, somewhere in America, maybe in the area they called New England, wherever that was. He could see it already, with its lawns and trees, the weekend guests in white trousers and straw hats, and his wife coming down the oaken staircase in jodhpurs and riding boots—

But the wife had Margaret’s face.

She had left him at dawn, slipping out through the curtains when there was no one to see. Harry had looked out of the window, thinking of her, while the plane flew over the spruce forests of Newfoundland and splashed down at Botwood. She had said she would stay on board during the stopover, and snatch an hour’s sleep; and Harry said he would do the same, although he had no intention of sleeping.

Now he could see, through his window, a straggle of people in overcoats boarding the launch: about half the passengers and most of the crew. Now, while most people on the plane were still asleep, would be his chance of getting into the hold. Luggage locks would not delay him long. In no time at all he could have the Delhi Suite in his hands.

But he was wondering whether Margaret’s breasts were not the most precious jewels he would ever hold.

He told himself to come down to earth. She had spent a night with him, but would he ever see her again after they got off the plane? He had heard people talk of “shipboard romances” as being notoriously ephemeral: seaplane affairs had to be even more fleeting. Margaret was desperate to leave her parents and live independently, but would it ever happen? A lot of rich girls liked the idea of independence, but in practice it was very hard to give up a life of luxury. Although Margaret was one hundred percent sincere, she had no idea how ordinary people lived and when she tried it she was not going to like it.

No, there was no telling what she would do. Jewelry, by contrast, was completely reliable.

It would have been simpler if he had had to make a straight choice. If the devil came to him and said: “You can have Margaret or steal the jewels, but not both,” he would choose Margaret. But the reality was more complicated. He might leave the jewels and still lose Margaret. Or he might get both.

All his life he had been a chancer.

He decided to try for both.

He got up.

He stepped into his slippers and pulled on his bathrobe then looked around. The curtains were still drawn over Margaret’s bunk and her mother’s. The other three bunks were vacant: Percy’s, Lord Oxenford’s and Mr. Membury’s. The lounge next door was empty but for a cleaning woman in a head scarf who had presumably come aboard from Botwood and was sleepily emptying the ashtrays. The outside door was open, and cold sea air blew around Harry’s bare ankles. In number 3 compartment, Clive Membury was talking to Baron Gabon. Harry wondered what they were talking about: waistcoats, perhaps? Farther back, the stewards were converting bunks back into divan seats. There was a seedy morning-after air about the whole plane.

Harry went forward and climbed the stairs. As usual, he had no plan of action, no prepared excuses, not the faintest idea what he would do if he should be caught. He found that thinking ahead, and figuring out how things might go wrong, got him too anxious. Even winging it, like this, he found himself suddenly breathless from tension. Calm down, he said to himself; you’ve done this a hundred times. If it goes wrong you’ll make something up, the way you always do.

He reached the flight deck and looked around. He was in luck. There was no one there. He breathed easier. What a break!

Glancing forward, he saw a low hatch open under the windshield between the two pilots’ seats. He looked through the hatch into a big empty space in the bows of the aircraft. A door in the fuselage was open and one of the younger crew members was doing something with a rope. Not so good. Harry pulled his head back in before he was spotted.

He passed quickly along the flight cabin and through the door in the back wall. Now he was between the two cargo holds, underneath the loading hatch that also incorporated the navigator’s dome. He picked the left-hand hold, went in and closed the door behind him. He was out of sight now, and he guessed the crew would have no reason to look into the hold.

He examined his surroundings. It was like being in a high-class luggage store. Expensive leather cases were stacked all around and roped to the sides. Harry had to find the Oxenfords’ baggage quickly. He went to work.

It was not easy. Some cases were stacked with their name tags underneath, some were covered by other cases that were hard to dislodge. There was no heating in the hold and he was cold in his bathrobe. His hands shook and his fingers hurt as he untied the ropes that prevented the cases shifting in flight. He worked systematically, so that he would not miss any or check pieces twice. He retied the ropes as best he could. The names were international: Ridgeway, D’Annunzio, Lo, Hartmann, Bazarov—but no Oxenfords. After twenty minutes he had checked every piece, he was shivering, and he had established that the bags he was looking for must be in the other hold. He cursed under his breath.

He tied the last rope and looked around carefully: he had left no evidence of his visit.

Now he would have to go through the same procedure in the other hold. He opened the door and stepped out, and a startled voice cried: “Shit! Who are you?” It was the officer Harry had seen in the bow compartment, a cheerful, freckled young man in a short-sleeved shirt.

Harry was equally shocked but he covered it up quickly. He smiled, closed the door behind him and said calmly: “Harry Vandenpost. Who are you?”

“Mickey Finn, the assistant engineer. Sir, you’re not supposed to be here. You gave me a scare. I’m sorry for swearing. But what are you doing?”

“Looking for my suitcase,” Harry said. “I forgot my razor.”

“Sir, access to checked baggage is not permitted during the journey, under any circumstances.”

“I thought I couldn’t do any harm.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but it’s not allowed. I could lend you my razor.”

“I appreciate that, but I kind of like my own. If I could just find my case—”

“Boy, I wish I could do what you want, sir, but I really can’t. When the captain comes back aboard you could ask him, but I know he’s going to say the same.”

Harry realized with a sinking heart that he was going to have to accept defeat, at least for the present. Putting a brave face on it, he smiled and said as graciously as he could: “In that case I guess I’ll borrow your razor, and thank you kindly.”

Mickey Finn held the door for him and he stepped into the flight cabin and went down the stairs. What rotten luck, he thought angrily. Another few seconds, and I would have been there. God knows when I’ll get another chance.

Mickey went into number 1 compartment and returned a moment later with a safety razor, a fresh blade still in its paper wrapper, and shaving soap in a mug. Harry took them and thanked him. Now he had no choice but to shave.

He took his overnight bag into the bathroom, still thinking about those Burmese rubies. Carl Hartmann, the scientist, was there in his undershirt, washing himself vigorously. Harry left his own perfectly good shaving tackle in his case and shaved hurriedly with Mickey’s razor. “Rough night,” he said conversationally.

Hartmann shrugged. “I’ve had rougher.”

Harry looked at his bony shoulders. The man was a walking skeleton. “I bet you have,” Harry said.

They had no more conversation. Hartmann was not talkative, and Harry was preoccupied.

After he had shaved, Harry took out a new blue shirt. Unwrapping a new shirt was one of life’s small, intense pleasures. He loved the rustle of the tissue paper and the crisp feel of the virgin cotton. He slipped into it deliciously and tied a perfect knot in his wine-colored silk tie.

When he returned to his compartment he saw that Margaret’s curtains were still closed. He imagined her fast asleep, her lovely hair spread across the white pillow, and he smiled to himself. Glancing into the lounge, he saw the stewards setting out a buffet breakfast that made his mouth water, with bowls of strawberries and jugs of cream and orange juice, and cold champagne in dewy, silver ice buckets. Those must be hothouse strawberries, he thought, at this time of year.