Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [15]
Joe was amused to hear the decisive and energetic girl emerge from the heap of anxiety he had sat next to for three hours but felt he ought to offer advice: ‘Do hang on to someone’s arm, Miss Watkins. It’s a menacing scene out there. Stay close to your group!’
The plane taxied on to an apron by the Imperial Airways hangar and, with no exterior staff in evidence, the stewards opened the door themselves and released the passengers on to the tarmac. They stood, paralysed, unable to negotiate the crowds, wondering which way to turn. Joe’s eyes were searching for the familiar form of a police car when he felt his arm seized by a strong hand.
‘Joe! I had no idea you were so popular!’ said Inspector Bonnefoye. ‘Welcome to Paris! The car’s over there. Let me take your bags.’ He gestured to a police car parked, lights on, engine running and pointing in the direction of the city with the driver at the wheel. They pushed their way over to it and threw the bags into the back seat.
‘Bonnefoye! Never more pleased to see you, old man!’
‘But you didn’t tell me you were to be accompanied?’ Bonnefoye was eyeing Miss Watkins with interest.
‘A fellow passenger separated from her group. Miss Watkins,’ said Joe, surprised to find that she’d followed him but relieved to see she’d abandoned her notion of staying to see Lindbergh touch down. ‘I say, would you have room for her? She’s bound for the city centre also. Her taxi doesn’t seem to have made it through.’
‘I’m sure I can squeeze Miss Watkins in the back,’ said Bonnefoye easily, and Joe was amused to hear the automatic gallantry in his voice.
Before they could get in they were startled by the whining and coughing sound of an engine low over their heads, making for the runway. The crowd screamed and pushed its way to the sides as the monoplane, gleaming briefly silver as it passed between the searchlights, throttled back noisily and set down on the runway, continuing onwards towards a dark part of the airfield. In evident confusion, the pilot stopped and turned the plane around, nose pointing back to the hangars. But before he had gone far in this direction, he cut the engine abruptly, no doubt in regard for the crowd as people surged back again, risking loss of limbs, unaware of the danger of the scything propeller blades. For a moment the Spirit of St Louis stood in the middle of the track way, small, battered, oil- and salt-caked and unimpressive once out of its element of air. And then, as the engine spluttered its last, souvenir-hunters moved in and began to pull strips of canvas from the wings, tugging anything that yielded from the framework of the plane. Press camera bulbs flashed and popped, trained on the door.
‘For God’s sake!’ Joe shouted, horrified. ‘Do something, Bonnefoye! Those maniacs will tear the poor bugger apart! He’s been flying solo in an open cockpit for a day and a half over the Atlantic – he won’t be in any fit state to face up to a reception like this!’
As he spoke, the pair of them were already shouldering their way back through the crowd, using their height and aggressive energy to forge their way through to the door. Flourishing their warrant cards in a valiant attempt to keep the masses at bay, they stood together, arms extended, holding an uncomfortably small space free in front of the plane. After a moment, a window slid open and a voice called uncertainly: ‘Does anyone here speak English?’
‘We do!’ Joe shouted back. ‘Captain Lindbergh! Welcome and congratulations! I think it might be a good idea if you were to get out, sir, and we’ll escort you to the hangar.’
The door opened and the tall figure of Charles Lindbergh appeared, blinking in the spotlights and the flash of the cameras. With a cry of concern, Bonnefoye put an arm under his shoulders and helped him to the ground, murmuring words of welcome. The pilot was pale and weary and looked much less than his twenty-five years. He stared in dismay at the jostling mass between him and safety and Joe remembered