Night Over Water - Ken Follett [106]
She thought about that “whiff” of scandal. Did it really matter if a widow was faintly indiscreet on her fortieth birthday? It would not kill her, as he said, and it probably would not even damage her reputation. The matrons of Beacon Hill would think her “fast,” but people of her own age would probably admire her nerve. It’s not as if I’m supposed to be a virgin, she thought.
She looked at his hurt, stubborn face, and her heart went out to him. To hell with Boston society, she thought; this is a man in pain. He helped me when I needed it. Without him I wouldn’t be here. He’s right. I owe him.
“Will you help me, Nancy?” he begged. “Please?”
Nancy took a deep breath. “Hell, yes,” she said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Harry Marks’s last sight of Europe was a white lighthouse, standing proud on the north bank of the mouth of the Shannon, while the Atlantic Ocean angrily lashed the foot of the cliff below. A few minutes later there was no land in sight: whichever way he looked he saw nothing but the endless sea.
When I get to America I’m going to be rich, he thought.
Being this close to the famous Delhi Suite was so tantalizing as to be almost sexy. Somewhere on this plane, no more than a few yards from where he sat, was a fortune in jewelry. His fingers itched to touch it.
A million dollars in gems would be worth at least a hundred thousand from a fence. I could buy a nice flat and a car, he thought, or maybe a house in the country with a tennis court. Or perhaps I should invest it and live on the interest. I’d be a toff with a private income!
But first he had to get hold of the stuff.
Lady Oxenford was not wearing the jewelry; therefore it had to be in one of two places: the cabin baggage, right here in the compartment, or the checked baggage in the hold. If it were mine I’d keep it really close, Harry thought: I’d have it in my cabin bag. I’d be scared to let it out of my sight. But there was no telling how her mind worked.
He would check her cabin bag first. He could see it, under her seat, an expensive burgundy leather case with brass comers. He wondered how he might get inside it. Perhaps there would be a chance during the night, when everyone was asleep.
He would find a way. It would be risky: thieving was a dangerous game. But somehow he always got away with it, even when things went wrong. Look at me, he thought: yesterday I was caught red-handed, with stolen cuff links in my trousers pocket; I spent last night in jail; and now here I am going to New York on the Pan American Clipper. Lucky? It’s not the word!
He had once heard a joke about a man who jumped out of a tenth-floor window, and falling past the fifth floor was heard to say: “So far, so good.” But that was not him.
The steward, Nicky, brought the dinner menu and offered him a cocktail. He did not need a drink, but he ordered a glass of champagne just because it seemed like the right thing to do. This is the life, Harry boy, he said to himself. His elation at being on the world’s most luxurious plane vied with his anxiety about flying across the ocean, but as the champagne took effect, elation won out.
He was surprised to see that the menu was in English. Did the Americans not realize that posh menus were supposed to be in French? Perhaps they were just too sensible to print menus in a foreign language. Harry had a feeling he was going to like America.
The dining room seated only fourteen, so dinner would be served in three sittings, the steward explained. “Would you like to dine at six, seven thirty, or nine o’clock, Mr. Vandenpost?”
This might be his chance, Harry realized. If the Oxenfords ate earlier or later than he, he might be left alone in the compartment. But which sitting would they choose? Harry mentally cursed the steward for starting with him. A British steward would automatically have spoken to the titled people first, but this democratic American was probably going by seat numbers. He would have to guess what the Oxenfords would choose. “Let me see,” he said to gain time.