Night Over Water - Ken Follett [114]
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
Margaret 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