Night Over Water - Ken Follett [160]
“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.
He stowed his overnight case; then with Mickey Finn’s shaving tackle in his hand, he went up the stairs to the flight deck to try again.
Mickey was not there, but to Harry’s dismay another crew member was sitting at the big chart table doing calculations on a scratch pad. The man looked up, smiled and said: “Hi. Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mickey, to return his razor.”
“You’ll find him in number one—that’s the forwardmost compartment.”
“Thanks.” Harry hesitated. He had to get past this guy—but how?
“Something else?” the man said pleasantly.
“This flight deck is unbelievable,” Harry said. “It’s like an office.”
“Incredible, isn’t it?”
“Do you like flying these planes?”
“I love it. Uh, look, I wish I had time to talk, but I have to finish these calculations, and it’s going to take me almost until takeoff.”
Harry’s heart sank. That meant the way to the hold would be blocked until it was too late. He could not think of an excuse to go into the hold. Once again he forced himself to conceal his disappointment. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll buzz off.”
“Normally we like to talk to passengers—we meet such interesting people. But right now ...”
“My fault.” Harry racked his brains for another moment, then gave up. He turned and went back down the stairs, cursing to himself.
His luck seemed to be failing him.
He went forward and gave the shaving kit to Mickey,