Night Over Water - Ken Follett [179]
“Maybe he sneaked off after everyone else.”
“So where has he gone? He’s nowhere around.”
Had Frankie Gordino made his escape? Harry wondered.
“Who is he, anyway?”
“They say he’s an ‘associate’ of this hoodlum they got on the plane.”
So Gordino himself had not got away; but one of his gang had been on board, had been discovered and had made his escape. Which of the respectable-looking passengers could it have been?
“It ain’t a crime to be an associate, is it?”
“No, but he’s traveling on a false passport.”
A chill struck Harry. He was traveling on a false passport himself. Surely they could not be looking for him?
“Well, what do we do now?” he heard.
“Report back to Sergeant Morris.”
After a moment the scary thought dawned on Harry that he could be the one they were looking for. If the police had learned, or guessed, that someone on board was going to try to rescue Gordino, they would naturally run a check on the passenger list; and they would soon discover that Harry Vandenpost had reported his passport stolen in London two years ago; and then they would only have to call at his home to learn that he was not on the Pan American Clipper but sitting in the kitchen eating his cornflakes and reading the morning paper, or something. Knowing that Harry was an impostor, they would naturally assume he was the one who was going to try to rescue Gordino.
No, he told himself, don’t jump to conclusions. There could be some other explanation.
A third voice joined in the conversation. “Who are you guys looking for?” It sounded like the assistant engineer, Mickey Finn.
“Guy’s using the name of Harry Vandenpost, but he ain’t him.”
That settled it. Harry felt stunned with shock. He had been found out. The vision of the country house with the tennis court faded like an aging photograph, and instead he saw a blacked-out London, a court, a prison cell, and then, eventually, an army barracks. This was the worst luck he had ever heard of.
The assistant engineer was saying: “You know, I found him sneaking around here while we were at Botwood!”
“Well, he ain’t up here now.”
“Are you sure?”
Shut up, Mickey, Harry thought.
“We looked all over.”
“Did you check the mechanics’ stations?”
“Where are they?”
“In the wings.”
“Yeah, we looked in the wings.”
“But did you crawl along? There are places to hide in there that you couldn’t see from here in the cabin.”
“We better look again.”
These two policemen sounded kind of dumb, Harry thought.
He doubted whether their sergeant would trust them very far. If he had any sense he would order one more search of the plane. And next time they would surely look behind the steamer trunk. Where could Harry hide?
There were several little hiding places, but the crew would know them all. A thorough search was bound to take in the bow compartment, the toilets, the wings and the shallow void in the tail. Any other place Harry could find would surely be known to the crew.
He was stuck.
Could he leave? He might sneak off the plane and get away along the beach. It was a slim chance, but better than giving himself up. But even if he could get out of this little village undetected, where could he go? He could talk his way out of anything in a city, but he had a feeling he was an awfully long way from any cities. In the countryside he was a dead loss. He needed crowds, alleyways, railway stations and shops. He had an idea that Canada was a pretty big country, most of it trees.
He would be all right if only he could get to New York.
But where could he hide in the meantime?
He heard the policemen come out of the wings. For safety he ducked back into the hold—
And found himself staring straight at the answer to his problem.
He could hide in Lady Oxenford’s trunk.
Could he get inside? He thought so. It was about five feet high and two feet square: if it had been empty you could have got two people into it. It was not empty, of course: he would have to make room in it by taking out some of the clothes. Then what would he do with them? He