Night Over Water - Ken Follett [66]
“I think I know the Philadelphia Vandenposts,” she said.
Harry thought: Blimey, I hope not. However, she sounded rather vague.
“My family are the Glencarries of Stamford, Connecticut,” she added.
“Indeed!” said Harry, pretending to be impressed. He was still thinking about Philadelphia. Had he said he came from Philadelphia, or Pennsylvania? He could not remember. Maybe they were the same place. They seemed to go together. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Stamford, Connecticut. He remembered that when you asked Americans where they came from they always gave two answers. Houston, Texas. San Francisco, California. Yeah.
The boy said: “My name’s Percy.”
“Harry,” said Harry, glad to be back on familiar ground. Percy’s title was Lord Isley. It was a courtesy title, for the heir to use until his father died, whereupon he would become the Marquis of Oxenford. Most of these people were ludicrously proud of their stupid titles. Harry had once been introduced to a snot-nosed three-year-old named Baron Port-rail. However, Percy seemed all right. He was courteously letting Harry know that he did not want to be addressed formally.
Harry sat down. He was facing forward, so Margaret was next to him across the narrow aisle, and he would be able to talk to her without the others hearing. The plane was as quiet as a church. Everyone was rather awestruck.
He tried to relax. It was going to be a tense trip. Margaret knew his true identity, and that created a big new risk. Even though she had accepted his subterfuge, she could change her mind, or let something slip by accident. Harry could not afford to arouse misgivings. He could get through U.S. Immigration if no searching questions were asked, but if something happened to make them suspicious, and they decided to check up on him, they would quickly find out that he was using a stolen passport, and it would be all over.
Another passenger was brought to the seat opposite Harry. He was quite tall, with a bowler hat and a dark gray suit that had once been all right but was now past its best. Something about him struck Harry, who watched the man taking off his overcoat and settling in his seat. He had on stout well-worn black shoes, heavyweight wool socks and a wine-colored waistcoat under his double-breasted jacket. His dark blue tie looked as if it had been tied in the same place every day for ten years.
If I didn’t know the price of a ticket on this flying palace, Harry thought, I’d swear blind that man was a copper.
It was not too late to stand up and get off the plane.
No one would stop him. He could simply walk away and disappear.
But he had paid ninety pounds!
Besides, it might be weeks before he could get another transatlantic passage, and while he was waiting he might be rearrested.
He thought again about going on the run in England; and once again dismissed the idea. It would be difficult in wartime, with every busybody on the lookout for foreign spies; but more important, life as a fugitive would be unbearable—living in cheap boardinghouses, avoiding policemen, always on the move.
The man opposite him, if he were a policeman, was certainly not after Harry, of course; otherwise he would not be sitting down and making himself comfortable for the flight. Harry could not imagine what the man was doing; but for the moment he put it out of his mind and concentrated on his own predicament. Margaret was the danger factor. What could he do to protect himself?
She had entered into his deception in a spirit of fun. As things stood he could not rely on her to keep it up. But he could improve his chances by getting close to her. If he could win her affection she might begin to feel a sense of loyalty to him; and then she would take his charade more seriously, and be careful not to betray him.
Getting to know Margaret Oxenford would not be an unpleasant duty. He studied her out of the corner of his eye. She had the same pale autumnal coloring as her mother: red