The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [153]
“That's an autogiro,” said an American voice from behind me.
I had not known there was anyone else in the room, but the man had been sitting in a high-backed chair in a dim corner. I smiled vaguely in his direction, and returned to the photo. “It looks like the result of two aeroplanes flying into each other,” I commented. Then, realising that a jest about mid-air collisions might not be in the best of taste here, I amended it to, “—or a piece of very Modernist sculpture. Does it actually function?”
“They go up,” he said laconically. “Something I could help you with?”
“No, I'm here with Mr—Captain—Lofte. I think he's gone to find someone.”
“Probably me.” The man peeled himself out of the chair and started in my direction. Watching the unevenness of his progress, I thought at first that he had been injured, then decided he was intoxicated. When he stood before me, I saw it was both.
He'd been burned. Shiny scar tissue spread up his neck to his jaw-line, the skin on his left hand was taut enough to affect mobility, and the stiffness of his gait suggested further damage. He held his drink in his right hand, and watched my reaction to his appearance.
It must be hard, to have to wait for every new acquaintance to absorb the implications of scars. Particularly when the new acquaintance was a not entirely unattractive young woman.
“I'm Mary Russell,” I said, and hesitated about whether or not to put out my hand.
He decided for me, moving his glass over to his left hand, concentrating for a moment until the fingers grasped it, then putting his right hand out for me to shake. “Pleased to meet you. The name's Cash Javitz.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Detroit?”
He transferred the glass back to the more secure grasp. “'Bout fifty miles away. How'd you guess?”
“Accents are one of my husband's … hobbies, you might say. I pick things up from him.”
“I been here so long, some Yanks think I'm a Brit.”
“Me, too. Mother was English, I'm from California, my father from Boston.”
“So, what's Lofty want?”
“I need to get to Scotland in a hurry. Mr Lofte seemed to think this was the place to start looking.”
He lifted the glass to his face and drank, watching me over it. “Where in Scotland?”
“Well, actually, the Orkneys. Those are the islands—”
“I know where Orkney is. Don't I, you snake?”
I was taken aback until Lofte's voice answered; I hadn't heard him come in.
“Don't be rude to the lady, Cash. A simple no will suffice.”
“How much?” Javitz said instead.
“Do you have a 'plane?”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Not to offend, Mr Javitz, but my husband suggested I find a pilot who had taken the pledge. Considering the distance, I'd say that was a good idea.”
“He'll be sober,” Lofte assured me.
“Mostly,” Javitz muttered under his breath.
Lofte frowned at the American, than said, “Cash knows the terrain like no other. When the RAF wouldn't let him fly any more, he joined the Navy, and spent so much time around Scapa Bay they've made him an honorary Orcadian. The islands are tricky, the winds can be difficult. I'd trust my mother to Cash.”
“This mother of yours: Is she still alive?”
“My sister, then.”
“I've seen a picture of his sister,” the American commented. “She'd be safe from me, no question.”
I eyed him. This was adding up to one of those situations whose details Holmes did not need to know.
“To answer your question, Cash,” Lofte said, “we will have a 'plane by evening. I'll ring here as soon as we know what kind and where it is. We can discuss then your fees.”
“By which time you'll be sober,” I added firmly.
Javitz laughed and swigged down the last of his drink. “If I'm not, what will you do? Fly her yourself?”
“I'll fly her,” Lofte said.
“To Orkney?”
The question was close to being a jeer, but Lofte held the American's gaze. “Innocent lives are at stake,