“Extra, extra, read all about it: we’re not at war right now. I seem to recall, in the campaign, FDR getting lambasted with a ‘warmonger’ label, for wanting to beef up the Army and Navy.”
“I seem to recall him winning the election, anyway.” G. P.’s face was expressionless now; his voice empty. “Please leave.”
“Maybe I do have an angle, at that. Like you said, G. P. Maybe there is a way for me to make a buck out of this.” I leaned across the table. “Can you imagine the kind of dough the
His face remained impassive, but the hand holding the Manhattan glass trembled.
I snorted a laugh. “You know, it must have killed you, when you had to put a lid on so much of your publicity effort, once the military lowered its veil of secrecy. Here you trade your wife’s good name and maybe her life away, to fund the biggest flight of both your careers—and you can’t even properly exploit it! It’s a pisser.”
The glass snapped in his hand. He dropped the shards to the tabletop; his palm was cut, bloody. But he ignored it and said, “I would never risk my wife’s life. I love her. How can you accuse me of these atrocities? Do you actually imagine I don’t love her?”
Those unblinking eyes had filled with tears; maybe it was his cut hand.
“That’s the oldest murder motive in the book,” I said. “A woman you love that doesn’t love you, anymore…. Better bandage that up.”
“You go to hell.”
“Probably. But I got a hunch I’ll be running into some familiar faces.”
I rose, and didn’t go back in the house, just walked around it, skirting a fancy Cord roadster in the driveway, and walked half a block down to where I had parked the Terraplane. For all my indignation, I was driving an automobile that belonged to Putnam, and even though I’d been told he wouldn’t be around, I had rightly figured it might make sense to leave it out of sight.
As I was starting up the car, the rider’s side door opened and Margot slipped in beside me, wearing a red silk kimono, belted tight around her. She was out of breath.
“Oh, thank God, I wanted to catch you before you left,” she panted. “What did you and Mr. Putnam talk about?”
“Not the weather. Margot, you better get back in there before he notices you’re gone. You may get fired for talking to me, anyway, and letting me in the house and all.”
Her heart-shaped face was lovely in the moonlight. “I don’t care. At this point, I don’t care…. Nathan, we hadn’t finished talking.”
“I thought we had.”
She touched my arm with cool fingers. “No. There’s something…important…and personal. You have to know it.”
“What is it?”
“Can we go somewhere? Where are you staying?”
“Lowman’s Motor Court.”
Her anxious expression melted into a nostalgic smile. “That’s where you spent time with A. E., isn’t it?”
“Christ, how much did she tell you about us?” That wasn’t like Amy; she was usually so private.
“She told me a lot…. We could talk in your room.”
I wasn’t sure what she had on her mind, but looking at her was enough to put something on mine.
“First tell me,” I said, and touched her face. “What’s this personal something you need to share?”
“Well…we were in the kitchen, having coffee, A. E. and me…it was just two days before she left…and I can’t remember her exact words, but she said when she came back she was going to give up flying, give up celebrity, and ‘just be a woman.’”
“What does that mean?”
“I think it’s because she thought she might be pregnant…. Nathan? Nathan, are you all right?”
“…You go back in now, Margot.”
She leaned toward me. “She didn’t mention your name or anything, but I knew she’d just seen you in Chicago and—”
“Good night, Margot.”
And she stepped out of the Terraplane, and padded down the sidewalk in her kimono like a geisha. I drove back to the motor court, where a bed waited but not sleep.
12
Nine o’clock the next morning found the sun slanting through high windows like swords in a magician’s box, seeking out Ernie Tisor and the other two mechanics who were busy at work on an older plane, mending a fabric wing with “dope,” the liquid tightening agent that filled the hangar with a pungent bouquet.
Shielded from sun and smell within his glassed-in office, Mantz—typically dapper in a navy shirt, white tie, and tan sport jacket—sat at his desk, flipping through some paperwork; famous framed faces on the wall behind him seemed to be looking over his shoulder, while others noticed me coming in. Though airfield and hangar noise had entered with me, he didn’t look up.
“What is it, Ernie?” he asked.
