Nancy was puzzled. They had checked in together yesterday evening. Nancy decided to have dinner in her room and get an early night; and Peter had said he would do the same. If he had changed his mind, where had he gone? Where had he spent the night? And where was he now?
She went down to the lobby to phone, but she was not sure whom to call. Neither she nor Peter knew anybody in England. Liverpool was just across the water from Dublin: could Peter have gone to Ireland, to see the country where the Black family came from? It had been part of their original plan. But Peter would know he could not get back from there in time for the departure of the ship.
On impulse, she asked the operator for Aunt Tilly’s number.
Calling America from Europe was a chancy business. There were not enough lines, and sometimes you could wait a long time. If you were lucky you might get through in a few minutes. The sound quality was generally bad, and you had to shout.
It was a few minutes before seven a.m. in Boston, but Aunt Tilly would be up. Like many older people she slept little and woke early. She was very alert.
The lines were not busy at the moment—perhaps because it was too early for businessmen in the States to be at their desks—and after only five minutes the phone in the booth rang. Nancy picked it up to hear the familiar American ringing tone in her ear. She pictured Aunt Tilly in her silk dressing gown and fur slippers, padding across the gleaming wood floor of her kitchen to the black telephone in the hall.
“Hello?”
“Aunt Tilly, this is Nancy.”
“My goodness, child, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. They’ve declared war but the shooting hasn’t started yet, at least not in England. Have you heard from the boys?”
“They’re both fine. I had a postcard from Liam in Palm Beach, he says Jacqueline is even more beautiful with a suntan. Hugh took me for a ride in his new car, which is very pretty.”
“Does he drive it very fast?”
“He seemed pretty careful to me, and he refused a cocktail because he says people shouldn’t drive powerful automobiles when they’ve been drinking.”
“That makes me feel better.”
“Happy birthday, dear! What are you doing in England?”
“I’m in Liverpool, about to take ship for New York, but I’ve lost Peter. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from him, have you?”
“Why, my dear, of course I have. He’s called a board meeting for the day after tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”
Nancy was mystified. “You mean Friday morning?”
“Yes, dear, Friday is the day after tomorrow,” Tilly said with a touch of pique. Her tone of voice implied
Nancy was baffled. What was the point of calling a board meeting when neither she nor Peter would be there? The only other directors were Tilly and Danny Riley, and they would never decide anything on their own.
This had the marks of a plot. Was Peter up to something?
“What’s on the agenda, Aunt?”
“I was just looking it over.” Aunt Tilly read aloud: “ ‘To approve the sale of Black’s Boots, Inc., to General Textiles, Inc., on the terms negotiated by the chairman.’ ”
“Good God!” Nancy was so shocked that she felt faint. Peter was selling the company behind her back!
For a moment she was too stunned to speak; then, with an effort, she said in a shaky voice: “Would you mind reading that to me again, Aunt?”
Aunt Tilly repeated it.
Nancy suddenly felt cold. How had Peter managed to do this beneath her eyes? When had he negotiated the deal? He must have been working on it surreptitiously ever since she gave him her secret report. While pretending to consider her proposals, he had in fact been plotting against her.
She had always known that Peter was weak, but she would never have suspected him of such treachery.
“Are you there, Nancy?”
Nancy swallowed. “Yes, I’m here. Just dumbstruck. Peter has kept this from me.”
“Really? That’s not fair, is it?”
“He obviously wants it passed while I’m away ... but he won’t be at the meeting, either. We’re taking a ship today—we won’t be home for five days.” And yet, she thought, Peter has disappeared....
“Isn’t there an airplane now?”
“The Clipper!” Nancy remembered: it had been in all the papers. You could fly across the Atlantic in a day. Was that what Peter was doing?
“That’s right, the Clipper,” said Tilly. “Danny Riley says Peter’s coming back on the Clipper and he’ll be here in time for the board meeting.”
Nancy was finding it hard to take in the shameless way her brother had lied to her. He had traveled all the way to Liverpool with her, to make her think he was taking the ship. He must have left again the moment they parted company in the hotel corridor, and driven overnight to Southampton in time for the plane. How could he have spent all that time with her, talking and eating together, discussing the forthcoming voyage, when all along he was scheming to do her in?
Aunt Tilly said: “Why don’t you come on the Clipper, too?”
Was it too late? Peter must have planned this carefully. He would have known she would make some inquiries when she discovered he was not going on the ship, and he would try to make sure that she was not able to catch up with him. But timing was not Peter’s strength, and he might have left a gap.
She hardly dared to hope.
“I’m going to try,” Nancy said with sudden determination. “Goodbye.” She hung up.
She thought for a moment. Peter had left yesterday evening and must have traveled overnight. The Clipper must be scheduled to leave Southampton today and arrive in New York tomorrow, in time for Peter to get to Boston for the meeting on Friday. But what time did the Clipper take off? And could Nancy get to Southampton by then?
With her heart in her mouth, she went to the desk and asked the head porter what time the Pan American Clipper took off from Southampton.
“You’ve missed it, madam,” he said.
“Just check the time, please,” she said, trying to keep the note of impatience out of her voice.
He took out a timetable and opened it. “Two o’clock.”
She checked her watch: it was just noon.
The porter said: “You couldn’t get to Southampton in time even if you had a private airplane standing by.”
“Are there any airplanes?” she persisted.
His face took on the tolerant expression of a hotel employee humoring a foolish foreigner. “There’s an airfield about ten miles from here. Generally you can find a pilot to take you anywhere, for a price. But you’ve got to get to the field, find the pilot, make the journey, land somewhere near Southampton, then get from that airfield to the docks. It can’t be done in two hours, believe me.”
She turned away from him in frustration.
Getting mad was no use in business, she had learned long ago. When things went wrong you had to find a way to put them right. I can’t get to Boston in time, she thought; so maybe I can stop the sale by remote control.
She returned to the phone booth. It was just after seven o’clock in Boston. Her lawyer, Patrick “Mac” MacBride, would be at home. She gave the operator his number.
Mac was the man her brother should have been. When Sean died, Mac had stepped in and taken care of everything: the inquest, the funeral, the will, and Nancy’s personal finances. He had been marvelous with the boys, taking them to ball games, turning up to see them in school plays, and advising them on college and careers. At
