and the weather is calm. You couldn’t pick a better moment.”
Harry had been hoping he would say that. He stood up and looked expectantly at Membury. “Shall we?”
Membury looked as if he were about to refuse. He was not the type to be easily bullied. On the other hand, it might seem churlish to refuse to go and see the flight deck; and perhaps Membury would not want to seem disagreeable. After a moment’s hesitation, he got to his feet, saying: “By all means.”
Harry led him forward, past the kitchen and the men’s room, and turned right, mounting the twisting staircase. At the top he emerged onto the flight deck. Membury was right behind him.
Harry looked around. It was nothing like his picture of the cockpit of an airplane. Clean, quiet and comfortable, it looked more like an office in a modem building. Harry’s dinner companions, the navigator and the engineer, were not present, of course, as they were off duty; this was the alternative shift. However, the captain was here, sitting behind a small table at the rear of the cabin. He looked up, smiled pleasantly and said: “Good evening, gentlemen. Would you like to look around?”
“Sure would,” said Harry. “But I gotta get my camera. Is it okay to take a picture?”
“You bet.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He hurried back down the stairs, pleased with himself but tense, too. He had got Membury out of the way for a while, but his search would have to be very quick.
He returned to the compartment. One steward was in the galley and the other in the dining room. He would have liked to wait until both were busy serving at tables, so that he could feel confident they would not pass through the compartment for a few minutes; but he did not have time. He would just have to take a chance on being interrupted.
He pulled Lady Oxenford’s bag out from under her seat. It was too big and heavy for a cabin bag, but she probably did not carry it herself. He put it on the seat and opened it. It was not locked: that was a bad sign—even she was not likely to be so innocent as to leave priceless jewelry in an unlocked case.
All the same he rummaged through it quickly, watching out of the comer of his eye in case anyone should walk in. There was scent and makeup, a silver brush-and-comb set, a chestnut-colored dressing gown, a nightdress, dainty slippers, peach-colored silk underwear, stockings, a sponge bag containing a toothbrush and the usual toiletries, and a book of Blake’s poems—but no jewels.
Harry cursed silently. He had felt this was the likeliest place the suite would be. Now he began to doubt his whole theory.
The search had taken about twenty seconds.
He closed the case quickly and put it back under the seat.
He wondered whether she had asked her husband to carry the jewels.
He looked at the bag under Lord Oxenford’s seat. The stewards were still busy. He decided to push his luck.
He pulled out Oxenford’s bag. It was like a carpetbag, but leather. It was fastened with a zipper at the top, and the zipper had a little padlock. Harry carried a penknife with him for moments such as this. He used the knife to snap the padlock, then unzipped the bag.
As he was rifling through the contents, the little steward, Davy, came through, carrying a tray of drinks from the galley. Harry looked up at him and smiled. Davy looked at the bag. Harry held his breath and kept his frozen smile. The steward passed on into the dining room. He had naturally assumed the bag was Harry’s own.
Harry breathed again. He was a master at disarming suspicion, but every time he did it he was scared to death.
Oxenford’s bag contained the masculine equivalent of what his wife was carrying: shaving tackle, hair oil, striped pajamas, flannel underwear and a biography of Napoleon. Harry zipped it up and replaced the padlock. Oxenford would find it broken and wonder how it had happened. If he was suspicious he would check to see whether anything was missing. Finding everything in place, he would imagine the lock had been faulty.
Harry put the bag back in its place.
He had got away with it, but he was no nearer the Delhi Suite.
It was unlikely the children were carrying the jewels, but, recklessly, he decided to go through their luggage.
If Lord Oxenford had decided to be sly and put his wife’s jewelry in his children’s luggage, he would be more likely to pick Percy, who would be thrilled by the conspiracy, than Margaret, who was disposed to defy her father.
Harry picked up Percy’s canvas holdall and put it on the seat just where he had placed Oxenford’s bag, hoping that if Davy, the steward, passed through again, he would think it was the same bag.
Percy’s things were so neatly packed that Harry was sure a servant had done it. No normal fifteen-year-old boy would fold his pajamas and wrap them in tissue paper. His sponge bag contained a new toothbrush and a fresh tube of toothpaste. There was a pocket chess set, a small bundle of comics and a packet of chocolate biscuits—put there, Harry imagined, by a fond cook or housemaid. Harry looked inside the chess set, riffled through the comics and broke open the biscuit packet, but he found no jewels.
As he was replacing the bag, a passenger walked through on the way to the men’s room. Harry ignored him.
He could not believe Lady Oxenford had left the Delhi Suite behind, in a country that might be invaded and conquered within a few weeks. But she was not wearing it or carrying it, as far as he could tell. If it was not in Margaret’s bag, it had to be in the checked baggage. That would be tough to get at. Could you get into the hold while the plane was in the air? The alternative might be to follow the Oxenfords to their hotel in New York....
The captain and Clive Membury would be wondering how he could take so long to fetch his camera.
He picked up Margaret’s bag. It looked like a birthday present: a small, round-cornered case made of soft cream leather with beautiful brass fittings. When he opened it he smelled her perfume, Tosca. He found a cotton nightdress with a pattern of small flowers, and tried to picture her in it. It was too girlish for her. Her underwear was plain white cotton. He wondered whether she was a virgin. There was a small framed photograph of a boy about twenty-one, a handsome fellow with longish dark hair and black eyebrows, wearing a college gown and a mortarboard hat: the boy who died in Spain, presumably. Had she slept with him? Harry rather thought she might have, despite her schoolgirl underpants. She was reading a novel by D. H. Lawrence. I bet her mother doesn’t know about that, Harry thought. There was a little stack of linen handkerchiefs embroidered “M.O.” They smelled of Tosca.
The jewels were not here. Damn it to hell.
Harry decided to take one of the scented handkerchiefs as a souvenir; and just as he picked it up, Davy passed through carrying a tray stacked high with soup bowls.
He glanced at Harry and then stopped, frowning. Margaret’s bag looked quite different from Lord Oxenford’s, of course. It was plain that Harry could not be the owner of both bags; therefore he had to be looking in other people’s.
Davy stared at him for a moment, obviously suspicious but also frightened of accusing a passenger. Eventually he stammered: “Sir, is that your case?”
Harry showed him the little handkerchief. “Would I blow my nose in this?” He closed the case and replaced it.
Davy still looked worried. Harry said: “She asked me to fetch it. The things we do ...”
Davy’s expression changed and he looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, sir, but I hope you understand—”
“I’m happy you’re on your toes,” Harry said. “Keep up the good work.” He patted Davy’s shoulder. Now he had to give the damn handkerchief to Margaret, in order to lend credence to his story. He stepped into the dining room.
She was at a table with her parents and her brother. He held the handkerchief out to her, saying: “You dropped this.”
She was surprised. “Did I? Thank you!”
“You bet.” He got out fast. Would Davy check his story by asking her whether she had told Harry to fetch her a clean handkerchief? He doubted it.
He went back through his compartment, passed the galley where Davy was stacking the dirty dishes, and climbed the spiral staircase. How the hell was he going to get into the baggage hold? He did not even know where
