Glory Boys (52 page)

‘OK Arnie, thanks anyway. Any case, I’d prefer her to smash up in a storm than just rot away.’

‘Yeah.’

‘But still…’

‘I know.’

‘OK, anyway, you’ve got stuff to do. So long.’

‘Yeah, so long.’

Hueffer hung up.

The hangar filled with silence and the unstirring air. Up in Jacksonville, Pen was in danger, running for her life. In Marion, Abe was about to take to the skies, hoping to snatch her up and away. And here in Miami, Arnie Hueffer’s work was done. He moved along the silent workbenches, straightening things out, replacing tools, his cherished friends. Quietly, not seeming to rush, but quickly all the same, he found his hat and coat, went to the door of the hangar and slipped quietly away.

110

The train pulled into Washington at four o’clock on that bright March afternoon, with the sun still heaping gold on the buildings and monuments. Willard felt what every patriotic American ought to feel. A glow. An expectation. A sense of an all-American promise being abundantly fulfilled. In the rush and bustle of Manhattan, it was possible to forget all that was best about America. But not here. Not in Washington.

Willard was met off the train by a suave executive from Thornton Ordnance. The man, Henry Geddes, was only a year or two older than Willard, but the man’s demeanour – something between an international diplomat and a senior civil servant – gave him the air of a man two decades older again.

‘A good journey, I hope?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘It all depends on whom one is obliged to travel with. I always seem to get the nervous old ladies. Either that or the pot-bellied snorers.’

‘It was OK. It wasn’t like that.’

‘Excellent.’ Geddes’ tone of voice somehow implied it was Willard’s fault that he’d ended his journey with nothing to complain about. ‘I have a car waiting. You’ll want to freshen up before meeting your father.’

‘Yes. Where are we … am I…?’

Geddes ignored Willard’s question as he eased through a crowd to a silver-grey Buick with a uniformed chauffeur sitting at the wheel. Geddes waved Willard into the car then got in on the other side.
Velvety.
Geddes was velvety and everything he did was velvety too. That was OK if you liked velvet. Willard didn’t.

He tried again. ‘You mentioned a meeting with Father. He’s coming to the hotel is he, or…?’

Geddes had produced a white envelope from his pocket and held it up. ‘The details you need are here. This car is yours for the duration of your stay, as is Gregory here –’ The chauffeur caught Willard’s eye in the mirror and nodded slightly, but was otherwise completely impassive. ‘We’ve found a suite for you at the Jefferson. It wasn’t our first choice, but its suites are first-class. Please call the Firm’s offices if we can help in any way. Opera tickets, excursions, dinner reservations, anything. The Firm has a fine tradition of hospitality, so please try us out.’

Willard nodded, suddenly unsure of which Firm Geddes was talking about. Thornton Ordnance or Powell Lambert? Willard had assumed that Geddes belonged to Thornton Ordnance’s discreet lobbying organisation, but he was suddenly unsure. There was something in the way he spoke about ‘the Firm’ that was somehow reminiscent of Powell Lambert. Perhaps the two organisations crossed over from time to time. Willard was about to ask, when he saw that Geddes had put the envelope away again, sat back in his seat and had turned to look out of the window. Willard closed his mouth and did the same.

Washington!

The city’s spell descended. Fragments of history learned as a schoolboy came rushing back.
‘We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal
…’ Here in Washington the words from the Declaration of Independence took on a new and deeper resonance. Willard’s lips actually moved as he continued the recitation in his head. ‘
That they are endowed by their Creator with
certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness…’

The driver took them up Constitution Avenue towards the Lincoln Memorial, now glowing orange-pink in the late afternoon sun. Willard craned forward to look.

‘You’ve been in Washington before, of course,’ said Geddes.

‘No. Never.’

‘Really?’ Geddes’ answer was theoretically polite, but his tone somehow implied that Willard had just admitted to something shameful – like being Jewish or having an uncle living in a tin shack in Alabama. Willard wondered how Geddes would sound if he punched him full force in the mouth. Mushy? Soggy? Not so goddamned velvety.

They drew level with the Lincoln Memorial. ‘
Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal
…’ Lincoln’s Gettysburg address boomed through Willard’s mind like half-remembered gunfire.

‘The statue’s such a pity, don’t you think?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You were looking at the Memorial,’ said Geddes. ‘I think Lincoln must have been one of the ugliest men ever born. Personally, I’d have dispensed with the statue.’

The conversation sputtered out. The Buick rolled forwards through city traffic until they arrived at the Jefferson. Geddes saw Willard out of the car, then wished him a good stay and handed over the white envelope. It was typical of Geddes that he could hold a largish envelope in his jacket pocket throughout a longish car journey, then produce it utterly uncreased, unmarked, and gleaming new. Geddes left. Gregory, the chauffeur, let Willard know how to reach him, then the Buick slid away too.

Up in his suite, Willard sat on his bed and opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, Thornton Ordnance stationery, with a handwritten note from his father.

‘Dear son, I’m delighted to catch you in town. I shall be in the Senate Library from seven. I’ll let the people there know to expect you. Your father, Junius.’

The Senate Library! The private sanctum of the country’s most senior lawmakers. The holy heart of the holy city.

111

Pen stood by the window, sipping slowly from a cup of coffee.

From her vantage point she was able to survey the street outside, including a parked car – a Ford sedan, with a single man inside. At this distance, she couldn’t make out much, but the man had been there for an hour already and hadn’t moved once. People didn’t do that. No one just goes to a place to sit doing nothing. They have a reason. Maybe they’re waiting for someone. Waiting to pick them up, to give them a kiss, to give them a ride. Or to kill them.

Pen felt nauseous and giddy. As a pilot, she had accepted a high degree of risk. She was a stand-out participant in a pastime which killed a significant proportion of its adherents. But they were risks she knew and understood. The threat represented by the assassin outside was of a totally different nature. What if he had a sadistic streak? What if, where women were concerned, he liked to violate them before murdering them? The thought of dying was bad. The thought of a strange man’s fingers touching her with lust and violence was utterly repugnant. She reeled back from the window.

She needed to get out.

That was certain. There were two exits from the bank. One at the front, which gave onto the street outside and the fat assassin. There was a second one at the back, which might also be watched. But there was a third option. A flight of stairs led up to a couple of offices and a stationery room on the first floor. From the window at the head of the stairs, Pen had seen a flat roof and the possibility of escape.

But first: a dilemma.

If she ran, she’d save her skin but lose everything that she and Abe and Arnie and poor Brad Lundmark had worked to achieve. Nobody would blame her, but her failure would still be total. Or she could do this. She could try to snatch the bank documents that Haggerty McBride had asked for. She knew where they were. She had the keys. She was literally just a matter of yards away from the documents that would link Marion to New York, Cuban booze to Powell Lambert.

It was dangerous, foolish, but she knew she had to try.

On the street outside, the light glittered with unhealthy intensity. Pen felt sweaty and warm, but also calm. Suddenly calm. She went up to Rogers’ door, knocked and entered.

‘Ah, Miss Torrance, Sarah! Yes?

‘Sorry to bother you, sir, only it’s this Southern Fruit Growers account.’

‘Yes?’

The Southern Fruit Growers was one of the bank’s major accounts, and the client had been kicking up a fuss recently over a string of interest charges.

‘I’ve just had them on the phone,’ Pen lied. ‘They seemed very upset about their latest statement.’ She began a confusing and hard-to-follow explanation of the customer’s complaint.

‘Yes, yes, Sarah, you need to try to get things in order. What exactly were they asking us for?’

‘I don’t exactly know, sir. They just seemed quite upset. I wonder if this is the kind of thing you need to talk over with Mr Ashley …?’ Mr Ashley was the head of the bank and Mr Rogers’ boss.

‘Yes… yes, this has gone on long enough. Lord’s sakes! If it’s not one thing after another!’ Rogers stared at Pen, looked suddenly uncomfortable, then spoke with excessive sharpness. ‘Thank you. That will be all. You’ve work to do.’

‘Yes sir.’

Pen turned and went, but only down the corridor to the water fountain. Rogers left soon after her. He knocked at Mr Ashley’s door, then went inside. Instantly Pen turned.

She was still calm, but calm in the way that she was when racing planes. She only had a minute or two but – to a pilot used to making a racing turn in an open cockpit at two hundred miles an hour – a minute or two can seem like all eternity, run slow.

She let herself into Rogers’ office, duplicate keys in hand, not knowing which of the keys was the right one. She tried the first key. Her hand was steady. The key didn’t jitter or shake, it just slid steadily in. Pen turned. She could feel the tumblers inside catch and begin to turn. And stop.

She didn’t get rattled, knowing that if Abe had been there he wouldn’t have been rattled either. She felt his presence. A smell of leather and sunshine, oil and soap; something quiet, strong, and reassuring. But the thought didn’t slow her down. She tried a second key, which didn’t even enter the lock, then a third which entered easily, turned the tumblers without difficulty. The steel drawer slid open with a hollow metallic boom.

The drawer was precisely ordered, precisely labelled. Thank God for Mr Rogers! Thank God for his fussy vanity, his prissy orderliness. The ledgers that Pen needed were in the second drawer down, marked ‘Money transfers in’. Pen took them, all four of them. She opened one at random and checked to make sure that the data she needed was there. And it was. Money coming in from Powell Lambert. The name cropped up again, then again, then three more times on the same page.

Booze flowing from Havana to Marion, from Marion to every last corner of the United States. And now here was the money, flowing the other way, the trail that would lead the whole rotten business to the courthouse and the prison.

She left quickly, holding the ledgers. Crazily, she had an impulse to go back to her desk, to gather up her things, as she always did at the end of a day. She thrust the impulse away and ran up to the first floor. The window at the top of the stairs was stiff. Pen put her hands to it and heaved. The heavy frame shot up with a bang. Pen bundled herself out onto the tarred roof, lugging her ledgers after her.

The afternoon heat squatted like a dumb animal. The air vibrated with it. The lemon-yellow light had a dangerous intensity. Pen couldn’t, from where she was, see the storm clouds coming in, but she hadn’t forgotten Arnie’s warning. In any case, as a pilot, she could feel weather. Her skin was a barometer, her brain a map of the sky above.

She ran across the roof, keeping her body low. She was wearing her Sarah Torrance kit: neat white secretarial blouse, long blue skirt, stockings, flat shoes. It had been OK as a means of disguise. The long skirt and slippery shoes were worse than lousy as an outfit with which to run from armed and purposeful killers. She came to the parapet at the roof’s edge and looked down. There was a drop of ten feet down to a heap of builder’s rubble. She threw her ledgers down, then slid down after them. She landed safely, but scraped her belly on the wall and pinpricks of blood dotted her blouse. She didn’t care. She picked up her books, lost a shoe between two blocks of concrete, fished for it, found it. She ran across the lot, trying to look like a busy secretary, not a desperate fugitive.

And in a second she was free: out on the streets of Jacksonville, in the dense light of the gathering storm.

112

Willard was showered, changed, combed, shaved. He looked a million dollars. He looked like a flying ace turned movie star turned banker. He was head-turningly handsome and he knew it. But he didn’t know how to get to the Senate Library. As casually as possible, he called his chauffeur.

‘Gregory, I’m going to need to run along to the Senate Library this evening. Around seven o’clock, that sort of thing. I was just wondering the best way to –’

‘I’ll take you to the north entrance, sir. Mr Thornton will have a man waiting there to take you through. I’d suggest you come down about a quarter of.’

Willard was relieved at Gregory’s competence, but tried not to show it. He had fifty minutes to kill. He wanted a drink, but didn’t know how to get one. He called room service and asked for soda water. When the boy came, Willard took the drink and sipped crossly.

‘Jesus, this doesn’t taste right,’ he exclaimed, using a well-worn Prohibition gambit.

‘The hotel doesn’t allow liquor on the premises, sir,’ said the boy impassively – and, in theory, unnecessarily given that liquor was permitted nowhere in the United States of America.

‘Of course not.’

Willard and the boy sized each other up.

‘Look, I wouldn’t usually ask, but –’

‘What d’you want? I got everything.’

‘Can you mix a martini?’