A man hurried by, pulling his hat brim down, an abstracted look on his face, and Mitch felt his heart skip. It could be wearing him. It had to be wearing someone. On the unlikely chance that Henry had survived the crash, surely he would be at the center of a firestorm of questions and investigations. Most likely Henry was dead. Either way, it would have jumped. And it could be anyone.
But there was no recognition in the man’s face. His eyes slid past Mitch entirely and he vanished into the crowd.
“It could be anyone,” Alma said at his elbow and Mitch jumped a half mile. She gave him a wan smile.
“How was your trip?” Mitch asked. Jerry was coming down the platform toward them, moving about as stiffly as Mitch thought he looked.
“Well enough. And you?”
“Fine,” Mitch said.
Jerry joined them, his face nearly gray. “Do you suppose there’s any chance of breakfast? Or lunch? It’s noon and I haven’t eaten.”
“None of us have,” Mitch said. “Let’s find an exchange so I can change a ten and we’ll get something to eat.”
Alma glanced down the platform. Porters had rushed out to carry bags and now the disappointed ones were approaching people who obviously didn’t need them asking to carry bags. She gave one of them a fish eye and he backed off. “I think we probably got out of Le Havre ahead of it,” she said.
Jerry nodded, his voice low. “I didn’t see anyone else at the station when we left who looked like they’d come straight from the crash site. Even the rescuers would be sandy or wet if nothing else.”
“Probably a rescuer, not a passenger,” Alma said thoughtfully.
Jerry nodded. “More resources. Most of the passengers won’t have ready money or passports, and certainly aren’t going to be able to leave for a while.”
Lewis had joined them, coming and standing behind Alma, not quite touching. The cut on his head had stopped bleeding and he’d washed, but with a day’s growth of beard and the fresh cut he looked like a deadly ruffian, a man to be given a wide berth. “How many of the passengers do you think survived?”
Alma saw Mitch’s mouth tighten and gave him a quick glance. “More than would have without Mitch,” she said. “There are a couple of dozen people alive in Le Havre this morning who would be dead now otherwise.”
Mitch felt his chest unclench and he nodded stiffly.
“That’s a win,” Alma said gently, “And not a little one for them and everyone who loves them.”
“Yeah,” Mitch said. He’d take it that way. There was no point in dwelling on Federman or Brooks or any of the others. No point in dwelling on Henry. He’d think instead of the others, the white jacketed waiter, his dark skinned face seamed with blood from a cut on his head, carrying an unconscious woman out of the observation car, the pretty starlet with someone’s crying child in her arms. Waiter and starlet both had people at home, people who would not have telegrams and tears, and at last a memorial service beside an empty coffin for someone lost at sea. He’d call it a win.
Jerry put his hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go find some lunch,” he said.
The Café des Pyramides had not gone up in the world since the War. When Jerry was a student it had hardly been particularly salubrious, and now they blended in far too well with the midday clientele. That would have been more encouraging, Jerry thought, if he hadn’t overheard the waiters muttering to each other as he made his way back from the cabinets. They had decided, however, that if Lewis was a wanted man, it was better to keep serving him peacefully, and try to get the reward later, so Jerry thought they were safe for now. No need to mention that to the others, though.
He settled himself back at the table — far enough in the shadowed back of the café that their presence wouldn’t discourage the other patrons, and added a tot of brandy to his coffee. Mitch was drinking his neat, and looked like he could use it.
“Ok,” Lewis said, in a lowered voice that wasn’t going to convince anyone of his good intentions. “Now what?”
“Money,” Jerry said, succinctly. And then clean clothes, a valise to make them respectable, and a plan. He wasn’t sure what he could do about the rest, but he was pretty sure he could get them cash. Lewis blinked, then unbuckled the strap of his wristwatch and slid it across the table.
“Ah,” Mitch said, and did the same. He fumbled in his pockets, and came up with a silver penknife as well, slipped a gold signet ring from his finger.
“If I had any sense, I’d wear earrings,” Alma said. She handed over her watch, and reached for the chain that held her wedding ring and the amulet.
“Not the ring,” Lewis said, and Mitch nodded agreement.
“The chain, then,” Alma said. “It’s gold.”
Jerry hesitated, but they would need every franc he could raise. And, God willing, they would redeem it all in the end. Four watches, his watch fob and chain, Alma’s chain and the penknife…. It would have to do. He swept everything into his pocket, and pushed his chair back.
Lewis looked at him. “You know a reliable pawn shop? I like that watch.”
“This is Paris,” Jerry said. “We’re going to need a little help.”
“I’ll come with you,” Alma said. She glanced at Lewis, who gave her the smallest of nods.
“We’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Jerry said. “Stay here, and try not to get into any trouble.”
Mitch gave him a tired grin. “Not much chance of that,” he said.
The studio was only a Metro stop away, and a few blocks further down a narrow side street. Jerry hadn’t remembered the cobbles as being this uneven, but then, he hadn’t been back in Paris since he’d lost his leg. He hadn’t really thought about the three flights of stairs up to Paul’s garret, either, but he tipped his hat to acknowledge Mme. Flammand’s snarl of greeting, and started up the first flight. Alma followed, with a wary glance over her shoulder.
“I hope her bark is worse than her bite.”
“It never used to be.”
Jerry was sweating by the time they reached the top floor, and his stump was starting to burn again. He rapped on the studio door with more force than he’d intended, and it was flung open in his face, a squat bear of a man scowling out at him.
“I told you —” He stopped abruptly, the glare turning to a grin. “Jerry? I thought you were in America for good.”
“So did I,” Jerry said, and they embraced.
Nothing had changed, Jerry thought, except for the one thing that mattered. Paul Vallerand now wore a patch over his right eye, and tinted glasses over that. He touched his cheek below his own eye. “You never thought to mention this.”
Vallerand shrugged. “What was there to say? The war was hell for everyone.”
“Your work?”
“I lose depth perception, I gain a new sense of composition,” Vallerand said, and the boundless enthusiasm was there, unchanged. “Wait till you see. Look, together you and I make one entire pirate.”
Jerry laughed in spite of himself. “Paul, you’re mad.”
“And this surprises you? But who is the lady?”
Jerry made the introductions quickly, and Vallerand waved his hand toward the back of the studio. A lanky redhead was sitting on the edge of a worktable, smoking, and an exquisitely posed model stood on the dais, a length of fabric held to her chest, the rest falling away to leave her back completely nude.
“You remember Robin Beriault,” Vallerand said, and the redhead lifted his cigarette in greeting. “Ok, kid, that’s it for today.”
The model relaxed, wound the fabric deftly around herself — himself, Jerry realized — and slipped behind a screen. “It’s good to see you again, Robin,” he said.
“But what brings you to Paris?” Vallerand asked. “And — forgive me for asking — in this kind of shape. You look dreadful.”
“I need your help,” Jerry said frankly, and Vallerand waved him to a chair. He cleared another for Alma, and pulled over a carved chunk of wood that might have be
en intended for a footstool. The model emerged from behind the screen, a thin, ash-blond youth with an odd elegant face that went badly with his workman’s clothes.
“Tomorrow?” he asked, and Vallerand nodded.
“Same time.”
“Ok,” the boy said, and let himself out.
“So,” Vallerand said, as the door closed behind him. “Are you in trouble?”
“Not yet,” Jerry said. “But I need money and papers for myself and Alma, and I was hoping you could help. We — were in a crash, and lost everything.”
“Money,” Vallerand began, shaking his head, and Jerry shook his head.
“Sorry, that was badly phrased. I need your help pawning some things.”
“Oh, that I can do,” Vallerand said. “Auntie’s always happy to help. But papers —”
“What sort of papers?” Beriault asked, sliding off the table, and Vallerand threw up his hands.
“This is not the war, Robin. They arrest you for things like this.”
Beriault shrugged one shoulder. “If they find out.”
“We need to be able to travel,” Jerry said. “To Italy. Alma speaks Italian, but no French. And you know me. Can you do anything for us?”
Beriault cocked his head to one side. “Yes. Yes, I can make up some identity cards — no, passports — that will work, I think. You’ll have to be British, though. That’s what I have.”
“You promised you weren’t doing that anymore,” Vallerand said.
“I’m not.” Beriault’s face softened. “I swear, Paul. These are just the leftovers. Otherwise I’d have a lot more options.”
Vallerand paused for a moment, then shook his head. “Ok. This once. But, Jerry, if you’re caught —”
“We didn’t get the papers here,” Jerry said. “That’s understood.”
“Ok.” Vallerand took a deep breath. “Ok, then. What have you got for Auntie?”
Jerry reached into his pocket, pulled out the bundle of watches and jewelry. Vallerand spread it out on the worktable and extracted Alma’s chain. “I can’t take that,” he said. “Men can’t pledge ladies’ jewels. You know that.”
“I didn’t. It never came up,” Jerry said, but he handed the chain back to Alma.
“Right,” Vallerand said. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. And in the meantime, Robin can do your passports.”
“Thank you,” Jerry said, and clasped Vallerand’s hand.
“Thank me when you see what I can get you,” the artist answered. “Auntie’s not been as generous as she used to be.”
Beriault was already rummaging in a pile of boxes stacked between the long windows. “Ah, here we are,” he said, and pulled out what looked like a handful of passport folders. “It’ll take me a bit to fill them out and do the stamps. Make yourselves comfortable — have a smoke, have a drink. We’re out of coffee, but there’s wine on the shelf. And you can pour me a glass while you’re at it.”
Jerry did as he was told, poured glasses for each of them, and he and Alma returned to their chairs. He stretched his leg, the stump aching, lifted his glass to Alma. “Salut.”
“To you, too,” she said. “You know some interesting people, Jerry.”
“I knew Paul when I was in school,” Jerry said. “He and Robin had a studio together then. Except Robin was the one with the money, because he was really good at drawing his own.”
“I never did,” Beriault said, without looking up. “Straight forgery only.”
He’d spoken in French, and Jerry translated for Alma’s benefit. “If you say so, Robin. But, anyway, I hoped they’d be able to help us.”
Alma nodded. “I still say you know some interesting types.” She paused. “Why did Mr. Vallerand keep talking about his aunt? I mean, even I know that much French, the plume de ma tante, and all that.”
“Auntie is the Crédit Municipal,” Jerry said. “The city pawnshop. It’s a government monopoly here, Al, and if you want to borrow more than a few francs, you have to show your identity card and proof of residence. Which I don’t have. So Paul will do it for me.”
“Only in France,” Alma said, and took another swallow of her wine. “Is that a Baedeker?”
Beriault waved a hand, and she collected the guidebook, buried herself in the timetables.
The passports were ready and drying in the sun by the time Vallerand returned. He handed over the money — Jerry whistled appreciatively at the amount — and with it a bag with bread and sausage and a bottle of wine. “For the train,” he said, and Alma took a deep breath.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been — you’re being so kind.”
“A pleasure, Madame.” Vallerand flourished a bow. “And one more thing.” He disappeared behind a second, larger screen that hid his bed, returned with a pair of cheap cardboard suitcases. “Props,” he said. “Take them. And perhaps Madame could wear this?”
He held up a plain gray frock, respectable and Parisian, and Alma took it gratefully.
“I could just kiss you, Monsieur.”
Vallerand cocked his head, and Jerry translated. Vallerand laughed. “Please do!”
That didn’t need translation. Alma grinned, and gave him a hug, then vanished behind the screen to change. Vallerand found her pumps as well, and a pair of cotton stockings for later; there was a second-hand store in the next block, a little out of their way, perhaps, but anything else they needed they could probably purchase there.
“Thank you,” Jerry said, and embraced both men.
“Be careful,” Vallerand said. “And tell me the story when it’s over!”
“I’ll do that,” Jerry said, and let them out into the hall. It was awkward, trying to carry a suitcase and maneuver himself down the stairs, and Alma rolled her eyes and took it from him. He started to protest, and made himself stop. He couldn’t afford for his pride to delay them.
The second-hand store was where Vallerand had said, and they bought spare shirts and underwear, then made their way back to the cafe. Lewis and Mitch were still there, the table covered now with the remains of a second meal, and Lewis was glowering at the waiter. Mitch gave them a look of relief, and pulled back his chair.
“Are we ready? These guys were getting a little antsy.”
“We’re ready,” Alma said. “We’ve got a train to catch.”
The train left Gare de Lyon at 6:40, winding its way slowly through suburbs, over iron trestle bridges and brick right of ways, until factories and apartment buildings gave way to trees and houses, branches hanging thick over the track in a canopy of spring leaves. The west slanting sun made a hypnotic play of light across them, flashing over the windows. Lewis put his head against the glass and slept.
He woke to darkness, his mouth feeling as if it had been stuffed with cotton. If he had dreamed he remembered nothing.
“Good morning, sleepy head,” Mitch said. He was sitting on the seat across, only the small side light illuminating the newspaper he was reading. “Or should I say good night? Jerry and Alma wanted to talk without waking you up, so they’re in the other compartment. Or were hours ago. It’s coming up on midnight.”
“Oh,” Lewis said, still trying to get his bearings.
“We could fold the bunks out if you’d like to lie down and get comfortable,” Mitch said.
“Ok.” Lewis got up stiffly and moved things around. The two seats folded into one lower bed while a top bunk pulled down from the wall, also exposing a second window high up.
Mitch moved like an old man, Lewis thought. “If you don’t mind taking the upper…” he said.
“No, that’s fine.” Lewis’ eye fell on the front page of the folded paper. He didn’t read French, but the picture said it all. “Is that….”
“Deadly Airship Crash Kills Fourteen?” Mitch nodded. “That’s Independence. On the front page of the late edition.”
It certainly looked impressive in the picture, the broken body of the airship across the beach, tail section in the water, while French Marines
scrambled over it.
“The Independence, a new American airship en route from New York to Paris, crashed early this morning at Le Havre,” Mitch read aloud, translating as he went. “Fourteen people are confirmed dead, including both of the pilots and three of the engineers. Miraculously, only two of the passengers were killed, Mr. Palmer of Los Angeles, and Mrs. Grogan of New York, who was struck on the head. The other dead include numerous crew members. Four passengers remain missing. ‘It is a miracle,’ said M. Jourdain, President of the Air Safety Commission of France. ‘Given the nature of the catastrophic failure, it is little short of a miracle that all aboard were not killed.’ While initial search and rescue operations were conducted by the Marines of the Cruiser of War Marengo, currently berthed at Le Havre, responsibility has now been taken over by Sûreté.”
Lewis blinked. “Isn’t that police?”
“The equivalent of the Bureau of Investigation,” Mitch said. “Which means they found a bunch of bodies with bullet holes and have a lot of questions about them. Notice they mention Palmer but don’t mention he was shot.”
Lewis nodded slowly.
“Mr. Henry Kershaw, the owner of the airship, remains in critical condition in a Le Havre hospital. Inspector Victor Colbert of Sûreté said, ‘We hope that Mr. Kershaw will soon be able to talk with us and illuminate the circumstances of the accident.’ ”
“Oh boy,” Lewis said.
“I have no idea what he’ll say,” Mitch said. “Except that he won’t say ‘I was possessed by a demon and crashed my own airship.’ ”
“Um, no,” Lewis said. “I take it we’re the four passengers who’re missing?”
“I expect so,” Mitch said, sitting down on the lower berth. “For now they probably assume we were killed and that our bodies are somewhere in the wreckage, or maybe pulled out to sea.”
“For now,” Lewis said. “And then what?”
“I don’t know,” Mitch said. “Show up at the American Embassy in Rome and profess utter amazement that anyone is looking for us? A lot depends on Henry.”
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 29