"Hotel Denechaud," she said as the driver held the door and she swung her feet in primly, not showing an inch of the hem of her slip, her backseam stockings absolutely straight.
They'd better be. The Hotel Denechaud was everything the name promised, one of the finest hotels in the United States. It wasn't enough to say that it was a model of Edwardian grace. No, it was working hard at being a palace. The enormous columns of Italian marble holding up frescoed ceilings trimmed in gilt and hung with enormous chandeliers dangling with Czech crystals were just the beginning. That didn't even begin to encompass the Louis XV statuary, the gilt cherubs, or the marble balustrade trimmed with onyx and bronze ormolu. It was really, Stasi thought, a bit much. Well, perhaps not for a casino in Monte Carlo, but since she'd never actually been in the casinos in Monte, maybe even there?
The desk clerk looked her up and down as she approached, his back stiffening. Of course. Her dress and hat were quite ordinary, not at all appropriate for the Hotel Denechaud. "Can I help you, madam?" he asked, his lower lip all but dripping with disdain.
"I do hope so!" Stasi gushed, letting a bit more of her accent out. "I'm the wife of one of the pilots in the Great Passenger Derby, and I just arrived by train to meet him. I'd like to go ahead and check in, if I may."
"Ah." That syllable encompassed a world of comprehension. It enclosed fully the understanding of why a woman of such markedly modest means would set foot in the Denechaud.
"It's a lovely hotel," Stasi said sweetly, looking wide-eyed at the chandeliers. "I'm sure we'll enjoy staying here so much."
"Of course," he said, consulting his books. "And what name is it, madam?"
"Mrs. Mitchell Sorley," Stasi said. She laid the paper on the counter, picture uppermost and gave the desk clerk a flat smile. "He doesn't know I came to join him. I hope you won't tell him when he checks in. I'd like it to be…" her eyes flicked to the picture, Alma's arm around Mitch's waist, "a surprise."
"I quite understand, Mrs. Sorley," the desk clerk said. She could almost see the dollar signs floating over his head. A nice little brouhaha of the wife showing up would be worth something to the reporters. He handed her the key. "I hope you enjoy your visit."
"Thank you," Stasi said. "I'm sure I will." She tucked the key into her handbag. "Oh, and is there a telephone I might use?"
"To the left, madam," he said, far too well trained to point.
"Thank you." It was an elaborate Edwardian phone booth, dark walnut panels and a door with glass panes that closed. She shut it carefully and asked for the exchange, waited until it picked up. "Mr. Lanier?"
"Yes?" His voice was genial.
"This is Miss Ivanova," Stasi said. "I wanted to let you know that I plan to deliver your necklace to you tonight."
Lewis made his way to the lobby, leaving Alma still in the bath. It was cloudy out, and when he stopped at the desk, the clerk reported that the Weather Bureau was predicting rain. Not storms, Lewis thought, glancing at what he could see of the sky through the open doors, but low clouds and probably rain: not a fun day for flying.
Jerry was ahead of him in the dining room, sitting at a table set for four, coffee in one hand and the morning paper folded in the other. He put it down at Lewis’s approach, turning it over as though to hide something, and Lewis frowned. There was something odd about Jerry — he looked washed out, like a man whose fever has broken, but the waiter arrived, bearing coffee in a silver pot, and the vision vanished. Lewis accepted the coffee gratefully, and looked at the paper.
“What’s up?”
“Where’s Alma?” Jerry asked.
“Getting dressed,” Lewis answered. He reached across the table for the paper. Jerry made a face, but didn’t stop him. Lewis turned it over, to see a photograph of Jerry draping the fur coat around Alma’s shoulders, himself and Mitch in the background looking startled. Well, Mitch looked startled, Lewis thought. He himself was frowning again, and looked almost annoyed. The caption read, “Mrs. Lewis Segura claims another trophy in the Great Passenger Derby.”
“Oh, boy,” he said.
Jerry lit a cigarette, shaking the match out with vigor. “Yeah. Al is not going to like that.”
“No.” Lewis refolded the pages and handed it back across the table. “Did you have to give her the coat right then?”
“What else was I going to do with it?” Jerry asked. “I’d look damned silly in a mink.”
Lewis felt himself blushing — no, Jerry wasn’t that sort of man at all — and looked up gratefully as the waiter arrived with their orders. He reached for his fork, and another shadow fell across the table.
“Mr. Segura and Doctor Ballard.”
It was Carmichael again, and in spite of knowing better Lewis scowled. The reporter grinned back at him. His eyes were bloodshot and his suit was crumpled, but he was clearly still going strong.
“That’s a heck of a nice coat, Doc. I’m sure Mrs. Segura appreciates it.” His eyes were on Lewis as he spoke, and Lewis bit back a curse.
“As I said before, this is a team effort,” Jerry said. If you didn’t know him, Lewis thought, you’d think he was completely calm. “Mrs. Segura is the only one of us who could get any use out of that prize.”
“How do you feel about that, Mr. Segura?” Carmichael rested both hands on the back of the empty chair, and Lewis repressed the urge to kick it. “Your wife getting presents — well, not exactly from strangers —”
“Ok, that’s enough.” Lewis shoved back his chair, came to his feet with his fists clenched. “You’ve got no business insinuating things like that, and if you do it again, I’ll knock your block off.”
He was bigger than Carmichael, but not by much, wasn’t at all sure what he was going to do if the reporter didn’t back off. To his relief, Carmichael straightened.
“What’s to insinuate? I just report the facts.”
“For Winchell to repeat,” Jerry said, and for a second Carmichael’s face darkened.
“I’ve got a byline of my own, Doc, don’t forget it.” He swung away, and nearly collided with Mitch and Alma. That brought a new grin to the reporter’s face, and he tipped his hat without sincerity. “Mrs. Segura, Mr. Sorley. Good to see you joining the party.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Mitch demanded, but Carmichael was already gone.
“Problems?” Alma asked, and Lewis held her chair for her.
“Nothing we haven’t already heard,” he said.
Jerry started to slide the paper out of sight, but Alma caught it.
“Let me see.”
“Al,” Lewis began, and Jerry shrugged.
“Go right ahead.”
Alma turned it over, her frown deepening.
“Maybe I’ll just head back to my room,” Jerry began, and Alma gave him a look.
“You will not. You’ll stay right here, and we’ll all have breakfast together. Like the friendly team we are.”
“Do I want to know?” Mitch asked.
“No,” Lewis said, and Alma handed the paper across the table.
“Oh,” Mitch said. He passed the paper to Jerry, who folded it again and tucked it in his lap. “Al, I’m sorry —”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Alma said. Her voice was grim. “And as long as we act like there isn’t, the papers won’t have a leg to stand on.”
“There’s something else,” Jerry said, lowering his voice. “Henry’s necklace — we need to do something about it. The damned thing is dangerous.”
“We know that, Jerry,” Alma said.
Lewis winced. They should probably try to tie it up in some more complicated working, some sort of protective spell of their own —
“There’s no time for that,” Mitch said, echoing his thought, and Alma nodded.
“We’ll give it to Henry in New Orleans and let him deal with it. There’s nothing else we can do right now.”
She forced a smile as the waiter approached, gave her order in a voice as brittle as it was bright. Mit
ch glanced at his menu, frowning over the decision, and Lewis looked at Jerry, who gave a tiny shrug. It wasn’t true, the papers would continue to have a field day with the gossip no matter what they did: a woman in charge had to be mannish or a vamp, and nobody could call Alma mannish. Everything any of them did, no matter how innocent, was going to be seen through that lens.
“Gilchrist Aviation! Smile for the Democrat, folks!”
Lewis looked up, annoyed, and the flashbulb went off almost in his face. Alma gave a smile that didn’t hide her anger.
“I’m sure you’d get much better pictures if you’d give us a little warning.”
“That’s ok, Mrs. Segura,” the photographer said, backing away. “I got the picture I need.”
“I just bet you did,” Jerry muttered, and ground out his cigarette with extra force.
“Fine,” Alma said. She picked up her knife again, looking as though she wanted to stab someone with it. Mitch cleared his throat, gave her a meaningful look, and she shifted her grip to something less threatening. “All right. From now on, everyone smiles.”
Mitch slumped in the back of the bus, wishing he could shake whatever was bothering him. Outside the window, crepe paper bunting waved damply in the breeze, courtesy of the girls of Little Rock High, and he was vaguely sorry for them. Their efforts deserved a better day than this, low cloud and a chill, intermittent drizzle. Maybe it was just the weather, he told himself. Maybe he was just reasonably anxious about flying into a strange airfield — a strange, short airfield with a sod runway — on a wet day. Not to mention that navigation was going to be a treat… No, he couldn’t convince himself that this was any ordinary worry.
The problem was, he wasn’t worried — didn’t feel a whole lot of anything, really. It was as though he was caught in fog, as though there was a veil between him and the world. He almost wished for a headache or chills or the sniffles, anything to make it possible to believe this was just something physical, an illness coming on.
Coming down with a cold didn’t make you behave like a jerk, though, and he’d been a jerk last night. He’d been unpleasant to Miss Gray, and he’d been rude to McIsaac, though for the life of him, he couldn’t remember why. He braced himself against the edge of the seat as the bus rounded a corner, concentrating on the way the metal resisted his strength, the tightness in his muscles as he pushed back. He hadn’t been that drunk, hadn’t been drunk at all, not on two cocktails, not even knocking them back the way he had. What the hell had they been talking about?
It came back to him then — New Orleans, the New Orleans Axeman — and he relaxed with a sigh. Ok, not a nice thing, but at least he’d remembered. And he supposed that explained why he’d been in a bad mood. Girls could be the worst ghouls sometimes. Maybe that was what had bothered him.
Alma elbowed him, and he jumped, turned to see her forehead creased with concern.
“Are you ok?” She kept her voice low, barely audible above the rumble of the bus’s engine. “Lewis or I can take this leg if you need.”
Mitch hesitated. Maybe it made sense, feeling as weird as he did. The weather was— well, not precisely bad, but the ceiling was low, and there was a good chance they’d be flying by dead reckoning at least part of the way. Maybe he should let Lewis take over. Except this was his job. “No,” he said, before he’d realized he’d made up his mind. “I’m fine, Al. Just a little tired.”
“I’d rather have you rested for the last leg,” Alma said. “There’s no need to push yourself right now.”
Mitch forced a smile. It felt stiff, but Alma seemed to relax. “You or Lewis can take Pensacola,” he said. “That’ll give me plenty of rest.”
“I want you for the mail drop,” Alma said. “That’s your baby. You’ve done it a hundred times.”
Mitch forced himself to pay attention. The New Orleans-to-Pensacola section of the race was a pure stunt run, a short timed leg between the two cities in the morning, and then a pylon race in the afternoon. If that wasn’t bad enough, each plane had to make a mail drop at some point in their ten laps, fastest time to win. Bonus points for accuracy. It was the sort of thing he could do in the Terrier pretty much in his sleep — which might be a good thing, if he couldn’t pull himself together. He shook his head. If he didn’t feel better, Lewis could do it. Or Alma. Either one of them was more than capable of it. But in the meantime, he wanted to fly today.
“So you take half this leg,” he said. “That’ll be a couple hours for each of us, and I’ll be fine.”
“All right,” Alma said. She leaned forward to see past him, scanning the still-damp street. “I think maybe it’s clearing?”
The bus pulled up in back of the terminal, on the runway side where the stands had been erected. They were close to full in spite of the damp, and as they climbed out he saw more people on the roof of the terminal. The race was certainly living up to its publicity. Ahead of him, Alma stopped to listen to a reporter’s question, Lewis at her side. Mitch ducked past them, following the porters with their suitcases, and escaped into the safety of the hangar. It was quieter there, the smell of gas and machinery steadying, and he opened up the Terrier, unlocking the baggage compartment for the porters and folding down the cabin steps. He double-checked the baggage compartment once the porters were gone and carefully re-locked it, then climbed into the cockpit and settled himself at the controls.
He ought to begin the preflight, but he couldn’t seem to make himself move. Instead, he stared blindly through the windscreen, not really seeing the TWA team busy across the hangar. He felt as though he was caught in a downdraft, as thought the bottom had dropped out of the sky and taken his stomach with it. He wanted — well, he couldn’t say exactly what he did want, but he didn’t want to go to New Orleans.
The realization shocked him back to himself, and he reached for the clipboard, shaking his head. That was ridiculous. He’d never even been to the city, there was no reason for the wave of reluctance that washed over him. Maybe it was something he’d eaten, or maybe he was coming down with something — maybe he should let Alma fly today.
He considered that for a moment, then shook his head. The Terrier was his baby, and this was a straight speed run, no need to worry about fuel consumption. Better he take the controls and let Alma do the dead reckoning — she was better at it than he was. And then he could rest up in New Orleans. He could always skip the party that had been laid on for the competitors and get a good night’s sleep — they were staying at the fanciest hotel in the city, the rooms ought to be something else. He’d be good for the pylons then, and for his share of the last leg into Coconut Grove.
He glanced over his shoulder as the cockpit door opened, and Alma slipped into the seat beside him, one hand full of flimsies from the Weather Bureau.
“Any good news?” he asked, and Alma grinned.
“Well, no bad news, anyway. Clouds and drizzle all the way, but it’s not a front, so we shouldn’t have thunderstorms to worry about. The ceiling’s only 800 feet here, but it’s supposed to lift by the time we get to New Orleans.”
“Could be worse,” Mitch agreed, and began the start-up procedure.
They were first out, trundling out onto the soggy runway to the approval of the crowd. Mitch could see them waving and clapping as he turned the Terrier into the wind, lining her up on the runway.
“Flag,” Alma said, and he opened the throttle, feeling the engines roar up to speed. The Terrier lifted easily, and he banked wide over the field, settling onto the heading that would take them to New Orleans.
To Alma’s relief, the ceiling stayed high enough that they never had to resort to dead reckoning. She took over the controls after the first hour, settling just below the cloud deck; the air was rough, but not unbearably so. They hit harder rain near Greenville, flying in and out of sudden downpours that rattled on the cabin and momentarily obscured the windscreen, but by then they were following the Mississippi, and even the rain couldn’t hide that landmark. The weather cleared
as they approached Vicksburg, but she stayed on the line of the river for a little longer, until she was sure the clearing was going to last, before striking off cross country. Mitch had the list of landmarks ready, calling them off as they approached, and by then the ceiling was almost 1300 feet. She lifted the Terrier again, gaining the better view, and at last she saw the wooden beacon tower that marked New Orleans Airport.
Of course, it started to rain again, not hard, but a thin sprinkling that would make the sod runway thoroughly slick under the tires. She swore under her breath, hoping the rain wouldn’t actually reach the ground, but it still streaked the windshield as she put the Terrier into a gentle descent.
“Want me to take it?” Mitch asked, and she risked a glance at him. He was looking better, his color and expression more normal than it had been, and she suppressed a grimace. It wasn’t that she couldn’t, she was perfectly capable — but this was his baby. He was the one with the most hours in the Terrier, and there was no point risking a stupid accident. It was one thing to lose a race through bad luck; she’d be damned before she’d lose it to a mistake.
“Yes,” she said, and circled the field, gaining a little height while they made the switch.
Once Mitch had the controls, she leaned against the window. The field’s flagman was out, signaling that they were good to land. She pointed, and Mitch banked the heavy plane, lining it up on the longest of the two runways. It was still spitting rain as they came down, trails of liquid crawling along the window, and the Terrier rocked in the unstable air. Mitch controlled it easily, shedding speed until they were almost stalling, set the Terrier down with a thump and a bounce before it finally settled. Alma felt the brakes catch and the tires slide and grip and slide again before they finally caught. Mitch let them run the full length of the runway, bleeding speed to nothing, before he turned and began the slow progress back to the terminal.
Alma took a deep breath. She could have done that, yes. She knew her limits, and that landing was within them, but — Mitch was so damn good. She tapped his shoulder lightly, won a quick glance and a fleeting smile.
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 53