Flight From Honour

by Gavin Lyall

  She sat down again. “Now tell me more about BSA.”

  “Er, well, they make small arms—”

  “And Daimler automobiles and motor-buses, too. How do they stand with the Government on the arms side? Are they going to buy this new machine-gun?”

  It might seem inconsiderate of her to ask such questions, but neither of them had any shame about prying into each other’s privileged knowledge, leaving the other to draw the line and not taking offence when they did. One of these days, Ranklin knew vaguely, it was going to go horribly wrong, but even without that, their relationship could have no tomorrow. Anyway, the arms trade had few secrets. Once you had a patent on something new, you shouted it from the highest rooftop you could find, and in as many languages as possible.

  “They make a lot of the Army’s rifles, but I haven’t heard of any tests of this new gun. A decision’ll be a long way off.”

  She made a note, then said: “It’ll cost them to tool up for mass production of something like that. Perhaps that’s what the new issue is about . . . I don’t really understand this.” She wrinkled her brow at a paper. “They’re steadily profitable, and I’d guess their shareholders would snap up a new issue with no need for an underwriter.”

  “What does underwriting mean – in this context?”

  “Underwriting share issues is pretty new, and Pops still a bit leery about it. We guarantee them a price by buying whatever shares we can’t sell in the market. So we take the risk and they pay us a commission for it. Only I can’t see a risk here, and that bothers me.”

  “Are most of the other firms you deal with either London or foreign?”

  “I guess so. Why?”

  “Britain isn’t just London and then bits with trees and cows on. This is Birmingham Small Arms, and probably Brummagem caution. They keep their cleverness for shaping bits of metal and play very safe with hard cash.”

  “A belt-and-suspenders town? Thanks, that helps.” She glanced at her wristwatch and scooped up a handful of papers from the floor. “He should be here any moment. You’d best sit by the corner of the table and hand me these papers as I ask for them.”

  Ranklin sat as ordered, coughed drily, tapped the papers into a neat pile with his fingertips and tried to make his boyish face look dour.

  “You’ll do,” Corinna smiled.

  By contrast, Mr Viner of BSA looked cheerful. Even his moustache was cheerful, which Ranklin hadn’t thought possible outside the music halls. It was also ginger and bristly like his hair, and he had light blue eyes and a frequent smile. Ranklin reckoned they were much of an age, but Viner was taller, slimmer and brisk in his movements.

  Along with him came a uniformed chauffeur carrying a box about four and a half feet long, made of polished wood with brass fittings. Assuming that was the machine-gun, it was certainly far lighter than any Ranklin had met. Viner smiled and patted the box. “Our trump card, Mrs Finn. Thank you, Henry, that’s all.” He had an oddly flat voice, as if an accent – Brummie? – had been carefully washed out and nothing found to replace it.

  The chauffeur withdrew, Viner sat down and let Ranklin pour him coffee, while Corinna apologised that her father was incommunicado on a train from Madrid. Viner just smiled boyishly and the conversation spiralled gently into business circles. Money, it seemed, was tight and interest rates up; the latest Hungarian loan had had to guarantee an extra half per cent and that in gold; the Paris market was, well, let’s not talk about that; the Germans are buying gold in South America, I hear; fifty million working days lost to strikes in this country last year . . .

  “But not at BSA.” Viner grabbed the chance to become specific. “Our record is very good indeed – you only have to look at our dividends—”

  “You’ve paid fifteen per cent for the last ten years bar one,” Corinna said, without looking. “Most satisfactory . . . and now you’re issuing three hundred thousand new cumulative B preference – James?” Ranklin passed her what he hoped was the relevant paper; “—thank you . . . paying six per cent, to expand the Daimler factory. But in fact you’ve already done that, so you’re really seeking to replenish your working capital – have I got chat right?”

  “The times being what they are – alas—” the ‘alas’ was very perfunctory; “we expect new orders for rifles at any time now. The Army still hasn’t fully re-equipped with the shorter model Lee-Enfield . . .” Ranklin confirmed this with a slight nod, in case Corinna needed it. “But just let me show you what we’re convinced is the true future . . .”

  He unlocked the box and lifted out a fat-barrelled gun with a conventional rifle stock. Wood and metal gleamed dully in the lamplight and Corinna put on a look of false interest; Ranklin’s was real.

  “This,” Viner said proudly, “is our Secret Weapon. The Lewis aerial machine-gun. Invented by Colonel Lewis, a countryman of yours, Mrs Finn, with – if I may say so – typical Yankee ingenuity. And on which we hold worldwide rights – except in the United States, of course. A real revolution in warfare, not least because of its lightness. A mere twenty-seven pounds fully loaded with a forty-seven-round magazine—” Ranklin had been wondering how you loaded it. Viner reached into the box and brought out what looked like a big cog-wheel and fitted it flat atop the gun; “—so it’s ideal for use from aeroplanes.”

  “You’re going to put that thing on airplanes?” Corinna said.

  Viner seemed surprised, then tried to look apologetic. “That’s progress, Mrs Finn – in this modern world. Actually, we say that just to advertise how light it is. We certainly won’t be limited to the aeronautical market. We expect most of our sales to be for ordinary battlefield use. It can be carried and used by just one man – or woman, if you care to . . .”

  “No thank you. But,” she relented, “I’m sure James would.”

  So for the next few minutes she watched, with decreasing tolerance, as Viner and Ranklin reverted to being little boys. They put the magazine on and off, cocked the action, clicked the trigger; Viner, Ranklin noticed, was religiously careful about pointing the empty gun in a safe direction at all times. He also learned that the Lewis was air-cooled and fired from an open bolt: “An important safety feature,” Viner explained, “since a round doesn’t sit in the hot breech after the gun’s been firing and perhaps ‘cook off as we say.” It also meant you had to make sure both breech and magazine were empty if you wanted to uncock it by pulling the trigger, but as James Spencer, Ranklin didn’t think he should realise that.

  “I think, James,” Corinna said at last, “that Mr Viner came here to talk finance.”

  Viner was immediately the perfect businessman, but Ranklin went on playing, at the risk of sunburn from Corinna’s glare on the back of his neck. There was another, loaded, magazine in the box and he took it out to try its weight, then thumbed one of the cartridges loose. It was the normal .303 Army round. He re-examined the gun and found a Birmingham proof mark.

  “Underwriting share issues is fairly new for us,” Corinna was saying, “and I’m not sure we’d be ready to take the whole amount. But a hundred thousand of it—”

  Viner looked boyishly sad. “We’re very confident about this issue being taken up, and that we’ll be able to place the entire amount through just one house – at four and a half per cent.”

  Ranklin said: “I see you made this particular gun: have you actually gone into production already?”

  “No, we’ve just hand-built half a dozen to demonstrate to our – and other European – armies.”

  Corinna wore a puzzled frown. “Don’t you have any problems selling to armies who . . . well, they could be your enemies next week?”

  Viner misunderstood her concern. “Oh, no. Britain is devoted to Free Trade – in fact, there’s no problem about shipping weapons anywhere in Europe, or further afield. We’ll have no difficulty in fulfilling any export orders – which we confidently expect.”

  Corinna was ready to let the subject drop. Ranklin wasn’t. “Are any particular European count
ries interested?”

  Viner put on a deliberately wan smile. “I’m sure you understand we have to maintain a certain diplomatic silence.”

  “Of course,” Ranklin said, thinking Right, then, I’ll have to find out in my own way. He picked up the gun again, ignored Corinna’s reignited glare, and resumed fiddling with it.

  Viner was saying: “I’m afraid we’re thinking of the whole three hundred thousand or noth—”

  “And I think we’d be more interested at five per cent.”

  Viner got to his feet. “I don’t think we’ll need to go that high.” He took the gun from Ranklin to put back into its box. “I’m sorry your father wasn’t here, Mrs Finn. I think he’d have appreciated rather more—”

  Ranklin said: “It’s still cocked.”

  “Oh? – thank you. I find that men are more ready to—” and he pulled the trigger to uncock the gun.

  The magazine was off, so it was only one shot, but in the partners’ room of a private bank it was louder than Ranklin had expected. But Viner had properly pointed the weapon down and away so only the panelling suffered, though Grandpa’s portrait got a bit of a fright.

  In the ear-ringing silence, somebody said: “Fucking hellsfire,” and it sounded like a woman’s voice, but that was impossible, so Ranklin put it down to his stunned hearing. Then the room was flooded with Sherring employees and he found himself taking charge. “See if there’s any casualties on the far side of that wall. Where’s a place for Mrs Finn to lie down? And I think some brandy would help. No need to call the police just yet. Meanwhile, thank you—” He took the weapon from Viner’s trembling hands, uncocked it again, and laid it in the box.

  “Thank you, James,” Corinna said, her voice shaky. “No, I don’t need to lie down, but brandy sounds a good idea.” Somebody found a decanter and glasses. “The rest of you can go now, the show’s over.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Viner said, his smile long gone. “Somehow a round must have—” He looked at Ranklin, puzzled.

  “Perhaps you’d best stick to percentages.” She took a healthy swig at her glass and shuddered. “Ah, that’s better. Now, where were we? I seem to remember something about us agreeing to underwrite a hundred thousand – at five per cent, wasn’t it? A nice round shilling in the pound. I’m sure you can square that with whoever you find as principal.”

  “I say, five per cent seems a bit—”

  “But with building repair costs the way they are in this modern world, surely that isn’t too unreasonable?” Her voice had firmed up, though her smile was wide and friendly. “Now perhaps you’d get that thing out of here before it declares war again.”

  Ranklin helped Viner pack up the gun and its pieces, then insisted on carrying it downstairs for him. “Quite a change from the usual financial confab,” he puffed cheerfully (it might be lightweight, but was still a machine-gun and the stairs were awkward). “Makes it an afternoon to remember.”

  Ahead of him, Viner was shaking his head. “I feel such a fool . . . And now I’ve got to tell another bank that we’ve already committed a third of the issue. It’s really most awkward. Look, when you had the gun, did you—”

  Ranklin didn’t want to dwell on that. “Considering that you nearly shot the boss’s daughter, I’d say you didn’t do too badly. Silence, as they say, is also golden. Getting back to Continental interest, would that include Italy?”

  Outside on the pavement they found a policeman staring solemnly up at the building. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but somebody reported hearing a gunshot. D’you know anything about that?”

  Viner looked at Ranklin, who said: “In a private bank? I hardly think so, Constable. But these old buildings are very sound-proof and my friend was telling me such interesting things about Italy . . .”

  A little surprised that the short, tubby man in shirt-sleeves who carried big boxes around seemed to be in charge, the policeman said: “It wasn’t from this building, then, sir?”

  “You could wait and see if they wheel out any casualties . . .” Ranklin shrugged as well as he could without dropping the box. “But probably just a motor-car backfiring.”

  The policeman nodded gravely. “Thank you, sir.” But he only moved far enough to stare at the next building.

  “Now,” Ranklin said. “Were you going to tell me about a certain Italian senator?”

  “Was I?” Viner was looking around for his motor-car, and escape.

  “I’m pretty sure you were, but . . .” Ranklin glanced pointedly at the policeman a few yards away.

  “No deals have been done at all, just . . . Look, can you assure me that this . . . accident isn’t going to get talked about?”

  “I feel on the brink of being sure.”

  Viner hesitated for one last moment, then muttered: “God knows how he managed it, but we had Lord Curzon asking if we could help out. The Italian ended up with two of the things, and we’ve only got half a dozen.”

  “Lord Curzon?”

  “That’s what I said. Ah, there’s my motor.”

  “And ammunition?” But that was a silly question; you could pick up British Army ammunition anywhere. Ranklin watched the motor-car drive off, reflecting that Dagner had enlisted a very big gun to get Falcone his small guns. Strictly, Curzon was now just an ex-Viceroy and out-of-office politician, but he wasn’t somebody a government contractor said No to. He might he Prime Minister of the next Unionist administration.

  So it was just part of the ‘deal’ they’d done with Falcone. Should he mention to Dagner that he’d uncovered it? Perhaps not: it might seem that he’d been prying. Ranklin suddenly became aware that he was standing on a London street without his jacket on. Only the financial district, of course, but even so . . . He hurried back indoors.

  Up in the partners’ room, Corinna was sitting and quite visibly shaking, her face pale even in the yellow lamplight. “I’m sorry . . . suddenly come on . . .” She gulped more brandy. “He could have killed me.”

  A dreadful sense of guilt was clouding Ranklin’s judgment, and he almost said: “So could a passing motor-bus” but realised the light touch was wrong. So he put his arms around her and hugged her tightly. It was awkward, with her still sitting, but hardly less awkward than when she was standing, given her height. It was something they did best lying down.

  Her shivering vibrated through his own body, then stopped, and he felt her take a deep breath. He said fiercely: “That idiotic bastard. I ought to have him jailed.”

  As he’d hoped, she became magnanimous. “No, it was just stupidity. And it ended well enough . . . I’m okay, now. Here, finish this.” She gave him the brandy glass. “He wouldn’t have agreed to split the issue if he wasn’t feeling guilty. The trouble is, I can’t okay anything more than a hundred thousand and I’d like to have taken the lot. But I’ll take five thousand and a bullet-hole.”

  “Only five thousand? – isn’t that rather small beer?”

  “You’ve been reading the socialist newspapers again. Most of our earnings are from half a per cent here, a quarter there – steady stuff from clients who come back year after year. A big coup is rare, risky – and probably makes enemies, because if you suddenly make a pile, it’s usually because somebody else has suddenly lost it.” She found her purse and took out a small mirror. “Oh Lord, gunfire doesn’t improve one’s looks. Are you going back to your office?”

  “Got to, I’m afraid.”

  “You’d better get along: this is going to take time. We’re meeting at the Carlton tomorrow, then? And thank you. You’re pretty good under fire.”

  Which made Ranklin feel even more guilty . . . Still, he had helped her make £5,000.

  16

  The next morning, the weather had changed its mind about it being autumn. The sun rose into a near-cloudless and windless sky and before the dew had dried, O’Gilroy made his first solo flight.

  For brief periods over the last five days he had sat beside an instructor as they floated soggily around the ae
rodrome in a training machine with the honest but unlovely name of ‘Boxkite’. Set alongside the modern Sopwiths, Avros and Andrew Sherring’s Oriole, it looked like the work of a Chinese scaffolding company, but it flew. And the cage of struts and wires protected the novice from his own mistakes or the ground – which amounted to the same thing. In this, he had notched up just over two hours of flight.

  That might not seem much, but others had solo’d with less. And the truth, which O’Gilroy wasn’t entirely ready to face, was that there wasn’t much to learn because aeroplanes couldn’t actually do much. They took off, turned, and landed; the rest was engine handling and navigation. It was only now that men like Pégoud were discovering what aeroplanes might really be made to do.

  And now O’Gilroy was teetering on the edge of the nest. He could stop there, quit, walk away. But that thought lasted only long enough to remind him that he was here by choice. Then he checked the oil glass, which showed a proper one-drip-per-second, and eased the air lever forward a fraction, followed by the petrol lever. The engine – behind him in a Boxkite – whirred a little more urgently, the revs climbed past 1,100 and the machine ambled forward. There was no speedometer – ‘airspeed indicator’ they called it on more modern types – so he had to guess, to feel, when it wanted to fly. And nothing to tell if he was keeping straight, except an absurd thread of red wool tied to a strut and streaming back in the wind. Did that wind feel fast enough now? It felt quite different from when he had an instructor beside him. Perhaps a second or two more, like . . . now. He pulled gently on the wheel and the Boxkite did nothing. And then flew.

  It lasted – intentionally – only seconds, just a straight-line “hop” of maybe three hundred yards from start to stop. But it also lasted an age, in which he had time to think that if he left the engine levers as they were he could climb and fly on beyond sight until his petrol ran out. Time to feel utter loneliness because no way in the world could anyone reach out a hand to help if he forgot what to do next. And time for his perverse mind deliberately to forget, to feel a total stranger in a contraption from another world where there was no grass beneath his feet, no scent of pines in the breeze, nothing familiar at all . . .