‘I must say,’ said Ronson to Willard, ‘you’re a lot better than our last fellow.’
‘Hmm?’
‘You know. Martin. Our late-lamented colleague. Esteemed and lamented.’
Even in his drunken state, Willard pricked up his ears. Arthur Martin had been the fifth member of the Powell Lambert ‘engine room’ before Willard’s arrival. Willard had inherited his desk, his paperwork and even his company-owned apartment. All Willard really knew of the man was that he had been killed in an auto accident shortly before Willard’s arrival at the firm.
‘So, when was the auto smash? When did the poor fellow die?’
‘Eh? You know,’ said Ronson. ‘You know.’
‘Gentlemen, please,’ said Annie, using her chin to point to a gap that had opened in the line ahead of them. The two men frog-marched Annie forwards until they had caught up.
‘I don’t know,’ said Willard. ‘If I knew, I wouldn’t ask, would I?’
‘Well…’
‘It was only…’
Annie and Ronson both spoke at once, then stopped. Then Annie spoke alone.
‘He died the Thursday before you arrived. We thought you knew.’
Willard felt a tiny prickle of something run through him. Afterwards, he thought maybe it was fear or the first premonition that something was wrong. But perhaps it was only the underbrewed moonshine talking. Perhaps the prickle was nothing more than a simple shudder in the rain. In any case, when Willard answered, he suddenly felt less drunk, less stupid.
‘But that couldn’t be. Powell had already told me which apartment I’d be staying in. He couldn’t have done that, if the poor devil Martin was already there.’ He didn’t mention it, but the same was also true about the ‘engine room’. There were five desks there, plus Annie’s. The room couldn’t have fitted another one. If arrangements had been made for Willard’s arrival, wouldn’t someone have thought to introduce an additional desk?
‘It was, though,’ said Annie. ‘The Thursday before you came.’
‘Powell must have been in a muddle. Good job in a way. You wouldn’t have wanted to arrive with all your boxes and find… I mean, not a good job the fellow died, obviously. What I mean is, good job the place was empty.’
‘Powell wasn’t in a muddle,’ said Willard, argumentatively. ‘It wasn’t just him, I mean I had to phone and confirm and collect keys and everything. It wasn’t just a case of turn up, mister.’
‘Then Martin must have been moving somewhere else, mustn’t he? Couldn’t have the two of you living on top of each other. Any case, Martin wasn’t a decent sort, like you. Didn’t appreciate the merits of a fine bottle of…’
The line moved forwards again but neither of the men had noticed. Annie wriggled free of their arms and stood ahead of them, asking them what sort of burger they wanted.
‘Good old Joe Burger,’ said Ronson. ‘A veritable prince of gooseberries. Ruining his Friday evenings to help the starving.’
‘Willard, what are you having?’
Annie turned to him, her fine brown hair damped down against her cheek. Willard stared at her blankly.
‘Old chap, your mouth is hanging open. Mr B here will probably have to stuff it closed with one of his excellent pickled gherkins.’
Willard shook his head. How had Ted Powell known that Arthur Martin’s apartment and Arthur Martin’s desk would be empty in time for Willard’s arrival? The question had no possible answer.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not feeling hungry.’
He pulled away from them and walked fast uptown, hatless through the pattering rain.
Abe ran through the little belt of turbulence over the Florida coast, turned, applied a side-slip with the nose into the wind. Then, just before the ground came up, he levelled the wings and kicked Poll straight with the rudder. The wheels came straight and touched down. As Poll began to shake her speed off into the grass, he let the tail float down as the elevator lost authority. He was a little later than he’d expected, partly because of headwinds, partly because he’d overflown one of the Marion launches on its way south. These days, he’d got into a routine with the bootleggers. They’d flash to him, signalling their presence and he’d flip into an aerobatic routine: loops, spins, barrel-rolls, dives. Once he came so low over the water at the launch, that by the time his undercarriage flashed over their heads, one of the bootleggers had been scared enough to jump overboard. The stunts were much appreciated. In the café in the Puerto del Ingles, Abe was a mini-celebrity. His drinks were always bought for him. He was showered with gifts: cigars, booze, chocolate. His routines grew more elaborate, more complex.
For now, though, Abe just taxied over to the hangar and stopped. The blur of propeller blades slowed to a flicker, then to a halt. Abe climbed wearily from the cockpit, pulled helmet and goggles off, scrubbed his head, face and neck under a cold tap. The hangar wasn’t just a place for Poll to come in out of the weather, it was Abe’s home too. As well as room for Poll and room for all the maintenance equipment she needed, Abe had set up a camp bed and thin mattress. He also had a sheet, a blanket, a coat rolled into a pillow, a small table, two chairs, two enamel mugs and plates, a primus stove, and a bag which contained his entire wardrobe. Aside from what was in the hangar or on his back, Abe owned nothing in the entire world.
He dried off with an end of towel. The beat of an airplane engine still thrummed in his ears, but it sometimes did after a long flight. He rubbed the sides of his head with his palms and listened again. The thrumming was still there, and it was a sound different from Poll’s. It was stronger, racier, deeper, cleaner. Abe jumped on an oilcan to get a better view, then saw it.
A plane was coming in from the south. She was flying low, steel-grey bodywork glinting in the sun. She was the most beautiful machine Abe had ever seen: a gloriously streamlined, squat-tailed biplane with stubby little wings and an engine asnarl with power. That she was a racing plane was obvious. That she was in trouble even more so.
The engine had a problem. It was running foul, firing wrong, missing beats. And there was another problem. Abe’s airfield had been designed for Poll. Because Poll was slow, she didn’t need much room to land or take off. And when the Miami authorities had approved the grant of land for an airfield, they had approved enough for Poll and not an inch more. The little racing plane didn’t have room to land.
The little plane howled overhead, its engine note all wrong. Abe watched, helpless. The longest strip of clear space on the airfield was on the diagonal, but a line of telegraph poles ruled out that approach. The little plane came to the same conclusion. It buzzed off towards the southwest, but Abe knew that the south-west held few options. A beach was fine for Poll’s slow and sturdy ways. But a racing plane could easily smash up on a beach. No. Abe corrected himself. Not could, would. Would smash up. Abe stared another moment, then ran to Poll. If he could get airborne fast, he could follow the pilot, and be on hand for the coming catastrophe.
But he was too late. The little plane came again. She was flying desperately low to the ground, tree-skimming and dune-hopping. Abe breathed slowly and evenly through his mouth. He silently urged the pilot not to do what he was about to do.
In vain.
The little plane sank lower. It was flying just twenty feet off the ground, dead level with the telegraph poles, dead level with the wire. It was an insane way to fly in any case, but here on the coast, with the turbulent ocean breezes making