And do my duty.’
MAX FELT AS if a heavy and irksome burden had been lifted from his shoulders following his altercation with Ashley. It was no longer necessary to pretend they were acting in concert. The use of Gresscombe land for a flying school had ceased to be a carrot dangling in front of his nose. He had always been one to chafe at limitations on his freedom. Now he need chafe no more.
He was aware that the effort of planning for the future, something he had not needed to do during the war, had oppressed him of late. It was not his forte. He was a man of action and of instinct. The RFC had found him valuable on that account, but there had seemed no call for his particular strengths in the peacetime world. His father’s murder – he did not seriously doubt it
was
murder – had changed all that. He was about to revert to what he did best.
He rose early next morning and fired off a couple of telegrams. The first was to Sam. He did not want to break the bad news to him by cable, so contented himself with a holding message.
Delayed in Paris for indefinite period
. The second telegram was to his mother, worded to alert her to what he was trying to accomplish.
Will remain in Paris until possible to report true version of events
. He was confident she would see through whatever misrepresentations Ashley attempted. He was only doing what she had assured him she expected him to do. He breakfasted at a nearby café, having no wish to risk a frosty encounter with Ashley at the hotel. There he considered his position. He was tempted to proceed directly to the offices of Ireton Associates, but thinking fondly of Sam, as he hadthat morning, reminded him of the value of thoroughness. It could be, he knew, the difference between life and death.
A hot afternoon in the summer of 1916, waiting to go on patrol, had exhausted even Max’s capacity for dozing and lazing. Hearing that Sergeant Twentyman was still working on his plane, he had gone to find out why.
Sam was alone in the maintenance hangar, fiddling with the control wires for the elevator and rudder on Max’s Sopwith Camel. ‘Haven’t you finished with her yet, Twentyman?’ Max demanded.
‘Not quite, sir,’ Sam replied, without turning round.
‘Why are you so much slower than the other riggers?’
‘I’m not, sir. I just do more than they do.’
‘More of what, damn it?’
‘Checking, sir.’ Sam did turn round now, his smile flashing through a face darkened by oil and sunburn. ‘It’s surprising what you find.’
‘And what have you found?’
‘Nothing you need to worry about, sir. Now I’ve checked, she won’t let you down.’
‘But if you hadn’t she would have?’
‘Might’ve, sir. Easily might’ve. And I’d never have forgiven myself if she had. There’s not much I can do about the Hun. But at least I can check everything for you, can’t I?’
Whether Max would be able to carry out the check he wanted to remained to be seen. He could only trust to luck. But it was still early enough to hope he would catch the staff of the Majestic on the hop.
The detective on the door looked promisingly bleary-eyed. Max confidently asserted that ‘Mr Appleby’ had approved his visit. This seemed to impress the detective, who, after scrutinizing Max’s passport, took him in to the reception desk.
By chance, the clerk on duty was the same man Max had met there before. He recognized Max and offered his respectful condolences. He also confirmed that Sir Henry’s room had not yet been reallocated.
‘So,’ said Max, ‘there can be no objection to my taking a look at it.’ He deliberately phrased this as a statement rather than a question.
‘What are you looking
for
, sir?’ the detective asked.
‘I simply wish to satisfy myself that all my late father’s effects have been removed. My mother would never forgive me if anything of sentimental value was left behind.’
The detective mulled this over for a moment, then gave his reluctant
MAX FELT AS if a heavy and irksome burden had been lifted from his shoulders following his altercation with Ashley. It was no longer necessary to pretend they were acting in concert. The use of Gresscombe land for a flying school had ceased to be a carrot dangling in front of his nose. He had always been one to chafe at limitations on his freedom. Now he need chafe no more.
He was aware that the effort of planning for the future, something he had not needed to do during the war, had oppressed him of late. It was not his forte. He was a man of action and of instinct. The RFC had found him valuable on that account, but there had seemed no call for his particular strengths in the peacetime world. His father’s murder – he did not seriously doubt it
was
murder – had changed all that. He was about to revert to what he did best.
He rose early next morning and fired off a couple of telegrams. The first was to Sam. He did not want to break the bad news to him by cable, so contented himself with a holding message.
Delayed in Paris for indefinite period
. The second telegram was to his mother, worded to alert her to what he was trying to accomplish.
Will remain in Paris until possible to report true version of events
. He was confident she would see through whatever misrepresentations Ashley attempted. He was only doing what she had assured him she expected him to do. He breakfasted at a nearby café, having no wish to risk a frosty encounter with Ashley at the hotel. There he considered his position. He was tempted to proceed directly to the offices of Ireton Associates, but thinking fondly of Sam, as he hadthat morning, reminded him of the value of thoroughness. It could be, he knew, the difference between life and death.
A hot afternoon in the summer of 1916, waiting to go on patrol, had exhausted even Max’s capacity for dozing and lazing. Hearing that Sergeant Twentyman was still working on his plane, he had gone to find out why.
Sam was alone in the maintenance hangar, fiddling with the control wires for the elevator and rudder on Max’s Sopwith Camel. ‘Haven’t you finished with her yet, Twentyman?’ Max demanded.
‘Not quite, sir,’ Sam replied, without turning round.
‘Why are you so much slower than the other riggers?’
‘I’m not, sir. I just do more than they do.’
‘More of what, damn it?’
‘Checking, sir.’ Sam did turn round now, his smile flashing through a face darkened by oil and sunburn. ‘It’s surprising what you find.’
‘And what have you found?’
‘Nothing you need to worry about, sir. Now I’ve checked, she won’t let you down.’
‘But if you hadn’t she would have?’
‘Might’ve, sir. Easily might’ve. And I’d never have forgiven myself if she had. There’s not much I can do about the Hun. But at least I can check everything for you, can’t I?’
Whether Max would be able to carry out the check he wanted to remained to be seen. He could only trust to luck. But it was still early enough to hope he would catch the staff of the Majestic on the hop.
The detective on the door looked promisingly bleary-eyed. Max confidently asserted that ‘Mr Appleby’ had approved his visit. This seemed to impress the detective, who, after scrutinizing Max’s passport, took him in to the reception desk.
By chance, the clerk on duty was the same man Max had met there before. He recognized Max and offered his respectful condolences. He also confirmed that Sir Henry’s room had not yet been reallocated.
‘So,’ said Max, ‘there can be no objection to my taking a look at it.’ He deliberately phrased this as a statement rather than a question.
‘What are you looking
for
, sir?’ the detective asked.
‘I simply wish to satisfy myself that all my late father’s effects have been removed. My mother would never forgive me if anything of sentimental value was left behind.’
The detective mulled this over for a moment, then gave his reluctant
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