This was not the Levine she knew, Mabel grumbled inwardly. Little coward.
If she had to take matters into her own hands, so be it.
During his next call, Mabel suggested meeting for a drink at a wayside bar she knew about on Twenty-Ninth Street. She promised he would see no one there he knew.
As she suspected, he had a thousand whimpering reasons why he couldn’t go.
“Fifteen minutes, Charlie,” Mabel volleyed in a purr. “Just one drink. I’m not asking for much, especially from a guy who left the Continent without saying good-bye to his girl, and that girl came all the way across the ocean to see him.”
Guilt rarely took a foothold anywhere on Levine, but that stung. He wanted to see her. Mabel had a quality that could charge him.
“I don’t know, Mabel,” he wavered.
That was it. Mabel was out of patience.
“Goddamn it, Charlie, I gave up my goddamn seat on that goddamn plane and let go of my dream so you could live yours!” she said in a rather harsh tone.
She could almost hear him shaking his head on his end of the line.
“All right, Mabel,” he conceded. “All right. What’s this place?”
“The Breslin,” Mabel said. “On Twenty-Ninth between Broadway and Fifth.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” he mumbled. “I’ve been there. Seven. Meet me at the darkest table.”
Mabel found a table unseen from the front door and surrounded on two sides by glossy mahogany and banks of leaded glass. When Levine finally slipped into the booth, she almost didn’t notice him: it was as if he had been conjured out of the shadows.
“Thank you for coming, Charlie,” she said, gently placing her hand over his fingers, weaving them together, and forming a ball. “Just one drink, okay?”
“Sure, sure,” he said, looking around uncomfortably. “You see, it’s just different here. You know how it is: I got a wife, a family. Over there, nobody cares. But here, here I gotta watch myself. I got the government crawling all over me because of a deal I did three years ago, so you know I gotta keep it stale. I gotta keep everything good and straight.”
“You sound awful, Charlie,” Mabel said with an odd bright smile. “I just miss you is all.”
“We still . . . you and I, you know,” he said, motioning back and forth between them, and hunched so far over he looked like a turtle. “We’re good, me and you, but no hanky-panky, you see? There can’t be none of that. Now, about this flight—”
“You talked to Bert Acosta?” Mabel interrupted eagerly.
“Yeah, I did, and he’s fine with the flight. He just wants me to do one thing first,” Levine said.
“What is it?” she asked, fidgeting with her forty-two-carat ring.
“Nothing to worry about,” Levine said, waving it away. “It’s good, it will work out good. I can’t say nothing now; just give me a couple of days and then I’ll tell you all about it.”
A young man came up to the table in tails, a napkin over his arm, and bowed.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Yeah—scotch, no ice,” Levine said without looking at him.
“Very good, sir.” The waiter bowed again. “And if you’d please—”
Levine suddenly looked up at him quizzically after the young man threw the towel off his arm, raised a camera, and demanded, “SMILE!”
The photo appeared in the papers the next day and had Levine moving into a hotel. The photo showed him annoyed, his mouth open while forming the word “Wha—” and Mabel’s hand on his, her head titled back and her mouth open in an incredibly vivacious smile.
* * *
Ray Hinchliffe left the Handley Page hangar a little more than angry. The manufacturer of the twelve-passenger plane he had flown countless times for Imperial Airways was unavailable, the engineers said. Too busy building for the airlines.
It was quite similar to the answers he had received at the Bristol Aeroplane Company and Vickers Limited, which had also designed planes for Imperial. All of England, it seemed, had no planes for sale and none to be promised. Hinch knew that the airline industry was increasing in volume steadily, but he didn’t expect to not be able to buy a plane. With Elsie accompanying him, the two went from hangar to hangar, only to be turned down every time.
By the time they arrived at de Havilland, Hinch was getting desperate; he would take any plane as long as they could fit enough fuel in it and get it off the ground. He knew the right mechanics who could specialize and custom-build engines to the horsepower they needed, but he wasn’t even given that much of a chance.
At de Havilland, Elsie and Hinch pulled up in her Rolls, and once inside they introduced themselves, with Elsie nodding her head and calling herself “Mrs. Wells” and Hinchliffe needing no introduction at all. But de Havilland came up empty as well. When Mrs. Wells pressed for a further explanation aside from having too many aircraft in the queue, she was met with a shrug and the words, “Sorry, ma’am.”
“I can’t believe it,” Hinchliffe said. “Not a single plane for sale in all of England.”
Elsie shook her head angrily. “Oh, they’re for sale all right,” she nearly spat out. “Just not to us.”
“You think that your father is behind this,” Hinchliffe surmised.
Elsie exhaled deeply. “He knows your name,” she said. “I certainly don’t believe that they’re out of planes.”
“We could try Germany, but I’d really rather not,” he said, pointing to his eye.
“No, I understand completely,” Elsie replied, “but how do you feel about sailing to America?”
* * *
The Cedric sailed the following week, with Hinchliffe traveling under an assumed name on board. To the pilot’s chagrin, he had become famous, and despite his deeply colored glasses, he was recognized repeatedly.
When the ship docked a week later, the press was there, as he had feared. But with the aid of the purser who had been assisting him on the trip, he was able to make it down the gangplank, and the purser shielded Hinchliffe’s face with his suitcase upon his shoulder. As soon as he got to New York, however, word was out and he headed into the swarm of reporters in Grand Central Terminal with his suitcase in his hand, his eye patch back on, ignoring the questions they had for him: What was he doing there? Was he going to pilot Levine again? Was he there to fly for Frances Grayson? Was he taking his own trip across the Atlantic?
“I’m simply here for my health,” he replied to all inquiries. “I am here to see a specialist about my quinsy.”
They followed him out of the station, only giving up and ceasing to shout when he was able to hail a cab and speed away.
* * *
It was finally going to happen, Mabel thought to herself, still sitting in her bed, still dressed in her ochre silk peignoir with matching robe and lace details.
It is finally going to happen.
She looked at the newspaper again—for some reason this morning, she read the first page instead of going to page six, where the society news was—and stopped dead in her tracks.
He was all hers. All hers.
She was flushed with delight, so flushed she had to fan herself.
She couldn’t believe that her wishes were about to come true. She was only steps away from victory now. She was going to win this race, not the churlish Frances Grayson—whom she had once encountered at a party and was so boring, it was like having a conversation with a fish—or that toddler Ruth Elder.
Ruth Elder was just now getting her pilot’s license. Mabel huffed. The girl only took a good picture three out of every five times, which really led anyone to notice that there was some trickery and lighting at hand to make her appear so much more glamorous and pretty than she really was. In one photo she was dressed like Sherlock Holmes. The only things she was missing were a pipe and a cap. It was ridiculous.
But she didn’t care about either one of them now. Not one bit.
She had just read that Captain Hinchliffe was in New York, and sh
e knew very well that he was finally here to see her. She was, without a doubt, the wealthy woman with the millionaire father he had decided to fly with.
* * *
When Ray Hinchliffe drove out to the Stinson Aircraft Corporation hangar at Curtiss Field with William Mara, the secretary-treasurer of Stinson, they passed by Roosevelt Field, which was adjacent to Curtiss. The crowd was so big at one of the hangars that, from a distance, they looked to Ray as if they were ants.
“I heard about that woman Grayson,” Hinchliffe said. “Is that crowd about her?”
Mara laughed. “Oh, no. That’s about Ruth Elder. They’ve been camped out here for almost a month now, waiting for good weather.”
“Is she the ‘Dixie Peach’ I’ve been hearing about?” Hinch asked.
“That’s the one,” Mara said. “Adorable girl, but I don’t have much faith she’ll return from that flight.”
Hinch nodded.
“She’s flying one of our planes over; it’s the Detroiter,” Mara added.
“Bertaud took that plane,” Hinch said, which made Mara squirm a little.
“Bertaud must have hit ice right away,” Mara said quickly. “That’s the only reason for that plane to go down. This here girl is taking a different route: she’s going south. Just got her pilot’s license last week. Want to swing by and see her plane? I think it’s probably similar to what you are looking for.”
“I do, thank you,” Hinchliffe replied.
Mara turned around and went back to Roosevelt, driving up to the hangars and trying to get close to the American Girl’s without running over any reporters or gawkers.
“These people are all here for her?” Hinchliffe asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Mara laughed. “You’ll see why. It’s a beautiful plane, though.”
Mara was right, Hinch saw, as soon as the crowd broke open and he caught a glimpse of the shiny maroon and orange paint, the noble wingspan, and the enclosed cabin. He ran his fingers along the side, trying to take everything in as he walked the length of it. Suddenly a man with a dirty rag in his hand popped out from the engine and climbed down.
“George Haldeman,” he said with a smile, walking briskly over to meet them and extending his hand after he had wiped it off on the cloth.
“Captain Walter Hinchliffe,” Ray replied, meeting George’s hand in a firm single shake.
“Mr. Mara, good to see you again,” George said, shaking Mara’s hand as well. “And, Captain Hinchliffe, I read you were in New York, but I sure didn’t expect you to stop by.”
“Captain Hinchliffe is looking at some of our planes to see if they are right for a flight of his own,” Mara explained.
“Is that right?” George asked.
“Indeed.” Hinchliffe nodded. “How has this Detroiter been to you? And please excuse the presence of Mr. Mara.”
All three smiled.
“This plane doesn’t fly,” George admitted. “She glides. We’ve got enough room for fuel—we’ll be taking about five hundred gallons—and nothing much else. All of our test flights have performed well. I just love tinkering with the engine to see what a beautiful machine it is.”
From behind Haldeman, the tiniest girl appeared, so small that Hinchliffe took her for a child at first. It wasn’t hard to know she was there: the moment she appeared, the crowd behind her started calling and shouting her name and she returned a friendly wave. She was as small as Elsie, but had a quality about her that was girlish and very pretty. He judged her to be eighteen or nineteen, based on the way she rose up and down on her tiptoes, waiting excitedly to be introduced.
Finally she took it upon herself.
“Ruth Elder,” she said in a light but slightly husky voice with a trace of an accent. “You must be Captain Hinchliffe. I heard you talking, and I just wanted to say it sure is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” the captain said, nodding his head in agreement.
“I have to ask you, Captain Hinchliffe, did the reporters ever bother asking you if you were married?” Ruth said.
“I’m afraid not, Miss Elder,” Hinch replied. “But I lack the spunk and charm that I hear you possess in great quantities. I would take it as a compliment.”
Ruth laughed. “I will try, Captain Hinchliffe. Are you flying somewhere?” she asked.
“Not at the moment,” he replied. “But eventually, perhaps. Mr. Mara suggested I take a look at your plane, because it is quite a work of craftsmanship. It certainly is a beauty.”
“Oh, I agree,” Ruth said, giving the plane a pat as if it were a dog. “This plane is going to make my wildest dreams come true. I was born a poor country mouse, but I’m going to be the first woman to fly the Atlantic.”
“I wish you the best of luck, Miss Elder, but with this plane and Captain Haldeman, I doubt very much that you’ll need it,” he said.
“Well, we must be on our way to Stinson,” Mr. Mara said, shaking the hands of both Ruth and George. “We’re all very excited to see what this plane can do for you.”
Mara and Hinch had made it back through the crowd and to Mara’s car when a voice cried out for Captain Hinchliffe, although he could not determine where it was coming from. He heard running footsteps, big slaps against the pavement getting louder, and suddenly there was John Carisi, Levine’s mechanic for the Miss Columbia. Their last encounter had almost ended in fisticuffs with Hinchliffe the day Levine went back to bed.
“John,” Hinchliffe said with a rare smile, despite the odds the men had once been at with each other. “Good to see you! How are you?”
“Just doing some finishing work on the Miss Columbia,” he said excitedly. “Looking at the American Girl? Aw, that plane’s a beaut.”
“Certainly is,” Hinchliffe agreed. “How damaged was the Miss Columbia? By the looks of her, I didn’t think you’d be able to fix her up in this amount of time.”
“Mostly cosmetic damage. The engine wasn’t too bad: it was the wing, the nose, and the picking off of the souvenir hunters that was the worst part. He flew her too far. I got most of it in great shape,” Carisi said. “He’s planning another flight, so I’m trying like hell to get it all ready.”
“Well, good luck to you, John,” Hinchliffe said before starting off.
Hinchliffe got two steps away when Carisi quickly said, “Wait—you know, I think Charles would really like to see you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Hinchliffe said, shaking his head with a wary smile. “It may just be best to let sleeping dogs lie.”
Carisi was silent for a moment and then blurted, “He’s not doing real good, you know. I think a visit with you might really boost his spirits. Think about it, won’t you? I hate to see the guy this way.”
Carisi hesitated, then stepped forward, leaning in. “Listen,” he said in a hushed tone, “I know the guy can be a bastard, I know it. I’ve been on the wrong side of him, too. But since he came back from Europe, well, that whole thing just deflated him, you know? And now his wife threw him out again because you-know-who is hanging around.”
“Really?” Hinchliffe asked. “I hadn’t heard. The company of Miss Boll is something I’d beg off from, I’m afraid.”
“Nah, nah, not her. Just him. He’s at the Roosevelt,” Carisi said. “Under his own name.”
“Not the Plaza?” Hinchliffe asked.
“Like I said,” Carisi said, “he’s not doing too good.”
Hinchliffe nodded his head, then patted Carisi on the back.
“I’ll do my best,” he said, before he got in the car.
From inside the American Girl’s hangar, George and Ruth watched Hinchliffe talk with Carisi and then drive away.
“That man,” George said to Ruth, “has nine thousand hours in the air. He’s the most experienced and best pilot on the planet. He’s definitely making an attempt.”
* * *
At Stinson Aircraft Corporation, Hinchliffe, Mara, and an engineer were looking over the blueprints and specs of the Detroiter. Hinch liked wha
t he saw in the American Girl and had a feeling that type of plane would suit his and Elsie’s needs perfectly.
“Can you expand the fuel tanks?” he asked the engineer, “and take out those passenger seats? We’ll need all of that room for petrol.”
“How much room will you need? How many gallons do you suppose you’ll be carrying?” the engineer followed up.
“Well, I’ll need to take the speed and the weight of the plane into consideration when I do my calculations, but I think around five hundred, just about what Haldeman and Miss Elder will carry.”
Mara turned white.
“You’re not thinking transatlantic, are you?” he suddenly asked.
Hinchliffe thought in this case the truth was better than a lie. This was the plane’s manufacturer, and if they had already sold the plane several times for a crossing, including Bertaud’s plane and the American Girl, why should they not sell it to him?
“I am,” Hinchliffe admitted.
Mara fell back in his chair and threw up his arms.
“If it’s an east–west attempt you’re making,” he said harshly, “you can cut your own throat right now and save yourself and everyone else the trouble.”
“Mr. Mara, after careful calculations with wind and—” Hinchliffe said before he was cut off.
“I strongly, strongly advise you to rethink your plan, Captain Hinchliffe. It’s nothing but suicide,” he said. “I mean it when I tell you to cut your own throat. Nobody is going to make it from east to west—nobody. And it certainly won’t be in my plane. Fly to India! I can sell you a plane if you fly to India! Break that record.”
“I see. Well, then, regarding Captain Haldeman and Miss Elder—” Hinchliffe tried before being cut off by Mara again.
“They bought that plane before Bertaud crashed, and they’re taking a southern route,” Mara explained. “I can’t stop them now, but I can stop you. I simply won’t sell it to you if that is your intention.”