Hinchliffe almost sighed in exasperation, but held himself.
“Very well, Mr. Mara, you’ve given me something to think about,” he said. “I believe I will need a lift back to my hotel, if you would be so kind.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FALL 1927
Ruth Elder and her Felix the Cat doll.
When the telephone rang and the maid called to say it was for Mabel, her stomach fluttered like a schoolgirl’s. Who else would it be for? Mabel wondered in a quick moment of annoyance, and raced to pick up the receiver of her pink scrolled telephone.
Before she even said hello into the receiver, she knew what she was going to say: Hello, Captain Hinchliffe, it is a delight to hear from you . . . Yes, I heard you were in New York . . . Of course, of course, my offer still stands . . . Yes, it is a wonderful surprise. You are a master of mystique! I would love to meet and make the arrangements. Would you like to have supper here, or at your hotel? . . . I agree, we will be victorious when we join forces together, and I will be proud to say that I am Queen of the Air courtesy of the talents of Captain Bernard Hinchliffe!
But as soon as she heard the tiny words “Hello, Mibs,” her hopes deflated, leaving her entire being draped with a residue of equal parts tragedy and irritation.
“Hello,” she said impatiently.
“I talked to Bert Acosta this morning and we got a plan,” Levine said.
Mabel perked up immediately. “Really?” she said, the slipcover of her soul immediately transformed to glee.
“Are you sitting down?” he asked.
Mabel looked around frantically for a chair or footstool and then swore at herself because she had used it to stash some new diamonds in her safe and had not brought it back.
“Never mind!” she said. “Just tell me now.”
She was jumping, little tiny jumps, up and down, one hand on the phone and the other hand clenched in a tight fist that was waving wildly in the air.
“Are you ready to be . . .” Levine teased her, “. . . the first woman to fly to . . .”
He paused for dramatic effect.
“Tellmetellmetellme!” she squealed, her fist now nothing but a blur.
“. . . Cuba?” he asked.
The fist slowly dropped to her side. Her smile vanished.
“Cuba?” she said, then decided to elevate her angry voice to a shout. “Cuba? I’ve already been to Cuba! Why would I want to be the first woman to fly to Cuba?”
“Listen,” Levine said, trying to calm her. “It’s step one of a two-part plan. Acosta wants to fly to Cuba, and the Miss Columbia is almost ready—I just talked to Carisi. Then, when the weather clears in March or April, Bert has agreed to be our pilot to make the west–east crossing. If I give him what he wants, he’ll give me what I want, see?”
Mabel pouted. “This is stupid. Why does he want to go to Cuba? Who is left on earth who hasn’t been to Cuba? Honestly!”
“I dunno,” Levine admitted. “His name’s A-cos-ta. Maybe he’s Cuban?”
Mabel exhaled. “I’m tired, Charlie,” she said wearily. “I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Levine said, angrily. “This is what you wanted, yeah? This is what you came back for, yeah? What the hell is there to think about? Do you or don’t you?”
“You know what, Charlie?” Mabel said in her snippy voice. “You are not the only one who knows pilots. You are not the only one who’s made inquiries. What if I have a pilot of my own? What if I can do my own flight?”
“Aw, to hell with you, Mabel,” Levine said, finally giving up. “I don’t know what you want. You’re just talking crazy. If you change your mind, you let me know, okay?”
And with that, Levine hung up, and Mabel returned to bed to wait for Hinchliffe’s call.
* * *
TO ELSIE MACKAY
4 SEAMORE PLACE
MAYFAIR LONDON ENGLAND
FOUND IT STOP 25 STOP IMPOSSIBLE UNLESS I SAY INDIA STOP PLS ADVISE STOP WRH
* * *
TO CAPTAIN WALTER RAY HINCHLIFFE
WALDORF ASTORIA HOTEL
NEW YORK NEW YORK UNITED STATES
WRH STOP SAY INDIA STOP EMAC
* * *
Captain Hinchliffe arrived back at the Stinson Aircraft Corporation offices the next day and presented the check for twenty-five thousand dollars to William Mara.
“I’ve talked to my backers, and they’ve agreed,” Hinchliffe said after Mara looked at him suspiciously. “We believe breaking the record for India is a better plan.”
“That was fast,” Mara said, his suspicion turning into shock.
“I don’t have time to negotiate with you back and forth, Mr. Mara. I need to be back in England as soon as possible. I want the Detroiter. That is the plane for us. And if you, as the manufacturer, aren’t sure about its capacities to make an east–west crossing, well, then I am willing to take your word.”
“Well, Captain Hinchliffe, that wasn’t exactly what I meant,” Mara replied. “It definitely can make the flight, though I would advise strongly against it. Captain Bertaud was a terrible loss. We just don’t want to see that happen again.”
“I understand perfectly, Mr. Mara, I truly do,” Hinchliffe said. “Now, with your agreement, I would like to purchase your plane. Details will be forthcoming, but as we discussed, I would need enlarged fuel tanks and a clear compartment. Is it premature to talk of delivery dates?”
“Not in the least,” he replied. “Our production averages two and a half months on this plane. Will that suffice? She can be ready to be shipped by the middle of December, I’d say.”
“That will work out just fine,” Hinchliffe concurred. “Thank you, Mr. Mara. We greatly look forward to receiving it.”
“You and . . .” Mara took a moment to look at the check. “. . . Miss Sophie Ries?”
“Indeed. Good day,” Hinchliffe said, and then left.
* * *
Carisi was right: the moment that Hinchliffe spotted him in the dining room of the Waldorf Astoria, he saw the man had changed. He looked too small for his suit, and his eyes looked grey and dull. Levine always had a pencil and paper with him, writing down his crazy notes and ideas just as they popped into his tiny bald head. But this time Levine sat unoccupied, his hands simply folded in front of him. He looked lost.
“Charles,” Hinchliffe said as he approached the table.
“Ray,” Levine said, standing up and putting an instant businessman’s smile on his face.
The two men shook hands and Hinchliffe reached over and grasped Levine by the shoulder.
“How you been?” Levine started, sitting back down.
Hinchliffe did the same. “Quite well, thank you,” Hinchliffe answered. “And yourself?”
“Good, good, I can’t complain,” Levine replied, shaking his head slowly back and forth. “You know, business is getting slow this time of year. Slows down. You know. So, you ever been to New York before?”
“I haven’t,” the pilot said. “It’s all very nice, but I’m afraid I’m not here for pleasure. I’ll be leaving in a couple of days.”
“You flying somewhere?” Levine asked, then added a grin as an afterthought.
A reporter Hinch thought he had dodged in the lobby had spotted him and came over to the table.
“Captain Hinchliffe, a few questions . . .” the reporter said, his pen poised.
“Come on, buddy,” Levine said, sitting up straight, which in Levine’s world was one step before punching someone in the face. Or, if tall enough, neck. “Can’t you see we’re having a nice conversation here?”
“Certainly,” the reporter said. “I just have a few—”
“I said we’re havin’ a nice conversation here,” Levine warned, putting one hand on the back of the chair in a threat to pull it out and get up.
Hinchliffe put his hand out to Levine and said, “No, it’s all right, Charles. What is your question?”
“Is it tr
ue that you are here to purchase an airplane, or are you here because you’re bringing suit against Mr. Levine?”
“I beg your pardon?” Hinchliffe said, looking serious. “A suit against Mr. Levine? Whom I am here having lunch with? I am afraid you are reaching, my good man.”
Levine sat back in his chair, just shaking his head.
Unfazed, the reporter asked again, “So are you here to buy a plane, Captain Hinchliffe?”
Hinchliffe leaned one elbow on the arm of the chair and looked up at the reporter.
“I am here to deal with a bout of quinsy, which is an inflammation of the tonsils with an abundance of oozing infection,” he said slowly and matter-of-factly. “Shall I show you?”
The reporter just stood there, stymied and unsure.
“Thank you,” Hinchliffe said, then asked kindly, “Now, please respect our privacy.”
The reporter slowly backed away, as if waiting for Hinchliffe to change his mind, but the pilot kept his silent, steady gaze on him until he had disappeared into the clatter of the dining room.
After several moments Levine looked at Hinchliffe and asked, “So, did you buy a plane? When I talked to Carisi, he said you were with Mara.”
Hinchliffe pursed his lips. Word was already out. It did not take long.
“I did,” he said firmly. “A Stinson Detroiter.”
“Gorgeous plane,” Levine added. “Good choice, Ray. I heard through the grapevine that your backer is a wealthy English lady. I wish you the best of luck.”
“I’m not at liberty to say who it is,” he responded, “but the person in question has been quite generous with reimbursement for services.”
“I’m happy to hear that.” Levine nodded.
“And you,” Hinchliffe queried, “you’re getting the Miss Columbia ready for something. Another transatlantic jaunt?”
“Nah,” Levine said, waving his hand. “A short trip, nothing big. Just to jump-start the press for a bigger flight later on.”
“And Mabel is . . .” Hinch ventured, “. . . well, I hope?”
“She’s a goddamned kook is what she is,” Levine said, looking disgusted, almost as if he had tasted something sour.
A figure quickly appeared by the table, and without a thought Hinchliffe took a deep breath and said, “Sir, if you please—”
“I have a telegraph for you, sir,” the bellhop said with uncertainty. “It’s from London.”
Hinchliffe took the telegram, then fumbled in his pocket for a tip.
“Here,” Levine said, leaning forward and pulling a dollar bill off a small roll held with a rubber band.
Hinchliffe looked up from the telegram and said to the bellhop, “I will need the desk to help me get on a ship back to England immediately.”
Then he turned to Levine and a smile grew across his face: a bright, delightful smile.
“It’s a girl,” he told Levine. “Emilie has just had a girl.”
Levine, the father of two daughters, grinned, then leaned over the table and patted the smiling man on the back.
* * *
Ruth was growing more impatient. The plane was ready, she was ready, and George was ready. She had her license in hand and the plane was stocked and prepared for takeoff should the forecast look opportune. But day after day George returned with a weather report that predicted doom and destruction, and for weeks they had been stuck in this hangar, waiting for the weather to clear.
And they weren’t alone. Grayson and her crew were also waiting, and their time on standby was causing some agitation, too. On quiet afternoons, after the press left and there weren’t too many people around, Ruth could hear Grayson bellowing at her pilot and navigator, shouting orders and trying to establish a little too bullishly that she was the boss. The frayed nerves at the American Girl’s hangar were no match for the friction over at the Dawn’s.
While Ruth had grown to count on the distraction of having the press there each morning looking for an update, they were getting a little surly. Every day they asked if she was married or single. The newspapers reported on her stubbornness in the matter, saying that “she issued an enchanting little pout and replied, ‘Why are you always butting into my business?’ ”
It didn’t stop them, until one day a reporter she didn’t know or recognize yelled out, “Mrs. Womack! Does the name of your husband, Lyle Womack, mean anything to you?”
Ruth stood speechless, even after all this time, not knowing what to say.
“And what about Claude Moody, your first husband? Does that name mean anything to you?”
She had no answer; so far, she had just been able to slide away from the question by ignoring it.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t married,” she objected. “I never said either way.”
“Why does your husband live in Panama?”
“Was Claude Moody, your first husband, really your high school teacher?”
“Why was your first marriage annulled, Ruth?”
“Where is your husband now? Is he here?”
“Does Lyle Womack intend to see you off?”
The questions just came barreling at her, over and over, and the looks on George and Cornell’s faces were unmistakable as the blood drained right out.
They knew about Lyle. It was Cornell’s idea that Ruth be presented as a single girl. But a divorcée? At twenty-three? Cornell prayed to himself that there were no hidden children.
Ruth’s temper was frayed, and in that moment it was beginning to show. Her perfect Ruth smile vanished as her brows furrowed. George shook his head, terrified of what was going to come out of her mouth.
“Mister,” Ruth demanded, pointing at the young reporter who thought he had just scooped everyone. “You, sir. What is your name?”
He looked shocked and surprised and pointed to himself. “Me?” he asked, and Ruth nodded. “Dan Shear, Jersey Journal.”
Ruth nodded again and put her hands behind her back.
“Mr. Shear, have you ever been to Anniston, Alabama?” she asked without a trace of malice, but not sweetly, either.
“Can’t say that I have,” he said with a snarky laugh.
“Well, I am from Anniston, Alabama, and I am the second of seven children. Eight if you count my little brother who died when I was ten,” she said. “I grew up poor as a church mouse, and although my daddy was a hard worker, we didn’t have much as children. We didn’t even get a car until our horse died when I was in high school. I don’t know if you can understand that kind of living, Mr. Shear, but it’s hard and it can make you hard, too, seeing all kinds of things most little children don’t have to see. By the time I was seventeen and graduating high school, it was my dream to go on to more schooling, but a girl that age in Anniston doesn’t get that sort of chance, and you know it well before you get to seventeen. So when a fellow asks you to marry him and if it means that your family gets more to eat—that maybe your little brothers won’t be quite so skinny and hungry—you say yes. If he’s a good man and has a job, Mr. Shear, you say yes; even if you are still just a girl who wants something more for herself in life, you say yes. And then when he turns out not to be the man you thought he was, you are lucky that your family takes you back in even though they all get to eat a little less. Do you know that kind of living, Mr. Shear?”
“That wasn’t my question,” he stammered. “My question was—”
“Well, this is my question to you, Mr. Shear,” Ruth interrupted. “Do you know what that kind of living is like? For a seventeen-year-old girl in Anniston, Alabama?”
“No, Miss Elder, I do not,” he finally admitted.
“Now you do,” Ruth stated firmly. “So you can stop asking those questions. And yes, I am married to Lyle Womack, who is a good man and was the one who introduced me to flying in the first place. My name is Ruth Elder and being married makes no difference in how I fly that plane. It doesn’t make me better or worse. It doesn’t change a thing. I am here to fly a plane, so if you have any more questions about tha
t, I am happy to answer them.”
“Miss Elder,” said another reporter with a raised hand. “A lot of people still think this is just a publicity stunt for you to go into the movies. People are saying this whole flight is a fraud.”
Ruth took a deep breath. “I am going to fly across the Atlantic just as soon as the weather is right,” she said. “What difference does it make whether people think I’m going to try it or not? I know I am.”
* * *
Before the doorbell rang, Mabel Boll was unaware that she could run in three-inch heels on a marble floor. She hadn’t left her town house for nearly a week, just in case her intuition paid off and Captain Hinchliffe called or, even better, stopped by.
“Never mind! Never mind!” she shrieked at the maid, her arms flapping wildly. “I will get the door, Marcelle! I’m getting it!”
Marcelle was, in fact, picking up a fur that Madame Boll had left at the cleaners and wouldn’t be back for an hour, but it made no difference, as all the maids in the house had begun to answer to the name.
Mabel managed to stop herself just before hitting the door, smoothed her hair, took a deep breath, and spread a toothy smile across her face as she reached for the door handle and pulled it open.
Her smile faded.
“Charlie,” she said shortly.
“Mibs,” he said, inviting himself in and walking right past her. He handed his hat to the maid who wasn’t Marcelle and continued right on to the front room to his right. “Scotch and water,” he called out without turning his head. When Mabel followed him a few seconds later, she found him sitting in one of the grand armchairs she had just reupholstered in taupe satin silk.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “I thought you called me crazy!”
“You’re not crazy,” Levine said with his old smile and a snicker. “You are loony-bin insane. But that’s what I like about you, Mabel; that may be one of the things I like best about you.”