Flyaway / Windfall by Desmond Bagley Page B

any of that Limey blandness. You tell me what I want to know or you get nothing.’
    I sighed. ‘Maybe I don’t like being beaten up,’ I said, and told her the rest of it.
    She was silent for a moment, then said, ‘That’s a hell of a concoction—but I believe it. It’s too crazy to be a spur-of-the-moment story.’
    ‘I’m glad to hear you say that,’ I said feelingly. ‘Now it’s my turn. How do you happen to live in Algiers—for starters.’
    She looked surprised. ‘Hell, I was born here.’ It seemed that her father was of French-Arab mixture and her mother was Canadian; how that unlikely match came about she didn’t say. Her mother must have been a strong-minded woman because Hesther was sent to school in Canada instead of going to France like most of the children of the wealthy French colonists.
    ‘But I haven’t been back in years,’ she said. That would account for her outdated slang.
    She had met Peter Billson in Canada. ‘He was older than I was, of course,’ she said. ‘Let’s see; it must have been 1933, so I’d be seventeen.’
    And Billson was thirty. Hesther was on vacation, visiting the home of a schoolfriend, when Billson came into her life. She was the guest of McKenzie, a wealthy Canadian who was interested in the development of air travel, particularly in the more remote parts of Canada. Billson had begun to make a name for himself, so McKenzie had invited him for a long weekend to pick his brains.
    Hesther said, ‘It was like meeting God—you know what kids are. These days they go nuts over long-haired singers but in those days the fliers were top of the heap.’
    ‘What sort of a man was he?’
    ‘He was a man,’ she said simply. She stared blindly back into the past. ‘Of course he had his faults—who hasn’t?—but they were the faults of his profession. Peter Billson was a good pilot, a brave man ambitious for fame, an exhibitionist—all the early fliers were like that, all touting for the adulation of the idiotic public.’
    ‘How well did you get to know him?’
    She gave me a sideways look. ‘About as well as a woman can get to know a man. 1933 was the year I lost my virginity.’
    It was hard to imagine this tough, leathery woman as a seventeen-year-old in the toils of love. ‘Was that before Billson married?’
    Hesther shook her head. ‘I felt like hell when I had to talk to Helen over the coffee cups. I was sure I had guilt printed right across my forehead.’
    ‘How long did you know him?’
    ‘Until he died. I was supposed to come back here in 1934 but I managed to stretch out another year—because of Peter. He used to see me every time he was in Toronto. Then in 1935 I had to come back because my mother threatened to cut off the funds. The next time I saw Peter was when he landed here during the London to Cape Town Air Race of ’36. I saw him take off from here and I never saw himagain.’ There was a bleakness in her voice when she added, ‘I never married, you know.’
    There wasn’t much to say to that. After a few moments I broke the uncomfortable silence. ‘I hope you won’t mind telling me a bit more about that. Did you know his flight plan, for instance?’
    ‘I don’t mind,’ she said a little wearily. ‘But I don’t know much. I was a girl of twenty, remember—and no technician. He had that beefed-up Northrop which was a freight carrier. Jock Anderson had installed extra gas tanks in the cargo space and the plan was to fly south from Algiers to Kano in Nigeria. The desert crossing was going to be the most difficult leg, so Jock came here with a team to give the plane a thorough check before Peter took off.’
    ‘Jock Anderson—who was he?’
    ‘The flight mechanic. Peter and Jock had been together a long time. Peter flew the planes and pushed them hard, and Jock kept the pieces together when they threatened to bust apart. They made a good team. Jock was a good engineer.’
    ‘What happened to him afterwards?’
    ‘When Peter