"AFRICA FLIGHT"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 12 January 1940, Page 10

"AFRICA FLIGHT"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GEILGUD.

(Author of “Announcer’s Holiday,” "Beyond Dover,” Etc.

CHAPTER 11. Two months had passed. In full Air Force uniform, except for sword and belt, Rupert Larrimore stood facing the members of the Court Martial which had been appointed to sit in judgment upon his conduct that day at Hendon. On the table before the members of the Court Martial lay his sword. A sardonic smile twisted Larrimore’s lips, as he came to the conclusion that at last he knew why officers of the Air Force carried swords, like officers of the other Services. An officer must carry a sword so that he could be deprived of it when put under arrest; so that it could lie under his eyes during a Court Martial, and be returned to him, if he were reasonably or unreasonably lucky, when the trial was over!

The Senior Member of the court noticed that smile and was unfavourably impressed. In deciding whether the fellow could remain an officer, it was impossible not to be disagreeably affected by an impression continually exercised that Rupert Larrimore was very dubiously a gentleman. A fine record as a pilot —that went without saying, though the prisoner’s friend had certainly rubbed it in! But a pub-licity-hound—all those headlines after the Pacific flight, and the even more blatant American newspaper reports which had accompanied his stunt flying tour in the States! And now this grin on his infernally arrogant face! No sense of the seriousness of his position, of the dignity of the Court, of the disgrace to the Service implied in a crash at Hendon —with official representatives of half Europe looking on! Curse Rupert Larrimore! Why couldn’t he have an agreeable, sympathetic personality, like Colonel Lindbergh or Captain Scott? The Senior Member began to scribble on his blotting-pad. Larrimore’s mind began to wander. His friend was summing-up what could be said in his favour—and Larrimore felt that it was intolerably boring, incredibly trivial. He only wanted the thing over and done with, so that he might have a chance to forget what had happened. But just as the Press had refused to let him get away from that solo flight across the Pacific, so now this pompous Court would harp upon the Hendon tragedy. No one but Larrimore himself would understand the real truth of that fatal business. What on earth was the good of thrashing it out in front of that row of well-groomed, nar-row-headed, admirably - intentioned, rather dull officers? Either what had happened was inexplicable—in which case Larrimore was no longer a reliable pilot; or there was an explanation which finished him utterly as a serving officer in a fighting,service . . . “Sentence will be promulgated in due course,’’ concluded the President of the Court Martial.

“Oh Heck —more hanging about!” muttered Rupert Larrimore, more than half audibly. He saluted, with that typical suspicion of flourish which had done so much to sow distrust in the minds of his superiors, swung round on his heel, and walked out . . . In his office, whose windows looked out over the Embankment, Sir George Manson, Chairman of Associated Airways Limited, was walking up and down, smoking a cigar. Sir George was short, broad-shouldered, and ugly. He was extremely efficient, and believed in fresh air. His windows were open. His glass-topped desk was bare of papers, and carried a single telephone. He was no believer in the melodramatic paraphernalia of “big business” as seen through the eyes of a film director. A single photograph adorned each of his four walls. Three were of aeroplanes in flight. The fourth was of his daughter Carol —an enlarged snapshot of the girl on horseback, riding at a canter hatless in a blaze of sunshine. In the armchair beside the desk sat Miss Cynthia Wright, Sir George’s personal secretary. She, too, would grievously have disappointed the film-dir-ectorial mind. She was not blonde. She showed very little of her legs. She was not even young. She was, in fact, forty-seven, grey-haired, smart, and competent to a degree.

“You’ve sent out for the latest edition?"

“Any minute now. Sir George.” “Don’t be so infernally soothing. Cynthia." Miss Wright smiled. “What do you think of the plan?" demanded Sir George suddenly. He stopped in his restless prowl and stared down on to the Embankment. Through the trees he could just catch a glimpse of the gilded eagle on the Air Force War Memorial.

“Well, it must depend on the verdict of the court martial, mustn’t it?"

Sir George shrugged his shoulders. “They'll break him all right—bound to." he said. “Question is—what will Larrimore do?"

Miss Wright looked up with eyes astonishingly kindly and shrewd. “You’ll have to catch him quick if you want him. Sir George. If I’m. not very much mistaken in him. he’s the type of man who’ll be off to the ends of the earth in quick time.” “Which, my dear Cynthia, is just why my plan should appeal to him. Where is that newspaper?"

There came a knock on the door. A small boy slipped in noiselessly, handed a folded evening paper to Miss Wright, and slipped out again. “Well?" barked Sir George, as the paper rustled.

“Dismissed the Service—unfit to serve His Majesty in any capacity—the usual headline stuff ’’

Sir George swung back to the win-

dow. “Right you are!” he said quietly. “Get me Larrimore to this office at eleven tomorrow morning. And I suppost that means Hubert, as well, if we’re to get things approximately settled. And I must have a definite delivery date for the plane. You’ll ring up the factory. Cancel any other engagement—and I’d better keep luncheon free in case Larrimore needs buttering up. And warn young Jorrocks, that new publicity man of ours “I know, Sir George.” “You would!” Sir George grinned and tossed the butt of his cigar out of the window. “I'll be here a little after ten.” “I’ll be ready for you, Sir George.” The Chairman of Associated Airways, Limited, picked up his hat and stick, and lighted a fresh cigar. "New plane—flight for archaeological purposes—record over desert —it all looks a bit stodgy, Cynthia. But throw Rupert Larrimore into the omelette, and it’ll look quite a different and quite a tasty dish!”

CHAPTER 111. Big Ben was just striking eleven on the morning of the following day. when Rupert Larrimore walked into Sir George Manson’s office. Miss Wright observed him with carefully concealed interest, as she got up from her desk and apologised for her Chief's lateness. He was pale certainly. His lips were closed in a thin line like a trap, and his prominent jaw was set like cast steel. He walked with swift movements, admirably co-ordinated straight across Miss Wright’s outer office and through the further door into Sir George’s sanctum. He did not turn until he reached the fine Adam fireplace at its further end. Then he swung on his heel, and stood rocking a little on his feet. Miss Wright remembered watching the greater cats behind bars at the Zoo, and had a momentary feeling of discomfort.

“I’m sorry Sir George is late,” she said. “I’m expecting him any minute.” Larrimore gave a short laugh.

“I rather anticipated punctuality,” he said, “My time’s valuable you know —especially now it’s all my own!” “Naturally,” agreed Miss Wright.

Rupert Larrimore stared.' He had hoped for an excuse to make a scene. “I’m not going to wait for more than five minutes,” he said.

Again Cynthia Wright refused to be drawn.

“I don’t think you'll have to.” she said pleasantly. “Do sit down. Can I get you anything? A cigarette, or a newspaper?” Larrimore jerked up his head and grinned. “Thanks, no. I’ve read all the papers I want to see for quite a time." Miss Wright flushed. “That was stupid of me. I apologise. I’d forgotten—you must have found them disagreeable this morning. ‘I see. You know all about me, I suppose?” “Doesn’t everyone?” Larrimore sat down on the arm of a big chair, and groped for his cigarettecase. “I’ll smoke, if I may. You don’t mind wasting your time talking to me like this?” “On the contrary,” said Cynthia Wright. “If you’ll forgive my saying so, Mr Larrimore, I've been one of your admirers. And like a good many other people I think that the authorities might have treated you better.” At the “Mr” Larrimore had winced. ■ But simultaneously he admired the secretary’s tact. “It’s reasonable to pity a man who’s been cashiered,” he said slowly, “but as for admiration ” “After all,” pursued Miss Wright, “you were the first man to fly the South Pacific solo.” “Quite,” said Larrimore. She slid unobtrusively from the room as Sir George Manson walked briskly in, nodded to Larrimore, hung up coat and hat, and turned to his desk.

“Good morning, Mr Larrimore. Sorry to have kept you waiting. I got hung up at home —you know what a domestic crisis can be!”

Larrimore did not change his position on the arm of the chair.

“I don’t,” he replied. “Never had a family.” Sir George, like his secretary, refused to acknowledge the studied insolence in the airman's tone.

“Lucky man,” he said genially. “I hope Miss Wright entertained you?” “Perfectly, thanks." "Good. Cynthia!” “Yes, Sir George?”

“I'm invisible to anyone except my brother Hubert and his wife. And I don't want to answer the telephone. “I imagine you’ll see your daughter if she comes down?” “Why on earth should she come down?” Sir George eyes moved to the enlarged snapshot on the wall opposite his desk, and his expression softened. “Yes. if she comes. I'll see her, confound her!"

Miss Wright closed the door softly. The airman and the Chairman of Associated Airways Limited looked steadily at each other. For a moment neither spoke. They might have been duelists preparing to cross swords'. At last Sir George leaned across his desk, clasping his big hands together. “Well,” he said curtly, “I believe my secretary outlined my proposition to your on the phone. Will you take it on ?”

Larrimore blew smoke through his nostrils before he answered. “I’ll take it on. Sir George," he said deliberately, “if you’ll satisfy my curiosity as to just why you picked on me for

the job.” “Doesn't your record supply the answer?”

"I want the truth, please. There arc other capable long-distance flyers you know very well."

“I fancy Rupert Larrimore is the best there is. I ike the best —of everything." Larrimore stood up.

“If ’lm only to get the best butter we'll call it a day," h esaid. "I didnt come here for that. Did you or did you not choose me because they’ve broken me? Because I've made headlines for the last month, and am likely to make more?”

Sir George hesitated. Larrimore had put his motives in a nutshell, and confirmed the opinion he had formed of the airman's shrewdness. At the same time Sir George Manson was in the habit of getting his own way, and of calling the tune during interviews with prospective employees. To be hectored by one of the latter was a new experience. And he did not like it. (To be Continued.)