Airship City

Chapter 3

The familiar dread seemed to settle on his shoulders as he walked through the doors of the bank, and he looked anxiously around him for Mickey. He hurried through the wood-panelled corridors, the sound of his footsteps absorbed by the thick carpet. As he turned a corner he nearly ran into a portly gentleman who was smoking a large cigar.

“Mr Churchill! I’m so sorry!”

“Quite all right, dear boy,” said Churchill, recovering his balance, and peering up at him. “My word, but you are a very tall young man! It’s Joseph, isn’t it? Joseph Samson?”

Joseph nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I knew your father, you know. Very sad to hear about what happened to him. He was a good man.”

“Thank you, sir.” Joseph stood awkwardly. He really ought to be getting back to the post room, as the meeting with Monmouth had taken him well over the allotted lunch hour. But the Chairman seemed to want to say more. 

“Seeing you made me think of something, but now I’ve forgotten what it was.” He frowned, pinching his lower lip. Then he suddenly snapped his fingers. “I’ve just remembered! Come with me to my office, I’ve something you might enjoy reading.”

Joseph opened his mouth to demur, but Churchill had already turned to go back up the corridor. He followed the Chairman’s surprisingly rapid progress, trying to avoid the cigar smoke wafting back. Presently they reached a pair of oak doors. Churchill flung them open and strode into his office, as his secretary jumped up from behind his desk in surprise and agitation.

“Mr Churchill, sir—“

“Not now, Pertwee,” said Churchill, as he proceeded across the Persian carpet to his own enormous oak desk. He rifled through the papers and envelopes strewn across the green leather blotter. “Ah, here we are!” He picked something up and turned to Joseph with a flourish.

It was a copy of Life magazine. On the cover was a photograph of the city of New York, showing the Hudson River and lower Manhattan. Floating above the Statue of Liberty was an enormous airship, shaped like a silver doughnut. A forest of steel and glass towers rose up from the centre of a wide deck which covered the top of the doughnut. 

“Is that… Aeropolis?” said Joseph.

"It most certainly is," said Churchill, smiling indulgently. "Would you like to borrow that, Joseph? I shan't have time to read it just yet. If you could let me have it back in a few days."

Joseph stared at the photograph, a mixture of emotions running through him. Airships and flying machines were anathema to his mother, being held responsible for his father’s death, and he felt that he ought to hate them as well. But the shining aerial city in the image was so beautiful, it touched something deep inside him.

Churchill continued. “Well, I just thought… what with your father being a pilot and everything… that you would find it interesting.”

“Thank you sir,” said Joseph, shaking off his reverie, and stepping forward to accept the magazine. “It’s very kind of you. I shall read it avidly.” He nodded. “Please excuse me, sir, I must get back to work.”

As he headed down the corridor towards the post room, his eyes were drawn to the cover again. The image of Aeropolis was hypnotic, calling up a nameless longing, a promise of escape into a wide blue world of adventure.

He shook his head. No, it’s not for me. My mother wouldn’t hear of it. In any event, if what Monmouth had told him was true, then Howard Hughes, the creator of Aeropolis, was responsible for his father’s death. He grimaced, rolling the magazine up in his hands. He certainly wouldn’t be able to take it home with him, in any event. As he entered the post room, he tossed it into his pigeon hole, and turned to the pile of post from the afternoon delivery. He sorted through it quickly, and had just placed the last letter on its pile when he heard a familiar voice. His heart sank, but he forced himself to carry on and not respond as Mickey and his two sidekicks swaggered into the post room.

As Joseph picked up his sorted pile and turned to begin his rounds, he found his way blocked by the bulk of Tom, who stood staring at him impassively, arms folded across his barrel chest.

Joseph moved to walk around him, but the other boy sidestepped smoothly to prevent this. Joseph sighed.

“Mickey, could you get this great lump out of my way, please? I need to get these letters delivered.”

“Oh, I don’t think ole Tom’s going to let you go anywhere until we sort out that guinea.” Mickey’s ridiculous waistcoat was today set off by a crimson silk cravat, and his face had a gloating expression on it. It made Joseph furious. He flung the pile of post back onto the table and rounded on his tormentor.

“When are you going to get it through your thick skull that I am NOT going to give you any MONEY!” he yelled. But Mickey just laughed.

“Temper temper, Samson.” He stepped forward, lip curling in a sneer. “You want to keep on my good side, you do. I’m quite an important bloke around here. I could make things very uncomfortable for you.” He leaned in until his face was inches from Joseph’s. “I could even get you fired.” His voice was virtually a whisper.

Joseph’s stomach lurched. As much as he disliked his job, the thought of losing his meagre wage didn’t bear thinking about. “You couldn’t.” He tried to say it with conviction, but his voice betrayed him. Mickey smiled thinly.

“Oh, I could. Suppose I told that stupid cow Honeywell to ‘ave a butcher’s at your pigeon hole, and she found a stolen banker’s draft in there? She wouldn’t take too kindly to that sort of behaviour, now would she?”

Joseph couldn’t imagine that she would. Banker’s drafts were similar to cheques, except that they were drawn on the bank itself. You could take a banker’s draft into any other bank and it would be honoured, no questions asked. Stealing a banker’s draft was essentially the same as stealing a large amount of money from the bank. Losing his job would be the least of his worries. He would in all likelihood go to prison if he were found in possession of a stolen draft.

Fear made a sick hollow feeling in his belly. He thought desperately, trying to find holes in Mickey’s plan. “How would you get your hands on a draft? They’re all locked away in Mr Pinborough’s desk drawer.” Joseph tried to speak with more confidence than he felt.

But Mickey just laughed. “Mostly they are. But ole Pinborough ain’t the most careful geezer, in my experience. Might be he’s careless with the key, one day.” The evil grin returned. “Might be he has been already.”

Mickey straightened up, pulling on his jacket lapels to straighten them. “So you’d best think about whether you want to show your respect for me, Samson. Best think really hard.”

He jerked his head at Tom and Ned, and then strode out of the mailroom. They followed, leaving Joseph shaken and worried.