“Finn,” she said, warning in her tone.
“Why can’t I sneak a smoke before we go in?” he asked. “We’re a half hour early.”
This was because Mr. Pollard was so obsessed with punctuality that he refused to see anyone even a few minutes late for an appointment. Delia intended to arrive with plenty of time to spare.
“If you smoke, your clothes and your breath will carry the stink. It will make a bad impression we can’t afford. Nine million Belgians, Finn.”
“And ten million reasons you’re annoying,” he muttered under his breath, which he fully intended for her to hear. He put the cigarette back in his coat pocket.
The carriage rolled to a halt before an imposing office building of granite stone. The once gray building had been stained black from years of soot coming from the nearby smokestacks. Delia clenched her briefcase with the legal documents she hoped to persuade Pollard to sign. She had no idea what sort of commitment they might wrest from Alfred Pollard, so she left the donation line blank, to be filled in if they were successful in securing a donation.
For a man still wrestling with a splint on his leg, Finn was surprisingly graceful as he twisted his large body out of the carriage. Delia handed him his crutches, then walked alongside him as they headed toward the front door.
“Remember, no swearing,” she instructed. Thankfully, there was an elevator to take them to the sixth floor. With it being a warm day, the elevator operator looked overheated in his stiff collar, coat, and white gloves as he cranked the gate closed and pulled the lever for the sixth floor.
“Have you a meeting with Mr. Pollard?” he asked.
“Yes,” Delia replied. “We’re collecting for war donations.”
“Good luck with that,” the operator muttered.
Was it going to be that awful? Delia was accustomed to dealing with strict judges and demanding attorneys, but a corporate tycoon like Alfred Pollard? This was uncharted territory for her, and she began to perspire as they arrived at the sixth floor.
Mr. Pollard’s secretary was an ancient man with a face that looked carved by a hatchet. “You’re early,” the secretary said with a frown as they entered the waiting area. It was as spartan as a government waiting room. Slatted wood benches with no cushioning sat against unadorned walls.
“I know of Mr. Pollard’s respect for punctuality and thought it best not to cut it too close,” she explained.
“Punctuality means arrivingon time. Now the three of us must share this space until your meeting.”
“We’ll try not to interfere with your day,” Delia said, then took a seat on a bench beside Finn. Would it have killed Mr. Pollard to have paid for a bench with a back? Finn shifted on the bench, the squeak echoing in the barren room. The secretary shot him a pointed glare. Good heavens, this was going to be a long twenty minutes.
At precisely eleven o’clock, the secretary stood. “Mr. Pollard will see you now.”
Mr. Pollard’s personal office wasn’t much better than his waiting area. The furniture was made of the same plain oak, and practical filing cabinets lined the walls. The only luxuries were a large braided rug and the forest-green draperies framing the windows. Mr. Pollard’s appearance, however, was as grim as his secretary’s. His balding head gleamed from the desk lamp as he peered at them over his spectacles.
“I’m afraid you have wasted your time in coming here,” he began. “I told Bertie I have no money left to give, and yet he still sends people hounding me for donations. Most annoying.”
“I know,” she said in a sympathetic but cheerful voice. “Mr.Hoover understands your decision to fund Liberty Bonds instead of Belgian relief, but he thought you would appreciate hearing how your previous donations have been used. Lieutenant Delaney personally benefited from the supplies your donation helped make possible.”
A spark of interest lit the old man’s face as he swiveled his attention to Finn. “Are you the pilot who was in the parade last month? The one from the Lafayette Escadrille?”
“Yes, sir,” Finn said, his voice strong and respectful, without a trace of his typical irreverence.
A wistful smile brightened Mr. Pollard’s face. “If I were fifty years younger, I would have been in France with you.”
“Really?” Finn straightened, leaning forward in his chair.
“I admire what you young men have accomplished over there. Knights of the sky, taking to the air to defend the weak. You didn’t wait while the American government twiddled its thumbs. No, you went to Europe to do your bit. Please, tell me what it was like, and don’t leave anything out.”
Delia stayed silent. She didn’t care if Alfred Pollard and Finn wanted to indulge in a romanticized version of war. If it encouraged the man to crack open his wallet on behalf of the CRB, it would be well worth it.
“The American flyers were all volunteers,” Finn said, “and the French Army treated us like royalty. At first there was talk of making us sign on with the French Army, but they knew we were good for morale. It gave their people hope to know that men had come all the way from America to fight on their behalf. So they gave us our own unit and put us up in a fancy château in the country. We trained for seven months, and afterward we took to the air. Sometimes I’d go on scouting missions, while other times I’d escort bomber planes. I’ve flown missions to protect advancing troops. Ever since I joined up, I’ve felt as if each day is a gift.”
“Weren’t you ever scared?” Mr. Pollard asked.
“Sometimes,” Finn admitted. “The trick is to transform the fear into determination. Each time I flew, I had a purpose. I was saving lives. The war made me stronger somehow; all of us felt that way. It’s why I want to get back there as soon as I can get rid of this splint on my leg.”
Mr. Pollard braced his hands on his desk and pushed himself upright. The palsied hands shook, and his head bobbed a little, but his eyes were keen as he met Finn’s gaze. “Sir, I salute you,” the old man said, then offered his hand.
