The Nylon Pirates

PART THREE "You will thrill to the colourful, pirate-haunted Caribbean, surrender to the fiesta mood at Carnival Time"

As usual with an old man, the Professor rose early; indeed, the pale light creeping through his porthole at 6 a.m. found him already wakeful, already primed for the new day. At his bedside was the spirit-stove, the miniature kettle, and the earthenware tea-pot which accompanied him everywhere; when he had made tea, with slow ceremonial, he sipped it delicately, savouring every moment of this private initiation, the start of another prized twenty-four hours. There was no flavour like Lapsang Soochong, no warmth like its scalding fall upon a tongue furred by alcohol, no comfort to match it, save in the forgotten areas of love and triumph. After the third cup, he lay back on the pillows and dozed peaceably for five minutes; then he rose, and wrapped his thin shanks in a threadbare dressing-gown, and walked through to the bathroom to shave off, for the twenty-thousandth time, the white stubble of seventy years, the last evidence of an ancient virility.

He dressed carefully, as always; he had bought no new clothes for more than a decade, but those that he had, ordered and paid for during some vanished era of prosperity (in England? in Paris? in San Francisco?—only the labels could confirm this aspect of the past, and he never looked at labels) were well-cut, still infinitely durable. As he dressed—the pace was slow, as all things now were slow, but pleasurable and reassuring all the same—he kept returning to the writing table, to read what he had added to his manuscript on the previous night. He had written half of a whole paragraph—sixty-one words! It was another solid pleasure, another pledge that the wiry thread of life persisted, that it was still good. He touched and stroked the very surface of the page as he read it over again.

"We come now," he had written, in his spidery long-hand, "to one of the most iniquitous characters ever to stain the pages of the long, bloodthirsty history of piracy. This was a Frenchman, of noble or at least honourable birth; he was called Simon de Montbars, but by reason of his wickedness he came to be known by the frightful pseudonym of The Exterminator'. Simon de Montbars-"

There the writing petered out, as his energy and interest had failed, at midnight last night, when the whisky finally took its toll. But it was tangible progress none the less, it was part of The Book, it would on page two hundred and thirty-two when it was formally transcribed, in the midst of dressing, his hand returned again and again to the tattered manuscript book, and to the typescript that lay by its side; hope mounted afresh, as it had done on successive dawns stretching far back into the past. At this rate, another year or two— say five, to be on the safe side—would see his task completed, his great work acclaimed as the definitive one. Let them then laugh, when he mounted the rostrum to receive the Nobel Prize from the King of Sweden's own hands! Let them laugh—and then crowd round him to claim, if they could, a bare acquaintance!

He knotted his stringy tie with a firm hand, drew on his blue blazer, pinched the creases in the old, yellowing flannel trousers; then he tilted his beribboned Panama hat at a lively angle and stepped out— jaunty, ageless, and undefeated—to meet the promised day.

It was now half past seven; when he reached it, the boat-deck of the Alcestis gleamed cheerfully in the early sunshine, freshly sluiced down by deck-hands who were now rolling the hoses towards the after-part. As far as the eye could see, the sun sparkled on a calm wide sea, translucent, green—the peerless colour which the Caribbean seemed to have at its command always. They had now advanced twelve days on their voyage, with three of them spent in harbour at Bermuda and Puerto Rico; today they were nearing Antigua, threading their way through the magic island necklace of St. Croix and Anguilla, Barbuda and St. Kitts. The weather after the first day had been very kind, and the mellowing sun a blessed comfort for an old man's bones. Under its benign influence, the whole shipload of people had blossomed anew. Clothes became casual and often bizarre; the traditional drinks of North America—martinis, old-fashioneds, Scotch-on-the-rocks—had given place to rum in all its garish aspects—Bacardi cocktail, planter's punch, frozen daiquiri. It was as if the whole passenger-list were melting into a beachcombing informality. The process had advanced their own affairs considerably.

The Professor began his customary constitutional, a circle at easy speed past the port-side boats, across the back of the bridge, round the funnel, and down the other side towards the after-rail. There were a few people about already, and he gave them each a cheerful greeting; to those who rose early, he was by now a familiar figure. But on all these morning walks, he surrendered as far as he could to the pleasure of speculative thought. There was to be a meeting later that morning with all the "gang" (really, no other word could be used), and at this meeting they would give an accounting of the progress they had made up to date. Later still, alone with Carl, the Professor would present his own report of what he had observed so far—a report not on the other passengers, but on their own personnel. That was his true job within the party, and if it put him in the category of company spy, he was still content. It was an essential job, and he was proud to have been assigned to it.

He had known Carl Wenstrom for many years; known him, admired him, and (the most important aspect of all) trusted him. Carl talked to him as he talked to no one else—unless it were to Kathy, and that was bound to be love-talk, pillow-talk, traditionally inaccurate and vague. It was himself that Carl relied on, to keep track of what was happening, what might go wrong, what major or minor dishonesties might be coming into practice. The Professor had an idea, for instance, that Diane Loring had lied about the extent of her first killing. A thousand dollars was a lot of money, but this sum, as reported, was too pat, the figure too round. No one carried exactly one thousand dollars in his wallet. Since it could not have been less, it was likely to have been more—twelve hundred? fourteen hundred? There was no accurate way of checking, but it was certainly worth a mention, in private.

Rounding the funnel for the fourth time, he came face to face with another early riser whom he felt he must greet personally—Mr. Walham. Mr. Walham was, from their point of view, an unattractive prospect; he was so monumentally mean, so eternally worrisome about money, that it was already a ship-board joke. But he was also monumentally rich, and there were still many days and nights in which to ensure that he went ashore with less money to worry about.

"Hallo, Mr. Walham!" said the Professor cheerily. "Trust you to be up and about early!" (Getting your money's worth, he added privately, but it was not a thought to be voiced save in an entirely complimentary sense.) "Are you looking forward to our visit to Antigua?"

Mr. Walham, as lean and disagreeable as ever, gave the matter some thought, as they stood together in the long shadow of one of the ventilator cowls. Finally he answered:

"God knows. I expect we'll all be gypped again."

"Gypped?" echoed the Professor.

^Yeah—short-changed. Like at San Juan, Puerto Rico."

"What happened there?" asked the Professor, puzzled.

Mr. Walham looked at him as if he were half-witted. "Gee, doesn't anyone around here read the programme? Remember what it said? 10.00 a.m.—Excursion to the casino'. Did we get there? Did we hell! We finished up at the airport, with a free pass to the public concourse! What kind of a deal is that?"

But I understand," said the Professor equably, "that the casino was closed for redecoration. They really can't help that sort of thing, you know."

"Of course they can help it!" said Walham violently. "They say we go to the casino, why don't we go? I tell you, they're trying to shave this trip all the time. A bit off here, a bit off there. Next thing, we won't get to Cape Town, or something. We'll go straight home from Rio, and they'll say they ran out of fuel."

"I'm sure they wouldn't do that."

"You've got to watch it all the time," said Walham. He looked closely at the Professor. "Have you had your morning tea, for instance?"

"Of course," answered the Professor. "1 make it myself."

"Make it yourself! Why, for God's sakes? Tea's available from seven a.m. It says so in clear print. I ought to know. That's the time that I have it, every morning. I put in a standing order. And if it doesn't turn up, on the dot, with a jug of hot water as well, I want to know why."

"But I like to make it myself," said the Professor. "It tastes better."

"Tastes?" repeated Walham. "What's that got to do with it? They say you can have tea. Then have tea. Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"No side," answered the Professor, with dignity. "I've usually found that it's perfectly easy to arrange these things without any unpleasantness."

Walham shook his head, irritated and unappeased. "It's people like you," he said, "who let them get away with murder. First thing you know, they'll put a ten-per-cent surcharge on all the stuff you order at the bar. They'll tell you the cost of living's gone up, or some damn' thing."

"Oh, I hope not," said the Professor, with feeling.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," said Walham. He prepared to resume his walk. "Well, let's get our money's worth out of the deck, at least."

"Does that sort of thing really worry you?" asked the Professor innocently.

"It pleases me!" answered Walham, with sudden grisly relish. "Budgeting! I built up my business by watching the budget. Not just half the time, not just when I remembered to check, but all the time. Ten cents here, fifteen cents there—that's cost-accounting! And it's not just a hobby, it's a science. The greatest!"

After a pause: "If it is not impertinent," said the Professor, preparing to move on, "might I ask how that fits in with—" he waved his hand round the Alcestis, "—with all this? It's very much of a luxury, surely?"

"It's a vacation," Walham corrected him, with clipped determination.

"I've earned it, I've paid the asking price, and I'm getting my money's worth. Just watch me!"

"But what about the budget? What about extras?"

"What extras?" asked Walham suspiciously.

"Well—" the Professor cast about for an innocuous phrase, "for pleasure, for entertainment, for—shall we say—the bright lights?"

"Sex," said Walham, reaching past the unessentials. He seemed within an ace of reaching for his notebook as well. "I'm not all that dumb, you know. And I'm not dead yet, either. You'll find an entry under sex in my budget. It's down there in black and white."

No man alive could have resisted the vital question. "How much?" asked the Professor.

"Two hundred dollars," said Walham promptly. "Maximum, twenty dollars a throw—I've been around, I know the prices, don't fool yourself! That's ten throws, spread over three months. It's plenty for a man of my age."

"Two hundred dollars," the Professor repeated, thoughtfully. "I wonder if you can stick to that."

"I'd just like to see the situation," answered Walham, "where I can be gouged for one red cent more."

He took his leave, fiercely confident, while the Professor, shaking with inward laughter, continued on an opposite course. He had a sudden vision, delicious yet terrifying, of the confronting of Diane and Walham—whether before or after the act did not matter-when the question of a twenty-dollar fee was brought squarely into the open. He saw it taking place at dawn; in the wan light Walham was counting out twenty one-dollar bills—no, the last dollar would be in quarters—while an enraged Diane stood with her hand open, repeating " 'Ere, wot's this?" like a London taxi-driver. The Professor laughed aloud at that, and laughing, was himself confronted with someone else he must talk to. It was Mrs. Kincaid, making an early foray into the world of public relations.

"Why, Professor!" She looked at him with a hard stare of speculation, as if the time might have come to re-assess his category.This one could be nuts, her glance seemed to say: I'll have to go over the files. ... " I declare, someone must have told you one of those men's stories!"

The Professor raised his ancient hat, bowing with the irresistible courtliness which had made him very popular on board. "Dear lady!" he exclaimed. "How very nice. . .. No, no story—just a passing thought which I won't inflict on you. And how is the senator, on this fine morning?"

You know darn well my husband isn't a senator." But Mrs. Kincaid was smiling; she liked the Professor, in the sense that he was a nonentity who could neither help nor harm her, and therefore demanded no special handling.

The Professor smiled in turn. "I merely anticipate. As a humble voter, I know a prospective senator when I see one. . . . You are out very early, surely?"

"Just looking round," answered Mrs. Kincaid—and it was bound to be true. She had already established herself as the most inquisitive woman on board; if you wanted to know anything about anyone's antecedents, you came to Mrs. Kincaid. "I was woken up early this morning—a lot of cabin-doors were opening and shutting." She smiled—a crocodile smile which creased her mouth but left her eyes unblinkingly alert. "There's a lot going on in this ship that people don't know about."

"Dear me," said the Professor mildly. "I had no idea. What is going on?"

"I'd hate to tell you. . . . You know that couple that always sit by themselves—the big man, and the blonde girl with the terrible legs?"

The Professor nodded. "The Burrells?"

"The Burrells." Mrs. Kincaid sniffed, as if an air of corruption had invaded the boat-deck. "I don't think they're even married!"

"Dear me," said the Professor again. "What makes you say that?"

"Oh—just a hunch. She's French, you know, or she says she is. There's always something off-beat about Continentals. They don't think the way we do. Sort of loose. You know what I mean?"

"Well—" said the Professor.

"And another thing." Well launched, Mrs. Kincaid held him with a hypnotic glance. "Those Zuccos, the ones that sit at the Captain's table with us. You know, I think they're actually Jewish!"

"I had no idea."

"Oh, you can always tell. Haven't you noticed how he talks with his hands? Gee, I hate that! Their cabin is near ours—too near, if you want to know the truth. They just never stop arguing. I didn't think we'd get that sort of thing on board a boat like this."

"It takes all sorts to make a world," said the Professor, finding refuge in sententiousness. Privately, he considered Mrs. Kincaid entirely odious, but she was a useful channel of communication none the less; long training in the unique arena of Florida politics had given her a matchless instinct for detection—the probing and ruin of the weak, the suspicion and undermining of the strong. If there were any short-cuts to hurtful knowledge, Mrs. Kincaid could supply them. Intent on this aspect, he took pains to produce a conspiratorial smile. "What was that you said about cabin-doors opening and shutting?"

"Now, Professor!" she said, catching his mood. "Sometimes it doesn't do to ask too many questions."

"But really," he insisted.

"Well, I'll tell you." She came close to him—a tough, sketchily-groomed woman in the hard morning sunlight. She looked awful— awful and useful. "You know there's a woman called Mrs. Stewart-Bates?"

"Certainly." Sudden wariness made him confine his answer to this single word.

"She's made one or two trips on this boat already. Claims she's like that with the Captain." Mrs. Kincaid laid one finger on top of the other, in a crude gesture. "I wouldn't know about that. But I do know that someone—maybe the Captain, maybe not—pays a hell of a lot of visits to her cabin. You can hear voices all the time. Don't ask me what the attraction is. Maybe they talk about world conditions. Maybe he's nuts—maybe he'd have to be." Her expression was indescribably vicious and unpleasant. "But the traffic to and fro—I can tell you, it's quite something!"

The Professor, now fully alerted, sought to pass the matter off. "Well, well. . . . Perhaps Honi soit qui mal y pense would be an appropriate motto in this case."

"How's that again?"

"I don't think we should jump to conclusions."

"The trouble with you, Professor," said Mrs. Kincaid, "is that you're too darned sweet. Personally,I'm jumping to conclusions, and it's not such a hell of a big jump, either." She stretched, raising her thin pointed nose to the virgin air. "Well, I must see what that husband of mine is getting up to. "Bye now!"

She left him, and the Professor, now deep in more urgent thought, continued his walk. He had been brought to the alert because the recurrent nocturnal visitor to Mrs. Stewart-Bates was almost certainly Louis Scapelli; if his visits were already public property, it could be dangerous. Our boy, thought the Professor, as near to a sneer as he had ever been, getting his name into the Alcestis gossip columns. . . . It was something else which he must raise at the meeting later; it might mean that Louis would have to change his tactics, whatever those tactics were. So far, he had not been given the go-ahead by Carl; if his movements were being watched, and if (say) Mrs. Stewart-Bates became suddenly distraught, or publicly embarrassed, then wo-and-two could be put together with uncomfortable precision y those in authority. The whole strength of their operations, as Carl had long ago pointed out, lay in their not causing the smallest ripple of public interest. One woman—or one man, for that matter— who betrayed, even inadvertently, the fact that they had been under pressure, could put Carl Wenstrom out of business in a single hour.

He had reached this stage in uneasy thought, and reached also the after-rail of the boat-deck, when there was another interruption, this time the most intrusive of all. Above the noise of the hoses sluicing down the decks, there came the sound of an argument; the broad Liverpool voice of one of the sailors suddenly called out: "Get out of the road, you little booger!" in a tone of final exasperation; then there was a sound of running feet, and Master Barry Greenfield, seemingly propelled from behind, shot into view and landed squarely in the Professor's midriff. He was dishevelled, and very wet; the Professor was glad of this, but it failed to soothe his anger at the onslaught.

"Look where you're going, boy!" he said crustily. "You nearly knocked me down!"

Barry Greenfield shook himself, then darted a furious glance behind him. "He kicked me!" he said angrily. "The lousy son of a bitch kicked me!"

"I am sure you deserved it," said the Professor tartly. Young Master Greenfield, during the past twelve days, had attained a position approximating to total loathing throughout the ship. "I have not the slightest doubt that you were making yourself insufferable, as usual."

"I'll have that guy fired," said Barry, with another dark glance. "Who the hell does he think he is? Just one of the stinking crew! I'll get him thrown off the boat."

The culprit, a broad middle-aged man with a hose in his hand, suddenly appeared from behind one of the boats. He pointed a stubby finger at Barry.

"You try that lark again," he called out, with refreshing lack of deference, "and I'll haul you up before the Captain, and he'll kick your bloody arse off, same as me." He then withdrew.

"But what did you do?" asked the Professor, intrigued in spite of a natural distaste. The entire crew of the Alcestis normally behaved so angelically, putting up with every kind of passenger misbehaviour as an inescapable part of their duty, that the outburst could only have been provoked by an unmistakable act of barbarism.

"Nothing," said Barry sulkily.

"Don't lie to me, boy!"

Barry Greenfield, recovering his self-assurance, looked at the Professor.

'•What's with you, old-timer?" he asked derisively. "You got a candid camera or something?"

"You must have done something," answered the Professor, weakening already. This was the younger generation, he supposed; across such a yawning chasm, he could never compete, nor even enter a token appearance. It must be true, what one read from time to time in the newspapers. . . . "People don't get angry for no reason at all."

"That stupid jerk!" said Barry malevolently. "I'll fix his wagon for him. . . ." He looked again at the Professor, his surly eyes turning lewd in the space of a single instant. Under the warming sun, it came as a disgusting shock, like indecent exposure in surroundings of the utmost innocence. "How are those two broads of yours?"

"I beg your pardon?" said the Professor.

"You know—those girls. Especially the one with the—" his small claws sketched twin balloons of obscene size. "Boy, what an operator!"

"I don't know what you mean," said the Professor, and in truth he scarcely did know.

"O.K., Daddy-oh! Play it stupid if that's the way you like it. But you'd better watch out, or you'll be raided. I've seen a few things going on. We're not all dopey, don't you kid yourself!"

"You are talking nonsense," said the Professor firmly.

Barry Greenfield shrugged; it was difficult to tell, at that moment, if he were fifteen or fifty-five. "O.K., O.K. . . . You know what? There's an old guy on board, he's even older than you are."

"Indeed?"

']Yeah. But he's dying."

"I am going down to breakfast," said the Professor dismissively.

Barry Greenfield spread his hands, in a terrible caricature of Jewish well-wishing. "Eat it in good health," he said, and walked away whistling.

2

It was mid-morning, an hour of great variety. For some it meant bouillon and gossip on the promenade deck, for others the first cold beer of the day; there were already some bridge-players imprisoned in their private world, there was ping-pong, and shuffleboard, and deck-tennis, all played with plodding devotion. There were people bathing in the lime-green open-air pool in front of the bridge; there were people reading thrillers, and writing letters to be posted at Antigua, and speculating about their ticket on the ship's daily run, and trying to cure their hangovers. Some were thinking about money, some about politics, some about their children left at home, some about the homes themselves. There were a few—a very few—thinking about love. There were dining-room stewards eating before they went on duty, and stewardesses making up beds and collecting soiled towels. There was a trio of officers on the bridge taking expert care of their southward progress.

There was, in Carl Wenstrom's stateroom on A deck, an incipient row.

It was probably the Professor's fault, thought Carl, sitting at the head of the table and surveying his quarrelsome brood. The old man was obviously dying for a drink; the way he passed his hand across his lower jaw every few moments was a dead give-away, to anyone who had watched the 10 a.m. tortures of representative citizens outside a Sixth Avenue bar. But he was ashamed to ask for what he craved; instead, he had channelled his misery into comment which, though it fell short of nagging, had a fussy air of criticism. He was unsure of this, he could scarcely recommend that—the pinpricks were only occasional, but they were enough to inject a measurable poison.

Carl himself was irritable; he had been up till four o'clock that morning, in a poker game which, though profitable, had taken toll of his energy. Everyone else in the room seemed wonderfully fresh; even Diane, who, he knew, had stayed up at an advanced sort of party at least as late as he. Perhaps it was this which was the irritation—the knowledge that the time was past when he could keep the hours of the young without paying the price of the old. There was no aspect of age more mortifying than this.

Louis Scapelli spoke first. He was a much-improved Louis, something like the kind of young man Carl had had in mind when he was planning their enterprise. The moustache was gone, the clothes were simple, and casually correct; the sun had done wonders for his complexion. If some of the pallor was still there, it could be the pallor of a man who spent too much time as a plush night-club customer, rather than as one of the boys wearing green eye-shades in the back room. He was even good-looking again; the snide urban skin, peeled off, revealed a small but sensual animal.

"I've got two things going for me," he reported, with novel and convincing authority. "Maybe more, but at least two you can count on. One is Mrs. Stewart-Bates—she's pretty near ripe." His expression as he said this was so utterly contemptuous that Kathy, who had been staring out of the porthole, turned her head and looked at him closely. Could he really be so full of contempt, and yet go through the motions of love convincingly when the time came? Apparently he thought he could do so. "We're taking a run ashore together when we get to Antigua," he went on. "I think that should fix it." He cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Carl. "O.K., chief?" "What do you propose to do?" asked Carl.

"Come back on board early," answered Louis, "when there's not too many people about. Then go into action." "Where?" inquired the Professor suddenly.

"In her cabin. It's—" his grin was unpleasant, "—more discreet, like they say." "It has certainly not proved so," said the Professor flatly. "What's that meant to mean?" snapped Louis. "The fact that you have been to her cabin several times is already common gossip. One can hardly recommend—" "Wait a minute," interrupted Carl. "How do you know that?" "I heard of it this morning. From Mrs. Kincaid." "That long-nosed bitch," said Louis. "Anyway, what the hell? I've been seen going to her cabin. So what? I'm going again—once more."

The Professor raised an admonishing finger. "That is precisely where the danger lies. If you suddenly stop going—"

"Just a moment, Professor," interrupted Carl again. He turned back to Louis. "What's this about her cabin?" he asked. "I've just been there, that's all." "Doing what?"

"Talking, mostly. Holding her hand. And practising dance-steps." "Gee!" said Diane, ironically. "Big deal, Romeo. How's her cha-cha coming on? You get paid by the lesson?"

Louis surveyed her, with cold dislike. "Not yet. But I will be. And the price is going to be right, don't you worry. You saw that cigarette case she gave me. Eighteen carat, from the best jewellery store in San Juan."

"Yeah, we saw it. When are you going to turn it in to the Prof?" "At the end of the deal," Louis snapped. "How can I turn it in now? She sees me using it every day. How do I explain if it's not there?"

"You can say you gave up cigarettes to improve your dancing." "I still think that the amount of public attention—" began the Professor.

^ Louis, nettled, goaded on many fronts, turned on him with a snarl.

What the hell are you bitching about, Prof? I'm doing my job. You get on with yours, whatever it is. Of course I've been going to her cabin. It's part of the build-up. And when I stop going, she won't squawk. Not in public. She won't dare. And your gossiping pals can forget all about it—till I switch to someone else. Then maybe they'll start all over again. And it doesn't matter!"

The Professor opened his mouth again, but Kathy unexpectedly forestalled him. The point intrigued her, as a woman; she felt she could make a contribution; and, indeed, it was high time that she did so, and earned some of her passage-money. "I think Louis is right," she said firmly. She was addressing the people round the table, but she was talking to and for Carl—Carl who, short of sleep, his nerves too taut, was not handling this thing at all well. "The fact that there's gossip about him and the old girl is useful. I bet she knows about it—women always do. It'll make her more nervous of public opinion. Therefore, when the pressure's put on, she's more likely to crack."

Louis gave her a mock salute. "Thanks, kid. I'm glad somebody else around here knows what the score is." He looked at Carl. "Do I go ahead, chief?"

"Yes," said Carl, making up his mind a shade too quickly. "Play it your way. But just watch it. I'll come back to that a bit later." He turned again. "Diane?"

Diane, trim and tanned in a strapless sun-dress which did a great deal for her figure, smiled back at him. She was very confident, very sure of herself. There could be no complaints about what she had done so far. She was the big winner; indeed, the only one.

"No dancing lessons," she reported coolly. "This is the advanced course. . . . You know about Bancroft—he came across for a thousand dollars, the very first night. Since then I've been lining 'em up." She ticked off the names on her fingers. "There's a pal of his called Gerson—maybe Bancroft's been talking to him, but whatever he said, it must have been sweet talk. He can't wait for it. There's Zucco, next down the queue. He wants to give me a film-test." She laughed, without humour. "What a line! He'll learn. . . . Then there's an old guy who's been nibbling at it—Walham. He—"

"Walham?" repeated the Professor, on a note of petulant disbelief. "I hope you are not placing any great hopes in that particular quarter."

Diane's chin came up. In the full tide of recital, she did not relish the interruption. "Why not?" she demanded.

"I have it on the very best authority," he said, "that his idea of a—suitable fee is twenty dollars."

"What the hell are you talking about?" asked Diane. "What authority?"

"His own. He told me so." "Told you so? Twenty dollars? I don't get it. Have you been talking prices with him?"

"We were discussing matters in general terms. But he was quite explicit. He is extraordinarily mean, as we all know. Twenty dollars is his firm price."

At that, Diane exploded, into inevitable vulgarity. "Firm price? What do you know about it? What does he know? I'll tell him what the price is, and I'll tell him when it's firm, too." She leant forward, raising her finger. "You better keep out of this, Prof, before you screw the whole thing up. I've done better than anyone so far—"

"You have indeed done very well." The Professor passed his hand, for the twentieth time, across his dry lower lip. "A thousand dollars, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Exactly a thousand?"

Diane stared at him, frowning. "Exactly. What are you getting

at?"

"It's such a round figure."

"That's what he was paying for, you old goat! Are you hinting that I've been holding out?"

Carl raised his hand. "For heaven's sake stop it! You're like a bunch of children."

"If he's insinuating-"

"He's insinuating nothing." Carl rapped sharply on the table. "Let's all do a little work, for a change. That's what you've got so far, is it, Diane? Gerson, Zucco, and possibly Walham."

"Yes," answered Diane sulkily. "There's a couple of the officers, but you can't count them." She looked sideways at Kathy. "Or can you?"

"Why ask me?" asked Kathy coldly.

"I thought you were interested."

"I am not."

Carl broke in again. "All right, all right. I think you can go ahead with Gerson, Diane, but leave it for a day .or so. If he's a friend of Bancroft, it might be a bit dangerous. Try and get a line on what Bancroft told him, if he told him anything."

"I know just what he told him," answered Diane, not less sulkily. "You' ve got to understand this—they're friends, but they don't like each other. Not one little bit. Bancroft got hooked, so he wants the same thing to happen to Gerson. All he would say is—" she gestured, with exceptional crudity, "—go ahead, boy, it's wonderful, it's red-hot, and it's yours for the asking."

"You think so?" asked Carl.

"I know so."

"All right. But wait a little longer, like I said." He sat up straight, flexing his sore shoulder-muscles. "That leaves me," he said, "and you might as well know what's been happening in the wonderful world of poker. We've got a good school going—reasonably skilful, except for one man; we've played every night, and I've won about nine thousand dollars."

Louis whistled, admiringly. "Hell, chief—that's not peanuts!"

"It's a no-limit game," explained Carl, "and I've held good cards all the time."

"Straight?"

"Oh yes."

"Who's the one man?"

"Greenfield. The father of the brat." He smiled. "Maybe his home life drove him to poker. But he is bad."

Since no one seemed to have anything else to say, Carl looked inquiringly round the room, prepared to finish off the meeting. Kathy, he knew, had nothing worth while to report; he was not disappointed, certainly not surprised, but he did not want to draw attention to the fact among the others. She would go to work when the moment and the occasion suited her; if this seemed to place her in a favoured position, then that was where she belonged, and he was not inclined to discuss the point. They had been very happy during the last few days; lovingly happy, at ease with each other and with the whole world. Perhaps it could not stay like that, when Kathy started "operating"; whatever she did would not come between them, in any emotional sense, but it would encroach on their peace. He was selfish enough, or loving enough, to want to postpone that.

"All right," he said, more briskly. "Professor—treasurer's report!"

The Professor smiled, and leant forward, a touch of pride in his bearing. "A simple balance-sheet so far, Carl. Yourself, nine thousand two hundred dollars. Diane, one thousand dollars. Louis, one gold cigarette case, worth—" he looked up, directing his query down the table.

"Seven hundred and fifty bucks," said Louis, with a smirk.

The Professor made a pencilled note on a pad. "That's fifty dollars short of eleven thousand. Nearly half-way to our original stake. I would call that very satisfactory."

Carl nodded. "So would I. Particularly as we've hardly got started yet."

"Some of us," said Diane, not quite under her breath.

"What's that?" "I said, 'Some of us'," repeated Diane, more loudly. "Some of us haven't got started at all yet."

Carl was about to dismiss the comment, when Kathy herself took it up. "That means me, I suppose."

"Yeah. We haven't heard any report from you."

"You haven't heard anything," said Kathy, "because so far there's nothing to tell."

"Just so long as we know."

The tone was unpleasant, but Kathy would not be provoked. "I've got three things in mind," she said slowly. "One of them is Beckwith—Sir Hubert himself." She gave the title an ironic emphasis. "He may be too scared of his wife. But I don't think so. Another is Zucco—your Mr. Zucco. He's offered me a film-test too."

"Those cameras of his are sure going to be whirring," said Diane. But she had a point to make, and she was not going to be deflected. "What about that tea-party?"

"What tea-party?"

"Those kids who call themselves officers."

Kathy shrugged. "I had tea with them in their saloon, or whatever it's called. They invited me along. What about it?"

"They invited me," said Diane. "But I turned it down."

"So?"

Diane was not getting anywhere, and the fact annoyed her further. "It's just a waste of time, that's all."

"Oh, I agree."

And indeed, it had been a waste of time, from all points of view. There had been eight of them at the tea-party; she was the only woman; they had laid on a tremendous meal—tea, bread and butter, crumpets, scones, jam, Devonshire cream, little cakes, big cakes— the lot. Their efforts to please, to entertain, to appear sophisticated men of the world, had been unmistakable; in between times, in the silences, they all ate enormously. It had been pathetic, rather endearing, and dull. That song about sailors should really have been called "Heads of Oak". . . . Even Tim Mansell, whom she liked best of the assembled collection, had shown himself astonishingly innocent and unaware. He was a few years older than herself, yet he made her feel about fifty years of age. Compared with Carl—

Her daydream was broken into, roughly, by Diane. "Why go to the party, then? We're meant to beworking. Remember?"

Kathy looked at her, frowning. She did not want to argue; it was futile; Diane was one kind of animal, herself another—they could not meet, they did not need to, they could go their separate ways and, if necessary, compare results at the end. She had gone to the party because she had been asked, and because she had nothing better to do. It was as simple as that. Perhaps it had better be kept simple.

"I don't think it matters at all," she said briefly. "This was an officers' tea-party. I went, you didn't. There's no crisis, no bones broken, no need to panic. The whole thing took an hour. . . . My third possibility," she went on, in a voice studiously devoid of emphasis, "is Tillotson."

The name produced the effect she had expected. Even Carl repeated it, surprised. Diane opened her mouth, and then shut it again; the Professor raised his bushy eyebrows. Louis voiced all their thoughts when he said:

"Tillotson? The big,big shot? Don't tell me he's got hot pants, same as everyone else!"

"It's only beginning," answered Kathy. "That's about all I can say. But if we're making out lists, he's certainly on mine."

"Boloney!" said Diane rudely. "I don't believe it. Tillotson is married with a capital M. He's married to his money, too. He wouldn't recognize a proposition if it climbed up and sat on his face."

Kathy shrugged, not caring to argue. "Have it your own way. I'm just telling you that Tillotson is due to make a play sooner or later. When it's going to happen is anybody's guess. But that's for me to worry about."

There was a knock on the cabin door, startling them all. Before Carl could answer, the door opened, and Barkway, the steward, appeared.

"Compliments of Mr. Tillotson, sir," he said. "Don't forget you're having a drink with him at noon."

Carl swung round, genuinely shaken, while an electric silence settled on the others. Barkway's face was absolutely expressionless; it was quite impossible to judge whether the sudden entrance were innocent or not. It was quite true, thought Carl swiftly, that he was due to have a drink at noon; Tillotson was one of their poker-school; there had been some talk, when they broke up, of a pre-lunch party. But the timing of the message was remarkable; and so, in Barkway's mind, must be the fact that they were all sitting round the table, clearly holding some kind of meeting. Had Barkway waited outside the door? Had he been listening? Had he chosen the exact moment, so as to achieve surprise, or—more likely—to enjoy the shock which was his to give? Carl looked at him again. The face was still blank, almost theatrically so. But then, stewards often did look like that; it was a badge of service, copied from God-knows-what ancient dynasty of film butlers. If they ever betrayed emotion, they were betraying Paul Lukas, Arthur Treacher, William Powell. . . . But it was time for him to answer, if the moment were to be passed off naturally.

"Thank you, Barkway," he said. "Please tell Mr. Tillotson that I'll be there."

"Very good, sir." Barkway withdrew, smooth, expressionless, without allusion or accent of any kind. They could hear vague voices in the lobby outside as he spoke, presumably, to another steward. Then there was silence again.

Louis expelled a long breath. "Jesus! How about that, chief? That guy could have been listening outside, all the time!"

"I'll bet he was, too," said Diane. "What in hell were we saying, anyway?"

"Just that you and Kathy aim to get laid by everything that breathes. That's all!"

Carl raised his hand. "Let's take it easy. If he was listening, even all the time, I doubt if he could have really understood what we were talking about. Most of it wouldn't mean a thing, unless he'd been listening to a lot of other talk as well. He probably overheard the name Tillotson, and decided it would be funny to deliver the message just then."

"It was funny, all right," said Louis.

"Or it may have been a coincidence." Now that the small crisis was past, Carl was inclined to take this comforting view. He also wanted to finish off the meeting, which had run its course and served its purpose. "But in any case, it's a good illustration of what I wanted to say, before—" he looked at his watch, "—before I go to have my drink with Mr. Tillotson. We want to be careful all the time. We want to attract as little attention as possible. It doesn't really matter if Louis is seen going to Mrs. So-and-so's cabin; this whole ship's a gossip factory, as you know—you can't have corned-beef-hash for breakfast without half the passengers congratulating you by lunch-time. There's bound to be talk, whatever he does, whatever the girls do. But there's talk and talk." He looked round the table slowly, intent on making his point. "It's a matter of degree. If it's just talk about who's dancing with who, or even who's sleeping with who, it doesn't really matter. We're on a cruise, these things go on, love is in the air. . . . But if there's conflict—if there's drama if Mrs. Stewart-Bates goes into shock for the next ten days, if Gerson wanders out of Diane's cabin shouting and waving an empty wallet, even if my poker friends start complaining in public about their losses—then we're in for trouble. It's a matter of handling, and of course it comes down to the individual. I can't tell you how far you can go, in each case. That's up to you. But try and attract the minimum of attention, when the pressure's on." He pushed back his chair, formally ending the session. "I must break this up," he said, "because I've got to keep that date. But just remember, and take it easy."

Louis left first, then Diane; the Professor remained where he was at the table, and Kathy also, standing by the porthole. After a moment she came forward.

"Anything I can do, Carl?"

"No, my darling." He looked up at her. "I want to talk to the Professor for a moment."

She nodded. Then she came up behind him, and put her hands softly over his temples. "Do get some sleep, when you can. You were terribly late last night."

"I'll sleep this afternoon."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

After a moment she added: "Those officers were just babies."

He smiled, covering her hand with his own. "I haven't a doubt of that."

When she was gone, leaving behind her, where she had touched him, the faint perfume which he knew so well, Carl came briskly to attention. It was his most formidable capacity, to be able to isolate contrasting moods and to concentrate on one or other of them at the flick of a switch.

"Were they?" he asked almost harshly of the Professor.

"What's that, Carl?" The Professor's hand had wandered again to his mouth, and he was looking sideways at the wall-table laden with drinks.

Carl said: "Help yourself, Professor," and the old man crossed to the table with unashamed alacrity. There was a rattle of bottle against glass as he poured himself a drink. After two gulps of whisky, also audible, he turned and said:

"Were they what? Were who what?"

"The officers. She said they were babies. True?"

The Professor was not surprised. Between himself and Carl there was an absolute frankness; no question was too inquisitive, no answer too squalid, no topic unmentionable.

"Perfectly true," he answered readily. "There's nothing there. She likes one of them—Mansell, his name is—but it's nothing serious. They've danced together a few times. He asked her to go ashore with him when we were at Bermuda, but she wouldn't."

"What's he like?"

The Professor spread his hands. "A child, just as she said."

"O.K." Carl dismissed the topic. He looked at his watch again. "I've got ten minutes still. Anything for me?"

The Professor, enormously comforted and reassured by the mere feel of a glass in his hand, sat down again.

"One or two things," he answered. "First, there's Diane's one thousand dollars. The Bancroft affair."

Carl nodded. "Why did you raise that? You think she's holding out?"

"Frankly, I do. It's such a round figure, and—" he threw back his head in a dignified movement, "—I still use that phrase, in spite of any coarse comment she may make. It was probably a great deal more."

"Difficult to find out."

"Indeed, impossible. But there's no harm in indicating that we are keeping our eyes open."

Carl nodded again. "Agreed. I think we've got to accept the fact, Professor, that both she and Louis will get away with whatever they can. There can't be an effective check. It's like the income-tax assessment of a waiter's tips—educated guesswork. We must take a likely figure, and raise hell if they seem to be getting out of line."

"We'll do that. . . . Then there's Louis," the Professor went on. "I mentioned the matter of Mrs. Kincaid, and the amount of gossip there is already. You dealt with it yourself, perfectly adequately. But I think it's probable," he said carefully, "that Mrs. Stewart-Bates has already given him other presents, besides the cigarette case. They have been together—dancing and suchlike—for nearly two weeks now. He has been uniformly attentive. Now she is not a stupid woman, though of course she is incontestably foolish. She surely regards him as a dancing-partner; with all the self-flattery in the world, she must realize that he is a full quarter of a century younger than herself, and that the relationship is that of gigolo to client. She must have been paying him—with jewellery, cufflinks, even money—on a more or less continuous basis."

"There's no check," said Carl again.

"No," agreed the Professor. "But I have compiled a list of the jewellery she has worn in public. If that is what he proposes to take from her, I will certainly make a note of what she no longer wears, during the rest of the voyage."

Carl smiled, with genuine amusement. "Professor, you're wonderful."

The Professor sipped his drink, well satisfied. "I dislike being fooled," he said, "particularly by my inferiors. One must take certain precautions. ... I also had a confusing encounter with young Barry Greenfield."

"Bad luck."

"That young man," said the Professor, with feeling, "should have been exposed at birth. More and more do I come to believe in the old Spartan customs. However. ... It was a curious conversation; I must admit that I did not fully understand all of it. He seemed to be hinting that the girls—and Diane especially—were engaged in some operation, of which he at least—at the age of fifteen—was fully aware."

"You're fooling."

The Professor passed his hand over his brow. It was a much more relaxed gesture than hitherto, but it demonstrated a degree of inadequacy none the less.

"I am not fooling," he answered, "though I may have been mistaken."

"But what did he say?"

"Just that he was keeping an eye on all of us."

Carl laughed aloud. "Barry Greenfield? But that's wonderful! Perhaps we should cut him in."

The Professor shuddered. "No, no! There is a capacity for evil there which I for one could never compete with. I can assure you, he would have acquired a controlling interest, inside of a week."

"If we can't lick him we must join him. . .." Carl stood up, stretching. "I must go, I'm afraid. That's all?"

"Yes." The Professor, soothed in spirit, already regaining his normal hazy contentment, looked at Carl. "If you are satisfied, that is."

"How do you mean?"

"As regards Kathy."

"What about her?"

"I think sheis being a little lazy, Carl."

Carl frowned, considering the remark. He would have taken it from no one else; but the Professor was allowed infinite latitude in this area, as well as all the others. It was his contribution, the role of the small voice made audible.

"O.K.," he said, curtly. "I will deal."

3

As if making a distant curtsy, the Alcestis altered course at the first glimpse of the ruffled crinoline of Montserrat Island, far to the south, and set her bows towards Antigua, thirty miles to the east.

The weather still held, peerless, magically clear; when, coasting down Nevis, they passed through shallower water—ten fathoms, eight fathoms—they left behind them a broad boiling wake of pink and brown, a hundred million coral atoms stirred up by the pressure of their passing hull. Flying-fish gave them brief escort, whirring alongside in company until their wings dried and they dropped back into the placid water, dolphins, the clowns of the sea, tumbled across their bows like children clamouring for attention from a huge grownup. When the new course was set, the wheeling sea birds settled down again in a long stationary line on the edges of the boats; hitch-hiking from island to island, uncommunicative, surly, they seemed to have made up their minds to stay with this complaisant traveller for a few more miles. The Alcestis, closing yet another island in her long chain of landfalls, had much maritime attendance as she ploughed her lazy furrow eastwards.

In his day cabin under the bridge, Captain Harmer was talking to Mr. Cutler the Purser. It was a routine meeting; Cutler was the man who customarily brought him up-to-date; once in each twenty-four hours, they held this same colloquy. They were holding it now because the Captain, as so often at sea, was temporarily unemployed. He was awaiting the call from the bridge which would tell him that Antigua was within an hour's easy steaming, and that it was time for him to take over.

Within sight of land again, he was less than happy. For him, deep water was the only true element; nothing had made him more content than to be out of soundings, as they had been within the last few days, rolling nobly across the Puerto Rico Trench with thirty thousand feet under Alcestis's keel. It was the deepest part of the Atlantic, deeper than Mount Everest was high; to be afloat above this fathomless pit, this fantastic canyon in the ocean bed, was all the romance he needed. Let others fall in love with beckoning lights, with harbours, with the disciplined line of buoys marking the mainstreets of a hundred coastal approaches. For him, to see nothing on any horizon, to feel nothing for five miles beneath his ship, was a sailor's seventh heaven.

Now, as Brotherhood, his steward, poured drinks for Cutler and himself, he brought his mind to bear on the other mundane aspect of sea-going—the internal affairs of his ship. Between the two of them, the talk was always clipped and elliptical; they had sailed together for many years; there were no new shipboard problems, only variations on the same twin themes—complaints and scandals. But before they dealt with these, there was a small departure from the normal. It was not new, alas, but it was rare. It was death.

"How's the old man today?" the Captain asked. "Mr. Simms."

Cutler, accepting his drink from Brotherhood, shook his head. "Not too good, I'm afraid. Doc says he's pretty well fading away."

"I ought to put him ashore, really."

"He's tremendously against it—Simms is. Doc asked him, and he said he'd sue us for a million dollars if we even tried it."

The Captain grinned. "I bet he would, too. He's a tough old bird. . . . But I don't like it, all the same. You know how unsettling those things are. Do people know about it?"

"Yes."

Harmer would have been surprised if this were not so. In a ship, the sounding-board for the faintest breath of gossip, a rumour of illness or death travelled fastest of all. It was as if, listening to a multitude of heart-beats, people could detect a single one that lagged, a pulse that even fluttered. Fearing their own mortality, they feared most of all any forerunner of it.

"I'll think about it," said Harmer. "Any other troubles?"

Cutler sipped his pink gin. "The usual one about clothes. You know we always get it about now. Bikinis . . . Mrs. Kincaid thinks they ought to be banned."

"So do I, by God! If those people could only see what they look like. . . . Who's been wearing one now?"

"Bernice Beddington, of all people."

"What a horrible thought."

"She looks like a minaret with string round it. But we can't do much about that. They always buy awful clothes when we get down here. Floppy sun-hats—Bermuda shorts—shirts with funny pictures on them—sometimes I wonder if they ever look in the mirror before they come on deck. Even Mrs. Consolini went and bought herself a set of horsehair slave-bangles. But you must have seen them yourself."

"No," said the Captain. "I have not."

Cutler smiled. "Not pressing you this time?"

"No, thank God."

"Just as well you didn't put her at your table again."

"We could use a bit of life there," said the Captain, "but not that much. ... Of course," he went on, referring back to Bernice Beddington without need for explanation, "it's her parents' fault really."

Cutler pursed his lips caustically. "It's her parents' idea."

"I wish she would get married. ... What else?"

"Walham, as usual." Cutler expelled a long breath. "I swear to God, that man would complain if we gave him the whole ship for Christmas!"

"Anything special?" "No, just bloody nagging the whole time. Where's my tea—why can't we have kedgeree for breakfast—" Cutler put on a very creditable mimicry of Walham's nasal whine, "—why did we only stay ten hours at St. Thomas when the programme says 'Half a day'—why is the deck so slippery after it's been washed down in the morning? One day he's going to come up and say he's actually enjoying himself. Then we'll all drop dead."

Harmer was smiling. "You know there's one in every ship."

"This one's getting me down."

"Cheer up, Foxy."

"Oh, I can take it. It's just that it annoys a lot of other people as well. There'll be an anti-Walham brigade before we get to Rio. Like Little Nuisance. Only there's an anti-him brigade already."

"How is Master Greenfield?"

"Awful. We really ought to have an age limit, skipper."

"Upper and lower. Though I must admit, this one's a winner. Tiptree-Jones had to chuck him off the bridge yesterday."

"What was he doing?"

"Stamping on the quartermaster's foot."

Cutler nodded. "That's just about the size of it. Ah well . . . Then we have Sir Hubert Beckwith."

"What's his worry? Apart from—well, let's not be morbid."

"Bingo jokes. Apparently Wexford used the old one about 'The Kremlin—Number 10', and Beckwith thought it was an insult to the entire British Empire."

"He would. But better tell Wexford to leave that one out in future." The Captain looked sideways, towards the small pantry out in the passageway. "Brotherhood! Same again."

Brotherhood entered, collected the empty glasses, and began to refill them at the sideboard.

"Any scandals?" asked the Captain, after a pause.

"Nothing much. Mrs. van Dooren's been falling about a bit. But we've had them worse."

"What does she do all day?"

"Just that."

"H'm." The Captain looked up at Brotherhood, standing by his elbow with the fresh drink. "Who is Mrs. van Dooren's steward?"

"Pennington, sir," answered Brotherhood, without hesitation.

"How's he holding out?"

"No complaints, sir."

'Very well." Harmer nodded, and Brotherhood withdrew again.

But you'd better watch it, Foxy. I don't want her breaking a leg or anything." "I'll watch it."

- The ship rocked gently over a long swell. Automatically the Captain glanced up at the repeater-compass which was fixed to the bulkhead behind him. He followed it as it swung off two or three degrees, then looked away again as it settled down on course once more. They weren't asleep up on the bridge. ... He took a slow pull at his drink.

"How's our gigolo?"

"Still on the pay-roll, apparently."

"I suppose she knows what she's doing."

"Well, she's old enough."

"They're a funny family. . . . Tim's well smitten with the blonde girl."

"Oh, he's a case, all right. . . . I'm not sure about the other one."

"What about her?"

Cutler shrugged. "I've just got a feeling. She has all the men panting, and I'm not surprised. It's the uncle that puzzles me—Wenstrom. He doesn't seem to worry about it at all."

"Why should he?"

"I would."

"Oh, you know what kids are like, these days. The girls are practically born with make-up on. ... He plays poker, doesn't he?"

"All the time. Very hot stuff, so Edgar says."

"Big winner?"

"Up in the thousands."

Harmer raised his eyebrows. "Is that so? Any complaints about it?"

"No, no, nothing like that. They all seem very happy. It's a daft way to spend your money, I say, but I suppose they've got plenty of it."

"They're a funny family," said the Captain again. "Who's looking after them?"

"Barkway has three of their cabins."

"He'll keep an eye on them. Is he still bloody-minded, by the way?"

"Very."

The buzzer sounded on Harmer's desk. He pressed the switch of the intercom; Tiptree-Jones's voice came through, elegantly controlled.

"Captain, sir!"

"Yes." Harmer winked at Foxy Cutler. "What is it?"

"I have Antigua on the plot, sir. Bearing one hundred degrees, about fifteen miles."

"Very good. I'll be up."

He stood up, and reached for his cap. "That's it for me, Foxy. But don't hurry. Finish your drink."

"Thanks, skipper."

"I'll want to know about Simms. Any change."

"I'll tell the doctor."

"Apart from that," said the Captain, preparing to take his leave, "it looks like just another cruise."

4

A whole fleet of buses and taxis had been chartered to take the Alcestis passengers from St. John's, their anchorage on the north coast of Antigua, to English Harbour on the other side of the island, and thence to the Millreef Club for a gala dinner. The passengers streamed ashore from the launches—the Alcestis being too big to come alongside—in a brightly-coloured, chattering throng. They were stared at, even giggled at, but they paid no attention to this. It was just something that happened, in this part of the world.

They knew already that natives hereabouts simply weren't used to tourists—not their kind of tourist, anyway. It had been all right as far as Puerto Rico, which of course was pretty well part of the States anyway; but the farther south one went, the less the inhabitants seemed to appreciate women in halters, women in orange shorts, men in striped peaked caps, men with three cameras and a good solid waistline. So they stood in groups under the bright sun, looking round, enjoying themselves and their isolation, turning their backs on the quayside touts, telling the beggars to go to hell; until the man in charge of transportation called out: "This way, folks!" and they set off in high spirits for the historic site marked *** in the itinerary—Nelson's Dockyard at English Harbour (restored).

They were beginning to travel in their own vacuum bowl, and beginning not to give a damn about it. It was the difference between belonging to the Alcestis, and not belonging. Envious stares, flip remarks, inevitably went with the former, and that was all there was to it.

Louis Scapelli, a small trim figure in white slacks and a blue-striped T-shirt, had held back from the queue which was piling into the last bus.

"Gee, 1 don't want to go with this mob," he said to Mrs. Stewart-Bates. "Can't we fix something just for ourselves?"

"I don't see why not," said Mrs. Stewart-Bates, with that slightly flustered air which meant that she was secretly pleased. "There must be another taxi somewhere around. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes," said Louis. "That's exactly what I mean."

"If you could find one," said Mrs. Stewart-Bates, timorously, "I'd be glad to—"

Her voice trailed off; there was no need to be explicit about what she would be glad to do, and indeed, she would no longer dream of mentioning the topic. She had reached the stage when deferring to his wishes, which had formerly been a pretended submission, was now a real one. It was not that he was masterful; simply that he only remained attentive as long as he had his own way, and she needed him—desperately, tormentingly—to remain attentive. She realized, being fundamentally sensible, the degrading aspect of this companionship; at night, alone, she was ashamed of it; but in the morning, meeting once more his dark good looks, his intimate air of sharing a secret only with herself, she forgot shame and knew only joy. No one else on board had a man like this one. He had chosen her, and stayed with his choice; if they were not lovers yet, it was only because he respected her too much. She could not see the future, but the present was ecstatic.

Louis, having secured his carte blanche and with it his private line of retreat—and in any case, he didn't like the Alcestis crowd at times like this, they were inclined to smirk and make cracks about himself and the old girl—Louis looked about him. The last passengers had climbed into the buses, and driven off; with the exodus, the quay was beginning to resume its normal air of indolence. There was a tall native, in some sort of washed-out khaki uniform, leaning against one of the buildings, smoking lazily, staring at them. He was about ten yards off. Louis gestured.

"Hey, you!"

The man did not stir a muscle; he remained where he was, gracefully, insolently private, watching Louis and Mrs. Stewart-Bates. After a moment of silence, Louis was forced to walk towards him.

"Can I get a taxi around here?" he asked, still on a note of command.

The tall native took his time about answering. He looked from Louis to Mrs. Stewart-Bates, and then back again. Then he threw away his cigarette, watching the butt curve and fall into the water. Then he said:

"I got taxi. Yes, sir!"

Even the "Yes, sir" managed to sound mocking, a caricature of the American glad hand. But Louis pushed on through it.

"Well, you're hired."

The man repeated "Hired" as if it were a new word. Then he said: "Where you want to go?" "Down to that dockyard, that harbour some place."

"English Harbour?"

"That's it."

The man gestured towards the dust of the departing buses. "You miss transportation." He said the word with a very careful, very satirical intonation, as if it were fundamentally foreign and ridiculous —which indeed it was. "Yes, sir!"

"That's O.K.," said Louis. "We want to go by ourselves."

"Pay fifteen dollars," said the man. "British West Indian currency."

"Hell, that's ten bucks—" began Louis. But Mrs. Stewart-Bates, coming up behind him, interrupted.

"Oh, what does it matter? Take it, Louis! It'll be just wonderful!"

"O.K.," said Louis. "Let's go."

The man straightened up at last. He now addressed himself, with special insolence, to Mrs. Stewart-Bates.

"You pay ten American dollars to English Harbour?" he asked. The accent, carefully, was on the first word of the sentence.

"We'll pay," said Louis. "Let's go."

The man ignored Louis; his glance remained on Mrs. Stewart-Bates. She had to answer him, in spite of shamed misgivings. She said:

"Of course we'll pay. What's all the fuss? Where's your taxi?"

"Pay first," said the man. "English Harbour, ten dollars American."

"Now see here—" began Louis.

"Police laws," said the man, indifferently. "Outside town limits, pay first."

"Bunk!" said Louis roughly. "That's just a racket."

"Do you have ten dollars?" Mrs. Stewart-Bates asked him hesitantly. She reached into her bag. The man was watching her, unsmiling, confirmed in his thoughts.

"Sure I have it." Louis pulled out his wallet, peeled off two five-dollar bills, and held them towards the man. "Here!" he said savagely. "Now let's get going, for God's sake!"

He was still scowling when they settled down in the taxi, an ancient mouldering De Soto with torn upholstery and cracked yellow windows.

"Please don't be angry, dear," said Mrs. Stewart-Bates. She pressed his hand; it was something they were by now accustomed to. "Let's not have it spoil our day."

He looked sideways at her. She was the same as ever, stylish, dumpy, and plain; the brilliant sunshine was not kind to her sagging skin, though it did a great deal for her sapphires. It's going to spoil your day, he thought, just that extra little bit. . . . With an effort he smiled, and returned the pressure.

"It'll take more than some snotty cab-driver to get me down," he told her. He spoke carelessly loud, for the driver to hear. "Now let's enjoy the view."

But the view was not encouraging. Though their taxi rattled, rocked, and ground its way round endless corners, the surroundings remained the same—mile upon mile of dusty yellow cane-fields, narrow roads untidily strewn with crushed cane-stalks, small featureless hills crowned with shabby kilns. The earth was bone dry, the air had a sickly sugary smell which never varied; there were half-naked children staring at them, and figures bowed over squeaking bicycles, and men with rounded shoulders wielding their heavy sickles as if each stroke were a lash on their own backs. Antigua was perennially short of water, they had read in the guide-books; but it seemed to be short of much else besides—short of colour, short of hope, short of life. When they bumped their way through a village, the village seemed to turn its back on them; not because of something better to do, but because it did not want to know about them, or about anything.

"What a dump," said Louis presently, when for the hundredth time the taxi groaned round the same right-angle corner at the edge of a cane-field, to show them yet another dusty stretch, another vista of bent canes lining the road.

"But it's interesting," ventured Mrs. Stewart-Bates. She was looking about her in her usual vague way, ready to be impressed by anything she saw. "We've nothing like this in America."

"Damn right we haven't!" answered Louis. "And they can keep it."

The driver turned his head slightly. "Very poor peoples," he said. There was contempt in his voice, but it was not possible to name its target with any certainty.

Louis raised his voice. "Why don't they do something about it, then?" he asked disagreeably. "Instead of just sitting around."

The driver said nothing; the poise of his head above the frayed collar-band spoke his answer for him.We like it this way, it seemed to proclaim; and even if we didn't, we wouldn't change it if we had to be like you. . . . Under the fierce sun beating down on the roof, the air inside the taxi was stifling; but it was not more stifling than the savage pride in poverty which sat, its back turned upon them, a few feet away.

Presently the road began to wind downhill; there was a view of the sea, a blue arm of a bay invading the yellow flat-lands; then they were driving at water-level on the last mile of their journey. They passed a whitewashed water-catchment, its sides daubed with the names of old ships, the initials of long-dead sailors, the curving figures of old dates—"1809", said one: "H.M.S. Paragon". Then they passed through a tall gateway, and into an area of quays and roofless buildings and loading-bays overgrown with grass. The taxi ground down to a stop, its transmission shuddering.

"English Harbour," announced the driver, without looking round. "Dockyard of Lord Nelson."

"Wait for us," said Louis curtly. "Right here."

"Yes, sir!"

They got out, stepping into the sun as if into an open fireplace, and began to walk about. Except to the eye of faith, unashamedly in love with the past, it was not impressive; the efforts of reconstruction had not been able to keep pace with the decay and indifference of a hundred dying years. There were buildings, neatly labelled "Barracks" and "Store-Room" and "Capstan House" and "Sail Lockers", but they were shells of buildings, tumbledown walls, sometimes nothing save a roped-off area with a painted plaque inside it. The few yachts and motor-cruisers moored alongside were like intruders —intruders not upon the past but upon a decayed present. As newcomers, they looked too good, too workmanlike, for their surroundings.

A throng of tourists, most of them from the Alcestis, milled around, tracing without great enthusiasm the ancient formations of the dockyard. Young women sold souvenir postcards, and cold drinks, and cigarettes; the taxi-drivers lounged in the shade, waiting for custom, waiting for interest to fade and history to catch up. The water lapped with a sullen air against the rotting piles, the ruined facings of the dockside.

"Hell!" said Louis Scapelli. "Is this all?"

The eye of faith, unashamedly in love with the past—in the person of the Professor—was near to tears with the magic of its surroundings. The Professor had come to Nelson's Dockyard well prepared; he had a guide-book, he had an historical brochure tracing local maritime history from the middle of the eighteenth century, and he knew a good deal about it already. But mostly he had a sense of the past, an honourable reverence for all ancestors. When he wandered, he trod softly and shakily, aware of the hallowed ground but aware more movingly still of the throng of ghosts which brushed his shoulders.

He had made his tour alone, with loving concentration. He had traced the outlines of the old Capstan House, where the ships were heaved down" by tackles attached to their masts, so that they could be careened for repairs. He had seen the sail lockers, the pond for soaking new spars, the mouldy store-rooms for rum and salt pork and hard biscuit. He had come upon old anchors embedded in the hard earth, and flights of steps leading down to the water, and ancient ring-bolts. He had paced out the length of the rope-walk, where the huge tarry hawsers were woven and spliced.

All the time, his imagination had been at work, conjuring up the past. On this very ground, Nelson himself must have wandered— 1794 . . . 1796, he could not be exact—heart-sick at his exile, wasted by malaria bred in the foetid tideless basin. His ship—the Pegasus'! . . . the Boreas'!—must actually have come alongside at this very quay, not less than one hundred and sixty-four years ago. But there was older history than this, a more evil past which the Professor was forced to re-live at the same time.

For here, earlier, had come the pirates, the freebooters of the Spanish Main, the slavers from the dreaded Guinea Coast, three thousand miles away to the eastwards. In the small museum attached to the dockyard, dark, musty, neglected, he had come upon evidence of this last guilty stain on mankind; a rusty slave-shackle with a great iron ball attached to it, a whip of coiled oxhide "as used by the Over-Seers", and especially a tattered poster which, across a span of two centuries, still spoke loudly of pain.

"To Be Sold This Day on the Block at Saint John's," he had read; and below it, in bold face, a catalogue of wares, neatly ranged:

1 Mulatto Cook-Boy, thomas, 30 years old, warranted sound.

2 Field Hands, james & ezra, from Bankrupt Plantation at the Barbadoes.

1 boy, Martiniquan, speaks only French, aged, no warranty.

1 House Maid, savannah. A Fine Clean Girl. Together with two female children (one 4 years, well-grown, one at breast).

Also jasper, a runaway.

Entranced, appalled, the Professor sat down on a mouldering wooden capstan, and stared seawards, his eyes moist with the easy tears of old age. Then he took out his notebook, and, after a moment, began soberly to write.

"Hell, is this all?" asked Louis. They had been walking for ten minutes, peering into dark corners, reading labels which were nothing but labels. He did not like the Alcestis people who greeted them or pointedly ignored them, who darted here and there with cries of discovery; the whole thing was just a tourist trap, not even a good one. The sight of the Professor sitting on a hunk of wood, writing in his notebook, made him angrier still. It was time someone in this outfit went to work. ... He kicked at a baulk of timber lying half overgrown by weeds. "Why don't they label this one?" he asked sarcastically. " 'Piece of wood.' How about that?"

"Don't you like it here?" asked Mrs. Stewart-Bates.

"There's nothing to like," answered Louis. "Have you ever seen such a crummy set-up? Jesus, even Plymouth Rock is better organized!"

"But it's historical," said Mrs. Stewart-Bates. She looked round the derelict dockyard, which the bright sun made shabbier still. "It's so English, don't you think?"

"Yeah. Maybe that's the trouble. Who was this Nelson, anyway?"

She smiled. She could always tell when he was joking. "Now, Louis! He was like our John Paul Jones. You know that perfectly well."

"I saw the picture," said Louis. "Robert Stack. Boy, that was a lemon!" He turned towards her, suddenly changing levels. "Let's get out of here, Grace."

He did not often use her Christian name; it was still a novelty, still a major happiness.

"Do you think we could?" she asked doubtfully.

"Why not? We've got the cab waiting, haven't we? There's nothing for us here."

"But we were going to that club place, the Millreef."

"Oh, screw the Millreef!" His occasional crudity was something else which he knew she enjoyed. "Look, I've got a headache. This sun is murder. Let's go back, huh?"

"Oh, you poor boy." She was readily sympathetic. "Of course we'll go back, if you're not feeling well."

"We can have dinner on board, instead. Just you and me. Wouldn't you like that?"

"You know I'd love it."

"What are we waiting for?"

They found their driver, sprawling with a dozen others in the shade of the museum. He was slow getting to his feet, slower still at opening the door of the rickety cab. "You go back?" he asked. He spoke so that the other drivers could hear.

"Yeah," said Louis. "But take it easy. There's no rush."

"Back to St. John's?"

"Where else, for God's sake?"

"Yes, sir!"

Behind their backs, one of the other drivers repeated "Yes, sir," in a high-pitched voice, and there was a chorus of contented giggling from the rest of them.

The return journey was a replica of the out-going one; hot, dusty, and featureless. They sat back, staring out on either side, not talking to each other; when she inquired about his headache, he said: "It's O.K. Skip it!" in a voice which forbade further conversation. But presently there came a variation which woke both of them from their divided thoughts.

They were nearing St. John's, climbing one of the last hills between the lolling cane-stalks, when the driver turned his head very slightly, and spoke just above the whine of the engine.

"English Harbour to St. John's," he said, on a conversational note. "Fifteen dollars. Ten dollars American."

Louis had been preoccupied, thinking and planning ahead; it was Mrs. Stewart-Bates who reacted first.

"What was that you said?" she asked. "Were you speaking to us?"

"I was speaking," said the driver. "I say, ten dollars American, back to St. John's."

"I don't understand," she said. "Louis—"

But Louis was now fully awake. "What the hell!" he said forcefully. "I paid you the fare already. You know that, damn' well!"

The driver nodded twice, as if agreeing to a proposition in pure Socratic argument. "Yes, sir. You pay for journey to English Harbour. This is journey back."

"Well, God damn it!" said Louis. He was prepared to be furious. It was a perfect squeeze, almost a legitimate squeeze; he should have thought of it himself, at the beginning. "You know damn' well that when you quote a price for a trip like this, that means the round trip, there and back."

"No, sir," said the driver. "Not the custom here. We make agreement, ten dollars for trip to English Harbour. You pay me."

"But surely—" began Mrs. Stewart-Bates.

"Now we go back," said the driver. He seemed to be bouncing the words to them off the windscreen, negligently skilful, sure that they would arrive, rather than addressing them directly. "This is new journey, English Harbour back to St. John's. Fifteen dollars British West Indian currency. Ten dollars American."

"We won't pay," said Louis furiously. "Not a damn' cent!"

They felt the taxi slowing down. "What you say?" asked the driver.

"You heard me."

The taxi braked to a halt. A small cloud of yellow dust drifted past them on the following wind. The smell of sugar-cane, mixed with burnt grass, was overpowering. As they lost way, the sun immediately gained in strength, forcing a torrid heat within the car.

"We wait here for police," said the driver.

"Christ, what a racket!" Louis exploded.

"They did warn us about it," said Mrs. Stewart-Bates. "Don't you think—"

"I'll see him in hell first!"

A silence fell, and continued; the heat began to be intolerable. Louis thought swiftly, brushing the sweat from his neck. He did not want delay; the thing was flowing his way, and must not be interrupted. A squeeze was a squeeze, but it was her money, anyway. Or rather, it was going to be her money, as soon as they got back to the Alcestis. He made his decision, curbing a violent impulse to pick up something—anything, a stone, a tyre-lever—and smash in the back of that hated head. If this had been Central Park, on a dark night. . . .

"O.K.," he said. "But I'll report you. Don't think I won't!"

"Yes, sir," said the driver. "You pay? Lady pay?"

Louis reached for his wallet. "Cut that out," he said roughly. "I'll pay." He counted out ten dollars; it was all he had left. Then he was reminded of something which had struck him earlier, something which had not seemed worth the trouble of raising. "Wait a minute. You're too damned smart. Didn't you say fifteen dollars local money?"

The driver nodded again. "Fifteen bee-wees. That's how we say it here, for B.W.I. money. Or ten American."

"It's not ten American," said Louis angrily. "It's nine American."

The driver turned round. It was a surprise to see his face, after watching the back of that inscrutable neck for so long. It was more surprising still to see that he was now smiling, as if some extra dividend of pleasure had just been awarded him.

"I say, fifteen dollars, British West Indian currency," he explained, with obvious pleasure."You say, ten dollars American." He produced a very fair approximation of Louis's accent. "Remember you say, 'Hell, that's ten bucks'?You say it, I don't say it." His voice was triumphant. "So you pay me ten bucks. You want to pay fifteen dollars now, fifteen bee-wees?"

"I haven't got it," said Louis. "You know that. And I wouldn't touch the lousy stuff, anyway."

"Then ten dollars American," said the driver.

"Nine."

The driver sighed. "We wait for police."

Mrs. Stewart-Bates laid her hand on Louis's arm. "Don't you think we'd better pay?" she suggested. "It's so hot. We could stay here for ever."

"But this is just a hold-up," said Louis angrily. "We're being clipped, twice over."

"It's only ten dollars."

"Lady right," said the driver.

After a pause, wordless, Louis passed the money across. The taxi gathered way again; presently they were at the quayside, and rewarded by the sight of the Alcestis, shining white among the drab fishing-boats in the harbour. There was even a launch waiting, an Alcestis launch, something they could at last give orders to. But Louis was unappeased. It was murderously hot; he actually had a headache now; and he had fallen for a racket so obvious, so childish, that he could never tell anyone about it. His anger mounted as he glanced at Mrs. Stewart-Bates, sitting by his side under the ruffling canopy of the launch. It was clear that she would not look at him; she was embarrassed by their defeat. She was thinking, already, that she would have to reimburse him twenty dollars.

Close to, the Alcestis was enormous, a towering castle, a symbol of unscalable power and quality. This was his true world, his own home ground. But he had been gypped by a nigger cab-driver in a frayed shirt. ... By the time they trod the decks again, he was in a vile mood, just ripe for it.

He lay back on the comfortable bed, the pillows piled high behind his head, an eiderdown drawn half-way up his chest. She had undone his tie, and loosened his collar; she had given him two aspirins, taken his temperature, nursed him anxiously for half an hour. Now she sat down on the edge of the bed, and put her hand on his forehead. It was still cold to the touch, moist, slightly clammy. It might have been fever, though in fact it was not.

"How are you feeling?" she asked anxiously. "You're so pale."

"I'm fine." He covered her hand with his own. "Don't you worry about me. It was just the sun. I'm better already. I'm always pale. You know that."

"You need someone to look after you."

"I've got someone, haven't I?"

She had switched off all the lights except the bedside lamp; in their private world, the scene and the mood were already sensually relaxed. As soon as they had returned on board, he had pleaded a violent headache; it seemed that, by the time they reached her cabin, he was almost in a state of collapse. But now things were easier. A half-hour of quiet, with herself as the ministering angel, soft-footed, gentle-voiced, had worked the required miracle. They were back where they had been before—wherever that was, she could never decide, she did not want to spell it out—with all the inevitable promise that lay between two people content to spend their time with each other.

"I'm fine," he said again. When he made his move—and it must be soon—he wanted the moment to be exactly right. Shock was going to be everything; he intended her, for pleasure as well as for profit, to be so overwhelmed that her only reaction would be a fish-like gasp, followed by an abject, spreadeagled surrender. That was the way to operate. ... He let his other hand fall gently on her thigh as she sat on the edge of the bed. He had never yet touched her there. Big deal. . . . Her come-back would be a slight confusion, a withdrawal for a breathing-space, followed by-

She got up, reacting swiftly, a pink suffusion in her cheeks. "Now, Louis. I don't believe you're sick at all!"

"Not with you around," he said. "Who could be? ... I like that necklace of yours, Grace. It suits you."

Her hand went to her throat. "Do you really like it? It was a present. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"That's why it suits you."

"Now Louis! What's got into you, all of a sudden?"

"You know, don't you? It's because we haven't been like this before."

"Like what?"

"Kind of close together."

But now that the moment was here, now that he had projected it into the room like a chord in music, she could not believe it. She drew back, and stood looking down at him. He noticed that her hands were trembling, and that into her eyes had come a kind of silliness, as if she were seventeen again, and face to face with some dream of joy. Delaying for very shyness, she asked:

"Don't you want to eat now, Louis?"

He shook his head, settling back into the pillows. "Not yet. I could use a drink, though."

"Scotch and water?"

"Just that."

She poured the drink, her back towards him; but there was something in the way she stood, the set of her head, which told him that she would never be more vulnerable, more open to astonishment. His moment had come, and with it a cruel appetite for power, as though he could feed upon her ruin. As she handed him the glass, he said:

"That cab-driver sure took us for a ride, didn't he? Twenty bucks!"

"Horrible man . . . Oh, I must pay you back, mustn't I?"

"There's no hurry."

"While I remember."

Her bag was on the bedside table. She sat down again, and reaching for it took out a roll of bills, clipped together with an ornamental gold spring. She drew out two ten-dollar bills, and passed them to him. He took them; then he said, on a sudden note of the utmost ferocity:

"More!"

"More?" She was confused by the word, and by the tone he used. "What do you mean?"

"Give me more. Keep dealing! Give me all of it."

"But Louis—you're joking—" She was not yet shocked, just completely confused. "Why should I give you money?"

"I'm in your bed, aren't I?"

It hit her like a wave crashing upon a naked swimmer; he could have laughed aloud to see the expression of bewilderment wiped from her face, to be succeeded by a fearful shame. She was horror-stricken; the brutal tone, the brutal words, had overwhelmed her. Her hand went up to her mouth, convulsively, as if he had slapped her upon it.

"Louis!"

There was a knock on the door, and the stewardess's voice said: "Madam?"

He reached out and grasped her arm in a ferocious grip. With his other hand he ripped open his shirt, so that it looked as though he were lying in bed naked.

He had foreseen this, too. He could turn it to account. He said in a fierce whisper: "Go ahead! Ask her in to take a look at us!"

With an enormous effort, near to sobbing, Mrs. Stewart-Bates turned her head and called out:

"What is it? I'm busy right now."

"I'll come back, madam," said the stewardess through the door. "I just wanted to turn down the bed."

Footsteps receded, silence returned; his grip on her arm remained relentless. Down the corridor, the stewardess said to Barkway, the steward:

"They're at it again."

"Good luck to 'em," said Barkway.

"Disgusting, I call it. It ought to be reported."

"Not by me," said Barkway. "They can rock the ship, for all I care."

Within the cabin, the vile scene developed swiftly.

"Now get this!" said Louis. He was sitting up, his naked chest gleaming in the lamplight. He suddenly seemed, to her, the very picture of masculine evil, and to himself, a god. "You'll pay me, and you'll pay me good. For a start, give me the rest of that bankroll."

His grip tightened on her arm, twisting the flesh cruelly. She cried out: "You're hurting me! Stop it, Louis. You must have gone crazy! What do you want?"

"You heard me." He reached out, and snatched the money-clip from her hand. "I want this. As a starter. Call it the cover charge."

She stared at him, still disbelieving, unable to face the truth of the nightmare. "But if you need money—I don't mind—only don't talk like that."

"How else should I talk?" he asked brutally. "You want sweet talk?You? Don't make me laugh!" He looked down at the roll of bills. "How much is there here?"

"I don't know," she said. "I never—"

He twisted her thin arm again. Hurting her, he was at last hurting the cab-driver, hurting the world. "How much?"

"Oh, please! About five hundred dollars."

"You're worth more than that." He was beginning to enjoy himself, in a way which had never happened to him before. He brought his face closer to hers. "You wouldn't get everybody to agree, but I say you're worth more than that. Not at strip-tease, maybe, not like Miss America, but in other ways. . . . You want me to ring the bell, call that stewardess, let her see me like this?"

"No, no!" Shame and fear combined to render her powerless. "What do you want? I haven't any more money."

"Jewellery," he said. He had already appraised what she had, during the past fortnight; indeed, they had talked about it and admired it, like two old friends; he knew exactly what he would take. "The two bracelets. The clips. The sapphire ear-rings and the rubies. The big solitaire ring. You can keep that necklace. It's lousy!" And as a new horror dawned on her face, he said, with frightful menace: "Get them! Or by Christ I'll run out of here naked!"

"But my husband gave them to me," she said pitifully.

"I'll bet that's all he gave you. For years. Isn't that the truth?"

She covered her face with her free hand. "Oh God, how can you say things like that?" She was crying now; ridiculous tears coursed down her face, bringing ruin to the careful make-up. In a shaking voice she said: "You told me you loved me."

"Don't make me laugh!"

She had not heard him; she had retreated into a pathetic, belated world of school-girl common sense.

I always knew you were no good. . . . Your eyes are too close together----Mother always said—"

Mother!" He put such crude savagery into the word that she was forced to look up. "Mother! How old is mother, for Christ's sake?"

"My mother has passed on."

"By popular request." He rose swiftly from the bed, and stood over her, buttoning his shirt. The action itself had an obscene connotation; she had imagined sailors doing that, leaving a girl as soon as they had 'finished', walking away with a rolling self-satisfaction. . . . "We're wasting time. Give me the jewellery. And if you ever breathe a word to anyone—"

"It's Mrs. Consolini," she said, still clinging to the rags of normality, to anything which would explain the unbelievable insult in compassionate terms. "I've seen her looking at you. . . . Don't deny it! She's been scheming to get you away from me. . . ."

He wanted to say:You've got a point—she's next on the list, but he resisted it. He had to keep up the pressure; he must not let her escape into any other world except the one they stood in now—the secret world of her cabin, the world she was terrified of letting anyone see.

"That's enough," he said roughly. "I don't need any Mrs. Consolini to make me dump you. Work it out. . . . You want me to twist that arm again? You want me to shout for help? Give me the jewellery."

Her grey hair had fallen foolishly over her ravaged face, like a blurred old mask. She pushed it back, and said again: "But you told me you loved me."

"Are you nuts?" He poured into the question all the scorn he could muster: he knew it might be the last pressure he need apply. "Love you? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? Do you know how old I am? Twenty-four. And you? Christ, you must be fifty!"

"I'm forty-one."

"Round the hips."

"Oh God!" she said again. Her tears were beginning to roll afresh; her sobs were like coarse hiccups, rending her whole body. "How can you say things like that? And age doesn't matter—you said so yourself."

"I said a lot of things that make me sweat to think of them. But I'm not saying them any longer. The late late movie's finished." He was ready to go now; the money was in his pocket, the jewellery case within a few feet of him. "You bought me," he said crudely, "and now you've got to pay. Christ, do you think I'd dance with you for anything except money? And a hell of a lot of it, too! Haven't you seen people laughing? Jesus, they think you're my mother— my grandmother! I should be in short pants! And you were aiming to go to bed with me!"

"I wasn't," she said. Her voice was shrill. "I never even thought—"

"You thought about it all the time. You're just a dirty old woman, that's all." He moved swiftly, towards the jewellery case; he plunged his hand in, and drew out what he wanted, piece by piece, while she watched him, horrified, powerless. The stones hardly had time to sparkle before they were dowsed for ever within his pocket. "I'm going now," he told her. "But if you ever breathe a word—"

He had come prepared. He drew out of his other pocket a knife, and flicked it open. Then he advanced the point towards her face, while she watched it, and the light gleaming on the blade, in absolute terror.

"Take a look at this," he said. "I can use it. I've often used it. If you say a word about this—a single word—to anyone—" he punctuated the sentences with twisting stabs, so that the knife seemed to be darting and snaking in and out of her flesh, "I'll come back and carve my name on your face. Your—ugly—old—face."

"Go away," she whispered. "Oh, go away. . . . Take anything— everything. Only go away."

"Now you're talking." The knife flicked shut, and disappeared into his pocket again. He straightened up. "But don't talk any more," he said. "Not to anyone." Then there was silence, and in the silence he was gone.

Left alone, in cruel isolation, in deadly fear still, she thought she was going to faint. She was trembling all over, and her face in the mirror was utterly distraught. Now she did look old. . . . But as her terror receded, it was not anger which was left, or the memory of peril. It was shame. It was scorned love. It was a desolate mourning for her last chance at the cherished might-have-been.

Presently she fell forward on the pillow, where his head had rested, where she could smell his young body, and, for the first time in her life, began to sob as if her heart would break.

5

The lunch-time sessions in the Tapestry Bar were growing longer, as people shed the habits of home and developed a more casual approach to misbehaviour. The weather helped; it grew hotter, as they made their calls at Guadeloupe and Marie-Galante and Dominica; they achieved, as they drew south, a pirate thirst which could only be slaked by the long and potent drinks—rum punch, rum Collins— which seemed appropriate to this part of the world. The bar was always well-patronized by eleven o'clock; at noon, when Edgar closed the daily sweepstake and the figures for the day's run were telephoned down from the bridge, it was packed; and the pre-lunch gaiety often continued until two o'clock, at which time Edgar rang a small and discreet gong, and announced to the assembly: "Ladies and gentlemen—have a heart!"

For those few who, remaining prim, took their lunch at the normal hour, it was quite a sight to watch the entrance of these late-blooming gladiators into the dining-room. Some of the stewards ran a small sweepstake on the last one to arrive. Mrs. van Dooren was always a favourite runner.

In the bar, the talk was easy; clothes for the women, business prospects for the men; modest travellers' tales, and shipboard gossip on the same unchanging themes. They wondered how near Mr. Simms was to dying; they noted that his pretty nurse, Miss Bartlett, found time to charm the officers' table on most evenings; they reported some fresh atrocity on the part of Barry Greenfield; they confessed they didn't know how Mrs. van Dooren kept it up— or down. It was always a shame about Bernice Beddington, who really got more homely every day. It was always a disgrace about the Burrells—people said they weren't even married. It was always odd about the Tillotsons; no one knew anything at all to say about them.

"I heard he's worth sixty million dollars," said Mr. Gerson, at one of these lunch-time sessions. Mr. Gerson was a great gossip; he enjoyed it, he could suck it out of his thumb if need be; and Diane, perched beside him on a stool at the long bar, found him useful. He was going to be useful in other ways, too, as soon as he made up his mind to it. At the moment he had wife-trouble—which meant, in this area of endeavour, that Mrs. Gerson watched him like a hawk every waking hour of the day and night. It was only on occasions like this, when she was having her hair done and would miss lunch, that he managed a modest run of freedom. Diane had an idea that this time he was going to make the most of it.

"Sixty million?" repeated Diane, in awed tones. When money was mentioned, she always made her eyes go large; for sixty million dollars, she made them go very large indeed. "Gee—what does he do with it?"

Gerson watched her with great pleasure. He was four rum Collinses ahead, and hazily happy; he liked the shape of her, and the way her breasts touched the bar before anything else did, and the kissing mouth she made when she sucked on a straw. ("You want a piece of tail?" his friend Bancroft had asked him, very confidentially. "Go ahead and help yourself. She loves it!") He didn't believe Bancroft had had it, but he believed that he could himself, if he played it right.

"I don't know what Tillotson does," answered Gerson, "but I know what I'd do. Have a good time, that's what I'd do! Like they say, you can't take it with you. Isn't that the truth? Who wants to be the richest man in the graveyard, for God's sake?"

"What's your idea of a good time?" asked Diane.

"Well, now . . ." Their eyes locked momentarily as she turned on him a candid, inquiring glance, and he felt a stirring of the blood in his solid loins. It was true, this babe was hot. . . . Maybe Bancroft had been steering him right after all. . . . "Well, I'd live it up, that's what I'd do. Yes, sir! I'd get me a yacht—well, I've got a yacht, but I'd get a real big one, hundred feet,hundred-fifty feet, and I'd go around the world just having fun."

"That's for me," said Diane. "Just take me along, that's all!"

"You'd come?"

"Try and stop me!"

"It's a date." He signalled to Edgar, who came forward with a shaker to refill their glasses. "Yes, sir, that's what I'd do with sixty million dollars. Or six million, for that matter. I'd have fun!"

"You're so right," said Diane.

"They say Zucco's loaded too," said Gerson, momentarily brooding. He sipped his fresh drink. "All those guys in the film business, they make money like they printed it themselves. 'Course, he's a Jew, it's different. Mind you, I like Jews. Don't get me wrong. But they certainly know how to make a buck, and they certainly know how to hang on to it."

"I never could save money."

"You and me both."

Within their orbit of vision, Louis Scapelli came to the wide double-doors of the bar, glanced slowly round the room, and crossed with a smile to a small corner table at which Mrs. Consolini was already seated. By the way they fell into animated conversation, they were cordially glad to see each other.

"Isn't that your cousin?" asked Gerson, watching them.

"Yes."

"Seems to be consoling himself."

"How do you mean?" asked Diane warily.

"Well, there was a lot of talk about him giving the other old girl a whirl. You know, Mrs. Stewart-Bates. What happened to that one?"

"I don't know.Was he giving her a whirl?"

"You know darn well he was." But Gerson was smiling; he recognized family discretion at work, and approved of it. "He had her spinning six different ways at once. Now, bingo!—he's switched. What gives? You don't even see her around any more."

Diane decided it would be easier to play it at Gerson's level of comment.

"Lovers' quarrel, maybe," she said, with a confederate grin. "You know how it is."

"I know how it is. Do you know how it is?"

"What do you think?"

"Lots of boy friends, eh?"

"Oh, scads. That's why I'm taking a rest-cure. They just wore me out."

I'll bet, Gerson said to himself, thinking back to his friend Bancroft again. He looked down at her bosom; it was by far the easiest place to look, and it recalled once more a memorable conversation. "I tell you, she loves it!" Bancroft had said, encouraging him. "And you'll love it, too. No kidding, that babe can do more with her tits than you and I can do with a knife and fork!" "What's the angle, then?" he had asked. "No angle," Bancroft had answered. "She's like they say, an enthusiastic amateur. It's for free. I know." "In a pig's ear," he had scoffed, disbelieving on principle; and Bancroft, who sometimes affected a frightful travesty of an Irish accent, had answered: "That wasn't the place at all, at all!" and had choked with uproarious laughter. Then, more serious, he had added: "You gotta conscience, slip her five bucks."

It hadn't run quite true when Bancroft told him about it—if she was all that good, why was Bancroft being such a pal, why was he spreading it around?—but now he was beginning to believe it. Sometimes they just had to have it, in triplicate; one guy couldn't keep up. . . . Anyhow, there was no harm in making a bit of time with her. She looked like the best bet in the ship, and the trip was damned dull otherwise.

He was ready to pursue the allusive topic of the boy friends she had left behind, when there was a disturbance at one of the tables nearby, and they both turned their heads. It was, as usual, Mrs. van Dooren, insisting on her constitutional right to buy a round of drinks. Above the steady roar of conversation they caught the words: "Lunch? Don't be a radical! George! Set 'em up in the other alley!" Edgar snapped his fingers, and one of his aides hurried over.

"I don't know how she keeps it up," said Gerson. "Must have hollow legs."

"She's got pretty ones."

"You know, that's what I like about you!" he exclaimed. "Generosity! Most women, look at another woman's legs, they say 'Oof, take 'em away!' They can't stand competition. But you, you say straight out: 'She's got pretty legs.' I like that."

"Maybe I can stand competition," said Diane.

"Baby," said Gerson, "you never spoke a truer word." He leant over, slightly drunk, amorously happy. "I bet you can stand it all over. Know what I mean?"

But this was a little too raw for her. It was lunch-time; there were too many people around; at any moment his wife might duck out from under the hair-dryer, and come running. Diane looked away from him, as if preoccupied, and caught Edgar's eye; and Edgar, who had been watching and intermittently listening, and who recognized a situation when he saw one, moved across till he was opposite them.

"Can I interest you folks in tomorrow's pool?" he asked cheerfully. "We're still giving money away."

"You know it's just a racket," said Diane, smiling.

"Of course it is, madam," said Edgar. "Otherwise I wouldn't be in it, would I?"

"How much?" asked Gerson, straightening up. "As if I didn't know."

"To you, sir, one hundred dollars even."

"Put me down for two chances," said Gerson. He gestured towards Diane. "Her and me."

"No, please!" said Diane. "You mustn't do that."

"Forget it," said Gerson, suddenly a big spender. "We'll bring each other luck." He signed the chit which Edgar had passed over to him. "Whoever wins nine hundred bucks buys the other one a drink. Two drinks. O.K.?"

"It's O.K. by me. And thanks a million!"

"Forget it, baby. You deserve it." Edgar was still standing in front of them, and Gerson asked him: "Who won it today, anyway?"

"Mr. Bancroft, sir."

"Now wouldn't you know it! Jerry Bancroft! My pal! The lucky old crook!" Gerson looked behind him, at the roomful of compulsive hospitality. "Funny thing, I don't see him standing any drinks all round."

"I don't think he knows about it yet, sir."

"We'll tell him." He turned back to Diane. "Won't we? You know Jerry Bancroft, don't you?"

"Oh, sure."

"D'you like him?"

"He's O.K."

"He likes you," said Gerson, eyeing her. "How about another drink?"

"It's pretty near time for lunch."

"Just one more. Hey, Edgar!"

"You're getting me into bad habits."

"Give me time. . . ." He leant towards her again, gravely confidential; now he was looking down her bosom as if he were thinking of foreign policy, of life-insurance. "Are you planning to go ashore at Martinique?"

"When's Martinique? I've lost count."

"It's this evening."

Diane nodded. "Yes, I'll probably take a look round."

"How about with me?"

She considered, thinking fast, while Edgar put the two rum Collinses in front of them on their little decorative mats. This was the pass, all right, but it needed handling. She didn't want a brawl in public, and she didn't want the alternative—meeting Gerson under some street lamp in the dock area as soon as he could sneak off. Perhaps it was best to be frank, on the same sort of plane as he.

"How about your wife?"

He waved his hand airily. "Oh, she'll probably play bridge or something. She's not too sold on sight-seeing." He dropped his voice. "We could slip ashore, go to some joint, live it up a bit. How about that?"

"I think I'd like to. If you're sure it's all right."

"I'll make it all right." He raised his glass. "Be seeing you, baby. And save it for me."

The harbour-capital of Fort de France was all that a tourist could ask for. By day, its shabby buildings, multi-coloured in artistic shades of blue and pink and brown, had a Mediterranean tang; and by night, its sleazy air of disrepute, its cries and running feet, its smell of drains and ancient seaweed and rotting sugar-cane, all contributed to the authentic atmosphere of romance. When Jack Gerson and Diane Loring, that unlikely pair whom fate (they freely agreed) had drawn together, set off on their tour of the city, they were able to feel that every step they took was a step into the mysterious unknown.

It was still oppressively hot, at nine o'clock in the evening; the easterly trade-winds brought no sea breezes, only the smells and the laden breath of the dark interior; the streets around the quayside, littered with refuse, policed by dogs, were not inviting. But there were still trees, and ambiguous shadows, and bougainvillaea in heavy bloom; and behind them, against the back-drop of the Pointe des Negres, the solid white bulk of the Alcestis remained constant. She was, if need be, their escape route from the hazards o/ foreign parts.

They were arm-in-arm; it seemed safer and, of course, nicer. There were still plenty of people about, mostly strollers doing nothing and beggars doing what they could. The talk in the streets was all French; but it was a transplanted French, guttural and opaque, the kind of French (as a Parisian would put it) spoken in a province one could never quite identify. But when they stopped at a street corner, it was to come upon an altercation which might have been transplanted direct from the Champs-Elysees.

A native taxi, rounding the corner, had misjudged the curve, and its front wheels had mounted the pavement by a foot or two. A dapper policeman, ebony black, advanced upon it, swinging his baton and then pointing it accusingly at the driver.

"Que faites-vous sur le trottoir?" he inquired roughly.

The taxi-driver spat, with great deliberation. "Tattends voire sceur," he snarled, and drove off in triumph.

There was a roar of laughter, a concerted flash of white teeth, from everyone within earshot. The policeman retreated again to the centre of the cross-roads, with as good a face as he could muster.

"You've got to admit," said Gerson, "it's a hell of a romantic language." He squeezed Diane's arm; it seemed logical to do so. "I hadn't realized the Frogs ran this place."

"It's always been French," she answered. "Didn't you know Josephine was born here?"

He was puzzled. "What Josephine?"

"The Josephine. Napoleon."

"You mean, "Not tonight, Josephine'?" "Sure!"

"Well, what do you know!" exclaimed Gerson, marvelling. "In Martinique? I thought she was—hell, I don't know what I thought. Tell me some more."

"It was discovered by Columbus," said Diane. She was quoting from the "Tips for Travellers" column in the ship's daily newspaper, which Gerson clearly had not read that morning. "He thought it was America."

"He must have been nuts," said Gerson, looking round him.

"They had a volcano here," she went on. "Maybe they still have. It killed forty thousand people in nineteen hundred and two. In three minutes."

"Jesus! How do you know all this?"

"Oh, 1 know____"

They had reached another cross-roads; there were lighted streets, and dark ones; the humid air stirred the trees slowly as it passed.

"Time we had a drink," said Gerson. "It's hotter than hell here. What do you say?"

"I'd like a drink."

"Let's find some lousy joint."

But joints of any kind were hard to find. They tried two hotels, but they were crowded with people from the Alcestis; at both of them, a sedate dance was in progress, the couples circling the room as if doomed to do so until Prince Charming cleft the forest and set them free. Then they found what they were looking for; a side-street bar with a deserted dance-floor, and a smoky atmosphere as thick as brown fog. The sign outside said: "Cafe Stork-Club"; and a printed card, on the table they were led to, announced: "Welcome, Alcestis Passengers! Couvert, 1000 Francs."

"Clip joint," said Gerson, with a worldly air. "But they won't clip me." He hammered on the table. "Let's have a little service here!"

"But how did they know we were coming?" asked Diane.

"The boat probably calls here two-three times a year," answered Gerson. "They just trot the signs out. Same for all the cruise boats. ... Do you want something to eat, baby?"

"I wonder what they've got."

"Some native goo."

The head-waiter, dressed like Gerson in a white dinner-jacket and red tie, materialized at their elbow.

"Scotch and soda?" he asked. "Scotch on rocks? Scotch and Coca-Cola?"

"Rum," said Gerson. "And none of your home-made rot-gut stuff! Comprenny?"

"Oui, monsieur," said the waiter.

"We're hungry," said Gerson. "How about that?"

"Hot dog," said the waiter. He was tall and well-built. "Hamburger with French fries. Ham and two eggs."

"Hell!" said Gerson. "We don't want that sort of crap! What would you like, honey?"

"I'd like something local."

Gerson looked up at the waiter. "Something local," he said. "Like —like fish a la mode. What have you got?"

"Calalou," said the waiter.

"How's that again?"

"Calalou," said the waiter. "Mixed vegetable puree with spices and special sauce."

"I guess it can't kill us," said Gerson. "Bring it on. Two double portions. And hurry up with that rum, for God's sake."

"Oui, monsieur," said the waiter.

"You've got to keep up the pressure with these characters," explained Gerson when he was gone. "Otherwise they just fall down on the job." He pressed her hand. "Are you with me, honey?"

"I'm with you," said Diane.

The drinks arrived, and then the food; an enormous platter of unidentified roots and leaves and shoots, covered with a pink sauce of mysterious consistency. Gerson drank deep, talking all the while in a high-pitched, rather quarrelsome voice; he had been drinking steadily all evening, he had told a series of evasive untruths to his wife, and he was defiantly determined to enjoy his freedom. When he had taken a couple of spoonfuls of the calalou, and masticated them thoroughly, he snapped his fingers, summoning the head-waiter again.

"What was that you called this?" he asked.

"Calalou," answered the waiter.

"You can say that again. . . . D'you like it, honey?"

"Well yes, I do," answered Diane. She was hungry, and the unfamiliar dish was appetizing. "I'd hate to have to cook it, though."

"I'd hate to have to eat it," said Gerson. He looked up again. "Did you say ham and eggs?"

"Yes, sir."

"Bring 'em on. And I'll want a rain-check on half of this."

"Sir—" began the head-waiter.

"Don't argue!" barked Gerson. "It tastes like crap, and you know it. Pour it back down the can, and bring me a double-order of ham and eggs. And let's have some music. This joint is dead on its feet."

Presently an orchestra, of five young boys in tight black trousers and scarlet frilled shirts, filtered on to the stage and began to play. The music was unexpectedly moving; the two guitars, the singer, and the skin drummers presiding over an array of eight differently textured drums, combined to produce a melodious and haunting line. Under its influence, Gerson essayed a dance, though the rhythm was a tricky one, and he was inclined to stumble. The few other dancers, all coloured, made way for them with indulgent smiles. He held Diane in a rock-like grip, pushing his considerable bulk against her with exploring fervour; he hummed as best he could the intricate, off-beat tunes, and occasionally stroked her bare shoulder with a wandering hand.

"You enjoying yourself, honey?" he asked presently.

"Oh, yes," said Diane.

"Better than that old ship, eh?"

"Well, it's different."

"I told you I'd show you a good time." His grip tightened. "Come to Daddy, then. . . . Gee, honey, you feel good."

"Let's have a drink," said Diane after a couple of minutes.

"Whatsa matter—you aiming to tease me?"

Diane put her cheek against his for a moment. "I'll tease you good," she promised, alluringly, "when there aren't so many people around."

The remark put Gerson in a high good humour; when they returned to their table he ordered fresh drinks, and began to talk about the various techniques of drilling for off-shore oil. He fondled her hand throughout, and his knee kept up a steady pressure against her thigh. She might have been worried at the way the evening was going—he had really drunk an enormous amount since lunch-time, and he might turn sleepy and unambitious on the way home; but he seemed to have that occasional North American capacity for drinking endless shots of hard liquor without reacting at all. The row he was doubtless going to have over the bill should wake him up, anyway. She maintained, throughout, a reasonable return pressure on her thigh, and an unwinking expression of interest.

"Now down at Galveston, Texas," said Gerson, "they've got a rig that's a real honey." Then he broke off, and said, grinning: "What the hell—let's talk about something else." He snapped his fingers, and the head-waiter crossed the dance-floor towards him. It was past midnight, and there was now only one other couple in the room.

"Let's have a refill," said Gerson. "When's the floor-show going to start?"

"Sir," said the head-waiter, "we have no floor-show tonight unfortunately."

"It says cabaret outside."

"That is for Saturdays only."

Gerson stabbed with his thumb at the "Welcome Alcestis Passengers!" notice on their table."Couvert is cover charge, isn't it? What do we get for the cover charge? Knives and forks?"

"That is to pay for the orchestra, sir."

"And the floor-show. Come on, you're not dealing with peasants, you know. Give!"

"We might arrange something," conceded the head-waiter. "A speciality. Just for you and madame. Would you enjoy limbo?"

"We just ate that," said Gerson.

"No, sir, that was calalou. This is the limbo dancer. She bends backwards until she passes under a bar not more than sixty centimetres from the ground."

"This I'd like to see."

"It will cost two thousand francs," said the head-waiter.

"Now what the hell—" began Gerson, and then paused. "Say, how much is that in money?"

"About four dollars, sir."

"It's a deal," said Gerson. And as the head-waiter retreated, he added: "Private cabaret, eh? Jack Gerson, the Big-Time Charlie. That's me!"

The orchestra started up again, a sinuous tune with an insistent beat and a crescendo rhythm. A long thin strip of wood, and two uprights, like a high-jump apparatus, were placed on the dance-floor, and after a moment a tall girl, almost naked, appeared and took up a position in front of it, swinging her body in time to the music. Though she was painfully thin, she was still beautiful—a ravishing sangmelee, her skin the colour of cloudy white Burgundy. The music quickened in tempo; she began to bend backwards, weaving her arms, and to edge forward towards the strip of wood which was not more than eighteen inches from the ground. In time with the music, she sank lower and lower, insinuating first her knees, then her thighs, then her pelvis under the bar. There was a wavering interval when it seemed impossible that she could bend backwards far enough to allow her breasts to pass under it. But at the last moment, with the music reaching a jungle flurry of uproar, she wriggled quickly, and passed through, and then sprang high in the air with a scream of triumph. She looked exhausted, and her whole body was bathed in sweat.

"Jesus!" said Gerson. "I'd hate to tangle with that babe." But he was plainly impressed; the girl coming towards him with her thighs spread and her back impossibly arched had started an inevitable train of thought. He clapped loudly, and the girl, walking away, turned her head and gave him a brief smile.

"Must be double-jointed," said Gerson, "just where it counts most." He squeezed Diane's shoulder, and let his hand remain where it was. "Could you do that, baby?"

"I could try," she said. "But I doubt it. I just can't bend that way."

He looked at her appraisingly, his eyes roving freely. "I'll bet you could, at that. Well, what do we do now? It looks like we've closed this joint."

"Go back on board, I suppose."

"And?"

"Oh, we'll take it from there."

"You said something about teasing—remember?"

"I haven't forgotten."

"How are we going to make it?"

He was far from drunk, she decided; he was sweating freely, and his eyes looked like small boiled onions, but there was a quality of insistence about him which alcohol had not affected. So much the better. . . .

"We'll organize something," she reassured him. "You can always come and have a drink in my cabin."

"That's my girl!" With a snap of his fingers he summoned the waiter, and told him: "Let's have the bill. And keep it good and low, or I won't pay."

But he was in great spirits now, and the bill, though high, was not outrageous. He had a shot at adding it up, but this proved too difficult; it seemed to be all noughts, arranged in different columns. To the waiter he said:

"You take American Express credit cards?"

"No, sir," said the waiter, and added, surprisingly: "Only Diners' Club."

"No kidding?" Gerson looked round the tawdry twilight of the room, now completely deserted. "They must have a better list than I figured." He flipped out a traveller's cheque for a hundred dollars, and signed his name with a flourish. "Here—take it out of this."

The waiter went in search of change. "Never carry any cash around," said Gerson. "You never know when you'll get rolled." He looked at her. "I won't need any more money tonight, will I? Or will I?"

They had reached the stage when she could play along with that one. "For you, I'll make a special price," she answered. "Nothing."

His bellow of laughter was enough to stir the curtains. "Well, the price is right, anyway!" He dropped his hand, till it lay like a clamp made of raw steak on her thigh. "Come on, baby, let's get the show on the road."

"Well, that was nice," said Diane. And indeed, it had been; Gerson was overweight, and far from prepossessing to look at, but he had a bull-like quality of determination which Was a good substitute for virility. The way that most American men made love—as if they had to prove something to the onlookers—had in this case worked out well. In fact, it was really going to be a pity to spoil it.

They were lying side by side in the darkened cabin, smoking, staring at the ceiling; Gerson had another drink ready to hand, but he was not giving it much attention. Already he was drowsy; the mystic communion was over; only a show-off or an Italian lover-boy could make a three-act drama out of it by going on talking.

"You were terrific, kid," he said. He patted her flank fondly. "Great talent there . . ." Then he yawned cavernously, and his eyes blinked and closed. "Remind me to give you a reference," he mumbled. "With five asterisks against it."

His voice tailed off. Presently a slight snore indicated that he was resting from his exertions.

Diane waited a long ten minutes, while Gerson gradually relaxed his position and his head fell sideways on the pillow. His snores deepened as his mouth fell open. Then she eased herself gently off the bed, threw on a robe, and crossed to the chair where he had piled his clothes.

She had noted that he kept his wallet in the inside pocket of his dinner-jacket. She pulled it out swiftly, and after a backward glance went to the dressing-table and emptied out the contents. There were a few loose bills—about sixty dollars' worth; a book of travellers' cheques; a photograph of Mrs. Gerson, looking happy at a nightclub table; another photograph of a blonde in a bikini, signed (or perhaps captioned) "Prudence"; and a separate booklet with an enormous array of club cards. He seemed to have everything to which the upright citizen could attain; American Express, Hilton Carte Blanche, gasoline credit cards (Shell, Esso, and Fina), Rotarians, Kiwanis, two hotels in Chicago, Hertz-Rentacar, International Air Travel card, driver's licence, insurance identification certificate, and a Book-of-the-Month Club name-tag.

Gerson's snores continued unabated as she went back to the folder of travellers' cheques. It was a thick one; it contained four cheques for five hundred dollars each, eighteen for one hundred, and some smaller ones. The total was considerably more than four thousand dollars.

She weighed them in her hand. Ever since his remark in the night-club: "I never carry any cash around," she had been thinking of this particular problem, and had worked out what seemed the best way of dealing with it. Now she took the bills, and put them in her purse; then she tore off two of the five-hundred-dollar cheques, and laid them on the dressing-table; and then she closed the folder, and opening a drawer stuffed it far out of sight under a thick pile of clothes. That was to be her weapon, her ace-in-the-hole; if it didn't work, it couldn't be helped. At least she was sixty bucks to the good.

After replacing the wallet, and then the coat, she looked at her watch. It was nearly two o'clock; save for the far-off hum of a generator, and the hissing of the ventilator ducts, all sounds had ceased. Ashore, when she drew aside the small curtain and looked out of the porthole, the lights of Fort de France were dim under the strong moonlight. There was a black, tossing crest of a hill against the pale sky, which looked like a huge breaking wave. It was beautiful —but it would still be beautiful tomorrow. She turned away, nervously strained, her heart thudding, and approached the bed. Now.

Gerson lay like a fat and ugly baby, his head turned away from the shaded lamp, his mouth bubbling gently with successive snores. She reached down and shook his arm.

"Hey," she said softly. "Wake up. Time to go."

He was only lightly asleep, and he came to the surface within a few moments. Blinking, he sat up, and put his feet down on the floor; then he grimaced as he tasted his mouth, and took a deep swallow from the glass on the bedside table.

"Hi, baby," he said. "I must have dozed off. What time is it?"

"After two."

"Jesus! My wife will give me hell if she hears me come in."

He dressed in swift plunges; when he came to draw on his coat she watched him warily, but beyond patting his wallet with an automatic gesture he made no further check. Then, when he was ready, and she was wondering what form of words to use to start the pressure, he looked down at her.

"Thanks, honey," he said. It was no more than the set form, but at least he said it. "You were sensational. . . . Look, are you short of money or anything?"

"Well," said Diane.

He gestured, dismissively. "Don't give it a thought. I know the way things are." He put his hand to his inside pocket, and drew out his wallet. Diane looked away, for delicacy's sake. She could guess, to within very narrow limits, what his next words would be.

"Well, hell!" he exclaimed, half-way between puzzlement and anger. "What's gone wrong? I had sixty bucks, and a whole raft of—"

After a long pause, she said: "Travellers' cheques?"

"That's right." He had got nothing from her voice so far. "You saw them, didn't you?"

"I saw them all right," said Diane.

"They're gone!" he exclaimed, now thoroughly roused. "Someone in that lousy clip-joint must have—" He was looking round him excitedly, and his glance happened to fall on the dressing-table.

The two five-hundred-dollar cheques were lying not more than two feet from him. "Well, what the hell!" he said. "Those are mine. Are you trying to be funny?"

She shook her head. "No," she answered. It was easy to harden her voice, now that the moment was here. "No, I'm not trying to do that."

He picked up the two cheques and examined them, more uncomprehendingly than ever. Then he looked across at her, his eyes narrowing. "Did you tear these out?"

"Yes. I thought you'd like to have them ready."

"Ready? What the hell do you mean, ready?"

"They're for me," she said.

"A thousand bucks? You must be nuts! I was going to give you— And where are the others, the rest of the book?"

"I have them safe."

He drew in his breath, and came a step towards her. "What the hell are you talking about? Quit fooling around! Whatis this?"

"If you shout," she said, "someone will hear you." She gestured towards herself, naked under the thin robe. "Bad public relations."

He had caught on now. He looked from her to the two cheques, and back again. Then he nodded, several times.

"I get the picture. This is a straight squeeze."

As she nodded in turn, she wondered if he would lose his head, like Bancroft; or turn rough, and use force; or try to call her bluff; or walk out, and chance the whole thing. But he was tougher than Bancroft, or more resourceful, though he had only the same number of cards in his hands.

He did not waste any time; there was no nonsense about love betrayed, no surprise at the crude trickery.

"A thousand is too much," he said crisply. "I'll make it a hundred, if you're that short."

"I'm that short," she said, "and it's a thousand."

He flicked the cheques with his fingers. "These are no damn' good to you. You know that. They have to be signed. And how would I get the cash at this time of night, anyway?"

"Tomorrow will do," she said indifferently.

His face brightened. "You mean, I take them away?"

"Yes. And you bring the cash tomorrow morning. And I give you back the other cheques."

"Oh . . ." He considered. Then he said: "I'll see you in hell first!"

"All right." Her pose of indifference was easier now; she knew that, tougher than Bancroft, he was also quicker to size up a situation. "Then I'll go to your wife. And I'll call my uncle as well."

149

"Nuts! Who's going to believe you? It's your word against mine."

"I have the cheques," she answered. "Three thousand dollars' worth."

"What the hell is the good of them? Be your age! You know I can send a cable tomorrow morning, and have the whole lot cancelled. I just say I lost them."

"But I have them."

"So?" His voice, however, was unsure; he was getting more and more of the picture every moment; his mind had almost caught up with hers.

"How did I get them?" asked Diane. "You want me to go to your wife and say, 'I found these in my bed after your husband had gone'? Or show them to the Captain, to prove you were here? He'd put you off the ship at the next stop!"

Gerson came a step nearer. "O.K.—where are they?" he asked roughly.

"I told you, they're safe." She looked up at him, meeting his eyes without wavering. "You try and find them, and I'll start screaming."

"There's no one around at this time of night."

"My uncle's just across the passage."

"Is he in on this?" he asked bitterly.

"Not yet."

He swallowed; so intense was the prickling silence in the cabin that she could actually hear it. "You can't prove a thing," he told her. But it was himself he was telling, and failing to convince. "I came in here for a drink. You started throwing it at me. Don't forget, you've got your pants off. I haven't."

"Is your wife going to believe that?"

That was the moment when he began to swear, and equally the moment when she knew she had won. She hardly heard the torrent of obscenity which he seemed able to rip off as if he were tearing successive pages from a book; indeed, it was like background music, unheard by the inner ear, which was busy with other things. When his voice petered out, and he remained standing in furious, sweating silence, she said:

"Feeling better? Don't take it too hard, sonny. The price was a bit high, that's all."

"A thousand f-dollars!"

"That's a perfect description. . . . Don't come too early in the morning. I like my sleep."

"You can sleep. I'll be thinking—but good! You won't get away with this!"

At eleven o'clock next morning, however, Gerson was in quite a different mood. It might have been a hangover, or a rueful sense of humour strong enough to survive the loss of a thousand dollars; it might even have been that she had gauged the amount accurately —she had not been too greedy, a thousand dollars was just not enough to make him drop everything and run screaming for the cops. But whatever it was, when they met out on the boat-deck there were no more reproaches. He handed her a roll of hundred-dollar bills; she produced the rest of the travellers' cheques and passed them over; and that seemed to be that. When he looked at her, his glance was almost admiring.

"That was the most expensive lay I ever had," he said. "Hell, it cost more than getting married!"

"Worth it?"

"Jesus, no! Nothing's worth that kind of money."

"Too bad. I thought we might do business."

"Not at those prices." He was staring seawards, where the morning sun on the water made a clean, dancing sheen. "I've been doing some figuring. You pulled this on Jerry Bancroft, didn't you?"

There seemed no harm in telling him. "Yes."

He slapped his thigh. "I knew it! The crooked bastard! I thought there was something phoney when he was talking. How much did you take him for?"

"The same."

"A thousand bucks?"

"Yes." Even here, she would not confess to that extra thousand; it was her own triumphant secret.

"Do me a favour," he said, after a moment. "Give me back five dollars."

She stared. "Now why?"

"So that I come out better than him."

He was laughing, and after a moment she joined in. "It's a deal." He had forgotten about the sixty dollars in cash, and she wasn't going to remind him. She opened her bag again, found a five-dollar bill, and gave it him. "Your change, sir."

"That Bancroft," he said, pocketing it. "He's not so smart after all. Only cost me nine-hundred-ninety-five. Now he was really gypped."

6

The evening's poker session was to be in Carl Wenstrom's suite, and there, punctually at nine o'clock, the five other players assembled.

Carl welcomed them like old friends—which, indeed, they were; they were now bound by the ties implicit in the prolonged ebb-and-flow of this battlefield. Tillotson was one; the biggest winner after Carl, a tough and aggressive player with that necessary sense of humour which went with successful bluffing. Burrell was another, a Canadian, married to a French-Canadian wife whose theatrical mannerisms, curious accent, and insistence that she was a Parisienne born-and-bred, had drawn to herself a good deal of unflattering attention. He was very rich, and (among Americans) curiously sensitive, as if he went in fear of being unmasked as only a Canadian after all.

Mr. Beddington was another contestant, cautious, speechless from one hour's end to another; and Mr. Greenfield—"the father of the brat", as Carl called him—who purged his guilt by generous over-calling, was another. The last member was a rash and cheerful man by the name of Hartmann, a New York advertising executive who, judging by some of his plays, was underwriting the whole thing on his expense account.

They were punctual, as serious poker-players always were; and they refused after-dinner brandy or liqueurs, according to the same tradition. Kathy, performing briefly as hostess before they settled down, had little to do save to pour coffee for all of them. When offered drinks, they all said, with scarcely any variation: "Not now, thanks. Got to concentrate."

"Concentrate?" repeated Carl, picking up the word as Hartmann used it. "What's this? You mean you're going to take the game seriously?"

"It's about time I did," said Hartmann, who started each session full of cheer and ended up in impenetrable mourning. "Gosh, d'you know how much I'm down on the past month?"

"How much?" asked Burrell, who was satisfied—and, indeed, proud—to have broken even on the twenty-two games they had played so far.

"Eight thousand dollars, that's all," said Hartmann. He looked round him for sympathy. But at this stage, just before the game, he was never sad about his losses; he knew for certain that the balance would be redressed by the time they broke up. "If I told them back in N'York what you characters here were doing to me, they'd say to have my head examined."

"Maybe they'd be right," said Mr. Greenfield, another big loser. "And maybe I'll join you, if things go on like this."

Tillotson, who was sitting at the green baize table counting out chips, looked up momentarily.

"The trouble with you," he said to Hartmann, "is that you will come in on every hand."

"But I like playing," said Hartmann.

"Oh, I'm not complaining," said Tillotson. "It's nice to have you along. But I just thought I'd mention it."

They came to the table as soon as they had finished their coffee; before each player, when Tillotson had completed the allotment, were four stacks of red, yellow, blue and green chips representing two thousand dollars. Carl broke open a pack of fresh cards, took out the jokers, and began to shuffle them. Cigars were lighted, chairs were drawn up; Kathy placed an ash-tray beside each of them. It was the marginal moment before battle was joined, and Carl, feeling the cards slide beneath his fingers, was deeply contented. There was no moment in the world like this: the shining chips stacked, the score-card clean, the cards ready to be cut, the players hopeful and eager. Probably, apart from the game, he would not speak twenty words during the next four or five hours; Tillotson was the same sort of player as he, absolutely still, absolutely concentrated; the others would do the talking, in more or less degree, but for these two, poker was like a flag hoisted, a gage thrown down.

Kathy, standing behind Carl, asked: "Anything else I can do for you?"

"No, thank you," answered Carl. He smiled at her over his shoulder. "I think we have everything."

She gestured towards the loaded side-table. "Drinks," she indicated. "Ice—soda-water—cigarettes. . . . And there's lots of coffee left. I ordered sandwiches for eleven o'clock. Barkway's off now, but there's a night-steward."

"Thank you, my dear girl."

"I'll say good night, then."

"How are you going to spend your evening?" asked Tillotson politely.

"Oh, I'll look at the view, and then go to bed. We're passing St. Lucia some time during the night, but I expect I'll be asleep." She nodded to each of them in turn, and as they half-rose, she bent and kissed Carl. "Good night," she said. "And good luck, if I'm allowed to say that." Then she turned, and was gone.

"A beautiful girl, that," said Tillotson, on the correct note of diffidence.

"Very like her mother," said Carl. He sighed; with practice, it was not difficult to do so. "She has been a very great comfort to me."

Tillotson took the cards from Carl, and spread them fan-wise on the table, with an expert flick of the back of his hand. "Draw for it," he said, his voice already changing to a curt, controlled competence. "Ace high, high deals."

It was one o'clock and then two; while the Alcestis threshed on through the calm night, and the ship's interior noise receded all round them, their game continued. But as usual, with the passing hours its outlines had become blurred. The men who talked were talking more, the ones who drank had drunk too much; the heavy losers had relapsed into their customary depressed silence. Carl was a small winner again, and Tillotson a large one; Beddington, that silent, cautious man, was about even, and Burrell a little down. Hartmann, the irrepressible, had eight hundred dollars against him on the books, and Greenfield, who had held terrible cards all evening, and had drunk too much anyway, was nearly two thousand behind. It was very much like the pattern of many other games; the true players came to the top, the amateurs stayed in the ruck, and those without the gift of concentration sank inevitably into the mud.

At half past two, Carl looked at his watch. "Gentlemen," he said, "speaking as a winner, and also as the host, I suggest we have the last rounds fairly soon."

"Suits me," said Burrell. He had had a nervous evening, with one good run and one bad one; he didn't expect to win now, he was ready to cut his small losses and call it a day.

Tillotson nodded, without saying anything. Part of the pleasure of playing with him was his unfailing good manners. As the big winner, he could not appear eager to quit; but half past two was late, past their usual break-up time.

Greenfield was at the side-table, helping himself to another whisky and soda. "Might as well be drunk as be the way I am," he said slurringly. "Make it last rounds if you like. They'll have to be damn' good to pull me out."

Hartmann said: "O.K. by me," and Beddington, lighting his pipe, grunted vaguely.

"All right," said Carl. "One round of dealer's choice, and one jackpot."

When the deal came to him, he looked round the table again. "What's it to be?"

As usual, when invited, they all named their favourites.

"Straight draw poker," said Tillotson.

"Aces wild."

"Seven-card stud."

"Misere."

"High-low."

Carl laughed. He was relaxed now; the game was nearly over, it had gone well enough for him, nothing much could happen at this stage.

"Thanks for the help," he said. He looked up at Greenfield, still the main casualty. "You choose," he said. "I think you've earned it."

"Jackpot," answered Greenfield. He had won a big pot, three or four hours ago; he wanted a return to that golden age.

"But we're going to have one in a minute, anyway," objected Hartmann.

"I'd like one now," said Greenfield obstinately.

"Jackpot," said Carl, and began to deal.

No one opened the first time, nor the second, nor the third; the pot, "sweetened" every time with ten dollars from each of them, was worth over two hundred by the time it came to the fourth deal. But on that round, Carl found that he had given himself a pair of aces and a pair of eights—good enough to open with, by a long way. He was, however, forestalled.

"It's loose," said Hartmann, who was sitting on his left, promptly. "For half the pot—say, a hundred and twenty dollars."

There was the usual silence. After a moment, the next player, Burrell, said, "Too expensive," and threw his hand in. Then Greenfield, squinting at his cards, said: "I'll come to that party," and began somewhat uncertainly to count out one hundred and twenty dollars.

It was Tillotson's turn. He would not join in unless he had something worth while, thought Carl; he might be a couple of thousand ahead, but he would never throw any of it away, neither early nor late in the game.

Tillotson said: "Double."

Two hundred and forty dollars, thought Carl, to win a pool worth about the same amount. Tillotson must be good, he must be certain he was better than Hartmann the opener. Two pairs, maybe. Even threes.

Beddington, the fifth player, shook his head mournfully. "Not at those fancy prices," he said, and tossed his cards into the centre.

That left Carl himself. His two pairs, ace high, were good, probably better than Hartmann's hand. Greenfield might have anything; he was fiddling with his cards, rearranging them; it usually meant that he had a broken hand—four to a straight, four to a flush. Tillotson's call was confident. But it might be a bluff to knock out Hartmann, who, as a biggish loser, was inclined to run scared at such times.

"Two hundred and forty dollars," agreed Carl, and pushed the chips forward.

"You can't frighten the opener," said Hartmann. "Two hundred and forty it is."

Out of the blue, almost sulkily, Greenfield said: "Double again."

Tillotson looked at him quickly, as did Carl. The call, of course, was nonsensical; if his hand was as good as that, Greenfield should have doubled on the first time round. But he was drunk, they all knew; he might have mistaken his hand at the first glance, and then, at a closer look, found he had something better. He was not likely to be bluffing; he never bluffed unless he was well ahead of the game. Carl placed him with two very good pairs, or else a pat hand. A straight.

Tillotson's thinking had obviously been on the same lines, but he was still confident. "Expensive," he murmured. "But not too expensive. I'm in for four-eighty."

It was Carl's turn again. It was indeed an expensive hand to join in; his two pairs, ace high, seemed to have shrunk in stature since he first sighted them. With Tillotson in, at such a big price, it meant that there would be serious competition. But two aces and two eights had a ring of gold about them. ... He nodded. "All right. In."

Hartmann was now having serious second thoughts. He was frowning, looking from one player to another. Then he began to tap his cards on the table, irritably. It was a sure sign, Carl knew, that he was going to fold.

"I'll show my openers," said Hartmann after a moment. "This is too rich for my blood."

Carl said: "Three players in, for four hundred and eighty dollars." And then, to Greenfield: "Cards?"

"I'll play these," said Greenfield.

A pat hand, thought Carl again; not a bluff—he wasn't that kind of a player, and particularly not at three o'clock in the morning. A flush or a straight, which had at last swum into his uncertain ken. . . . His eyes went round in turn to Tillotson, sitting opposite him.

"Two cards," said Tillotson.

Carl said: "I believe you," and dealt him the cards. It was as he had expected; Tillotson, sitting on top of the opener, had come in with three of a kind.

It was now his own turn. He looked down at his two aces and two eights; there was, of course, only one thing to do—throw away the odd card, and draw one. Then he noticed something. Two of the cards which Beddington had thrown in at the first round had been flipped over, face up, when Hartmann discarded his hand. They were both eights.

He looked away again, thinking very hard. The exposure was an enormous piece of luck, both good and bad. It meant that he could not improve his eights; he could only improve his aces. But equally, he now knew that if he drew one card, it gave him only one chance of improvement; if he drew three, it gave him three. Two pairs was not going to be any good against Tillotson's probable three-of-a-kind, nor Greenfield's pat hand, whatever that was. The eights, face up on the table, were telling him to take a chance—the only chance.

He picked out his pair of aces, and discarded the three other cards. Then he said, formally: "Dealer takes three."

Tillotson raised his eyebrows at the draw. "Brave man," he said.

Carl smiled, and took the next three cards from the top of the pack. Tillotson was watching him, as usual, while he made his draw. He squeezed the cards gently, fanning them out, his face expressionless.

He found that he had dealt himself two more aces.

With no more than a moment's pause, he looked at Greenfield, and said: "It's you to speak. From four hundred and eighty dollars."

But this was not Greenfield's day at all. Just as he opened his mouth to bet, he took a last look at his cards, for reassurance. His jaw dropped like a plummet, and an incredulous look came over his face.

"Jesus God!" he said. "I made a mistake."

Tillotson turned to him, courteously, not mocking his ineptitude; as usual, he was a delightful player to share a table with. "Not betting?"

Greenfield's owlish face was ludicrous in its dismay. "I thought that last card was a heart. God damn it!" he said. "It's a diamond."

"Bad luck," said Carl. With four aces, and a pot now worth nearly fifteen hundred dollars to the winner, he really did feel, benevolently, that it was bad luck. His eyes went round to Tillotson, his traditional adversary whom he respected. "You and me," he said.

Tillotson answered, without hesitation: "I will tempt you. Double."

Burrell drew in his breath. "Hell!" he exclaimed, impressed. "That' nine hundred and sixty dollars."

"You have tempted me," said Carl to Tillotson, greatly at ease with the world. "I'll make it a nice round figure. Nineteen hundred dollars."

There was a silence of extraordinary intensity all round the table.

This was the biggest betting they had had so far; it was clear that Carl and Tillotson, who seldom bumped into each other in any serious sense, had now met head on. At so high a figure, it was unlikely that either of them was bluffing; it meant that good cards were meeting good cards—the most expensive kind of collision in the world.

Tillotson put down his cigar, with great care. "Now that's very interesting," he said. He was being much more talkative than usual, Carl noted, even at the end of a winning evening; it meant, probably, that he was confident, that he had a tremendous hand—possibly fours also. It did not matter; his own aces were unbeatable. "You took three cards," Tillotson went on, amiably. "I took two. You must have improved. I surely hope so, for your sake. Double again!"

At the end of the normal, slow-spoken sentences, the last two words came out with enormous force, like the crack of a whip. But to Carl, they were musical; they would have been musical if they had been pistol shots. He said, keeping his voice as controlled as possible:

"And once more. Seven thousand two hundred dollars."

Tillotson's face was without expression. He did not look at his cards; he looked straight at Carl. There was silence for the sp.ace of fifteen seconds, while he weighed the probabilities concealed within this perilous maze—the trap against the bluff, the very good cards against the fractionally better. He then proved what an excellent player he was by saying, with no concession to histrionics: "No. 1 fold."

He threw in his hand, face down, and began to count out thirty-six hundred dollars. The others broke the silence like schoolboys. Hartmann said: "Gee! If that was a bluff. . . ." and Burrell said: "That's the biggest hand we've ever had—even without the last bet." Greenfield levered himself up, and wandered to the side-table again, muttering: "Now why doesn't that happen to me?" as if he would naturally assume the role of Carl and not Tillotson. Only the two principal players remained silent, until Tillotson had pushed nearly all his chips into the centre, and Carl had raked in the total— over five thousand. Then Tillotson, as if to himself, said: "I think I was right."

Neither of them would have dreamed of asking the other what cards he had held; and no one else in the room, drunk or sober, would have asked either. But Carl, for five thousand dollars, felt able to answer, without loss of principle:

"Very likely."

By the time they were gone, it was near dawn; the faintest possible lightening of the sky outside the porthole proclaimed the advancing day. Carl, sitting in an armchair after saying the customary slow good nights to his guests, surveyed the abandoned room. The after-the-party wreckage was familiar, and by no means unpleasant.

Cards were strewn all over the table; clusters of coloured chips mingled with them, spangling the green cloth like Christmas-tree decorations. The ash-trays overflowed with cigar-butts, the used glasses had a raffish air of neglect. On the side-table, half-empty bottles of gin and whisky and brandy stood among a phalanx of club sodas. On the carpet below it, a frieze of bottle-tops lay like confetti. Coffee cups, stale sandwiches, crumpled napkins, told of the half-way refreshment which had kept the laggards going. There was a chair overturned—that was Greenfield, rising to stumble back to his cabin at the end of the game. Opposite Carl's place on the table was the score-card with its neatly balanced columns, and three cheques totalling $5,400, his triumphant share of the evening.

He would have enjoyed what he saw, whether he had lost or won; the room, with its air of Regency dissipation centred on the green baize table, conjured up agreeable pictures of noble and desperate conduct, dawn duels, ruined heirs. The drifting smoke was like the smoke over a battlefield, long in dispersal, marking great events, historic collisions.

He smiled at the thought. It was not like that at all; it was like the smoke after a party, and a wonderful party too. He stood up, and crossed stiffly to the porthole, and opened it after a struggle with the unwieldy clasps. A fresh breeze met him, and the steady hiss and roar of sea-water tumbling past a few dozen feet below him. The light was gaining now, a pale pearly glow spreading over the sea towards him. But there was a harder outline hidden within it, and presently he saw that it was land. They were coasting past an island.

He watched it take shape, emerging out of the mist and the vagueness of the dawn like a new character altogether. It must be St. Lucia, the island that Kathy had mentioned, and it was not more than a few miles off. It was only an outline, but an outline of perfect shape, rising past formidable cliffs to a tall peak in the centre. There were two lighthouses at either end, still competing with the dawn, and in between them a few straggling lights, seeming to climb the hills from the sea until their strength gave out. The water between him and this revealed paragon of landfalls was faintly ruffled by the dawn breeze, and its colour was turning to a smoky pink as he watched it.

He remained by the porthole for a long time, with a luxuriant sense of blessing; the view seemed to prove that the world was good, that God was generous this morning, after a night in which men also had done more than their fair share for him. Then he sat down again, in the only uncluttered chair, with a final whisky and soda and positively the last cigar of the night, and relaxed in deep contentment. After six hours of the utmost concentration, it was good to dream, to let slip the mask and reveal the liberal face.

Kathy must be long asleep by now, he thought; and of his other problem children, only Diane was possibly still awake. She had done well with Gerson, and she had shown herself very ready to pursue the same sort of effort, with other candidates. Indeed, rising from the dinner-table that same evening, she had said, carelessly confident:

"I feel good tonight. I think I'll knock off Zucco."

The dauntless vulgarity of the remark had amused him when it was made; at this later hour, he only hoped that it had come true, without complication. But he did not want to consider the topic now; he only wished to savour the peace and contentment he had won. He drew on his cigar, and looked at the cheques on the table. He saw once again Tillotson's face as he had first sniffed danger, and then backed away from it, his head lowered like a wary bull. Delicious moment . . .

Now it was after four o'clock, and his face in the dawn light was stiff and tired. Perhaps he was getting old. But what pleasures still came his way!

7

Zucco was a breeze, a pushover, thought Diane; he knew all about the Hollywood meat-market, but he wasn't used to it getting up and biting him in the wallet. The total operation took less than forty-eight hours, and the whole thing, as far as she was concerned, boiled down to two scenes, like in one of his lousy films.

Scene One was ashore at Barbados. Pretty colours, kind of picturesque, but a dump, old-fashioned as hell. Policemen dolled up like from Gilbert and Sullivan. A daylight session up the coast, where the attraction was billed as a Planters' Lunch ("These are planters?" asked Walham suspiciously. "But how do we know?") A band knocking themselves into a coma, beating the hell out of two rows of oil drums. Then a night-club where they fried the lobster in coconut oil and even gypped you in the loo.

First, Zucco mournful, saying: "Tell you a funny story about an electric guitar. We lost a good musician that way. Bought himself a cheap guitar. Too cheap. First rehearsal, he plugged it in, gave one plonk! and fell stone-dead into the orchestra pit. Faulty wiring. Studio couldn't figure out whether it came under the Musicians' Union or the Seal of Good Housekeeping."

Then Zucco warming up, giving the slip to his wife, saying: "Sure I'll get you a film-test, any time. I'm like that with Walter Warner."

Then Zucco happy in his work at last, saying: "You're stacked, kiddo. Beautiful music!"

Scene Two was Came the Dawn, or near enough to it, in Cabin A15.

Zucco distraught, saying: "But I told you, I'll get you a film-test. I can make you a big star! I have lunch with Genghis Cohen every day!"

Zucco weakening, saying: "Hell, they don't pay those prices in Bel Air on Christmas Eve!"

Zucco in the death-throes, saying: "Christ, if I O.K'd a script like this, they'd have me strapped to the couch!"

Zucco flouncing out, saying: "Next time I see you, remind me to tell you to drop dead!"

Cut to hands counting ten-dollar bills, and Dissolve.

Down the corridor, listening to retreating footsteps, Barkway the steward picked his teeth reflectively. Then he shook his head.

"Stamina!" he said to the duty-stewardess. "Say what you like, you've got to admire it."

8

At Grenada, most beautiful of islands, they viewed a volcanic lake, and Mr. Cutler the Purser stocked up on fresh limes; at Tobago, the Professor held forth on Robinson Crusoe, expanding the slim evidence which sought to establish the island as the undoubted headquarters of this ancient mariner. But in general, the main anticipation centred on Port of Spain, Trinidad, where the Alcestis was due to arrive in time for the Carnival. When they finally streamed ashore here, into the arms of a polyglot population perfectly equipped to deal with such invasions, they looked forward to it as one of the high spots of the whole cruise. They were not disappointed.

Port of Spain seemed to have everything, and, at Carnival time, everything was on display. Steel bands roamed the streets, exotically costumed; the rival Calypso Kings set up their tents, and embarked on the yearly warfare to advance the claims of Lord Caresser, Lord Life Expectancy, and the Edinburgh Whiz-Kid. In the streets, the range of costume and the shades of colour were fantastic; Indian women in saris, civil servants in white duck, pure Negroes, impure Europeans, Portuguese traders, Chinese brothel-touts, Spanish girls with enormous bosoms and fiery eyes. There were teak forests to be visited, and a lake of pitch solid enough to be walked upon. The mosques and temples and bazaars beckoned the eye; the competing music wove its pattern continuously; tiny humming-birds hung like bees, motionless above the red-flowering immortelles.

There was Creole cooking for those who wanted a change, and caustic curries for those who preferred an ordeal. For passengers who, even at this late stage, had never left New York, there was a restaurant called the Tavern-on-the-Green. Over it all, music and dancing and a zany pre-Lental delinquency set the tone and showed the way. It was no wonder that, allowed by the schedule to spend five days there, the Alcestians took a long look at the conventions and decided to give them a rest.

Louis and Mrs. Consolini—whose name was Belle—had at last found a place they liked. It was a night-club called the Calcutta, one of the few which readily stayed open as long as the customers chose to remain there. They liked it because it was dark, and unfashionable, and because very few of their fellow-passengers had discovered it. Once there, all they did was talk, and listen to the music; Louis was handling this one with a long and leisurely spoon, and he applied no pressure of any sort. The pressure indeed finally came from her, in a form which he was to remember for a very long time.

Belle Consolini was in a curious mood. On this trip, the Captain had certainly not come up to her expectations; the impulse which had prompted her to make a third cruise in the Alcestis was paying many pleasant dividends, but Captain Harmer had not been one of them. Nor, up to the time of going to press, had anyone else. She had looked the field over; in plain terns, there just wasn't a field on board, save for this dubious young man who, so far, had concentrated on giving her rival Mrs. Stewart-Bates a whirl, and on nothing else. That seemed a pattern which had been discontinued, for reasons which she did not know but could approximately guess; the coming change-over, however, was going to be on her own terms. It only remained to tell him how and when.

On their second night at the Calcutta, the calypso singer who went the rounds of the tables paused to give them the traditional salute reserved for Alcestis passengers. (All the cruise-boats had their own slanted calypsos, calculated to provoke delighted squeals and two-dollar tips.) At the end, Belle Consolini unexpectedly asked the singer:

"There's one from Barbados called 'Back to Back, Belly to Belly*. Do you know it?"

"Yes, ma'am," said the calypso singer, grinning. "All the eight verses."

He sang them, in lingering detail, and departed with some solid largesse for his trouble.

"That's a pretty hot number," said Louis appreciatively. "You certainly know your way around, Belle. How did you hear about that one?"

She waved her hand; the lights caught her bracelets, and travelled up her plump sunburnt arm, and gave a dull sheen to the draped mink stole, and finished up among the gold dust sprinkled on her hair.

"We've had some of these jokers back in New York," she answered carelessly. "My husband was in the business."

It was a phrase she often used, in widely differing contexts; indeed, it was difficult to judge what Mr. Consolini's business had been, except that it had given him, and consequently her, an all-embracing knowledge of how things were organized. Once she had stopped Louis putting more money into the fruit-machines. "Those things are fixed—strictly for suckers," she told him. "My husband was in the business." Once she had asked him, when he was buying her some perfume, not to choose a certain brand. "It's the most god-awful stuff. They make it out of the trash from the stock-yards. My husband used to have the franchise." When Louis complained, like everyone else, about the band on board, she diagnosed the trouble in a single sentence. "Union rules," she said. "If you hire one player who can play, you have to take on two relatives who can't." Apparently her husband had been in that business too. On a later occasion, when they were discussing the immigration laws in America, and she had revealed an astonishing knowledge of permits, restrictions, evasions, and loopholes, Louis had asked her what her husband's line had actually been. "He was an agent," she answered. That was all.

It had been enough on that occasion, and it was enough also to make him suspect that Belle Consolini would not be an easy target. The thought did not worry him, but it had perhaps persuaded him to take the whole thing at a very even speed.

Now, enjoying their Cuba Libres, while the calypso singer sauntered back to the bandstand and the Calcutta customers applauded him, they relaxed and were happy. Louis thought idly that it might be tonight that he would make his move. He could not know that Belle Consolini had come to the same conclusion, from quite a different angle, at quite a different time.

It was a chance meeting, back on board, which precipitated the next and final stage. The time was two o'clock, and though it was too late to get a drink in the bar, they agreed that they were both wide awake and still wanted one. She invited him down to her cabin; the way there led past the library, where the lights were still on. Through the open doorway, they both saw Mrs. Stewart-Bates sitting reading—or, perhaps, pretending to read; for as they passed, the book was lowered, and Mrs. Stewart-Bates stared at them over its top, like a pale ghost doomed to stand sentinel for a thousand years.

Neither of them made any comment, though Louis found the encounter slightly unnerving. But when they reached her cabin, Belle Consolini, pouring him a drink, remarked:

"Your friend's up late."

It would have been silly to say anything except: "Yes."

Mrs. Consolini brought the drink over, and set it down by his side. Then she asked, without preamble:

"How much did you take her for?" And added, inevitably, over the beginning of his energetic protests: "It's O.K. My husband was in the business."

More than two hours passed before the subject was raised again; and when it was, it developed, swiftly and subtly, on a plane which seemed to place all the initiative in her hands. She even destroyed, in advance, the shock-element in his plans—the surprise he had not yet sprung.

"Of course I knew what was going on," said Belle Consolini. She lay back on the bed, her body relaxed, her eyes alight; it placed him at a disadvantage that she seemed to take this whole situation so completely for granted. "Who didn't know? You and Grace Stewart-Bates! What on earth would you have in common? She could pass for your mother! Of course she must have hired you, and I hope it was fun."

"It was fun, all right," he answered. He tried to give his voice an edge, preparing to make his own move. "And we had fun too, didn't we?"

"Certainly," said Belle Consolini. "That was the basic idea."

"How about it, then?"

"How about what?"

"Paying for it."

"Oh,that." She nodded as if there were nothing in this conversation she had not heard a hundred times before. "How much did Grace pay you?"

"Never mind about that. This is you and me. You'd better start talking."

She stared at him, calculating, not worrying at all about his altered manner. "You'll find a hundred-dollar bill in my bag," she said. "Help yourself."

"A hundred!" His voice, coming from the shadows outside the circle of the bedside lamp, was scornful. "You'd better think again. You want people to know about us?"

"Heavens, Louis, you've got some funny ideas! Of course they'll know about us, if we go on with it. What does it matter? What do you think people talk about, all day and all night?" She looked up at him, as if she were genuinely puzzled. "What's on your mind? How much do you want?"

"Nearer a thousand."

Now it was her turn to laugh. It had a lilt, a merry and musical sound which was infinitely disconcerting. But all she said was:

"For tonight? I think that's a little too high."

"It's not too high." This was all wrong, but try as he would, he couldn't seem to get back on the right track again. "It's what you're going to give me."

"I'll give you nothing of the sort." She might have been shopping for vegetables, with five stalls to choose from. "Look, my lad, which of us knows more about the going rates, you or me? My husband was—" she did not even need to complete the sentence. "I like you, Louis," she went on, "and I don't want to see you get into the wrong hands. I'll tell you what—I'll make it five hundred a week."

"A week! What the hell is this?"

"You know very well what it is. It's a deal, the kind of deal you're looking for." She lay back, entirely at her ease, as if the matter were beyond discussion or comment, except among foolish people who did not know what was good for them. "Five hundred a week, for as long as I choose. And you just stay in line, or the deal's off."

"What if I say no? What if I—"

"You won't say no, and you won't do anything silly, either." She looked at him, her eyes shrewd, her voice entirely firm. "I don't know what you put over on Grace, and I don't want to know, but I~am—not—Grace." She brought the four words out with complete authority; then she relaxed, and her tone became almost kindly. "This is just what you want, if you'd only work it out—a safe job, regular hours, let's call them fringe benefits, more money than you could earn any other way. Without throwing any compliments around, it's what we both want."

"You've got it all worked out, haven't you?" he said, between bitterness and relief.

"You bet I have!" For once, she said nothing about her husband, but it seemed improbable that the guiding principles of Mr. Consolini were far from her mind. She patted the covers, and drew them up a little round her shoulders. "Now hand me my cigarettes, there's a good boy."

"Anything else you'd like?" he asked, with an attempt at irony. It did not survive her answer.

"No," she said. "And you can get dressed now. I won't want you again tonight."