The Nylon Pirates

PART ONE "Meticulously planned with just YOU in mind"

The girl, who was very beautiful, turned away from the window. The view, of Central Park and the Fifth Avenue sky-line on a crisp winter morning, was exciting, but the height made her dizzy. Hotel suites, even suites as elegant as this one, should never be higher than the third storey; the twentieth was almost at cloud-level, the thirty-fourth was crazy. She drew her silk robe about her, feeling it embrace her warm, still faintly excited, still languorous body; then she crossed the sitting-room, her bare feet brushing against the luxury of the carpet, and picked up the telephone.

"Room service," she said, to the alert voice which presently answered her. Then she put her hand over the mouthpiece, and called out: "Carl!"

A man's voice, deep-chested, throaty with the remembrance of love, came through the open door leading to the bedroom.

"Yes? What is it?"

"I'm ordering something to eat. You should have something. And the others are sure to be hungry. What would you like?"

After a pause, the man's voice said: "I'll leave it to you."

"You always do that," she grumbled. But she was smiling gently; the confluence of love still bound them.

"That's because you always give me what I want.... Did I say thank you, Kathy?"

"You said thank you. And what did I say?"

"You said, 'It was a pleasure.' Was it, my darling?"

"Yes."

She became aware of a voice over the telephone repeating "Room service, room service!" on an increasing note of impatience, and she uncovered the mouthpiece.

"Sorry," she said. Her voice changed to a more incisive tone. "This is thirty-four twenty-one. Send up some sandwiches, please. Enough for five people. Beef. Chicken. Ham on rye. Cheese-and-tomato. And coffee." Her glance travelled to the side-table where the bottles and the glasses were ranged. "And a bottle of Johnnie Walker, six sodas, some ice."

When the order was acknowledged she replaced the telephone, and turned towards the room again. There was a huge mirror on the opposite wall, and she looked at it with the fleeting satisfaction of a beautiful young woman who need make no special effort, either now or later, to continue in loveliness. Her hair was blonde and smooth, still gracefully shaped to her head in spite of its gentle disorder. Her grey eyes were wide; underneath them, the faint shadows, the fatigue of love, showed like tiny brush-strokes—but discreetly, as if complimenting her in an undertone on a task well done.

The man's voice came again from the inner room.

"You are very efficient."

Slightly startled, she turned her head. "How do you mean?"

"The ordering."

"Oh, that.... The cheese-and-tomato is for you."

"To give me strength?"

She smiled at her reflection. "You don't need strength."

After a moment the man's voice said: "You're looking at yourself in the mirror."

She was never surprised, now, at anything he knew or at anything he said. It was enough for her that they had been lovers since she was sixteen years old; that she knew a good deal about him, and that he knew every conceivable thing about her. If he had the edge, in knowledge or in power, it did not matter; it was a part of love—the natural shadow cast by a man. It was the reason why a girl layso, and a man layso. .. . Her daydreaming was interrupted again.

"What do you see in the mirror?" his deep voice asked.

"You know what I see."

"Tell me."

"A girl."

"That I know."

"Tall."

"Medium."

"Medium to you. . . ." She looked at herself with an increased attention, as though it were really important to give him an accurate picture. "Smooth blonde hair. An oval face. Pale at the moment. Mouth rather big. Long neck." She paused, looking down at herself.

"Continue," came his voice.

She shook her head. "You're making me shy again."

"Again?" He sounded surprised.

"You often make me shy. . . . Are you looking in the mirror?"

"Yes. I'm tying my tie."

"What do you see?"

"An old man."

She frowned at her reflection. "Carl, you are not old."

"I don't feel old, at these moments." There was a smile in his voice. "You were kind enough to demonstrate that I am not. But the mirror's against us." Suddenly his voice changed, as if disposing of the subject. "A happy new year, Kathy."

She turned from the mirror, and looked towards the bedroom door. "You've been saying that to me for the last four days."

"That's the way I feel." His voice was coming nearer. "Tell me once again, how old will you be this year?"

She smiled. "Twenty-two."

"I shall be fifty," he said, and came briskly through the doorway.

If Carl Wenstrom was fifty, she thought, then fifty was the exact age for a man to be.... He was very tall, so that she, at five-feet-seven, scarcely came up to his chin; his broad, tough body was of the kind to excite second glances from women or policemen, and to keep bar-strangers in order. Norwegian ancestors had given him his blond colouring; an American father his air of decision and command, an English education his accent and phrasing. When she was sixteen, his ruthless good looks had totally overwhelmed her, just as her innocent loveliness had induced in him a shaking abdication of self-control; six years later, the ruthlessness still softened only for her. She was the sole taming agent of a man who for some reason—for many reasons—regarded the world simply as a target.

Of course, he was not young any more. ... At fifty, the sinews set,, the chin thickened, the waistline lost its flattened trimness; Carl was hard and tough still, but the twenty-eight years that divided them were now (she knew) a challenge to him, instead of an adorable piece of flattery. He was dressed, as always, in dark grey: "Bright colours are for children," he had once said, long ago, when they were watching the whirling skaters on the Rockefeller Plaza rink; but when he had first said it, it had sounded confident and benign, with no trace of wistfulness.

He had been a magic lover in those old days; the magic was still there, undeniably, but there were moments—and this had been one of them—when his potency took on a faint, forgivable air of contrivance, when the physical price for him was, by a few hard-breathing seconds, too high. She knew the strength of his love, in this special realm of achievement; but she felt that between them there ought now to be other measurements of strength, other private tide-marks.

Indeed (and now her sad thoughts multiplied, in the savage headlong capitulation of youth) this particular tide might already have turned; the inevitable ebb could already be in being. They both knew this, but they had not yet confessed it to each other; and in this, manhood's most touchy area, she could not be the first to say:You need not do that. Do this instead.

If she had dared to tell the truth, she did not expect the transports of love any longer, nor welcome them with the same fervour. She would have been just as satisfied (in a whisper to herself) with the role of loving daughter.

Or was this, she wondered, simply post coitum tristem—the let-down after the build-up? If she had given voice to such thoughts, he would only have answered ironically: "Of course you feel that,now." Carl always had all the answers, whether the topic were tender or tough. Of such a man, presently, one hesitated to ask questions; and in the end one stopped altogether.

Now, face to face with her, he said, incredibly accurate: "You are thinking sad thoughts, Kathy," and as soon as he spoke, on the instant, she knew that her doubts were gossamer, and that she would love him according to any fashion he chose. It did not need his touch on her shoulder to confirm this.

"Just for about twenty seconds," she answered. She looked up at his face, where the heavy lines at brow and nostrils showed deep in the strong light. "Are you tired, darling?"

He smiled. "I am as tired as I have a right to be, at this moment."

"Perhaps we shouldn't have done that, just before the meeting."

With his arm round her shoulder: "When the day comes," he said, "that I can't make love to you, and preside at a meeting of three or four people, within the space of an hour, then I'll abdicate—from the meetings."

That wasn't true, she knew; it was simply his accolade, his spoken tribute to her loveliness—the words he thought she Wanted to hear. Carl would never abdicate from power; and his true power was outside their love, it concerned other people, other plans, other achievements altogether.

She slipped from his arms, and crossed to the big record-player which dominated one corner of the room.

"Music?" she asked, over her shoulder.

He glanced at his watch. "Something short—the others will be here in ten minutes."

"Chopin," she said.

There was a knock at the door, and the floor-waiter came in, pushing a loaded trolley. He was old and rather slow; Kathy delayed starting the record until the trolley had been laboriously unloaded on to another table, the bill signed, the two-dollar tip transferred from hand to hand. As the waiter went out of the door, profuse with thanks:

"You're too generous," she said. "No wonder we have to become pirates."

"I want to be a pirate anyway."

The heavenly music filled the room, smoothing all cares, solving all problems. Above the liquid notes he asked:

"What were those sad thoughts, Kathy?"

She shook her head. "Really nothing, Carl. All gone now, anyway. Are you happy about the plans?"

"I will be, in about an hour's time."

"The cruise should be wonderful, in any case."

He was sitting down now, in a deep armchair, with his back to the window; drawing on a cigar, he nursed in his free hand the drink he had abandoned, twenty minutes earlier. When he was fully at ease, and the caressing nocturne had made its gentle statement of intention, he began to speak. It was a special, measured voice which she knew well, and perversely enjoyed; however irrelevant, it was a part of their next love-making, even though that might be three days away.

"One of the delights of a life of crime, at our level, is that we can choose our surroundings, and make them add pleasure and elegance to the occasion." Listening to his voice, she felt herself surrendering to it once again; it was as true now as it had been when she was a sixteen-year-old, head-in-the-clouds, senses-in-a-whirl virgin no longer —this fantastic man was for her like an outlawed god. For him, robbery was an intellectual exercise; but it was still robbery, often dangerous, brutal, and without pity, and it was with this consistent wickedness in his head that he lived, made love, was kind to children and old people, paid his taxes, gave improvidently to beggars.

"To steal in sordid circumstances?" he went on. "What a horrible thought!Not to stay in hotels like this?—inconceivable! Of course the cruise will be wonderful. Long romantic nights under the tropical stars—wasn't that what that ridiculous brochure promised us? We will have them, Kathy. But we shall have everything else as well. We'll live like kings and queens—far better, indeed—and we will spoil the Egyptians at the same time. I wonder—" he mused "—if there will be any Egyptians. Many of them are inordinately rich. And cunning also, which makes it more enjoyable.

"In any case," he continued, "we will spend three months in circumstances of the utmost luxury, and make them highly profitable at the same time. That is crime, according to my personal dictionary. Plush plunder—nylon piracy—I am sure Madison Avenue can find us the right title. I can't tell you how much I am looking forward to it."

"You have to do it, don't you, Carl?"

"Certainly."

"Why?—after all these years?"

"My private compulsion." He leant back, flicking the ash off his cigar with a light tap of his forefinger. She thought suddenly what a wonderful actor he would have made. The deep voice, the formidable presence, the slightly studied English delivery were all tailor-made for stardom—and his next words were ridiculously appropriate to this. "Do you remember the opening dialogue of The Seagull? It tells the entire story of the play. 'Why do you always wear black, Masha?' '/ am in mourning for my life.' In the same way, if you ask me, 'Why do you steal?' I would answer: 'I am at war with the world.' That is the story of my play."

"But doesn't it ever end?"

He smiled. "It's the only play ever written with an unlimited number of acts. . . . You know that I have planned this particular piece of my war for many months. It has aspects of the most delicious irony. A millionaire's cruise—forgive the vulgarity, but I fancy that is an accurate description. More than three hundred very rich men and women, enjoying luxury and leisure in th$ sunshine. But all the time, they know they are in danger! They have been warned! There are pirates, sharks, thieves, at every port of call. Indeed, we will warn them ourselves that everywhere they go, confidence-men and tricksters are waiting to plunder the simple tourists. And the real danger? Us! The true pirates are on board already, standing right behind them, travelling first-class."

She felt herself warming, as so often before, to the infectious pleasure in his voice. It was hard to resist a connoisseur's enthusiasm, even in this dubious field.

"That's what I call an inside job. I hope we can make the most of it, Carl."

"Oh, I am sure we will. To begin with, there is you and I." He waited while a phrase of the Chopin nocturne came to its delicate closing. "There was never a better team, Kathy." He chuckled. "We have only to remember the customs inspector at El Paso."

Kathy nodded. "Or that inquisitive policeman at Saint Raphael."

"Or the currency switch in Zurich."

"Or Lord Merriwether and the blonde in the bathroom."

He lifted an eyebrow at the memory. "You looked charming, my darling. For a moment I was genuinely jealous."

"It was so cold. . . ."

"I don't doubt it----Well, there is you and I. Then there is Scapelli,

who though an objectionable young man in many ways has done two jobs with us without putting a foot wrong. Then there is Diane." He paused.

"I wish I knew more about her," said Kathy.

"You might not like what you found." He shook his head. "Oh, Diane will do well enough. She is tough and—shall we say—accomplished. Of course, you and she make a most curious contrast. She debases love, you adorn it. It is strange how identical bodily movements can be so widely different in quality. . . . While I remember, you had better be cousins, not sisters. Otherwise we may have passport trouble. But I'll explain all that in detail, later."

"I would rather be cousins."

"Agreed. Then finally we have our old friend the Professor."

"Is he really coming with us, Carl?"

"Yes. I promised him."

It was enough; she would never have argued the point. But at that moment they were cut short, in any case, by the telephone. It was the inquiries desk in the lobby downstairs.

"Are you expecting visitors, Mr. Wenstrom?" asked a guarded voice.

"Yes, I am," answered Carl.

"Miss Loring and Mr. Scapelli have just inquired for you."

"Have them come up, please."

"Very well, sir."

Carl found himself smiling at the slight edge of disbelief which lingered in the man's voice. It was probable that, in this hotel, Diane and Louis Scapelli might give a certain amount of pause to the management. It was possibly their bearing, probably their clothes, and he made a mental note of the fact. If they looked out of place in the Francois Hotel, then they would look out of place on board the Alcestis, It would be a point to watch, perhaps a point to mention.

He turned back to Kathy. "They're coming up now. Louis and Diane."

"Good," she said.

As she did not move from her chair, he added: "Darling, aren't you going to dress?"

Kathy looked down at her robe, and the tiny brocade mules on her feet.

"This is all right, surely?"

"Don't be so lazy." There was a chiding good-humour in his voice, but something else as well. "Put some clothes on."

She stared up at him. "Carl, what does it matter if I'm like this?"

"It's not—businesslike."

Standing up, smiling faintly, she said, "Carl, you're wonderful."

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. . . ." As she moved towards the bedroom she said, over her shoulder: "Stockings as well—sir?" But she did not wait for an answer.

Left to himself, Carl Wenstrom was momentarily thoughtful, the furrows deep on his forehead. Kathy, of course, was allowed to make such remarks; indeed, this gentle mockery was part of their shared love, for he ruefully acknowledged, to her as well as to himself, that his total direction of her life sometimes took absurd forms. (He had once forbidden her to read a book of scandalous memoirs by one of Hollywood's more scabrous harlots. "It is simply not suitable for you," he had said, with finality. At that time, Kathy had just turned seventeen; by conservative estimate, she and Carl must have made love at least four hundred times during the preceding year.) But perhaps, on this occasion, she had been a little too direct, a little too appropriate? He did not want to be called "sir" at any time, and particularly not this afternoon, when he was reminded by a slight headache that love-making and consecutive thought were not, at the age of fifty, perfect bedfellows.

Was she, perhaps, hinting at such a thing? If so, she had chosen an uneasy moment, one that a man who was unsure of himself would have resented. On board the Alcestis, she was to be his stepdaughter; but they were not on board yet. ,

He allowed the Chopin record to come to a finish, and turned off the record-player. Then there was a knock at the door, and when he called "Come in—it's open," Diane and Louis Scapelli entered the room.

Carl saw immediately what it was that had checked the clerk at the inquiries desk downstairs. Diane Loring could pass muster, in a brassy sort of way; she did not look like a lady, but she did not miss it by too wide a margin. Louis Scapelli was something else again. He was a dark young man, very small, very pale, with the kind of thin pruned moustache affected by gangsters of several decades ago; he had the available air, the jaunty self-consciousness, of a man prepared to be whatever suited his company—a great or small lover, a homosexual, a gambler, a pickpocket, a dancing instructor. On a good day, in a good light—the sort of day on which Carl had hired him—Louis often seemed handsome, in a cut-rate animal way which won applause from appropriate female hands; but today was not his day, nor had it been so for many a raffish moon. Today, especially, his clothes were terrible—and Carl, who had not seen him face to face for some months, knew that he would have to make that point very succinctly.

He wore a dark tussore suit, extravagantly draped; a white tie anchored by a jewelled clip; a drooping gold watch-chain; two signet rings; and patent-leather shoes with three-inch elevator heels. Carl stared at him as they shook hands. This young man, who was due to masquerade as his nephew—his favourite sister's child from upper-crust New England—looked at the moment like a caricature of one of the boys in the back room.

He also talked like one. "Hi, chief!" he said to Carl, hitching his shoulders as he glanced round the room. "Big deal. . . . How much does this joint set you back?"

"Plenty," answered Carl coolly. "That's why we're in business." He turned to the girl. "Well, Diane. Nice to see you again."

It was not nice to see her, but it was nicer than Louis Scapelli. . . . Diane Loring was small and dark, with beautiful legs and a pointed bosom fiercely, arrestingly upthrust. She had the most unvirginal face Carl had ever seen on any woman—pretty, bold, and corrupt. He was reminded of an English phrase he had heard during the war— "She's covered a lot of carpet in her time." Diane must have done just that. She looked as though she would be wonderful in bed, agile, athletic, highly efficient; but speedy and totally disengaged also— looking at her wrist-watch at intervals, counting the hours remaining out of the working day or night. She was English, but someone had wangled for her an American working-permit as a "model".

She had been a gruesomely successful call-girl when Carl had first met her. He had been looking for a girl to use as a come-on for a race-track swindle down in Florida, and Diane had certainly filled that assignment. Himself, he could never imagine making love to that rubbery, machine-made, fully-packed body; but in America, he knew, he was in a minority. Among other things, she was a coarsely sensual dancer; she had once boasted that five minutes on a dance-floor with her was as good as—well, even the thought was now unphraseable, but he believed her. ("Ever danced with a Latino?" she had once asked him. "No, of course you haven't, but believe me it's an education. They all use the Spanish grip—they must learn it in school, the dirty bastards—that's the knuckles pressing hard on the middle of your spine, so that you can't back away and you finish up practically underneath the delegate from Nicaragua. But believe me, they get a surprise when they give it to little Diane!")

Now she said: "Hallo, Carl! My, you look tired. What have you and Kathy been doing?"

"We've had some late nights." He spoke as briefly and as coolly as he had done to Louis Scapelli; he did not intend to receive either commiseration or conjecture from this dependent tramp.

"Where is Kathy, anyway?"

"Dressing."

Diane opened her mouth to comment, caught his eye, and changed her mind. Louis Scapelli crossed to the side-table where the food and drinks were set out.

"I'm bushed," he announced. "Mind if I help myself, chief?"

"Go ahead," said Carl.

Snatching a sandwich: "Where's the Prof?" Scapelli asked, between bites.

"He'll be here in a minute."

"Half corned, if I know anything about him."

"Oh, the Prof's O.K.," said Diane. "He just likes his little drop of comfort."

"Who doesn't?" said Scapelli. "Trouble is, he can't take it."

"Look who's talking!"

"Oh, lay off me!" said Scapelli irritably. "Yak, yak, yak! Don't you ever get tired?"

"Of you, yes."

"All right," said Carl coldly. "Let's not start arguing. Diane, help yourself to a drink. The Professor will be here when he gets through. He's been collecting the tickets and the travellers' cheques. He had to pick up his passport, too."

"His passport?" Scapelii's tone showed his astonishment. "Is he coming on the trip?"

"Yes."

"Gee, chief, why?"

"He'll be useful."

"That I wish to see."

Carl frowned, and his voice grew rough. "He's done a lot of work on this project already. And if I say he'll be useful, then he'll be useful, and that's all there is to it."

Kathy, entering at that moment, heard the words and the tone. It was astonishing how Carl's voice and even his accent could change, according to the people he was talking to. With herself, he used his "actor's" voice—measured, benevolent, rather English—while with Scapelli and the others the tone of command w&s almost obtrusive, and his accent took on an American briskness. It was not an affectation, she knew; he spoke to her as he felt, while he spoke to the rest of the world as he thought—and his thoughts in that direction were always brusque and masterful. The way he was talking to Louis Scapelli now meant that Louis had annoyed him—which was not the best start to their meeting.

She came forward with a certain determination, intent on smoothing things down.

"Hallo, Diane. Hallo, Louis."

Diane Loring greeted her with guarded enthusiasm; Louis, who was ready to turn sulky, scarcely acknowledged her arrival before saying to Carl:

"But what's the Prof going to do?"

Kathy took the initiative before Carl could answer. "He's going to work on his book."

"You're kidding," said Scapelli scornfully.

"It's true—he's writing a book about pirates," said Kathy. "Didn't you know that? He's been working on it for years. Doesn't that fit in?"

"O.K., it fits in. But where's the percentage for us?"

Now it was Diane's turn. "All right, so he won't make us a million dollars and he won't lay all the rich old dames till they're dizzy. That's your job, Romeo. Can't you handle it?"

"I can handle it," said Louis sulkily.

"Don't knock yourself out trying."

"What's that mean?"

"You won't be the only man on board." Diane managed to put the word "man" into quotes, so that it seemed to pose a whole series of crude question-marks. "There might be some real competition."

"On a cruise ship? You're nuts! There won't be a guy under sixty. Man, they come on board in wheel-chairs! On these trips, men are as scarce as hen's teeth. Isn't that so, chief?"

Carl had not been listening. He had been watching Kathy. She had "put on some clothes", as he had directed, but the clothes were somehow rebellious—a clinging white sweater, and a pair of lizard-green slacks that showed off her slim build with startling candour. She looked about sixteen, a sensual, provocative, free-moving child. She had done it on purpose, of course; but what was the purpose— and what, indeed, was "it"? A demonstration of independence? A challenge to authority? A statement that she would still decide how much of her body was to be on public view? Or were the trousers somehow symbolic—he caught himself up at that, and smiled in spite of his uneasy thoughts. He knew her quite well enough to ask the answer to the riddle, later. In the meantime, there was work to do.

"Children, do not quarrel, do not argue." His tone was more relaxed, more friendly, but the note of command was still there. "I am promoting this enterprise, and the people I take with me are my choice, no one else's. I want the Professor on board. Indeed, I need him. We will call him my confidential secretary. On the surface, he will be there because I am a man of affairs, and I require the services of such a companion. In actual fact, he will do the leg-work." He caught Louis Scapelli's sneering smile. "My dear Louis, there is slow leg-work as well as quick. ... He will run messages, arrange meetings and introductions, serve as part of our background; he will be a link between the family—my family—and those people on board who want to meet it. Above all, he will be the one man whom no one could possibly suspect. For that reason, he will collect the loot from you all, whatever form it takes, and he will go ashore with it at the end of the voyage."

In the silence that followed, Scapelli said, "Hell, chief, you're taking a chance on that."

"I am not," answered Carl curtly.

"But what's to stop him—"

"He won't need stopping. We will make an appointment to meet on shore, and the Professor will keep it."

As if to point the remark, the door now opened quietly, and the old man came in.

Unless one kept him under close-range scrutiny for quite a long time, the Professor was a figure of undoubted dignity. He was tall, and thin, and old; above the wizened face the mane of white hair rose like some ancient crest. He had a courteous, venerable charm which delighted almost all women, causing them to look discontentedly at their more free-and-easy escorts;this, their glances said, was the proper way to treat a lady. . . . His clothes were those of the old school, the black coat greenish with age, the collar high and stiff, the thin knitted tie held in place by a gold ring belonging to a vanished age of elegance; as he stood in the doorway, he held in his hand a grey bowler hat with a curly brim, and a gold-headed malacca cane which must, it seemed, have been won from its Malayan palm-grove when Queen Victoria was young.

Of course, close-to, he was a little seedy, a little shaky in the hand, a trifle rheumy of eye; but so were many fine old gentlemen for whom the modern world had proved somewhat too exhausting. It was no shame (he seemed to say) to show the weight of three-score-years-and-ten, no disgrace to have abdicated from the cut-throat marathon which was the twentieth century's measurement of achievement. There was indeed a disarming humility in the Professor's bearing which had proved, to innumerable people for more than half a century, the most costly calling-card of all.

It was only when one came to know him very well indeed, or was exposed to that frail and fallacious charm for a long period of time, that the façade betrayed, beneath the patina of age, the fissures of corruption. But even at first appearance, small hints of imperfection sometimes obtruded. There was such a moment now; for, as he stood framed in the doorway, it was clear to the roomful of people who knew him that the Professor was more than a little drunk.

He carried it well, as he had done for thirty years, but the slightly swaying stance and the pinkish flush under the eyes were unmistakable signs. So was his voice, as he raised his cane in solemn salute and enunciated:

"A happy new year to one and all!"

Carl smiled in spite of himself; their joint past had contained much that allowed the old man such latitudes as this, and after all they were not yet in action. The others greeted the Professor according to their several habits of mind; Diane exclaimed, half admiringly: "Why, you old devil!" and Kathy said: "You'd better sit down, Professor," and led him towards a chair. Only Louis Scapelli, lounging in the background, glass in hand, had a sour note in his voice as he said:

"What did I tell you? Prof, you're stinking!"

The Professor, struggling with his overcoat, paused to glare at him.

"I can carry my drink, sir! Which is more than can be said for your generation."

"You're sure carrying it now, daddy-oh. Didn't they tell you, New Year was over four days ago?"

Carl interposed. "Professor, have you just left the shipping company? Did you come here directly?"

The Professor, who had lowered himself gingerly into an armchair, blinked at him.

"Not directly here, Carl," he answered. His voice was grave, almost senatorial, as if he were pronouncing a verdict upon the Far East. "I completed our business—let me see—some little time ago."

Carl nodded, satisfied. "I'm glad to hear it. Otherwise they might have got the wrong impression."

"Impression? What impression?"

"He means," said Louis, "the shipping clerks might think you were stinking all the time. They might not like it. They might even cancel your ticket. You know how these things get about."

The Professor, with much effort, turned in his chair to face his tormentor. "Young man—" he began.

Kathy, crossing between them, broke in. "All right—let's cut out the comedy. Professor, do you want a drink?"

"Two guesses," said Louis spitefully. "For sixty-four thousand dollars."

The Professor ignored him. "Thank you, my dear. You're very kind. If I may—a small Scotch and water?"

Kathy busied herself at the side-table, while silence and calm returned to the room, broken only by the hum of traffic far below on Fifth Avenue. Carl found that he did not mind these small evidences of discord. The five of them had to work together as a team, but they did not have to love each other; their voyage of piracy could well Profit from an injection of competitive ill-humour. There might come to be smaller cliques within their circle, but it would be as well if these did not flourish unduly. The only natural partners were himself and Kathy; the rest were mere allies—useful, indeed essential, but never to gain strength enough to challenge his leadership.

"Well, let's settle down," he said presently, when the Professor had his drink and a sandwich comfortably close at hand, and Kathy had returned to her chair. "We've got a lot of things to talk about, and this is the first time we've all met together in one room, though of course we've talked or telephoned individually. . . . First, the tickets. Are we all set there, Professor?"

The Professor nodded slowly and wisely, as if anything else were out of the question. Then he patted his breast pocket.

"I have everything here. The tickets, the passports, the passenger-list, the itinerary, and the cabin-plan."

"Did we get the accommodation we applied for?"

The Professor nodded again. "Yes, exactly. Five single cabins and a stateroom. Four of the cabins are on 'A' deck, and the fifth— presumably mine—is one deck below."

"What was the total bill?"

"Twenty-six thousand dollars and forty-two cents," answered the Professor precisely. "At par in the city of New York."

Diane Loring was the first to react, with a low whistle of surprise.

"Twenty-six—gee!" she exclaimed. "It's like the national debt!"

"We're in the wrong business," said Louis sarcastically.

Carl shook his head. "On the contrary, we're in exactly the right business," he answered, with firmness. "I told you this was going to be a big operation, and that initial bill for twenty-six thousand dollars is a good illustration of it. Of course it's a huge outlay, but think of the stakes! They call this a millionaire's cruise, as you know; whether that's true or not, the label has stuck and the label means plenty. It means that there will be about one hundred and fifty men on board whose annual income must total at least fifteen million dollars. It means there'll be women—rich widows with nothing to do but stare out of the window, divorcees who have so much money that even their psycho-analysts can't think up ways of spending it fast enough. There'll be jewellery by the sack-load! There'll be wives looking for off-beat romance, and husbands looking for anything—anything but their wives. And we're going to live with these people, mix with them, relax with them when they're in a spending mood, for three months at a stretch. Personally, I shall be very disappointed if I haven't made the cost of my round-trip ticket by the time we reach Martinique, and I hope the rest of you have the same kind of luck."

"What's your angle, chief?" asked Scapelli, in a subdued, almost impressed voice.

"Poker."

Hearing him utter the single, loaded word, Kathy nearly laughed aloud. But it would have been a loving laugh, a shared joke. Carl had spoken the word "poker" just as he felt about the game itself—as something special and significant, as a habit of life rather than a game of chance. For him, it contained everything because it demanded everything; skill, nerve, knowledge of human strengths and human weaknesses, mental endurance, and above all luck. . . . She had once watched him play for fourteen straight hours, for stakes which he could not afford to lose, with men as tough, cunning, and fundamentally ruthless as himself. The game had started at eight in the evening, in a San Francisco hotel room; by midnight he had lost eighteen thousand dollars, at dawn he had been level, at ten o'clock of a crisp September morning he had pushed his winnings above the thirty thousand mark. What had impressed her especially was the fact that, on the last hand, after all the nervous ordeal of the night, he had given as much attention to squeezing out two other players for a pot worth twenty-seven dollars, as he had done six hours earlier when a monumental bluff had earned him a hundred times that amount, on cards which, seen from any angle, were still utterly worthless.

For him it was the great game. She could even feel jealous of it; there had been very few times during their life together, and those only at the beginning, when it was beyond doubt that he would rather make love to her than cut the pack for a fresh round of seven-card stud. But now, at this moment, she did not feel jealous. She even felt relieved. If Carl were going to concentrate on poker during their cruise, at least he was not going to operate in another well-qualified area which, taking him from her bed, would land him squarely and permanently in someone else's.

She let him know this by saying, almost in a whisper:

"That's a very good choice, Carl."

He turned to smile at her, completely understanding, before he said:

"I hope it will prove so. . . . Mind you, I'm under no illusions as to the competition. To make it worth while, I shall have to be playing with men who treat the game as I treat it—seriously. Of course, it be suckers on board, but they won't all be suckers. And that's something I want all of you to remember, all the time. Basically, such men are not fools. They are rich only because they have outsmarted other men, at whatever game they've chosen. And they have a life-long preference for hanging on to what they have won. If we are going to separate anyone, man or woman, from their bankroll, we can't afford to underrate them, even though they may seem half-asleep or stupid. Stupid men have moments of perception; stupid women have intuition. They also have lawyers and policemen. Don't ever forget that."

There was another silence, reflective, rather foreboding, as if they were now moving nearer to some testing area, and then Diane Loring broke in again.

"How's it going to work, Carl?"

"Well, now. . . ." Carl, leaning back in his chair, looked round the room. He had the attention of all of them except the Professor who, after his precise enunciation of the figures, seemed to have succumbed to the effort and nodded off into a doze. It did not matter; the old man's tasks were simpler than anyone else's; he did not need a detailed picture, he only needed encouragement. . . . "You all know why we are making this trip: to take our fellow-passengers for every cent that the traffic will bear." Carl's voice had changed now, Kathy noticed; it was no longer free and easy, it had overtones of that ingrained contempt which made him the man he was. "But everything we do is going to be practically legal. We will give people what they want—give them good measure, too—but we'll make them pay a great deal extra for it. Kathy and Diane are really the spearhead of the operation—" he smiled, not amusedly, "—our front-line nylon pirates. They will supply romance—" Carl put a grotesque inflexion on the word, so that it sounded coarsely obscene, "—which can prove extremely expensive, particularly when there is, by coincidence, a very real chance of discovery. Few married men will argue with a girl who suddenly develops scruples, who might complain to someone in her family who is in the very next cabin, who might even call for help. . . . "He said he wanted to show me his exposure-meter,'" he mimicked, with ferocious sarcasm, "and now—look!' There are a number of variations on the same theme. I'll be glad to supply ideas, if you should ever run out of them."

Both girls were smiling as Carl paused; his mimicry of outraged virtue had been horribly accurate. But Scapelli, seemingly deprived of a leading role, was less amused.

"That's O.K. for them," he said shortly. "What about me?"

Carl turned to face him. "You will be operating in the same area, Louis, among the female lonely-hearts. You will make it clear that, though love has blossomed like an orchid in the sun, you are, like all young men, perennially short of money. Apart from money, I dare say you will be given trinkets—jewellery, cuff-links, cigarette cases—for your trouble. Middle-aged women can be very grateful. You might even take trinkets. What woman would confess that the only time her ear-rings could have disappeared off her dressing-table was when she was drowsy after saying good night to Mr. Scapelli? What woman would care to say that to her husband?"

Carl paused again, while Kathy found herself, for the hundredth time, marvelling at the pure hypnosis which he could inject into discussions like these. It was really extraordinary how he was able to make such propositions sound normal and acceptable. His sardonic recital had conjured up, not a picture of evil intent but only the farcical dilemma of some forlorn matron, stunned by domestic complication at breakfast time. Even Louis Scapelli, whose role had been spelled out as some kind of bedside sneak-thief, with overtones of sexual blackmail, was not surprised thereby; he was now smiling, as the girls had smiled, at the inverted theme of Carl Wenstrom's prize sculpture—Self-indulgence Caught in the Toils of Social Pressure.

After a moment, seeing that they had no comments, Carl went on:

"The Professor's job I have already outlined—he is part of my business set-up, and of our family background." He looked across at the old man, dozing in his armchair, and raised his voice slightly. "Professor!"

The Professor opened his eyes instantly. "Yes, Carl?"

"You are not to get drunk on board in public."

"No, sir!" The ancient head inclined gravely, as if assenting to some broad proposition in moral philosophy. "I will not. Rely upon me."

"And no—" Carl's hand rose and fell delicately, milking the air, "—no light-finger stuff. That's Louis's job, and then only in special circumstances."

"Agreed, sir, agreed."

"Very well. . . . For myself, I shall be playing poker, as I told you. That, again, will be practically legal: if I am good enough to win, I shall win; if I am outclassed, I will take precautions. And—" he smiled, "—if the game turns out to be crooked anyway, I will join in, with added enthusiasm. Apart from that, I am there to apply pressure— family pressure—if it ever becomes necessary. The outraged father, the jealous uncle—there are various ways in which I can give you all necessary support. Which reminds me____"

He took a slow sip of his drink, while they continued to watch him. He was going through the drill of giving them confidence, Kathy realized; this was the coach, telling them to get in there and hit the bastards hard, assuring them, before the vital play-off, that he would be up there pitching with them, every second of the game. Presently, as he still kept silent, Louis asked:

"You mean, like we're all related?"

Carl nodded. "I think that's the best way to do it. We've got to produce passports, and passports have names on them. Of course—" he looked at Louis Scapelli, "—you could tag along as a fiancé or a friend, but that might put the customers off—the girls have got to be absolutely free to operate, with no strings attached. The same is true for you. So we'd better be one family, more or less; all cousins, let's say. Kathy is my stepdaughter, my dear wife's child by her first marriage." Carl's tone and look as he said this were steeped in an almost terrifying cynicism. "We have always been very close, particularly since my wife passed away so tragically. . . . Diane is a niece— my sister's child. And Louis is my nephew, the son of another sister."

"Jesus!" said Diane inelegantly. "How did she go wrong?"

Louis scowled at her. "Cut out the cracks! If you can be a niece, I can be a nephew."

"You can be a niece if you like."

Carl broke in, stemming the incipient clash. "You should all refer to me as Uncle Carl, except for Kathy, who will call me Carl."

After a pause, Louis said: "But how are you and Kathy going to fix—I mean—" he gestured round the suite, "you know, like this?"

Carl surveyed him bleakly. "You can leave that to us."

Louis shrugged. "O.K."

"We'll have a stateroom—a day cabin—for all of us to use. My own cabin leads out of it, Kathy's is on the opposite side." His tone was factual and without special emphasis. "Yours and Diane's are just across the corridor, next door to each other. We could have saved money by sharing, but we shall undoubtedly make a great deal more if we're all in single quarters. The whole idea, of course, is that though we constitute one family, each member can lead his own life in isolation. I fancy the customers will come to appreciate that."

Diane said: "Carl, have you actually picked out the customers?"

"I have done some home-work, certainly." There was such confidence in his tone, such controlled certainty, that it was like a loving father saying: Santa Claus is reading your letters at this very moment. "I've seen the preliminary passenger-list, and it's extremely promising. There will be at least a dozen people on board who are exceptionally vulnerable, for one reason or another; people who have made these mistakes before and can afford not to learn from them, couples who have agreed to loathe one another, women who have always had to buy it, men who have never experienced any other sort of transaction." His voice now was in the full flower of contempt, scorning these weaknesses, loving the chances they offered, hating the delay which kept him a full week away from punitive action. "But I don't want to finalize any of our plans, at this stage. These people should only be names, until we actually meet them; when we do meet them, we can then look up the file and see what the basic form is. The Professor already has a notebook full of such helpful information.... Remember that we don't need to hurry anything. We have three months, twelve weeks, eighty-four days. Ideas will flow, opportunities will happen, quickly enough; a man who is just a dull face on Tuesday morning can become a pair of drunken, mauling hands by nightfall. He can also be a terrified cheque-signer by Wednesday midday. None of us need choose without forethought. None of us should do so. And the fewer cheques we take, the better."

"How do we get round that?" asked Diane.

"Ships' pursers cash cheques," answered Carl, "for the people who sign them. Especially travellers' cheques. You should always be ready to point that out."

He was communicating more than enthusiasm, Kathy realized; he was communicating his own sense of power. Now they all saw themselves as small and large dictators, able to say to any man or any woman: "The terms are cash, by six o'clock this evening." Carl was a wonderful coach, there was no doubt about that; she knew it because she was totally subject to his mind and body, the others knew it because he could hammer home his quality of ruthlessness with a few key words, a few special inflexions. When they were on board ship, he would be conducting this small specialized orchestra; and they would be glad of his all-embracing control because they might be lost without it.

The Professor awoke to their silence, opening his eyes with practised wariness, raising his glass unhurriedly as if the time between sips had been a matter of a few moments. His eyes fell first on Louis Scapelli, whom he did not like, and then on Carl, his last and longest ally in a world lately grown hostile and scornful. He asked:

;;Do we all meet again, Carl? Before going on board?"

"One more meeting," answered Carl readily. "A week from today —that is, the day before we sail. Of course, you can call me up at any time, if there are questions or problems. I don't see why there should be; we won't be starting anything until we have scouted the market, until our fellow-passengers have fallen into place." He sat up suddenly, tall in his chair, and looked round him with steady, almost baleful concentration. "I'm paying for this trip," he said, with crude emphasis.

My stake is twenty-six thousand dollars, and you are all working for me. Don't forget that. There will be no independent operating of any kind. And nothing—nothing—is going to be done that I don't know about beforehand. Clear?"

They nodded. It was a moment when an answer of any kind would have seemed presumptuous and dangerous. After a pause, Carl turned a direct glance on Louis Scapelli.

"Clothes," he said. "We are medium rich—by Alcestis standards— and so we will dress medium quiet. The girls should always be as simple as possible; very little jewellery, and the minimum of make-up. There will be plenty of time for orange lipstick and sequined bikinis when we get down to the Caribbean." Kathy smiled with private pleasure: in a single phrase Carl had managed to conjure up a grisly picture of what Diane Loring might have been tempted to wear, and to steer her away from it. "Louis—" his glanced narrowed further, "keep it down, keep it quiet. You're a simple, unassuming young man, probably studying for an accountancy job in New York or Philadelphia. You're going to coax them into bed, not scare them half-way up the cabin wall."

"I don't dig it, chief," said Louis, disgruntled. "What's wrong with this suit? It's real sharp."

"Extremely sharp," agreed Carl. "A riot at Birdland. But this is a cruise with some of the world's nicest people. Slacks for you, Louis— dark grey or green;conservative sports shirts; ties like the one I've got on now. You could lose that moustache, too."

"So what's wrong with the moustache?"

"It makes you look—" Carl decided to compromise, "—too old."

"O.K."

"And put in a few hours under a sun-lamp. . . . Professor," Carl turned, "you'll do as you are. But get yourself some white flannels and a Panama hat."

"I have them," said the Professor.

"Good for you. . . . Anyone got any questions?"

"Yeah," said Scapelli, who was not wholly appeased. "That jewellery bit—you know?"

"You mean the jewellery they don't give you?"

"Yeah. It's dangerous, lifting stuff that way. How do I know they won't start screaming?"

"You must choose people who daren't scream." Carl, always economical of gesture, suddenly slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair, so that their attention was instantly held. "That's rule number one for all of you! There isn't going to be an epidemic of thefts— reported thefts—and there isn't going to be an epidemic of complaints of rape, either. The last thing we want is a show-down or a scandal. In fact, we can't afford a single one. You, Louis, will never take anything from anyone who would dare to say: "This man was in my cabin. He must have stolen it.' And the girls are going to cultivate the art of not being found in the wrong bed."

"I don't exactly get that, Carl," said Diane.

"I'll give you an example. . . . You, Diane, will be dancing one night with one of the five or six men who have got to know you during the preceding week. He will almost certainly be a married man. He will indicate his admiration—his urgent need. You will indicate that he has put your head in the most fantastic whirl, and you just can't resist him a moment longer. You will take him to your cabin, or you will go to his. At some undetermined time, he will probably offer you a hundred dollars."

"I would hope." said Diane.

"It turns out that he has the right idea," said Carl, "but he's got the amount wrong. For you now realize that you have never been so insulted in all your life. This man has broken into your cabin—or he has lured you to his. Scandalous. Disgusting. Unheard-of. In fact it's so unheard-of that your asking price is a minimum one thousand dollars, cash, in small bills. Otherwise Uncle Carl—just across the corridor—will either call the duty-officer, or go straight to the man's wife and make a complaint."

Once again Carl had done it very well; they could all see the darkened cabin, the suggestive disarray, the flustered or frightened man, the scandalized and avenging uncle. . . . But Diane, whom life had turned into a literal, one-track creature, was still not entirely satisfied, and she did not pause long for her crucial question.

"O.K., so he folds, and pays up. But does he get his hundred bucks' worth, to start with? Or his thousand?"

Carl smiled at the form of words which, for Diane, was distinctly refined. "That's for you to decide. I think it would be more persuasive if he did get his money's worth. Guilt is a wonderful purgative."

Diane nodded carelessly. "O.K. with me. But—Kathy too?"

After a deep silence, Carl answered: "If necessary—Kathy too."

Kathy felt her face suddenly burning, as if she had been declared diseased or defective before a huge audience. Carl would explain it differently afterwards, she knew; he would indicate that her approach and her appeal were so much more subtle than Diane's, that she could do with a word what Diane needed half her body to effect. He would make it clear also that the matter would be left to her own judgment, at all times. He would rationalize the whole thing. But just at that moment, the raw terms of her employment, so baldly stated before all, shocked her unreasonably. Of course Carl had used her many times before, for occasions when a girl was the appropriate bait.

But always he had maintained a fiction that she was innocent, that she did not really do these things, that she remained his, in spite of all evidence, all probability.

He used her as a weapon, but it was as if he used her with his eyes shut, aloofly, not acknowledging that the things which gave him such delight were often hazarded, as a matter of policy, in a very different field. And he had never yet admitted, either publicly or privately, until today, the fact—the actual proposition—that in order to collect, she might have to deliver.

It was something new, it had a sting and a bite and a troublesome pain, centred under the heart. . . . When next she came to the surface, she discovered, to her surprise, that they were all saying good-bye. Diane and Louis left together; the Professor lingered to deliver his file of papers, and then stumbled off in search of the haven of his own room. Within two minutes, Carl and she were alone.

Aware of her moods, responsive to the thinnest of tensions between them, Carl was not the man to hold back, or let things lie when they should be restored to balance. He sat still in his armchair, in the darkening room now deserted by the afternoon sun, and said:

"You were very quiet, my darling."

She was looking out of the window, her back towards him; waiting to be reassured, she wanted to do nothing to delay it. After a moment she answered:

"You and I have talked more than the others, much more. I didn't have so many questions."

"Have you any questions now?"

"No, Carl."

He answered the only one he was sure about. "Of course you won't have to sleep with those men."

"Won't I, Carl?"

"You know you won't! When Diane asked me like that, I couldn't very well differentiate between you. I had to put you on the same level. But it's not true."

"Perhaps we are on the same level."

"Oh, nonsense!"

"It's only a matter of degree, isn't it?"

"You know that's not so. You are—" he gestured, "—totally different in quality. There are things Diane has to do which you don't have to do."

"But would it matter if I did them?"

"Of course it would matter! Do you think I would let you get involved in that way? I love you!"

She took the soothing draught, savoured it, allowed it to warm her. She turned from the window, slim against the pale light, and said:

"All right—I just wanted to know. . . . Why does Diane needle Louis like that, all the time?"

He took the obvious cue from her, content to follow her down this different, safer, better-buoyed channel. "I think she has doubts about his virility. And that's what he's been hired for, after all."

"Do you doubt it?"

"Well, he's not my first choice. . . . That's literally true, as you know; I wanted to get Brownell, but Brownell isn't available. However, Louis will be all right, with the correct kind of encouragement. He has basic good looks: he can be improved on; we will improve on him, with a kindly hint here and a brisk kick there. And women in search of youth—his designated targets—are not too particular, anyway. How can they be?" He mused, chin in hand. "Of course, Louis's basic trouble is signalized by his elevator shoes. He wants to be taller all over. . . . You know those small men who send you long-stemmed roses? The symbolism is positively degrading. But it supplies the clue."

"But suppose he—"

"Oh, he will be effective enough. And if not, the ladies will think it's their own fault. There is often fantastic humility in that area. I know something of it myself. ... So they will simulate, they will pretend an antique lust—"

She looked down at him. "Carl, you really are awful, you know."

"I have to be. . . . Why did you put on slacks, Kathy?"

"My declaration of independence." She stretched her arms above her head, sensuous, luxuriating. She felt beautiful once more; she was beautiful; his glance upon her lifting breasts was an authentic signature to this. "But that was an hour ago. I don't want it now."

"What do you want now?"

"To be with you. To pick up the pieces."

He sighed, in grateful relaxation. "Let's do that, together. Put on some music, Kathy. Shall we go out to dinner?"

"No."

She shuffled through their stock of records, chose one, put it on the record-player. It was Chopin again, but of a different mood: a polonaise, slow at first, rising to martial triumph and ardour, the dancers leaping, the frogged uniforms catching the torch-light. . . . He sat back, at ease, content to close one account for the day, to open another if the mood favoured them.

"How did you guess?" he asked presently.

"Guess what?"

"The music."

"I know you. Are you tired, Carl?"

"A little." He wished it were not so, but in their shared confidence it did not matter. He grinned suddenly, boyishly, his face shedding on the instant twenty infamous years. "All I really need, my darling Kathy, is a long sea voyage."