Tentatively, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed. For a moment, it seemed that the ship was pitching as it had in the storm, but the moment passed. He felt a little light-headed, his two-cocktails-at-lunch feeling; otherwise, things were quite normal. He shaved, and well before he had finished discovered that he was ravenous. First-class dining would open for lunch at twelve thirty, assuming that “Richard” had really returned the ship to normal.
He showered, and decided he would go down to lunch alone if Chelle had not returned. He could leave her a note.
His gun was beneath the clothing that someone (almost certainly Chelle) had heaped on a chair. It reminded him of his submachine gun. It was under the bed. He—they—would be permitted to take no weapons ashore with them. Chelle would certainly try to smuggle her gun out, and would presumably be arrested for it.
Well, she knew a good lawyer. Selecting her mobile phone brought a tune from the upper right-hand drawer of the bureau.
After dressing, he called the second-class bar. The barman knew Chelle and swore she had not been in that day. The first-class bar in that case.
“This is Chick, Mr. Grison. What can I do for you?”
“I’m trying to find Chelle. Mastergunner Chelle Blue. Do you know her?”
“Sure, Mr. Grison. She was in here with Mr. Tooley. They had a drink and talked, you know. The little table in the corner. They left, oh, maybe five minutes ago.”
Mick Tooley’s phone was out of service. Skip called his building instead and spoke with his manager.
When that call was over, he put on sunglasses and left the bedroom for the veranda, finding the rolling gray-green water of the Atlantic even more conducive to thought than the blue Caribbean had been. “Charles” White (whoever that was) might be prosecuted and Vanessa wanted him retained. Might he himself be prosecuted? He found, oddly enough, that he hoped he would be—and could not explain the hope even to himself. Guilt about Susan? It seemed possible, though the thought woke no shock of recognition. Where was Susan, anyway? Had somebody killed her? If so, who?
How many people had he defended whose sole crime was resisting criminals? A hundred, perhaps? Not so many as that, but the almighty law—which would defend no one but politicians—hated those who defended themselves. His guns, most of all his submachine gun, would be flourished to persuade a jury that he was a menace.
What about Chelle’s gun? With her mother still in danger, she would insist on keeping it.…
There was another veranda beneath his own, the veranda to which Lieutenant Jerry Brice had dropped when he had vaulted over this rail. Beyond that, E Deck. He might—or might not—succeed in throwing his pistol into the Atlantic from here. An athlete might have thrown the submachine gun too. He most certainly could not.
He pushed his pistol into his waistband, where it would be concealed by his untucked shirt. Everyone who had a pistol had been carrying it everywhere when he had been shot, most openly. Was it still like that? Formal Night implied that it was not. His laundry bag, plus a few soiled shirts and shorts, concealed the submachine gun.
It was much harder than he had expected to let that submachine gun drop into the Atlantic, but he did it. After vacillating for a minute and more, he returned his pistol to his waistband. There was plenty of time, after all.
* * *
The barmaid in the tourist-class bar knew Achille but had not seen him that day. “We open at eleven,” she said. “We get maybe half a dozen people then. Mostly they have a quick shot or maybe a double, then they’re gone. You want somethin’?”
Skip shook his head.
“I don’t think that guy with spikes drinks unless somebody else is buying.” She hesitated. “He did yesterday. Showed me his cabin card. It was him all right, only the name wasn’t what everybody calls him. You know?”
Skip nodded. “I don’t suppose you remember the cabin number?”
“Hell, no. But the computer will have it. All I got to do is search yesterday’s charges for a straight shot of white rum.” She touched buttons, scrolled something, and touched more buttons. “Two forty-four E.”
Skip put a five-nora bill into the big brandy glass on the bar. “If you see Achille—that’s the man with hooks and spikes—I’d like you to call me. I’d appreciate it.” He scribbled his mobile phone number on his business card and gave it to her.
“Hey! Skip Grison! You were big when everybody was fightin’ the hijackers. I guess that’s how you got that bandage on your head.”
“No,” Skip told her, “I was shot by a friend.”
No one answered the door of 244E. Where was Achille, and why hadn’t he been in Brice’s stateroom? Where was Susan? For that matter, where was Chelle? You found a thread, Skip reminded himself. You found a thread, any thread, and you pulled.
Out on deck, he called the offices of Burton, Grison, and Ibarra; prompted, he entered his new secretary’s number.
“You have Dianne Field.”
“This is Skip Grison. I’m still on the Rani but I should be back in the office soon, and I need a little inside information. I think you’ll probably have it.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Grison. If I don’t know I’ll try to find out.”
“Has Mick Tooley contracted?”
“No, sir. The girls talk about him all the time.”
“I didn’t think so. Living with somebody?”
“Not anymore, sir. It was some girl from the Sixth District Courthouse, but she got ticked when he went down south to try to get you off that ship, sir. He wanted her to go with him, but she wouldn’t so they split. I don’t remember her name, but Edna knows it. Want me to find out?”
“No.” Skip paused to think. “No, I don’t, Dianne. But if you happen to hear it, make a mental note. You never know.”
“I understand, sir. You sure don’t.”
On the signal deck, Skip was stopped by an officer. “Sorry, sir. No passengers on this deck.”
Skip sighed. “It’s like that again?”
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it is.”
“I’m a friend of Captain Kain’s. I hesitate to bother him, but I will if I have to. I’m looking for Lieutenant Brice. Is he out of the infirmary?”
“Yes, sir. He’s returned to duty now.” The officer hesitated. “Or anyway, we say he is. He’s still taking it pretty easy. Doctor’s orders.”
“Is he on the bridge?”
The officer shook his head. He was a very young man, Skip decided. Probably not as old as Chelle.
“Then he might be in his stateroom?”
The officer shrugged.
“Let me knock on his door. If he admits me, I’ll be his guest. You know and I know that you ship’s officers entertain guests from time to time. If he’s not there, or will not admit me, I’ll leave without a fuss.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”
Skip’s shoulders rose and fell. “In that case, you get the fuss, Lieutenant…?”
“King, sir. Tom King.”
Reflecting that he needed to add his new secretary to his list of contacts, Skip dialed the number.
“You have Dianne Field.”
“This is Skip Grison again. I’m still on the cruise ship. It’s the Rani, Canaveral Cruises.”
“Yes, sir. I know.”
“Perhaps you also know that I was shot on Wednesday. Shot in the head.” Covertly, Skip watched Lieutenant King’s face.
“No, sir. Nobody told me that.”
“Then I’m telling you now. I was unconscious as a result of my wound until today, and I believe my faculties may be permanently impaired. The wound I suffered resulted from the negligence of the Canaveral—”
Lieutenant King broke in. “Just a moment, sir!”
“Cruise Line. We’ll ask twenty-five mil. Write a memo summarizing this call and get Bud Young on it. Tell him to call me when he needs more detail, the captain’s name and so forth. Have him get the paperwork ready. We’ll file as soon as I get back.”