Maurice had seen for himself what happened to old men when they lost their edge. He had seen Jack ''The Spot' McLinton lose the seaside house he had built for his retirement on the single turn of a wheel of fortune. He had seen Walter Lillard carried dead from the Red Onion in Nevada, shot by an outraged opponent who had caught him using a Kepplinger holdout mechanism. And he had seen himself, in the glittering French mirrors of the Arcadia, a man past middle life who was still making a living out of kings and aces and jacks.
"I'll tell you what I'll bet you in return," said Mark, slowly, putting his arm around Marcia's bare shoulders, "I'll bet you my automobile."
"Your automobile?' asked Maurice suspiciously.
"That's right," said Mark. "It's a Marmon, 125-horsepower, only ten months old, and it's garaged in the hold right now, so you can inspect it if you want to. I think it cost $25,000 all told, or thereabouts. It has a cream kid interior, a cocktail cabinet, a gold-washed radiator, and all the gadgets you could wish for."
"Mark," interrupted Marcia, in horror. "That's your new car. You can't possibly bet that. Not that beautiful, beautify car."
"No, no, he's right," retorted Maurice. "He's asking me to give up all of my profits. It's only fair play that he should give up something that means as much to him in return. Money wouldn't mean anything to him, now would it? What's five thousand pounds to a man like Mark Beeney? Nothing at all! Write out a cheque, add a few noughts, he wouldn't even miss it. But a very special motor car: now, that's something different. To lose that motor car would hurt. And the whole point of this bet is that, if you lose it, it has to hurt. Am I right, Mr Beeney?"
"Yes," nodded Mark. "It has to hurt."
Maurice kept on smiling and cracked all the knuckles of his left hand one by one. "I should like a look, of course, at what I'm getting."
"You're very confident that you're going to win," said Mark.
"I always win," Maurice told him. "Just as you said, I'm one of your professional passengers."
At that moment, Harry Pakenow suddenly appeared, as if he had sprung up from a trap in the middle of a pantomime. His hair was sticking straight up and he was chewing a stick of celery.
"Mr Pakemoff," said Mark with well-simulated warmth. "I hope you're enjoying yourself."
"Pakenow," Harry corrected him. "But, yes, I think I am. I think I've discovered champagne."
"Fatal," said Maurice. "Take my advice, my boy, and stick to club soda. Champagne is the elixir of idiots."
"Well, you're probably right," Harry grinned, his eyes crescent-shaped behind his small wire-rimmed glasses. "But I've enjoyed it all the same. Did I hear you talking about Mr. Beeney's Marmon?"
Mark gave Harry a small, irritated look—a look which Marcia recognised from those times when their love making had been interrupted by telephone calls. His Marmon was one of his most prized personal possessions, and he hardly ever talked about it, even to her. She knew how much it must have cost him to stake it against Maurice Peace's profits. It was rare, one of a kind, and if he lost it to Maurice Peace he would never have the heart to order another one the same. Marcia wondered if he would feel even half as distracted if he lost her.
"Mr Beeney's Marmon has become the subject of a bet," said Maurice Peace. "We are each going to estimate how many nautical miles the Arcadia will be able to cover during the twenty-four hours which commenced at noon today; and whoever bets the nearer figure will be the winner. My stake is, er, money. Mr Beeney's stake is his Marmon motor-car, which even as we speak is waiting for me in this stately vessel's hold."
Harry Pakenow uneasily rubbed the back of his neck. "I thought I heard you saying that you wanted to look it over," he said to Maurice.
"Indeed you did," Maurice enthused. 'You don't make a bet without seeing the colour of your competitor's money, now do you?"
"Well, I suppose you don't," said Harry, with a sort of laugh that was more like a series of painful hiccups. "But, you know ... a Marmon's a Marmon."
"Oh, I see," replied Maurice, taking hold of Harry's arm. "A Marmon's a Marmon, is it? Well, tell me, Mr Pakenow, just how many Marmons have you had the pleasure of owning?"
Harry tried to twist himself away, but Maurice wouldn't release him. At last Harry held still and admitted, "None, actually."
Maurice raised his head high and beamed. "None, the boy says. Well, how about a Packard, or a Stutz, or a Fierce-Arrow? None of those, either?"
"No," said Harry. "I've never owned a motor-car, as a matter of fact. I've never had the money."
"Well, that's a pity," said Maurice Peace. "I thought for a moment there, from what you said, that you were an expert on Marmons, and I was going to ask you to venture down to the hold with me and give me your considered opinion on what Mr. Beeney's stake was worth."
"You're really going to inspect it?" asked Harry.
"My dear boy, of course I'm going to inspect it. I'm going to give it the most thorough inspection that any automobile has ever been subject to. I'm going to jump up and down on the seats, to make the springs are intact. I'm going to poke about under the hood. I'm going to sniff the cognac in the cocktail cabinet. I'm going to fondle the leather to make sure that each seat came from the same herd of animals."
"The silver door handles were made by Buccellati, and the picnic basket was supplied by Abercrombie and Fitch," put in Mark. "I expect you want to check that all the teacups are intact."
"Of course," said Maurice, and then let out a short, staccato laugh. "Do you know something," he said, "I've always wanted a ritzy motorcar. Never in my life have I ever owned a really ritzy motorcar. I had a flivver a couple of years ago. I won it in a poker game in Elizabeth, New Jersey. But when the tyres wore out, I sold it to a pet-store owner in Queens for five dollars, to keep his hamsters in. A hamster hotel! I've never owned an automobile since."
"Well, now's your chance," said Mark. He extended his hand, and Maurice shook it. "I bet six hundred and thirty miles; what's your estimate?"
"Six hundred and thirty miles," beamed Maurice. "She'll never do it. I'll give you six ten."
"Are you really going to inspect the car?" asked Harry anxiously.
Maurice said, "Of course. I'm looking forward to it."
"I'm not sure that passengers are allowed to go down in the holds during the voyage," Harry told him.
"Oh, I'm sure I can find a way," Maurice told him. "Besides, what's it to you? Eat your celery and mind your own business."
Harry said, "Listen, Mr. Beeney here has accepted the bet without expecting to see any of your winnings in ready money. Why should you want to check out his car?"
"Because I'm a naturally suspicious man, my dear boy, and because I love to inhale the scent of pure luxury. There are certain aromas which every man must breathe in to his nostrils at least once during his lifetime if he wants to claim to St. Peter that he has lived at all. The smell of freshly casseroled partridge; the smell of a new pair of Gamba ballet shoes; the smell of morilles soaking hi hot water; the smell of Latakia tobacco snuff; the smell of the petticoats of a young girl the morning after her coming-out party."
Marcia couldn't help laughing. "You're quite a character, Mr. Peace, if you don't mind my saying so."
"My love, we are at sea," said Maurice. "And the enchantment of being at sea is that one may be exactly what one wishes to be. To sail in a luxury liner is a dream—a dream from which one will only awake when her prow nudges the pier."