Harry Pakenow was now very agitated. He knew that he was overreacting, but he was too intoxicated to be able to stop himself. His fear of Maurice Peace opening the trunk of Mark Beeney's Marmon and discovering his thirty sticks of dynamite took him like a kind of seizure, a spasm of panic that made him wince and tremble as if he had suddenly developed acute malaria. It was not that he was afraid of arrest. He was quite reconciled, and always had been, to the idea that he might have to serve a long jail sentence for what he was doing—or even be hung. Plenty of other young Marxists had been martyrs to the cause of overthrowing world capitalism—shot, electrocuted, and strangled by judicial ropes. Harry always used to say at his revolutionary meetings that every mink coat and every chinchilla beret was matted with the blood of America's young activists. No, what he was most afraid of was failure, of having to stand on board the Arcadia as she arrived in New York. He had already sent coded letters to all of his friends in America, warning them of the Arcadia's impending sabotage, and to have to face them and say that he had been foiled by a middle-aged gambler in a food-stained dinner jacket—well, that was unthinkable.
"Are you all right, Mr Pakenow?" asked Marcia kindly. "You've gone very pale."
"Too much champagne, that's the trouble," said Maurice. "Come on, my friend, sit down and put your head between your legs, and I'll have the steward bring you a strong cup of Bovril. Steward!"
"It's—quite—out—of—the—question—to—inspect," quavered Harry. His teeth chattered, and perspiration ran down the sides of his face. Maurice Peace ushered him over to a leather club chair, and pushed him gently into a sitting position.
"You'll be all right, old man. It's delayed shock, probably, from that gallant rescue of yours. Ah, steward. Will you bring this gentleman a cup of hot Bovril, please? He's feeling a little out of sorts."
Just then, like a dark cloud passing over the sun, George Welterman appeared, his forehead still bruised, his eyes as unpleasant in their aspect as a rained-off picnic. He was holding a large balloon glass of Denis Mounie cognac, which he swilled around and around in a hand. "Something wrong?" he asked Maurice, although his stare was reserved for Mark Beeney.
"Only a slight case of inexperience with the giggle water," said Maurice.
"You mustn't," Harry insisted. "You can't—"
"You mustn't?" inquired George. "Yon mustn't what?"
"He's spifflicated, that's all," said Maurice. "He's got this notion into his head that I mustn't look at Mr. Beeney's motorcar, and for some screwy reason it's got him all excited."
"Why should you want to look at Mr Beeney's motorcar?" George asked, swilling his brandy around.
"Because I'm going to win it, that's why," Maurice told him. "Mr. Beeney has bet that the Arcadia will cover six hundred and thirty nautical miles by tomorrow noon. I have bet him, in return, that she won't make better than six hundred and ten. If Mr. Beeney loses, he will have to give me his motorcar."
"Well, well. From what I hear, that's a very special piece of automobile. Didn't I read a piece about it in Popular Finance?
"And Collier's," put in Mark. "They ran a whole spread on it."
George Welterman took that remark as an invitation to step a little closer. He stood over Mark and Marcia for a moment or two, one hand in his pocket the other cupping his brandy glass, and as Maurice said later, "You could almost hear the snakes hissing in his brain."
"That sounds like a bet that I'd enjoy a share of," George said to Mark after a while. "In fact, there's nothing I'd like better than to take that automobile off your hands."
"What would you want with a twenty-five-thousand-dollar Marmon with silver handles?" Marcia asked him.
"Oh, nothing," smiled George. "But I'd take considerable pleasure in running it into a solid concrete wall."
"You know something," said Maurice, "you're a Philistine."
George ignored him. He sipped his cognac and watched Mark with those disturbing eyes of his, and said, "I'll bet that the Arcadia a manages more than six hundred and thirty miles. At least five miles more."
"That means she's going to have to average twenty-six and a half knots all the way," said Mark.
"She's easily capable of it," said George.
"Well, I don't think you stand much of a chance," commented Maurice.
"That's what the family doctor said when I was born. But I survived, and flourished."
"Is that what you call it?"
George couldn't resist a grin. He liked being insulted. It showed him that he was getting under people's skin. In a peculiar way, it was a substitute for being liked. If he couldn't be adorable, at least he could be irritating.
"What are you going to put up in return?" Maurice Peace wanted to know. "I've already staked five thousand pounds. It has to be something that makes your pips squeak."
George didn't take his eyes off Mark Beeney once. Even those passengers who hadn't caught the gist of their conversation could sense at once the cat's-fur charge of electricity that had been generated by their mutual dislike. Mark, to George, was everything for which he felt utter contempt in modern business: smooth, good-looking, image-conscious, nouveau riche. "Ballet dancers" was how he usually described young men like Mark. In return, Mark found George Welterman crass and insensitive and bullying. They would have hated each other even if they hadn't been rivals in business.
"Mr. Peace," said George, still watching Mark intently, "I don't really have anything to offer which would interest you, except money. So, if you win, I'll offer you five thousand pounds, to match your stake. Is that acceptable?"
"What if Mr. Beeney wins?"
"If Mr Beeney wins, I'll withdraw my offer for Keys Shipping; let them sink or swim, and give Mr Beeney the opportunity to buy up the Arcadia. That's what you want, isn't it, Mr Beeney?"
"Can you afford to do that?" Mark asked, narrowly. "What the hell will the people at IMM have to say if you withdraw?"
George said, "They'll just have to live with it, and so will I. But I'm not going to have to withdraw. As usual, I'm going to win."
"So you bet six hundred and thirty-five?" said Maurice, taking out the telltale stub of pencil that always identifies a gambler.
"Do we shake hands on it?" asked George.
Mark hesitated for a moment, and then held out his hand. "Mr. Welterman, I think you have yourself a bet."
Maurice glanced up from his notepad. He suddenly realised that this contest had very little to do with him at all. In the guise of a I wager, the two most powerful men on the Arcadia had at last faced up to each other in a silent, intent contest. There was him more than a motorcar or a business deal involved in this bet; there was masculine pride, ferocious honour, and reputation.
Maurice asked, "Are you coming down to the hold to inspect the automobile with me, Mr. Welterman?"
George thought about it, and then said, "No, I don't think that will be necessary. I know just how much attention and money Mr. Beeney has lavished on it: engine tuned by Wolf Barnato personally; upholstery hand-stitched in France. I read all about it in the magazines. Besides, I think I'd rather wait until I can sit behind the wheel and call it mine."
"Well... I guess you've got a point there," said Maurice. "No point in ogling it until its yours. Or mine, as the case may be."
Harry raised his spiky head and said in a bewildered voice, "You're not going to look it over?"