"You're a swine, winning this," he said. "You're even more of a swine if you're thinking of destroying it. Why don't you give it to a good cause, like the Cincinnati Hospital for the Deaf, or better still, to me?"
George drummed his fingers on the hood. "No, Mr Peace. This is my revenge. I want to take this back to my office in New York, triumphant."
"Well, that's very Roman of you," said Maurice, wiping his juicy mouth with his handkerchief. "Are you sure you don't want me to dance in front of you up Fifth Avenue, throwing garlands of flowers under your wheels?"
Monty Willowby said, "Do you want to see inside, sir? I've got the keys."
George glanced down at his watch. "Just for a moment, then. I have some pressing business to attend to."
Monty Willowby opened up the driver's door and George Welterman peered inside. There was a strong aroma of thick hide, brandy, and some peppery man's cologne. The steering wheel was made of shaped and laminated avodire wood, in light grey, on a sterling silver base. The dashboard was made from highly polished satinwood, which was usually considered so expensive that it was used only for making small boxes and picture frames. Each dial—speedometer, oil pressure gauge, revolution counter, and mileage recorder—was made of raised gold figures on a background of lapis lazuli. The gold and silver gearshift knob alone could have been traded for a large semi-detached house in a good suburb of London.
"Now that's what I call a motorcar," said Maurice. "Are you sure you don't want to give it to the Cincinnati Home for the Deaf?"
But George Welterman was in no mood for jokes. He took out his wallet, gave Monty Willowby a one-pound tip, and then said, "Let's get back upstairs. Maybe I'll come and have another gloat tomorrow."
"Ah, well," said Maurice, touching the silver-plated headlamps with affectionate resignation.
Monty Willowby locked the Marmon up again, and followed along behind, whistling "In A Monastery Garden", but on the way back across the hold, he caught hold of George Welterman's sleeve. "I hope you don't think I'm being presumptuous, Mr. Welterman," he said, "but it you're taking that automobile with you when you leave the ship, I wonder if you could do me a small favour."
George Welterman, without breaking his stride, looked down at Monty and raised one eyebrow.
"I've got a few items which need to be unloaded in New York, you see," said Monty, "and the problem is that they're quite fragile. I wouldn't like them to be manhandled by the longshoremen in New York, and broken. Pieces of antique furniture, if you get my meaning."
"Illicitly exported?" asked George.
"Oh, no, sir. Nothing like that. Just fragile."
George paused and thought. Then he said, "All right. Whatever they are, just wrap them up and leave them in the trunk, or on the back seat. I'll make sure they clear customs without any trouble."
"Well, sir, that's very big of you, sir," said Monty. "If there's any I can do in return...?"
"Oh, just a small matter," said George. "Make sure I'm sitting on I captain's table tonight at dinner, and at every other meal."
"Well, sir, I'm not sure I can—"
George smiled. Monty heard the vipers hissing in his head. "Very well, sir," he said. "The captain's table it is."
When George had gone, Monty locked up the automobile hold and breathed a deep sigh of relief. He had seventeen lavatory seats, each one labelled according to the celebrity who had sat on it, and he was sure that Mr. Fribourg would be satisfied with that. Not only did he have the seats, but he had a means of getting them undetected off the ship, so that there would be no risk of being arrested for petty theft.
Life was beginning to look up. Apart from Mr. Fribourg's seats, the voyage had already yielded a dozen cases of Perrier-Jouet champagne for sale in New York restaurants, eighteen sides of best Scotch beef, fifteen sides of smoked salmon, more pounds of Malossol than he could weigh, plus a whole variety of other sundries, and nearly 850 pounds in gratuities, cash.
He was beginning to feel like an emperor again. All he had to do now was to lean on Sir Peregrine and make sure that George Welterman was invited to the top table tonight.
SIXTY
When George Weltennan opened the door of his stateroom and found Catriona standing there, with Alice beside her, his eyes widened in displeased surprise; but that was all. He was too experienced to show how unexpected her visit was, too experienced and too vain.
"Miss Keys," he said, a little hoarsely. He was holding a glass of seven-year-old Golden Wedding whisky in his hand. ''This is a pleasure. Well, I hope it is."
Catriona found herself unable to speak for one throat-tightening moment, but then she managed to say, "I think we still have unfinished business, Mr Welterman."
"Come in," said George, opening the door wider. Catriona hesitated, and then walked in, with Alice keeping unnaturally close behind her, and glaring at George with unabashed distaste. George tried to smile at her, but gradually his smile collapsed into a melting snarl.
"You'll have a drink?" he asked. "I'm afraid my man is out running an errand for me at the moment."
"A gin and bitters, please,' said Catriona.
"And your—?" indicating Alice.
"Nothing for me, thanks very much, sir," snapped Alice, clutching her bag tightly and tilting up her nose.
"Sit down," George invited them. "You know something, I've been hoping that we could get back together on speaking terms before the voyage ended. There really isn't any way I can express how sorry I feel. It was all a terrible misunderstanding, I hope you realise that."
"Well, perhaps it was," Catriona replied, sitting down and crossing her legs tidily. "But in any case, you and I are going to have to work together, aren't we, if we decide to sell Keys to IMM?"
"That's right," George agreed. He brought over her drink and held it out for her. "I'm glad you see it that way. A lot of girls would have been hysterical."
Catriona sipped her drink. George had mixed it too strong, with too much Gordon's. "I'm all kinds of things, Mr Welterman, but I'm never hysterical."
"Can't you find it in your heart to call me George?"
"Perhaps."
George sat down, uncomfortably close. "You're feeling... well, you're feeling okay? No harm done?"
"Not so far," said Catriona.
"But you haven't just called by for the sake of your health."
"No, I've called by to talk about the Orange."
George slowly sat back hi his chair, cupping his whisky glass in both hands. Catriona watched him tensely; this was the only card that she had to play against him, apart from the sheer surprise of a visit, and if he were to deny all knowledge of the Orange then she wasn't at all sure what she was going to do next.
"Have you discussed it with Edgar?" asked George, pronouncing his words with care.
"Not yet."
"But I assume that you know all about it?"
Catriona nodded.
There was a long silence. George stared at her intently for a while, and then stood up and paced across the room. "How much do you know?" he asked her.
"I know about a remarkably similar ship called the Funabashi."
"Well... do you now?" George replied. "You're better informed than I thought."
"I own a quarter of Keys Shipping, Mr Welterman. Don't you think It's my business to know?"
George shrugged. Then he said, "You understand now why you have to sell Keys Shipping to me."
"Of course."
"Your father's reputation... poor old Edgar's reputation... and, of course, my own reputation, although I would always have been able to protest that we bought the Orange in good faith, not realising that she was supposed to have been sunk. They refitted her at Calcutta, you know, in Edgar Deacon's own yards. And did a fine job on her, too."