Monty Willowby gradually eased himself out of Mr Fribourg's grasp. It was about as easy as unwinding a particularly tenacious snake from around his neck, and when at last he was able to stand straight again, at a reasonably refreshing distance from Mr Fribourg's Havana-laden breath, he tugged down his evening coat with relief.
"I think, Mr. Fribourg, that one of us is probably going mad," he said. "And since you are the passenger, and I am paid to be respectful to you, it must be me."
"You don't like the idea?"
"It doesn't matter whether I like it or not. It can't be done. And what's more, I won't let it be done. I'm not in the business of unscrewing this vessel's sanitary fittings and auctioning them off to a lot of film fans. I'm the purser."
"I know," said Mr. Fribourg. "I know. But you were also the purser on the Calliipygic, weren't you, in 1912?"
"What of it?" Monty Willowby demanded.
"What of it? I'll say what of it. The Callipygic was sunk in the Straits of Johore, that's what of it, in October of that same year. No loss of life, but a very unfortunate loss of valuable cargo, namely five thousand pounds weight of opium for the manufacture of laudanum and morphine and suchlike. And yet who was seen in Singapore only a week or two later, looking very prosperous indeed, and in the company of Kim Lim, the opium merchant? It wouldn't have been you, by any chance?"
"You're talking dangerous talk, Mr. Fribourg," said Monty Willowby, uneasily. "I could have you confined to your stateroom for this."
"And I could have you confined to one of His Majesty's prisons, Mr. Willowby. Come on, now—pilferage is pilferage. But there are limits. I could mention two firms of Lloyd's underwriters who would pay dearly to find out what happened to that cargo. Not to mention the directors of Keys Shipping."
Monty Willowby snapped out a clean white handkerchief, and pressed it against the side of his neck. "That's the way it is, is it?" he asked, and obviously didn't require an answer. Mr. Fribourg wetted the end of his cigar and kept on smiling.
"Toilet seats, is it?" said Monty Willowby. Mr. Fribourg nodded.
"Well," said Monty Willowby, "I'll have to give it some thought. I can't rush into it without proper preparation. It needs thought. Strategy."
"Don't leave it too long," said Mr. Fribourg, smoothly.
"Don't you worry about that," Monty Willowby blustered. "I've got a reputation for extricating myself out of awkward spots."
A deep and sonorous gong announced to the chattering assembly in the Grand Lounge that the banquet was served. Sir Peregrine led Catriona into the first-class dining saloon, followed by Edgar Deacon with Princess Xenia, and a red-faced Rudyard Philips, escorting Mademoiselle Narron. The orchestra played the promenade from Mussorgsky's "Pictures at an Exhibition', as arranged by Ravel, with a clashing surfeit of cymbals and an excessive blaring of trumpets, completely overdoing the grandeur of what was already a colossally grand procession. "The privileged went in two-by-two," reported a a from the Los Angeles Examiner, "and your correspondent was inspired by the comforting notion that even if the Lord saw fit to drown the entire Earth during dinner, and left no survivors except those who had booked passage on this vessel, at least the finest of the world's diamonds and the most tempting of its couture gowns would have been saved from the flood."
Mark Beeney took Marcia through to dinner. He said, "You're tense. You're all tensed up. Why are you so tense?"
"Why do you think I'm tense?" Marcia demanded. "You don't think I've noticed how you've been making pilchard's eyes over that Keys girl? It's so embarrassing."
"What's embarrassing? She's a sweet young girl."
"You know damn well what's embarrassing," retorted Marcia. She flashed a synthetic smile at Claude Graham-White, who had found himself in the company of a silver-rinsed lady from Delaware with an ostrich plume in her headband and a diamond necklace that spread over her poitrine like a million-dollar child's bib. Whatever Graham-White said to her, she giggled and said, "That's so English. It makes my toes curl up just to hear you say it that way."
Mark said under his breath, "What you don't seem to understand is that Miss Catriona Keys will shortly inherit a very major stockholding in this shipping company. I need to be friends with her."
"Well, I suppose I've heard worse excuses," said Marcia.
"Marcia, I don't have to make excuses. Not to you, nor anybody. I don't know why you've come over so possessive all of a sudden. We've always been chums, haven't we? Why the grand production? You know how I feel about you. Nothing can ever change that."
"You didn't send me an orchid this evening."
"No, I didn't. I sent you a gardenia. What's the difference?"
Marcia made a face. "The difference is that I'm jealous, that's all. There, I've finally managed to spit it out."
Mark stopped, and stared at her in disbelief. "You're jealous? What do you have to be jealous about? Anyway, you're not the jealous type. When was Marcia Conroy, the elegant lady-about-town, the beautiful bitch of the Biarritz set, ever, and I mean ever, jealous?"
Marcia closed her eyes for a moment, and then opened them again and looked at Mark with a tiredness that he had never seen in her before. "I've never admitted it to you before, and if you ask me tomorrow I'll probably deny it, even under torture. But the fact is that I've been carrying a torch for you ever since I first met you. You don't think I'd drop strawberries and cream down just anybody's pants, do you? I'm in love with you. I'm in love with you in a way that I've never been in love with any other man. And that includes Woofy Thomas."
She paused, and took a steadying breath. Then she said, "And the reason I've never told you before is because I knew that if I did, I would lose you. Just like I know that I'm going to lose you now. Well, all I can say is, I did try, didn't I? And jolly good luck to Miss Catriona Keys."
"Marcia, she's nothing more than a sweet young girl."
"I know, darling. I can tell by the way your mouth fills up with saliva every time you think of her. You can't wait to bury your face in those huge great bosoms of hers, can you? I should have known you'd go for a girl like her. Half-child and half-mother. Your Freudian susceptibilities are showing. In fact, they're quite naked."
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"Oh, Mark, you don't have to pretend. Not for my sake. If you like her, then go and get her. How can I stop you? But just remember that I'm on this ship, too, and that I don't really enjoy being humiliated in public."
Mark guided her to the captain's table and pulled out her chair for her. "I seem to remember that you invited yourself along on this little bunfight," he told her. "And I also seem to remember what you told me in Venice. You remember that night in Venice, at the Grand Luxe Hotel?"