He said: "I'll look forward to that," and turned towards the door. As he opened it he heard Sir Hubert's voice, plaintive yet appeasing, saying: "Are you sure you packed it, old girl?" and as it closed behind him he caught the beginnings of an answering snarl. The Beckwiths were en famille once more.
Alone in the corridor, Captain Harmer drew a long breath, conscious of relief and of a vague discomfort at the same time. There were not many passengers like the Beckwiths, thank goodness; but they could too easily make their destructive mark, they could poison a whole cruise if they were not closely watched. There was a choice of two things to be done with people like that; they could be disciplined, or they could be flattered and appeased. The latter was preferred company policy; he, and every man under him, had to lean over backwards to avoid a clash—even the negative clash of criticism—and to satisfy any whim which did not inconvenience other passengers. It was like the company policy on love, he reflected. It had to be accepted that people slept with other people; sometimes they came on board with nothing else in mind; it was a fact of life, and therefore a fact which had to be catered for. In so far as he set any rules, they could be summed up as no open scandals, and no screams in the night. Apart from that, the passengers were free to tear each other to ecstatic ribbons. At sea, love did no damage, and it was generally held to be good for the bar trade.
He began to walk forward slowly along the corridor, making for his cabin again. Stewards stood aside formally as he progressed; stewardesses smiled at him; passengers stared in his direction and sometimes whispered. At the corner of the main foyer, a mink-coated figure detached herself from a group of other people, and waylaid him with a firm determination. It was Mrs. Consolini.
She was a good-looking woman; she seemed to admire him tremendously; it was her third cruise. The three facts knitted together into a pattern which the Captain had found distinctly trying in the past. He did not want Mrs. Consolini; he did not want anybody except his wife. But it had proved difficult to make the fact plain, and still retain feminine good-will during a close-quarters voyage of eighty-four days.
She was looking at him now with those magnificent brown eyes, her face mysteriously alight. His heart sank as he saw it. It was clear that Mrs. Consolini was already coming up for the third round, fighting fit and as fresh as ever, her footwork unimpaired.
But he had a job to do, and this was part of it.
"Why, Mrs. Consolini!" he exclaimed. "How very nice to see you again!"
She smiled at him as if they shared a secret, standing almost touching him.
"How could I possibly miss the Alcestis?" She had a pretty voice, an Italian lilt to her speech; not for nothing did his officers (as he knew) call her the Merry Widow. "I've been looking forward to nothing else, the whole of this awful winter."
"That's very flattering indeed." He saw that other passengers, and some of his crew, were looking at them, and he fell back a pace, seeking to disengage. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Tiptree-Jones standing at the head of the gangway, and he lifted his hand. The First Officer hurried over.
"Please excuse me," said the Captain to Mrs. Consolini, and half-turned aside. Foolishly, he could think of nothing of any consequence to say to Tiptree-Jones, and he was reduced to asking:
"Everything all right?"
"Yes, sir," answered Tiptree-Jones, faintly puzzled.
"You remember Mrs. Consolini?"
'Oh yes!" Tiptree-Jones smiled his best smile directly at her. "We've said hallo already."
"Well . . ." Captain Harmer shifted from one foot to the other. This was the only sort of situation which ever embarrassed him. Women, he thought irritably; they ought to be locked up, every last one of them, and the key thrown over the side.. ..
Annoyingly, it was Mrs. Consolini herself who rescued him.
"I'm sure you're busy, Captain," she said, with an understanding air which was somehow a public demonstration of their intimacy. "Don't let me keep you now. We'll be seeing lots of each other, won't we?"
"I certainly hope so," answered the Captain, and smiled before he turned away. As he moved off, he thought: Now why in God's name did I have to say that? But at least he was temporarily freed.
He began to climb the companionway leading to the promenade deck. Then, at the head of the stairs, he paused, attracted by loud voices—or rather, by one loud voice and one soft one. When he came level with the next deck, he saw that the loud voice belonged to Mrs. van Dooren, whom he had recognized earlier. The soft answers, as usual, were being supplied by Edgar, the head-barman of the Alcestis.
Edgar, like all head-barmen, was a character; and, by unspoken protocol, he was allowed to be. It was Edgar whom people chiefly remembered, after a voyage in the Alcestis: "Give my best to Edgar" was the standard message, from any former passenger to any prospective one. He was fat, he was cheerful, he was a wonderful listener; and he had that fantastic, flattering memory which persuaded each customer that he was Edgar's personal favourite. If a man ordered a pink gin with eight drops—no more, no less—of Angostura, then he was given eight drops the next time; if he liked a touch of Pernod in his martini, the same touch of Pernod greeted him the following lunch-time. It was a professional trick, of course; but it paid off every time. The amount that Edgar made in tips each voyage was more than four times his basic salary.
He was other things besides a highly talented head-barman; some of them were legitimate, from the Captain's point of view, others were marginal. Edgar ran things. He ran the daily sweepstake on the ship's run during the preceding twenty-four hours. He held large, under-cover raffles for cases of whisky and bolts of Chinese silk. He introduced people who wanted to play cards, people who wanted to dance with the pretty girl entrenched behind her family at Table 8. He fixed things. He took messages. He sold Irish Sweep tickets. At every port of call, from Liverpool to Montreal, from New York to Barbados, from Cape Town to Teneriffe, he could be ready with fool-proof introductions: to shops that sold suspect jewellery, to gambling clubs, to chiefs of police, to people's sisters.
He presided, like a jovial fat spider, over the core of the Alcestis— the Tapestry Bar. He had six men working under him, smart as paint, willing as ponies; but none of them stirred a finger without a nod from Edgar. Of course, he had too much power, too much influence, too much squeeze. But he was a prodigious asset to the ship; and the Captain, recognizing him for what he was—a rare man in a rare job— gave him free play to an extent allowed to no one else on board.
Just now, the Captain observed, Edgar was standing at the doorway of the Tapestry Bar, engaged in a standard routine—refusing a passenger a drink. In his best social manner, he was dealing with Mrs. van Dooren, a formidable if handicapped opponent. Mrs. van Dooren wanted a rye and water: not outside the three-mile-limit, which was legal; not as soon as they sailed, which was practically legal; but then and there—illegal.
"What's the matter with this hooker, anyway?" demanded Mrs. van Dooren discontentedly. "You mean I can't get a drink!"
"It's regulations, madam," said Edgar, with smooth insistence. "If it was just myself, I'd start pouring for you now. But it's the customs."
"The customs!" Mrs. van Dooren's voice was suddenly strident with indignation. "You know what?—they tried to stop me coming on board!"