Now, face to face with her, he said, incredibly accurate: "You are thinking sad thoughts, Kathy," and as soon as he spoke, on the instant, she knew that her doubts were gossamer, and that she would love him according to any fashion he chose. It did not need his touch on her shoulder to confirm this.
"Just for about twenty seconds," she answered. She looked up at his face, where the heavy lines at brow and nostrils showed deep in the strong light. "Are you tired, darling?"
He smiled. "I am as tired as I have a right to be, at this moment."
"Perhaps we shouldn't have done that, just before the meeting."
With his arm round her shoulder: "When the day comes," he said, "that I can't make love to you, and preside at a meeting of three or four people, within the space of an hour, then I'll abdicate—from the meetings."
That wasn't true, she knew; it was simply his accolade, his spoken tribute to her loveliness—the words he thought she Wanted to hear. Carl would never abdicate from power; and his true power was outside their love, it concerned other people, other plans, other achievements altogether.
She slipped from his arms, and crossed to the big record-player which dominated one corner of the room.
"Music?" she asked, over her shoulder.
He glanced at his watch. "Something short—the others will be here in ten minutes."
"Chopin," she said.
There was a knock at the door, and the floor-waiter came in, pushing a loaded trolley. He was old and rather slow; Kathy delayed starting the record until the trolley had been laboriously unloaded on to another table, the bill signed, the two-dollar tip transferred from hand to hand. As the waiter went out of the door, profuse with thanks:
"You're too generous," she said. "No wonder we have to become pirates."
"I want to be a pirate anyway."
The heavenly music filled the room, smoothing all cares, solving all problems. Above the liquid notes he asked:
"What were those sad thoughts, Kathy?"
She shook her head. "Really nothing, Carl. All gone now, anyway. Are you happy about the plans?"
"I will be, in about an hour's time."
"The cruise should be wonderful, in any case."
He was sitting down now, in a deep armchair, with his back to the window; drawing on a cigar, he nursed in his free hand the drink he had abandoned, twenty minutes earlier. When he was fully at ease, and the caressing nocturne had made its gentle statement of intention, he began to speak. It was a special, measured voice which she knew well, and perversely enjoyed; however irrelevant, it was a part of their next love-making, even though that might be three days away.
"One of the delights of a life of crime, at our level, is that we can choose our surroundings, and make them add pleasure and elegance to the occasion." Listening to his voice, she felt herself surrendering to it once again; it was as true now as it had been when she was a sixteen-year-old, head-in-the-clouds, senses-in-a-whirl virgin no longer —this fantastic man was for her like an outlawed god. For him, robbery was an intellectual exercise; but it was still robbery, often dangerous, brutal, and without pity, and it was with this consistent wickedness in his head that he lived, made love, was kind to children and old people, paid his taxes, gave improvidently to beggars.
"To steal in sordid circumstances?" he went on. "What a horrible thought!Not to stay in hotels like this?—inconceivable! Of course the cruise will be wonderful. Long romantic nights under the tropical stars—wasn't that what that ridiculous brochure promised us? We will have them, Kathy. But we shall have everything else as well. We'll live like kings and queens—far better, indeed—and we will spoil the Egyptians at the same time. I wonder—" he mused "—if there will be any Egyptians. Many of them are inordinately rich. And cunning also, which makes it more enjoyable.
"In any case," he continued, "we will spend three months in circumstances of the utmost luxury, and make them highly profitable at the same time. That is crime, according to my personal dictionary. Plush plunder—nylon piracy—I am sure Madison Avenue can find us the right title. I can't tell you how much I am looking forward to it."
"You have to do it, don't you, Carl?"
"Certainly."
"Why?—after all these years?"
"My private compulsion." He leant back, flicking the ash off his cigar with a light tap of his forefinger. She thought suddenly what a wonderful actor he would have made. The deep voice, the formidable presence, the slightly studied English delivery were all tailor-made for stardom—and his next words were ridiculously appropriate to this. "Do you remember the opening dialogue of The Seagull? It tells the entire story of the play. 'Why do you always wear black, Masha?' '/ am in mourning for my life.' In the same way, if you ask me, 'Why do you steal?' I would answer: 'I am at war with the world.' That is the story of my play."
"But doesn't it ever end?"
He smiled. "It's the only play ever written with an unlimited number of acts. . . . You know that I have planned this particular piece of my war for many months. It has aspects of the most delicious irony. A millionaire's cruise—forgive the vulgarity, but I fancy that is an accurate description. More than three hundred very rich men and women, enjoying luxury and leisure in th$ sunshine. But all the time, they know they are in danger! They have been warned! There are pirates, sharks, thieves, at every port of call. Indeed, we will warn them ourselves that everywhere they go, confidence-men and tricksters are waiting to plunder the simple tourists. And the real danger? Us! The true pirates are on board already, standing right behind them, travelling first-class."
She felt herself warming, as so often before, to the infectious pleasure in his voice. It was hard to resist a connoisseur's enthusiasm, even in this dubious field.
"That's what I call an inside job. I hope we can make the most of it, Carl."
"Oh, I am sure we will. To begin with, there is you and I." He waited while a phrase of the Chopin nocturne came to its delicate closing. "There was never a better team, Kathy." He chuckled. "We have only to remember the customs inspector at El Paso."
Kathy nodded. "Or that inquisitive policeman at Saint Raphael."
"Or the currency switch in Zurich."
"Or Lord Merriwether and the blonde in the bathroom."
He lifted an eyebrow at the memory. "You looked charming, my darling. For a moment I was genuinely jealous."
"It was so cold. . . ."
"I don't doubt it----Well, there is you and I. Then there is Scapelli,
who though an objectionable young man in many ways has done two jobs with us without putting a foot wrong. Then there is Diane." He paused.
"I wish I knew more about her," said Kathy.
"You might not like what you found." He shook his head. "Oh, Diane will do well enough. She is tough and—shall we say—accomplished. Of course, you and she make a most curious contrast. She debases love, you adorn it. It is strange how identical bodily movements can be so widely different in quality. . . . While I remember, you had better be cousins, not sisters. Otherwise we may have passport trouble. But I'll explain all that in detail, later."
"I would rather be cousins."
"Agreed. Then finally we have our old friend the Professor."
"Is he really coming with us, Carl?"
"Yes. I promised him."
It was enough; she would never have argued the point. But at that moment they were cut short, in any case, by the telephone. It was the inquiries desk in the lobby downstairs.