Louis Scapelli spoke first. He was a much-improved Louis, something like the kind of young man Carl had had in mind when he was planning their enterprise. The moustache was gone, the clothes were simple, and casually correct; the sun had done wonders for his complexion. If some of the pallor was still there, it could be the pallor of a man who spent too much time as a plush night-club customer, rather than as one of the boys wearing green eye-shades in the back room. He was even good-looking again; the snide urban skin, peeled off, revealed a small but sensual animal.
"I've got two things going for me," he reported, with novel and convincing authority. "Maybe more, but at least two you can count on. One is Mrs. Stewart-Bates—she's pretty near ripe." His expression as he said this was so utterly contemptuous that Kathy, who had been staring out of the porthole, turned her head and looked at him closely. Could he really be so full of contempt, and yet go through the motions of love convincingly when the time came? Apparently he thought he could do so. "We're taking a run ashore together when we get to Antigua," he went on. "I think that should fix it." He cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Carl. "O.K., chief?" "What do you propose to do?" asked Carl.
"Come back on board early," answered Louis, "when there's not too many people about. Then go into action." "Where?" inquired the Professor suddenly.
"In her cabin. It's—" his grin was unpleasant, "—more discreet, like they say." "It has certainly not proved so," said the Professor flatly. "What's that meant to mean?" snapped Louis. "The fact that you have been to her cabin several times is already common gossip. One can hardly recommend—" "Wait a minute," interrupted Carl. "How do you know that?" "I heard of it this morning. From Mrs. Kincaid." "That long-nosed bitch," said Louis. "Anyway, what the hell? I've been seen going to her cabin. So what? I'm going again—once more."
The Professor raised an admonishing finger. "That is precisely where the danger lies. If you suddenly stop going—"
"Just a moment, Professor," interrupted Carl again. He turned back to Louis. "What's this about her cabin?" he asked. "I've just been there, that's all." "Doing what?"
"Talking, mostly. Holding her hand. And practising dance-steps." "Gee!" said Diane, ironically. "Big deal, Romeo. How's her cha-cha coming on? You get paid by the lesson?"
Louis surveyed her, with cold dislike. "Not yet. But I will be. And the price is going to be right, don't you worry. You saw that cigarette case she gave me. Eighteen carat, from the best jewellery store in San Juan."
"Yeah, we saw it. When are you going to turn it in to the Prof?" "At the end of the deal," Louis snapped. "How can I turn it in now? She sees me using it every day. How do I explain if it's not there?"
"You can say you gave up cigarettes to improve your dancing." "I still think that the amount of public attention—" began the Professor.
^ Louis, nettled, goaded on many fronts, turned on him with a snarl.
What the hell are you bitching about, Prof? I'm doing my job. You get on with yours, whatever it is. Of course I've been going to her cabin. It's part of the build-up. And when I stop going, she won't squawk. Not in public. She won't dare. And your gossiping pals can forget all about it—till I switch to someone else. Then maybe they'll start all over again. And it doesn't matter!"
The Professor opened his mouth again, but Kathy unexpectedly forestalled him. The point intrigued her, as a woman; she felt she could make a contribution; and, indeed, it was high time that she did so, and earned some of her passage-money. "I think Louis is right," she said firmly. She was addressing the people round the table, but she was talking to and for Carl—Carl who, short of sleep, his nerves too taut, was not handling this thing at all well. "The fact that there's gossip about him and the old girl is useful. I bet she knows about it—women always do. It'll make her more nervous of public opinion. Therefore, when the pressure's put on, she's more likely to crack."
Louis gave her a mock salute. "Thanks, kid. I'm glad somebody else around here knows what the score is." He looked at Carl. "Do I go ahead, chief?"
"Yes," said Carl, making up his mind a shade too quickly. "Play it your way. But just watch it. I'll come back to that a bit later." He turned again. "Diane?"
Diane, trim and tanned in a strapless sun-dress which did a great deal for her figure, smiled back at him. She was very confident, very sure of herself. There could be no complaints about what she had done so far. She was the big winner; indeed, the only one.
"No dancing lessons," she reported coolly. "This is the advanced course. . . . You know about Bancroft—he came across for a thousand dollars, the very first night. Since then I've been lining 'em up." She ticked off the names on her fingers. "There's a pal of his called Gerson—maybe Bancroft's been talking to him, but whatever he said, it must have been sweet talk. He can't wait for it. There's Zucco, next down the queue. He wants to give me a film-test." She laughed, without humour. "What a line! He'll learn. . . . Then there's an old guy who's been nibbling at it—Walham. He—"
"Walham?" repeated the Professor, on a note of petulant disbelief. "I hope you are not placing any great hopes in that particular quarter."
Diane's chin came up. In the full tide of recital, she did not relish the interruption. "Why not?" she demanded.
"I have it on the very best authority," he said, "that his idea of a—suitable fee is twenty dollars."
"What the hell are you talking about?" asked Diane. "What authority?"
"His own. He told me so." "Told you so? Twenty dollars? I don't get it. Have you been talking prices with him?"
"We were discussing matters in general terms. But he was quite explicit. He is extraordinarily mean, as we all know. Twenty dollars is his firm price."
At that, Diane exploded, into inevitable vulgarity. "Firm price? What do you know about it? What does he know? I'll tell him what the price is, and I'll tell him when it's firm, too." She leant forward, raising her finger. "You better keep out of this, Prof, before you screw the whole thing up. I've done better than anyone so far—"
"You have indeed done very well." The Professor passed his hand, for the twentieth time, across his dry lower lip. "A thousand dollars, wasn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Exactly a thousand?"
Diane stared at him, frowning. "Exactly. What are you getting
at?"
"It's such a round figure."
"That's what he was paying for, you old goat! Are you hinting that I've been holding out?"
Carl raised his hand. "For heaven's sake stop it! You're like a bunch of children."
"If he's insinuating-"
"He's insinuating nothing." Carl rapped sharply on the table. "Let's all do a little work, for a change. That's what you've got so far, is it, Diane? Gerson, Zucco, and possibly Walham."
"Yes," answered Diane sulkily. "There's a couple of the officers, but you can't count them." She looked sideways at Kathy. "Or can you?"
"Why ask me?" asked Kathy coldly.
"I thought you were interested."
"I am not."
Carl broke in again. "All right, all right. I think you can go ahead with Gerson, Diane, but leave it for a day .or so. If he's a friend of Bancroft, it might be a bit dangerous. Try and get a line on what Bancroft told him, if he told him anything."
"I know just what he told him," answered Diane, not less sulkily. "You' ve got to understand this—they're friends, but they don't like each other. Not one little bit. Bancroft got hooked, so he wants the same thing to happen to Gerson. All he would say is—" she gestured, with exceptional crudity, "—go ahead, boy, it's wonderful, it's red-hot, and it's yours for the asking."