"You think so?" asked Carl.
"I know so."
"All right. But wait a little longer, like I said." He sat up straight, flexing his sore shoulder-muscles. "That leaves me," he said, "and you might as well know what's been happening in the wonderful world of poker. We've got a good school going—reasonably skilful, except for one man; we've played every night, and I've won about nine thousand dollars."
Louis whistled, admiringly. "Hell, chief—that's not peanuts!"
"It's a no-limit game," explained Carl, "and I've held good cards all the time."
"Straight?"
"Oh yes."
"Who's the one man?"
"Greenfield. The father of the brat." He smiled. "Maybe his home life drove him to poker. But he is bad."
Since no one seemed to have anything else to say, Carl looked inquiringly round the room, prepared to finish off the meeting. Kathy, he knew, had nothing worth while to report; he was not disappointed, certainly not surprised, but he did not want to draw attention to the fact among the others. She would go to work when the moment and the occasion suited her; if this seemed to place her in a favoured position, then that was where she belonged, and he was not inclined to discuss the point. They had been very happy during the last few days; lovingly happy, at ease with each other and with the whole world. Perhaps it could not stay like that, when Kathy started "operating"; whatever she did would not come between them, in any emotional sense, but it would encroach on their peace. He was selfish enough, or loving enough, to want to postpone that.
"All right," he said, more briskly. "Professor—treasurer's report!"
The Professor smiled, and leant forward, a touch of pride in his bearing. "A simple balance-sheet so far, Carl. Yourself, nine thousand two hundred dollars. Diane, one thousand dollars. Louis, one gold cigarette case, worth—" he looked up, directing his query down the table.
"Seven hundred and fifty bucks," said Louis, with a smirk.
The Professor made a pencilled note on a pad. "That's fifty dollars short of eleven thousand. Nearly half-way to our original stake. I would call that very satisfactory."
Carl nodded. "So would I. Particularly as we've hardly got started yet."
"Some of us," said Diane, not quite under her breath.
"What's that?" "I said, 'Some of us'," repeated Diane, more loudly. "Some of us haven't got started at all yet."
Carl was about to dismiss the comment, when Kathy herself took it up. "That means me, I suppose."
"Yeah. We haven't heard any report from you."
"You haven't heard anything," said Kathy, "because so far there's nothing to tell."
"Just so long as we know."
The tone was unpleasant, but Kathy would not be provoked. "I've got three things in mind," she said slowly. "One of them is Beckwith—Sir Hubert himself." She gave the title an ironic emphasis. "He may be too scared of his wife. But I don't think so. Another is Zucco—your Mr. Zucco. He's offered me a film-test too."
"Those cameras of his are sure going to be whirring," said Diane. But she had a point to make, and she was not going to be deflected. "What about that tea-party?"
"What tea-party?"
"Those kids who call themselves officers."
Kathy shrugged. "I had tea with them in their saloon, or whatever it's called. They invited me along. What about it?"
"They invited me," said Diane. "But I turned it down."
"So?"
Diane was not getting anywhere, and the fact annoyed her further. "It's just a waste of time, that's all."
"Oh, I agree."
And indeed, it had been a waste of time, from all points of view. There had been eight of them at the tea-party; she was the only woman; they had laid on a tremendous meal—tea, bread and butter, crumpets, scones, jam, Devonshire cream, little cakes, big cakes— the lot. Their efforts to please, to entertain, to appear sophisticated men of the world, had been unmistakable; in between times, in the silences, they all ate enormously. It had been pathetic, rather endearing, and dull. That song about sailors should really have been called "Heads of Oak". . . . Even Tim Mansell, whom she liked best of the assembled collection, had shown himself astonishingly innocent and unaware. He was a few years older than herself, yet he made her feel about fifty years of age. Compared with Carl—
Her daydream was broken into, roughly, by Diane. "Why go to the party, then? We're meant to beworking. Remember?"
Kathy looked at her, frowning. She did not want to argue; it was futile; Diane was one kind of animal, herself another—they could not meet, they did not need to, they could go their separate ways and, if necessary, compare results at the end. She had gone to the party because she had been asked, and because she had nothing better to do. It was as simple as that. Perhaps it had better be kept simple.
"I don't think it matters at all," she said briefly. "This was an officers' tea-party. I went, you didn't. There's no crisis, no bones broken, no need to panic. The whole thing took an hour. . . . My third possibility," she went on, in a voice studiously devoid of emphasis, "is Tillotson."
The name produced the effect she had expected. Even Carl repeated it, surprised. Diane opened her mouth, and then shut it again; the Professor raised his bushy eyebrows. Louis voiced all their thoughts when he said:
"Tillotson? The big,big shot? Don't tell me he's got hot pants, same as everyone else!"
"It's only beginning," answered Kathy. "That's about all I can say. But if we're making out lists, he's certainly on mine."
"Boloney!" said Diane rudely. "I don't believe it. Tillotson is married with a capital M. He's married to his money, too. He wouldn't recognize a proposition if it climbed up and sat on his face."
Kathy shrugged, not caring to argue. "Have it your own way. I'm just telling you that Tillotson is due to make a play sooner or later. When it's going to happen is anybody's guess. But that's for me to worry about."
There was a knock on the cabin door, startling them all. Before Carl could answer, the door opened, and Barkway, the steward, appeared.
"Compliments of Mr. Tillotson, sir," he said. "Don't forget you're having a drink with him at noon."
Carl swung round, genuinely shaken, while an electric silence settled on the others. Barkway's face was absolutely expressionless; it was quite impossible to judge whether the sudden entrance were innocent or not. It was quite true, thought Carl swiftly, that he was due to have a drink at noon; Tillotson was one of their poker-school; there had been some talk, when they broke up, of a pre-lunch party. But the timing of the message was remarkable; and so, in Barkway's mind, must be the fact that they were all sitting round the table, clearly holding some kind of meeting. Had Barkway waited outside the door? Had he been listening? Had he chosen the exact moment, so as to achieve surprise, or—more likely—to enjoy the shock which was his to give? Carl looked at him again. The face was still blank, almost theatrically so. But then, stewards often did look like that; it was a badge of service, copied from God-knows-what ancient dynasty of film butlers. If they ever betrayed emotion, they were betraying Paul Lukas, Arthur Treacher, William Powell. . . . But it was time for him to answer, if the moment were to be passed off naturally.
"Thank you, Barkway," he said. "Please tell Mr. Tillotson that I'll be there."
"Very good, sir." Barkway withdrew, smooth, expressionless, without allusion or accent of any kind. They could hear vague voices in the lobby outside as he spoke, presumably, to another steward. Then there was silence again.