Louis expelled a long breath. "Jesus! How about that, chief? That guy could have been listening outside, all the time!"
"I'll bet he was, too," said Diane. "What in hell were we saying, anyway?"
"Just that you and Kathy aim to get laid by everything that breathes. That's all!"
Carl raised his hand. "Let's take it easy. If he was listening, even all the time, I doubt if he could have really understood what we were talking about. Most of it wouldn't mean a thing, unless he'd been listening to a lot of other talk as well. He probably overheard the name Tillotson, and decided it would be funny to deliver the message just then."
"It was funny, all right," said Louis.
"Or it may have been a coincidence." Now that the small crisis was past, Carl was inclined to take this comforting view. He also wanted to finish off the meeting, which had run its course and served its purpose. "But in any case, it's a good illustration of what I wanted to say, before—" he looked at his watch, "—before I go to have my drink with Mr. Tillotson. We want to be careful all the time. We want to attract as little attention as possible. It doesn't really matter if Louis is seen going to Mrs. So-and-so's cabin; this whole ship's a gossip factory, as you know—you can't have corned-beef-hash for breakfast without half the passengers congratulating you by lunch-time. There's bound to be talk, whatever he does, whatever the girls do. But there's talk and talk." He looked round the table slowly, intent on making his point. "It's a matter of degree. If it's just talk about who's dancing with who, or even who's sleeping with who, it doesn't really matter. We're on a cruise, these things go on, love is in the air. . . . But if there's conflict—if there's drama if Mrs. Stewart-Bates goes into shock for the next ten days, if Gerson wanders out of Diane's cabin shouting and waving an empty wallet, even if my poker friends start complaining in public about their losses—then we're in for trouble. It's a matter of handling, and of course it comes down to the individual. I can't tell you how far you can go, in each case. That's up to you. But try and attract the minimum of attention, when the pressure's on." He pushed back his chair, formally ending the session. "I must break this up," he said, "because I've got to keep that date. But just remember, and take it easy."
Louis left first, then Diane; the Professor remained where he was at the table, and Kathy also, standing by the porthole. After a moment she came forward.
"Anything I can do, Carl?"
"No, my darling." He looked up at her. "I want to talk to the Professor for a moment."
She nodded. Then she came up behind him, and put her hands softly over his temples. "Do get some sleep, when you can. You were terribly late last night."
"I'll sleep this afternoon."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
After a moment she added: "Those officers were just babies."
He smiled, covering her hand with his own. "I haven't a doubt of that."
When she was gone, leaving behind her, where she had touched him, the faint perfume which he knew so well, Carl came briskly to attention. It was his most formidable capacity, to be able to isolate contrasting moods and to concentrate on one or other of them at the flick of a switch.
"Were they?" he asked almost harshly of the Professor.
"What's that, Carl?" The Professor's hand had wandered again to his mouth, and he was looking sideways at the wall-table laden with drinks.
Carl said: "Help yourself, Professor," and the old man crossed to the table with unashamed alacrity. There was a rattle of bottle against glass as he poured himself a drink. After two gulps of whisky, also audible, he turned and said:
"Were they what? Were who what?"
"The officers. She said they were babies. True?"
The Professor was not surprised. Between himself and Carl there was an absolute frankness; no question was too inquisitive, no answer too squalid, no topic unmentionable.
"Perfectly true," he answered readily. "There's nothing there. She likes one of them—Mansell, his name is—but it's nothing serious. They've danced together a few times. He asked her to go ashore with him when we were at Bermuda, but she wouldn't."
"What's he like?"
The Professor spread his hands. "A child, just as she said."
"O.K." Carl dismissed the topic. He looked at his watch again. "I've got ten minutes still. Anything for me?"
The Professor, enormously comforted and reassured by the mere feel of a glass in his hand, sat down again.
"One or two things," he answered. "First, there's Diane's one thousand dollars. The Bancroft affair."
Carl nodded. "Why did you raise that? You think she's holding out?"
"Frankly, I do. It's such a round figure, and—" he threw back his head in a dignified movement, "—I still use that phrase, in spite of any coarse comment she may make. It was probably a great deal more."
"Difficult to find out."
"Indeed, impossible. But there's no harm in indicating that we are keeping our eyes open."
Carl nodded again. "Agreed. I think we've got to accept the fact, Professor, that both she and Louis will get away with whatever they can. There can't be an effective check. It's like the income-tax assessment of a waiter's tips—educated guesswork. We must take a likely figure, and raise hell if they seem to be getting out of line."
"We'll do that. . . . Then there's Louis," the Professor went on. "I mentioned the matter of Mrs. Kincaid, and the amount of gossip there is already. You dealt with it yourself, perfectly adequately. But I think it's probable," he said carefully, "that Mrs. Stewart-Bates has already given him other presents, besides the cigarette case. They have been together—dancing and suchlike—for nearly two weeks now. He has been uniformly attentive. Now she is not a stupid woman, though of course she is incontestably foolish. She surely regards him as a dancing-partner; with all the self-flattery in the world, she must realize that he is a full quarter of a century younger than herself, and that the relationship is that of gigolo to client. She must have been paying him—with jewellery, cufflinks, even money—on a more or less continuous basis."
"There's no check," said Carl again.
"No," agreed the Professor. "But I have compiled a list of the jewellery she has worn in public. If that is what he proposes to take from her, I will certainly make a note of what she no longer wears, during the rest of the voyage."
Carl smiled, with genuine amusement. "Professor, you're wonderful."
The Professor sipped his drink, well satisfied. "I dislike being fooled," he said, "particularly by my inferiors. One must take certain precautions. ... I also had a confusing encounter with young Barry Greenfield."
"Bad luck."
"That young man," said the Professor, with feeling, "should have been exposed at birth. More and more do I come to believe in the old Spartan customs. However. ... It was a curious conversation; I must admit that I did not fully understand all of it. He seemed to be hinting that the girls—and Diane especially—were engaged in some operation, of which he at least—at the age of fifteen—was fully aware."
"You're fooling."
The Professor passed his hand over his brow. It was a much more relaxed gesture than hitherto, but it demonstrated a degree of inadequacy none the less.
"I am not fooling," he answered, "though I may have been mistaken."
"But what did he say?"
"Just that he was keeping an eye on all of us."
Carl laughed aloud. "Barry Greenfield? But that's wonderful! Perhaps we should cut him in."
The Professor shuddered. "No, no! There is a capacity for evil there which I for one could never compete with. I can assure you, he would have acquired a controlling interest, inside of a week."