"What does she do all day?"
"Just that."
"H'm." The Captain looked up at Brotherhood, standing by his elbow with the fresh drink. "Who is Mrs. van Dooren's steward?"
"Pennington, sir," answered Brotherhood, without hesitation.
"How's he holding out?"
"No complaints, sir."
'Very well." Harmer nodded, and Brotherhood withdrew again.
But you'd better watch it, Foxy. I don't want her breaking a leg or anything." "I'll watch it."
- The ship rocked gently over a long swell. Automatically the Captain glanced up at the repeater-compass which was fixed to the bulkhead behind him. He followed it as it swung off two or three degrees, then looked away again as it settled down on course once more. They weren't asleep up on the bridge. ... He took a slow pull at his drink.
"How's our gigolo?"
"Still on the pay-roll, apparently."
"I suppose she knows what she's doing."
"Well, she's old enough."
"They're a funny family. . . . Tim's well smitten with the blonde girl."
"Oh, he's a case, all right. . . . I'm not sure about the other one."
"What about her?"
Cutler shrugged. "I've just got a feeling. She has all the men panting, and I'm not surprised. It's the uncle that puzzles me—Wenstrom. He doesn't seem to worry about it at all."
"Why should he?"
"I would."
"Oh, you know what kids are like, these days. The girls are practically born with make-up on. ... He plays poker, doesn't he?"
"All the time. Very hot stuff, so Edgar says."
"Big winner?"
"Up in the thousands."
Harmer raised his eyebrows. "Is that so? Any complaints about it?"
"No, no, nothing like that. They all seem very happy. It's a daft way to spend your money, I say, but I suppose they've got plenty of it."
"They're a funny family," said the Captain again. "Who's looking after them?"
"Barkway has three of their cabins."
"He'll keep an eye on them. Is he still bloody-minded, by the way?"
"Very."
The buzzer sounded on Harmer's desk. He pressed the switch of the intercom; Tiptree-Jones's voice came through, elegantly controlled.
"Captain, sir!"
"Yes." Harmer winked at Foxy Cutler. "What is it?"
"I have Antigua on the plot, sir. Bearing one hundred degrees, about fifteen miles."
"Very good. I'll be up."
He stood up, and reached for his cap. "That's it for me, Foxy. But don't hurry. Finish your drink."
"Thanks, skipper."
"I'll want to know about Simms. Any change."
"I'll tell the doctor."
"Apart from that," said the Captain, preparing to take his leave, "it looks like just another cruise."
4
A whole fleet of buses and taxis had been chartered to take the Alcestis passengers from St. John's, their anchorage on the north coast of Antigua, to English Harbour on the other side of the island, and thence to the Millreef Club for a gala dinner. The passengers streamed ashore from the launches—the Alcestis being too big to come alongside—in a brightly-coloured, chattering throng. They were stared at, even giggled at, but they paid no attention to this. It was just something that happened, in this part of the world.
They knew already that natives hereabouts simply weren't used to tourists—not their kind of tourist, anyway. It had been all right as far as Puerto Rico, which of course was pretty well part of the States anyway; but the farther south one went, the less the inhabitants seemed to appreciate women in halters, women in orange shorts, men in striped peaked caps, men with three cameras and a good solid waistline. So they stood in groups under the bright sun, looking round, enjoying themselves and their isolation, turning their backs on the quayside touts, telling the beggars to go to hell; until the man in charge of transportation called out: "This way, folks!" and they set off in high spirits for the historic site marked *** in the itinerary—Nelson's Dockyard at English Harbour (restored).
They were beginning to travel in their own vacuum bowl, and beginning not to give a damn about it. It was the difference between belonging to the Alcestis, and not belonging. Envious stares, flip remarks, inevitably went with the former, and that was all there was to it.
Louis Scapelli, a small trim figure in white slacks and a blue-striped T-shirt, had held back from the queue which was piling into the last bus.
"Gee, 1 don't want to go with this mob," he said to Mrs. Stewart-Bates. "Can't we fix something just for ourselves?"
"I don't see why not," said Mrs. Stewart-Bates, with that slightly flustered air which meant that she was secretly pleased. "There must be another taxi somewhere around. Is that what you mean?"
"Yes," said Louis. "That's exactly what I mean."
"If you could find one," said Mrs. Stewart-Bates, timorously, "I'd be glad to—"
Her voice trailed off; there was no need to be explicit about what she would be glad to do, and indeed, she would no longer dream of mentioning the topic. She had reached the stage when deferring to his wishes, which had formerly been a pretended submission, was now a real one. It was not that he was masterful; simply that he only remained attentive as long as he had his own way, and she needed him—desperately, tormentingly—to remain attentive. She realized, being fundamentally sensible, the degrading aspect of this companionship; at night, alone, she was ashamed of it; but in the morning, meeting once more his dark good looks, his intimate air of sharing a secret only with herself, she forgot shame and knew only joy. No one else on board had a man like this one. He had chosen her, and stayed with his choice; if they were not lovers yet, it was only because he respected her too much. She could not see the future, but the present was ecstatic.
Louis, having secured his carte blanche and with it his private line of retreat—and in any case, he didn't like the Alcestis crowd at times like this, they were inclined to smirk and make cracks about himself and the old girl—Louis looked about him. The last passengers had climbed into the buses, and driven off; with the exodus, the quay was beginning to resume its normal air of indolence. There was a tall native, in some sort of washed-out khaki uniform, leaning against one of the buildings, smoking lazily, staring at them. He was about ten yards off. Louis gestured.
"Hey, you!"
The man did not stir a muscle; he remained where he was, gracefully, insolently private, watching Louis and Mrs. Stewart-Bates. After a moment of silence, Louis was forced to walk towards him.
"Can I get a taxi around here?" he asked, still on a note of command.
The tall native took his time about answering. He looked from Louis to Mrs. Stewart-Bates, and then back again. Then he threw away his cigarette, watching the butt curve and fall into the water. Then he said:
"I got taxi. Yes, sir!"
Even the "Yes, sir" managed to sound mocking, a caricature of the American glad hand. But Louis pushed on through it.
"Well, you're hired."
The man repeated "Hired" as if it were a new word. Then he said: "Where you want to go?" "Down to that dockyard, that harbour some place."
"English Harbour?"
"That's it."
The man gestured towards the dust of the departing buses. "You miss transportation." He said the word with a very careful, very satirical intonation, as if it were fundamentally foreign and ridiculous —which indeed it was. "Yes, sir!"
"That's O.K.," said Louis. "We want to go by ourselves."
"Pay fifteen dollars," said the man. "British West Indian currency."
"Hell, that's ten bucks—" began Louis. But Mrs. Stewart-Bates, coming up behind him, interrupted.
"Oh, what does it matter? Take it, Louis! It'll be just wonderful!"