"I haven't got it," said Louis. "You know that. And I wouldn't touch the lousy stuff, anyway."
"Then ten dollars American," said the driver.
"Nine."
The driver sighed. "We wait for police."
Mrs. Stewart-Bates laid her hand on Louis's arm. "Don't you think we'd better pay?" she suggested. "It's so hot. We could stay here for ever."
"But this is just a hold-up," said Louis angrily. "We're being clipped, twice over."
"It's only ten dollars."
"Lady right," said the driver.
After a pause, wordless, Louis passed the money across. The taxi gathered way again; presently they were at the quayside, and rewarded by the sight of the Alcestis, shining white among the drab fishing-boats in the harbour. There was even a launch waiting, an Alcestis launch, something they could at last give orders to. But Louis was unappeased. It was murderously hot; he actually had a headache now; and he had fallen for a racket so obvious, so childish, that he could never tell anyone about it. His anger mounted as he glanced at Mrs. Stewart-Bates, sitting by his side under the ruffling canopy of the launch. It was clear that she would not look at him; she was embarrassed by their defeat. She was thinking, already, that she would have to reimburse him twenty dollars.
Close to, the Alcestis was enormous, a towering castle, a symbol of unscalable power and quality. This was his true world, his own home ground. But he had been gypped by a nigger cab-driver in a frayed shirt. ... By the time they trod the decks again, he was in a vile mood, just ripe for it.
He lay back on the comfortable bed, the pillows piled high behind his head, an eiderdown drawn half-way up his chest. She had undone his tie, and loosened his collar; she had given him two aspirins, taken his temperature, nursed him anxiously for half an hour. Now she sat down on the edge of the bed, and put her hand on his forehead. It was still cold to the touch, moist, slightly clammy. It might have been fever, though in fact it was not.
"How are you feeling?" she asked anxiously. "You're so pale."
"I'm fine." He covered her hand with his own. "Don't you worry about me. It was just the sun. I'm better already. I'm always pale. You know that."
"You need someone to look after you."
"I've got someone, haven't I?"
She had switched off all the lights except the bedside lamp; in their private world, the scene and the mood were already sensually relaxed. As soon as they had returned on board, he had pleaded a violent headache; it seemed that, by the time they reached her cabin, he was almost in a state of collapse. But now things were easier. A half-hour of quiet, with herself as the ministering angel, soft-footed, gentle-voiced, had worked the required miracle. They were back where they had been before—wherever that was, she could never decide, she did not want to spell it out—with all the inevitable promise that lay between two people content to spend their time with each other.
"I'm fine," he said again. When he made his move—and it must be soon—he wanted the moment to be exactly right. Shock was going to be everything; he intended her, for pleasure as well as for profit, to be so overwhelmed that her only reaction would be a fish-like gasp, followed by an abject, spreadeagled surrender. That was the way to operate. ... He let his other hand fall gently on her thigh as she sat on the edge of the bed. He had never yet touched her there. Big deal. . . . Her come-back would be a slight confusion, a withdrawal for a breathing-space, followed by-
She got up, reacting swiftly, a pink suffusion in her cheeks. "Now, Louis. I don't believe you're sick at all!"
"Not with you around," he said. "Who could be? ... I like that necklace of yours, Grace. It suits you."
Her hand went to her throat. "Do you really like it? It was a present. It's beautiful, isn't it?"
"That's why it suits you."
"Now Louis! What's got into you, all of a sudden?"
"You know, don't you? It's because we haven't been like this before."
"Like what?"
"Kind of close together."
But now that the moment was here, now that he had projected it into the room like a chord in music, she could not believe it. She drew back, and stood looking down at him. He noticed that her hands were trembling, and that into her eyes had come a kind of silliness, as if she were seventeen again, and face to face with some dream of joy. Delaying for very shyness, she asked:
"Don't you want to eat now, Louis?"
He shook his head, settling back into the pillows. "Not yet. I could use a drink, though."
"Scotch and water?"
"Just that."
She poured the drink, her back towards him; but there was something in the way she stood, the set of her head, which told him that she would never be more vulnerable, more open to astonishment. His moment had come, and with it a cruel appetite for power, as though he could feed upon her ruin. As she handed him the glass, he said:
"That cab-driver sure took us for a ride, didn't he? Twenty bucks!"
"Horrible man . . . Oh, I must pay you back, mustn't I?"
"There's no hurry."
"While I remember."
Her bag was on the bedside table. She sat down again, and reaching for it took out a roll of bills, clipped together with an ornamental gold spring. She drew out two ten-dollar bills, and passed them to him. He took them; then he said, on a sudden note of the utmost ferocity:
"More!"
"More?" She was confused by the word, and by the tone he used. "What do you mean?"
"Give me more. Keep dealing! Give me all of it."
"But Louis—you're joking—" She was not yet shocked, just completely confused. "Why should I give you money?"
"I'm in your bed, aren't I?"
It hit her like a wave crashing upon a naked swimmer; he could have laughed aloud to see the expression of bewilderment wiped from her face, to be succeeded by a fearful shame. She was horror-stricken; the brutal tone, the brutal words, had overwhelmed her. Her hand went up to her mouth, convulsively, as if he had slapped her upon it.
"Louis!"
There was a knock on the door, and the stewardess's voice said: "Madam?"
He reached out and grasped her arm in a ferocious grip. With his other hand he ripped open his shirt, so that it looked as though he were lying in bed naked.
He had foreseen this, too. He could turn it to account. He said in a fierce whisper: "Go ahead! Ask her in to take a look at us!"
With an enormous effort, near to sobbing, Mrs. Stewart-Bates turned her head and called out:
"What is it? I'm busy right now."
"I'll come back, madam," said the stewardess through the door. "I just wanted to turn down the bed."
Footsteps receded, silence returned; his grip on her arm remained relentless. Down the corridor, the stewardess said to Barkway, the steward:
"They're at it again."
"Good luck to 'em," said Barkway.
"Disgusting, I call it. It ought to be reported."
"Not by me," said Barkway. "They can rock the ship, for all I care."
Within the cabin, the vile scene developed swiftly.
"Now get this!" said Louis. He was sitting up, his naked chest gleaming in the lamplight. He suddenly seemed, to her, the very picture of masculine evil, and to himself, a god. "You'll pay me, and you'll pay me good. For a start, give me the rest of that bankroll."
His grip tightened on her arm, twisting the flesh cruelly. She cried out: "You're hurting me! Stop it, Louis. You must have gone crazy! What do you want?"
"You heard me." He reached out, and snatched the money-clip from her hand. "I want this. As a starter. Call it the cover charge."
She stared at him, still disbelieving, unable to face the truth of the nightmare. "But if you need money—I don't mind—only don't talk like that."