Kathy, entering at that moment, heard the words and the tone. It was astonishing how Carl's voice and even his accent could change, according to the people he was talking to. With herself, he used his "actor's" voice—measured, benevolent, rather English—while with Scapelli and the others the tone of command w&s almost obtrusive, and his accent took on an American briskness. It was not an affectation, she knew; he spoke to her as he felt, while he spoke to the rest of the world as he thought—and his thoughts in that direction were always brusque and masterful. The way he was talking to Louis Scapelli now meant that Louis had annoyed him—which was not the best start to their meeting.
She came forward with a certain determination, intent on smoothing things down.
"Hallo, Diane. Hallo, Louis."
Diane Loring greeted her with guarded enthusiasm; Louis, who was ready to turn sulky, scarcely acknowledged her arrival before saying to Carclass="underline"
"But what's the Prof going to do?"
Kathy took the initiative before Carl could answer. "He's going to work on his book."
"You're kidding," said Scapelli scornfully.
"It's true—he's writing a book about pirates," said Kathy. "Didn't you know that? He's been working on it for years. Doesn't that fit in?"
"O.K., it fits in. But where's the percentage for us?"
Now it was Diane's turn. "All right, so he won't make us a million dollars and he won't lay all the rich old dames till they're dizzy. That's your job, Romeo. Can't you handle it?"
"I can handle it," said Louis sulkily.
"Don't knock yourself out trying."
"What's that mean?"
"You won't be the only man on board." Diane managed to put the word "man" into quotes, so that it seemed to pose a whole series of crude question-marks. "There might be some real competition."
"On a cruise ship? You're nuts! There won't be a guy under sixty. Man, they come on board in wheel-chairs! On these trips, men are as scarce as hen's teeth. Isn't that so, chief?"
Carl had not been listening. He had been watching Kathy. She had "put on some clothes", as he had directed, but the clothes were somehow rebellious—a clinging white sweater, and a pair of lizard-green slacks that showed off her slim build with startling candour. She looked about sixteen, a sensual, provocative, free-moving child. She had done it on purpose, of course; but what was the purpose— and what, indeed, was "it"? A demonstration of independence? A challenge to authority? A statement that she would still decide how much of her body was to be on public view? Or were the trousers somehow symbolic—he caught himself up at that, and smiled in spite of his uneasy thoughts. He knew her quite well enough to ask the answer to the riddle, later. In the meantime, there was work to do.
"Children, do not quarrel, do not argue." His tone was more relaxed, more friendly, but the note of command was still there. "I am promoting this enterprise, and the people I take with me are my choice, no one else's. I want the Professor on board. Indeed, I need him. We will call him my confidential secretary. On the surface, he will be there because I am a man of affairs, and I require the services of such a companion. In actual fact, he will do the leg-work." He caught Louis Scapelli's sneering smile. "My dear Louis, there is slow leg-work as well as quick. ... He will run messages, arrange meetings and introductions, serve as part of our background; he will be a link between the family—my family—and those people on board who want to meet it. Above all, he will be the one man whom no one could possibly suspect. For that reason, he will collect the loot from you all, whatever form it takes, and he will go ashore with it at the end of the voyage."
In the silence that followed, Scapelli said, "Hell, chief, you're taking a chance on that."
"I am not," answered Carl curtly.
"But what's to stop him—"
"He won't need stopping. We will make an appointment to meet on shore, and the Professor will keep it."
As if to point the remark, the door now opened quietly, and the old man came in.
Unless one kept him under close-range scrutiny for quite a long time, the Professor was a figure of undoubted dignity. He was tall, and thin, and old; above the wizened face the mane of white hair rose like some ancient crest. He had a courteous, venerable charm which delighted almost all women, causing them to look discontentedly at their more free-and-easy escorts;this, their glances said, was the proper way to treat a lady. . . . His clothes were those of the old school, the black coat greenish with age, the collar high and stiff, the thin knitted tie held in place by a gold ring belonging to a vanished age of elegance; as he stood in the doorway, he held in his hand a grey bowler hat with a curly brim, and a gold-headed malacca cane which must, it seemed, have been won from its Malayan palm-grove when Queen Victoria was young.
Of course, close-to, he was a little seedy, a little shaky in the hand, a trifle rheumy of eye; but so were many fine old gentlemen for whom the modern world had proved somewhat too exhausting. It was no shame (he seemed to say) to show the weight of three-score-years-and-ten, no disgrace to have abdicated from the cut-throat marathon which was the twentieth century's measurement of achievement. There was indeed a disarming humility in the Professor's bearing which had proved, to innumerable people for more than half a century, the most costly calling-card of all.
It was only when one came to know him very well indeed, or was exposed to that frail and fallacious charm for a long period of time, that the façade betrayed, beneath the patina of age, the fissures of corruption. But even at first appearance, small hints of imperfection sometimes obtruded. There was such a moment now; for, as he stood framed in the doorway, it was clear to the roomful of people who knew him that the Professor was more than a little drunk.
He carried it well, as he had done for thirty years, but the slightly swaying stance and the pinkish flush under the eyes were unmistakable signs. So was his voice, as he raised his cane in solemn salute and enunciated:
"A happy new year to one and all!"
Carl smiled in spite of himself; their joint past had contained much that allowed the old man such latitudes as this, and after all they were not yet in action. The others greeted the Professor according to their several habits of mind; Diane exclaimed, half admiringly: "Why, you old devil!" and Kathy said: "You'd better sit down, Professor," and led him towards a chair. Only Louis Scapelli, lounging in the background, glass in hand, had a sour note in his voice as he said:
"What did I tell you? Prof, you're stinking!"
The Professor, struggling with his overcoat, paused to glare at him.
"I can carry my drink, sir! Which is more than can be said for your generation."
"You're sure carrying it now, daddy-oh. Didn't they tell you, New Year was over four days ago?"
Carl interposed. "Professor, have you just left the shipping company? Did you come here directly?"
The Professor, who had lowered himself gingerly into an armchair, blinked at him.
"Not directly here, Carl," he answered. His voice was grave, almost senatorial, as if he were pronouncing a verdict upon the Far East. "I completed our business—let me see—some little time ago."
Carl nodded, satisfied. "I'm glad to hear it. Otherwise they might have got the wrong impression."
"Impression? What impression?"
"He means," said Louis, "the shipping clerks might think you were stinking all the time. They might not like it. They might even cancel your ticket. You know how these things get about."
The Professor, with much effort, turned in his chair to face his tormentor. "Young man—" he began.
Kathy, crossing between them, broke in. "All right—let's cut out the comedy. Professor, do you want a drink?"