No sex, no fun, she thought, sipping her brandy and staring at her reflexion in the mirror behind Edgar. When she'd started out on this trip, she had thought it would be just another chore; but it had turned out to be a lot better than that. . . . Must be the boat rocking, or something. . . . But now she'd been off it for a whole fortnight; even do-it-yourself didn't work any more. . . . When she was a kid, it had driven her nearly mad. Sometimes, in school, she had to hold up her hand, and go out and do it in the toilet, she couldn't even wait for recess. . . . But later on, it had been much more fun. Like this trip. Even the old, old guys had come across. Must be the boat again. Take old man Walham, for instance. He was so mad to get his money's worth, he really took some trouble. . . . And Tiptree-Jones—like the girl said, he's a pill, but a big pill. And young Barry Greenfield, he started out real wild, two seconds' fireworks and goodbye, a real flash-in-the-pants—but in the end he improved, too. He had to. . . . And Zucco—like all the Jews, it was practically religious, you could almost feel him praying—though what the hell he was praying for—maybe the second coming—
"Would you like another one, Miss Loring?" asked Edgar.
Now there was a question, she thought, as Edgar tipped the bottle of Courvoisier and added another half-inch of brandy to her glass. ... Of course she'd like another one, she'd like another one right now. And she could be having it, if the doctor hadn't been such a square. "Please continue to refrain from sexual intercourse," he had said, as though it didn't matter if it was for ever. He was good-looking, too, he must be a fairy. . . . She felt perfectly all right, perfectly normal. Maybe the time had come. . . . Carl had been so tough lately, so damned rude, he ought to be pleased if she came across with a few hundred bucks. Why not? she thought, looking along the length of the bar. She felt perfectly all right, it didn't even tickle. . . . Carl was always bitching about her not doing enough work—and ha! ha! to that, with Kathy doing sweet nothing at all— it would be fun to come up with a surprise, to show him that he'd got at least one good trier in the team.
The prospects at the bar were not encouraging, but that didn't matter. In the past, some of the funny ones had turned out to be the best bets. . . . After a few moments, she called out to the only man within reasonable range:
"Mr. Kincaid, I know it's not like a lady, but can I buy you a drink?"
When they were gone, Edgar took a bar-chit, and wrote on it: "No. 4 and Mr. Kincaid. Edgar." Then he snapped his fingers, to one of his junior aides who was collecting ash-trays in the near-empty bar, and called: "Fred!"
"Yes, Mr. Edgar."
"Take this up to the Captain, right away." He passed the piece of paper across, and then looked at Fred with the coldest possible glance. In the Tapestry Bar, there was never any doubt about who was boss. "You'll very likely read it on the way," said Edgar, sternly. "But if you talk about it, God help you! I'll see that you're back to kitchen-boy tomorrow!"
"Yes, sir!" said Fred earnestly, and hurried on his way.
"Mr. Kincaid," said the Captain, after listening in silence for two minutes, "I've been expecting you. Please sit down."
"How come?" asked Kincaid suspiciously. "You know this thing has been going on? If that's so, all I can say is—"
"We have suspected it," said Captain Harmer, "and we have therefore been watching it. The Loring girl was one of the people we thought were involved. It was reported to me that she took you to her cabin. The rest was easy."
"Now hold on a minute," said Kincaid. "I'm not sure I like the sound of that 'She took you to her cabin' stuff." He touched his crest of white hair almost primly; if there could have been a cross between an Old Testament prophet and the woman taken in adultery, this was it. "She says to me, let's finish our drinks down there in comfort, and I say, O.K., and then suddenly she threatens to scream rape and murder unless I give her five hundred dollars. But that's not the same thing as—"
"Mr. Kincaid."
"Yes, Captain?"
"You are not giving evidence on oath. You are telling me something, in confidence, which might possibly lead to formal charges against a third party. You will have ample time to consider the final form of your evidence."
After a moment Kincaid grinned, and said: "I get it, Captain."
"You went to her cabin."
"Just that. One thing led to another, and I thought it was all fixed. Gee whiz, I mean—we're not children, for God's sake—everyone says she's on the menu—"
"Quite so," said the Captain.
"Then suddenly she ups and says, that'll be five hundred bucks."
"Was that before, or after?"
Kincaid, astute as a fox, trained and battered in a thousand political brawls, looked at the Captain for a long time before he said: "It was after."
Harmer nodded. "What next?"
Kincaid expelled his breath, as if a difficult corner had been passed. "Well, I said to her, what the hell, I don't mind twenty or even fifty dollars, I know the score, a working girl has to work, but five hundred, what happened, did we do it in caviar or something?—and then she says, it's five hundred or I'll call my uncle. Then I got the message." He nodded, as if congratulating himself: perhaps he was. "Yes, sir! But it wasn't the message she thought. Suddenly it all connects—Jesus, the Professor!"
"The Professor?" inquired the Captain.
"That's it—the old guy with the Old English line. Long time ago, when he was really corned, he said some damn' fool thing to me about internal corruption, like there's a gang here on board taking us for everything we've got. I've been thinking of that for a long time—I used to belong to an organization that paid me a lot of money never to forget things—and suddenly I came up with the answer. This is it! This is the gang at work! The old Professor wasn't fooling after all. They're working the bruised-thigh routine! So I said: 'Go ahead and scream.' "
The Captain waited, happy and alert at the same time. He would never have thought that such a deplorable recital could sound like music to him, but it was so. "The bruised-thigh routine," he prompted.
"We used to have names for all these plays. Remind me to tell you about the Mann Act squeeze, some time. . . . Now don't get me wrong. I'm not a hero, there's my wife on board, I have my own problems. But I knew for sure this girl wouldn't be doing any screaming. I've met plenty of this before—" he gestured, "what the hell, I've been in politics a long time—and they never, but never, scream. Well, almost never. In the end they say: 'You must know the mayor, or something,' and then they fold. This girl folded. . . . Oh, I gave her twenty," he went on, as if reassuringly. "Don't think I robbed the girl. And then—I got to thinking about the Professor— and I've heard a few rumours, you can bet there are rumours flying around, it's like a really good convention—and so I came to you."
The Captain sat back, deeply satisfied. Whatever the theme, this wax music.
"You did right, Mr. Kincaid," he said cordially. "You did right and I respect you for it." He coughed. "Of course, this whole situation is entirely disreputable, and I do not for a moment condone—"
Mr. Kincaid was watching him closely. For the very first time m his adult life, the Captain felt his voice tail away under the impact of someone else's gaze. In the silence, they stared at each other for at least fifteen seconds before they both smiled broadly, and then the smile became laughter, and the Captain rose. "What will you drink, Mr. Kincaid?"