Firstly, he had no feeling at all of being aboard a ship. This was more like a first-class hotel; the sort that he always enjoyed. But this was no hotel, he realized, when he came out on deck. He could see that it was a ship with rails, lifeboats, portholes — but it did not have the feel of a ship. It was too big. The deck stretched away from him like a city street. The scale was something that was hard to accept. Intellectually he knew that this was the largest liner in the world. The reality was something else altogether. Rivelles, a man who was very hard to impress, was very impressed indeed. He shook his head. Back to work; that’s what he was here for. He pushed through the nearest door and back into a world of soft carpeting, unobtrusive lighting and seductive panelling. When he explained his needs to the Bureau, they were catered to at once. A quick phone call determined that Ms. Sheila Conrad was in her cabin and was indeed expecting him. An attendant appeared to lead the way.
“Pretty ritzy,” Nino said as they followed their guide down the corridor and into the elevator.
“Not exactly the phrase I would use, but an accurate summation.”
“You talk to this tomato a bit, alone. I want to look around. I won’t be long. Tell her how great she is or something, but don’t start the interview until I get…”
“To tell you the truth I never heard of her before I got this assignment. Do you perhaps know what she does?”
Nino raised his eyebrows and shook his head in disbelief. “Where do you live, John? Under a barrel? This broad must have made a million bucks writing tit books. Even I read them, and I don’t read much usually. Real horny stuff. Maybe you can make out.”
“Not really what I had in mind.”
“This is the cabin, sir,” the attendant said, accepting the proferred banknote with the assuredness of one who had done it many times before. Nino vanished as Rivelles knocked on the door.
“It’s open. Come on in,” a woman’s voice called from the other side.
He turned the handle and entered and was treated to the sight of Sheila Conrad — who had obviously prepared herself for his visit. She was sitting on the couch with her back to the window, the warm antipodean light pouring over her. Rivelles’s first reaction was that there was a lot of girl there, and a good deal of it was exposed for his consideration. She wore an expensive-looking black dress; with diamonds so ostentatious that they had to be real. Her arms were resting lightly on the back of the couch, her legs crossed so that the short dress rode well up onto her thighs.
“You’re from Newsweek, right?”
“Correct. My pleasure, Ms. Conrad.”
“Call me Sheila. That’s what your crummy book reviewer did when he laid into my last novel. Just plain Sheila. Never bothered to mention I had a last name. Nothing but dirty digs and insults. A creep. The highbrows never like my stuff. I hope you do better.”
“I adore your work… Sheila.” He adored her inescapable cleavage too, rising up to him with pink exuberance. “I have been looking forward to this interview with a great deal of pleasure.”
“I hope it’s a shared pleasure—” she squinted at a note she held, “—John. I wouldn’t be talking to you except that my agent made me promise to give interviews to any magazine with circulation over a million. What’s your latest A.B.C.?”
He had no idea of what the term even meant, but before he could fumble out an answer he was saved by a knock on the door.
“You expecting someone?” she asked.
“My photographer.”
“Better and better. Let him in.”
“Hiya, boss,” Nino said, maneuvering his bulky cases through the door. “My pleasure, Ms. Conrad. I thought your last one, Come Quick, My Love, was the best damn book I read in the last hundred years.”
“I love you, baby, not only for your literary taste but your neat turn of phrase. You have a name?”
“Nino Rossino.”
“And from Brooklyn, too!”
“You can sure read them.”
“I ought to, I grew up in Greenpoint.”
“Please,” Rivelles begged, glancing at his watch. “I want to interview Ms. Conrad, take some photographs….”
“No sweat, boss. No one’s come aboard yet, so if it’s OK I want to get some shots outside in this kinda lounge. A real luxurious setting for a real luxurious lady.”
“You’re a breath of fresh air, Nino darling,” she said, blowing him a kiss from glossy, painted lips. “Let’s get your pix and come back here and open some — champagne. This trip has been the kind of bore you can’t imagine.”
Nino led the way to a junction in the corridor where it widened into a lobby. There were chairs here and end tables, the area decorously lit and elaborately decorated, with soft leather lounges and fresh flowers set before the mirrors. Nino pointed out where he wanted them to sit.
“You there, please, Ms. Conrad. Boss, you can start the interview while I set the cameras up. I want this to look real natural. Get a couple of shots of you together, then the lady alone, if that’s OK. Would you hold this while I open the tripod?”
When he bent over the camera bag Nino had a chance for a quiet word in Rivelles’s ear.
“Right down that corridor behind you, the first two doors, they’re the two suites you’re interested in. Whoever goes into them has to pass me or come the other way. I’ll get them. Plenty of light, fast film, wide-angle lens. It’ll look like I’m shooting the sex queen but I’ll have the doors in sharp focus.”
“You’re a genius, Nino.”
“I know. Now get to work — here come the first passengers!”
“Sit right here, John,” Sheila said, patting the cushion.
“If I sit that close I’ll wrinkle your dress.”
“Silk. It doesn’t wrinkle. So fire away.”
This close, Rivelles was aware that Sheila wasn’t the youth she once had been; fine wrinkles were visible around her eyes. But she still had plenty of mileage left in her; this close, the cleavage threatened to swell out and engulf him. He fumbled for his pocket tape recorder and switched it on.
“Interview with Sheila Conrad.” She smiled ex-pactantly and his mind emptied completely of all thought. He had never done this sort of thing before, had no idea of what to say. He groped desperately for an idea and dredged one up from his subconscious. “What ever made you take up writing, Sheila?” he asked.
“Christ! Not that old chestnut again. Don’t you people ever have any new questions? The answer, for your millions of readers, is that I can make more money at the typewriter than I can on my back.”
An elegant and elderly couple, she was wearing floor-length mink, were passing as she snapped out the answer in penetrating tones. The sound of eyebrows shooting up could be clearly heard. The woman took one quick sideways look and hurried on.
“Next question,” Sheila said complacently.
“Would you look at me, please?” Nino said.
He had the 35 millimeter single-lens reflex mounted on the tripod; a long cable release ran from it. The camera was equipped with a power-driven film advance and it clicked and whirred three times in as many seconds.
“That’s really great, great shots. If you would stand for a second, boss, I want some singles. Smile, you adorable creature, that’s it, really great. Would you look up a bit now?”