Death of an Angel (28 page)

A darkly good-looking young man, in swimming trunks—a young man deeply browned, with extremely white teeth in a dark face—got up from a deck chair near the pool and started to walk among the chairs. His path intersected that of Hilda Macklin, bound away from the pool. He was—Pam was almost sure he was—the handsome young man who had (but had he really?) intercepted Hilda briefly, inconclusively, at the cocktail party. Now he was—

But he was not; it was clear he was not. He stopped to let Hilda pass and now they were close enough to her for Pam to be sure that no sign of recognition passed between them. So—she had been wrong about that, also. It was more a pity than ever, now that Miss Macklin, viewed more fully, could very well do as Juliet. With, of course, a little lipstick. She and the dark young man, whose swimming trunks were white, would make a very nice-looking couple.

Jerry North reappeared. His face was serious. It took even Pam a moment to realize that the seriousness was too heavily laid on. It was not like Jerry to shake his head dolefully; he should know it was not like him. But he managed a few portentous words. “It seems we've made a—” Jerry began, in a voice of moderate gloom. Pam looked at him.

“All right,” Jerry said. “Captain Cunningham's compliments, and he would be pleased if we could join him for cocktails in his cabin before lunch. One-ish, the purser said. I said it sounded like a jolly-ish sort of do.”

“You didn't,” Dorian said. “I surely hope you didn't. ‘Jolly-ish,' indeed.”

“I said we'd be glad to,” Jerry said. “Taking it upon myself.”

“Cunningham?” Pam said, and answered her own question. There were information brochures in the cabins; Pam had read hers. “Oh,” she said. “The real captain. Captain Peter Cunningham, RNR.”

Jerry agreed that it was the real captain.

“You'll have to change your shirt,” Pam told him.…

They had all changed their shirts, or the equivalents, when they went, one-ish, for cocktails with the captain (the real captain) of the
Carib Queen
. From the level of the sun deck, they went upward in an elevator labeled “Lift” and were released into a small foyer, where the captain's steward met them. The captain's steward was a rosy youth, immaculately white as to jacket. He ushered them up a short flight of steel stairs and into the quarters of Captain Peter Cunningham. And Captain Cunningham was as real a captain as anyone could wish.

He was tall and lean and unassertively British. He had a long, tanned face and steady blue eyes; he was, Pam decided, precisely what Noel Coward had years before had in mind in that Navy picture during which Mr. Coward spent so much time under water. Captain Cunningham welcomed them to the most ship-shape of small sitting rooms. He was gravely cordial; if this mingling with selected passengers—and how, Pam wondered, selected—was in any sense a matter of duty, nothing in Captain Cunningham's manner suggested that there were other things he would rather be doing.

Pam and Jerry, Dorian and Bill, were first, but only by minutes. Respected Captain J. R. Folsom was next, and now he was in full uniform, complete with cap. A little unexpectedly, once in the cabin, Folsom stood to attention and saluted, as one officer to another. Pam looked for surprise on Captain Cunningham's long face, and found none—found only grave courtesy. Captain Cunningham even returned the salute, although uncovered. Courtesy could hardly go further.

The rosy steward—beamish if anyone ever was—served cocktails and canapés. The canapés were admirable, the drinks cold and as ordered. Captain Cunningham sipped sherry and they talked tentatively as people do, when met at cocktail parties. The room was small enough to be talked across, and the captain, who was clearly experienced in such matters, prompted conversation. And he seemed to listen to everyone, and to listen as if he heard.

This was true even after Mr. and Mrs. Oscar Peterson arrived, to fill the small, neat room. Mr. Peterson was short and round, and wore a gray business suit—unexpectedly complete with vest. His wife was a little larger, but of the same general design; she wore a flowery print. Mr. Peterson operated a flour mill in Minnesota; it was the first time they had been on what Mrs. Peterson preferred to think of as a boat. And about this lack of wide experience they were in no way defensive. Some people lived in New York and went to night clubs (Mrs. Peterson didn't doubt) and others were captains of cruise ships; some published books (apparently) and others milled flour. It was the way things should be, and nobody made a point of “living up” to anyone else—or even, Pam realized, thought of doing so. Mr. and Mrs. Peterson were very sweet, and Mr. Peterson was interesting on the subject of flour. It had never occurred to Pamela North that flour could be so interesting, and she got some very good advice from Mary Peterson about the making of cherry pie.

In civilian life, Respected Captain Folsom made shoe boxes—paper boxes in general, but shoe boxes in particular. This momentarily surprised Pamela North, for reasons slightly obscure. Once thought of, it became evident that somebody—and Mr. Folsom as well as any—had to make shoe boxes; clearly boxes did not merely grow around shoes, as cocoons about larvae. Pam had merely never thought of it before. When you came to think of it, as Pam now did, somebody had to make rubber bands, too. The world is a varied place.

The minds of Mr. Peterson and Mr. Folsom met briefly—one of these days the unions were going to go too far; not that they disapproved of unions, but—and were parted by Mrs. Peterson, who had the air of a person who had certainly heard that one before. Mrs. Peterson parted them by complimenting Respected Captain Folsom on his uniform. She had, she said, never seen a uniform quite like it. Pam looked at her, and decided that Mrs. Peterson meant it in only the nicest way.

“Traditional,” Folsom told them. “Been the same since the Riflemen were organized. War of 1812, you know. Stood by to repel those damned—” He stopped, abruptly.

“Quite all right,” Captain Cunningham said. “Threw our weight around a bit, probably.”

“Er—” Folsom said. “Anyway, been going on ever since. Drills. Kind of a militia. Not that it
is
the militia. I don't say that. Have a dinner once a month and when something comes up people ought to take a stand on, we take a stand on it. Know what I mean?”

Pam was a little afraid she did. But she smiled brightly, at the same time warning Jerry with a quick glance. He smiled reassurance; he would not go into the matter of stands taken. One of them would probably turn out to be on books permissible to libraries, but this was vacation.

“Very interesting,” Captain Cunningham said. (The place was certainly, Pam thought, full of captains, especially if one counted Bill, as she supposed one had to.)

“Have you,” Dorian asked, “found the sword?”

Somewhat gloomily, Folsom shook his head—from which he had, as an afterthought, removed his cap.

“Sword?” Captain Cunningham said. The Petersons merely looked puzzled. “Oh, of course,” Cunningham said. “Officer of the deck's sword.”

“Day,” Folsom said. “Officer of the day.”

“Much the same thing,” Cunningham said. “You've lost it? On the ship? Job for you there, Weigand. Your line of country, what?”

“Not,” Bill said, “unless it's found on somebody. More J. Orville's.”

The ship's captain, and the Old Respectables' captain looked blank at that, and the Petersons politely puzzled. Briefly, Bill explained J. Orville Marsh. Recognition dawned on Captain Cunningham's long face.

“Matter of fact,” he said, “got him on my list, I think. That is—” He stopped.

“But of course, captain,” Pam said. “There would have to be a list. Because if you'd picked just anywhere, we wouldn't have come in a—a set, would we?” She looked hopefully at Captain Cunningham. He looked hopefully back. “Bill and Dorian,” Pam said. “Jerry and me. We must have been in a bracket on your list.”

“Oh,” Cunningham said. “As a matter of fact, yes. Comes from the head office, the list does. Special people the directors want to—er, honor. Awkward word for it, but there you are.” He paused. “Or,” he said, “
here
you are. Mrs. North could do with a cocktail, Cholly.” Cholly was the beamish boy; Cholly brought drinks. “One of the pleasures of my trade, as a matter of fact,” the captain said. He sipped sherry. He was still on his first glass, and the glass was still almost full.

“Missing persons, eh?” Folsom said, and seemed much interested. “That all he does?”

“Did, he tells me,” Bill said. “No. Some corporation work. Employee investigation. That sort of thing. Shortages which aren't clear enough to sign complaints, for example. You still think one of the—one of your organization—hid the sword? So, I gather, as not to have to wear it?”

For a moment, it appeared that Respected Captain Folsom was thinking of something else.

“Oh,” Folsom said, returning. “Sure—that's all it could be. Seems Jonesy forgot to lock up last night. The gun cases, that is. Jonesy's the adjutant. Slipped his mind, what with one thing and another. So he doesn't know if it was in. Old Riggsy says he put it there and he had the last tour. But—there you are.”

It was not entirely clear where they were. Bill Weigand is a man who likes things clear: Pam could see the desire for clarity flicker briefly in his eyes.

“Vacation, darling,” Dorian said from the deep chair in which she was sitting, a foot tucked under her. “Remember?”

“Right,” Bill said.

“It'll turn up,” Folsom said. “Always does. About this private detective, does—”

Somebody knocked rather loudly at the door of the captain's quarters. Cholly came out of the captain's sleeping cabin, in temporary use as a serving pantry, and went to the door and opened it. Mrs. Macklin, her red hair neat again, but wearing a green dress, came in at once, brushing past the steward.

“I am Mrs. Macklin,” she said, speaking to Captain Cunningham; ignoring the others. “I am seated at your table.”

She spoke loudly, in her high voice, and the voice cracked. There was a kind of violence in the elderly woman, with the skin drawn to such unnatural tightness over the bones of her face.

“I demand you do something,” she said.

She was not a large woman and was of what Pam always thought of as the top-heavy type, believing that almost all women incline either to top- or bottom-heaviness. But, standing in the middle of the room, looking up at the tall ship's captain, Mrs. Macklin seemed to fill the room.

“Certainly,” Captain Cunningham said. “Whatever I can. But—about what?”

“I supposed,” she said, “that this would be a well-run ship. I was assured it would prove a well-run ship.”

She spoke distinctly; although the ship moved a little on the quiet sea, she did not sway. And yet it was evident that, again, she had drunk more than she had been wise to drink.

“It is,” Captain Cunningham said, simply, with patience. “You have something to complain of?”

“Complain of?” she said. “Complain of indeed! Somebody in my room last night. After dinner. Went over everything. Your well-run ship! A thieving steward.”

“Our people are carefully selected,” Captain Cunningham said, and was entirely formal, although there was frost on his voice. “You make a serious charge, Mrs. Macklin. What was stolen?”

“Stolen?” she said. “Nothing stolen. Probably heard me coming. Nosing around. Looking.”

“Probably,” Cunningham said, “the stewardess straightened up. That's her job.”

“You think I don't know?” Mrs. Macklin said, and her voice was higher than before. “Think I can't tell?”

Quite clearly, the captain did.

“Precisely what—” he began, and she interrupted.

“As bad as the rest,” she said. “This purser of yours. This other captain.”

“Oh,” Cunningham said. “You've seen the purser? Captain Smythe-Hornsby? I'm sure they're doing everything that can be done, Mrs. Macklin.”

Captain Cunningham spoke calmly, seriously; standing tall and competent, he epitomized reassurance. Nor was there anything in his manner to indicate that he did not take Mrs. Macklin as seriously as she could wish. And yet it was as if his quiet words had touched a trigger.

Violence in the aging woman had been evident until then, but it had been restrained. But then all restraint vanished—then as if there had been some explosion inside her, Mrs. Macklin began to scream—at the captain, at all of them. Her words—her screamed words—lost coherence; the tightly stretched skin of her face became red and mottled.

Captain Cunningham was against her, like the rest. She screamed at him—“You don't care. Nobody—” She had a right to protection—she—“Kill me in my bed,” she screamed at him, and turned to the others. “All of you!” she said. “Laughing—laughing—they'll kill me.” She became momentarily obscene. She seemed to hear her own words. “Don't say those things,” she said. “You hear me? Don't—” She moved toward the captain, as if to claw at his unchanging face.

It was something—it was a drunken outburst—from which one wanted to get away—something from which one wanted to run away. At first no one moved. Then Peter Cunningham moved. He stretched out strong hands and grasped the woman's shoulders. He held her, for a moment, saying nothing.

And, held so, she at once stopped her screamed, inarticulate tirade. She stood quietly; then she said, “What did you say?”

Captain Cunningham said nothing. He merely looked at her.

“I'm afraid,” Mrs. Macklin said, quite calmly, “that I allowed myself to get a little excited.”

You could have laughed at that. Nobody laughed.

“Can't I offer you a drink?” Captain Cunningham asked her, as a host asks a guest.

“Why, thank you,” she said. “Thank you. A little bourbon and water, perhaps. But, very little bourbon, please.”