Voyage into Violence (16 page)

“You don't recognize it?” Bill asked him, and Folsom, after continuing for an instant to look at Bill, shook his head. Then he said, “Why?” and his voice was hard on the word.

“A member of the Clover Club in Worcester, apparently,” Bill said, and put the letter back into his pocket. “You are too, aren't you?”

“Checking on me?” Folsom said.

“Among others,” Bill told him.

“Then you know,” Folsom said, and stood up. “I'm not your man,” he said, and looked down.

“Right,” Bill said, pleasantly, and Folsom looked at him again, and shook his head, and went away.

“Such a gay evening,” Dorian said, and got her hand patted, and was told she knew what she had married—had known it a long time.

“Oh,” she said, “I ask no change. Shall we da—” The music stopped. “Damn,” Dorian said, simply. And then she said, “Look who's here, now.”

It is to be assumed that the master of a ship has the run of it. It was, however, a privilege of which Captain Peter Cunningham, RNR, had not before much availed himself, being content to appear at his table and to mingle otherwise only with those invited to his quarters. (Pam had wondered whether he really liked sherry as much as he seemed to, and had been asked whether she wanted a ship's captain to train on whisky. She had responded that it was one of Jerry's theories that he drove better after a couple of drinks, and that a ship was probably much the same—larger, but encountering less traffic.) Now Captain Cunningham, looking as distinguished as a man may, in a white mess jacket, had invaded the Coral Café.

He had just arrived, and he was being affable, as one to the practice born. He had, perhaps by intention, timed his arrival with the orchestra's break, but he seemed otherwise to have no plan—to be merely, in line of duty, adding his cachet to the gathering. He paused at this table and that, and sat briefly at one or two, although he, it appeared, refused drinks at all. He was a more elegant, entirely non-fluttering, Miss Springer; and Bill Weigand, after a moment of puzzlement, watched him with growing amusement. Captain Cunningham, although in the main anything but an ingenuous man, was a little obviously putting on an act.

Captain Cunningham greeted the Norths, who, with no music to dance to, were bound toward the deck outside. He paused briefly at the table occupied by Mrs. Macklin and her daughter; momentarily, he joined a small knot of Respectable Riflemen. And very gradually, Bill Weigand decided, the captain was making his way in the direction of the Weigands' table. He reached it just as the orchestra reassembled. Bill stood up, in deference to authority. The captain sat down. He hoped they were enjoying the entertainment—he'd been told the impersonations were really quite good. “If one likes that sort of thing,” he added, doubtfully. Invited, he said he might break down and have a sherry. “Don't like the stuff particularly,” he said, somewhat absently. “But there you are. Discretion, y'know.”

“Quite,” Dorian said, and sipped brandy.

“As a matter of fact,” Captain Cunningham said, to Bill, “I was rather looking for you. You too, of course.” The last was to Dorian. “Looking particularly nice tonight, if you don't mind my saying so.”

Dorian did not mind. She was glad he thought so.

“It's all over the ship,” Cunningham said, then. “And—they seem to be getting the straight of it, or thereabouts. About Marsh, I mean.”

“It was always only a matter of time,” Bill told him. “Someone specifically?”

“Yes,” Cunningham said. “Our friend Furstenberg. Thought you'd want to hear about it, but didn't want to make a point of it. So I came here. Accidental meeting, y'know. Can't say I come often.” He paused. “Entertainers,” he said, explaining all. “Well, about our friend Furstenberg—”

Immediately after dinner, Aaron Furstenberg had asked if he might have a word with the captain, and had been taken to the captain's quarters to have it. He had come, unhurriedly but directly enough, to his point, which he said he thought possibly a curious one. But first—was what was rumored true? That something had happened to Mr. Marsh? He was told it was, and told, briefly, what had happened, and had moved his elderly, dignified head slowly up and down, as if confirming something in his own mind. He had one other question—was the jewelry of which the captain had such excellent photographs, in any way connected with the unfortunate thing that had happened to Mr. Marsh?

Captain Cunningham had hesitated over that. Finally he had said, “Why?”

Furstenberg slowly moved his head again, as if Captain Cunningham had said “Yes.” “Suppose I had, or near enough,” the captain said, telling it to Bill Weigand.

He asked, Furstenberg said, because he had, only a little time before, remembered having heard of Marsh, and of Marsh in connection with precious stones. The memory dated back some years; it had to do with the retention of Marsh by a firm of jewelers with which Furstenberg had been connected. “It had nothing to do with me,” Furstenberg said. “I know none of the details, although as I recall it concerned a trusted employee and—some question of appraisal.” He did remember that it had all been handled very carefully, and that nothing had come of it—nothing, at any rate, which involved publicity. Captain Cunningham would appreciate what he meant.

“Felt he knew more about whatever it was than he wanted to let out,” Cunningham said, to Bill Weigand. “Being discreet, if you follow me.” Bill nodded.

But it had not really been his recollection of this incident which had brought Furstenberg to the captain. At least—Aaron Furstenberg sought precision—not primarily that. But it had occurred to him that the photographs of the various articles—quite valuable articles, insofar as one could tell from photographs—might be somehow related to Marsh. Should he, now, proceed on that assumption?

Captain Cunningham gave him permission.

Then—Miss Hilda Macklin had come to Furstenberg that afternoon. “One of the ladies at the table,” Furstenberg said, in case it might have slipped the captain's mind. “The pale young lady?” Captain Cunningham admitted recognition of Miss Hilda Macklin.

“Mrs. Furstenberg and I were having tea,” Furstenberg said. “Very excellent tea, by the way. Miss Macklin came to our table, apologized for bothering us, and wondered if I could give her some advice. Naturally, I asked her to join us.”

She had joined them. She had understood that he was a man who knew much about precious stones. She was—it was embarrassing to come, in this way, to a stranger. To impose. But—

She wanted advice about selling some jewelry—some quite old pieces which had been long in the family. But—

“She seemed,” Furstenberg said, “to be very embarrassed indeed. We both felt quite sorry for her.”

The jewelry was her mother's. Her mother—well, to be honest, they were running short of money. There had always seemed to be—so much. When she was a child she had thought that—well, she had never really thought about it. But that wasn't what she wanted to say. That didn't, really, have anything to do with it. Although, she supposed, in another way it had everything. There were, then, these several pieces which, she thought, must have considerable value. But—she felt so helpless, so in need of advice. Seeing Mr. Furstenberg sitting there she had—It had been an impulse.

It was not, she had said, as if the things—a bracelet, a diamond bracelet, in particular—were things her mother would now have occasion to wear. They were—“the kind of pieces one wears to big events. Like to the opera.” As for herself, she would never go any place where one wore such lovely things. And, even if this had not been true, they needed money. She had only recently discovered how much they needed money. If she had known even a few weeks ago, they would never have spent “all this” money on the cruise. But her mother had no sense of money. No sense at all about it.

“She seemed very upset,” Furstenberg said, telling Captain Cunningham about it. “Her mother does seem a little odd and—Miss Macklin is very young, of course. With little experience. Apparently, she hoped that I would buy the pieces. I had to explain that I was retired and that I had never, in the way she apparently meant, dealt in precious stones.”

Then, if he would not buy the pieces, would he advise? Specifically, wasn't there someone in Havana he could tell her about? Some dealer she could trust? Because, knowing so little, she would have no way of telling whether an offer was—reasonable. She had paused, then, and put her hands to her head, as if in distress.

“We have to get some money right away,” she said. “It's—it's dreadfully urgent.”

Furstenberg had been solicitous, had tried to calm her, because he felt that she was growing increasingly excited and upset. He had asked for more detail about the pieces, and had been told there was the diamond bracelet, “all diamonds”—and several other things, and a pearl necklace. She had always thought the bracelet was very valuable.

“I urged her to wait until she got back to New York,” Furstenberg said. “To have the articles appraised by some reliable man—not to trust to a shipboard acquaintance. I pointed out that I, for example, might for all she knew be entirely unscrupulous. That I might, for example, send her to a dishonest dealer in Havana and—have an arrangement with him. She said, ‘No. I can tell.' So many people imagine they can. They are often wrong. But—finally, I gave her the name of a firm in Havana. An entirely reliable firm, although I imagine she could do better in New York.”

He had stopped, then. He had said that that was all he had wanted to tell the captain. But he had looked at the captain carefully, as if he expected comment.

“Bracelets such as she described aren't too common, I imagine,” Cunningham told him, and Furstenberg appeared to have got what he expected. At any rate, he said, “Precisely, captain,” and then took his dignified way out of the captain's quarters. After thinking it over, Captain Cunningham had taken his own way out of them, and found Bill Weigand. Unobtrusively. He sipped his sherry, at the table on the edge of the dance floor, in the Coral Café.

“He puts two and two together,” Bill said. “Comes up with—stolen jewels, I suppose. And with Marsh trying to recover them and getting killed for his pains. And, a desire to unload them fast.”

“You don't like it?” Cunningham said.

“It would,” Bill told him, “be pleasantly simple. And—a pleasantly simple thief, if Miss Macklin is one. Asking a stranger to name a good reliable fence.”

Captain Cunningham said, “Quite.” Then he said, “Perhaps the old girl has been having her on?”

Anything, Bill supposed, was possible. But one would think the young girl would know if “old family pieces” weren't.

“Did she offer to show them to Furstenberg?”

“He didn't say so,” Cunningham told him. “I gathered—well, that he wanted to stay out of it as much as possible. When he began to think there was a smell of fish. Can't blame him, y'know.”

Bill agreed one could not blame Aaron Furstenberg, assuming all was as he said it was. Cunningham raised eyebrows.

“Oh,” Bill said, “probably it was.”

“One thing,” Captain Cunningham said, “once you've bought your ticket on a do like this, the need for cash isn't pressing. Drinks, of course. Run to a bit with Mrs. Macklin. And the things women buy ashore. And tips. But, it isn't as if they risked being stranded.”

“Right,” Bill said. “I'd thought of that.”

Cunningham supposed he had. Cunningham said he would be getting along, then. He got along, stopping to smile and speak, but progressing consistently toward a door. The orchestra reappeared. The captain's pace quickened.

Bill looked at Dorian, and found her sketching on the back of the drink menu. He was not surprised—a pencil seemed, sometimes, to grow in Dorian's hand. She held the sketch so that he could see it.

It was a head of Mrs. Macklin—a head, and a hand holding glass to lips, but not so that the face was obscured. It was done, as were most of Dorian Weigand's sketches, in few lines—it intimated, rather than described, a face. It was evidently Mrs. Macklin. It was also all women like Mrs. Macklin. At the same time, there was something unreal about the face.

“It does odd things to faces, doesn't it?” Dorian said, as Bill studied the face of Mrs. Macklin. “Pulls them out of shape—so that they're not right for the bones.”

Without, for the moment, entirely understanding what she said, he saw, clearly enough, what she meant. He said, “What does?” and Dorian said, “Oh, lifting, of course. Surely you'd seen that?”

9

The after portion of the sun deck, off which the café opened, from which one could look down on the swimming pool, was lighted by the soft glow of night. The moon gave light, the stars added a little light, light trickled through doors and windows of the café. The ship itself steamed to the south, and now to the west, in an effulgence of its own, in which the sun deck shared. But there was, certainly, nothing garish in the illumination of the deck, now that night covered it. The cruise brochure had spoken, warmly, of the romance of tropical nights, and it could not be denied that the brochure had something. Neither the Norths nor the Weigands sought to deny it. On the softly lighted deck, in the night's warmth, it was difficult to keep one's mind on murder, and no great effort was made.

They sat relaxed in deck chairs, in a row near the rail. They sipped, less from thirst than in obeisance to the spirit of holiday. Through open doors and windows of the café the orchestra's music filtered, and it sounded much better from this little distance. The girl entertainer was singing, now, and to her efforts, also, distance lent a modicum of enchantment. Around them, but not too near, other shadowed figures were dim in other deck chairs, and now and then there were muted voices, and now and then a woman laughed, but softly, in accordance with the theme.