Dagne, reddening, did not reply. To her right, Dickie Mountbatten asked Duff how he felt about the Italian invasion of Abyssinia.
“You and Diana are so fond of the Italians,” he said. “I can’t wait to sink as many of them as the Wishart has ammunition for.”
“I adore the Italians,” said Diana.
“Quite as much as Ambassador Dino Grandi adores you,” said Duff. They had been given center stage, and he would use it.
“They’re not the Germans,” Diana said. “We must remember that. But—”
“They killed several hundred women, children, and invalids in that bombing of Adowa,” Spencer said.
“Exactly,” said Diana. “They cannot be excused. That was barbarism.”
“If the government doesn’t take a stronger stand against Mussolini in this, Eden is going to resign as foreign minister and I for one shall support him,” said Duff.
“By ‘stronger stand,’ do you mean go to war?” asked the Countess von Kresse.
All conversation stopped. The prince was speaking to them.
“Baldwin asked me to meet with Haile Selassie when he was in London,” he said. “Can you imagine? He said it would offend the dominions and the empire if I didn’t. I replied it would offend the Italians if I did.”
“Germany will not intervene in Abyssinia,” said Emerald. “Ambassador von Ribbentrop assured me.”
“We were at a dinner party at Venetia Montagu’s—” Diana began.
“An assemblage sadly pro-Semite and profoundly out of touch,” Channon said sonorously.
“At Venetia’s dinner party, a toast was made,” said Diana. “It was hardly eloquent, but it bears repeating.”
“Crinks Johnstone made it,” said Duff. “It was to the death of Ribbentrop.”
“Duff!” exclaimed Emerald.
“And I amended it,” Duff said. “‘That he should die in pain.’”
Wallis was grim. All this political bombast was going to make a shambles of her party. Why did Duff always have to go out of his way to provoke Germans? Why couldn’t such a high-born man have better manners?
“Some circumspection, please, Duff,” said Chips, leaning across Mrs. Parker, who looked dazed. “Joe von Ribbentrop is a dear friend of Emerald’s. The countess is a friend of Chancellor Hitler.”
“I have only met him, sir,” she said. “But we are all of us proud to have him lead the nation.”
“I met him myself,” Diana said. “When Duff and I were at Bayreuth in 1933. In fact, he was staying at the same hotel at the time.”
“Almost moved out,” said Duff.
“No, you didn’t, Duffie,” Diana said. “You asked for an interview, but they fobbed you off on that fool ideologue Rosenberg. He invited us to Nuremburg.”
“Couldn’t get anyone in that damned hotel to make a proper gin fizz,” Duff said. “And they want to rule Europe.”
Martin could see that Dagne was on the verge of screaming. He nodded to her in congratulation of her remarkable self-restraint, then realized she had only mistaken his gesture for approval of Duff’s comments. He did approve of them, of course, but had no intention of expressing that. Certainly not when she was so near the explosion point.
“We did go to Nuremburg,” Diana said. “A panoply of beastliness. I actually passed within two feet of the Great Man. Could have killed him, I suppose, if I’d had a bomb. His complexion is quite dark, or it was then. Had a fungoid quality. Our eyes met, the famous hypnotic eyes. To me they seemed glazed and without life—dead, colorless eyes. The silly mèche of hair I was prepared for. The smallness of his occiput was unexpected. His physique was on the whole ignoble.”
Dagne shot up from her chair, giving her napkin one very hard wring and dropping it with a thud on the table.
“Entschuldigen sie, bitte,” she said, looking to the prince. “I’m sorry. I feel ill. It’s the ship.”
Face flushed, the opposite of seasick pale, she hurried from the room.
“Actually,” said Mountbatten, eyeing the level of wine in his glass, “I think the list is beginning to lessen.”
The prince turned to Nora Gwynne, as if to reassure her about the others.
“I’m afraid Duff doesn’t understand Mr. Hitler, or what he’s trying to do,” said Edward. He took both of Nora’s hands and held them tight together, as if bound. This was extraordinary. One never touched royals. And royals touched almost exclusively by shaking hands. “You see, when Hitler came to power, the Jews held Europe like this. They still do, to quite a large degree, though he’s working to change that. All Hitler’s trying to do”—the prince flung Nora’s wrists apart—“is free Europe from the tentacles of the Jews.”
The Coopers and Count von Kresse stared at him—Diana with disgust, Duff with cautious contempt, the count with a sort of sad bemusement. Von Kresse rose.
“Please forgive me,” he said, “but I think I should attend to my sister.”
“Please stay,” said Emerald.
“I’m sorry. Very sorry. But I must see to her.”
When he was gone, Edwina drained her glass and also got to her feet.
“I’d just like to say,” she said, with a dazzling smile, “that I think you’re all a great lot of crashing bores, including you, sir.”
“Edwina!” said her husband.
“I was having the most marvelous conversation with that gentleman and I intend to finish it,” she said, taking up her evening bag and sidling toward the door. “Bonsoir.”
They all sat in silence until the door shut behind her.
“Sir,” said Wallis to the prince in that plaintive, insinuating whine that crept into her voice when she wanted him to do something. “Isn’t it a breach of protocol for others to leave a gathering before Your Royal Highness? I’m just asking for my own instruction.”
“Oh, Wallis,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. Everyone is just a bit out of sorts what with this awful storm and all. I’m sure we’ll all be back to our merry selves in no time.”
Mountbatten was peering at his wineglass again.
“Actually, David,” he said. “I’m afraid I must duck away for a bit myself.”
“Don’t tell me you’re running after Edwina,” said Emerald. “That would be something of a first, would it not?”
“No,” said Dickie, frowning. One day someone would put Emerald in her place. “Just up to the bridge for a minute. I told them what to do to correct the starboard list and I think they’re doing it.”
As Mountbatten stepped out onto the deck, a blow caught him from behind, a hard, heavy object striking the side of his head. Stunned, he staggered and dropped to his knees. Another blow was struck on his back, knocking the wind from him and causing him to collapse on the deck. Gasping, he tried to reach for his adversary, but was kicked and sent rolling toward the rail. For an instant he grasped the person’s foot, but it pulled away and he was kicked again. He lapsed into unconsciousness just as he was pushed through the rail into the dark void below, just as he was pondering the odd realization that the foot he had briefly held was small, stockinged, and a woman’s.
Some of the group went on afterward to the ballroom for some late-night dancing, Spencer and Nora with them. Chips took Nora off for the first dance, however, leaving Spencer with Emerald, the Parkers, and the Coopers. Then a ship’s officer cut in, and then some other movie fan from among the other first-class passengers. Nora waved once to Spencer but otherwise was caught up by her circumstances. At one point she had to stop to sign two autographs.
“Celebrity is so time-consuming,” said Diana, who was on Spencer’s right. She moved closer.
“Quite,” said Spencer, trying out the English phrase again and still not liking it. Edwina, the von Kresses, and Lord Mountbatten had not returned.
“I was once a theatrical person myself,” said Diana, blond hair falling over weary blue eye. “I did that dreadful The Miracle, as you may know. Tableau vivant, the lowest form of theatrical art extant. But
I did love it.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t see it.”
“That’s because you were fortunately off in the Orient or somewhere, darling, while The Miracle was packing them in in Cleveland. I made two films, though. One was The Glorious Adventure. It was a most foolish fandango about Charles II and the Great Fire of London. I played Lady Beatrice Fair and was abused by Victor Mac-Laglen, boxer cum actor. He played Bullfinch.”
“I saw him in The Informer last month,” Spencer said. “It’s hard to imagine you à deux.”
“Oh, he was rather sweet, actually, when he was sober. My other film I was rather proud of. The Virgin Queen. I played Elizabeth, and had to shave my eyebrows. ‘A splendid sacrifice to her sense of art and duty,’ the Daily Mail said. Other periodicals were much the less kind. The costumes were horrible and I looked grotesque.”
“I can’t imagine you looking grotesque, Lady Diana.”
“You’re rather sweet, too, Lieutenant Spencer. Your popularity with some members of our party is not surprising.” She leaned quite close, till their arms were touching on the table. She stroked his hand.
“I daresay you won’t believe this, but I was offered the lead in the film Anna Karenina. It was while I was on tour in America with The Miracle. Greta Garbo had walked out of the role and they offered it to me! I couldn’t make up my mind. Duff was so unhappy about the vulgarity of it all. Finally I decided to take it, but, quelle domage, it was too late. The great Garbo had changed her mind. I was never asked again to do a film. I suppose it was all for the best. There was a lot of hostility to my theatrical career, among people I scarcely knew, if knew at all. I once got an anonymous letter that said ‘How can you, born in a high social position, so prostitute your status for paltry monetary considerations—you THING!’ I half wondered if it was from my mother, the duchess. I doubt it, though. She knew very well that the monetary considerations were far from paltry. Then, strangely and curiously, I lost interest. Dear Duffie began to do so well with the government, and I found the government such mad fun. Had I kept on with it though, I might have been your Miss Nora Gwynne this evening. Would you have found that exciting?”
Nora had vanished from the dance floor.
“Quite,” said Spencer. “Lady Diana, are you trying to seduce me?”
She shrank from him, her expression very chill. “You vulgar man, whatever are you talking about?”
“Well, what’s going on here? What’s the point of all this intimate chatter? We hardly know each other.”
“It’s true that I do enjoy a flirtation now and then. But nothing more base. I adore my husband.”
“Speaking of things more base.”
“You’re insulting him, and he isn’t even here.”
“Where is he?”
She placed a hand on his arm. “Oh, please, Lieutenant Spencer. Don’t spoil it. Don’t cause trouble.”
“Awfully sorry, your ladyship. But I simply must.”
Spencer caught up with them in a dimly lit vestibule by one of the exits leading to the deck. Spencer had no idea how Duff had persuaded Nora to accompany him to this place, but it was evident she had no interest in remaining. He had his arms around her and was kissing her neck. Restrained by embarrassment and confusion, she struggled weakly and futilely. When she saw Spencer, her embarrassment increased.
Spencer pulled Cooper, a plump rather than large man, back rudely, then spun him about. Without a further word, he hit him in the jaw. Pain tore at the knuckle of Spencer’s little finger. His skin had torn on one of Cooper’s teeth.
Duff staggered backward, bleeding from the lip.
“You sod!” he said. “What in blasted hell is wrong with you?”
“Do you want me to hit you again?”
“Certainly not!”
“Then good night, sir. Now.”
“What?”
“Go away! Go back to your wife. Go now, or we’ll have a real fight.”
Duff pulled himself up straight, in drunken dignity. “Good night. Sir.”
Nora was upset, but calmed by the time they reached the door to her suite. She opened it quickly.
“I get so tired of it,” she said. “It happens wherever I go.”
A man who followed her through that door could likely lay claim to bedding one of the most beautiful and most celebrated women in all the world. It was the sort of boast to make, at the proper time, in Harry’s New York Bar. It was the sort of thing to interest Hemingway, like an elephant shot or a barracuda landed.
He took her hand and kissed it, as decorously as possible. “Good night, Miss Gwynne, A better day tomorrow.”
“Will you come back? Will you be with me tomorrow?”
“Miss Gwyne, I’ll be with you whenever you wish.”
“Not ‘Miss Gwynne.’ Nora.”
“I’ll see you in the morning. Nora.”
“Good night, then.”
“Good night.”
Kees, almost groggy now from his long labors supervising the shift of cargo, went to the first-class galley for a cup of coffee. Its heat and strength revived him, but he had had only a few sips when a crewman came up to him.
“Sorry, sir. Lady below asking for you. Down in third class.”
“Asking for me?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. She in quite a state. Very unhappy. I say, frightened.”
“A woman with long dark hair?”
“Yes sir. Long dark hair, long dark dress. In third class.”
Kees set down his cup, shaking his head. He was so weary his nerves were numb, his limbs worked as though independently from his brain. Dislocated. Disconnected.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll go see what she wants.”
Olga answered the door at the first knock, her eyes wide, looking quite distraught.
“Captain,” she said.
“I am not the captain,” said Kees. “I am merely a third officer.”
“Yes. Third officer, sir. I smell oil! Is something burning?”
“What? Oh, no. No.” He turned to the crewman, motioning for him to leave them. The small dark man did so, happily. “No, miss. But we’ve been transferring some fuel, to help with the balance.”
“I’m afraid. I fear we’re going to blow up.”
“No, miss. Come with me.”
She stepped forward timidly, her eyes full upon him, and wary.
“Come, miss. It’s quite all right. I want to show you something.”
He took her past two turnings in the corridors, coming to a noisy place with locked doors and large panels set on either side.
“There are two ventilator shafts here,” he said. “One vents a fuel tank and the other one of the oil burners. They run right up to the aft funnel. That’s what you smell.”
“But it’s in my cabin.”
“Oh, it can’t be. You’ve a cabin on the hull side.”
“No. It’s true. Come see. Come smell.”
He did so. Shutting her door behind them, she took him to her washbasin. There was a slight odor of the fuel oil, but it was minimal, a minor nuisance visited on those who could not afford the accommodations that were well situated to avoid such smells.
Kees sniffed. “It’s from that same ventilator shaft. It’s nothing to worry about.” He leaned close to the wall, putting his hand to it. The surface was cool. “Nothing at all.”
He heard an odd rustling sound, and turned to face her.
She had slipped off her dress and was wearing nothing underneath. The bare body on the bed that had haunted his dreams all the night before was now revealed to him again, soft and full and womanly—her breasts as perfect as they were large.
“This time, Captain,” she said, “do not run away.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Count von Kresse eased open the door to his stateroom and stepped inside quietly, discovering at once that there was no point to such stealth. Dagne was awake, sitting up in her bed, her cheeks rosy in the first pink light of sunrise.
&nbs
p; “Gute morgen,” he said, crossing to his own bed and lowering himself stiffly.
“Morgen wirklich. Allerdings nicht langer nacht.”
“Certainly not night,” he repeated, yawning as he began to undo his tie.
“Which was it?” she said. “The admirer of aviation art or the English Jewess?”
“Will you never stop, Dagne? I have no wish to breakfast on tripe this morning, especially regurgitated Herr Schicklgruber tripe.” He pulled off his shoes and leaned back. Despite his sister, despite his pain, he felt happy.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I don’t question your liaisons, Dagne, even when they’re with one of those Berlin gutter politicians.”
“I am not married. You are, liebchen bruder, and to a Catholic woman.”
“Whom I’ve not seen in twelve years.”
“But married all the same.”
“And does the new regime recognize marriages with Polish persons? I thought they’d been declared untermensch.”
“The Jewess is married also.”
“It’s what you would call a modern marriage.”
“Well, her husband, who is a good German Englishman, was almost killed last night!”
“We learned that a few minutes ago. Edwina’s with him now.”
“If the ship hadn’t been listing to starboard he would have fallen into the ocean. It’s extraordinary luck that he rolled onto the deck below instead.”
“Extraordinary luck that he wasn’t badly injured even at that,” said von Kresse, pulling off his dinner jacket. “They say it’s just bruises and a slight concussion.”
“And where were you when this was happening? In some stairwell? A lavatory?”
“We spent the night in an unoccupied cabin, and there is nothing more about this you need know, schwester.”
She pulled her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them. It was only then that he noticed the pistol on the bed beside her.
“I am very worried, Martin.”
“So I see.”
She picked up the weapon and held it loosely in one hand, the barrel pointing down.
Dance on a Sinking Ship Page 28
