by Troy Conway
Georges Fortescu laughed. It transformed his hard, craggy brown face into something human and likable. “Good, good. Then we understand one another. Good luck!”
I went out into the Riviera sunlight. The sailor in the striped jersey had swung my valise and carryall onto the deck. I lifted them and started walking. A maid in micro skirt and frilled uniform blouse with an equally frilly cap on her brown hair, flirted with me as she showed me where Emile Crillon had bunked.
She also told me my next duty would be to attend the dining room, to take orders for drinks, to supervise the service, to be at beck and call.
I went into the room and closed the door behind me. I unpacked my things. There was a tiny closet that held about half of what I had with me, so I kept the rest in the valise and shoved it under the bunk. I lay down and crossed my ankles, staring up at the white ceiling. I dozed.
When I woke, the A thena was under way. Its twin motors were throbbing faintly, deep in its bowels, and there was that surge underfoot that let you know the ship was making good time as it headed eastward past the Cote d’Azur.
I dressed in white ducks, blue blazer, white shirt and tie.
If I was going to be a ship’s steward, I would be a good one. I went up the companionway to the main deck, finding my way into the bar. A small, older man was turning on the bar lights. I nodded, introduced myself, and studied the bottles and the equipment. The man stared at me almost hopefully.
“You know liquor?” he wondered, after a moment.
“I know liquor. I want to see how well you’re stocked. You have pretty much of everything you’ll need, I should imagine.”
The bartender, whose name was Andreos, nodded gloomily. “I guess so. I do what is ordered. I try to make cocktails for these people. I do not do so good. They make the funny faces.”
I enjoy making friends. I said, “Tell you what. If I get the chance, I’ll make the drinks. How about it?”
His relief was almost comic. “Tie family, they usually drink only wine. And wine I know. But these others, these jet-setters, they ask for crazy things. Martini Manhattan. Robert Roy. Who knows those?”
“I know them, Andreos. I’ll make them happy.”
I was at the doorway when they came in, the women in evening gowns, the men in dinner jackets. I bowed; I escorted them to their chairs; I answered their questions. Ilona Fortescu beamed when she saw what an impression I made. Even her husband seemed in more of a jovial mood.
The snotty blonde babe I had met on deck was named Flew Devot, a starlet in a French movie company. There was also a French banker and his wife—Alain and Celeste Maillot—a Spanish manufacturer, Eduardo Herrara, with a lovely brunette whom I realized at first glance must be his mistress, though they called her his secretary, Juana Batione. Add to these a handsome male movie star, a p parently the boy friend of the snotty blonde, a dancer named Donna Romminet, a second blonde who was quite obviously her own particular friend, Barbe Serrelle, and you know the guest list.
The Fortescus ordered wine, the Maillots requested martinis.
My blonde friend was gleeful as she opened her eyes wide and asked, “Might I have a Pimm’s cup?”
I overcame the urge to belt her one and made my stewardish bow. “Anything, miss. What base?”
She looked a little blank. I don’t think the little tart had ever had a Pimm’s cup in her life; she’d just heard the term.
Patiently I explained, “There are six basic Pimm’s liquors, miss. Which one would you prefer?”
Celeste Maillot smiled happily, saying, “He has you, Fleur. Admit it, you haven’t the faintest idea what he’s talking about!”
Everybody laughed. Fleur Devot went white with fury. Her boy friend, Pierre LeMoines, whinnied with laughter like a horse. I figured she might haul off and belt me, or demand I be set ashore at the nearest port, so I made an even deeper bow.
“There are Scotch liquers, gin, rye——’’
“Gin,” she said hastily. “Make it gin.”
“Moi, aussi,” intoned her boy friend.
“I’m going to change my mind, Rod,” murmured Ilona Fortescu. “I believe I’ll try a Pimm’s cup myself. But make mine Scotch.”
“It will take a little time to build one,” I warned.
“No matter. We’ll chat,” smiled Celeste. “And include me on the Pimm’s cup. It’s been ages since I’ve had one.”
I went to the bar. Andreos looked on with wide eyes as I foraged around until I found stemmed glasses large enough for the Pimm’s cups. I selected four, I began to build them with the gin or Scotch bases, the soda, the added fruit. A Pimm’s cup can be a work of art. I made mine into artistic perfections. I added an extra one for myself so I could sip it and make certain the others were as delicious.
It took me ten minutes to make them properly. Beside the Pimm’s cups, making the martinis and the other drinks was nothing. I set the- glasses on the trays and made my way back to a Serving table.
I placed the drinks and stood back.
Inside moments, I was being overwhelmed with compliments. Even Fleur Devot admitted that hers was tres bon. Georges Fortescu took a sip from the straws in his wife’s cup, nodded after smacking his lips, and eyed me with new respect.
“What jewel have you come up with, Ilona?” he murmured. “A man who knows how to make drinks? Incredible.”
“The best martini I’ve had east of New York,” added Alain Maillot.
The compliments flowed in. I stepped forward after a while to take the dinner orders with something like confidence inside me. I figured maybe I could pass myself off as a steward, after all.
The girls in their mini-skirted uniforms served the pâté de foie gras mousse and scampi grilled over charcoal as hor d’oeuvres, pressed duck with gigot d’agneau or galantine of duck as a main dish. The diners finished up with a Chantilly cream cake for a dessert.
The serving girls and I would eat later.
It was a little past ten when they left the table. I was starved. I did not help clear the table; that was not my job. I just walked into the kitchen, sat down, and reached for what was left of the leg of lamb—the gigot d’agneau—that was so heavily stuffed with kidneys, mushrooms, truffles and flavored with Armagnac. I ate like the famished man I was.
When I was done, I turned to the chef who was undoing his apron. “Armand, le bon Dieu is waiting for you to die to make you head chef in His kitchens.”
Armand beamed.
I took a stroll on deck. I knew my duties were not at an end, a steward is on call at almost any time of the day or night, especially a steward like myself, who was the only one on board ship. But I wanted a little time to myself. I am not used to catering to the whims of a dozen people.
Ahead of me, I saw a slight figure leaning against the rail. As I came closer, I recognized the pert little French maid, Angelique. I was about to speak to her when she gasped and stiffened, moving back a step from the rail. She had been staring out to sea. I turned my eyes where she had been looking.
A man was treading water, staring at the ship.
“C’est impossible!” she cried.
We were ten miles out into the Mediterranean. No man in his right mind would be swimming this far from shore. I felt a cold. premonitory chill ripple down my spine. A merman? But as Angelique said, it was impossible.
The man dove, disappearing.
Angelique was shivering. I put an arm about her, frightening her almost as much as had the sight of the swimmer. When she recognized me, she pressed closer, shivering.
“Could it be, what I saw? A man?” she quavered.
“Some men are mad—tres fou! They fancy themselves as athletes. He was a night swimmer, no more.”
“But there are no ships around. Look for yourself. And nobody can swim so long underwater. He hasn’t come up yet.”
“It may be war exercises of some kind,” I told her. “He is probably an aqualunger, attached to a submarine. The submarine is beneath the surface.
It is night; perhaps the crew is practicing ejection in case of an emergency. The Minerva sank not too far from here, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But it was scary.”
She was a pretty little thing, young and friendly. I told her to go to her quarters and forget what she had seen. Angelique seemed to think that was a fine idea. I watched her coat swing from side to side as she crossed to a deck door and opened it. Her fingers wriggled a farewell at me.
I went on pacing around the deck. I was worried, frankly. The man we had seen had been no submariner. There had been no diving equipment on his pack or head. He was a merman. I was positive of it.
But in that case, why was he shadowing the Athena?
There may have been a submarine, one of those small undersea craft that hold two men, below us. The submarine could be paralleling our course. The swimmer had emerged to make certain ours was the ship they wanted to trail.Once certain of that, they could keep after us, unseen, just below our keel or behind it, utterly unknown to anyone on board ship.
Should I tell Georges Fortescu?
I decided against it.
The next few days at sea were utterly unexciting. I was up to attend the breakfast party, I brought deck chairs, I put on a mini-brief and served as a lifeguard when the guests donned swim trunks and bikinis to cavort in the waters off Sicily and later, in the Ionian Sea that extends from the boot of Italy to the Peloponnese.
I had expected more fun and games on this cruise. Maybe all the excitement went on behind closed doors in the guests’ cabins. I had very little to do and my time was my own between breakfast and dinner, outside my duties as lifeguard, which gave me my chance to get the Mediterranean sun and plenty of. exercise, swimming here and there in the blue waters.
My health was never better. As a matter of fact, I was almost too healthy, if there is such a thing. The hot sun, the blue waters, the excellent food, the lazy days on deck watching seven nearly nude girls and women swimming around in the Mediterranean, was affecting my gonads.
I was on deck the fourth night after leaving St. Tropez when I saw a merman for the second time. It was not the man I’d seen off the Cote d’Azur, this man had a bald head, and much broader shoulders. He came very close to the Athena, as if he did not care whether he was seen or not.
I was alone at the time. I watched him for a few minutes as he swam alongside us, gradually falling behind as the yacht continued its steady ten knots an hour. Then he dove and disappeared.
We were a dozen miles offshore. To our port side, in the distance, I could barely make out lights on the island of Kythira. There was forty miles of open water on our starboard side, as far as the nearest land, which was the island of Crete.
This time I reported what I had seen.
Georges Fortescu ridiculed my eyesight at first. “Nobody can be swimming this far out to sea without scuba equipment. You must know that, Damon.”
“Yes, sir—except for a merman.”
He jumped a foot and stared at me coldly, suspiciously. He muttered. “A merman? You mean like a mermaid?”
I told him a little of what I knew about the mermen. We were in his office. I’d interrupted him leaving the main lounge after more cigars, and the door was closed behind us. He had taken out half a dozen cigars, now he paused’ while inserting them in the sterling silver case he carried in his dinner jacket pocket.
He waited patiently until I was through. Naturally I did not tell him it was the baroness I saved. I made up a name for a nonexistent female. But the fight with the mermen, and how I killed them both, I related with exquisite honesty. It seemed to me his face got darker and more menacing, the longer I talked.
“Extraordinary,” he murmured when I’ was done. He pushed the cigars into the case and clicked it shut. “If this is true, it deserves some publicity. Have you told anyone about it—besides me?”
“Not yet, no,” I lied.
He beamed his pleasure. “Good, good. We’ll talk about this tomorrow, Damon. Do me a favor—don’t tell any of my guests or crew what you know. We’ll keep it a little secret between us, shall we?”
I agreed to thaat as I had no reason not to, but I did not tell him that Angelique had seen the first swimmer. His reaction to the news disturbed me. He should have scoffed .more or been more alarmed. He was quite calm about the shole thing and did not seem at all surprised.
The next day went by uneventfully. The ship was calm and quiet. The guests ate and swam and loafed in the Aegean sunlight as they had been doing. There was an undercurrent of excitement among those guests, however, a sense of something about to happen, that touched my personal alarm system like a dentist drill does an exposed nerve.
Maybe I should have listened to this personal alarm system, which I have developed to a nicety since my employment as a Coxeman, but I enjoyed the hot sunlight and the swimming as much as anyone. I found the opportunity to belt down a couple of martinis before dinner. I floated in an aura of pleasure with the guests.
I did not realize how close we were to Thraxos.
However, I did wonder at Georges Fortescu. He had not sent any radiograms to the authorities inquiring about mermen swimming in the Aegean Sea. As the industrialist he was, and with the guests he carried on board—all of them fine candidates for possible kidnapping and ransom—heought to have been more careful. The least he could have done was make inquiries. To my certain knowledge, he did nothing.
I was puzzling over this while strolling about the deck after dinner next evening when Ilona Fortescu came out to join me. She was wearing a black satin evening gown that clung to her slim middle and full hips and showed off much of her mature breasts—which the panels that formed her low-cut bodice did little to hide. I had not seen much of Mrs. Fortescu during the voyage, other than at mealtime and when she had swum in the sea. Frankly I had been a little disappointed in Ilona Fortescu. She had promised much with her eyes, that first afternoon I had seen her breasts, but nothing had happened between us, so her sudden request surprised me.
“Rod, would you be good enough to draw my bath?”
I followed her swaying hips across the deck and to the door of her stateroom. I knew that she and her husband had different staterooms, but I had not given it any thought until this moment.
Her stateroom was decorated in pinks of assorted hues, and a chalk white. Her bed was canopied, coverleted in pink and white taffeta. The floor was carpeted from wall to wall in the same pink. A long closet adjoined her bedroom on one side. On the other, there was a roomy bathroom done in blue and white delft tiles.
I walked into her bathroom, letting my eyes roam over the double tub with its sterling silver fixtures. Oldfashioned carriage lamps on the walls added the final touch of pampered luxury to the lavatory.
I turned the silver faucets, I tested the temperature of the water. I laid out towels and the perfumed soap Ilona Fortescu favored.
When I turned toward the open bathroom door, I started in surprise. Ilona Fortescu was lifting her black satin evening gown upward. I stared at the handsome legs she displayed in black nylon stockings. She had excellent legs, slim but fully curved. When her soft bare thighflesh came into view above her stocking vamps, I cleared my throat.
As if remembering my presence, she turned and smiled at me. She did not drop her skirt, she kept it at the level of her upper thighs, an inch below her privacy. The sight of those superb stockinged legs affected me like an aphrodisiac.
“Yes, steward?”
I smiled back at her. “If your husband should come in right now, Mrs. Fortescu, he might misunderstand the situation.”
Her laughter rang out. “My husband never comes into my stateroom uninvited,” she assured me.
I could see the way her eyes ran up and down my own body, settling at the pronounced protuberance at my loins. Her eyes grew very bright, and I thought that her breathing quickened.
“I should have asked Angelique to draw my bath, I sup pose,” she murmured, “but the poor dear is i
ndisposed. You don’t mind this, do you, Professor?”
“I enjoy it, madame,” I assured her.
She hesitated, then murmured, “Angelique sometimes stays to wash my back for me. I suppose I couldn’t ask you to do that, not in your clothes and all.”
“If madame would permit?”
I took off my jacket blazer, folding it across a chair arm. I undid my tie, I removed my shirt. I kept glancing at her from time to time, seeing that she was taking an extraordinary interest in my strip act. I put my hands on my white ducks and raised my eyebrows.
Mrs. Fortescu nodded, so I slipped the trousers down and stepped out of them. All I wore were thin shorts that failed completely to cover my male excitement. My employer stared in undisguised admiration at what she saw.
“Olisbos,” she whispered, blinking.
“Priapism,” I nodded. “It’s an affliction of mine.”
She lifted her eyes to mine for a moment, before dropping them to this olisbos that so intrigued her. Her voice. murmured, “Affletion, Professor? Surely you misname your problem.”
I shook my head. “Unfortunately I do not. Priapism—or satyriasis—is a medical anomaly. When I become excited, I can find no relief.”
Like the baroness, she was disbelieving. She even laughed a little. “No relief? Nonsense! Why, I myself can furnish all the relief you need. Which is to say,” she added coyly, “I have the potential to do so.”
“You’re a very beautiful woman, Mrs. Fortescu, but no woman in the world can help me. Believe me, I have tried.”
She interpreted this, as all women do, as a challenge. I could see the glint in her eye, the firming of her jaw, the tightening of her lips. She felt my words to be an imputation upoon her femininity.
Her hands lifted her evening gown higher, to the level of her navel. Under it, her hips were concealed in a black girdle. She wore no panties, and the dark thatch of her womanhood was visible between her fleshy upper thighs
“Show me,” she breathed. “Take off those ridiculous shorts.”
I pushed them down. She gasped and her eyes grew wide. Her hands tightened on the black satin, her body wriggled, and the evening gown went up like a curtain rising, showing me her heavy breasts flowing out of a black lace brassiere, quivering gelatinously despite their confinement as she lifted the gown off over her head. She brought her arms down, letting the black satin dangle from her fingers as she stared at me.
