Of course not. Being a meticulous old fuss-budget, Pennypacker would be among the first to line up on deck, laughing with his wife about how the life jackets didn’t fit, or didn’t become them, and making all the other old jokes.
Meanwhile, I had work to do.
There was a big suitcase of expensive soft leather opened on a luggage rack. I fingered through it quickly. Shirts of good broadcloth, a couple of pairs of slacks, underwear, handkerchiefs of excellent linen. A smaller bag under the rack contained shoes and two wrapped packages, which I guessed were presents for friends abroad or last-minute purchases. Two cartons of cigarettes. A snorkel—was he going to the Mediterranean?
I still hadn’t spotted what I was looking for. The bathroom was next. Shaving things spread out below the mirror, pajamas and robe properly hung on the door, bottles of cologne. Nothing else—and no place of concealment.
Then I began to realize something was wrong. It scared me.
There was only one other door and I opened it. This was a closet, and hanging in it were a topcoat, two man’s hats, and three suits that looked expensive. But nothing else.
That’s what bothered me.
Where were Mrs. Pennypacker’s things? This was a man’s room—one man traveling alone. Did she have a separate cabin? Or had I made a real goof?
Was it Pennypacker’s cabin? Or had I picked the wrong one in my haste to convince the officer?
The door to the cabin bumped behind me.
I leaped into the closet and almost closed it. A steward’s capped head looked in, made sure the room was empty, and then ducked out. It was the usual routine check for the emergency drill. But I heard his key scrape in the lock and fasten the door firmly.
I was locked in.
But locked in where?
I felt cold sweat break out on my forehead. Honestly. You hear of it, you know, but I think this is the first time in my life it ever happened. For all I knew, I was shortly to be grabbed as a sneak thief.
I went to the door leading outside and tried the knob. The door would not open. I was trapped, all right.
There was a phone. I could call and get somebody to come—the entire ship’s personnel couldn’t be participating in the drill—and lie my way out. Maybe.
I moved toward the phone on the bedside table. I didn’t know what I would say. But I had to say something fast. Before the drill was over and Pennypacker came back. If it would be Pennypacker.
There was a book on the bedside table. It was Maugham’s Ashenden. A folded sheet of flimsy paper, a ship’s cablegram, marked the reader’s place. I opened the book; he had reached page 218. I opened the cablegram. It was addressed to Reginald Pennypacker, via SS Montmartre, and it read:
BOEING STOCK SHOULD GO TO 78 STOP
PLEASE ADVISE STOP
MURPHY STOP MERRILL LYNCH
I read it twice, absorbed it—as much as I could absorb—and put it back as I had found it. I reached for the phone. Then I saw something else.
It was a little black wisp that looked like a caterpillar on the gold-colored carpet. I reached down for it and, as I did, I saw something else. The corner of a black-leather bag under the bed. I picked up the wisp. It was insulation from a piece of cable, with a tiny section of copper wire still in it.
I was right!
The black-leather bag came out hard from under the bed; it was very heavy. It looked like one of those cases news photographers use to carry cameras, plates, film, and the rest of the equipment. I have had to lift and help with a lot of them in times past.
This one weighed far more. A small, strong padlock secured it, and I could not yank the cover up enough to see what was inside. But by the feel there were very heavy things, and I knew what they must be—little black boxes of efficient sound-recording, and overhearing, and probably reproducing, equipment. Little coils of wire, and batteries and—
This time the key made only a slight rattle in the lock. I expect my heart thumped more loudly.
I pushed the leather case back under the bed fast and could not think of anything at all. I sat down on the bed as the man came in.
I said “Hi,” and grinned a little stupidly and told myself I had to act drunk. Be a method actor, Deacon.
The man I grinned at was a slender, well-tailored man with an imperious carriage, cold eyes under a sort of widow’s peak, and an air of poise and sureness.
“What are you doing here?”
“Locked in,” I grinned. “I got locked in. Came in looking for my friend Pennypacker. You live here?”
“I live here. What do you mean, looking for your friend Pennypacker?”
“Guy who sits next to us in dining room. I had a few drinks before lunch. A few others afterward.” I moved toward him and breathed my brandy fumes in his face, thankful for the impulse that had led me to have the brandy. I wished I had had four more impulses.
I grinned sleepily. “Didn’t want to go all the way up to boat deck for one of them—those God-damn life preservers. Thought I’d borrow one from my friend, Pennypacker. But some damn fool came along and locked the door.”
If he thought to wonder how I’d gotten in, I was sunk. But he wasn’t thinking of that; he was watching me with suspicious eyes, and thinking of something else.
“Guess I got in wrong room. Door was open and—”
He brushed past me, looked into the bath, the closet, glanced at the big bag, the smaller bag, and under the bed. He also looked at the book. He touched nothing. I thought of a sort of thinking machine that could also move itself around with sure decision. It didn’t take him long to make up his mind. I breathed him some more fumes.
“I guess everything’s all right,” he said.
“Sorry, if I—I mussed your bed. Damned near went to sleep.”
“What’s your name?”
I could hardly lie about it, on shipboard, “Deacon. Bill Deacon. Sorry for the intr—intrusion. I’m in cabin B-15. Buy you a drink if the—that drill is over.”
“No, thanks.” He looked annoyed now, but not suspicious or uncertain.
“Deacon,” I said, just to drive the whole thing home. “Bill Deacon. Buy you a drink, any time. Rain check.”
“Okay. Thanks, Mr. Deacon.” He opened the door. “See you later.”
I started out the door gratefully, but a method actor to the end. As I stepped through the door, I said, “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“It’s Pennypacker,” he said.
* * * *
Brother!
I was out in the hall. In a blinding flash of belated intelligence I realized what must have caused the mistake.
“Oh, now wait a minute,” I said. “You’re not Richie Pennypacker. I don’ care who you are, pal, you’re not Richie Pennypacker. That I know. ’Cause I know Richie Pennypacker.”
“I am Reginald Pennypacker,” he said stiffly. “I believe there are two Pennypackers aboard. Possibly more. Good day.”
He closed the door in my face.
I walked down the passageway uncertainly.
What in hell had I blundered into? And while I had talked my way out of it momentarily, how long was I good for now?
Chapter 9
The Big News
The elevator door opened as I hurried along the corridor, and I lurched into it, just to get away from Pennypacker’s neighborhood. Two old ladies, of the sort who seem to do most of the luxury traveling, were in the elevator. Both carried life preservers; the drill was over, then.
I hadn’t made it, even tardily.
“...lot of nonsense,” one of the old ladies was saying. “You know it as well as I, my dear. They do it just to make you think they’re being efficient.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I thought it was exciting. Breaks the monotony, anyway.”
“Well, if you’re bored with my company
, my dear...”
How long would Pennypacker believe my act?
The door opened at the promenade deck, and I stepped out.
I walked past the movie theater, its doors draped by heavy velvet curtains. I heard Merrilee Moore’s voice say “I don’t think we know each other, do we?” in cool, million-decibel accents. The afternoon cinema had started, and it was one of her pictures. There was no escaping her.
Walking on, I reviewed my accomplishments. In one day I had hidden a human body, a murdered corpse, in a lifeboat. I had probably loused things up with Pennypacker. And somehow I’d made Twit-Twit mad at me. A great day, so far.
Perhaps I should just jump overboard.
The tall Indian with the burning eyes passed by, glanced sidewise at me, kept going.
Then I thought of something about that body that had better be done.
* * * *
The radio shack was empty when I got there, which was good. It stayed that way, which was fine. We had advanced our watches an hour last night, so when the call came through it was five minutes after three in New York. The bank would have closed for the day, and Newt should be relatively free.
The radio officer signaled me into the booth, and I closed the door carefully and picked up the receiver. I wondered how these calls were monitored. Probably by tape. They were scrambled before transmission, I knew, and then unscrambled, or reconstructed, in New York. But none of it made a lot of difference if they were taped and someone had recourse to the tapes.
Then Newt’s voice said, “Hi, Deac, what’s new?”—and I had to improvise fast. We hadn’t arranged a code for this sort of thing. We hadn’t foreseen this sort of thing.
“That was an interesting conversation you had last night,” I said.
“That I had?”
“Yes. The one you had.”
“You mean with the boss? Here at the bank?”
“No, with one of our friends.”
A silence. Then he got it.
“Yes, it was an interesting talk. But he’s an interesting fellow, don’t you think?”
“Yes, indeed he is. I think it’s a pity that he has left the show.”
I waited for that one to sink in, or explode. It didn’t do either. There was a long pause.
“Left the show?”
“He is no longer in the cast.”
I could feel Newt’s alarmed uncertainty across nine hundred miles of ocean. “He—he has resigned?” he asked finally.
“He was fired. Permanently. Apparently by someone close to the manager of the other show.”
“Jesus,” said Newt, a man who I estimate does not use profanity three times a year.
There was a long silence which was eloquent, and not because it cost a lot of money.
“I thought you had better know.”
“Yes. Thanks.”
“This will create quite a sensation. However, it hasn’t broken in the papers yet.” I hoped he’d get that one. He did.
“No?” Newt isn’t dumb.
“Only three people know. Now it’s four, since I’ve told you. That’s all. Except for the man who—discharged him.”
“How is—how’s everybody who knows taking it?”
“Okay—so far.”
“Tell everybody to keep their chins up. This—now is the time for courage.”
“It sure as hell is.”
“Maybe I should fly to England in a day or so. You touch at Plymouth first, don’t you?”
“Southampton.”
“Maybe I should meet you.”
“Maybe. But why don’t you wait a day? I will call you tomorrow and keep you informed about—about how the show is coming along. And the cast.”
Saying it, I thought of what had happened to the last guy who promised to give Newt daily reports. I looked up at the window, outside of which I had stood last night, spotting Jones.
You probably won’t believe this.
There was a man standing at the window, watching me. It was getting dark outside now, because the approaching storm was darkening the sky and closing down the light, as if the Day of Judgment was at hand. But it was still light enough for me to see this man looking in at me, boldly, knowing that I saw him and yet not moving.
He had one good eye and one bad one, fixed motionlessly in a dead, meaningless stare that seemed turned on me like a mechanically directed ray. His dark coat collar, turned up around fat cheeks, concealed his face. His head was bare and bald.
“What’s the matter?” said Newt in my ear.
“I better—I’ll ring off now?”
“Is something wrong?”
“No. I don’t think so, anyway.”
I took a final look at the window. Dr. Cyclops took one last stare and turned away.
I said, “Just keep in touch with the—the latest theatrical news.”
“Don’t think I won’t.”
“And make all your calls to me only.”
“I understand.”
“You’re my only link with the outside world. So flash me the instant you get any news. This thing has become rather sticky. To say the least.”
We rang off.
When I walked out into the office, the window man had just walked in.
“I wish to make a call,” he began, then saw me. He stared at me, silently telling me he didn’t want to say anything in my presence, waiting for me to leave.
I thought of a two-word suggestion to make to him that would have given him something to do. But I didn’t make it. That is, aloud.
As I moved across the sports deck toward the ladder, the wind tore at my clothes as though it had hands. The sky seemed to bend down over me and bare its teeth. I felt more than depressed and anxious. I felt alone and surrounded by uncertainty, and told myself I should never have left New York.
I looked back. Through the window I saw that Dr. Cyclops had moved into the phone booth. He was still watching me. He raised his hand above his head and pulled down a blind, giving himself privacy.
* * * *
When I walked into the suite, Tom hailed me from their bedroom.
“Deac?”
“Hi.”
“Where the hell you been?” He came to the door. “At the movie?”
“No.”
“We missed you at the boat drill.”
“I missed you-all, too.” I tried to make it sound funny.
He looked at me and said nothing. For which I was grateful, even though I knew what he must be thinking. “Everything all right?”
“Why not?”
“You look like a man who needs a drink.”
“I always look like a man who needs a drink. Because I always do. Where are the girls, so to speak?”
“Having their hair done. Collectively.”
“That should look nice. Are they getting their heads braided together?”
“Twit-Twit wrangled a hair appointment and offered to share it with Betsy. So I guess each will have half of her head done.”
“And shave the other half? Very striking.”
“You do sound desperate. Come topside. I’ll buy you that drink. Besides, I want to get into the ship’s pool for tomorrow.”
“Thanks. I’m going to lie down for a while.”
He paused at the door to go out. “You okay?”
“Why not?”
“You look kind of down. I wouldn’t worry about Twit-Twit. You know women.”
He went out and closed the door.
I lay down on the day bed and closed my eyes.
It was quite dark in the suite. The ship was vibrating noticeably, and I guessed that the engines had been revved up to hold her steady in the increasing sea. In spite of that, you could feel her walking end-to-end on her beam, a plunge forward and, after a moment,
the long, slow rise and then down, the stern dropping again. The woodwork creaked and grunted and murmured. I listened to it and felt it, and tried to relax.
* * * *
I was roused by another sound.
It was human, in a twangy way, like the voice of a child or an old woman, who is weak and perhaps far off. It murmured something, audible above the ship noises, but not making words.
I waited, and it repeated. This time it sounded like two syllables, run together. I swung quietly off the bed.
The ship pitched and the woodwork groaned and a water glass in the bathroom rattled. I walked there on tiptoe. No one was in the bathroom. I went to the Dolans’ bedroom. It was shadowy but empty. So was their closet. I went to Twit-Twit’s smaller bedroom.
Her gown for the evening was stretched out on the bed, looking strangely empty without her in it, but there was nothing else. Closet and bath were both vacant.
From farther away I heard the voice again.
I went to all windows and looked out on deck. The tarps and lines securing the lifeboats snapped and strained in the cold gale. But no one was about. I thought of Jones’s body lying in that cold.
Back in the living room it seemed darker now.
Then the small voice spoke more loudly, and I spotted where it came from: the closet near the door to the suite, where my clothes had been hung.
I moved to it on silent feet and put my hand out to the knob. But I hesitated.
The thought of Jones’s corpse may have done it, or Merrilee’s talk of ESP, or the man with the evil-eye stare. But I was a little nervous.
I took a deep breath, grabbed the knob, and yanked. The first thing I saw was something big and white; then two things big and white. They were paper sacks such as cleaners use to deliver your suits. I tore a ribbon of paper down one and saw my own dinner jacket. Someone had sent it out to be pressed for tonight. That was all.
Then something brushed my leg, and the voice spoke again, a kind of tiny scream, and I jumped a foot off the floor.
A small white kitten came out of the closet and was viewing me, with suspicion and indignation, from the middle of the carpet. It mewed once more in an oddly individual voice, and I turned on a lamp.
I began to laugh, mostly at myself. “You’re a stowaway,” I told her.
The Traces of Merrilee Page 8
