Purser Mangot was in the Mayfair Lounge, openly seated near the bar in an armchair and smoking a cigar. He couldn’t have been less smug. I expected him to clobber me in private. He beckoned, booming, “Hey, Lovejoy! Have a drink!”
“No, ta.”
Mangot was in full fig, attracting two ladies to join him.
“You liked the Hermitage exhibition, then? I heard you went today.”
As secret as rain. What was this? Until now, all contact had been sub rosa, and here he was bandstanding in public. A steward brought him a brandy.
“Aye, great.”
“You with your divvy skill.” He winked at the two women, who simpered at his wit. “Any of them duds?”
“They seemed okay. I had to go out. It got stuffy. There’d been some surface restoration on – ”
“Don’t blind us with technicalities,” he boomed. Everybody laughed. Such a popular bloke, our Executive Purser. “Going ashore tomorrow?”
“Dunno. I was waiting for you to tell me.”
“What?” He did a theatrical start, guffawing. “Passengers needing to be told where to visit? You chose this cruise, or have you forgotten?”
“You said – ”
“Seven guided tours tomorrow, and all excellent value. You’ll like the Rasputin one.”
“Do you mean that’s the one I’ve to go on?” I wanted it spelled out before witnesses.
“Up to you. Glad you liked the Hermitage.”
“Right.” For a second I stood like a lemon, but that seemed to be it. I left, mystified, and went to find Lauren to get ready for the antiques quiz. I wasn’t deceived.
By talking to me in the Atrium, Mangot was making sure everybody knew I’d been to suss out the Hidden Treasures Exhibition. He was setting me up. I can scent the trick a mile off.
Okay, those old-style windows in the Hermitage wouldn’t give any self-respecting thief heartburn. Even I could get in with a rope and a putty knife. There’d be guards, and detectors. I’d seen no cameras, no CCTVs, felt no sticky-mats, seen no red-eye beamer lenses, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Security people hide their gadgets in walls nowadays, safe from fiddling fingers. And a canal running underneath the Hermitage was God’s gift to grabbers. But stealing is one thing and escaping with the loot is another. Until tomorrow, I was presumably safe on the ship.
Lauren was in her cabin. She let me in, looking bleary and dishevelled. I’d been nervous coming to meet her. I always find it’s difficult saying hello to someone you’ve made smiles with not long before. It must be easy for women because they’re always in control, having the moral ascendancy. I never know whether to be cheery and extrovert or meek. It’s a bit creepy. Women have it so easy. I always finish up getting narked with myself.
It’s even more unsettling when you haven’t made any smiles at all but you feel it’s soon on its way.
“Wotcher, love. I came to see if you’ve picked something out for tonight’s quiz.”
“I can’t get through to the hospital, Lovjeoy.”
“For Mr Semper? Shall we ask the captain?” was all I could think of.
“I’ve faxed the consul in Copenhagen.”
“Good idea. Who gave you the message about his operation?”
“Purser Mangot. He is in charge of us guest speakers, you see.”
He would be. “Look, Lauren. How about you hire some lost-person searcher? You can do it by phone. Tell you what I’ll do.” I realised by now the cabins must be bugged, or at least the phones tapped, but played along. “Tomorrow we’ll raise the Salvation Army. Don’t they have them in Denmark too? They’re good at finding missing people. Then you can fly out. You’ll be in his hospital room by noon, bet you a quid.”
“You’re such a help, Lovejoy.”
I couldn’t take any more tears, so grabbed the three antiques she’d picked out of Henry Semper’s collection of gunge and took them to the light.
They were ladies’ fans. One had sandalwood radii with patterned silk leafing, a copy of an 1820 or so. The next was in ivory and silk, the kind people call “mandarin fans” now, but modern crud. The last was a filigree ivory fan, the radiate blades without silken leafing and made from ivory throughout. It had a coat-of-arms engraved on the decoration. It was genuine, 1860 or so. I was surprised.
“We’ll ask the diners which is the genuine one, okay? And they must guess its price. The winner gets the honest fan.”
She sat dolefully on the bed. “Lovejoy? Henry is all right, isn’t he?”
“Of course he is!” I said, faking enthusiasm. “Danish hospitals are famous. They’re stiff with surgeons.” I babbled on, making it up. “They practically invented surgery of the, er, gastro-fundicular. Good heavens, Lauren, you can’t lose heart now. He couldn’t be in better hands.”
“Please don’t be upset, Lovejoy.”
“Upset?” I wasn’t upset, except about getting killed in the morning or gaoled in the Gulag.
“You see, when we, you and I … y’know? I feel I am being disloyal to Henry, being drawn to you. There! I’ve said it. I shouldn’t be. It is betrayal.”
“Betrayal?” God, how I wanted to leave. “Look, Lauren. You’re distraught with worry. Like me.” I mentally crossed my fingers and fibbed on. “What are friends for? We’re his friends, together working out how to help him. That’s all we do. Nothing bad. He’ll be glad his friends are teamed up.”
“Do you think so?”
“Of course, Lauren!”
“You see, Lovejoy, Henry and I were never really really one, meaning together in the sense that we…” and so on.
There was half an hour more of it. I finally reeled out and had to dash to get ready for dinner. It wasn’t a black tie-and-tux evening, seeing we were in port. Posh occasions were for sea days only.
* * *
The talk was all of St Petersburg. Billy and Kevin laughed – he roaring, Kevin tittering – about local customs. I got the unhappy feeling that Billy’s cracks, all derogatory, were aimed at Ivy. She smiled and said little. Millicent had had a marvellous time among the tourist shops, but found nothing much except silver. Holly Sago was replete, her eyes glinting still, occasionally snapping some Churchillian imperative to keep Kevin from showing off too much. Kevin had had a failed day, having tried to buy some antiques to ship to London and finding nobody able to make decisions.
“How the hell they manage their stupid commerce, God alone knows,” he kept grousing. “They kept telling me I’d to see somebody else…”
Ivy said nothing. She was playing her allotted role. I began to get the drift. She was the simple uncomprehending wife who wasn’t worth asking. I looked more and more at Billy’s extrovert performance with Kevin.
The dinner-time antiques quiz was better organised now. After the main course, I’d get up and go to the restaurant manager’s table, check the “antiques”, then give the nod. Lauren and I would simply walk them slowly past the tables, on which stacks of the blank cards were placed by stewards. No delay, no hesitation, no pausing to explain or answer questions. If I noshed fast, and Lauren got on with her meal, we were be back at our seats in time for pudding. Then it was only a matter of collecting the cards with the answers as folk left, and we’d be in time for the evening floor show, the theatre or the latest film. We’d simply take the first correct answer. Fini.
That evening I reported to Lady Vee, took her to see the exquisite dancers – Amy to the fore – and found myself laughing edgily at Les’s full-on routine. Lady Vee admired the dresses, the band, the music. Then a quiet drink in the Monte Carlo Club, where Lady Vee tried to outdo Holly Sago in losing at poker and blackjack, then roulette, then the fruit machines. I finally took her to her suite and said goodnight. She demanded I take her on an outing in the morning – to guess where – the palace where Rasputin got killed.
“I’ve booked our tickets, Lovejoy, dear!” she carolled. “Won’t you stay for another drink?”
“Ta, love. Night.” I was knackered, and left. I made my cabin just as I slumped into oblivion.
Or I would have, if I didn’t come from the shower to hear my cabin door click shut. I sprang to open it, and saw the familiar heel just disappear at the end of the corridor. I could hardly chase after her in my nip, whoever she might have been, so I went back inside to check what was missing. Answer: nothing. On the bed, turned down with tomorrow’s newspaper “Welcome To St Petersburg – Second Day!!” – and the usual three chocolates on the pillow, was a large parcel.
Expecting a bomb, I undid it, head averted in case it exploded. It was a set of clothes. I put all the lights on to see. Clothes? Dark corduroy trousers my exact size, and a black rather worn leather jacket, with one pocket slightly torn. I sat on the bed and looked at them. Dark socks, and grubby shoes? I quickly took the shoes off the bed – it’s a prophesy of death in Lancashire and still gives me the willies. A piece of paper read: Darling, please don’t spruce up tomorrow. Love, I XXX. If it hadn’t been so late I’d have rung Ivy and asked what the hell I was supposed to do with this load of tat, except her Billy would be there.
There’s a fascist in each of us. I had become institutionalised, living like a lord on this grand cruise with its luxury service. And here was Ivy providing me with dross. To wear this gear, I’d have had to shed my clean snazzy clobber, and go about looking like a scruff. That made me think. I found an envelope in the jacket pocket. It held photocopies of my passport, driving licence, boarding card, and two visa cards. I scanned them. I found a small fold of American dollars, ones and fives. Were these clues? If so, in what game?
She wanted me to carry these things, but why? To report me to the St Petersburg police and have me arrested for false pretences? I’d heard stories about people getting slammed in the pokey for not being able to produce passports and boarding cards on demand.
I slept, with my new – okay, old and grubby – clothes folded on the chair waiting for the dawn. They were good enough for me. I made a vow to escape – how many was that? Eight? Nine? In the morning, I’d finally make a run for it, not stop until I reached some border, and never come back. This time I’d keep going whatever happened.