SCOTT did not actually witness the meeting of the Farrows and Julia; instead he busied himself at the sideboard and tried not to listen. He made highballs for Gardner and Lambert, for the Farrows; he made a refill for Crane, who stood in one corner listening to everything and looking very much like a man who wished he were elsewhere. When he could he went on deck and sat down on the cabin-house near the skylight and put his head in his hands while his mind tried to shut out the voices below him.
Ever since he had left the Navy as the executive officer of an LST he had looked forward to the day when he could sail his own boat, preferably on some sort of deep-water cruise. He had known about his Uncle George, who had been knocking about the Antilles for years, even though the method of communication was a picture postcard once a year. He knew his uncle had a boat and he had thought there was a little money as well. What he had not realized was that the boat was an eighty-two foot schooner, not new nor having the interior finish of a Stateside-built craft, but sound and seaworthy nevertheless, with a workable diesel that would do five knots when pushed.
The attorney who had written him upon his uncle’s death had given few details. On the strength of the letter Scott had managed a month’s leave from the Madison Avenue advertising agency which employed him. He had arrived a week before to find that his uncle’s estate comprised some second hand furniture in a rented bungalow, an almost vanished bank account, and the Griselda, on which the sum of $10,000 Barbadian was due the bank. Those who knew said the schooner might bring $15,000 at a forced sale, which was what Scott had in mind, provided he could cruise her before turning her in. At that point the Farrows solved one of the problems by offering to take a ten-day charter. It was the attorney who arranged it and Scott remembered the afternoon he had sat in the office overlooking Broad Street after the details of the estate had been covered.
“I don’t know what your plans are for the Griselda” the man had said, “but if you’d like to charter her for a few days before you try to sell I have a party who might be interested. I think you could get a fair price. It might be quite profitable if you are so inclined.”
Scott said he was interested and the attorney had immediately telephoned the Farrows, who said they would be right down. Scott had already been aboard the schooner and he had no doubt about his being able to handle her with the proper help. When he asked about this the attorney said that his Uncle George had managed quite well with two paid hands.
“He had a mate, who sailed these waters most of his life, and another native chap who served as cook and deckhand. Of course your uncle did much of the work himself.”
“I’d expect to do the same,” Scott said.
“Well, in that case I don’t imagine you’d need anyone else. I think I could locate this pair for you and as I understand it Mr. Farrow would like to take a hand himself. He’s done quite a bit of sailing.”
Scott had been at once impressed with the Farrows. Mark was a soft-voiced man with an unmistakable British accent and a straightforward manner. His wife was dark-haired and handsome and her use of the vernacular told him at once that she was an American girl.
Once the introductions were over Farrow explained what he had in mind. He said he knew the Griselda and she was admirably suited for his purpose. What he proposed to do was to sail first to the island of St. Vincent, then take a leisurely course down along the Grenadines—Bequia, Union, Cannouan, Carriacou—stopping whenever the spirit moved them. They could spend a day or so in Grenada, go from there to Trinidad and then back to Barbados. He figured ten days would give them plenty of time and he wanted to know what such a charter might cost.
Because the proposition was unexpected Scott said he had no idea. He said he’d have to think about it and that the price would depend somewhat on the service the Farrows expected.
“Not a great deal,” Vivian said in her direct and uninhibited way. “We don’t expect any hot and cold running maids or breakfast in bed. We can take care of our own rooms if there’s someone to do the cooking and the dishes.”
“You can count on me for a deckhand when you need me,” Farrow said. “Keith Lambert, too.”
Scott liked these people and the idea excited him quite apart from the prospect of the profit which might be involved. He said he would let them know the following day and he spent that time in laying out an itinerary, estimating the cost of the food which might be needed, figuring when and where he’d have to use the engine and the expense of the fuel.
There was no trouble about the crew. The mate, whose name was Luther and whose antecedents were more East Indian than Negro, had originally come from British Guiana. Luther had located the other hand. A Negro Bajan of indeterminate age whose principal job with Scott’s uncle had been to serve as cook and steward, he was eager to work again and the wages the two men demanded were relatively small. With this figure budgeted along with other potential expenses, Scott gave Farrow a price of three hundred a day, and was quite prepared to knock fifty dollars from the price if necessary.
But Farrow had said yes without a moment’s hesitation, and a day later Keith Lambert solved Scott’s other problem, potentially at least, by saying that he might buy the schooner if she acted well on the cruise. . . .
Now, glancing round as a shadow moved nearby, he watched the shadow take shape and saw that it was Sally. She sat down beside him without a word, folding her hands and looking off across the starlit water at the Aquatic Club pier, her very nearness bringing again the unaccustomed fluttering in his stomach which had been bothering him on and off the past few days.
Vivian Farrow had cabled Sally as soon as the charter terms were accepted and Scott had seen her for the first time when she came aboard three days later. She was introduced as Vivian’s sister, though the two looked nothing alike, and Scott had been immediately impressed. He saw at once that her medium-brown hair had glints of auburn in it, that her green eyes, framed with long black lashes, looked right at you, not boldly but forthrightly and with interest. A modern, independent, no nonsense girl was the way she seemed to him, vital, friendly, curious. Only later when he saw her in her swim suits did he realize how very nicely she was put together.
She was easy to talk to and a common bond of interest had been immediately established when he learned she also worked for an advertising agency only four blocks from his own—as fourth assistant copywriter on a cosmetic account, was the way she put it. When he saw she wore no wedding ring and understood she was to be a member of the party he was greatly pleased, for, at the time, he had assumed that this was to be simply a pleasure cruise. Not until they took the Griselda out for an afternoon sail the following day did he realize that there was a more important reason for the cruise.
Keith Lambert had come along that time and Farrow had a briefcase full of maps, plans, charts, and blueprints. Before the day was over Scott realized that the Farrows were developing a resort island in the Bahamas. They had, apparently, put all their money into the venture and had run out of credit. What they wanted from Lambert was about a quarter of a million dollars—or any part thereof—of additional capital. Scott also understood why Sally had been imported from the States.
Farrow had been at the wheel at the time, with Lambert beside him. They had gone straight out from the mooring to have a look at the flying-fish boats at work and were on a reach to the leeward coast. The crew was forward, the two women were below, and Scott was sitting right where he was now, next to the skylight, not eavesdropping but hearing a snatch or two of conversation, mostly Vivian’s, since hers was the stronger voice. He never did hear Sally speak, but what Vivian said was more than enough to give him the general idea of the younger woman’s status.
“You don’t have to sell anything to anybody,” Vivian had said at one point. And again when the schooner rolled and the hiss of rushing water was momentarily stilled: “Actually all you have to do is be nice to him.” And again: “. . . and what’s wrong with marrying two million dollars?”
Since then Scott had tried to keep his emotional reactions in check. He had seen Sally almost daily but it was Lambert who was her most constant companion. They swam and rode and dined together, sometimes with the Farrows but often alone. When they came aboard Scott tried to remember that he was a hired captain and not a member of the party. . . .
A shout of laughter that was raucous, drunken, and unmistakably Julia’s shattered such thoughts and he heard her say:
“You’re not going to buy any island, toots, or build any club for Freddie until you’ve taken care of me,”
Beside him Sally shivered. “How awful for Keith,” she said.
“How awful for everybody.”
“If there was only something we could do.”
“We could give her a Mickey,” he said, “if we had the Mickey.”
Then, before Sally could reply, Julia’s voice rose once more.
“What I want to know,” she said, “is which cabin is mine? Where’s that cute captain . . . Hey, captain!”
Scott moved swiftly, stepping past Sally and ducking below. Julia was sitting on the edge of the bunk, weaving a bit, peering slit-eyed at Vivian Farrow and Vivian was answering her, a straight-standing, high-breasted woman with jet-black hair and an olive skin that was now pale at the cheekbone. A one-time New York show girl, she had developed over the years a certain poise and self-assurance that sometimes bordered on the arrogant. She was that way now as she eyed Julia and tapped the tip of her cigarette holder between her teeth.
“There’ll be no cabin for you, Julia,” she said, her voice stiff and her American accent showing. “Not on this cruise.”
“Ahh—” said Julia.
Farrow cleared his throat, a ruggedly built, pipe-smoking Englishman in his late thirties, with close-cropped dark hair and a sportsman’s look. Now there were angry glints in his eyes but his voice was oddly calm and contained.
“She’s quite right, you know.”
“Nuts,” said Julia.
“It’s quite impossible, really. I mean, there simply isn’t room, Julia.”
“Nuts,” said Julia again. “There’s always room for one more.”
“Not this time,” Vivian said.
“In any case,” Farrow said, trying his best to avoid an open argument, “it’s nothing we have to decide tonight.”
“Oh, yes it is.”
“It most certainly is,” Vivian said. “We chartered this boat and we’re paying for it, and we’ll say who’ll go and who won’t.”
“Okay.” Julia tried to straighten up and failed. “But get this. If I don’t go, neither does Keith. How do you like that?”
For a long moment then the silence closed down on the hot, smoky cabin, and for the first time Scott understood clearly just how much trouble this one uninvited guest could make, how ruinous her presence was to the plans and affairs of the others.
He glanced first at Howard Crane, blaming him somehow for what had happened even though he sensed that he was being unfair in doing so. If Julia had been insistent, Crane could hardly have prevented her from coming aboard. It seemed unlikely that Julia could make trouble for Crane, now that his wife was away, but right now he was a very unhappy looking man as he stood there, his glance disgusted as it fastened on the drunken woman.
He thought next of himself, and the charter on which he had counted so much, of the preparations he had made. He could not imagine a ten-day cruise with Julia along; at least he could not imagine the Farrows sponsoring such a cruise. Should the cruise be canceled, and that’s the way it looked now, he felt sure the Farrows would reimburse him for any expense he had contracted. What bothered him most was the thought that if the charter was called off he might well lose out on the sale of the schooner to Lambert.
He glanced across to the opposite berth where the tall young man sat next to Freddie Gardner, aware that Lambert’s problems were more discouraging than his own. Lambert, who was in love with Sally, now had to contend not only with a wife who was out to make trouble but who also seemed determined to make him pay exorbitantly for his future freedom.
Freddie Gardner seemed also to realize what Julia’s presence meant to him. He sat very still in his white drill suit, wrinkled now and frayed at the cuffs, his round face moist and distressed. As long as he could be jester and man-Friday to Lambert he had a livelihood of sorts, for there were commissions to be made from those who dealt, or wished to deal, with Lambert, advances to be had, small payments for favors of one sort or another, as befitted a pensioner for long and faithful service. With Julia’s dislike for him so evident such favors would come to a sudden end.
As for the Farrows, it was easy to see why they were so bitter. Julia’s unexpected appearance seemed now to be downright disastrous to their plans. From all accounts everything they had had been invested in their island venture and it was imperative that they raise additional capital, and soon. Until now it seemed to Scott that Lambert was favorably impressed with their plans and seemed likely to join them. But with Julia on his neck haranguing and tormenting him the Farrows might not get the chance to press their case. To them the cruise meant everything and now . . .
It was Lambert who broke the silence. He cleared his throat and straightened his thin shoulders. Looking more than ever like an unhappy freshman, he brushed the lock of blond hair back from his forehead and made his final attempt, his voice thin, high-pitched, and not very convincing.
“Please, Julia,” he said. “Let’s drop it for tonight, shall we? Sleep on it and then in the morning we can discuss things and see—
“No.” Julia peered at him glassily, her head rolling. “We’ll decide right now. If you go, so do I. That’s exactly how it’s going to be.”
She reached forward to put her empty glass on the table, missed, grabbed at it, and silently toppled forward on her hands and knees, head down and blond hair obscuring her face.
For a moment then there was a taut silence, broken only by the sound of the glass as it rolled across the floor. Crane stooped and picked it up and they stood there like that while Julia pushed herself to a sitting position, head lolling.
Keith Lambert sighed audibly. “I’m sorry,” he said to the room at large. “I’m afraid we’ll never get her ashore now. Couldn’t we”—he looked appealingly at Scott—”I mean, couldn’t we put her in some cabin, just for the night?”
Vivian bit her lip. “She can sit there and rot for all I care,” she said furiously.
Crane started slowly forward but Scott cut ahead of him to bend down and pick up Julia’s limp form. He said the forward cabin was empty and now Sally stepped up, her young face distressed and her eyes understanding.
“I’ll help you, Alan,” she said.
They went forward, past the galley and round the jog in the passageway, past the double stateroom, the shower and head and the cabin opposite, coming finally to the one at the end. Sally stepped ahead to open the door and now Julia began to mumble, protesting that she could walk, demanding that she be put down.
Scott sat her on the edge of the bed and knelt to slip off her shoes while Sally worked on the zipper of the dress. She was still struggling when he backed out and closed the door, telling her he would wait. Apparently Sally had her troubles because even when he moved down the passageway he could hear her talking, and Julia’s voice raised in argument. This went on for well over a minute and when Sally finally came out her face was flushed from exertion but the cabin was quiet. She was rubbing one wrist, her green eyes closer to anger than he had ever seen them when he thanked her for her help.
“I got her dress off and made her lie down,” she said. “She’ll be all right—I guess.” “At least she’s quiet.”
“That’s because I put a pillow over her face.”
Gardner had come into the alley-way to meet them and now he asked if Julia had passed out. When they said yes, he sighed and said, “Well, thank God for that.”
Howard Crane was apologizing when they got back to the main cabin. He had a cablegram in his hand and was explaining how Julia had wired him from San Juan, asking him to meet her plane. He had taken her to the hotel where they’d had a few drinks and dinner.
“I happened to mention the cruise and after that, well”—he shrugged—”nothing would do but she come and have a look.” He made a gesture of embarrassment. “I’m sorry. It was my fault.”
“No.” Lambert sighed heavily. “If she’s right about still being married to me it wouldn’t have made any difference. When she gets like that there isn’t anything anyone can do”
“It’s still my fault,” Crane said, and suddenly he grinned. “Why not let me make amends? Couldn’t we continue this somewhere else, for a drink at least? Morgans perhaps, or the Flamboyant? We could salvage something of the evening.”
He hesitated hopefully but the suggestion was received with lethargy rather than enthusiasm as one after the other demurred.
“Some other time, Howard,” Farrow said. “For now let’s just forget it.” He glanced at his wife. “It’ll be all right, dear. We’ll get her off in the morning.”
“It would be simpler,” Vivian said, “if someone would conveniently strangle her.”
“Maybe someone will,” Freddie Gardner said and then, as though aware of the implication, he giggled.
Crane was already moving towards the companion-way. He asked who wanted to go to the Aquatic Club and Lambert said they did, indicating Sally, Freddie and himself. Scott said he could put the Farrows ashore in the dinghy and there was no further conversation until he rowed them to the Yacht Club beach.
“Julia’ll be all right, won’t she?” Farrow said as he helped his wife out. “I mean you don’t mind, do you, Alan, her staying aboard tonight?”
Scott said not to worry about it; he said Julia would probably stay dead to the world until morning.
“We’ll be along then,” Farrow said. “We’ll get her off one way or another.”
“And when we do,” Vivian said, “we’ll Shanghai Keith if we have to. Julia has fouled things up all she’s going to.
The Griselda s main cabin was hot, stuffy and smoke-filled when Scott went below and, having had nothing at all to drink since dinner, the first thing he did was pour two inches of whisky into a glass and toss it down. He poured another quickly, added ice and soda and then got to work, first giving the carpets a quick sweeping and then collecting glasses and bottles. With the cabin in reasonable order he rinsed the glasses and then, abruptly, he stopped. For another moment he stood there, his cowlick showing, his blue gaze morose and brooding like his thoughts; then he chucked the towel away, finished his drink and strode back to the cabin, knowing that he had to get away for a while.
It did not matter where he went so long as it was away from the schooner, from the drunken woman in the forward cabin. What he needed was time for his mind to clear, a chance to let his ever-mounting resentment evaporate. When he had slipped on his jacket and turned off all the lights except the one in the galley, he went topside and climbed down into the dinghy.