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.

I picked the little cat up. She looked about three months old. I sat down and began to stroke her. She liked it and began to purr.

We sat that way for a while, and it was somehow restful and made me forget my worries momentarily. I wondered where she came from. I suspected she was a real stowaway. A passenger’s pet would be lodged in the ship’s elaborate pet facility.

“Pussy cat, pussy cat,” I said aloud just as the door opened. “Where have you been?”

“Getting my hair done,” Twit-Twit swept into the room. “Not that it’s any of your God-damned—oh, where did you get that divine little kitten?”

“I bought it for you,” I said. “At great expense. A present. Her name is Stowaway.”

“Let me hold her—please.”

I gave her the cat and told her the truth. I didn’t mention how or why the kitten had frightened me. I like to put on a pretense of having average courage.

“Deac, is she really ours? She’s so cute.”

“I think she’s hungry. I’ll order some milk.”

“Cream. And sardines.”

“Why not caviar?”

But I felt better, punching the steward’s button. Twit-Twit was coming out of whatever she had been in.

She took the cat into her room while I gave the steward the order. He was a handsome man with a face out of Raphael, but his fine soft eyes popped as I told him what I wanted. He came back with remarkable speed however, and I warmed the cream in hot water in the washbowl, while I cleaned an ashtray. I poured cream in it and knocked on Twit-Twit’s door.

She had changed into a rather filmy housecoat that was decidedly eye-catching. She was cuddling the purring cat in her arms, and I put the cream on the floor and cuddled Twit-Twit a little. She didn’t mind. Neither did I. It was the first good thing that had happened today.

“You’d better stop that. You’ll give this little thing bad ideas.”

“Well, you give them to me.”

“We’re going to let her eat.”

She put the kitten on the floor, and it stopped purring, but it didn’t immediately run to the ashtray of cream. Instead, it saw the edge of the housecoat and began pawing at it playfully.

“Look how she loves to play with the hem of my negligee.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Don’t get sexy. Go drink the nice cream, dear.” She picked the kitten up and put it in front of the ashtray. “By the way, how do you know this is a girl cat? Why couldn’t it be a boy?”

“Don’t get sexy.”

The cat lapped milk. I nuzzled Twit-Twit’s neck.

I said, “Does it make you feel kind of domestic?”

“That?”

“I meant the cat.”

“Oh. The cat. What you were doing made me feel domestic. Or something like that.”

“That’s good.”

The door in the living room burst open. Tom rushed in, and he was excited.

“Hey, you know what?”

“What?”

“Where’s Bets?”

“Still getting her hair done,” Twit-Twit said.

“Did you win the ship’s pool so soon?” I said.

“Pool, nothing! Have I got—”

“Do you notice anything new around the room?” said Twit-Twit. “Like something drinking cream?”

“What are you talking about? Look! Do you know who’s aboard this ship?”

I got a sinking feeling.

Twit-Twit said, “No. Who?”

“You remember that sort of old lady with white hair who sat near us in the sun this morning? With a sort of maid?”

“Yes.” But she was now looking not at Tom but me.

“Well,” said Tom, “I’m damned if it’s not Merrilee Moore. In disguise—so to speak. But that’s who it really is. The news is all over the ship.”

And the little moment of respite was over, and fears and anxieties came flooding back, redoubled. Along with something else.

I could feel the chill from five feet away. Twit-Twit was surveying me as she never has before, not even the night I spilled red Burgundy on her new white evening dress.

She said, “So that’s who it was, eh? And what do you hear from ABC, pal?”

THE DEFINITE TRACES

“Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department,” said Holmes, with a smile, when the dwindling frou-frou of skirts had ended in the slam of the front door. “What was the fair lady’s game? What did she really want?”

“Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very natural.”

“Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson, her manner, her suppressed excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking questions.”

Conan Doyle

The Adventure of the Second Stain