Harry Crater had scheduled a phone call to his cohorts for seven P.M., but the satellite transmission on his cell phone was not working. With increasing irritability, he waited in his stateroom for an hour, trying to put the call through at ten-minute intervals. At eight o’clock there was a knock at the door. It was Gil Gephardt, the ship’s physician, who had taken it upon himself to check up on Crater.
Crater realized too late that without the oversized jacket, he didn’t look all that puny. He tried to slump as he stood looking down at his small-framed, owl-like visitor.
“Oh, Mr. Crater, we met briefly when you boarded the ship. I’m Dr. Gephardt. When I noticed you weren’t at the cocktail party, I was afraid you had taken ill.”
Mind your own business, Crater thought. “I didn’t expect to nap so long,” he explained. “All the excitement of getting ready for this cruise made my heart pound. I was exhausted.” He was aware that Gephardt was studying him closely, his eyes barely blinking.
“Mr. Crater, in my medical opinion, I must say that you look better already. Only a few hours of beneficial sea air and the difference is already remarkable. I’m sure we’ll have no need to send for that helicopter at all. Now may I suggest you go downstairs and get yourself some nourishment?”
“I’ll be there in a few moments,” Crater promised, ignoring the urge to slam the door in Gephardt’s face. Instead, he closed it quietly and rushed to the mirror. The grayish paste he had applied to his face before boarding the ship had pretty much worn off. He applied more but was afraid to use as much as he wanted. That doctor was sharper than he looked.
Before he left his room, he made one more attempt to reach his fellow conspirators. This time the call went through. He confirmed the plan. At one A.M. tomorrow night, he would fake a medical emergency. Gephardt would ask the captain to send for the helicopter. A reasonable time for it to arrive would be before daybreak. At that hour, most of the passengers and crew would be asleep. It would be like taking candy from a baby.
When he hung up the phone, Crater headed out the door. As he hurried down the deserted corridor, he took grim satisfaction in realizing that in thirty-three hours his mission would be accomplished and his big payoff on the way.
He took the elevator to the lounge. Remembering to limp and lean on his cane, he walked across the deserted area, unaware of the boozy outburst from a frustrated Santa that had sent waves of excitement through the cocktail party.
At the door of the dining salon, the maître d’ rushed to greet him. “You must be Mr. Crater,” he said, placing a supporting arm under Crater’s elbow. “We have a wonderful table for you. Dudley has placed you with a remarkable family. Two special youngsters are so excited to be your little helpers on this cruise.”
Crater, who had no patience for anyone under thirty, was horrified. As he approached his table, he saw that the one empty chair was between the two little “darlings” he had found intensely irritating at the welcoming ceremony.
As he sat down, Fredericka jumped up. “Can I help you cut your meat?”
Not to be outdone, Gwendolyn threw her arms around his neck. “I love you, Uncle Harry.”
Oh my God, he thought, she’s going to smear my gray face paint.