Chapter 8

Method Actor

The clangor of alarm bells and a steady blasting of the ship’s whistle sounded abandon ship that afternoon shortly before six bells, if you like nautical parlance. Or about five minutes of three.

All passengers filed up to the lifeboat stations and made little un-funny jokes and were very amused.

Everyone except me. For one thing, I wasn’t there, and for another, I was not in a joking mood.

Since lunch I had been thinking the abandon-ship drill could give me an opportunity, which might not come again, to take a look at Pennypacker’s cabin. His presence on board might be coincidence. He might also be working on something else. There were a million mights. But he might also be the unknown opposition.

A quick look at what was or was not in his cabin could resolve a lot of questions.

For, as I thought it over, I’d decided that if I were one who wanted to keep tabs on Merrilee, or scare her out of the trip and out of making the movie, I would want to bug her cabin and thus learn what might pass between her and her maid, or what she might say to visitors or phone callers.

I’d thought of this during lunch, which was rather quiet, partly because the weather after the morning sunshine appeared to be closing in, and the sea was beginning to heave, making the plates slide on the tables. Pennypacker had looked over as usual and asked how “you boys” were coming along, and we said fine; and then he had looked to the table on his other side and asked how “you girls” were doing, and the three schoolteachers sitting there said they were never better. They looked green. But that was about all the action. Twit-Twit was noticeably cool and seemed to be kicking up a personal storm of her own.

So, after lunch, I said I wanted a little air and went out on deck by myself and watched the college girls try to play Ping-Pong, despite the pitching, and that is when I made the decision, as well as what plans I could, for getting into the cabin. Just how I’d do it, or even whether I could, I didn’t know; I could hardly hope to get the key again.

It would also take some nerve.

I acquired a little with an after-lunch brandy in the smoking room bar and while I sat waiting for the alarm, and arranging my strategy, such as it was, it occurred to me that at some point I had also better search Merrilee’s cabin and see if it was bugged.

I lingered over the brandy. I wanted to be as late as possible. The pitching was getting stronger, even though the Montmartre is a big ship.

“Looks like we’ll have weather,” I told the bartender.

He shrugged a smile. “Sometimes it happens. It is too bad today, because of tonight.”

“The gala.”

“Oui, m’sieu. The dinnair. The dancing. It is too bad.”

“People will still enjoy themselves.”

“We will be stringing the—how you say?—lines, in another hour I think, m’sieu.”

He smiled again, but this time only his eyebrows shrugged. He picked up the tip. “Thank you, m’sieu.”

I knew what was in his mind. He was not supposed to talk about bad weather, or that there was going to be a storm.

That is when the alarm bells went off, and the whistle began to hoot. I looked at my watch as though I hadn’t realized how late it was, though I’d been watching the time on the little ship’s clock over the bar.

“Better get below,” I said, and again sipped the brandy, and put it down as though I couldn’t finish it all at once.

Of course our steward would presently notice my absence, when the head count was made and, from what I had seen of ships’ drills, would start a check. Let him. That would take time, and all I really needed was a few minutes, given some luck.

I heard the murmur of conversation as people passed in the corridor outside on the way to their battle stations. The bartender was looking at me, respectfully but in silent warning.

I drained the cognac. “See you after the riot.”

I went down the grand staircase, still killing all the time I could, and being bumped by those rushing to or trying to find their emergency stations. Some of them had already put on their bright-yellow life belts, frequently upside-down.

The clang of bells and the whistle hoots stopped. Suddenly the ship was very quiet and deserted. I found Pennypacker’s corridor, and there was no one in it. Nor were there any keys in doors, or in sight. An officer appeared at the far end of the corridor, and I was inspired. Sometimes inspiration beats luck.

I quickened my pace and tried to look scared.

I hurried to Pennypacker’s door and almost beat the officer there. He was bulky in a big yellow life jacket.

“Pardon, m’sieu,” I said in my superb French. “La—la clef? I—oh, I forget. Pardon, but can you let me in my room? La chambre?” I pointed to the door. “My key—clef—is inside. I need my—” I pointed to his life jacket—”the vest.”

He looked annoyed, and barked “Hurry, m’sieu.” But he twisted a passkey in the lock and opened the door, without really glancing at me.

“Merci,” I said.

I stepped inside fast, and closed the door. Only then did I think to look around and discover if anyone was in the stateroom.

* * * *

No one was.

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?