He fell into bed removing only his shoes. Gratefully he realized that sleep was coming on. It had been twenty-four hours of never-ending pressure.
And then the knocking began.
At first quietly. So quietly it simply made Canfield shift his position. Then louder and louder and more rapid. It was a sharp knock, as if caused by a single knuckle and because of its sharpness it echoed throughout the stateroom.
Canfield, still half asleep, called out. “What is it?”
“I think you’d better open the door, mate.”
“Who is it?” Canfield tried to stop the room from turning around.
The intense knocking started all over again.
“For Christ’s sake, all right! All right!”
The field accountant struggled to his feet and lurched toward the stateroom door. It was a further struggle to unlatch the lock. The uniformed figure of a ship’s radio operator sprang into his cabin.
Canfield gathered his sense as best he could and looked at the man now leaning against the door.
“What the hell do you want?”
“You told me to come to your cabin if I had some-thin’ worthwhile. You know. About what you’re so interested in?”
“So?”
“Well, now, you wouldn’t expect a British seaman to break regs without some reason, would you?”
“How much?”
“Ten quid.”
“What in heaven’s name is ten quid?”
“Fifty dollars to you.”
“Pretty God damn expensive.”
“It’s worth it.”
“Twenty bucks.”
“Come on!” The cockney sailor whined.
“Thirty and that’s it.” Canfield started toward his bed.
“Sold. Gimme the cash.”
Canfield withdrew his wallet and handed the radioman three ten-dollar bills. “Now, what’s worth thirty dollars?”
“You were caught. By Madame Scarlatti.” And he was gone.
Canfield washed in cold water to wake himself up and pondered the various alternatives.
He had been caught without an alibi that made sense. By all logic his usefulness was finished. He’d have to be replaced and that would take time. The least he could do was throw the old woman off the scent of where he came from.
He wished to God that Benjamin Reynolds was available for some good old sage advice. Then he remembered something Reynolds had once said to another field accountant who’d been exposed unmercifully. “Use part of the truth. See if it helps. Find some reason for what you’re doing.”
He left the stateroom and climbed the steps to A deck. He found her suite and knocked on the door.
Charles Conaway Boothroyd, executive vice-president of Godwin and Rawlins Securities, passed out cold on the deck of the lounge.
Three stewards, two inebriated male partygoers, his wife, and a passing navigation officer managed to haul his immense body out of the lounge to his cabin. Laughing they removed the blond giant’s shoes and trousers and covered him over with a blanket.
Mrs. Boothroyd brought out two bottles of champagne and poured for the rescuers. She filled a water glass for herself.
The stewards and the Calpurnia officer drank only at Mrs. Boothroyd’s absolute insistence, and left as soon as they could. Not, however, before Mrs. Boothroyd had impressed upon them how totally unconscious her husband was.
Alone with the two volunteers, Mrs. Boothroyd made sure the last of the champagne was finished. “Who’s got a cabin?” she asked.
It turned out that only one was a bachelor; the other had his wife at the party.
“Get ’er plastered and let’s go on by ourselves!” She flung the challenge at both of them. “Think you boys can handle me?” asked Mrs. Boothroyd.
The boys responded as one, nodding like hamsters smelling cedar shavings.
“I warn you. I’ll keep my skirts up for both of you, and you still won’t be enough!” Mrs. Boothroyd swayed slightly as she opened the door. “God! I hope you all don’t mind watching each other. I love it, myself!”
The two men nearly crushed each other following the lady out the stateroom door.
“Bitch!” Charles Conaway Boothroyd muttered.
He removed the blanket and got into his trousers. He then reached into a drawer and took out one of his wife’s stockings.
As if for a practice run, he pulled the thigh end over his head, rose from the bed, and looked at himself in the mirror. He was pleased with what he saw. He removed the stocking and opened the suitcase.
Underneath several shirts were a pair of sneakers and a thin elasticized rope about four feet long.
Charles Conaway Boothroyd laced up the sneakers while the rope lay at his feet. He pulled a black knit sweater over his large frame. He was smiling. He was a happy man.