submarine in the flotilla had a section devoted to it in which every detail of its time on Malta was noted chronologically in a neat cursive hand, everything from changes in personnel to maintenance and repair records to latitudes and longitudes of enemy sightings and engagements. The log would sometimes end with the ominous phrase “Last Known Position” or “Overdue, Presumed Lost,” and when this was the case, Tommy was inclined to reminisce about the cold-drawn courage of the men of the “Fighting Tenth,” many of whom had disappeared in circumstances that might never be entirely clear.
Max was impatient, eager to get to the relevant pages, but it was hard to remain immune to the tales of derring-do (and derring-don’t). Subs slithered into foreign harbors under the cloak of darkness to wreak happy havoc, apparently oblivious to their own meagre chances of escape. Others braved minefields to head off enemy convoys that might otherwise have eluded them. Wanklyn in the Upholder once went it alone against nine heavily armed ships and, in spite of a faulty gyrocompass that forced him to fire by sight from a choppy surface at night, bagged three before slipping away. The Porpoise, well known on Malta for ferrying crucial supplies and personnel to the island, had once survived eighty-seven depth charges during one of her “magic carpet” runs.
The stories were coming thick and fast, and Max was so absorbed in the swan song that he almost missed his moment.
Staying Tommy’s hand, he said, “Ah, the Upstanding. Lionel’s sub.”
“Hell of a man. Hell of a crew.”
“Where are they now?”
“Well, if Lionel has any sense, he’ll be lying in Mitzi’s arms.”
Max rose above the thought and even managed a small laugh. “And the crew?”
“Not here. We lost the mess decks last month to a parachute mine. They’re in syndicate flats in Sliema when they’re not on duty watch.”
Max ran his finger slowly down the page, pausing at the details of an engagement off Tripoli, but his eyes were elsewhere, scanning ahead.
February 17 and March 8: the dates he’d got from Freddie, the dates that marked the discovery of the two other dance hostesses, the ones who had died in circumstances suspicious enough for Freddie to have alerted the lieutenant governor’s office.
Max willed the Upstanding to have been on patrol, far away in the waters off Sardinia or some such place. But she’d been in port on both occasions, resting between sorties.
“Well?” said Tommy.
“Huh?”
He hadn’t been listening.
“Mitzi … When we’re gone … you’ll see she’s all right? Until she joins us in Alex, that is.”
“I have the feeling she’s quite capable of looking after herself.”
“Oh, she likes to cut a certain figure, but she’s not as tough as she makes out.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
Tommy seemed on the point of elaborating when the door creaked open behind them.
It was good to know that Lionel wasn’t curled up somewhere with Mitzi. It wasn’t quite so good to think of the flotilla’s log spread open on the desk at the pages relating to the Upstanding. Max shifted in his chair to obstruct Lionel’s view of it.
“Max, old man.”
“Lionel.”
Lionel turned his inquiring eyes to Tommy. “Cat out of the bag?”
“He knows.”
“Fair enough.” Lionel shrugged. “Can’t keep it secret forever, I suppose.”
He was a handsome man, blue-eyed and flaxen-haired, although his mustache was of a slightly darker tinge (and a touch too bushy to be taken seriously). He was not as tall as he would have liked to be. It annoyed him that he had never quite reached six feet, but he knew he was well proportioned, and he was proud of his long legs and narrow hips, both of which he believed made him appear taller than he was.
These were just some of the facts Max had learned from Mitzi about her husband. Max also knew that Lionel only ever made love in the dark; that he’d been circumcised; and that when he snored, he sounded not unlike a bullfrog. Max derived no pleasure from these insights; he would have preferred not to know. Anything that rendered Lionel more human also made it harder to look him in the eye.
Getting to his feet, Max calmly closed the log before turning back. “I don’t know what to say. It’s a sad day indeed. Have you told Mitzi?”
“Last night.”
“How did she take it?”
Tommy gave a dry little laugh. “What? Forced to leave a besieged island before it falls to the enemy?”
“Malta won’t fall,” Max found himself saying with a vehemence that surprised him.