I think I'd better get going before I have an accident. Good night, Mr...'
'Boothroyd.'
'Right. Good night.'
Mr Boothroyd half opened his eyes and made a gesture of salute while reaching for his bourbon. Canfield made a swift but unsteady exit.
'Chucksie, sweetie!' A dark-haired woman slammed herself against the inebriated Mr Boothroyd. 'You disappear every God damn time I try to find you!'
'Don't be a bitch, love.'
'I will be every time you do this!'
The bartender found unfinished business and walked rapidly away.
Mr Boothroyd looked at his wife and for a few brief moments his wavering stopped. He fixed his eyes on her and his gaze was no longer unsteady, but very much alert. To the observer the two appeared to be nothing more than a husband and wife arguing over the former's drinking but with that quiet violence that keeps intruders away. Although he still maintained his bent-over posture, Chick Boothroyd spoke clearly under the noise of the party. He was sober.
'No worries, pet.'
'You're sure?'
'Positive.'
'Who is he?'
'Glorified salesman. Just sucking up for business is my guess.'
'If he's a salesman, why was he put at a table next to her?'
'Oh, come on, stop it. You're jittery.'
'Just careful.'
'I'll spell it out for you. He's with that sports store in Chicago. Wimbledon. They import half their stuff from a bunch of English companies.' Boothroyd stopped as if explaining a simple problem to a child. This is a British ship. The old lady's a hell of a contact and somebody's in on the take. Besides, he's drunk as a hoot owl and sick as a dog.'
'Let me have a sip.' Mrs. Boothroyd reached for her husband's glass.
'Help yourself.'
'When are you going to do it?'
'In about twenty minutes.'
'Why does it have to be tonight?'
'The whole ship's ginned up and there's some nice, lovely rotten weather. Anybody who isn't drunk is throwing up. Maybe both.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'Slap me in the face good and hard. Then go back to whomever you were with and laugh it off. Tell them when I've gone this far, the end's in sight, or something like that. In a few minutes I'll pass out on the floor. Make sure two guys carry me to the stateroom. Three maybe.'
'I don't know if anyone's sober enough.'
'Then get the steward. Or the bartender, that's even better. The bartender. I've been giving him a hard time.'
'All right. You've got the key?'
'Your daddy gave it to me on the pier this morning.'
Chapter Twenty
Canfield reached his stateroom thinking he was going to be sick. The interminable and now violent motion of the ship had its effect on him. He wondered why people made jokes about seasickness. It was never funny to him. He never laughed at the cartoons.
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 somethin' 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