by Evelyn Waugh
He took off his pajamas and hung them in his cupboard, put on his dressing-gown, and sat in the chair facing the door, waiting, while the folk-ritual of Margaret’s preparations filled the cabin with music. As he waited his mood changed. Doubt and dismay intruded on his loving fancies. What on earth was he up to? What was he letting himself in for? He thought with disgust of Clutton-Cornforth and his tedious succession of joyless, purposeful seductions. He thought of his own enfeebled condition. “Feeling the need of an armful” indeed! Would he be able to sustain his interest during all the patient exploration required of him? Then, as he gazed at the tidy bunk, he filled it with delicate, shrinking, yielding, yearning nudity, with a nymph by Boucher or Fragonard, and his mood changed again. Let her come. Let her come speedily. He was strongly armed for the encounter.
But Margaret did not hurry. The attendant virgins completed their services. She was inspected by both parents.
“Oh my darling, my own. You’re so young. Are you sure? Are you quite sure you love him. You can always turn back. It’s not too late. I shall never see you again as I am seeing you now, my innocent daughter.”
“Yes, Mother, I love him.”
“Be kind to her, Gilbert. You have not been kind to me. You used an expression to me that I never expected to hear on a man’s lips. I meant never to speak to you again. But this is no moment for pride. My daughter’s happiness is in your hands. Treat her husbandly. I’m entrusting something very precious to you…”
And the general: “That’s my beauty. Go and take what’s coming to you. Listen, my Peg, you know what you’re in for, don’t you?”
“Yes, Father, I think so.”
“It’s always a surprise. You may think you know it all on paper, but like everything else in life it’s never quite what you expect when it comes to action. There’s no going back now. Come and see me when it’s all over. I’ll be waiting up to hear the report. In you go, bless you.”
But still the girl delayed.
“Gilbert. Gilbert. Do you want me?” she asked. “Really and truly?”
“Yes, of course, come along.”
“Say something sweet to me.”
“I’ll be sweet enough when you get here.”
“Come and fetch me.”
“Where are you?”
“Here. Just outside your cabin.”
“Well, come along in. I’ve left the door open.”
“I can’t. I can’t. You’ve got to come and fetch me.”
“Oh, don’t be such a little ass. I’ve been sitting here for goodness knows how long. Come in if you’re coming. If you’re not, I want to go back to bed.”
At this Margaret broke into weeping and her mother said: “Gilbert, that wasn’t kind. It wasn’t like you. You love her. She loves you. Can’t you understand? A young girl; the first time; woo her, Gilbert, coax her. She’s a little wild, woodland thing.”
“What the hell’s going on?” asked the general. “You ought to be in position by now. Haven’t had a Sitrep. Isn’t the girl over the Start Line?”
“Oh, Father, I can’t. I can’t. I thought I could, but I can’t.
“Something’s gone wrong, Pinfold. Find out. Send out patrols.”
“Go and find her, Gilbert. Lure her in, tenderly, husbandly. She’s just there waiting for you.”
Rather crossly Mr. Pinfold strode into the empty corridor. He could hear Glover snoring. He could hear Margaret weeping quite close to him. He looked in the bathroom; not there. He looked round each corner, up and down the stairs; not there. He even looked in the lavatories, men’s and women’s; not there. Still the sobbing continued piteously. He returned to his cabin, fixed the door open on its hook and drew the curtain. He was overcome by weariness and boredom.
“I’m sorry, Margaret,” he said, “I’m too old to start playing hide and seek with schoolgirls. If you want to come to bed with me, you’ll have to come and join me there.”
He put on his pajamas and lay down, pulling the blankets up to his chin. Presently he stretched out his arm and turned off the light. Then the passage light was disturbing. He shut the door. He rolled over on his side and lay between sleep and waking. Just as he was falling into unconsciousness he heard his door open and quickly shut. He opened his eyes too late to see the momentary gleam of light from the corridor. He heard slippered feet scurrying away and Margaret’s despairing wail.
“I did go to him. I did. I did. I did. And when I got there he was lying in the dark snoring.”
“Oh, my Margaret, my daughter. You should never have gone. It was all your father’s fault.”
“Sorry about that, Peg,” said the general. “False appreciation.”
The last voice Mr. Pinfold heard before he fell asleep was Goneril’s: “Snoring? Shamming. Gilbert knew he wasn’t up to it. He’s impotent, aren’t you, Gilbert? Aren’t you?”
“It was Glover snoring,” said Mr. Pinfold, but nobody seemed to hear him.
Seven
The Villains Unmasked—But Not Foiled
Mr. Pinfold did not sleep for very long. He awoke as usual when the men began washing the deck overhead and he woke with the firm resolution of changing his cabin that day. His bond with Margaret was severed. He wished to be rid of the whole set of them and to sleep in peace in a cabin free of electrical freaks. He resolved, too, to move from the Captain’s table. He had never wished to sit there. Anyone who coveted the place was welcome to it. Mr. Pinfold was going to be strictly private for the rest of the voyage.
This resolution was confirmed by the last of the many communications that had come to him in that cabin.
Shortly before the breakfast hour, the device brought him into contact with what he might have supposed would be its most natural source, the wireless office; he found himself listening not as before to the normal traffic of the ship, but to the conversation of the wireless operator, and this man was entertaining a party of early risers, the bright young people, by reading to them the text of Mr. Pinfold’s own messages.
“ ‘Everyone in ship most helpful. Love. Gilbert.’ ”
“That’s a good one.”
“Everyone?”
“I wonder if poor Gilbert thinks that now?”
“Love. Love from Gilbert. That’s funny.”
“Show us some more.”
“Strictly speaking, you know, I oughtn’t to. They’re supposed to be confidential.”
“Oh, come off it, Sparks.”
“Well, this is rather rich. ‘Entirely cured. All love.’ ”
“Cured? Ha. Ha.”
“Entirely cured.”
“Our Gilbert entirely cured! Yes, that’s delicious. Oh, Sparks, read us some more.”
“I’ve never known a chap spend so much on radiograms. They’re mostly just about money and often he was so drunk I couldn’t read what he’d written. There are an awful lot just refusing invitations. Oh, here’s a good series. “Kindly arrange immediate luxury private bath. Kindly investigate wanton inefficiency your office.” He sent out dozens of those.”
“Thank God for our Gilbert. What should we do without him?”
“Was his luxury private bath inefficient?”
“ ‘Wanton’ is good coming from Gilbert. Does he wanton in his bath?”
To Mr. Pinfold this little scene was different in kind from the earlier annoyances. The bright young people had gone too far. It was one thing to play practical jokes on him; it was something quite else to read confidential messages. They had put themselves outside the law. Mr. Pinfold left his cabin for the dining-saloon with set purpose. He would put them on a charge.
*
He met the Captain making his morning round.
“Captain Steerforth, may I speak to you for a moment?”
“Surely.” The Captain paused.
“In your cabin?”
“Yes, if you want to. I shall be through in ten minutes. Come up then. Or is it very urgent?”
“It can wait ten minutes.”
&n
bsp; Mr. Pinfold climbed to the cabin behind the bridge. Few personal additions embellished the solid ship’s furniture. There were family photographs in leather frames; an etching of an English Cathedral on the paneled wall which might have been the Captain’s property or the company’s; some pipes in a rack. Mr. Pinfold could not imagine this place the scene of orgy, outrage, or plot.
Presently the Captain returned.
“Well, sir, and what can I do for you?”
“First, I want to know whether radiograms sent from your ship are confidential documents?”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”
“Captain Steerforth, since I came on board I have sent out a large number of messages of an entirely private character. This morning, early, there were a group of passengers reading them aloud in the wireless-room.”
“Well, we can easily get the facts about that. How many of these radiograms were there?”
“I don’t know exactly. About a dozen.”
“And when did you send them?”
“At various times during the early days of the voyage.”
Captain Steerforth looked perplexed. “This is only our fifth day out, you know,” he said.
“Oh,” said Mr. Pinfold, disconcerted, “are you quite sure?”
“Yes, of course I’m sure.”
“It seems longer.”
“Well, come along to the office and we’ll look into the matter.”
The wireless-room was only two doors from the Captain’s cabin.
“This is Mr. Pinfold, a passenger.”
“Yes, sir. We’ve seen him before.”
“He wants to inquire about some radiograms he sent.”
“We can easily check on that, sir. We’ve had practically no private traffic!” He opened a file at his side and said: “Yes. Here we are. The day before yesterday. It went out within an hour of being handed in.”
He showed Mr. Pinfold’s holograph: Entirely cured. All love.
“But the others?” said Mr. Pinfold, bewildered.
“There were no others, sir.”
“A dozen or more.”
“Only this one. I should know, I can assure you.”
“There was one I sent at Liverpool, the evening I came on board.”
“That would have gone by Post Office Telegraph, sir.”
“And you wouldn’t have a copy here?”
“No, sir.”
“Then how,” said Mr. Pinfold, “was it possible for a group of passengers to read it aloud in this office at eight o’clock this morning?”
“Quite impossible,” said the wireless operator. “I was on duty myself at that time. There were no passengers here.”
He and the Captain exchanged glances.
“Does that satisfy all your questions, Mr. Pinfold?” asked the Captain.
“Not quite. May I come back to your cabin?”
“If you wish it.”
When they were seated Mr. Pinfold said: “Captain Steerforth, I am the victim of a practical joke.”
“Something of the sort, it seems,” said the Captain.
“Not for the first time. Ever since I came on board this ship—you say it has only been five days?”
“Four actually.”
“Ever since I came on board, I have been the victim of hoaxes and threats. Mind you I am not making any accusation. I don’t know the names of these people. I don’t even know what they look like. I am not asking for an official investigation—yet. What I do know is that the leaders comprise a family of four.”
“I don’t believe we have any families on board,” said the Captain, taking the passenger list off his desk, “except the Angels. I hardly think they’re the sort of people to play practical jokes on anyone. A very quiet family.”
“There are several people travelling who aren’t on that list.”
“No one, I assure you.”
“Fosker for one.”
Captain Steerforth turned the pages. “No,” he said. “No Fosker.”
“And that little dark man who used to sit alone in the dining-saloon.”
“Him? I know him well. He often travels with us. Mr. Murdoch—here he is on the list.”
Baffled, Mr. Pinfold turned to another course suggested by Mr. Murdoch’s solitary meals.
“Another thing, Captain. I greatly appreciate the honor of being invited to sit at your table in the dining-saloon. But the truth is I’m not fit for human society, just at the moment. I’ve been taking some gray pills—pretty strong stuff, for rheumatism, you know. I’m really better alone. So if you won’t think it rude…”
“Sit where you like, Mr. Pinfold. Just tell the chief steward.”
“Please understand I am not going because of any pressure from outside. It is simply that I am not well.”
“I quite understand, Mr. Pinfold.”
“I reserve the right to return if I feel better.”
“Please sit exactly where you like, Mr. Pinfold. Is that all you wanted to say?”
“No. There’s another thing. The cabin I’m in. You ought to get the wiring seen to. I don’t know whether you know it, but I can often hear anything that’s being said up here, on the bridge and in other parts of the ship.”
“I didn’t know,” said Captain Steerforth. “That is most unusual.”
“They’ve used this defect in their practical jokes. It’s most disturbing. I should like to change cabins.”
“That should be easy. We have two or three vacant. If you’ll tell the purser… Is that everything, Mr. Pinfold?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Pinfold. “Thank you very much. I am most grateful to you. And you do understand about my changing tables? You don’t think it rude?”
“No offence whatever, Mr. Pinfold. Good morning.”
Mr. Pinfold left the cabin far from content with his interview. It seemed to him that he had said too much or too little. But he had achieved certain limited objectives and he set about his business with the purser and chief steward with alacrity. He was given the very table where Mr. Murdoch had sat. Of several cabins he chose a small one near the verandah-bar which gave immediate access to the promenade-deck. Here, he was sure, he would be safe from physical attack.
He returned to his old cabin to direct the removal of his possessions. The voices began at once but he was very busy with the English-speaking steward and did not listen until he had seen his clothes and belongings packed and carried away. Then briefly he surveyed the scene of his suffering and lent them his ears. He was gratified to find that, however incomplete it looked to him, his morning’s work had dismayed his enemies.
“Dirty little sneak”—there was a note of fear in Goneril’s hatred that morning—“what have you been saying to the Captain? We’ll get even with you. Have you forgotten the three-eight rhythm? Did you tell him our names? Did you? Did you?”
Margaret’s brother was positively conciliatory: “Look here, Gilbert, old boy, we don’t want to bring other people into our business, do we? We can settle it between ourselves, can’t we, Gilbert?”
Margaret was reproachful; not because of the drama of the night; all that storm of emotion seemed to have passed leaving no more trace than thunder clouds in the blue of summer. Indeed in all their subsequent acquaintance she never mentioned that fiasco; she chide him instead gently for his visit to the Captain. “It’s against the Rules, darling, don’t you see? We must all play by the Rules.”
“I’m not playing at all.”
“Oh yes, darling, you are. We all are. We can’t help ourselves. And it’s a Rule that no one else must be told. If there’s anything you don’t understand, ask me.”
Poor waif, Mr. Pinfold thought, she has kept bad company and been corrupted. After the embarrassments of the night Margaret had forfeited his trust, but he loved her a little and felt it unmannerly to be leaving her flat, as he planned to do. It had proved easy to move out of their reach. They had confided too much, these aggressive young people, in their mec
hanical toy. And now he was breaking it.
“Margaret,” he said, “I don’t know anything about your rules and I am not playing any game with any of you. But I should like to see you. Come and join me on deck any time you like.”
“Darling, you know I long to. But I can’t, can I? You do see, don’t you?”
“No,” said Mr. Pinfold, “frankly I don’t see. I leave it to you. I’m off now,” and he left the haunted cabin for the last time.
It was the social hour of noon when the sweepstake was paid, the cocktails ordered. From his new cabin, where his new steward was unpacking, he could hear the chatter from the bar. He stood alone thinking how smoothly he had made the transition.
He repeated to himself all that had been said in the Captain’s cabin: “… no families on board except the Angels.” Angel. And suddenly Mr. Pinfold understood, not everything, but the heart of the mystery. Angel, the quizzical man from the B.B.C. “—not wires, darling. Wireless”—Angel, the man with the technical skill to use the defects of the Caliban’s communications, perhaps to cause them. Angel, the man with the beard—“ What do barbers do besides cut hair?”—Angel, who had an aunt near Lychpole and could have heard from her the garbled gossip of the countryside. Angel who had “half expected” Cedric Thorne to kill himself; Angel who bore a grudge for the poor figure he had cut at Lychpole and had found Mr. Pinfold by chance alone and ill and defenseless, ripe for revenge. Angel was the villain, he and his sinister associate—mistress? Colleague?—whom Mr. Pinfold had dubbed “Goneril.” And Angel had gone too far. He was afraid now that his superiors in London might get wind of his escapade. And they would, too; Mr. Pinfold would see to that, when he returned to England. He might even write from the ship. If, as seemed probable, he was travelling on duty, the B.B.C. would have something to say to young Angel, bearded or shaven.
There were many passages in the story of the last few days that remained obscure under this new, bright light. Mr. Pinfold felt as though he had come to the end of an ingenious, old-fashioned detective novel which he had read rather inattentively. He knew the villain now and began turning back the pages to observe the clues he had missed.