She had had it printed, but not on “gray goods” for furniture fabric. It had come out beautifully. She had stroked the soft material and held it up against her and had thought, If only I were gay enough and young enough. She had taken the material to a dressmaker, and the dress fitted Susan Heimrich beautifully. She had tried it on for Merton and had said, “Do you think it’s too—oh, too something?”
“I,” Heimrich had said, “think it’s a knockout.” He had looked at her, standing in front of the fire in the living room in Van Brunt. “Also,” he had said, “I think you’re lovely.”
It was a dinner dress and meant for summer, and there had, that brutal winter, been no occasion for a summery dinner dress. But she had brought it along on their holiday, and now, while Heimrich knotted his black tie and pulled it loose and knotted it again—and swore at it, not particularly under his breath—Susan got the dress out and held it up and looked at it. It had shaken out beautifully. She thought, Of course it is too something. I’m not up to my dress. And she put the dress on.
“This damned thing—” Heimrich said, turning from the mirror, “is—whew!” He looked at her carefully. “Yes,” he said. “Indeed yes. You’ll make it very V.I.P. Did I ever tell you you’re—”
“Yes,” she said. “You do exaggerate, dear. Stand still and let me tie your tie.”
They went above, to the promenade deck and into the main lounge, and it was precisely seven o’clock. At the forward end of the lounge the maître d’, still in a stiff white shirt but now with a white dinner jacket over it, was sitting very upright on a very upright chair. He was facing toward a sofa and toward Mrs. Raymond Powers, who was in a black sheath dinner dress which, Susan decided, did a lot for her. It appeared, from a distance, that the maître d’ had said something amusing, because Mrs. Powers was smiling widely at him.
The maître d’ looked away from Mrs. Powers and her appreciating smile. He looked down the lounge and from side to side of it. He saw the Heimrichs coming and was on his feet. They were still some distance from him when he said, “Inspector. Signora.” Then, Susan thought inadvertently, he looked at the watch on his wrist. The captain must be a martinet, Susan thought. If we are late he’ll probably have the maître d’ reduced to bus boy.
“Mrs. Heimberg,” he told Mrs. Raymond Powers, with a flourish in his voice. “Inspector Heimberg. Mrs. Powers. Mrs. Raymond Powers.”
Mrs. Powers smiled, all grace. She held out a hand to Susan. “Mrs. Heimrich and I have met,” she said. She was careful with the name. “Good evening, Inspector.”
The Heimrichs sat, Susan beside Mrs. Powers. The maître d’ remained standing, looking anxiously down the room. He looked at his watch again. Then he said, “Ah!” with relief in his tone and then, to a substantial woman in a gray dress, he said, “Miss Farwell!”
She was one of the women at the table next the Heimrichs’. She was one of those who had ordered two desserts. Standing, she did not look so stalwart as she had sitting down. She had a wide but pleasant face and graying hair, and her figure, if considerable, was trim.
She said, “Farrell, Lucien,” to the maître d’. She said, “Emily Farrell” to the others. “Mrs. Powers. Miss Farwell. Inspector Heimrich. Mrs. Heimrich. Miss Farwell. Miss Farwell is an author.”
“Farrell,” the stalwart woman with the pleasant face said. She spelled it out. “Of cookbooks,” she said.
“Wait,” Susan said. “Emily Farrell’s Gourmet Recipes. You remember the beef in burgundy, Merton. It came out of her book. Marinated in cognac first.”
“Perfectly,” Heimrich said. “Delicious.” His tone told Susan but no one else, she thought, that he did not remember it at all.
The maître d’ still was standing. He looked at his watch again. He looked more anxiously around the room. Then he said, “Ah, the major,” and took two steps down the room to meet the big and handsome youngish man with the clipped mustache who had sat with the Grimeses in the veranda belvedere and stayed on after them. He said, “Hope I’m not late, y’know.”
He was Major Ian Whitney, or the maître d’ thought he was. Whitney did not disagree, which, Susan thought, put the maître d’ one up. Whitney repeated names as they were given him. He said, “Ah, Inspector. Heard of you, haven’t I?” to Heimrich. To Mrs. Powers he said, “Evening, m’dear. Looking tops, y’know.”
She said, “Thank you, Ian.”
She smiled up at the youngish major. Her smile was not, Susan thought, noticeably cordial. It was noncommittal. I’m making up stories about people again, Susan thought. It’s because of those weeks in the hospital, when it was too much trouble to read so I made up stories for myself.
Major Whitney sat down. The maître d’ remained standing. He continued to look around the room. He maintained a welcoming smile, but that was, Susan thought, merely because he had forgotten to take it off. He looked at his watch. Susan looked at hers. It was still only a few minutes after seven. But it was after seven.
He made up his mind. He turned to his, apparently, inadequate flock. He said, “It appears the others have been delayed, signors, signoras. If you will follow me?”
They followed him. They followed above to the boat deck. They followed up another flight to the lido deck and forward on it, through a narrow corridor, and the maître d’ knocked on a closed door, which was opened instantly by a steward in a stiff white jacket and black dress trousers.
The steward said, “Signors-signoras,” and stepped aside out of the way of Comandante di Scarlotti, who wore a white mess jacket with shoulder boards and the four stripes of a captain and who was as tall as Merton Heimrich and Major Ian Whitney, who were very tall men and, for that matter, big men. Di Scarlotti was thinner, and a line of verse danced briefly in Susan’s mind. “Clean favored and imperially slim.” From—?
“Delighted,” di Scarlotti said to Mrs. Powers, who was the first to go into the captain’s suite when the maître d’ stepped aside and bowed and motioned. “Delighted,” to Susan. “Delighted,” to Miss Emily Farrell. “Inspector. Major.”
The comandante’s “sitting room” was unexpectedly large. A cushioned bench ran along one wall—Bulkhead, Susan thought; I must remember—and there was a long, low table in front of it, with chairs clustered around the table. The steward who had let them in stood stiff and attentive. “Mrs. Powers?” Comandante di Scarlotti said. He had a low, easy voice. And, Susan thought, he has been briefed on names. Mrs. Powers would have a sherry; a quite dry sherry, if she might. “Mrs. Heimrich?”
The comandante’s English was unaccented; the intonation was American. “What’ll it be, Major?”
The Heimrichs asked for martinis; Merton was not as specific as usual, but he did ask the omission of an olive. Emily Farrell thought a dry sherry would be fine; Major Whitney asked for Scotch. “With just a splash of soda. No ice, if you don’t mind?”
He’s almost too English, Susan thought. Much more in his speech than Sir Ronald. Almost B.B.C., his speech is, although I suppose it’s really one of the universities. The steward did not ask what the comandante wanted. That apparently went without saying—when he brought drinks on a silvery tray, Comandante di Scarlotti’s was a small, pale sherry. While the drinks were being served nobody said anything, but the Italia’s captain smiled at all of them and, when all had drinks, lifted his glass and moved it in a circle which included all.
“Smooth crossing,” Major Whitney said and then added, “what?”
“We’re fortunate,” the captain said. “Sometimes a little rough this early in the season.”
A second steward brought canapés. Miss Farrell was the first to reach toward the tray when the steward put it in front of them. There was black caviar in a bowl of ice, and Miss Farrell reached for that. “And,” she said, “you set a good table, Comandante.” She smiled at him and nodded her head. He smiled back at her and said, “I understand you’re an authority, Miss Farrell. Someone to please.”
“You do,” Emily Farrell said. “I
t’s a fine boat, Captain.”
He won’t like “boat,” Susan thought. It’s odd Sir Ronald and Lady Grimes aren’t at the party. A baronet ought to be very important. Probably there are parties like this every evening, and the Grimeses are being saved for another—a very V.I.P. party, probably.
Comandante di Scarlotti was glad they were making Miss Farrell comfortable.
This is going to be very stiff, Susan thought. I wish we were in Mario’s bar. By ourselves. I wish—
Someone knocked at the door, and a steward opened it. The maître d’ stepped aside. He said, “Mr. and Mrs. Primes, Comandante—I mean Sir Ronald and Lady Prime.”
After all, Susan thought, he has to remember so many people. And I’m no good at names either. On the other hand, I’m not a maître d’.
Lady Grimes was very pretty indeed in a pale yellow dinner dress with a square-cut neckline. She wore earrings which were unobtrusive, considering they were obviously diamond earrings. She gets younger every time we see her, Susan thought. Tonight she’s not a day over thirty.
Sir Ronald, on the other hand, did not grow younger. At first he had seemed too young, too quick and certain, to be of retirement age. Tonight he looked tired.
“Sorry, Captain,” Grimes said. “Telephone call held me up. Evening, Mrs. Heimrich. Evening, Lucinda.”
He smiled down at Mrs. Raymond Powers when he said, “Lucinda.” He looked down at Emily Farrell and smiled, and di Scarlotti said, “Miss Farrell, Sir Ronald, Lady Grimes. An author.”
“Not really,” Miss Farrell said. “Just of cookbooks.”
“Important things, cookbooks,” Grimes said. “World lives by them, Miss Farrell. Or ought to. Heimrich. Whitney.”
One of the stewards said, “Lady Grimes? Sir Ronald?”
“A martini,” Ellen Grimes said. “Like those the Heimrichs are having.”
Her husband, Susan thought, looked slightly surprised. He ordered Scotch and plain water. He didn’t say anything about a “splash” of water. The steward said, “Ice, sir?” and Grimes said, “Yes, thank you.”
“Sit here, won’t you, Lady Grimes?” di Scarlotti said, and got up from his own chair, which was at one end of the oblong table. “Anywhere you like, Sir Ronald.”
The three women were on the cushioned bench along the bulkhead, with Miss Farrell in the middle. Sir Ronald, with a choice open, sat next Susan Heimrich. Di Scarlotti went around the table and sat beside Mrs. Raymond Powers, who apparently was Lucinda Powers.
“We’ve spent a bit of time in the States,” Ronald Grimes told Susan. “More than home, recent years. Picked up your habits, Mrs. Heimrich. Some of them. Ellen’s martini, for example. Not so popular in England, y’know.”
Ellen Grimes leaned a little toward them.
“Because,” she said, “all our really good gin is exported. Mostly to the States, isn’t it, Ronald? You’d know.”
“Sort of commercial attaché at the Embassy,” Grimes said. “What Ellen means by that. True enough, though. We get left with the seventy proof, y’know. Watery stuff. Explains the gin-and-it people, probably. Pink-gin people too, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“We were down in Georgia a year or so ago,” Ellen Grimes said. “Fed us bourbon whisky. With something called Six Up as a mixer. Very odd.”
“Seven Up,” Susan said, “I’ve never tried it.”
“Very pleasant people in Georgia,” Grimes said. “Ones we met, anyway.”
“Oh,” Ellen Grimes said, “very charming people. One or two of them did call me ‘Mrs. Lady Grimes.’”
“Establishing our legitimacy,” Grimes said. “See what I mean, Mrs. Heimrich?”
Susan smiled and nodded her head. The arrival of the Grimeses had, a little unexpectedly, moderated the stiffness of the party.
Lucinda Powers’s voice cut into an instant of silence. It cut rather sharply. It was a higher voice than it had been. The steward had been bringing drinks, but Susan had shaken her head to offers. She still had much of her first martini. Mrs. Powers sounded—just barely sounded—as if she had not shaken her head. But, sherry? Susan looked at the glass in front of Lucinda Powers. It was a cocktail glass, not a sherry glass. The sherry glasses had been long-stemmed and fragile. The liquid in Mrs. Powers’s glass was colorless. Not even the palest and driest of sherries is that colorless, Susan thought—which is none of my business.
“Wasn’t he, Ronald?” Lucinda Powers said, in her heightened voice.
Grimes looked at her and said, “Sorry, Lucinda. Afraid I missed something.”
“My late husband,” Lucinda said. “My Ray. Everybody knew about him, didn’t they?”
“Most people, certainly,” Ronald Grimes said. “Very able man, your husband.”
“More than that,” Lucinda Powers said. “You know he was more than that, Ronald. A great man. A leader. You know that.”
Ronald Grimes said, “Of course, Lucinda,” but not, Susan thought, in a tone of great enthusiasm.
“Passed away just when he was most needed,” Lucinda Powers said. “You know that, Ronald. You do too, Major.”
“Captain-of-industry type,” Major Whitney said. “Absolutely.”
“And he worked himself to death,” Lucinda Powers said. “For his country. Didn’t he, Ronald?”
“You could call it that,” Ronald Grimes said, and again Susan heard—thought she heard—a shade of withdrawal in his voice. “Entered into it, certainly.”
“You know,” Lucinda Powers said. “Nobody better. That’s true, isn’t it?”
She had taken over the conversation. Nobody else was saying anything. The party, Susan thought, was no longer stiff. It was in danger of becoming strident, in a one-sided way. She looked across the table at her husband, but Merton was looking at Mrs. Powers, as the rest were looking at her. There was a noticeably withdrawn look on Comandante di Scarlotti’s face, Susan thought.
“I knew your husband quite well, Lucinda,” Grimes said. “A very forceful man. He—”
“Such excellent pâté, Captain,” Emily Farrell said. “Such a special flavor. Italian, isn’t it?”
It was a try, Susan thought. Not much of a try, but something of a try. It was, she thought, much too early to leave the party. There was no good excuse to leave the party. Sometimes when a party begins to rasp you can say you have an early dinner date. It was not an excuse which would sound convincing on shipboard. On shipboard, people ate after the dinner chimes had sounded.
“Not forceful enough, was he, Ronald?” Mrs. Powers said. “Up against a wall at the Embassy, wasn’t he? Your wall.”
“Dear Lucinda,” Ellen Grimes said, “there wasn’t any wall, really. Just policy. Wasn’t that it, Ronald?”
Sir Ronald said, “Absolutely. Great chap, Powers. Tops in his field. We all felt that, Lucinda.”
“Carrying a bit of weight,” Whitney said. “Puts a strain on the ticker, y’know.”
His voice was level and, Susan thought, a little hard. Mrs. Powers looked at him, and her look was as hard as his voice. She said, “I wasn’t talking to you, Major. You didn’t know my husband.”
“Oh,” Whitney said, “ran into him here and there, m’dear. One place and another. Right, Ellen?”
“Dear boy,” Ellen Grimes said. “How would I know whom you ran into here and there?”
“Sorry,” Whitney said. “Wouldn’t, of course. Don’t know what made me say that, Lady Grimes.”
The “Lady Grimes” had an edge to it, Susan thought. An edge of—what? Of satire? Of rebuke?
“Mrs. Lady Grimes,” Emily Farrell said. “I think that’s wonderful. I really think it’s wonderful.”
Ellen Grimes turned to Miss Farrell, and turned to her with a smile—a welcoming smile.
“Surprising, certainly,” Ellen Grimes said. “Most—taking-abacking for a moment. But Ronald went out to Chicago once for—for a conference of some sort—and a reporter called him ‘Sir Grimes.’”
She spoke rapidly, rather nervously. A
ccepting a diversion with eagerness, Susan thought; clutching at it with an anecdote not worth the telling.
“Unpolished,” Susan said. “We crude Amuricans.”
She spoke in the lightest of voices; a voice with laughter in it. She made much of the “u” in “Amuricans.”
Ronald Grimes looked at her, and a wide smile split his tired face, and he said, “Jolly right, what-what?” burlesquing it. She smiled back at him, and then he turned to Major Whitney and said, “Eh, Whitney? Jolly good, wouldn’t you say?”
With his head turned, Susan could no longer see the smile on Ronald Grimes’s face. But she felt that, when he looked at the major, the smile wasn’t there.
Major Whitney said, “Right you are, Grimes.”
She could see his face, and there was no smile on it.
It’s all very prickly, Susan thought. They’re—they’re talking behind their words.
“Leaving us at Málaga, I understand,” Comandante di Scarlotti said. He said it to Merton Heimrich, who said, “Yes, Captain.” There was quiet in Heimrich’s voice. There was no edge on it. It is as if the tension has not reached him, Susan thought. As if it has escaped him. But things like that do not ever escape him.
“Tricky harbor, Málaga,” di Scarlotti said. “Have to go in this way”—an index finger traced a line on the table in front of him. “Narrow. Crosscurrent. Then, around this way”—the finger traced “this way,” which seemed to be a narrow circle. “And then”—the finger moved again.
“Looks confusing,” Heimrich said.
“Can’t say I like it too much,” di Scarlotti said. “Tricky. Risk of putting her aground.”
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