When a few moments later he set off to keep the appointment, he felt as nervous as if he were about to be interviewed for a new job. Fervently he hoped he would not fail her in carrying out whatever she wanted him to do.
The saloon was empty when he entered, as he expected it would be. It was an unattractive place, low and small and with drab decorations and plain fittings. In a few seconds she joined him, and he instantly realised that she was in some serious trouble.
“Miss Stott,” he greeted her. “I see there’s something wrong. Can I do anything?”
She smiled deprecatingly. “I feel dreadfully ashamed, Mr Morrison, for troubling you like this. But I’m rather worried and I don’t know anyone else on board that I would care to ask for help.”
Morrison’s heart leaped, but he controlled himself. “It would be an honour to help you,” he said quietly. “What has happened?”
She made a little gesture of distress. “I hate to say it,” she answered, “but it’s my father. It seems like criticising him, and he’s the best father in the world. But just occasionally he – he takes a little too much whisky. And when that happens, his gambling becomes reckless. Then when the – when it has passed, he’s so sorry and upset.”
She hesitated, as if finding her confession too painful to continue. Morrison thought he should fill the gap, and he tried to speak sincerely and yet without emotion.
“I can appreciate all that,” he declared. “I’ve known cases where the best and most lovable people have become temporarily changed just by taking a little more than they intended to. And, of course, there’s nothing it affects so quickly as the judgment.”
She glanced at him gratefully. “I thought you’d understand. Now, the trouble is that he’s taken – a little – too much this afternoon. I don’t mean for a moment that he’s at all – well, drunk. But as you put it, his judgment has been affected and he’s gambling wildly. He’s losing more than we can afford. And when he – recovers, he’ll be so sorry and wish so much he hadn’t.”
If Morrison had any doubt of it before, he had none now. He loved this girl, loved her to distraction. He would do anything for her and be thankful for the chance. But, he told himself grimly, this was not the moment to think of it. Crushing down his feelings, he asked: “What do you usually do under such circumstances?”
“He’ll often do what I ask him. But this afternoon I’ve been down to the rooms twice and he just won’t attend to me. I can’t do anything with him. Besides, my running after him worries him.”
Morrison at last saw what was coming. “And you wish me to try if I can do anything?” he asked, his heart slowly sinking. If this indeed were what she wanted, almost inevitably he would fail her.
She nodded, looking anxiously into his face. “I thought perhaps your uniform would help you: give you some sort of authority, you know. He might listen to you when he won’t to me.”
Morrison hated it, but only one answer was possible. “I’ll do my level best,” he declared. “Shall I try and bring him to you here, or just ask him to go on deck?”
“If you could get him away from the rooms, I think I could manage him. Perhaps you’d better bring him here.”
Morrison, however, remembered that very shortly the library steward would be opening up the shelves and people would be coming in and out.
“I don’t think this place would do after all,” he said. “The library will be opening soon. But I’ll tell you: come along to my office. No one will want me at this time and I’ll close it for half an hour. Then I’ll try and get Major Stott to go there.”
“That is good of you,” she said gratefully. “Of course, you’ll explain to him that I’ve asked you to do this. He may be annoyed at the moment, but he’ll thank you for it later.”
Morrison turned aside. “You may trust me to do everything I can,” he assured her earnestly.
“I do trust you, and I’m more grateful than I can say.”
Though it gave him a thrill of sheer delight to be attempting something unpleasant for Margot, Morrison shrank from what he knew would be a horrible ordeal. In the first place, no officer in uniform was allowed in the gaming rooms on pain of instant dismissal. He thought his excuse for breaking the rule would be accepted by the Captain, but old Stott would have the final decision, and he might resent the interference with his nephew. Then, it would be impossible to speak to the Major in private, and a public discussion of the matter would be out of the question. His quest, indeed, seemed hopeless; then, just as he reached the rooms, he saw what he might do.
The door attendant made as if to stop him, but he whispered: “Message from the Captain for Major Stott,” and passed in before the other could recall his wits.
Except from the door, he had never before seen gaming in progress. He now found himself in one of the large rooms devoted to roulette, and every chair round the big table was occupied. Behind the chairs stood a ring of observers. Both sexes and all ages were represented. The armchairs and settees round the walls were deserted, but a few people stood vaguely about, as if too unsettled to sit down.
He had read many descriptions of the play at Monte Carlo, and he heard with an odd little thrill, delivered in a colourless monotone the words he had so often seen in print: “Messieurs et mesdames, faites les jeux.” Fascinated, he watched the coloured counters being placed on the various spaces, some deliberately as if weighty consideration and judgment had gone to the selection, some hesitatingly as if fear and doubt were uppermost in the player’s mind, and others in the hurry of last moment decision. Then, like the knell of fate came the croupier’s, “Le jeu est fait: rien ne va plus!” followed by the whirl of the wheel with its dancing ball, the equally fateful number with “Impair, manque, rouge” following, and the quick skilful movements of the rake pushing out and drawing in – but mostly drawing in – counters.
Morrison, waiting for the turn to end, glanced from the table to the faces of those playing. Here he saw something else of which he had read, though till now he had never quite believed it. No one showed the feverish excitement naturally to be expected. Practically everyone looked bored. Only three – two terrible old women and a small, sallow man – watched with real eagerness. One of the women was successful, and he thought he had never seen cupidity stamped so plainly on human features as when she stretched out her wrinkled, claw-like hand to draw in her chips.
He had no trouble in finding Stott. He was in this room seated almost directly facing the croupier, and with his back to the door and Morrison. When the turn was over Morrison advanced, and taking his courage in both hands, spoke to Stott.
“I beg your pardon. Major Stott,” he said as officially as he could, “but Captain Hardwick sends his compliments and would be grateful if you could see him in his cabin. Some telegram he wishes to discuss with you.”
Stott leant back. He had obviously had drink and was red-eyed and quarrelsome-looking, though by no means incapable. He stared truculently.
“He does, does he?” he returned in a loud voice. “Well, I’ll go when I’m ready.”
Morrison took a fresh hold on himself. “Sorry, sir,” he declared, “but I daren’t take back such a message. He’s waiting to see you now.”
“Well, he can wait. What the hell do I care?”
Several players glanced up with annoyed expressions and Morrison felt he would presently have their opposition. He smiled pleasantly and went on as firmly as he could: “I’m sorry, sir, but he’s the captain. We’ve all got to humour him while we’re aboard. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind coming for just a moment?”
Stott began a fresh outburst, but it was quickly quelled by the other players. There were cries of “Hush!” and “Silence!” and someone said: “Steady on, old man. Go and see the lord almighty and we’ll keep your place.”
For a moment Stott seemed undecided, then he got up. “All right, curse the lot of you. Here you” – to Morrison –”lead the way and be damned to you!”
As they enter
ed one of the lifts Morrison felt that the preliminary skirmish had been won. But the main action, now in sight, was a more serious affair.
He stopped the lift at D Deck and led the way to his cabin. “One moment here, sir, if you please,” he said as he ushered Stott in. “Perhaps you’d kindly sit down just for a second?”
“What’s all this?” Stott answered suspiciously. “If you try on any monkey-tricks with me, the Lord help you.” All the same he sat down and waited. Morrison took his place opposite and tried to stiffen his resolution with thoughts of Margot.
“I have to tell you, sir,” he began slowly, “that what I said to you just now was not true. The Captain does not want to see you, but someone else does. I mentioned the Captain instead of that person in order not to disgrace you.”
Stott’s eyes goggled. “Do you happen to know what you’re saying and who you’re speaking to?” he asked with dangerous quietness.
“I’ll put it to you, sir, as I see it, and leave it at that. You can do what you like: get me sacked if you like. But what do you think of it when your daughter had to come to me, a complete stranger, and a young man at that, to try and stop her father from throwing away his money at the tables because he had taken too much drink to listen to her or to know what he was doing?”
For a moment Morrison thought his visitor was getting apoplexy. Stott’s face grew crimson, the veins swelled on his forehead and his eyes bulged from their sockets. Once or twice he gasped as if unable to speak. Then very slowly his expression changed. He leant forward and put his hands over his eyes. For a little there was silence in the cabin. Then at last he spoke – in a different voice.
“Is this true,” he asked, “that my daughter did really come to you with that request?”
“Absolutely, sir. I was simply trying to do what she asked me.”
“Where is she?”
Morrison pointed. “She’s next door in my office. Will you see her, sir, if I ask her to come in?”
Stott nodded. Morrison passed into the office and spoke as unemotionally as he could.
“Major Stott’s in there. Miss Stott. He’d like to see you.” He held the door, she passed through it, and he closed it behind her. Then, feeling slightly sick, he went on deck.
What took place in his cabin he never heard. When he went back half an hour later it was empty. But apparently the interview turned out satisfactorily: indeed, he was practically told so by both participants. Just before dinner he met Margot on the promenade deck and she stopped him.
“I just can’t say how grateful I am – we both are,” she said earnestly. “I don’t want ever to refer to it again, but I’ll not forget your kindness. Thank you. Good night.” She had vanished before he could reply.
There was a good deal in the words, and there was even more in the glance which went with them. Warmth began flooding into Morrison’s heart. His misgivings began to disappear. The world grew suddenly brighter and happier.
These feelings were strengthened later that night by an interview with Major Stott, as short and decisive as the other. Morrison was on his way to the boat-deck for a breather before bed, when he ran into the man coming down the companion-way. Stott stopped, glanced round, saw they were alone, and said in a low voice: “I should like you to understand, Morrison, that I’m not resentful for what you did this afternoon. In fact, I’m very grateful. You handled what must have been an unpleasant job tactfully.”
“That’s very generous of you, sir,” Morrison answered, and he really meant it. “Thank you very much.”
“We needn’t speak of it again, but I’ll not forget it,” the Major answered, almost in his daughter’s words, then nodded and passed on.
Morrison soon found that though the incident was buried, it was not forgotten. Next day he passed Margot seated with some friends on deck and she greeted him with unusual friendliness. “Come and tell us what’s going to happen to us tomorrow,” she called, and when he went over she introduced him as she would a complete equal. “Mr Morrison’s been so kind to me,” she went on, telling the story of the forgotten books.
“Tomorrow’s the star turn of the trip,” he assured them. “We’ll be off the Cuillins between Skye and Rum. Gorgeous views both sides.”
“I thought it was always foggy there?” asked a Miss Maudsley, who sat next Margot.
“I’ll see that it’s clear for you tomorrow,” he returned gravely. “But I recommend the shore excursion. A bit tiring, but well worth while.”
“We should have been ashore at Portree today, only that we’ve got people coming aboard.”
“They’ll be here in half an hour,” he explained, passing on.
He was on deck when the planes arrived and he witnessed the Stott reunion. Elmina Stott – he knew her name from his registers – was a tall, hard-faced woman of perhaps five-and-forty, with a domineering manner and ultra-fashionable clothes. In her somewhat perfunctory greeting to Wyndham there was a hint of contempt, while her cool nod to Margot suggested absolute dislike. Her son, Percy Luff, was a weedy looking youth of some two– or three-and-twenty, with a vague air of dissipation, a vacant expression and a loud laugh. Morrison at once ruled him outside the pale because of the offensive way he spoke to a steward who was carrying his suitcase. Morrison had no opportunity to register further impressions, as the party drifted below to inspect their cabins.
Their coming proved an unexpected blessing to Morrison. Margot seemed less occupied and was to be seen at more frequent intervals as he went about the ship, ostensibly on business, but really in the hope of meeting her. She was friendly at all these encounters and did not seem to want to hurry away. He was careful to avoid personal matters and at first they kept to generalities. But on the Sunday on which they were off Barra and Eriskay, she asked him directly about himself, and their talk became more intimate.
“You told me how you came into this ship,” she said, after a pause, “and that you had been with the Boscombe travel people before. I’ve wondered whether you’re pleased or sorry you made the change?”
“Pleased,” he returned decidedly. “Oh, yes, definitely. I like travelling of any sort, you see. And I like being on a big boat. Then, the work’s pleasant and the pay’s good. And” – he hesitated for the fraction of a second, then decided to risk it – “if I had stayed with the Boscombe people I shouldn’t have met you.”
“An important matter,” she laughed, and once again he breathed freely. “Had you always wanted to go to Boscombe’s?”
“No.” He felt that with this opening he might be excused if he told her the history of his life. “As a matter of fact, I was intended for the diplomatic service. My father was a merchant. He was the head of a big firm with branches at Calcutta and several of the towns of India. I went to Haileybury and then on to Cambridge. Then my father died suddenly and it was found that though he had been so well off, he had left very little money. He had, as a matter of fact, been speculating. My mother – there were then just the two of us – had enough to live on, but her money ceased when she died two years later. Though I had a little, it was not enough to continue at Cambridge, so I chucked it and began looking for a job. My love of travel and my rather slight knowledge of languages got me my place at Boscombe’s, the first agency I tried. And that’s” – he smiled – “the whole of my eventful life.”
“I’m glad you told me,” she said. “It was good of you. But I guessed you’d been at Cambridge.”
“You didn’t? How?”
“I don’t know. There’s something about Cambridge men. It’s unmistakable.”
As she spoke, her friend Miss Maudsley passed. She called her over. “I’m getting more information from my travel oracle,” she explained. “Come and listen.”
“I can tell you all about every place,” Morrison played up.
Miss Maudsley cocked a supercilious eye. “True stories?” she demanded.
“Oh, well, you can’t have everything,” Morrison protested. “You can have the truth o
r the story, whichever you like. No reasonable being would ask for both.”
“Tell us about Staffa and Fingal’s Cave,” Margot suggested. “I’m anxious to see those.”
He enlarged on the subject, finally coming to geology. “Columnar basalt,” he explained. “A great bed of it is believed to cross the sea basin to Northern Ireland. If the weather’s kind to us, we’ll see this end of it on Tuesday, and in a week more, the other end at the Giant’s Causeway near Portrush. That bed is the actual causeway, where the giants crossed in old times.”
“Can you promise us any giants?” asked Miss Maudsley.
“I should be glad to arrange it,” he returned; “only, unfortunately, it’s not my department. Giants are done by the Chief Officer.”
“I believe that’s only an excuse,” drawled the young woman.
“Well, I’ll tell him about it,” Morrison declared; “but, of course, I can’t guarantee what he’ll do.”
“At all events, I hope you’ll come in the boat with us and show us what to look at.”
Crushing down his exultation, he promised, and presently Miss Maudsley passed on.
“Another place I want to see is Portrush,” continued Margot. “I’ve always heard it’s a wonderful place.”
“It’s all of that,” he assured her, delighted that she had remained behind. “But it wants good weather to enjoy it properly.”
“Do you know all the places in the world?” she mocked. “Personal reminiscences of everywhere?”
“There were no personal reminiscences of Staffa. I’ve never been in Fingal’s Cave. Every time we’ve called it’s been too rough to see it.”
“You are” – she looked appraisingly over him – “a complete fraud.”
“Oh, no, I assure you,” he protested. “That’s just business. It sounds more impressive if you hold forth on places. And not a bit of a fraud. All the information was dead right.”
Fatal Venture Page 10