It was Lambert who broke the silence. He cleared his throat and straightened his thin shoulders. Looking more than ever like an unhappy freshman, he brushed the lock of blond hair back from his forehead and made his final attempt, his voice thin, high-pitched, and not very convincing.
“Please, Julia,” he said. “Let’s drop it for tonight, shall we? Sleep on it and then in the morning we can discuss things and see—
“No.” Julia peered at him glassily, her head rolling. “We’ll decide right now. If you go, so do I. That’s exactly how it’s going to be.”
She reached forward to put her empty glass on the table, missed, grabbed at it, and silently toppled forward on her hands and knees, head down and blond hair obscuring her face.
For a moment then there was a taut silence, broken only by the sound of the glass as it rolled across the floor. Crane stooped and picked it up and they stood there like that while Julia pushed herself to a sitting position, head lolling.
Keith Lambert sighed audibly. “I’m sorry,” he said to the room at large. “I’m afraid we’ll never get her ashore now. Couldn’t we”—he looked appealingly at Scott—”I mean, couldn’t we put her in some cabin, just for the night?”
Vivian bit her lip. “She can sit there and rot for all I care,” she said furiously.
Crane started slowly forward but Scott cut ahead of him to bend down and pick up Julia’s limp form. He said the forward cabin was empty and now Sally stepped up, her young face distressed and her eyes understanding.
“I’ll help you, Alan,” she said.
They went forward, past the galley and round the jog in the passageway, past the double stateroom, the shower and head and the cabin opposite, coming finally to the one at the end. Sally stepped ahead to open the door and now Julia began to mumble, protesting that she could walk, demanding that she be put down.
Scott sat her on the edge of the bed and knelt to slip off her shoes while Sally worked on the zipper of the dress. She was still struggling when he backed out and closed the door, telling her he would wait. Apparently Sally had her troubles because even when he moved down the passageway he could hear her talking, and Julia’s voice raised in argument. This went on for well over a minute and when Sally finally came out her face was flushed from exertion but the cabin was quiet. She was rubbing one wrist, her green eyes closer to anger than he had ever seen them when he thanked her for her help.
“I got her dress off and made her lie down,” she said. “She’ll be all right—I guess.” “At least she’s quiet.”
“That’s because I put a pillow over her face.”
Gardner had come into the alley-way to meet them and now he asked if Julia had passed out. When they said yes, he sighed and said, “Well, thank God for that.”
Howard Crane was apologizing when they got back to the main cabin. He had a cablegram in his hand and was explaining how Julia had wired him from San Juan, asking him to meet her plane. He had taken her to the hotel where they’d had a few drinks and dinner.
“I happened to mention the cruise and after that, well”—he shrugged—”nothing would do but she come and have a look.” He made a gesture of embarrassment. “I’m sorry. It was my fault.”
“No.” Lambert sighed heavily. “If she’s right about still being married to me it wouldn’t have made any difference. When she gets like that there isn’t anything anyone can do”
“It’s still my fault,” Crane said, and suddenly he grinned. “Why not let me make amends? Couldn’t we continue this somewhere else, for a drink at least? Morgans perhaps, or the Flamboyant? We could salvage something of the evening.”
He hesitated hopefully but the suggestion was received with lethargy rather than enthusiasm as one after the other demurred.
“Some other time, Howard,” Farrow said. “For now let’s just forget it.” He glanced at his wife. “It’ll be all right, dear. We’ll get her off in the morning.”
“It would be simpler,” Vivian said, “if someone would conveniently strangle her.”
“Maybe someone will,” Freddie Gardner said and then, as though aware of the implication, he giggled.
Crane was already moving towards the companion-way. He asked who wanted to go to the Aquatic Club and Lambert said they did, indicating Sally, Freddie and himself. Scott said he could put the Farrows ashore in the dinghy and there was no further conversation until he rowed them to the Yacht Club beach.
“Julia’ll be all right, won’t she?” Farrow said as he helped his wife out. “I mean you don’t mind, do you, Alan, her staying aboard tonight?”
Scott said not to worry about it; he said Julia would probably stay dead to the world until morning.
“We’ll be along then,” Farrow said. “We’ll get her off one way or another.”
“And when we do,” Vivian said, “we’ll Shanghai Keith if we have to. Julia has fouled things up all she’s going to.
The Griselda s main cabin was hot, stuffy and smoke-filled when Scott went below and, having had nothing at all to drink since dinner, the first thing he did was pour two inches of whisky into a glass and toss it down. He poured another quickly, added ice and soda and then got to work, first giving the carpets a quick sweeping and then collecting glasses and bottles. With the cabin in reasonable order he rinsed the glasses and then, abruptly, he stopped. For another moment he stood there, his cowlick showing, his blue gaze morose and brooding like his thoughts; then he chucked the towel away, finished his drink and strode back to the cabin, knowing that he had to get away for a while.
It did not matter where he went so long as it was away from the schooner, from the drunken woman in the forward cabin. What he needed was time for his mind to clear, a chance to let his ever-mounting resentment evaporate. When he had slipped on his jacket and turned off all the lights except the one in the galley, he went topside and climbed down into the dinghy.
CHAPTER 4
THE CLUB MORGAN was well out in the country, perhaps three miles from Bridgetown, a low coral-stone building with a small bar, a good dance floor and an attractive, airy atmosphere. The orchestra usually played until three in the morning and because the club stayed open as long as there were customers it was the one place in Barbados where people could gather when the hotel bars had closed.
There were about a dozen cars parked outside when Scott arrived at twenty minutes of twelve. He had been there twice for dinner since coming to the island, and as he stopped to chat with Abe, the greeter and headwaiter, Howard Crane came into the foyer from the bar.
“Hello,” he said, his grin rueful. “It looks like you and I are the only ones who reconsidered my suggestion.”
Scott grinned back at him. “I had to get away from there for a while,” he said. “How about a quick one for the road?”
Crane shook his head. He said he’d had it. “I’m afraid I started much too early with you know who.”
When he turned away, Scott went inside and sat down on a bar stool, ordering a double whisky and soda. As he waited for the drink he turned to look down at the dance floor and the half dozen couples who were performing for the six-piece orchestra, and now Frank Morgan, who ran the club with his wife Helen, strolled over and shook hands. Scott asked what he’d have and Morgan said:
“The same as you, only the first one’s on the house.”
They said: “Cheers,” and then Morgan was asking about the cruise and saying it was a trip he wished he could take. He liked sailing and knew the Griselda well, but she was a little too much boat for him personally.
Scott listened morosely, not interrupting until Morgan had finished. Then he said he wasn’t so sure about the cruise after all.
“Mrs. Lambert showed up tonight.”
“Julia?” Morgan stared at him. “Here?”
“On this afternoon’s plane.”
“But—I thought Keith was divorced.”
“So did he. She says no. She came aboard and raised hell with everyone. Didn’t Crane tell you?”
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“I didn’t talk to him. He wasn’t here very long and he wasn’t looking too happy.”
Scott said there was a good reason for Crane’s attitude but before he continued he thought a moment about Frank Morgan. Morgan was an American from Connecticut who had come down here years ago and, with his wife, had started a small nightclub. When he could he rented a larger place and finally had come out here in the country and built this place which many said was one of the nicest clubs south of San Juan. The local news and gossip came quickly to a man like Morgan and Scott decided there could be no harm in telling him what had happened; besides, he wanted someone to talk to, someone who was not involved.
It was part of Morgan’s job to listen and he did so now while Scott gave a brief but vivid version of the scene, his tone glum like his thoughts, his gaze on his glass. Now and then Morgan made some expression of inarticulate surprise, mostly profane, and when the story was finished he turned to a man who was drinking by himself at the curve of the bar.
“Tom,” he said, and beckoned. “Bring your glass . . . Tom Waldron—Alan Scott.”
Morgan waited until they had shaken hands and then he said: “A friend of yours got in town today, Tom,”
“Yeah?”
“Julia.”
Waldron’s face showed very little in the way of reaction. He eyed Morgan quizzically a moment, glanced at Scott. In his mind there seemed to be but one Julia, for he did not ask for further identification.
“Well, what do you know,” he said. “I thought she was through with the place. What brought her back?”
“Money, I guess.”
Morgan went on to give the other a quick résumé of what Scott had just told him. While Waldron listened, head tipped slightly and his right hand using the bottom of his glass to make wet designs on the bar, Scott took the opportunity to study him, knowing right off that he was American. The accent of a big city which colored his words could be easily identified by anyone who had heard it before in the Bronx or Brooklyn. It took an ear, for Waldron seemed to have taken pains to disguise that accent, but now and then the slang came through.
Scott noticed first that he was quite clothes conscious. His slacks were blue, his jacket a white tropical worsted with the kind of lapels the local tailors incorporated in their work; his shirt was navy and his tie a yellow foulard. His hair was dark brown and thin on top, his ears large but close-set, his face, decorated by a mustache, seemed a little long in the jaw. He was not a large man but he looked fit, and behind his dark-rimmed glasses his eyes were deep-set and steady.
“I’m surprised she didn’t show here,” he said finally.
“She may have had it in mind”—Morgan grinned—“but she didn’t make it. Right now she’s sleeping it off in the forward cabin of the Griselda’’
“Passed out?”
“Cold . . . Oh, excuse me—”
Morgan turned away to speak to a couple who were leaving. Waldron glanced up and then gave his attention to his glass which was now empty. When he spoke his voice had a remoteness in its connotation that suggested he was talking more to himself than to Scott.
“Quite a woman, Julia. Crane and I used to take her around some last summer after her husband had moved out.” He paused to take a small breath. “She could be a lot of fun when she put her mind to it. She never pretended much and you didn’t have to pretend with her. What you tried to do was not let her drink too much when she was out.”
His glance came up, met Scott’s and he pushed the glass aside with his fingertips. “I don’t know why Lambert married her in the first place. She conned him into it, I guess. Because if you were with her enough and saw how she was when she’d been drinking too much you knew why a kid like him couldn’t handle her . . . And speaking of the devil—” He turned away with a wink. “See you,” he said.
Scott watched him move into the foyer, not understanding until he glanced round to find Lambert blinking at him, his thin face flushed and his straw-colored hair tousled and unruly.
“Hoped I’d find someone here,” he said in his high-pitched voice. “Started home after I’d left Sally off and then couldn’t face it alone. Decided I might as well get really boiled as the way I was.”
“What happened to Freddie?”
“Oh, he toddled off to get his car while I was saying good night to Sally. Had it parked at the Yacht Club. Don’t know what happened to him.”
He called for another round of drinks, insisting when Scott tried to refuse, and then began to talk about what he called, “—that ghastly business on the Griselda” What he had to say called for little comment and Scott merely nodded agreement from time to time while part of his mind reviewed what he knew about Lambert, which wasn’t much.
Lambert had come out from England four years previously, though no one seemed to know exactly why. He had a small but regular income and apparently the only constructive thing he had ever done prior to his marriage was to work for a while as a piano player at one of the local clubs. In many ways he seemed young even for twenty-four and his recent inheritance had done little to increase his sense of responsibility. He went everywhere, drank too much, often genially, although occasionally the end result was a fight of some sort.
Now, glancing out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw his companion weaving on the bar stool and knew he had already had too much to drink. He himself had come here with the same idea in mind but it was not working out that way. Instead of erasing his cares the liquor had served only to depress him; all he could think of was the charter and what would happen if the Farrows called it off or if Lambert decided not to buy the Griselda.
“Come on,” he said abruptly. “Drink up and let’s go home.”
“Home?” Lambert eyed him blankly. He pushed the hair back from his forehead. “But it’s early, man.”
“Not so very. And we have to be on the ball in the morning.”
“On the ball?”
“We have to get Julia ashore, don’t we?”
“Oh, yes. Quite.”
“We’re still going to take the cruise aren’t we?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll drive you home,” Scott said. “I’ll speak to Morgan. He can have your car sent over in the morning.”
He found Morgan in the foyer and explained what he had in mind. Morgan said he would take care of it but when they walked up to Lambert he had already ordered a fresh drink.
“Appreciate it, old boy,” he said to Morgan. “But not necessary, you know. Can send Freddie up in a taxi and he can pick it up. Might even do it myself.”
He signed the check, said good night politely, and then went with Scott, staggering slightly but making no protest as he pointed out his car and stood by while the Windows were rolled up and the doors locked. He accepted the key and seated himself with great care in Scott’s rented Austin.
A narrow, bumpy road surfaced with crushed stone wound away from the parking lot past some native huts. They bounced along it for a fifth of a mile until they came to an intersecting hard-surfaced road, turning here past a tightly shuttered, unpainted shack that served during daylight hours as a neighborhood store. Then they were climbing a winding hill in second gear and, at the top of the plateau, driving past the row of tiny native cubicles which stood dark and stilted on either side of the narrow road, their windows and doors tightly closed against the night spirits. Not until they were rolling down Highway 6 did Lambert rouse himself and announce a change of plans.
“I’m going with you,” he mumbled.
“Sure.’
“I mean, I’m not going home. I’m going out to the boat.”
“In the morning.”
“Right now. Tonight.” Then, before Scott could overcome his surprise, Lambert continued, his words thick and fumbling but his meaning clear.
“You don’t know much about Julia,” he said. “I do. Not everything, but a lot. Used to be a model. Worked in a dress shop and got to know quite a bit about the business. Came do
wn from Miami on a holiday and decided to open a shop here. Don’t want to bore you with my courtship but I was only twenty-two—she said she was twenty-five but she was closer to twenty-eight—and I’d never known anyone quite like her. Pretty when she wasn’t drinking, a lot of fun but strenuous. I know why I married her: fascinated. Never sure why she wanted me; think she thought I had money. Told her I didn’t. Only a little income and no capital. No ambition. Told her so.”
He paused, his breathing noisy and regular. He said: “Pretty exciting at first. Flattering to have a good-looking woman making a fuss over you. I tried to help out in the shop. Had big ideas about this and that but it didn’t work out. Didn’t know why until I realized Julia was dominating me. Had too much of everything. What I mean is, I couldn’t cope with her. I was the husband but she was the head of the house. That sort of thing. She did all the thinking, made all the decisions. Fine so long as I agreed; when I didn’t there was a battle. Trouble was she always won and finally, last summer, I had my fill.
“Moved out,” he said. “Freddie and I set up bachelor hall. Stopped going to parties because I always seemed to run into Julia and another argument. Howard Crane took her sometimes; sometimes another chap named Waldron. Countryman of yours. From New York. Never quite understood him or just what he expected to find here. Retired, though he seemed young for that; said the climate was good for his health. Understood Howard better. Older. Around forty and knew how to handle women and his wife was in England for the summer. You don’t know her. Very pretty, lovely girl. Only twenty-nine. Wealthy too. Lets Howard handle the money and invest in this and that and . . .”
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