Алистер Маклин - Circus

‘Not long. A few weeks.’

‘Not long. A few weeks.’ Bruno made it sound like a few years. ‘And have you worked out any solution yet?’

‘No.’

‘And you expect me to do it in a few minutes?’

Harper shook his head and rose. ‘I suppose Wrinfield will be along to see you in a short time – he’s bound to hear of your accident any moment and he doesn’t know it was rigged, although you can tell him that. How much do you propose telling him?’

‘Nothing. If I told him this suicidal scheme you have in mind for me he’d have this ship turned round in less time than it could take him to wash his hands of you.’

The days passed uneventfully enough, if somewhat unsteadily: the Carpentaria ’s stabilizers didn’t seem quite to understand what was expected of them. For the circus crew there was little enough to do other than feed the animals and keep their quarters clean. Those performers who could practise their esoteric arts practised them: those who couldn’t possessed their souls in patience.

Bruno spent sufficient time with Maria to lend credence to the now almost universal belief among the circus people that here indeed was a romance that was steadily blossoming: what was even more intriguing was that there seemed to be a distinct possibility that there might be two romances getting under way, for whenever Bruno was not with her Henry Wrinfield was solicitously unsparing in the attentions he paid her. And, as Bruno spent most of his time with Kan Dahn, Roebuck and Manuelo, Henry lacked neither the time nor the opportunity; he made the most of both.

The lounge bar, a large room that seated well over a hundred people, was invariably well patronized before dinner. On the third night out Henry sat at a remote corner table, talking earnestly to Maria. On the far side of the lounge Bruno sat playing cards with his three friends. Before the game, Roebuck and Manuelo spent their ritual ten minutes bemoaning the fact that they had no opportunity to practise their arts with lasso and knife respectively. Kan Dahn was in no way concerned about himself: clearly he was of the belief that his massive strength wasn’t going to drain away from him in a matter of days: it was a belief that was widely shared.

Poker was their game. They played for low stakes and Bruno almost invariably won. The others claimed that this was because he could see through their cards, a claim that Bruno stoutly denied, although the fact that on the previous night, wearing a blindfold, he had won four consecutive hands put a query mark to his assertion. Not that he was ever in pocket at the end of a game: the winner paid for the drinks and although he, Roebuck and Manuelo consumed very little, the capacity of Kan Dahn’s three-hundred-pound frame for beer was awesome.

Kan Dahn drained another uncounted pint, glanced across the room and tapped Bruno on the arm. ‘You’d best look to your defences, my lad. Your lady-love is under siege.’

Bruno glanced across and said mildly: ‘She’s not my lady-love. Even if she were I don’t think Henry is the type to snatch her and run. Not that he could run very far in the middle of the Atlantic.’

‘Far enough,’ Roebuck said darkly.

‘His fair-haired dear one is back in the States,’ Manuelo said severely. ‘Our little Maria is here. It makes a difference.’

‘Somebody,’ Roebuck said, ‘should tell her about Cecily.’

‘Our little Maria knows all about Cecily. She told me so herself. Even knows the kind of engagement ring she wears.’ Bruno glanced at the couple again, then returned to his cards. ‘I do not think that they are discussing affairs of the heart.’

Maria and Henry were not, indeed, discussing affairs of the heart. Henry was being very very earnest, very intense and very genuinely concerned. He suddenly broke off, looked across to the bar, then back to Maria again.

‘That proves it!’ Henry’s voice held a mixture of triumph and apprehension.

Maria said patiently: ‘What proves what, Henry?’

‘The fellow I told you about. The fellow who’s been following you. That steward that just entered and went behind the bar. The chap with the weasel face. He’s no right to be here. He doesn’t work here.’

‘Oh, come on now, Henry. He hasn’t got a weasel face, just thin, that’s all.’

‘He’s English,’ Henry said inconsequentially.

‘I’ve met some Englishmen who weren’t criminals. And you haven’t overlooked the fact that this is a British ship?’

Henry was persistent. ‘I’ve seen him follow you half a dozen times. I know, because I’ve followed the two of you.’ She looked at him in surprise, but this time without smiling. ‘He also follows my uncle.’

‘Ah!’ She looked thoughtful. ‘His name’s Wherry. He’s a cabin steward.’

‘I told you he shouldn’t be here. Keeping tabs on you, that’s what.’ He checked himself. ‘A cabin steward. How do you know? Your cabin steward?’

‘Your uncle’s. That’s where I saw him first. In your uncle’s cabin.’ Her thoughtful expression deepened. ‘Now that you mention it, I have seen him around rather a lot. And , two or three times when I’ve been walking about, I turned around and found him close behind.’

‘You bet you did.’

‘And what’s that meant to mean, Henry?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m making no mistake.’

‘Why should anyone follow me? Do you think he’s a detective in disguise and I’m a wanted criminal? Or do I look like a counter-spy or a secret agent or Mata Hari fifty years on?’

Henry considered. ‘No, you don’t look the part. Besides, Mata Hari was ugly. You’re beautiful.’ He adjusted his glasses the better to confirm his judgement. ‘Really beautiful.’

‘Henry! Remember this morning? We had agreed to confine our discussions to intellectual matters.’

‘The hell with intellectual matters.’ Henry thought and weighed his words with care. ‘I really believe I’m falling in love with you.’ He thought some more. ‘Fallen.’

‘I don’t think Cecily would–’

‘The hell with her, too – no, I didn’t mean that. Sorry. Although I did mean what I said about you.’ He half-turned in his seat. ‘Look, Wherry’s leaving.’

They watched him go, a small thin dark man with a small thin dark moustache. At his nearest approach to their table, which was about ten feet away, he flickered a glance at them then as quickly looked away again. Henry leaned back in his seat and gave her his ‘I-told-you-so’ look.

‘A criminal. Written all over him. You saw that?’

‘Yes.’ She was troubled. ‘But why, Henry, why?’

He shrugged. ‘Do you have any valuables? Any jewellery?’

‘I don’t wear jewellery.’

Henry nodded his approval. ‘Jewellery is for women who need it. But when a person is as lovely as you are–’

‘Henry, it’s getting so I just can’t talk to you. This morning I said it was a lovely day and you put on your soulful expression and made disparaging remarks about the day. When I commend my peach melba you say it’s not half as sweet as I am. And when we looked at the beautiful colourings of the sunset tonight–’

‘I have a poetic soul. Ask Cecily. No, on second thoughts, don’t ask Cecily. I can see that I’m going to have to keep a very, very close eye on you.’

‘I should say that you are making a pretty good start already.’

‘Ah.’ An unrepentant Henry, eyes slightly glazed but not from alcohol, made no attempt to switch his adoring gaze to pastures less green. He said wistfully: ‘You know, I’ve always wanted to be someone’s Sir Galahad.’

‘I wouldn’t, if I were you, Henry. There’s no place in the world today for Sir Galahads. Chivalry is dead, Henry. The lances and the bright swords and the days of knightly combat are gone: this is the era of the knife in the back.’