Ричард Деминг - The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

“Aren’t you Peggy Matthews?” I asked.

“I was,” she said with a smile which exposed perfect white teeth. “I’ve been Mrs. Arden Trader for the last couple of days. Are you from the employment agency?”

“Yes, ma’am. My names Dan Jackson.”

She looked me up and down, and suddenly a peculiar expression formed on her face. Even now I can’t quite describe it, but if you can imagine a mixture of surprise and gladness and apprehension, that comes close.

I think there must have been a similar expression on my face, except for the apprehension, because I was having an odd emotional reaction, too. Just like that, on first meeting, static electricity passed between us so strongly, it seemed to crackle like twin bolts of lightning.

I still don’t believe there can be such a thing as love at first sight, but I learned at that instant that there can be an almost overpowering physical attraction between a man and a woman the first moment they look at each other. I had experienced it a few times in much milder form but never with this sort of thunderous impact.

We stood staring at each other in mutual dismay, hers probably from guilt, mine because she was already married. It was incredible that this should happen with a bride of only two days, but it was happening. There was no question in my mind that my impact on her was as strong as hers on me.

We gazed at each other for a long time without speaking. Finally, she said in a shaken voice, “Did the employment agency explain the job, Mr. Jackson?”

I took my eyes from her face so that I could untangle my tongue. “I understand you need someone with navigational and marine engine experience to pilot the Princess II on a Caribbean cruise and also double as a cook.”

She turned and looked out over the water. “Yes,” she said in a low voice. “It’s to be a honeymoon cruise. My husband can pilot the boat all right, but he’s not a navigator and knows nothing about engines. Neither of us is a very good cook, either. Incidentally, our marriage is to remain a secret until after the honeymoon because we don’t want to be met by reporters at every port.”

“All right,” I agreed, still not looking at her.

I did risk a glance at her left hand, however. She was wearing both a diamond and a wedding band. I wondered how she expected to keep it a secret when people were bound to recognize her at every port of call. But that was none of my business.

She suddenly became brisk and businesslike. “May I have your qualifications and vital statistics, Mr. Jackson?”

“In that order?”

“As you please.”

“I’ll give you the vital statistics first,” I said. “Age thirty, height six-one, weight one ninety; single. Two years at Miami U. in liberal arts with a B average, then I ran out of money. My hobbies are all connected with water: swimming, boating, fishing, and as a chaser for rye whiskey. No current romantic entanglements.”

“I’m surprised at the last,” she said. “You’re a very handsome man.”

I decided to ignore that. It didn’t seem a good idea to involve myself as a third party on a honeymoon cruise if the situation were going to become explosive. I wanted to know right now if we were going to be able to suppress whatever it was that had sparked between us at the instant of meeting and keep our relationship on a strictly employer-employee basis.

“Now for qualifications,” I said. “I did two years in the navy, the second one as chief engineer on a destroyer. I took an extension course in navigation and chart reading, intending to buck for a reserve commission, but changed my mind before my hitch was up. I finished the course, though, and am a pretty good navigator. I’m also an excellent marine mechanic. I had my own charter boat out of Miami Beach for two years. I lost it in moorage when Betsy hit, and there was only enough insurance to cover my debts, so I’ve been unable to finance another. Since then I’ve been odd-jobbing at any sea job I could get.”

I looked directly into her face as I spoke, and she gazed back at me levelly. Whatever had caused the lightning to crackle between us was gone now, I was both disappointed and relieved to find. Her manner remained the brisk, almost brittle one of a businesswoman conducting a personnel interview. She still held an immense physical attraction for me, but now that she wasn’t sending out rays of static electricity, I wasn’t responding by sending them back.

She asked, “How about your cooking ability?”

“I’m no chef, but I’ve been cooking for myself for some years and have managed to remain healthy.”

“That’s not too important so long as you’re adequate,” she said. “We’ll probably dine either with friends or in restaurants at our ports of call. You can furnish references, I presume?”

“They’re on file at the employment office, which has already checked them. All you have to do is phone.”

“Very well,” she said. “I think you’ll do, Mr. Jackson. The salary is five hundred dollars plus your keep for a one-month voyage. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We’ll leave tomorrow morning about ten. Our first port will be Southwest Point in the Bahamas, which should only take about four hours because the Princess II cruises at twenty-one knots. I’ll outline the rest of the voyage after we’re under way. Now, would you like to look over the boat?”

“Sure. Where’s Mr. Trader?”

“Shopping for some last-minute supplies. We’ll start below with the engine.”

I judged the boat to be a couple of years old, but it was in excellent shape. I started the engine and listened to it for a time, and it seemed to be in top condition. There was a separate generator engine for the lights when we were in port, and the main engine was idle.

The galley was clean and shipshape, with an electric range and electric refrigerator, the latter well stocked with food. The food cabinet was well stocked with canned goods, also. There was a bunk room that slept four, and off it was a small head and a saltwater shower.

Just she and her husband would occupy the bunk room, Peggy Trader explained. There was a leather-covered bench in the pilothouse which folded out into a fifth bunk, and I would sleep there.

Her manner was entirely impersonal as she conducted the tour. Once, as we were moving from the bunk room into the galley, she accidentally crowded against me in the close quarters, but I sensed no reaction from her at the physical contact.

She merely said politely, “Excuse me,” and continued through the hatch.

I knew the instantaneous physical attraction between us hadn’t been just my imagination, but apparently she had decided, after her one brief lapse, to bring the matter to a screeching halt. I couldn’t help feeling a bit rueful, but at the same time I was relieved. I needed the money badly enough so that I probably would have risked taking the job even if she had thrown herself into my arms, but I preferred not to break up a marriage before it was even fairly under way. If she could restrain herself, I knew I could.

I reported aboard at nine the next morning. Peggy’s husband was present this time. Arden Trader was a lean, handsome man of thirty-five with dark, curly hair and a thin mustache. He had an Oxford accent and treated his bride with the fawning indulgence of a gigolo.

Later, I learned he had been the penniless younger son of an equally penniless English duke and had been existing as one of those curious parasites of the international set who move from villa to villa of the rich as perennial house guests.

I knew he was a fortune hunter the moment he flashed his white teeth and gave me a man-to-man handshake. I wondered why Peggy had allowed herself to be suckered into marrying him. I learned that afternoon.