Gene Wolfe - Home Fires

“Including me,” Skip said.

“I didn’t mean it like that. Well, anyway, she said it was getting too noisy, how about going to her stateroom? I jumped at it. I didn’t know she was contracted then. I hadn’t asked and she didn’t tell me. Do you want to hear what we did in bed? There wasn’t anything very freaky.”

“I think it would be better if I didn’t know.”

“I’ve got it, sir.” Brice pushed his chair back; the distance might have been three centimeters. “It would hit you hard. I can see that.”

“Go on, please.”

“I just wanted to say she was good—”

Skip’s phone vibrated. He answered it with alacrity.

“Mr. Grison? This is Lana. Remember me? The bar on E Deck?” The tiny screen showed him a tired blonde.

“Yes. Certainly.”

“If you’re still lookin’ for the guy with the hooks, he just came in. He’s with three other guys.”

“Can you talk to him privately?”

“Sure. I’ll just get him to come over to the bar for a minute. They’re at a table.”

“Then tell him I was looking for him. Tell him I want information and I may have a job for him.”

“Got it. Will do.”

Skip hung up. “When will we make port? Your professional opinion.”

“If the weather cooperates, it could be as early as tomorrow.” Brice paused. “The old man’s anxious to get there, and I don’t blame him. We’ve got forty-three hijackers locked up, some on K Deck and some in the hold. If we can’t do it tomorrow, probably Monday. It could be later, but I doubt it.”

“Thanks. You must have known that Chelle and I were contracted, since you ran when I came in.”

“I didn’t,” Brice said. “Would I have gone up to your stateroom if I had? I don’t know. Probably I would have.”

Skip nodded.

“She said she had a boyfriend. Okay, but those doors lock every time they close, and I thought she meant some guy who didn’t have a card. You came in after that. I figured you’d take a punch at me, and I knew that if I got mixed up in a fight—that kind of fight—I could kiss my job goodbye. So I beat it.”

For a moment, Brice hesitated. “I’ve done that sort of thing before, sir, only it wasn’t your Chelle. This was another passenger on the last cruise.”

“Are you saying you didn’t give Chelle your cabin card?”

“No, sir. I did, but it was the next day. I ran into her—I was out on deck where they’d fouled a halyard, and she came over to watch. So we talked for a minute or two, and I slipped her my spare card. Some girls really go for that, sir. They like being up here with an officer.”

“Mostly tourist-class girls, I would imagine.”

Brice shook his head. “I try to stay away from those.”

“You must know who was in this room when the shooting occurred.”

“No, sir. I was still in the infirmary.”

“Someone must have told you,” Skip insisted.

“No, sir. Nobody did, and I haven’t asked. I still feel pretty rocky. Weak, you know. That’s been on my mind a lot more than what happened up here.”

“I could name almost everyone who was in here when I regained consciousness, although I’m more interested in someone who wasn’t. Most of all, I’m interested in the one person I didn’t already know. If you can tell me who he is, I’ll be grateful. Extremely grateful.”

Brice shook his head. “I don’t know who any of them were, sir, except for you. You said you were here, that you were shot in here.”

“I was. This man is elderly. His hair is white. He wears glasses. He has a white mustache and a pointed beard long enough to cover the knot in his tie. They’re neatly trimmed. He’s thin, and a good ten centimeters taller than most men—about your height or a trifle more. He walks with a blackthorn stick and smokes a corncob.”

“How sure are you about all this, sir?”

“Certain. I talked with him, although not for long. I realized how tall he was when he stood up.”

“I don’t know him. I can’t think of anybody remotely like that, not even somebody I saw on tele. He was well dressed? You said something about a necktie.”

Skip nodded. “Seersucker suit. Blue stripes, I think. Soft white shirt. Navy-blue tie with a red figure. I couldn’t tell what the figure was, but it was probably some kind of animal. White wing-tip shoes, well polished.”

Brice grinned. “Socks?”

“White. His watch looked expensive, but I didn’t recognize the make. No rings. This isn’t helping you, and you’re not helping me. Let me try another question. Do you know anyone currently on this ship named White?”

Brice paused to think, his fingers drumming the arm of the couch. “No, sir. No, I don’t. I knew a White in the Naval Academy, sir. Bob White. I couldn’t tell you where he is now.”

There was a knock at the door. “Steward.” Brice rose to admit a short, dark man with a tray.

When the coffee and sandwiches had been apportioned, Skip said, “Someone called the man I described Mr. White. If—”

“I thought you said you didn’t know his name.”

“I don’t.” Skip took a bite of his sandwich, chewed, and rediscovered that he was ravenously hungry. “I heard him called that. It may not be his real name. If I were made to bet, I’d bet that it isn’t.”

Another bite of toast, turkey, and bacon gave Brice time in which to speak if he wanted it. He did not.

“I watched the people Mick Tooley brought get off Soriano’s boat,” Skip said. “I saw Soriano’s men, too. This man wasn’t in either group. Therefore ‘Mr. White’ is a crewman or a passenger. Would you know him if he were in the crew?”

“Absolutely. From what you say, he’d be the oldest crew member by far.”

“Then he’s a passenger. I’m not sure the purser’s office tells me the truth. Will you call for me, and let me listen in?”

Brice moved to the bed to use his computer. Settled there, he selected a number and touched the screen to turn up the volume.

“Purser’s office.”

“This is Lieutenant Brice. I’m looking for a male passenger named White—Mr. White. How many have we got?”

“Just a moment, sir.”

Brice waited.

“None, sir.”

“No passengers named White?” Brice looked at Skip inquiringly.

“Try Blue,” Skip told him.

Brice nodded and told the purser’s mate, “How about Blue? Mr. Blue. Anything like that.”

“I’ll check, sir.”

Brice waited again.

“We’ve got one, sir. Mastergunner Chelle Sea Blue, sir. Stateroom Twenty-three C.”

Brice glanced at Skip, who said, “Hang up.”

“Thanks,” Brice told the purser’s mate, and did.

Skip rose and began to pace.

“Sorry I haven’t been of more help, sir.” Brice rose, too.

“So am I. I want you to promise me that if anything turns up related to that shooting, or you learn anything you think might be of value to me, you’ll let me know.”

“Will you promise not to take me to court?”

“Yes. I will. I do.”

“Then I’ll help you all I can.” Brice returned to his sandwich and iced coffee.

“Good.” Skip smiled, and wondered how long it had been since he had smiled last. “I need more favors. Will you question your steward for me? Find out if he knows anything?”

“Sure.”

“Good. I’m going to go down to the infirmary to talk to Susan.” As he opened the door, Skip turned. “One more thing. Tonight’s Formal Night in first class.”

“I know.” Brice sighed. “Full-dress uniform, with decorations.”

“Come by our table. I don’t know which one it will be. You’ll have to find us.”