Richard Mason - History of a Pleasure Seeker

“One moment, sir.”

The lift doors opened and Piet stepped into the car. He turned as the trellis shut, and in his glance were both insolence and fear.

Abruptly, Moureaux knew.

He was temporarily anesthetized by shock. As Piet sank out of sight he opened his mouth but made no sound. He, Maurice Moureaux, had fallen for a stowaway! It made him breathless, then furious. There was a ship’s telephone on the desk; he lifted it and dropped his voice. “ Alert bleu . Male. Midtwenties. Evening dress. Of good stature. Dark hair.” As he gave this description he was aware of its inadequacy. “Send word to the stewards’ mess. He has just gone down in the grill room elevator. Watch all exits. I shall come at once and identify him.”

But by the time the operator had transferred this information and the grill room elevator had returned to take Maurice on his quest, Piet Barol had passed through the smoking room and found a staircase to take him down two decks. He moved efficiently and calmly. He did not make a stir. On this fine night the reading room and the corridor that led to it were empty, but as he walked towards the green baize door a group of men appeared. He slowed until they had gone. When they had, he slipped into the service corridor and began to run.

As he reached the grille the narrowness and brilliance of his escape struck him forcefully. In a state of extreme self-congratulation he pulled the latch.

It was locked.

Piet threw his full force against it. The gate remained impervious. He rattled the barrier ferociously, but human ferocity was no use against cold steel. For the first time the consequences of his illegal escapade became quite real. He would be expelled from the ship on an island hundreds of miles from any other, with no reputation and hardly any money. At all costs he must avoid that.

Who would help him? He could not ask it of Didier. The idea of throwing himself on the mercy of Miss Stacey Meadows was more diverting and his confidence returned. She would be amused by his predicament and think more not less of him for his audacity. The idea that she might hide him in her cabin, perhaps in her bed, planted the seeds of triumph in this disaster.

But first he must find her.

Piet went back through the baize door. He had paid more attention to his fellow dressing room pilgrims than to the route they were following. He could only hope to remember it by returning to the starting point of the journey, which meant traversing the main foyer of the ship. He thought of Machiavelli’s advice to act boldly with Lady Fortune and walked down the corridor towards a sound like a waterfall.

At the foot of the grand staircase, as if at a cocktail party in Paris, two hundred people were being amused by one another. From high above them came a sultry waltz, performed only on nights when the sea was calm and the breezes warm. He slipped into the throng feeling safer.

By the time he reached the main elevator, he was master of himself again. He took it up three decks and tried the theater’s quadruple gilt doors. They were locked. He followed the corridor round, trying for access to the service labyrinth. There appeared to be no other way in. The only doors led to staterooms, their shell-shaped handles gleaming in the low light. He began to hurry. Everywhere he turned were rows of doors, barred to him. He went from one corridor to the next, the waves on the pale blue brocade walls repeating like the bars of a fanciful prison. He had begun to sweat and slowed down. It was essential to look untroubled. At last he found a door that gave onto the deck and went outside into the balmy night.

Of course. He should climb the barrier into tourist class. Where was it? He looked over the rail. Below him was the first-class promenade deck, full of strolling stargazers. It was darker where he was, a place for illicit couplings. He walked quickly aft, past the lifeboats. From beneath their covers came gruff panting sounds and the occasional gasp or laugh. He crossed the wet deck, looking for the portion of it assigned to his own class. He hesitated at the barrier. It had been designed specifically to deter such adventures and stretched sixteen feet towards the heavens, with no place for a foothold. Only by climbing right over the ship’s back rail and somehow clawing himself round its farther edge could an assault be attempted.

Piet Barol was not a coward. Equally, except when goaded by Louisa Vermeulen-Sickerts, he did not seek out situations of physical danger. He had always felt a gentle contempt for men who could think of no other way to prove themselves. He looked over the edge. The great propellers churned the water far below, sending a trail of froth a mile long behind them. He did not relish the thought of hanging by one hand above them. The spokes of the gate were wet and would be slippery. He looked over his shoulder. He was unobserved. If he were to act, he should act now. But his body had ceased equivocating and was shaking its answer: No.

St. Helena was better than death.

He went inside. He remembered being led down a flight of stairs on his way to the chorus girls’ dressing room. Perhaps from the deck below he would have a better chance of success. He found his way back to the elevator and took it down to the main landing, which was packed with revelers.

Ten feet away stood Maurice Moureaux.

Piet stepped sharply down the stairs away from him. Moureaux was with two other men. One of them descended the opposite branch of the staircase to cut him off on the next landing. Piet went more quickly, but without drawing attention to himself. It seemed that the stewards were also unwilling to make a scene. He reached the landing several steps ahead of his pursuers and extended his lead on the flight below. Now he was in a white panic. He thought of the rooms he had idled in with Didier. None would be empty now. None possessed the sort of furniture into which one might climb and quietly spend the night. He should have tried the lifeboats, but the way back was barred. Ahead of him were the doors to the salon. He went through them and flung himself behind a screen that sheltered a cluster of armchairs.

A well-built man with a neat beard and a hawk nose looked up from a copy of the Gentleman’s Journal . “Do join me,” he said. “I’m drinking alone.”

Jay Gruneberger believed in luck. It was impossible to thrive without it. Sometimes he saw his inconvenient desire for other men as the price he must pay for being so favored by the Fates in other respects. He felt extremely lucky to be married to Rose, who was wittier and kinder than anyone he had ever met. He was lucky on the Stock Exchange and on the golf course. Two years before, on the day of his fortieth birthday, he had hit a hole in one in front of three hundred people who knew him well. He had felt great exhilaration on that occasion. It was nothing by comparison with what he felt now.

Piet Barol sat down. In moments he would be hauled from the room and publicly disgraced. He thought of Percy Shabrill watching him being taken onshore in a tender. He and Miss Prince would talk of nothing else for the rest of the voyage.

“Is something wrong?” The man with the beard had a deep, kind voice and an American accent.

“I’m not feeling very well.”

“Seasick?”

It was at this moment that Maurice Moureaux put his hand on Piet Barol’s right shoulder, his long fingers digging deep into the muscle. Another steward took charge of his left one in a similar fashion and a third stood behind his chair. They were slightly out of breath. Moureaux kept his voice low, not wishing to alarm the female passengers. “This man is a dangerous stowaway, Mr. Gruneberger.”

Piet stood up. His bravado was spent.

Jay smiled. “On the contrary, he is my private secretary. I have known his family for thirty years.”