‘It couldn’t have done,’ I told him.
He glanced down the list of names in his book of sailings. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘Sailed 03.30 last night. Destination — London.’
A sudden hollow feeling hit me in the stomach. ‘But that’s impossible,’ I said. ‘My name is Cunningham. I’m part owner. She can’t have sailed. She must be standing off in the Bay.’
The clerk wiped a globule of sweat off the end of what would once have been described as a Patrician nose, and looked up at his wall chart again. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s not standing off. You can see for yourself. There are the names of all the ships that are standing off tonight.’
‘Probably Mr McCrae left a note for me then,’ I suggested.
He looked round at his message rack. The pigeon-hole under C was empty. To his annoyance I had him look at the address of every envelope in the whole rack. But not one was addressed to me.
There was nothing for it then but to go back to the mole and see if any of the stevedores or the crews of other ships moored alongside could tell us anything.
But somehow I knew it was useless. When I told Boyd, he shook his head and said, ‘It ain’t like Mr McCrae. He’s been too long a soldier to leave an RV without notifying the rest where the stragglers’ post is going to be.’
All we could find out from men working on the mole and from neighbouring ships was that the Trevedra had pulled out in the early hours of the morning. I actually interviewed a man who had been on watch on the ship that had pulled in to the vacant berth and his timing of the Trevedra’s departure confirmed that given me by the clerk at the Port Authorities office.
I tried to ignore the feeling of suspicion that crept into my mind. I couldn’t believe that Stuart was crooked. If he had really sailed for England he must have had good reason. But if he had, he was sure to have left a message for me somewhere — at the bank, for instance.
Having reached that conclusion I felt a sense of relief. ‘How much money have you got?’ I asked Boyd.
‘Just over two thousand lire,’ he said.
And I had a gold wrist-watch. The bank would be closed now, but I could pop the watch and that would pay the driver. I paid him the full amount I got for the watch. It was safer to overpay him. Then we went to a quiet tenement hotel behind the waterfront where they didn’t worry about the fact that we had no baggage.
We fed that night at a little trattoria full of tobacco smoke and the sour smell of stale vino. Over the meal I told Monique what I knew of her mother. She listened in silence, her big grey eyes fixed on me. When I had finished, she said, ‘I shall have to work. Will they take me on a farm? I am good with animals. They like me.’
‘Farmin’ ain’t the sort o’ work for the likes of you,’ Boyd cut in.
She laughed. It was a pleasant musical laugh and it made me feel strangely happy, for it was so light-hearted and gay. ‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been a farm girl for over two years now. What other work is it that I can do?’
What she said was true. There was nothing else she could do. And it was my responsibility that she was leaving the world she knew and going to a strange country that she had only visited twice on holidays. My acceptance of that responsibility produced in me a feeling of tenderness for her — that and the strong wine we were drinking which was Lacrima Cristi from the slopes of Vesuvius. ‘There’s no need to worry,’ I said. ‘For instance, you might get a job as interpreter. The French tourist traffic is increasing. Everyone in Europe wants to come to England to see the ruins of London. Promise me you won’t worry about a job. We’ll see you through.’
She smiled. I think she knew I was getting a little drunk. ‘I promise,’ she said. ‘And thank you.’
I must have been feeling very tired for my mood changed suddenly to one of despondency. ‘Anyway, before we worry about getting you a job, we’ve got to get to England,’ I said. And then I explained to her about the Trevedra and how we didn’t know what had happened.
‘What puzzles me,’ I continued, turning to Boyd, ‘is how he got a crew together in such a short time. He couldn’t have sailed her himself. He would have had to sign on a skipper.’
Boyd shrugged his shoulders. ‘It ain’t difficult in a big port like this. Though why ‘e didn’t wait for us I can’t think.’
‘I should have wired him from Rome,’ I said. ‘But he didn’t suggest there was any urgency.’ We had finished our meal now and as Boyd paid the bill, I said, ‘Anyway, don’t let’s worry about it. I’ll get some money from the bank in the morning and there’ll be a letter from him explaining. Then we either follow on the next boat or have a pleasant holiday on Capri waiting for the Trevedra to come out again.’
‘What about Miss Monique’s papers?’ Boyd asked as we went to the door.
‘I’ll fix that with the British Consul when I see him in the morning about a new passport,’ I told him. ‘It shouldn’t be all that difficult.’
Outside it was very dark and the streets showed wet in flashes of forked lightning that periodically split the clouds, outlining the mass of the Castello San Elmo towering high above the city. What I had taken to be the sound of traffic, blurred against the hum of conversation in the trattoria, had been the distant roll of thunder. The streets were empty. But it was not raining.
I took the girl’s arm as we turned down the street towards our dingy hotel. She started at my touch and stopped, her arm withdrawn from mine as though I had hurt her. The lightning forked and I saw her in its photographic flash rigid against the stone of the houses that flanked the street, her eyes wide and startled. Then it was black again and I heard her voice close to me saying, ‘Please — it is very foolish of me. I am sorry.’ And I remembered all that she had been through and how she had taken her hand from mine as we sat on the pebble-strewn bottom of the stream.
But instead of showing her that I understood, I said, ‘You’re a strange girl, Monique.’
Then it began to rain big summer drops from the heavy sky and we ran for it through the dark streets to the hotel.
Next morning, the rent in my trousers mended and wearing Boyd’s jacket which fitted me a little tightly, I presented myself at the Banco di Napoli. I explained that my cheque book had been stolen. The cashier gave me an old-fashioned look and asked me for a specimen signature with a sly grin that was a bit wide of the mark in the circumstances. I also asked him for a letter that I was sure my partner had left for me.
In a few minutes he returned with a new book. ‘I am afraid there is no letter for you from Signer McCrae,’ he said. ‘Here is your new cheque book. I have arranged for no cheques on the old book to be cashed.’ Gold teeth flashed in his sallow face and the lenses of thick-rimmed spectacles were blind circles of white as they caught the light from the glass roof. ‘Our clients often lose their books in Napoli. It is a bad city. Often the girls are working for a forger. It is necessary for us to be very careful. Were you thinking of drawing at all, Signer Cunningham?’ I had opened the new book and was on the point of writing out a cheque for twenty thousand.
He had to repeat the question for my mind was struggling to grasp the fact that Stuart had left me no message. ‘Are you sure my partner did not leave a note for me?’ I asked.
‘Quite sure,’ he said. ‘They are always left with Signer Borgioli, one of our assistant managers. If you like I will ask the cashiers?’
I nodded and he went along the counter. I watched him as he spoke to each of the cashiers in turn. One by one they glanced curiously at me and shook their heads.
Then suddenly he was back again with a little man who had false teeth that did not fit and a little pointed beard. ‘This is Signer Mercedes. He saw Signor McCrae the day before yesterday.’