We investigated, of course, but with visibility no more than twenty feet, we found nothing."
Rondheim's face was expressionless. "Very strange. You are sure you saw nothing, Major?"
"Absolutely," Pitt said. "You're probably thinking along the same lines as Admiral Sandecker. A ship might have hit an old World War Two mine or possibly a fire broke out and touched off its fuel tanks. We notified the local coastal patrol. They have nothing to do now but wait and see what vessel is reported as missing.
All in all a terrifying experience-" Pitt broke off as Tidi approached. "Ah, Tidi, here you are."
Rondheim turned on the smile again. "Miss Royal." He bowed and kissed her hand. "Major Pitt has been telling us of your harrowing experience this afternoon."
The bastard, Pitt thought. He can't wait to pump answers out of her. Tidi looked cute and frisky in a blue full-length dress, her fawn hair falling straight and natural down her back. Pitt hung his arm loosely around her waist, letting the hand slip down out of sight, and pinched her soft bottom. He smiled as he looked down into those wide brown eyes-eyes that possessed a wise, knowing quality.
"I missed most of it, I'm afraid." She reached behind her back and, clutching Pitts hand discreetly, twisted his little finger until he gave in and just as discreetly removed his arm from her waist. "The blast knocked me against a cupboard in the galley." She touched a small swelling on her forehead, the purplish bruise neatly covered by makeup. "I was pretty much out of it for the next hour and a half. Poor Dirk here trembled and threw up all the way back to Reykjavik."
Pitt could have kissed her. Tidi had picked up the situation without the bat of an eye and come through like a trooper.
"I think it's time we mingled,"' he said, taking her by the arm and whisking her off toward the punch bowl.
He passed her a cup of punch and they helped themselves to the hors d'oeuvres. Pitt had to fight from yawning as he and Tidi drifted from one group to another. An experienced party-goer, Pitt usually mixed with ease, but this time he couldn't seem to make a beachhead. There was an odd atmosphere about this function. He couldn't put his finger on it, yet there was something definitely out of place. The usual subdivisions were present-bores, the drunks. snobs and the backslappers. Everyone they joined who could speak English was quite polite. No anti-American sentiments-a favorite, ploy during most conversations involving guests of other nations-came to the surface.
To all outward appearances, it seemed like the common, middle-of-the-road get-together. Then suddenly he had it. He bent down and whispered in Tidi's ear.
"Do you get the feeling we're persona non grata?"
Tidi looked at him curiously. "No, everyone seems friendly enough."
"Sure, they're sociable and polite, but it's forced."
"How can you be certain?"
"I know a warm, sincere smile when I see one.
We're not getting any. It's as though we're in a cage.
Feed and talk to the animals, but don't touch."
"That's silly. You can't really blame them for being uneasy when they talk to someone who's dressed the way you are."
"That's the catch. The oddball is always, without fail, the center of attraction. If I wasn't dead sure, I'd say this was a wake."
She looked up at Pitt with a sly smile. "You're just nervous because you're way out of your league."
He smiled back. "Care for an explanation?"
"See those two men over there?" She nodded her head sideways to her right. "Standing by the piano?"
Pitt casually rolled a slow glance in the direction Tidi indicated. A small, rotund, lively little man with a bald head was gesturing animatedly as he spoke in rapid bursts into a wiry, thick white beard no more than ten inches from his nose. The beard belonged to a thin, distinguished-looking man with silver hair that fell well below his collar, giving him the appearance of a Harvard professor. Pitt turned back to Tidi and shrugged.
"So?"
"You don't recognize them?"
"Should I?"
"You don't read the society pages of The New York Times."
"Playboy is the only publication I bother with."
She threw him a typical feminine disgusted-withthe-male-of-the-species expression and said: "It's a pretty sid state of affairs when the son of a United States Senator can't identify two of the richest men in the world."
Pitt was only half listening to Tidi. It took a few seconds for her words to sink in. But then they slowly began to register and he turned his head and brazenly stared at the two men who were still heavily involved in conversation. Then he swung back and gripped Tidi's arm so hard she winced.
"Their names?"
Her eyes flew wide in surprise. "The bald-headed fat man is Hans Von Hummel. The distinguished-looking one is F. James Kelly."
"You could be mistaken."
"Maybe… no, I'm positive. I saw Kelly once at the President's Inaugural Ball."
"Look around the room! Recognize anyone else?"
Tidi quickly did as she was told, scanning the main salon for a familiar face. Her gaze stopped not once, but three times. "The old fellow with the funny-looking glasses sitting on the settee. That's Sir Eric Marks. And the attractive brunette next to him is Dorothy Howard, the British actress-"
"Never mind her. Concentrate on the men."
"The only other who looks vaguely familiar is the one who just came in, talking to Kirsti Fyrie. I'm pretty sure he's Jack Boyle, the Australian coal tycoon."
"How come you're such an authority on millionaires?"
Tidi gave a cute shrug. "A favorite pastime for a lot of unmarried girls. You never know when you might meet one, so you prepare for the occasion even if it only comes off in your imagination."
"For once your daydreams paid off."
"I don't understand."
"Neither do I except this is beginning to look like a meeting of the clan."
Pitt pulled Tidi out on the terrace and slowly walked her to a corner away from the mainstream of the crowd. He watched the small groups of guests milling about the expansive double doors, catching them looking his way and then turning back, not in embarrassment, but rather as if they were scientists observing an experiment and discussing its probable outcome. He began to get the uneasy feeling that coming into Rondheim's lair was a mistake. He was just in the process of thinking up an excuse to leave when Kirsti Fyrie spied them and came alongside.
"Would you care to be seated in the study? We're almost ready to begin."
"Who is giving the reading?" Tidi asked.
Kirsti's face brightened. "Why, Oskar, of course."
"Oh, dear God," Pitt mumbled under his breath.
Like a lamb to slaughter, he let Kirsti lead him to the study with Tidi tagging behind.
By the time they reached the study and found a seat among the long circular rows of plush armchairs grouped around a raised dais, the room was nearly brimming to capacity. It was small consolation, but Pitt considered he and Tidi fortunate to sit in the last row near the doorway, offering a possible means of unnoticed departure when the opportunity arose. Then his hopes went up in smoke-a servant closed and bolted the doors.
After a few moments, the servant turned a rheostat and dimmed the lights, throwing the study into solid darkness. Then Kirsti climbed the dais and two soft, pink spotlights came on, giving her the aura of a sculptured Greek goddess standing serenely on her pedestal in the Louvre. Pitt mentally undressed her, trying to imagine what an awesome picture she would have made in that revealing condition. He stole a glance at Tidi.