Andersson nodded. Shaw’s glance, as he finished his brandy and called for another round, strayed to the fat white fingers round the man’s glass, flickered over his well-fed pasty face and sleek body. Andersson didn’t himself look much like some one who had suffered as the inmates of those camps had suffered… of course, it was a long while ago now, but Shaw had met other people who had been in the concentration camps and they still carried the marks of those years.
Andersson gulped at his fresh drink, then asked: “And you, you have been in England all the time since those days, since the end of the war?”
“Oh, no, not all the time, you know. Served in the Med for a year, and on the West Indies station before they closed it down.” He added casually, looking down at his glass as he said it: “Matter of fact I’ve been in France just lately. In Paris. On leave, you know.”
He looked up sharply then. If this man wanted to tell him anything, he’d been given his cue now, and Shaw was so convinced that Andersson knew who he was that he had no qualms about a possible indiscretion. But Andersson met his eyes without a flicker. Then he lowered an eyelid, grimaced, and said in a conspiratorial tone:
“Ah… women, and wine, and song!”
“Women and wine and song,” Shaw agreed with a laugh. ‘That’s the stuff!”
“You have a saying, no? Time was when love and I, we were well acquainted. Ah, for the years of youth!” Andersson sighed heavily and shook his head. “Let us hope that we shall both find plenty of the girls in Australia, no?”
“No,” Shaw said absently. “I mean, yes.”
Andersson finished his second whisky, asked: “You will join me again?”
Shaw indicated his glass. “I’m still going, thanks.”
Sigurd Andersson gave another hiccough and pushed his own glass over to the barkeeper. Half turning his back on Shaw, he began a conversation with the barman about cards. He was a good actor, if he was playing a part, and for the time being there was clearly no more to be got out of him; in any case he appeared to have lost interest in Shaw now the agent wasn’t drinking any more. Shaw finished up his brandy and slid off the stool.
“Well,” he said briskly. “Bed for me.”
Andersson turned courteously. “As you say, my dear sir. Good night to you.”
“Good night.” Shaw left the bar, feeling jaded and angry with himself, nervy. Apart from the memory of those eyes, there was no real reason why he should doubt Latymer’s cable about Karstad’s death. But doubt it he did. Maybe he should have had that third drink, kept the conversation going a little longer. So far the whole thing seemed to be a complete impasse.
After Shaw had left the bar Andersson took up his glass, drank off the contents slowly, weaving a little from side to side on the stool. When he had finished, he said: “Be so kind as to give me two bottles of Scotch whisky. For consumption in my cabin, you understand.” He belched. “I have a small party to-night.”
“Cards, Mr Andersson?”
“Cards, yes.”
The barkeeper looked at him sardonically then turned away and went into a store behind the bar. He came out with the two bottles in their tissue wrapping.
“There you are, sir. Cash or sign?”
“The chit, my friend, the chit.”
The barkeeper pushed a small book across. Andersson reached out unsteadily and scrawled an almost illegible signature, then pushed the book back across the bar. He got up from the stool. The barkeeper watched his unsteady progress with distaste as he lurched for the door, recovered himself and went out with a stiff-legged gait, making for his cabin.
From the for’ard A deck square, an elderly night-steward watched Andersson coming along the alleyway clutching his bottles to his chest, saw him stop at his cabin door and fumble. The night-steward recognized him, sighed and walked along towards him.
“Let me sir.”
Andersson mumbled something and the steward pushed the door open and stood aside. Andersson lurched in, cannoning into the door-post as he did so. After he’d vanished, the night-steward scratched his head, shrugged and walked slowly away, pondering on the customs of first-class passengers — or rather, as he told himself, in this case passengers travelling first-class, which was a subtle distinction he liked to make. As he went down the alleyway he saw a man coming towards him, a man with a pockmarked face and a bulbous nose. The night-steward thought: So it’s cards again to-night, eh, maybe another all-night session. He wondered how any man who took so much drink as Andersson could possibly play a good game of poker, but by all accounts he did, and did pretty well for himself too.
After the pitted man had gone past him, the steward looked back over his shoulder. Yes, the man had gone into Andersson’s room… just fancy, playing cards all bleeding night! What a life. And ringing for him, most likely, to keep on filling up the iced-water container. Pity he wasn’t like that nice, quiet Colonel Gresham. Now there was a real gentleman for you.
“Come in…”
Andersson’s voice was nicely slurred, at least until he saw who his visitor was; and then it became apparent that Andersson was by no means as drunk as he had appeared. He was perfectly steady now, perfectly alert and composed. There was still an aroma of whisky on the air, but that was all.
He said: “Sit down.” He waved towards the bottles. “Pour yourself a drink, my dear Markham.”
“Thanks.” The pock-marked man poured the whisky, took a sip and wiped a hand across his mouth. He sat down, asked: “What about you? Aren’t you indulging to-night — or had enough already?”
Andersson leaned back against the chest-of-drawers and laughed softly. “No more. Not — to-night.” He caught the other’s eye.
Markham lifted an eyebrow, tightened his mouth a little. He asked, “Then it’s to-night, is it, Andersson?”
Andersson nodded, his white, fleshy face falling into a series of double chins as he did so. “It is.”
“It’s not too soon?”
“No, it is not too soon… not now the man Shaw has come aboard. That, you see, makes a difference. And for now, my friend — the cards.”
Andersson reached out and pulled down a card-table fitted into a recess in the cabin bulkhead. Markham slowly shuffled a pack. Sitting down, Andersson lit a cigar. They began to play.
They played until five minutes past one — which was just ten minutes after the night-steward had brought more iced water for their drinks. Andersson looked at his watch and said:
“Now.”
Getting up from the table, he went over to a drawer and took out a pair of white cotton gloves, which he pulled on. He said, “I shall not be long.”
“Better watch out for that steward.”
Andersson laughed. “He will not be moving from his cubby-hole again for a while! I am the only person who rings at this time of night. And now — you know what is expected of you, Markham.”
The pock-marked man flipped ash off his cigarette and nodded. He said, “Sure, I know. I’ll be all right. You don’t have to worry… just so long as you get those signals!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Shaw heard his steward come in, murmured a good-morning, rolled over. The steward let down the jalousie over the square port and the sun streamed in. Shaw sat up, blinked, rubbed sleep from his eyes, reached out for his early-morning tea.
Then he lit a cigarette, drew in smoke luxuriously and lay back on his pillow, hands behind his head. A few minutes later there was a knock at the door and another steward came in.
“Commander Shaw, sir?”