She looked surprised. "Last time we talked, you were very anxious to know I'd be around if you needed me."
"Sure, and it's great as far as I'm concerned, but how did you wangle it without arousing suspicion elsewhere?"
"It's all right," she said confidently. "It's been cleared with everybody who counts, all the way to Moscow. Well, almost. As a matter of fact, you're looking at a competitor in the Communist-courier business. I'm running a special message up to Anchorage for them. I asked if it would be all right if I arranged to make the ferry ride with you. Permission was granted with an indulgent laugh and a crude joke or two."
I said, "Let's hope they really bought your act, and aren't just being tricky. Did they mention Stottman at all? Or his partner, an Indian named Pete?"
"Stottman, yes. They asked if he'd bothered me, and I told them about our little scene in Seattle, and they said to forget it, Stottman and his paranoid suspicions had caused trouble before."
"That's reassuring, if true," I said.
"You think they could be setting a trap for me… us?"
"It's always a possibility."
"They didn't mention any Indian. What kind of an Indian? An American Indian or an Indian Indian?"
"American, but don't ask me what kind. I'm not up on the west coast tribes. He was in the hail outside your room when Stottman came barging back in that night. Didn't you see him?"
"No, I wasn't looking out in the hail. Why is he important?"
"Because Stottman is dead, and Pete seemed the kind of stubborn guy who could conduct a vendetta that would make a Mafia enforcer look like a schoolboy mildly annoyed because somebody stepped on his toe." I became aware that Libby was staring at me, and said, "What's the matter?"
"So Stottman is dead, too?" She whistled softly. "You really have been a busy little man, haven't you?"
I couldn't see that a response was required. Besides, a waiter was approaching to take our orders. Having eaten in the camper, I settled for coffee. Libby's big talk about breakfast and starvation turned out to be mostly bluff: coffee, juice, and toast was all the nourishment she'd take. It was nice that she was looking after her figure so well, but I couldn't help remembering another female who, despite some screwy ideas, had been a lot more fun to feed.
Afterwards we parted company, and I headed down to the car deck to carry out phase one of the day's contact operation, which consisted of turning the pup loose to run and giving him a little retrieving drill in an open area beyond the cars up forward. As I tossed the training dummy-actually a canvas boat fender-and sent him scampering after it, I was aware of various people stopping to watch, among them a smallish rather good-looking young blond woman with a nicely rounded figure, the effect of which, for me, was pretty well spoiled by the fact that she was wearing one of those ridiculous garments that seem to be nice enough short dresses at first glance, but turn out, when the wearer moves, to have a lot of stuff between the legs, the purpose of which I haven't got quite clear. I mean, in these days of miniskirts, no woman can really kid herself that men are all that interested in what she's got to hide. Or can she?
It was hard to say whether the ultra-modest young lady caught my attention because she watched our little training game more intently than the others, or just because she was the best-looking female who happened to come by. I must admit I can't trust myself to be totally objective in such matters; besides, I was supposed to be concentrating on the pup.
I took the dummy from him and tossed it once more and sent him after it. When I glanced toward the stairs again, the girl was gone-but six hours later, when I came into the cocktail lounge right on schedule for phase two, she was sitting at the bar, still in her neat, safe little pale blue romper suit. At close range like this, I noticed the odd thing about her: her hair was very fine and blond, apparently genuine, but her eyes were brown. It was quite a striking effect. You don't meet many brown-eyed blondes who didn't get their hair-color from a bottle.
When I sat down a couple of stools away, she looked my way and said, "I saw you playing with your dog downstairs. Isn't that a Labrador retriever? He's a beauty. What's his name?"
19
I'D ARRANGED TO MEET LIBBY afterwards and take her to dinner. We'd set our date for six, to leave as much time for the contact as the instructions allowed-if nobody'd appeared by six, I had an alternate time and place set for later. As it turned out, my business was concluded shortly after five, but Libby didn't make her entrance until six-twenty. After making sure that I was alone with my martini, she sat down beside me at the bar and asked, "How did you make out with the baby-faced blonde in the chastity-dress?"
"Well, I think I got what I came for," I said.
"That's all you'll ever get from that one," Libby said. Then she laughed. "Don't mind me, darling. There's something about prissy little blondes that brings out the feline in me. What routine did she have worked out for slipping you the coin? I didn't stick around to watch the whole show."
"She asked me to get her some cigarettes from the machine. I offered to pay for them, of course, but she insisted on giving me the change. I palmed the Canadian quarter she gave me and substituted another I had handy, according to instructions. Any more questions, Nosy?"
She said, a bit defensively, "You wouldn't know anything about Grant's instructions if it wasn't for me! Don't I have the right to ask how they worked out?" When I didn't answer, she sighed. "You really are in a lousy mood, aren't you? I can see it's going to be a wonderful voyage. Well, maybe the scenery will be pretty."
"Maybe," I said, "but you won't get to see much of it unless the fog lifts."
"Fog?"
"When I stepped out on deck for a breath of air a little while back, you could hardly see the water. I hope the captain knows where he's steering this tub. The Canadians put one of theirs on the rocks in a fog not so long ago." I heard a voice in the dining room calling for a Mr. Nystrom, and remembered that was me. I said, "If you want a drink, get it quick and bring it along, before the headwaiter gives our table to somebody else."
It wasn't much of a dinner. That is, the food and the service were both satisfactory-a pleasant change from the backwoods hash joints I'd been patronizing along the road – but the conversation left a great deal to be desired. We simply didn't seem to have much to say to each other. After we'd eaten, we had a couple of brandies in the bar. Then we took a turn around the deck, but it was cold and damp and windy out there and a little unnerving, the ship charging recklessly, or so it seemed, through fog and darkness. We ducked back inside.
I said, "To hell with Alaska. I liked working in Hawaii better."
Libby was patting her windblown hair back into place. She glanced at the watch on her wrist. "It's a little early," she said in an expressionless voice, "but it's been a long day. Give me fifteen minutes. You know the stateroom number by this time, I suppose."
"I know it."
"That's the advantage of dealing with a real secret agent. He doesn't have to be told things." She faced me in the passageway. Her voice remained cool and impersonal. "Fifteen minutes. Don't keep me waiting, darling."
I watched her walk away, a slim, very feminine figure despite the mannish corduroy suit. I checked the time, went down two flights of stairs, squeezed between the cars to the camper, got in and said hello to the pup, and took his collar off, and gave him his dinner. Then I dug the quarter I'd palmed out of the pocket into which I'd dropped it; also my stiff new knife-still so stiff that I had to use the coin to pry it open far enough so my fingers could get a good grip on the blade. It wasn't really what you'd call an instant-defense weapon yet, I reflected wryly. I used the knife to separate the two halves of the coin.