falling Over his fOrehead.
“What’s your line, chum? Or are you still in schOOIr’
“Thanks for the complimenL No, I’m with Wimbledon Sporting Goods. How about
You?” Canfield barked him-
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self into the stool, turning his head to continue surveying the crowd.
“Godwin and Rawlins. Securities. Father-in-law owns it. Fifth largest house
in town.”
“Very impressive.”
“What’s your drag?”
“N)nat?”
“Drag. Pull. How come you’re at -the big table?”
“Oh, friends of the company, I guess. We work with English firms.”
“Wimbledon. That’s in Detroit.”
“Chicago.”
“Oh, yeah. Abercrombie of the sticks. Get it? Abercrombie of the sticks.”
“We’re solvent.”
Canfield addressed this last remark directly to the drunken blond Adonis.
He did not say it kindly.
“Don’t get touchy. What’s your name?”
Canfield was about to answer when his eyes were attracted to the drunk’s
tie. He didn’t know why. Then Canfield noticed the man’s cuff links. They,
too, were large and striped with colors as intense as those of the tie. The
colors were deep red and black.
“Cat got you?” NA%at?”
“What’s your name? Mine’s Boothroyd. Chuck Boothroyd.” He grasped the
mahogany molding once again to steady himself. “You hustle for Abercrombie
and . . . Oops, pardon me, Wimbledonr’ Boothroyd seemed to lapse into a
semistupor.
The field accountant decided that the brandy wasn1 doing a thing for him,
either. He really felt quite ill.
“Yeah, I hustle. Look, friend, I don’t feel so good. Don’t take offense,
but I think I’d better get going before I have an accident. Good night, Mr.
. .
“Boothroyd.”
“Right. Good night.”
Mr. Boothroyd half opened his eyes and made a gesture of salute while
reaching for his bourbon. Canfield made a swift but unsteady exit.
“Chucksie, sweetiel” A dark-haired woman slammed herself against the
inebriated Mr. BootbroydL “You disappear every God damn time I try to find
youl”
“Don’t be a bitch, lov&”
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“I will be every time you do thisl’
The bartender found unfinished business and walked rapidly away.
Mr. Boothroyd looked at his wife and for a few brief moments his wavering
stopped. He fixed his eyes on her and his gaze was no longer unsteady, but
very much alert. To the observer the two appeared to be nothing more than
a husband and wife arguing over the former’s drinking but with that quiet
violence that keeps intruders away. Although he still maintained his
bent-over posture, Chuck Boothroyd spoke clearly under the noise of the
party. He was sober.
“No worries, pet”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Who is be?”
“Glorified salesman. Just sucking up for business is my guess.”
“If he’s a salesman, why was be put at a table next to her?”-
“Oh, come on, stop it. You’re jittery.”
“Just careful.”
“I’ll spell it out for you. He’s with that sports store in Chicago.
Wimbledon. They import half their stuff from a bunch of English companies.”
Boothroyd stopped as if explaining a simple problem to a child. “This is a
British ship. The old lady’s a hell of a contact and somebody’s in on the
take. Besides, he’s drunk as a hoot owl and sick as a dog.”
“Let me have a sip.” Mrs. Boothroyd reached for her husband’s glass.
“Help yourself.”
“When are you going to do it?”
“In about twenty minutes.”
“Why does it have to be tonight?”
“The whole ship’s ginned up and there’s some nice, lovely rotten weather.
Anybody who isn’t drunk is throwing up. Maybe both.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Slap me in the face good and hard. Then go back to whomever you were with
and laugh it off. Tell them when I’ve gone this far, the end’s in sight, or
something like that. In a few minutes I’ll pass out on the floor. Make sure
two guys carry me to the stateroom. Three maybe.”
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-1
“I don’t know if anyone’s sober enough.”
“Then get the steward. Or the bartender, that’s even better. The
bartender. I’ve been giving him a hard time.”
“All right. You’ve got the key7”
“Your daddy gave it to me on the pier this morning.”
164
CHAPTER 20
Canfield reached his stateroom thinking he was going to be sick. The
interminable and now violent motion of the ship had its effect on him. He
wondered why people made jokes about seasickness. It was never funny to him.
He never laughed at the cartoons.
He fell into bed removing only his shoes. Gratefully he realized that sleep
was coming on. It had been twentyfour hours of never-ending pressure.
And then the knocking began.
At first quietly. So quietly it simply made Canfield shift his position.
Then louder and louder and more rapid. It was a sharp knock, as if caused
by a single knuckle and because of its sharpness it echoed throughout the
stateroom.
Canfield, still half asleep, called out “What is it?”
“I think you’d better open the door, mate.”
“Who is it?” Canfield tried to stop the room from turning around.
The intense knocking started all over agai,n.
“For Christ’s sake, all rightl All rightl”
The field accountant struggled to his feet and lurched toward the stateroom
door. It was a further struggle to unlatch the lock. The uniformed figure
of a ship’s radio operator sprang into his cabin.
Canfield gathered his sense as best he could and looked at the man now
leaning against the door.
“What the hell do you want?”
“You told me to come to your cabin if I had some-
165
thin7 worthwhile. You know. About what you’re so interested in?”
“So?”
“Well, now, you wouldn’t expect a British seaman to break regs without some
reason, would you?”
“How much?”
“Ten quid.”
“What in heaven’s name is ten quid?”
“Fifty dollars to you.”
“Pretty God damn expensive.”
“It’s worth it.”
“Twenty bucks.”
“Come on!” The cockney sailor whined.
“Thirty and thafs it.” Canfield started toward his bed.
“Sold. Gimme the cash.”
Canfield withdrew his wallet and handed the radioman three ten-dollar
bills. “Now, what’s worth thirty dollars?”
“You were caughL By Madame. Sc-arlatti.” And he was gone.
Canfield washed in cold water to wake himself up and pondered the various
alternatives.
He had been caught without an alibi that made sense. By all logic his
usefulness was finished. Held have to be replaced and that would take time.
The least he could do was throw the old woman off the scent of where he
came from.
He wished to God that Benjamin Reynolds was available for some good old
sage advice. Then he remembered something Reynolds had once said to another
field accoantant who’d been exposed unmercifully. “Use part of the truth.
See if it helps. Find some reason for what you’re doing.”
He left the stateroom and climbed the steps to A deck. He found her suite
and knocked on the door.
Charles Conaway Boothroyd, executive vice-president of Godwin and Rawlins
Securities, passed out cold on the deck of the lounge.
Three stewards, two inebriated male~ partygoers, his
166
wife, and a passing navigation officer managed to haul his immense body out
of the lounge to his cabin. Laughing they removed the blond giant’s shoes
and trousers and covered him ove r with a blanket.
Mrs. Boothroyd brought out two bottles of champagne and poured for the
rescuers. She filled a water glass for herself.
The stewards and the Ca1purnia officer drank only at Mrs. Boothroyd’s
absolute insistence, and left as soon as they could. Not, however, before
Mrs. Boothroyd had impressed upon them how totally unconscious her husband
was.
Alone with the two volunteers, Mrs. Boothroyd made sure the last of the
champagne was finished. “Who’s got a cabin?” she asked.
It turned out that only one was a bachelor; the other had his wife at the
party.
“Get ‘er plastered and lets go on by ourselvesl” She flung the challenge at
both of them. “Think you boys can handle me7” asked Mrs. Boothroyd.
The boys responded as one, nodding Eke hamsters smelling cedar shavings.
“I warn you. I’ll keep my skirts up for both of you, and you still won’t be
enoughl” Mrs. Boothroyd swayed slightly as she opened the door. “Godl I
hope you all don’t mind watching each other. I love it, myself I”
The two men nearly crushed each other following the lady out the stateroom
door.
“Bitchl” Charles Conaway Boothroyd rmUtered.
He removed the blanket and got into his trousers. He then reached into a
drawer and took out one of his wife’s stockings.
As if for a practice run, he pulled the thigh end over his head, rose from
the bed, and looked at himself in the mirror. He was pleased with what he
saw. He removed the stocking and opened the suitcase.
Underneath several shirts were a pair of sneakers and a thin elasticized
rope about four feet long.
Charles Conaway Boothroyd laced up the sneakers while the rope lay at his
feet. He pulled a black knit sweater over his large frame. He was smiling.