you. I
insist.
”
He seized the bewildered traveler’s bag. The man led him, protesting but polite, to his cabin. It was easy to thrust open the door, drop the bag inside, and shut the chaos behind them.
“I’m afraid there’s been some mistake,” his mark said, but he wasn’t listening. He clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder and muttered a few banal words. He had only seconds before the last shore whistle blew.
When the blast came, he slid his knife quickly between the fellow’s ribs. A gasp of disbelief, a hand clutching at his sleeve—the eyes rolled backward. The face blanched. There was very little blood; he knew how to stop a heart.
Later, when it was dark, he would slip the body over the side. But first he needed the man’s papers.
He pulled his knife from the body and wiped it clean. Then he turned back the lapels of the worn suit jacket, and slipped his hand into the breast pocket. The American passport was there, along with a wallet. He leafed through its contents. He had dollars and pounds. His name was now Charles Atwater. He was thirty-four years old and had a surprisingly pretty wife. His cabin was Tourist Class. Number D-15, next to . . . Darlene, wasn’t it? With the sweetest little bunk imaginable?
He repeated the phrase; he liked to work on his English.
He felt a sharp need to touch the dead man’s skin—to feel the muscle and bone beneath the starched white shirt. His fingers were trembling with sudden, overwhelming desire, and despite the sound of voices in the passage beyond the closed cabin door, despite the steward’s knock and the shouted warning of
All ashore that’s going ashore
, he slit the fabric roughly with the tip of his knife.
A pale white pectoral gleamed in the cabin light. With five deft strokes, he cut a crouching spider into the skin.
There were those in New York some days later who would insist that the mark was a swastika.
* * *
THE WHISTLE BLAST TORE like a shock wave through Jack’s thin body as he leaned on the Promenade Deck’s rail. The unwanted visitors were flying across the gangways, and the ship would soon be his own for six days. The unknown French woman—the unknown French woman had nothing to do with New York; she would certainly stay on board, and be traveling First Class.
He lifted his head into the rain as the tugs did their duty. The piers began to slide away. The grime of New York slipped to the stern. He breathed in the dusk’s wetness.
Forget Death and Boredom and Frances Ann Cannon.
He was alone on the Atlantic. He was sailing to Europe with a beautiful girl. He had a president’s secrets to keep.
He tossed his fedora over the rail and watched it vanish in the waves.
SEVEN. FELLOW TRAVELERS
IT WAS A STEWARD NAMED Robbie who told Jack the woman was anything but French, as he unpacked his luggage that evening.
The two of them became acquainted over a battered trunk and a five-dollar bill. Robbie had met J. P. Kennedy two weeks before on the same ship, and for the ambassador’s son he ran through the passenger list as he moved about the cabin.
“Lord and Lady Kemsley—he’s our British press baron, owns everything what old Beaverbrook didn’t snap up first. Then there’s Mrs. Sloan Colt and her daughter, Catherine—a very
nice
young lady, no more than eighteen, and quite under her mother’s thumb.”
Jack had met Cathy Colt at a deb ball or two—old New York railroad money. She was a shy girl with ballerina arms, prone to blushing; not his type.
“You might want to steer clear of Mrs. George Minart,” Robbie persisted. “
And
her daughter. They’ve been hunting you the better part of a week, Mr. Jack—calling the Cunard offices to be sure you were on the passenger list, offering
insulting
sums to every steward in First Class so’s to get a deck chair either side of you. Fortune hunting, the old bitch is.”
“June Minart,” Jack mused. She was in her last term at Radcliffe. “Who’s The Looker,
insist.
”
He seized the bewildered traveler’s bag. The man led him, protesting but polite, to his cabin. It was easy to thrust open the door, drop the bag inside, and shut the chaos behind them.
“I’m afraid there’s been some mistake,” his mark said, but he wasn’t listening. He clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder and muttered a few banal words. He had only seconds before the last shore whistle blew.
When the blast came, he slid his knife quickly between the fellow’s ribs. A gasp of disbelief, a hand clutching at his sleeve—the eyes rolled backward. The face blanched. There was very little blood; he knew how to stop a heart.
Later, when it was dark, he would slip the body over the side. But first he needed the man’s papers.
He pulled his knife from the body and wiped it clean. Then he turned back the lapels of the worn suit jacket, and slipped his hand into the breast pocket. The American passport was there, along with a wallet. He leafed through its contents. He had dollars and pounds. His name was now Charles Atwater. He was thirty-four years old and had a surprisingly pretty wife. His cabin was Tourist Class. Number D-15, next to . . . Darlene, wasn’t it? With the sweetest little bunk imaginable?
He repeated the phrase; he liked to work on his English.
He felt a sharp need to touch the dead man’s skin—to feel the muscle and bone beneath the starched white shirt. His fingers were trembling with sudden, overwhelming desire, and despite the sound of voices in the passage beyond the closed cabin door, despite the steward’s knock and the shouted warning of
All ashore that’s going ashore
, he slit the fabric roughly with the tip of his knife.
A pale white pectoral gleamed in the cabin light. With five deft strokes, he cut a crouching spider into the skin.
There were those in New York some days later who would insist that the mark was a swastika.
* * *
THE WHISTLE BLAST TORE like a shock wave through Jack’s thin body as he leaned on the Promenade Deck’s rail. The unwanted visitors were flying across the gangways, and the ship would soon be his own for six days. The unknown French woman—the unknown French woman had nothing to do with New York; she would certainly stay on board, and be traveling First Class.
He lifted his head into the rain as the tugs did their duty. The piers began to slide away. The grime of New York slipped to the stern. He breathed in the dusk’s wetness.
Forget Death and Boredom and Frances Ann Cannon.
He was alone on the Atlantic. He was sailing to Europe with a beautiful girl. He had a president’s secrets to keep.
He tossed his fedora over the rail and watched it vanish in the waves.
SEVEN. FELLOW TRAVELERS
IT WAS A STEWARD NAMED Robbie who told Jack the woman was anything but French, as he unpacked his luggage that evening.
The two of them became acquainted over a battered trunk and a five-dollar bill. Robbie had met J. P. Kennedy two weeks before on the same ship, and for the ambassador’s son he ran through the passenger list as he moved about the cabin.
“Lord and Lady Kemsley—he’s our British press baron, owns everything what old Beaverbrook didn’t snap up first. Then there’s Mrs. Sloan Colt and her daughter, Catherine—a very
nice
young lady, no more than eighteen, and quite under her mother’s thumb.”
Jack had met Cathy Colt at a deb ball or two—old New York railroad money. She was a shy girl with ballerina arms, prone to blushing; not his type.
“You might want to steer clear of Mrs. George Minart,” Robbie persisted. “
And
her daughter. They’ve been hunting you the better part of a week, Mr. Jack—calling the Cunard offices to be sure you were on the passenger list, offering
insulting
sums to every steward in First Class so’s to get a deck chair either side of you. Fortune hunting, the old bitch is.”
“June Minart,” Jack mused. She was in her last term at Radcliffe. “Who’s The Looker,
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