was alone with her at a night club where they consumed enormous quantities of caviar and champagne cup called bola, Kelly nagged all the time by a guilty feeling that he wasn’t playing fair with Charley.
That the Ice Maiden wasn’t as frigid as her reputation was proved beyond doubt when he found himself outside her apartment as dawn was breaking. Without a word, she pulled him inside, and was throwing her clothes across the room and reaching with her lips for his mouth and with long cool fingers for his shirt even before he’d managed to slam the door behind them. All his life, Kelly had worked on the principle that you could touch anything anywhere on a girl that was not covered with clothing but that the rest was verboten; but since New York all the rules had gone by the board, and shedding clothes right and left, he grabbed her hand and ran for the bedroom.
Two hours later, shakily aware how little he knew about sex, he was anxiously wondering what the next erotic item in the programme would be, when she started up with a yelp, clutching the sheet to her ample bosom.
‘My husband,’ she shrieked. ‘He returns this morning from Brussels!’
Kelly had just made his escape to the end of the street when he saw a cab appear at the other end and draw up at the apartment block, and he returned thankfully to the ship ready to foreswear all official functions for the rest of the visit.
‘Good time?’ Fanshawe asked blandly as they sipped coffee in the mess.
‘Too good.’
‘Wonder what it is about you.’ Fanshawe eyed Kelly curiously. ‘Only got to blink those long red lashes of yours and they fall in droves at your feet. What’s the technique?’
‘No technique,’ Kelly said. ‘Just enthusiasm. Seafaring’s no profession for a man who believes in personal chastity.’
Fanshawe pulled a face. ‘Well, it’s true one’s away from women so long at times one feels like a wolf howling at the moon. But be careful, young Maguire. Seamen are notoriously sentimental. Every ship has its quota of three-badge men and elderly officers who ought to know better, who’ve been caught by some cheap little tart for no other reason than that they’ve been too long nourishing sentimental dreams at sea in the long nights and fallen for the first woman who crossed their bows.
Feigning a stomach disorder, Kelly remained on board for the next twenty-four hours, but when a note appeared for him from the Ice Maiden to say that her husband had gone on to Berlin and that she planned to appear at a tea dance the following afternoon, he threw caution to the winds, and set off full of excitement, wondering what the evening might hold.
As it happened, it held nothing. He had barely got his arms round her when a German dressed in some sort of official uniform appeared and a moment later the manager climbed on to the rostrum, stopped the band and made an announcement in German. His face was grave and immediately the Germans started whispering among themselves.
‘What’s he say?’
Fanshawe translated. ‘The Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s been assassinated in Sarajevo,’ he announced.
‘Who’s the Archduke Franz Ferdinand when he’s at home? where the hell’s Sarajevo?’
‘The Archduke was the heir to the Austrian throne and Sarajevo’s in Serbia.’
‘What does that mean?’
Fanshawe shrugged. ‘It means war, old boy. I was talking to the navigator of Hohenzollern last night – chap called Erich Raeder – and he said the Germans were scared stiff of an unexpected incident like this setting off a war between us. This time it’s not like Agadir.’
Kelly frowned. At the time of Agadir, he’d been concerned only with keeping his nose clean to avoid the attentions of the sub-lieutenant of the gunroom, but even so he’d been well aware ofthe intensity of the crisis. The Germans had sent a gunboat to protect their interests in French North Africa and all the alarm bells in Europe had started to quiver. The crisis,
That the Ice Maiden wasn’t as frigid as her reputation was proved beyond doubt when he found himself outside her apartment as dawn was breaking. Without a word, she pulled him inside, and was throwing her clothes across the room and reaching with her lips for his mouth and with long cool fingers for his shirt even before he’d managed to slam the door behind them. All his life, Kelly had worked on the principle that you could touch anything anywhere on a girl that was not covered with clothing but that the rest was verboten; but since New York all the rules had gone by the board, and shedding clothes right and left, he grabbed her hand and ran for the bedroom.
Two hours later, shakily aware how little he knew about sex, he was anxiously wondering what the next erotic item in the programme would be, when she started up with a yelp, clutching the sheet to her ample bosom.
‘My husband,’ she shrieked. ‘He returns this morning from Brussels!’
Kelly had just made his escape to the end of the street when he saw a cab appear at the other end and draw up at the apartment block, and he returned thankfully to the ship ready to foreswear all official functions for the rest of the visit.
‘Good time?’ Fanshawe asked blandly as they sipped coffee in the mess.
‘Too good.’
‘Wonder what it is about you.’ Fanshawe eyed Kelly curiously. ‘Only got to blink those long red lashes of yours and they fall in droves at your feet. What’s the technique?’
‘No technique,’ Kelly said. ‘Just enthusiasm. Seafaring’s no profession for a man who believes in personal chastity.’
Fanshawe pulled a face. ‘Well, it’s true one’s away from women so long at times one feels like a wolf howling at the moon. But be careful, young Maguire. Seamen are notoriously sentimental. Every ship has its quota of three-badge men and elderly officers who ought to know better, who’ve been caught by some cheap little tart for no other reason than that they’ve been too long nourishing sentimental dreams at sea in the long nights and fallen for the first woman who crossed their bows.
Feigning a stomach disorder, Kelly remained on board for the next twenty-four hours, but when a note appeared for him from the Ice Maiden to say that her husband had gone on to Berlin and that she planned to appear at a tea dance the following afternoon, he threw caution to the winds, and set off full of excitement, wondering what the evening might hold.
As it happened, it held nothing. He had barely got his arms round her when a German dressed in some sort of official uniform appeared and a moment later the manager climbed on to the rostrum, stopped the band and made an announcement in German. His face was grave and immediately the Germans started whispering among themselves.
‘What’s he say?’
Fanshawe translated. ‘The Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s been assassinated in Sarajevo,’ he announced.
‘Who’s the Archduke Franz Ferdinand when he’s at home? where the hell’s Sarajevo?’
‘The Archduke was the heir to the Austrian throne and Sarajevo’s in Serbia.’
‘What does that mean?’
Fanshawe shrugged. ‘It means war, old boy. I was talking to the navigator of Hohenzollern last night – chap called Erich Raeder – and he said the Germans were scared stiff of an unexpected incident like this setting off a war between us. This time it’s not like Agadir.’
Kelly frowned. At the time of Agadir, he’d been concerned only with keeping his nose clean to avoid the attentions of the sub-lieutenant of the gunroom, but even so he’d been well aware ofthe intensity of the crisis. The Germans had sent a gunboat to protect their interests in French North Africa and all the alarm bells in Europe had started to quiver. The crisis,
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