“Your father is wrong.”

“Wrong? You — ah — suffer from delusions?”

“About your imagining things. You aren’t.” I finished my whisky and got to my feet. “Something is wrong, far wrong, Miss Beresford.”

She looked me steadily in the eyes, then said quietly, “Will you tell me what it is? Please?” The cool amusement was now completely absent from both face and voice: a completely different Susan Beresford from the one I’d known, and one I liked very much better than the old one. For the first time, and very late in the day, the thought occurred to me that this might be the real Susan Beresford: when you wear a price ticket marked umpteen million dollars and are travelling in a forest alive with wolves looking for gold and a free meal ticket for life, some sort of shield, some kind of protective device against the wolves, is liable to be very handy indeed, and I had to admit that the air of half mocking amusement which seldom left her was a most effective deterrent.

“Will you tell me, please?” She repeated. She’d come close to me now; the green eyes had started to melt in that weird way they had, and my breathing was all mixed up again. “I think you could trust me, Mr. Carter.” “Yes.” I looked away it took the last of my will power, but I looked away and managed to get my breathing working again, in-out, in-out; it wasn’t too difficult when you got the hang of it. “I think I could trust you, Miss Beresford. I will tell you. But not right away. If you knew why I say that you wouldn’t press me to tell you. Any of the passengers out taking the air or sunbathing?”

“What?” the sudden switch made her blink, but she recovered quickly and gestured to the window. “In this?”

I saw what she meant. The sun had gone, completely, and heavy dark cumulus clouds coming up from the southeast had all but obscured the sky. The sea looked rougher than it had been, but I had the feeling that the temperature would have fallen away. I didn’t like the look of the weather. And I could quite understand why none of the passengers would be on deck. That made things awkward. But there was another way.

“I see what you mean. I promise you I’ll tell you all you want to know this evening” — that was a pretty elastic time limit — "if you in turn promise you won’t tell anyone I’ve admitted anything is wrong — and if you will do something for me.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“This. You know your father is holding some sort of cocktail party for your mother in the drawing room tonight. It’s timed for seven forty-five. Get him to advance it to seven thirty. I want more time before dinner never mind why now. Use any reason you like, but don’t bring me into it. And ask your father to invite old Mr. Cerdan to the party also. Doesn’t matter if he has to take his wheel chair and the two nurses along with him. Get him to the party. Your father’s a man of very considerable powers of persuasion — and I imagine you could persuade your father to do anything. Tell him you feel sorry for the old man, always being left out of things. Tell him anything, only get old man Cerdan to the cocktail party. I can’t tell you how vital that is.”

She looked at me in slow speculation. She really had the most extraordinary eyes; three weeks she’d been with us and I’d never really noticed them before, eyes of that deep yet translucent green of sea water over sand in the windward isles, eyes that melted and shimmered in the same way as when a cat’s-paw of wind riffled the surface of the water, eyes that I dragged my own eyes away. See Carter, old Beresford had said. There’s the man for you. No imaginative fancies about him. That’s what he thought. I became aware that she was saying quietly, “I’ll do it. I promise. I don’t know what track you’re on, but I know it’s the right track.”

“What do you mean?” I said slowly.

“That nurse of Mr. Cerdan’s. The tall one with the knitting. She can no more knit than fly over the moon. She just sits there, clicking needles, botching every other stitch and getting practically nowhere. I know. Being a millionaire’s daughter doesn’t mean that you can’t be as slick with a pair of knitting needles as the next girl.”

“What!” I caught her by the shoulders and stared down at her. “You saw this? You’re sure of it?”

“Sure I’m sure.” “Well, now.” I was still looking at her, but this time I wasn’t seeing the eyes; I was seeing a great number of other things and I didn’t like any of them. I said, “This is very interesting. I’ll see you later. Be a good girl and get that fixed with your father, will you?” I gave her shoulder an absentminded pat, turned away, and stared out of the window.

After a few seconds I became aware that she hadn’t yet gone. She’d the door opened, one hand on the handle, and was looking at me with a peculiar expression on her face.

“You wouldn’t like to give me a toffee apple to suck?”

If you can imagine a voice both sweet and bitter at the same moment, then that is how hers was. “Or a ribbon for my pigtails?” With that she banged the door and was gone. The door didn’t splinter in any way, but that was only because it was made of steel.

I gazed at the closed door for a moment, then gave up. Any other time I might have devoted some minutes to figuring out the weird and wonderful working of the female brain. But this wasn’t just any other time. Whatever it was, this just wasn’t any other time. I pulled on shoes, shirt, and jacket, pulled out the colt from under the mattress, stuck it in my waist belt, and went off in search of the captain.

As far as attendance went, Mr. Julius Beresford had no grounds for complaint that night: every single passenger on the ship had turned up for his wife’s cocktail party and, as far as I could see, every off-duty officer on the Campari was there as well. And the party was certainly going splendidly; already, at seven forty-five, practically everyone was already on his or her second drink, and the drinks served up in the drawing room of the Campari were never small ones. Beresford and his wife had been moving round, speaking to each of the guests in rotation, and now it was my turn. I saw them approaching, raised my glass, and said, “Many happy returns, Mrs. Beresford.”

“Thank you, young man. Enjoying yourself?”

“Of course. So is everybody. And you should be, most of all.”

“Yes.” she sounded just the slightest bit doubtful. “I don’t know if Julius was rightly mean, it’s less than twenty-four hours…”

“If you’re thinking about Benson and Brownell, ma’am, you’re worrying unnecessarily. You couldn’t have done a better thing than arrange this. I’m sure every passenger on the ship is grateful to you for helping to get things back to normal so quickly. I know all the officers are, anyway.”

“Just as I told you, my dear.” Beresford patted his wife’s hand, then looked at me, amusement touching the corners of his eyes. “My wife, like my daughter, seems to have the greatest faith in your judgement, Mr. Carter.”

“Yes, sir. I wonder if you could persuade your daughter not to go visiting in the officers’ quarters?”

“No,” Beresford said regretfully, “It’s impossible. Self-willed young lady.” He grinned. “I’ll bet she didn’t even knock.”

“She didn’t.” I looked across the room to where Miss Beresford was giving Tony Carreras the full benefit of her eyes over the rim of a Martini glass. They certainly made a striking couple. “She had, with respect, some bee in her bonnet about something being wrong aboard the Campari. I think the unfortunate happenings last night must have upset her.”

“Naturally. And you managed to remove this?”

“I think so, sir.”

There was a slight pause, then Mrs. Beresford said impatiently, “Julius, we’re just beating about the bush.” “Oh, now, Mary, I don’t think…”