Gordon. So to speak.”
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the new arrival said to the table, gracing them with a charming smile. “My name is Gordon LeSeur and I’m the first officer of the
A murmuring of introductions went all around.
“If you have any questions about the ship, I’m your man.” He smiled again. “How’s dinner?”
Everyone assured him it was excellent.
“Fine! We’re going to take good care of you, I promise.”
“I’ve been wondering,” asked Mrs. Dahlberg. “They say the
is the largest cruise ship in the world. How much bigger is it than the
?”
“We’re fifteen thousand tons heavier, thirty feet longer, ten percent faster, and twice as pretty. But Mrs. Dahlberg, I have to correct one thing you said: we’re not a cruise ship. We’re an ocean liner.” “I didn’t know there was a difference.”
“A world of difference! The point of a cruise ship is the cruise itself. But an ocean liner’s job is to transport people on a schedule. The ‘
“Really?” asked Mrs. Dahlberg. “We might encounter a storm?”
“If the weather reports are correct, we
encounter a storm—somewhere off the Grand Banks of Newfoundland.” He smiled reassuringly. “Nothing to worry about. It’ll be great fun.”
The first officer said his good-byes to the table and moved to another nearby, one populated with loud dot-com billionaires. Mayles was grateful for the momentary silence from those braying asses while the first officer repeated his spiel.
“Finest first officer in the fleet,” Mayles said. “We’re lucky to have him.” It was his standard line; and, in fact, LeSeur was a decent fellow. Not your typical first officer, who were usually arrogant, conceited, with a chip on their shoulders because they weren’t captain.
“He looks rather like a graying Paul McCartney,” said Lionel Brock. “No relation, is there?”
“It’s the accent,” said Mayles, “and you’re not the first to make that observation.” He winked. “Don’t let him hear you say that; our first officer, I’m sorry to say, is not a Beatles fan.”
The main course had arrived along with another wine, and the volume of simultaneous talk at the table intensified. Mayles had his radar out. Even as he himself spoke, he could listen to several other conversations simultaneously. It was a useful skill.
Mrs. Dahlberg had turned to Pendergast. “Your ward is a remarkable young woman.”
“Indeed.”
“What is her background?”
“She is self-educated.”
A loud guffaw of laughter from the next table caught Mayles’s ear. It was Scott Blackburn, the dot-com wunderkind, with his two sycophantic buddies and their hangers-on, all in Hawaiian shirts, slacks, and sandals, in utter disregard of the ship rules and the sartorial traditions of First Night. Mayles shuddered. On every crossing there seemed to be at least one group of rich, loud businessmen. Very highmaintenance. According to their files, Blackburn and his group had been on a wine tour of the Bordeaux country, where they had spent millions of dollars creating instant wine cellars. And, as billionaires frequently were, they were demanding and eccentric: Blackburn had insisted on redecorating his extensive suite with his own art, antiques, and furniture for the seven-day crossing.
Mrs. Dahlberg was still talking to Pendergast. “And how did she happen to end up as your ward?”
Miss Greene interrupted. “My first guardian, Dr. Leng, found me abandoned and wandering the streets of New York City, an orphan.”
“Heavens, I didn’t know such things happened in modern times.”
“When Dr. Leng was murdered, Aloysius, his relative, took me in.”
The word
hung heavily in the air for a moment.
“How tragic,” said Mayles. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, it’s a tragic story—isn’t it, Aloysius?”
Mayles detected an edge in her voice. There was something going on there. People were like icebergs—most of what really went on, especially the ugliness, was submerged.
Mrs. Dahlberg smiled warmly at Pendergast. “Did I hear earlier that you’re a private investigator?”
thought Mayles.
“At the present moment, yes.”
“What was it you said you were investigating?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t say.”
“Investigating?” Brock, the dealer, said with an alarmed look. He apparently had missed the earlier conversation.
“How deliciously mysterious.” Dahlberg smiled and laid a hand on Pendergast’s. “I love a good mystery. Do you read murder mysteries, Mr. Pendergast?”
“I never read novels. I find them ridiculous.”
Dahlberg laughed. “I
them. And it strikes me, Mr. Pendergast, that the
would make a splendid setting for a murder.” She turned to Mayles. “What do you think, Mr. Mayles?”
“A murder would be splendid, as long as nobody got hurt.” This witticism elicited a round of laughter, and Mayles once again prided himself on his ability to keep a conversation at a charming, superficial level, where social etiquette demanded it remain.
