side: the man disappeared inside the bridge.
Wrinfield said: “And what now?”
“We’ll take her round in a tight circle. Then in widening concentric circles, three, maybe four. Then, if we turn up nothing, we go back at the same speed to the spot where we turned.”
“And that will be it?”
“That, I’m afraid, will be it.”
“You are not very hopeful. Captain.”
“I am not hopeful.”
It took the Carpentaria forty minutes to complete the search pattern and return to the position where she had turned round. Maria, standing with Bruno in the shadow of a lifeboat, shivered as the throb of the engines deepened and the Carpentaria began to pick up speed.
She said: “That’s it, then, isn’t it?”
“The searchlights have gone out.”
“And it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” Her voice was husky. “Don’t be silly.” He put his arm round her. “There’s no way this could have been prevented.”
“It could! It could! I didn’t take him seriously enough. I — well, I didn’t quite laugh at him — but, well, I didn’t listen to him either. I should have told you two days ago.” She was openly weeping now. “Or Dr Harper. He was such a nice person.”
Bruno heard the word “was” and knew she had finally accepted what he himself had accepted an hour ago. He said gently:
“It would be nice if you spoke to Mr Wrinfield.”
“Yes. Yes, or course. But — well, I don’t want to see people. Couldn’t we — I don’t like asking, but if he could come here — if you could bring him and —” “Not on your sweet life, Maria. You’re not staying here alone.”
He sensed her staring at him in the darkness. She whispered:
“Do you think that someone —”
“I don’t know what to think because I don’t know how or why Henry died. All I’m certain of is it was no accident: he died because he found out that someone was too interested in you and because he must have made the mistake of finding out too much. I’ve been asking one or two questions. Apparently he left the dining saloon just after we did. He left by another door but I suppose he wanted to avoid any obvious connection. I’m sure he wasn’t directly following us — he may have taken a dim view of my association with you, but he was straight, honest and the last peeping Tom one could imagine. I think he was acting in his self-appointed guardian role. I think he was checking to see if anyone was following or watching us –
Henry had a romantic streak and this sort of thing would have appealed to him. I can only assume that he did indeed find some such person, and that that person — or another person, God only knows how many unpleasant characters there may be aboard — found Henry in a highly compromising situation. Compromising to the villains, I mean. But that doesn’t alter the fact that the primary object of attention was you. Just bear in mind that you can’t swim very far if the back of your head has been knocked in in advance.” He produced a handkerchief and carried out running repairs to the tear-stained face. “You come along with me.”
As they walked along the boat-deck they passed and greeted Roebuck. Bruno made an unobtrusive follow-me gesture with his hand. Roebuck stopped, turned and sauntered along about ten paces behind them.
Wrinfield was finally located in the radio office, arranging for the dispatch of cablegrams to Henry’s parents and relatives. Now that the initial shock was over Wrinfield was calm and self-composed and in the event he had to spend considerably more time in comforting Maria than she him. They left him there and found Roebuck waiting outside.
Bruno said: “Where’s Kan Dahn?”
“In the lounge. You’d think there’s a seven year famine of beer just round the corner.”
“Would you take this young lady down to her cabin, please?” “Why?” Maria wasn’t annoyed, just puzzled. “Am I not capable —” Roebuck took a firm grip on her arm. “Mutineers walk the plank, young lady.”
Bruno said: “And lock your door. How long will it take you to get to bed?”
“Ten minutes.”
“I’ll be along in fifteen.”
Maria unlocked the door at the sound of Bruno’s voice. He entered, followed by Kan Dahn, who was carrying a couple of blankets under his arm. Kan Dahn smiled genially at her, then wedged his massive bulk into the armchair and carefully arranged the blankets over his knees.
Bruno said: “Kan Dahn finds his own quarters a bit cramped.
He thought he’d take a rest down here.”
Maria looked at them, first in protest, then in perplexity, then shook her head helplessly, smiled and said nothing. Bruno said his good night and left.
Kan Dahn reached out, turned down the rheostat on the flexible bedside light and angled the remaining dim glow so that it was away from the girl’s face and leaving him in deep shadow. He took her hand in his massive paw.
“Sleep well, my little one. I don’t want to make a thing out of this but Kan Dahn is here.”
“You can’t sleep in that awful chair?”
“Not can’t. Won’t. I’ll sleep tomorrow.”
“You haven’t locked the door.”
“No,” he said happily. “I haven’t, have I?” She was asleep in minutes and no one, most fortunately for the state of his continued good health, came calling on her that night.
6
The arrival, unloading and disembarkation at Genoa was smooth and uneventful and took place in a remarkably short space of time. Wrinfield was his usual calm, efficient and all overseeing self and to look at him as he went about his business it would have been impossible to guess that his favourite nephew, who had been much more like a son to him, had died the previous night. Wrinfield was a showman first, last and all the way between: in the hackneyed parlance the show had to go on, and as long as Wrinfield was there that it would most certainly do.
The train, with the help of a small shunting engine, was assembled and hauled to a shunting yard about a mile away where some empty coaches and provisions for animals and humans were already waiting. By late afternoon the last of the preparations were complete, the small diesel shunter disengaged itself and was replaced by the giant Italian freight locomotive that was to haul them over the many mountains that lay in their way. In the gathering dusk they pulled out for Milan.
The swing through Europe, which was to cover ten countries — three in western Europe, seven in eastern Europe — turned out to be something more than a resounding success. It resembled a triumphal progress, and as the circus’s fame travelled before it the welcome, the enthusiasm, the adulation became positively embarrassing until the stage was reached that there were half a dozen applications for each seat available at any performance — and some of the auditoriums were huge, some bigger than any in the United States. At dingy sidings in big cities they were greeted and seen off by crowds bigger than those paying homage to the latest fabulous group of singers — cup-winning football teams — at international airports.
Tesco Wrinfield, determinedly and with a conscious effort of will, had put the past behind him. Here he was in his element. He revelled in solution of the complexities of the vast logistical problems involved. He knew Europe, especially eastern Europe, where he had recruited most of his outstanding acts, as well as any European on the train and certainly far better than any of his executives or American-born artistes and workers. He knew that those audiences were more sophisticated about and more appreciative of the finer arts of the circus than American and Canadian audiences, and when those peoples’ papers increasingly referred to his pride and joy as the greatest circus of all time it was undiluted balm to his showman’s heart: even more heady, were that possible, were the increasing references to himself as the greatest showman on earth. Nor was he displeased with the pragmatic side of it all: the packed houses and the very high profits made ledger books a positive pleasure to peruse: one cannot
