When he had finished with the golf balls, he stripped off his shirt and trousers and gave himself fifteen minutes’ callisthenics, handsprings and front and back somersaults and three times round the grass plot walking on his hands. He was as brown as a mild Havana from suntan and there wasn’t a hint of sweat on him.
He finished his exercises, said something to the deckhand, and then the wonder boy was off, trotting down the hillside. I watched him, catching a glimpse of his black briefs now and again as he light-heartedly leapt the odd six-foot bush that got in his way. He reached the water’s edge directly below, dived in and was swimming towards the yacht in a fast crawl, a spout of foam going up behind him as though he had a ten horse-power marine engine fixed to his backside.
The deckhand was in no hurry at all. He sat down on the grass, pulled out the makings and slowly rolled himself a cigarette. It is a thing that always fascinates me to watch – done expertly, that is. And he was an expert. The fact that he had no thumb on his left hand didn’t handicap him a bit.
I let him get comfortable on a couple of draws and then I flicked a little stone over the bush top. He turned his head very slowly.
I said quietly, “Ringmaster here – disguised as a bush. Or maybe Mother Jambo, if they haven’t been through to you for the last few days.”
He turned away and looked at the yacht. Siegfried was just going up the companion steps.
Without turning, he said, “Put a name to it.”
“Carver.”
“Not bad. Do a little better. Say the name of a dog. A Gordon setter, for instance.”
“Joss.”
“Good. The bastard ever bitten you?”
“Once. But it was a mistake.” Joss was the name of Manston’s Gordon setter.
“He’s had me twice. With intent. I’m going to turn. Just drop your veil, but stay where you are.”
His head came round slowly and I parted the branches a little. He gave me a slow look and then his head went back and he said, “Okay. You fit the frame, but we’ll give it one more go. Why am I in no hurry to go back to the Komira?”
“Passengers to go aboard? Say a Mrs Vadarci, and a speedy blonde number.”
He nodded, his eyes on the yacht, and then, the tone of his voice changing, an unexpected edge coming into it, he said, “Nice to know you. Lancing. And tell Sutcliffe I’ve been on this effing tub too long. They’re bloody well going to rumble me sooner or later.”
“You could leave now.”
“They’d have a search-party after me in fifteen minutes. Besides, no orders. Stay with it Lancing they call me. Another blonde, eh? She’ll have to be good to top Lottie.”
“He collects them?”
“Sort of Listen.... If I’d known you were going to be here, I’d have brought something ashore for you. Colour slide. I think it’s the place they want. Keep your tuning dial steady because I’m not repeating anything. That redheaded pantomime dame could show any minute and I’ve got to be down there. Muscle boy – I spar with him – roughed me up for five rounds a couple of days back and I got riled and let him have one. So he knocked me out. He’s good. I was out for quite a while. He took me into his cabin afterwards, all apologies, and a large brandy. Left me there for a few minutes. Slide projector, slide boxes locked but one slide in the slot. Pinched it. Old boy in the picture has been aboard once or twice at Venice. Sooner or later they’re going to miss it and Muscles will remember me. Come under the stern first dark tonight and I’ll drop it to you. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll jot a few notes to go with it. Not safe for me to stay up here. Somebody will have the glasses on me. You just make it tonight.”
He stood up and began to collect the golf gear.
I said, “Where does the Komira go from here?”
“Venice if they stick to pattern. Christ, here they come. Kick Oglu’s arse for me. He should have come aboard at Kotor. I could have given him everything. Just to write out a few notes for you and have ’em on me for half an hour is putting my head in a loop.”
He was away down the hillside. As he reached the little jetty, I saw Katerina and Madame Vadarci come down the rough road and pick their way along the sea edge. Katerina carried a gaily coloured holiday bag that looked as though it held more than her nightdress and toothbrush. Madame Vadarci wore a woollen skirt, looping down ridiculously at one side, a man’s shirt, a green straw hat, and was humping a rucksack that looked as though it were full of rock specimens. Through the glasses I saw that she was sweating so hard that it had put a fine varnish on her beetroot complexion.
They went out in the launch to the Komira and disappeared below deck. I sat there, knowing what Katerina’s reaction would be to all that brown-tinted muscle.
To take my mind off it, I did a sweep of the near shore looking for a row-boat. A hundred yards this side of the jetty there was a battered looking number tied up alongside a bamboo-thatched storehouse. Outside the store were lobster-pots, some piles of net and a couple of oars leaning against the wall. Until it was dark there was nothing I could do.
I sat there until the sun went down, the shadows lengthening and a purple-brown smudge staining the lower edges of the
