Chapter 10
Roger Martin had not killed himself, but neither had he dismissed the idea altogether. There were some appealing aspects to the thought. Ever since his abortive attempt a few night ago he had been weighing the advantages and disadvantages. To be or not to be, that is the question.
Certainly it would be good to know that he had hurt Vicky greatly, but not to be there and see her face took away some of the pleasure. Too, he did not relish the prospect of doing himself in while he still possessed considerable desire to make love to his wife's gorgeous body once more. He could hardly do that as a cadaver floating in the sea.
Below, the waves piled immensely against the sleek hull of the vessel. Then they rushed away to perform white dance steps on the gray-green stage of the sea. The horizon was an endless, monotonous circle, a prison wall of sky and water. Ahead, the prow was an implacable knife slicing its way toward Europe. Only in the damn downward view was there any sensation of forward motion. There the lure of the deep seemed to be almost magnetic.
For the first time in nearly thirty-six hours, Roger was completely sober. He could not remember much of what had taken place during that period. There were a couple of black-and-blue bruises on his knees and some dried-blood scratches on his neck and an unholy ache in the cave of his skull, all scars and relics of forgotten encounters.
Perhaps it was just as well. He had gone on binges before only to come out of them full of remorse, unabsorbed alcohol--and occasionally--lawsuits. As far as he knew, no one was gunning for him and passing passengers were still nodding hello.
He was fairly sure that he had spent some time in his bed, and yet it seemed that Sabrina Moore's room was more familiar than his own. For that matter, Sabrina seemed more familiar --physically--than Vicky. But he could not recall a single phrase he had uttered or heard during the day-and-a-half hiatus.
Regardless, he had not erased the notion of suicide. At breakfast Vicky had mercilessly repeated some of the threats of self-destruction he had recently muttered. Embarrassed, he had left her and wandered off to the gameroom.
Later he had come up here to the sun-deck and studied the females who were cavorting about.
His puritanical streak rebelled at the sight of so many half-clad bodies and sunburned legs and jiggling breasts. The lusty side of him snuggled up closely for a long and rewarding examination.
Two of the women he singled out for special attention. One was Tricia Goode, the supple, dark-haired youngster who bloomed with radiance. Lying on a blanket, she was immersed in a magazine. Time after time he ran his eyes over the sweet curves of her flanks. Now and then she kicked her bare legs up and down in an absent-minded fashion. Roger liked that.
The other was Lee Jergens, the intense-looking blonde who always seemed to be looking for someone or something. It was she who organized the games and sports, at all of which she excelled in performance. Roger enjoyed watching the lithe grace of her movements, and in her own way she appealed to his senses as much as the other woman did.
In any case, as he soaked up the sunshine that would ultimately dispel the wretched liquor fumes from his brain, he was not wasting his time. Just seeing those two was invigorating. Enough to keep a man alive.
It was only natural that he should try to meet them. But how? Even on a ship like this, a man couldn't walk up to a girl and say, "I'd like to meet you in hopes of getting into bed with you." You might try that at a sophisticated cocktail party in New York. But out here on the ocean it would be--
A cocktail party?
Of course. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Just ask them to the cabin for drinks. Ah, but no. Too blatant. It would have to be done with subtlety. Camouflage. Ask a lot of people and just happen to include the right ones. "Oh, by the way, I'm having a few friends in tonight--a small and intimate gathering. Thought you might like to join us."
Those two. Vicky, naturally. And Sabrina Moore. Doyle? What the hell, why not? It would show Vicky that he bore no grudges. Besides, it might be fun to get the old bastard into a fight and kick the daylights out of him.
And a few others. The purser, probably. That young architect fellow. The boyish girl who was with the athletic blonde. Might be an interesting development in that direction. He was never wrong about judging girls, and that one looked like a sure thing. In fact, the whole bunch were interesting.
So that was the way to do it. A cocktail party.
Crowded; but not unbearably so. Cozy and close. Without sufficient chairs, almost everyone had to stand--and standing makes for better parties than sitting.
A portable radio blared froth static-filled music and commercials in four different languages. The waiters kept on the move with trays of hors d'oeuvres, buckets of ice and bottles of whiskey. You had to shout to make yourself heard by your neighbor. Wandering elbows upset highball after highball on recently unpacked gowns and summer tuxedos. The cigarette smoke was so thick you could inhale it and save money. Just like New York.
All in all, a most delightful party. Roger Martin was the genial host, seeing to it that the glasses were kept full and the guests likewise. The cabin resounded like a boiler under a colossal head of steam. Everyone was having fun.
Of the girls, Sabrina Moore won the skin show easily with a dress cut nearly to her navel. And she was thoughtful enough to spend a good deal of her time perched on one of the beds to provide all those interested with superb points of vantage. To show off her big-heartedness she had neglected to wear a bra. Not until Sue Trask accidentally stumbled and poured a Tom Collins into the breach did Sabrina traipse off to change into something a bit less controversial.
Seeking Tricia out, Lee Jergens said, "Haven't seen much of you lately. Are you hiding out?"
"Not me. I've been around. Where have you been?"
"Here and there. From what I gather, you've made quite a hit on the ship. Half a dozen men, at the very least, sniff and snort at the mention of your name. Including the great Patrick Doyle." She spoke the name with a touch of derision.
Tricia shrugged coolly. "Oh, you know how men are on ocean voyages," she murmured. "They think every girl is either a queen or a tramp and are determined to disprove the one and prove the other. You haven't done so badly yourself, I see."
It was a vicious remark and Tricia made no effort to take the sting out of it as she deliberately glanced across the room in the direction of Sue Trask.
Lee flinched as if she had been slapped. "You notice everything, don't you?"
"So we both have 20-20 vision."
"I guess so. Let's not fight, Tricia. We still have a few more days together and there's no sense making them any harder than they'll probably be anyway. I'd like to be your friend. And believe it or not, I mean what I'm saying."
The tone of her voice told Tricia that the woman was being sincere, as sincere as she could be. And since the next few days were going to be crucial as far as her own future was concerned, she was willing to accept the truce.
"Thank you, Lee. I appreciate it. I really do. If I have any problems, I'd like to come to you."
"Please do." The blonde's hand reached out in a gesture that was too casual to be called a caress.
"And another thing I appreciate..."
"Yes?"
"It wasn't because I didn't want to, honey. But"--here Lee smiled ruefully--"I do have some principles."
Tricia would not have used that precise terminology, but the meaning was obvious. Lee was a respecter of individual rights. She followed the rules and stayed within certain boundaries. And not all men did that. Not Walter--and in a way, not Patrick Doyle. The great man lived by his own standards.
"It depends on what you mean by chastity," Doyle was saying to his interested listeners. As he talked, Tricia sidled closer to hear more. "Chastity is a word that has a variety of meanings, but if in using it now you are referring to society's interpretation, well, it's still not absolute. For example, I know a young lady who is one of the highest-priced call girls in Manhattan. Has been for a number of years. And yet I believe she is one of the most chaste persons I have ever met. You see, she supports a family on her income. She has a husband in medical school and twin daughters to whom she is devoted. By day she lives an almost painfully sweet existence--it's full of love. And at night --well, you know what call girls do at night. Society of course, condemns her because of its outmoded conception of morality. As if what one does with one's body has anything to do with one's soul."
"Just a minute, sir," Paul Taylor objected. "Society has to have a certain code for people to adhere to or else it would be chaotic. Chastity is part of that code. So you either have it or you don't."
"All right," Doyle snapped. "But let's get it straight. Just because a woman remains undefiled by a man doesn't indicate that she is chaste. Not by a long shot. Some of the worst bitches I know have slept only with their own husbands and no one else. And yet they are able to openly gossip and connive and lie and cheat and destroy. Protecting and sanctifying one small portion of their anatomy does not automatically lift them to a state of grace. I'll tell you this--I would much prefer to have as a friend a girl who conceived a baby out of wedlock and then proudly bore it and refused to slink away and tremble at society's pointed finger, than a woman who had a legitimate child and then raised it to be a murderer while she turned her back on the first woman."
Doyle drew a deep breath. This was his meat. Some who had more or less followed his career, read his books and seen his plays, found the theme a familiar one. As a gadfly of modern-day behaviorism he was unexcelled--a few critics had even compared him favorably with George Bernard Shaw. His audience was entranced.
"You, Larry, raised an interesting point earlier when you said a woman is as chaste as she feels. I agree. It fits in perfectly with one's concept of life and work and self-pride. Outsiders cannot pin the label on you--chaste, loyal, true, good. It must come from within. In the final analysis you yourself are the judge of whether or not you are being good. Give me no more of this pinch-lipped pseudo-purity about chastity. Just remember that physical behavior just isn't that significant."
As if that ended the topic forever, Doyle elbowed his way through the circle of drinkers and found a glass with a single inch of bourbon in it. He tossed it down in one gulp. Almost at once the others began to argue the points he had touched upon. The women were in favor, the men, generally, against.
Larry Stevens, anxious to know how Tricia felt about it all, tried to reach her. He was blocked effectively by the bulk of Roger Martin, who had cornered her and was talking rapidly about the idea of her planning an extended stay in Europe. He had one hand possessively over her shoulder and was slowly sliding it back and forth. Larry had an urge to kick him in the ass. He tried to catch Tricia's eye to signal her to escape and join him out on the deck. But it was no use. While she did not appear to be hypnotized by Martin's pitch, neither did she act as if she wanted to be free of him.
Larry felt ignored.
Meanwhile Patrick Doyle was talking to Sabrina Moore in confidential whispers. Presently the copper-haired creature nodded and smiled and stood up. Sex exuded from her pores and displayed itself with her every movement.
Doyle wrapped an arm around her firm-fleshed waist. "Some of you are sure to notice," he said aloud, "so I'd better answer your conjectures right now. Honesty is as much a virtue as chastity. Therefore I am being honest and telling you that Sabrina Moore and I are off to bed. But don't forget what I said--sexual behavior has very little to do with chastity. Miss Moore is one of the most chaste girls I know. Aren't you, Sabrina?"
"Whatever you say, Patrick."
With a bow to the others, the pair strode out of the room. A stunned silence filled the room. It was as if all the partygoers had been made fools of. But what surprised Larry Stevens was the way Tricia Goode reacted. When he got a good look at her he saw that she was making a bravely unsuccessful attempt to stifle tears.