The Lovers Read online

  ‘Your place or mine, madam?’

  ‘Neither. We can use Giulia’s stateroom. The bed’s huge and I have to change the linen in the morning anyway.’

  ‘What are we waiting for?’

  ‘I’m waiting for an old-fashioned kiss,’ said Lenore Pritchard.

  ‘Happy to oblige m’lady,’ said Bryan de Coucy Cavanagh, and this time felt no shame in the surrender.

  Their mating was all that she had desired of him; a bawdy, boisterous romp, with teasing and laughter, a leaven of unexpected tenderness, a high, prolonged climax and a slow pleasurable descent into languor. She told him, drowsily:

  ‘. . . It doesn’t happen like this very often. I feel like a girl again . . . It was so right and easy. One jump and we were both over the wall and into the apple-orchard. I’ll give you a reference any time . . . Any time at all, Cavanagh . . .’

  The words trailed off into a vague murmur. She rolled away from him, curled herself into a foetal ball and lapsed instantly into sleep.

  Cavanagh folded his hands behind his head, and lay naked in the dark, listening to the faint slap of the sea against the hull, the creak of the mooring-lines and the drifts of night music from some tavern near the docks. He felt relaxed and released, not only from sexual tension, but from the irk of an unresolved social situation in the crew quarters. Lenore, in her pragmatic fashion, had expressed it perfectly: ‘One jump and we were over the wall and into the apple-orchard.’ The trick now would be to resist the promptings of casual lust, and the temptation to lapse into an attachment of habit. Rightly or wrongly, he felt no fear of Lenore Pritchard. She would keep her bargains. She was a woman who expected little, was happy when she got more, and who had learned the most valuable lesson of all, not to close her hand on the butterfly when it rested a moment on her palm. She had the primal simplicity and the courage of the born survivor.

  For himself, Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh, it was not so simple. He carted around with him a whole baggage of inherited belief and education and family manners, which, even had he wished, he could not quickly shrug off. The sexual encounter troubled him little. It was an agreeable incident between needy and consenting adults. The circumstances of it lay more heavily on his conscience.

  The moment he had entered Giulia Farnese’s cabin he had felt like a lout invading her private domain. When he had tried to withdraw, Lenore had turned it into a joke: ‘I tell you Cavanagh, I’ve been laid in all the best staterooms: Royal, Presidential, Owners’ and de Luxe. It’s my social protest. Up the Proletariat. Workers of the world rejoice! Come on boyo! I’m not asking you to read her diary – which she keeps every day – or wear her underthings, or anything kinky at all! It’s just the bed. Look at the size of it, feel how it bounces . . .’ It was easier to go along with the joke than have a resentful woman on his hands.

  However, from that moment, Giulia Farnese was a presence in the cabin and in the bed and in their wildest couplings. When he came to climax it was with her and not with Lenore Pritchard. As he lay in the dark he tried vainly to remember whether he had spoken her name in the babble of the final release.

  He slid out of bed, dressed hurriedly, drew the covers over Lenore and crept out of the cabin. He paused in the saloon to drink a glass of mineral water and clear away the last cups and glasses. When he looked at his watch it was three in the morning. He went out on deck. The gang-plank was still up. Hadjidakis and the boys had not returned.

  He was wide awake now; so he surrendered to old habit, picked up a torch from his cabin and made the rounds of the ship. Once again he found himself awarding full marks to Hadjidakis for care of his vessel. Knowing that he was going out on the town with the working members of his crew, he had cleaned the ship from stem to stern. The windows had been washed, the bright-work polished, the decks scrubbed, the cordage coiled. The logs was written up to date, with an engine-room report and a note of fuel and water levels. There was also a record of radio traffic received during the five o’clock relay transmission from Portishead: two messages, one in clear from New York, the other in code from Washington. There was a note: ‘Texts delivered to owner’s cabin 1830 hours.’

  Cavanagh picked up an orange in the galley, then went on deck again. He perched himself on the port-rail and began to peel the fruit, dropping the scraps of peel into the oily water below. The port was quiet now; the music had ceased; the last lights in the tenements were going out, one by one. There was only the faint wash of the water, the rare piping of a bat and the occasional squawk of a sea bird. Then, in the distance, he heard the sound of sirens and the tinny noise of automobiles driven at high speed over the cobbles. There were lights now, flashing beacons and bobbing headlights. The next minute two cars marked Carabinieri drew up on the dock right under the transom of the Salamandra d’Oro. A fellow wearing the insignia of a brigadiere stepped out of the car and hailed the ship. Cavanagh came forward to respond in Italian.

  ‘Yes, brigadiere, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Cavanagh, officer of the watch.’

  ‘Let down the gangway, we’re coming aboard.’

  ‘An instant please.’

  The moment the gangway hit the dock, the officer signalled the other car. Leo and Jackie were bundled out, staggering, onto the pavement. The officer asked:

  ‘Do you recognise these men?’

  ‘Yes, they’re crew members, listed on our manifest. Where’s the other one?’

  ‘In the clinic in Porto Ferraio. The doctor’s looking at him now. If you want to see him you’d better come with us.’

  ‘Are there any charges against these two?’

  ‘Not yet; but you are to keep them aboard until morning. There will be more questions.’

  ‘Let me get ’em aboard first. Would you gentlemen care for a whisky while you’re waiting?’

  ‘That’s very courteous of you, sir.’

  Shepherding Leo and Jackie before them, the carabinieri – suddenly there were three – mounted the gangway and stood expectantly on the afterdeck. Cavanagh summoned up as much authority as he could muster.

  ‘Leo, get below and spruce yourself up. I’ll need you on watch while I’m away. Jackie, serve whisky for the officers, please. Excuse me gentlemen. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  He hurried down to the guest cabin to waken Lenore Pritchard and alert her to what was happening. Then, while Jackie dispensed drinks, he went up to the forepeak for a hurried briefing from Leo.

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘We were in this joint. Things got pretty wild. In the end it turned into an old-fashioned orgy. Our Giorgy was pissed out of his mind. One of the guys was making a big play for him. They went into a bedroom together. When we were ready to leave, he still hadn’t showed up. We went looking for him. He was lying in a heap on the floor. He’d been terribly beaten. There must have been more than one, because Giorgios is a real street fighter . . . Anyway, I stayed with him, while Jackie got the madam to phone the carabinieri. They took Giorgy to the clinic and brought us back here. End of story.’

  ‘I’ll go with the cops and see what’s happened to Giorgy. When I’m gone, haul up the gangway and make sure no one else comes aboard. Where does Hadjidakis keep the ship’s cash?’

  ‘In his cabin. The cash-box is in a drawer under the bookshelf.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  Back on deck he waited with careful patience while the carabinieri finished their drinks. These were no common policemen, they were military personnel, charged with keeping order inside the confines of the Republic. Courtesy was the watchword, courtesy and respect and a co-operative attitude, if you didn’t want to be bounced off a wall. His Tuscan accent had already impressed them. The generous shots of scotch had helped too. He decided to clinch the entente cordiale.

  ‘Jackie, be so kind as to break out three bottles of Johnny Walker, wrap each one in a paper napkin and bring them to me, please.’

  He offered the bottles, on
e to each of the carabinieri, as ‘a compliment from the ship, a thanks for your courteous handling of this matter’.

  On the way back to Porto Ferraio he rode with the brigadiere and heard his version of the affair.

  ‘. . . You must understand, my friend, that we do not normally preoccupy ourselves with what goes on inside a closed house. If a major crime is committed, of course we must intervene; but such places are designed as the safety valves of society, so we absent ourselves. By the time we were called, the fracas was over, and because your other man was injured we have had neither the time nor the opportunity to make further inquiries. Who is the victim by the way?’

  ‘He is our first mate and engineer, an American citizen named Giorgios Hadjidakis. He is a long-time friend and confidant of the owner, Mr Molloy, and of his distinguished guests, Prince Alessandro Farnese and Count Galeazzi. I presume you are aware that they are visiting the island to conclude arrangements for a major tourist development?’

  Even if he wasn’t aware, the brigadiere wasn’t going to admit it; but he was suitably impressed. He hastened to assure Cavanagh:

  ‘The clinic is small but well-equipped. It was set up for the mining community. The director, Doctor Emilio Spinelli, resides on the premises. He is both competent and careful. You may trust what he tells you.’

  ‘That’s very reassuring, brigadiere. One can only hope he may be able to help Mr Hadjidakis.’

  ‘As you say, one can only hope. We should be there in ten minutes.’

  Giorgios Hadjidakis had taken a brutal beating. One eye was closed, a cheekbone was crushed. An arm and several ribs were broken. His head was bandaged. He was still unconscious. The doctor, a crisp, efficient fellow in his early fifties, displayed a series of X-rays.

  ‘. . . The ribs, the wrist, these we have taken care of. The face will need expert reconstruction. Most worrying of all, however, is this fracture of the skull, depressed as you see at this point. I do not have the means to estimate or repair the damage. It requires expert cranial surgery.’

  ‘Where is it available?’

  ‘In Milan certainly. In Livorno only possibly, but certainly at the American Hospital in Naples. I thought that, as your officer is an American citizen, and they are fully equipped for combat casualties . . .’

  ‘Is there a phone I can use, Doctor?’

  ‘Through there, in my office.’

  It took Cavanagh five minutes to raise the night clerk at the Club Hotel and another five minutes of clattering dialogue to persuade him to connect the call to Molloy’s room. Molloy was rasping and irritable.

  ‘Don’t you know what time it is? What the hell’s going on?’

  Cavanagh told him. Molloy was instantly wide awake.

  ‘Naples? That’s the Sixth Fleet. I know the deputy commander-in-chief. I’ll try to call him now and see if he can send a chopper in to evacuate Hadjidakis to the US hospital. It would make sense for us too, we’re heading south. If Giorgy is OK we can pick him up on the way down. If he’s not, then we can make arrangements to get him home to Boston. Are the police still with you?’

  ‘Yes. The brigadiere is waiting outside.’

  ‘Ask him if he can nominate a landing place for a helicopter.’

  The brigadiere was helpful.

  ‘There is a large garden at the back of the clinic. It will be light before the helicopter gets here. We can mark the place with a white cross . . .’

  Cavanagh relayed the message. Molloy had other instructions.

  ‘Stay at the clinic until I get back to you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m going to be tied up here all morning. I daren’t leave until we’ve got the essential documents signed. Can you handle things at your end?’

  ‘Sure. But we should have a contingency plan in place.’

  ‘Read it to me.’

  ‘In case the Navy people don’t come through, I’d suggest we put Giorgios aboard the Salamandra and run straight up to Livorno. I could have an ambulance waiting at the docks. It’s a fifty-mile run, but the sea’s flat and we could make him comfortable. After he’s settled in hospital I’d come back to Elba and pick you off the beach.’

  ‘I agree, but I’m sure the Navy will come through. Can you handle the vessel?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll move Leo up to watch-keeper’s duties. Then I’d like to find us an extra hand, preferably an engine-room mechanic who could double as deckhand. But you let me worry about that for the moment. I’ll wait here for your call.’

  He read off the number and hung up. It was nearly five in the morning when Molloy finally called back.

  ‘We’re in luck, Cavanagh. There’s an aircraft carrier about a hundred miles south of Elba, and heading north to Villefranche. They’re sending a helicopter which will evacuate Giorgios to the ship. While the chopper refuels, the surgeons will take a look at him and then arrange to move him down to Naples.’

  ‘When can we expect the aircraft?’

  ‘They gave me a rough estimate of 0700 hours this morning.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’d better make sure the landing pad is adequately marked . . . By the way, I’ve taken possession of the ship’s cash – I may have to dispense some of it.’

  ‘That’s fine. Call me when the lift-off has taken place.’

  ‘Will do. Next question: do you want me to bring the ship down to you, or will you come back to Porto Azzuro?’

  ‘We’ll come back. Tell Chef there’ll be ten extra guests for a buffet lunch on the afterdeck. We’ll give them a cruise round the island and dump ’em on the dock about five in the afternoon. Now what’s the latest on Giorgios?’

  ‘No change, sir. He’s stable but comatose.’

  ‘If he wakes, give him my love – and tell him he must be losing his touch.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And Cavanagh?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Thanks. You’re doing a good job.’

  ‘A compliment to your own good judgment, Mr Molloy.’

  ‘The luck of the Irish more like – let’s pray we can keep it running for Giorgios Hadjidakis.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ said Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh.

  As always with Lou Molloy, a thing promised was a thing done. At ten minutes after seven in the morning a Piasecki helicopter from the US Navy set down on the pocket-handkerchief park behind the clinic. Hadjidakis, still comatose, was strapped to a stretcher and hoisted aboard. The helicopter took off leaving one brigadiere very impressed and one medico glad to be rid of a patient whose prognosis was, to say the least, dubious.

  Cavanagh invited them to join him for breakfast as soon as he had made his phone call to Molloy, with whom, unconsciously, he slipped into the idiom of command.

  ‘If Hadjidakis dies, this turns into a murder case. If he survives, the whole affair can be hushed up. I’m suggesting to the brigadiere that he make his inquiries, but keep them off the books for the time being . . . No, sir, I’m not pre-empting your orders, but I’m here and you’re miles away. I have to make decisions. Next item: without Hadjidakis we’re travelling at risk. We need at least an engine-room mechanic . . . With your permission, I’d like to make some inquiries locally, and if necessary, on the mainland. You’ve got Swedish diesels. Their dealers have been operating in Italy since before the war. With luck we should be able to find ourselves a passable mechanic. It’s not the perfect solution, but it reduces the risk and Hadjidakis has already walked me through the manual . . . We’ll be ready at lunchtime for you and your guests.’

  In a bar on the waterfront Cavanagh bought coffee and pastries for the doctor and the brigadiere. When he offered payment for his medical services, the doctor, Tuscan to his boot-soles, refused. A guest on the island had been assaulted. His service was a small amends. He wished only that he could have done more, and that he could be more optimistic of the outcome. The brigadiere, already recompensed, approved this magnanimity.

  Next, Cavanagh broached the question of an engine-room mec
hanic. The brigadiere regretted that he could not help. It was the custom of the carabinieri to post their officials far away from their birthplace, so that, in theory at least, they would not become involved in local conspiracies. The doctor offered at least a possible candidate:

  ‘. . . My nephew, a good boy who has completed an apprenticeship in the naval yards at Livorno. He has also had work as a temporary engine-room hand on the ferries. The problem is that since he has completed his apprenticeship, he must be paid a full wage . . . So in these bad times, nobody wants him.’

  ‘What is he doing now?’

  ‘He works two days a week with Ugolini who services the fishing fleet. He also works part-time with Fischetti who services air-conditioning plants around the island.’

  ‘Well, let’s talk to him. Tell him to be on board no later than eleven this morning. We’ll be cruising from lunchtime till evening. Even if he isn’t hired he’ll be paid for his time.’

  The doctor gulped down his coffee and hurried off to track down his nephew. The brigadiere raised a more delicate question: how to deal with the affray at the ‘house of appointment’ and the very grievous matter of the assault on Hadjidakis. So far, no depositions had been taken, no inquiries instituted, no complaints made. However, once anything was on paper a long, wearisome and perhaps scandalous process would begin.

  Cavanagh needed no spectacles to see that hole in the ground, yet he had no intention of digging a pit for himself. So, in his best Tuscan and with his most elaborate Irish blarney, he explained:

  ‘You and I, brigadiere, are in the same galley. With the best will in the world we cannot dictate to our superiors. I cannot commit my owner, who is in fact the captain of the vessel. If Mr Hadjidakis dies, you have a murder case on your hands. If he survives, we shall all benefit by a discreet handling of the case. These are hard times for everyone and Mr Molloy, with his Italian colleagues, is embarking on a huge work of reconstruction on this island . . . Certainly he will feel offended and abused by what has happened; but if I could tell him that you were prepared to conduct your own discreet inquiries with a view to identifying the culprits, and dealing with them – how shall I put it – in a local frame of reference . . . You do understand what I am trying to say?’