The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [10]
"Fine. How do you wish to do this?" said Doyle politely.
' 'I have observed you for only a few moments, you agree, yes?"
"I cannot dispute you."
"And yet I am able to tell you that from within the last year you have traveled to Cherbourg, Paris, Geneva, Davos, Marienbad, back to London, once to Edinburgh, and twice to Dublin. Will I not be correct, sir?"
Doyle had to admit that he was.
"And would you like me to tell you how I have reached this conclusion, sir?"
Doyle was compelled to admit that he would.
"I have looked at the labels on your luggage."
Werner winked, wiggled his little blond moustache, gave a smart salute, and slipped smoothly down the passageway. Doyle had just begun to unpack when Innes rushed into the cabin, knocking off his derby on the doorway overhead.
"Smashing good news," said Innes, retrieving his hat. "I've found someone who'll be of tremendous help to us when we reach New York."
"Who's that, Innes?"
"He gave me his card. Here," he said, producing it. "His name is Nels Pimmel."
"Pimmel?"
"A reporter for the New York Post. You'll be ever so amused by the fellow, Arthur. He's what you would call a real 'character.' ..."
"Let me see that," said Doyle, taking the card.
"And a most agreeable chap. Seems he has the acquaintance of nearly everybody who's anybody in the entire United States...."
"And what did Mr. Pimmel want from you?"
"Nothing. He's invited us to dine with him tonight."
"You didn't accept of course."
"I didn't see the harm in it.. .."
"Innes, listen to me carefully; you are not to seek out, speak to, or encourage this man's advances from this moment forward in even the slightest way."
"I don't know why; he's a perfectly pleasant sort of bloke."
"This man is not a bloke, chap, or any other sort of regular person; he's a journalist and they are a breed apart."
"So you immediately assume he must be cultivating my friendship only so he can get closer to you, is that it?"
"If this is the man I think it is, be assured he is not remotely interested in your friendship or even your passing acquaintance. ..."
Two small spots of red appeared on Innes's cheeks and his pupils contracted down to pinpricks—oh dear, thought Doyle, how many times have I seen those dependable beacons of distress before.
"So what you're saying is I'm ridiculous to assume that anyone might take a genuine interest in me alone as a human being...."
"Innes, please, that's not what I'm saying at all."
"Oh, really?"
"There are different rules for social intercourse on board ship. This Pimmel or Pinkus or whatever his name is has al-ready accosted me once. Give him one inch of encouragement now before we've left sight of land and the man will be living in our pockets for the remainder of the cruise."
"Do you want to know what I think?" said Innes, bouncing up on his toes, voice rising alarmingly in pitch. "I think you've read too many of your press clippings. I think you think you're better than other people. I'm twenty-four years old, Arthur, and I may never have been on a ship before, but that doesn't mean I've forgotten my manners and I shall speak to or dine with whomsoever I choose."
Punctuating the impact of his outburst with a dramatic exit, Innes turned to go and threw open the door to the closet. To his credit, he kept his composure, gave the contents of the closet the once-over as if that had been his original intent, slammed the door with a satisfied grunt, and swept out of the cabin, knocking his hat off on the overhead again for good measure.
Five months without Larry, thought Doyle. Good Christ, I'll never make it back to England alive.
That evening, Doyle dined at the table of Captain Karl Heinz Hoffner unaccompanied by his younger brother, who took his first meal at the far end of the elegant hall, in the company of Ira Pinkus/Nels Pimmel and the other four pseudonyms under which