A Patron of the Arts

by DONALD HEINEY

FIRST came the Secretary, carrying a small briefcase under his arm and leading a dachshund, which trotted along distractedly on its small legs and darted rapid glances at the other passengers, who were sitting stoically on their luggage. Then came Mr. Benturian himself, a small dapper gentleman with a gray mustache and a Homburg, carrying in one hand a bird cage with two parakeets and in the other a pair of fencing foils, and gesticulating furiously to the rest of the cortege. Next came Mme. Benturian, or, as she preferred to style herself since Mr. Benturian had agreed to sponsor her in her career as an interpretive dancer, Mile. Seraphique, burdened with nothing more than a hatbox but looking as out of sorts as if she had been obliged to carry the Eiffel Tower, the Colonne de Vendôme, and half the reptiles in the Jardin Zoologique all at once; and behind her came her maid with a small traveling case and two poodles on a leash.

Next came Mr. Benturian’s valet, a sallow member of the English depressed classes who staggered along under an incredible number of cameras, overcoats, walking sticks, thermos bottles, and other immediate necessities which could under no circumstances be packed away; and following him came two porters pushing a handcart containing eighteen numbered pieces of luggage. This was only the cabin luggage, of course; the trunks were already on their way into the Cymbeline’s hold. Last of all came a gang of stevedores pushing Mr. Benturian’s silver-gray Mercedes-Benz sedan, one of them trying to steer it by putting his hand through the window, to the imminent peril of all in its path.

At the gangplank the cortege halted, and Mlle. Séraphique sighed with the air of a woman whose surroundings are unworthy of her. Her travel outfit was authentic Dior, and the master had outdone himself. The black sheath that enveloped her from clavicle to kneecap was classic in its simplicity, yet managed to convey an unmistakable hint of the undulation beneath; her hat consisted of a sort of fur saucer, and was so extravagantly large that it had to be held on with one hand, which served the better to exhibit the smart black glove in which her hand was enclosed. “Bibi,” she said, laying the other hand on her hip, “if I have to go one more step on foot I shall expire.”

“Patience, my dear,” said Mr. Benturian, who was looking through his pockets for his passport.

“Why you want to go off,” she continued, “like some corpulent Vasco da Gama, on these improbable voyages to America, I will never understand, but I give you fair warning that if some provision is not immediately made for my comfort, I shall break out into a series of unearthly screams.”

“My dear,” said Mr. Benturian, “all will be taken care of.”

First, however, the Secretary had to be sent to arrange for the loading of the Mercedes-Benz; and as soon as he had gone it was discovered that he had the tickets and passports for the entire party in his briefcase. The valet was dispatched after him, and meanwhile Mr. Benturian began passing out thousand-franc notes to the porters. Since the size of a French banknote increases with its value and a thousand-franc bill is almost as large as a small rug, the transaction was a conspicuous, one, and Mr. Benturian was immediately surrounded by a crowd of importunate porters offering to carry his luggage off to places he did not want it. He was rescued only by an official of the Transoceanic Line, who promised to conduct Mr. Benturian and his party aboard the Cymbeline without further annoyance.

2

THE cortege shortly filed its way up the gangplank. For the Mercedes-Benz, however, it was not so easy. Mr. Benturian did not have an export license for it, or at least he could not find one, and the situation was relieved only through the sworn statements of Mr. Benturian and the Secretary that such a document existed, and by a small gift to the customs inspector to send his sickly little girl to the mountains for a vacation. A rope net was finally arranged under the Mercedes, and it was hoisted into the Cymbeline’s hold. Meanwhile Mlle. Seraphique, the maid, the valet, the two poodles, and the dachshund were left standing on the promenade deck with the luggage piled around them and were becoming more exasperated by stages. Mlle. Séraphique complained in theatrical accents, the maid and the valet murmured, and the dogs expressed their impatience in a more eloquent manner characteristic of their species.

“My dear,” explained Mr. Benturian, “it is absolutely necessary to have a car in America. The means of transportation are democratic but primitive; all the trains are the same class.”

Mlle. Seraphique and the maid looked at each other as though they had expected as much, and would not have been surprised to find themselves crossing the great plains in an oxcart, but said nothing. At last a cabin steward led them down the corridor and flung open a door: and there, sitting on the sofa in front of a half-empty bottle of champagne, were a perfectly strange young couple conducting an argument in Portuguese.

The misunderstanding was a natural one. The young couple were Senhor and Senhora Filhofari, a pair of Brazilians of superior social standing who had been off to Europe on their honeymoon. The trip had lasted somewhat too long, and they were now returning to their native land in that state of irritable lassitude which often accompanies excessively prolonged wedding trips. There are only a limited number of charming things to learn about another human being, and when these are exhausted the things that begin to come to light are usually tedious. When they arrived at this point Senhor and Senhora Filhofari, being Latins, did not seek to conceal their small disenchantments from each other. As for why they were conducting their discussion in Mr. Benturian’s suite, this too was easily explained. Senhor Filhofari had tickets for Suite 119-A, but his English was so imperfect that when he repeated this number to the steward it sounded like 190-A, which was the number of Mr. Benturian’s suite. The steward, being out of sorts as all stewards are on sailing day, did not look at the tickets; and Senhor Filhofari, who was busy thinking up eloquent phrases to say to his wife in the argument he knew was coming, had not noticed the number on the door.

The Filhofaris had begun to reach the most interesting part of their discussion and there were few things that could have diverted them from it; but the entry of Mr. Benturian, the Secretary, Mlle. Séraphique, the maid, the valet, two poodles, one dachshund, a steward, and a number of porters into what they imagined to be their stateroom did the trick. They sat in thunderstruck silence for an instant, and then they both began to upbraid Mr. Benturian simultaneously in what they imagined to be English.

“My dear sir and madam,” said Mr. Benturian, “you are sitting in my stateroom. I do not demand an explanation, I merely demand that you cease sitting in it. You must have a stateroom of your own. Everyone has. Why don’t you go to it?”

“Bibi,” said Allle. Seraphiquc, “this is the last of the straws. I am going to the bar. Please send for me when all this tintinnabulation is over.”

“My dear,” said Mr. Benturian, “there is no need for rash steps. If there is some slight mix-up over the cabins, the matter will be quickly cleared up. Kindly sit down for a moment, and I will arrange everything.”

“In our stateroom she sit down?” demanded Senhora Filhofari indignantly. “No! Positive no!”

“Madam,”said Mr. Benturian, “you are much too charming to fall into a rage. The difficulty no doubt arises out of a simple misunderstanding. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Alfred Benturian, American citizen and admirer of all that is beautiful.” He bowed slightly, the direction of his glance suggesting that he included Senhora Filhofari’s bosom in the category of things beautiful, and that to his mind this fixture atoned completely for her sins.

Senhora Filhofari was taken unaware. “How do you do?” she said, her defenses melting.

“Now,” said Mr. Benturian, “let us all compare tickets. Jenkins! Where are our tickets?”

There was a brief interlude of confusion while Mr. Benturian and the Secretary looked for the tickets. “Bibi!” said Mlle. Séraphique several times, tapping her foot.

“My dear sir . .”began Senhor Filhofari.

“I am sure I gave them to you, sir,” said the Secretary.

“Bibi!”

“If the gentlemen will all calm themselves,” suggested the steward, “and produce their tickets . . .”

“But he is charming, this one. Paulo, how could you roar at him so?”

“Sir . . .”

“Ah!” said Mr. Benturian. “In my pocket.” The tickets showed that Mr. Benturian was entitled to Suite 190-A, and the matter was explained amid a great many exasperated sighs from Mlle. Séraphique and a renewed torrent of Portuguese between the Filhofaris. Finally they were persuaded to go off to their own suite, Senhor Filhofari clutching the champagne and Senhora Filhofari waving coyly over her shoulder.

There was an interval of silence, during which the porters seized the opportunity of pointing out that there were other passengers who wanted to get on the ship, and that it would only be a mark of decency on Monsieur’s part if he would tell them where to put the luggage. Mr. Benturian gave them a thousand francs apiece and they departed.

“Alone at last,”he said, beaming contentedly at Mlle. Seraphique. “Our little love nest.”

“I am going into the bathroom,” Mile. Seraphique announced, “and I shall stay there for some time. Where is my vanity case? I shall probably take several baths. Françoise! You will be good enough to find my bubble-bath. Shut up!” she warned Mr. Benturian. The bathroom door slammed, Mr. Benturian shrugged, and the maid brushed past him with a bottle of bubble-bath.

3

AFTER lunch a question arose over what was to be done with the dogs. Actually Mr. Benturian did not care very much for dogs, but he had gotten into a sort of competition with his wife over them, and his honor was at stake. If she would have poodles, he would have a dachshund, and he would name it Eddie just to show how preposterous it was to name two dogs Harlequin and Columbine. It was not that Mr. Benturian disliked Eddie personally; on the contrary, he found him a fairly decent old bird. But he could not see any reason why he should own Eddie as though Eddie were a mere object with no rights or opinions of his own. It smacked of a caste relationship, and this was repugnant to Mr. Benturian’s democratic philosophy.

Mr. Benturian was aware that Eddie led a rather lonesome life. It might have been hoped that he would find pleasure in companionship with his own species, but things did not work out this way; the poodles despised him and made no effort to conceal it. They obviously thought they were cleverer than he was, and Eddie could not help feeling that they were right. Their French spirit brought out all that was German in him; he began to look lugubrious and bandy-legged, and his ears hung down like two Braunschweiger sausages. In his heart he knew that poodles were frivolous and immoral creatures, but he could not help feeling like a fool as soon as they came in the room. When they began their usual antics he trotted about after them without being able to catch them, sat down and got up again several times, and finally looked up at Mr. Benturian with an expression of profound Weltschmerz.

Please don’t look at me that way,” said Mr. Benturian. I’m not responsible for making things as they are. Why don’t you chew your rubber bone?”

It was finally decided that the poodles should stay in the cabin and that Eddie should be taken for a walk. The valet was still unpacking and the Secretary, according to his own testament, was allergic to dog hair, so Mr. Benturian called a steward. He was a surly fellow with fists like hams and eyebrows joined in the middle, obviously scornful of the task. There was a strict rule, it seemed, against walking dogs on the first-class decks, and Mr. Benturian had to give him a fivedollar bill before he would do it at all.

“Come on, mutt,” said the steward, lifting Eddie over the doorsill by his leash.

The poodles smirked, and Eddie’s feet thrashed in mid-air. “Good-by, Eddie,’ said Mr. Benturian.

Senhor and Senhora Filhofari, in their own suite, had resumed their discussion where they had left off before lunch. Their discovery of each other’s imperfection was a stimulating one to them and drew forth all their resources of rhetoric. Finally Senhor Filhofari, feeling himself to be getting the worst of the argument, had been reduced to disparaging Senhora Filhofari’s ancestry. “Speak out, speak out,” he encouraged her. “Wallow in vituperation, bare your sou! of an Indian potmaker. Here we are among ourselves. I only ask that you do not make a spectacle of yourself in public.”

Senhora Filhofari had begun to relapse into a black silence, an ominous thing in a Latin woman: but Senhor Filhofari ignored the danger signs. “As soon as we get back,”he continued, “I am going to escort you to the Amazonian jungles where I found you, and turn you loose. You may resume hunting iguanas with a blowgun, if you wish, and no doubt you will be able to find some igoroti for a mate.”

“Bahia is not the Amazonian jungles,” she said. “Why did you marry me, then?”

“Lust,”said Senhor Filhofari. “An ill-conceived lust.”

“I have not noticed,” said Senhora Filhofari, “that you have since found it necessary to resort to marriage in order to satisfy this whim.”

“I think I will brain you with this bookend,” cried Senhor Filhofari, beside himself. “Better yet, where is my polo club?”

“Put that down!” demanded Senhora Filhofari in real alarm. “Let me out of here! Stand back!

I am going. Let the world witness how you treat your bride. A witness! A witness! Somebody! Somebody!” She opened the door and fled down the passageway.

“Where are you going?" shouted Senhor Filhofari, close behind her. “If you imagine that fool of an Armenian rug-peddler is going to protect you . ..”

Senhora Filhofari had thought nothing of the sort; she was in a state of exquisite hysteria and had not thought anything at all. As the idea penetrated her consciousness, however, it seemed like a good one. She ran to Mr. Benturian’s door and knocked; there was no answer, Senhor Filhofari was only a step behind her. She flung open the door and slipped into the suite.

Mr. Benturian, at this moment, was on the promenade deck smoking a cigar and looking around rather wistfully for someone to talk to. Mlle. Séraphique was in the bar, Eddie was taking a walk, and the Secretary had disappeared in the direction of the salon, where a triste quartet could be heard working its way through the lesser-known songs of Mendelssohn. Mr. Benturian sighed, examined the ash on his cigar several times, and at last decided to go back to his suite and take a nap. When he got to his bedroom, however, he found the body of Senhora Filhofari lying over the bed in a grotesque posture, with blood seeping out of her head onto the bedspread.

The human response to such a discovery is not always what the detective stories would have us believe. Mr. Benturian’s first reaction was a vague feeling of annoyance: he would not be able to take his nap after all. He presently began to realize, however, that this was the least of his difficulties. If Mlle. Seraphique should happen to return just now, for example, she would be confronted with a pretty tableau; Mr. Benturian was man of the world enough to know that innocence is nothing in such cases, and appearances all. He prodded Senhora Filhofari, but there was no response. She was obviously dead; blood was running down into her eye. However charming she had been when alive, she was now merely an object to be gotten rid of. For the time being he decided to get her temporarily out of sight; he seized her arms and pulled her off onto the floor. The three loud thumps she made as she hit the floor — head first, then derriere, then feet — startled him, but he managed to push her out of sight under the bed. As for the blood on the bedspread, this would be harder to arrange; for the moment he merely threw a steamer robe over it.

As he finished there was a knock on the door; it was the steward, the one who looked like Rocky Marciano, bringing Eddie back from his walk. “The mutt bit a lady,”he said. “Bit her in the ankle. They got her flat on her back in her cabin with all the doctors looking at her. She might make trouble, sir. There ain’t supposed to be any mutts on the first-class decks anyhow.”

“Eddie,” said Mr. Benturian incredulously, “did you bite a lady?” Eddie wagged his short tail.

“How did such a thing happen?” asked Mr. Benturian.

“I dunno, sir. I had a good hold on the leash, but when the mutt seen this lady he took a header at her, like a flash, and he bit a piece out of her ankle before I could stop him.”

“Eddie!” said Mr. Benturian.

“I tell you, sir,” said the steward, “this guy is plenty burned up. He is going to make trouble about it.”

“What guy?” said Mr. Benturian, slightly confused. “I thought you said Eddie bit a lady.”

“Her husband. I think he’s some kind of a lawyer or something, sir. Those guys, all they can think about is suing somebody. He wants to talk to you. Shall I bring him up, sir?”

Mr. Benturian shrugged helplessly, as though it were out of his hands, and the steward departed to bring the husband. As soon as the door had shut behind him, however, he slipped around the corner to where another steward was waiting for him. ‘This one was an intellectual type, with gray sideburns. “What did he say?” he asked Marciano.

“It’s all set. Go put on your civvies and I’ll take you in to him. I told him you was a lawyer and you was plenty burned up.”

“If Dogleash catches me in civvies in first-class territory,” said Sideburns, looking up and down the passageway, “I’m dead.”

“Never mind that; I tell you this is a pushover. This guy is loaded, and he’s a soft touch to boot. I seen him tip the porters. Let’s get going.”

“Okay, okay,” said Sideburns.

4

AFTER an hour Mlle. Seraphique had gotten bored with the bar; there was nobody there but rich old ladies and red-faced young couples from Texas. She came back just as Mr. Benturian was preparing to go into the bedroom again. “Hello,” she said, almost amiably. The poodles sprang in after her and began sniffing at the bedroom door.

Mr. Benturian put his back to the door. “Back so soon?“ He said.

“You don’t look very glad to see me, she complained, slinking across the room with a nonchalant petulance.

Mr. Benturian offered to kiss her on the check.

“A mere verbal indication of pleasure will do, she said irritably. “Where is Françoiso?”

“My dear,” said Mr. Benturian, “there are some lovely shops on this ship. I saw them when I took a walk. Why don’t you go down and yourself a bibelot or something?”

“Why this sudden outburst of generosity? Anyhow, I don’t need anything.”

“Gloves? Handbags?”

“Poof.”

“ Perfume?”

“H’mm,” said Mlle. Séraphique thoughtfully.

“Remember, my dear, said Mr. Benturian, “my Hrst thought is always for your happiness. Now, go off and buy some trinket.” He rolled a fifty-dollar bill into a tight wad and pressed it into her hand.

“I’ll leave Harlequin and Columbine,”she said. “You must be sure to take good care of them.”

When she was gone Mr. Benturian patted his forehead with a handkerchief and started for the bedroom again; but he had not taken a step before there was another knock on the door. It was Marciano and Sideburns. Sideburns was transformed; he wore a tweed suit and an old-school tie and had a spurious air of distinction about him. “My wife has a painful laceration on her leg,” he began crisply as soon as the formalities of introduction were over.

“Where?” said Mr. Benturian.

“On the ankle, I should have said. She is very upset. Her nerves are very close to the surface anyhow.”

“It is a disease of women,” said Mr. Benturian sympathetically.

“Her feelings are hurt worse than her ankle,” continued Sideburns, “but in a way it’s both. Now, is your dash-hound insured in any way?”

“Eddie?” said Mr. Benturian, startled. “I don’t think so.”

“I know you want to do the gentlemanly thing,” said Sideburns shrewdly.

“Sir,” said Mr. Benturian, “I am an American citizen, but the blood I bear is Armenian. Let it never be said that an Armenian failed to stand up to his moral obligations, or that an American knowingly refused to aid a fellow human being in distress. What sum would you suggest?”

“Five hundred dollars,” said Sideburns.

Mr. Benturian sighed; he had expected something around two hundred. But he went bravely to work and signed ten fifty-dollar traveler’s checks and gave them to Sideburns. They shook hands all around and the visitors departed. Eddie wagged his tail at them as they left.

Air. Benturian took a deep breath and went into the bedroom and looked hopefully under the bed, but Senhora Filhofari was still there. lie began to realize that waiting until nightfall, as he had originally planned, was impractical. It was obviously going to be necessary to call in professional help, whatever complications this might involve. After he thought about it awhile, he decided it would be cheaper in the end to start at the top instead of paying his way up through the chain of command; he picked up the phone and sent for the chief steward.

The chief steward of the Cymbeline was named Dalgliesh, but his underlings customarily referred to him as Dogleash. He was a ponderous man with a large damp face, and his nickname was an accurate one. To anyone who was at his mercy, he was a bulldog — a sort of grim English bulldog who was recognizable as a human being only when he lifted his jowls in an ominous and ironic smile. “But how did the lady get under the bed?” he demanded.

“I put her there,” said Mr. Benturian. “It seemed more tactful, somehow.”

“Let’s have a look at her,” Dogleash said. He pulled Senhora Filhofari out from under the bed, and as he did so he noticed that her ankles felt quite warm. He covertly felt for the pulse in the little depression over her anklebone and confirmed his first impression; it was obvious to anyone with an elementary knowledge of first aid that Senhora Filhofari was only knocked cold. “Dead as a doornail,” he said to Mr. Benturian.

“I don’t need an autopsy,”said Mr. Benturian, pulling his mustache nervously. “I only ask that the remains be taken out of my cabin. As soon as that is done, I am content to let an utter pall of silence fall over the whole thing.”

“You rich Europeans,” said Dogleash, “think anything can be arranged as long as you are descended from a lord or something.”

“I am not a European,” said Mr. Benturian. “On the contrary, I am an American citizen, and I have no pretensions to aristocracy whatsoever. At the same time, I am willing to make any compensation necessary to have (he body removed in a discreet manner.”

“You Americans,” said Dogleash, “think anything can be hushed up if you pay some money.”

“As I say,” said Mr. Benturian with dignity, “1 am ready to make any arrangements necessary.”

“All this is highly illegal,”said Dogleash.

“I am sure it is,” said Mr. Benturian.

“I’ll have to bring in some help, and that’ll cost money.”

“I expected that,” said Mr. Benturian.

“It’s a risky business,” said Dogleash dubiously.

“Say five hundred dollars?”

“Maybe. Plus fifty apiece for a couple of strong boys to carry her out of here.”

Mr. Benturian was not inclined to haggle. “Let’s call it six hundred dollars then,” he said resignedly.

Dogleash wondered whether Mr. Benturian might go to a thousand. But finally he went off and brought back two stewards carrying a long wicker coffin of the kind used in morgues to transport bodies unclaimed by their relatives. As soon as the poodles had been persuaded to leap out of this container, Senhora Filhofari was put in it, and Mr. Benturian counted out six hundred dollars in traveler’s checks. Dogleash looked out into the corridor. “Okay, boys,” he said. “Take it quick, but look cool.” The two stewards picked up the basket and carried it away, almost tripping over Eddie, and Dogleash followed them with the bloodstained bedspread under his arm.

Before Mr. Benturian had time to add it all up on his fingers, Mlle. Seraphique came back with a hatbox, a new handbag, a large bundle of cosmetics, and three small packages of perfume.

“Eddie bit a lady,” said Mr. Benturian.

“My!” said Mlle. Séraphique, exchanging an arch glance with the poodles.

5

BY THE time Mlle. Séraphique had tried out all the perfumes and Mr. Benturian had sent down to the purser’s to cash some more traveler’s checks, it was time for cocktails. Mlle. Séraphique put on a very long pair of black gauntlets with rhinestones on them, and Mr. Bent urian put a handkerchief in his breast pocket. When they got down to the bar the first thing they saw was Senhora Filhofari, looking rather pale with a white bandage around her head and drinking a double brandy, neat. Mr. Benturian raised his eyebrows slightly, and Senhora Filhofari performed a sort of tightening of her lips which might have been taken for a smile.

“I declare,” said Mlle. Séraphique, “I believe that is that Brazilian baggage we found drinking champagne in our stateroom.”

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Benturian. He got up and went straight to the chief steward’s office, which he found tucked away in a sinister passage behind the galley. Dogleash was sitting behind his desk like a bank president, turning over some papers. He looked up at Mr. Benturian questioningly.

“You remember the Brazilian lady you were kind enough to assist me in removing from my suite?” Mr. Benturian began.

“Of course.”

“It is curious, but I have reason to believe she is not dead at all.”

If Mr. Benturian had expected Dogleash to be thrown into consternation by this news he was disappointed. He scarcely seemed surprised; he blinked with a massive deliberation as though he found Mr. Benturian’s information interesting but by no means remarkable. “You are quite correct, he said. “She is not dead at all. Not a bit of it.”And he blinked again, like a large alert toad.

“And how do you account for that?” inquired Mr. Benturian.

“I do not account for it at all,” said Dogleash. “I am not a medical man. Besides, it was you who first claimed that Senhora Filhofari was dead, and I took you at your word. My duty is to serve the ship’s passengers. You asked me to dispose of her remains, and I agreed to do so. When she revived and demanded to be taken to her cabin, this put an entirely new light on the matter.”

“Very interesting,” said Mr. Benturian, “but in that case your efforts on my behalf were unnecessary, and it would be only sporting of you to refund my money.”

“Not at all,” said Dogleash with the air of a man giving a lesson in arithmetic to a small boy. “A live woman is much more difficult to dispose of than a dead woman. For one thing, it was necessary to get her back into her stateroom. And then there was the husband to contend with.”

“The husband ? ”

“Certainly,” said Dogleash. “Where there is a Senhora, there is a Senhor. Moreover, Senhor Filhofari is a very excitable person. You can imagine my embarrassment at having to return his wife to him in such a condition. In short, Senhor Filhofari had to be satisfied, Mr. Benturian.”

“Satisfied?”

“Certainly. One hundred dollars. And then there were the cabin stewards who happened to be in the suite dusting the furniture. You understand that, considering the extent of the scandal involved, I had to give them something to keep the matter to themselves. Ten dollars each. You certainly wouldn’t want it bruited around the ship that Senhora Filhofari was found lying in your bed in mysterious circumstances, brutally bludgeoned?”

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Benturian.

“Well,” said Dogleash, with the air of a man concluding his argument.

“How much altogether?” said Mr. Benturian.

“Let’s see,” said Dogleash, figuring on a pad. “Adding twenty-five for the doctor . . .”

“The doctor?”

“The doctor, who had to be persuaded not to enter the incident in his records, and ten apiece for the nurses, let’s say two hundred, including something for the trouble involved to me personally.”

Mr. Benturian shrugged, counted out two hundred dollars in tens, and handed it over to Dogleash. “You don’t want, a receipt, of course,” said Dogleash. “In a case like this it’s better not to have anything on paper.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Benturian, folding up his pocket book.

“Glad to have been of service, Mr. Benturian,” said Dogleash.

Mr. Benturian stopped by the purser’s on his way back, to cash some more traveler’s checks; then he went up to the suite to change for dinner. Mlle. Seraphique had come back from the bar in a cantankerous mood.

“That animal,” she declared darkly, ”is as cheerful as a gravestone, and approximately as agile.”

“ Who?”

“You know who. Eddie. He lies squarely in the middle of the carpet, and every time I move I trip over him. Besides, he is a bad influence on Harlequin and Columbine. Do call a steward and have him taken for a walk.”

“Maybe I had better take him myself,” said Mr. Benturian prudently. “Come on, Eddie.” Eddie submitted to be snapped into his leash, and the two of them walked off to the promenade deck, somewhat apart, with the leash hanging in a long curve between them.