The Revengers by Donald Hamilton Page B

run a taut ship here.”
    “Toast being served, ma’am.”
    We batted it back and forth like that for a while, with variations, but there were tensions here that had not existed as long as we were below in each others’ arms. Now that the hint had been given me I could see that she had changed, and I could realize that what had been so very good about last night was the fact that she’d needed me desperately; me, or at least the assurance I could give her that she was still an attractive and important person— Harriet Robinson, formerly Robin Rosten, who’d never needed anyone before in her life. The evidence had all been there but I’d preferred to ignore it.

When I’d last seen her she wouldn’t have dreamed of worrying how she’d be received in the cocktail lounge, any cocktail lounge, after working on her engines; in fact, she hadn’t. She’d considered them damned lucky to have her even in baggy pants with grease on them. She’d never have referred to her present existence as an exile; and she’d certainly never have thought of buying some frivolous and expensive lingerie to remind her, in secret, of the gracious life she’d left behind forever. Nor would she have considered holding her tongue about anything for timid and sensible reasons of self-protection. Back then she’d been playing the part of Captain Harriet Robinson to the hilt and enjoying it immensely; but now, I could see, the enjoyment had faded and regret and caution had taken its place.
    I could look at her clearly at last and know that she was lost. She was a lovely lady and she was breaking and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do to help her. This rather primitive and, in many ways, humbling life—a charter boat captain, male or female, has to take a lot of guff from a lot of slobs—was wearing her down, not to mention the fact that despite our best efforts she was still legally a fugitive with the ultimate horror of prison still hanging over her. But mainly she was remembering everything she’d given up. She was realizing that she wasn’t really made for this, she was being wasted here, and the waste was irretrievable. I had a momentary sickening picture of another woman I’d just seen who’d been totally degraded by pressures too great for her to bear. I did not think that Harriet’s break, when it came, would take that form—it was an unbearable thing to even consider—but she was obviously no longer holding her own here and the end, some end, was inevitable.
    “Tell me about the girl,” Harriet said abruptly.
    “What girl?”
    She laughed. “Your girl, Matt. The one you so nobly left unloved for her own good.” She reached out to cover my hand with hers, briefly. “I don’t mind, really I don’t, but do you think a woman doesn’t know when she’s being used as a substitute? You came down here to the Keys needing somebody to make love to very badly, my dear, obviously because you’d just been with somebody you would very much like to have had, whom you couldn’t bring yourself to touch for, no doubt, the highest reasons in the world.” She studied me shrewdly. “Of course, there’s a possibility that she simply rejected you, but I doubt it. If you’d just had your face slapped, you wouldn’t have been such a little bundle—well, big bundle—of iron self-control, all done up tight in self-tied knots until we. . . She stopped and a little color came into her face. She said quickly, “Steward, my cup is empty again. A little service here, if you please!”
    I was glad of the excuse to leave the table and the dark eyes that saw too much; but there was a strong impulse to laugh ruefully, too. While I’d been considering her sad case, she’d been considering mine; and, of course, she was perfectly right. I had found it very pleasant to be with Martha Devine in the home she’d made with Bob. There had been a strong temptation to stay and build upon the comfortable relationship we’d achieved; and bed had