Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel) (16 page)

And the telephone, Three times it had rung. Once early in the morning and twice in the afternoon. Each time Orient had picked up the receiver there was no one on the line. No dial tone. Just silence. Once there’d been a light, clicking sound that Orient had recognized. During Project Judy, the Secret Service men attached to the project had put taps on all the telephones in the house as a matter of routine. All of the phones had made those same clicking sounds.
 

The cab stopped near a wide side door. Orient could see part of a ship through the opening. He got out, pulled his suitcase from the front seat, paid the driver, then began walking slowly toward the ship.
 

When he passed through the door to the outside dock, he looked up. The Trabik was small. Its loading beams were skewed out at odd angles forming awkward silhouettes in the dusk. Listing in the water and needing a paint job, the boat seemed graceless and somewhat vulnerable. As he moved through the disarray of cargo and equipment on the pier toward the rope-and-metal ladder leading up to the deck, Orient wondered if this trip was a gesture of Joker’s—or another game. He started climbing the unsteady stairs.
 

When he reached the deck, he went inside the first door at the head of the stairway and found the purser, who checked the manifest, took his ticket and passport, then directed a steward to show Orient to his cabin.
 

Orient followed the steward up a flight of stairs and down a narrow passageway. When he entered the cabin, he found that it was spacious, well lit, and comfortably laid out. He’d felt better about the boat as he looked around him. He’d almost been expecting hammock bunks and footlockers. Then he surprised the steward by asking in Serbo-Croatian if he could get some food.
 

"Too early, please." The young man turned red and held up his watch. "Dinner bell ring one hour."
 

Orient thanked him in Serbo-Croatian, gave him a dollar, and took the keys. Just as well, he decided as he arranged his things in the cabin and chose a bed; every good voyage should probably begin with a fast. He had just settled down on the bed with a copy of Jung’s letters to Hesse when he heard a knock at the door.
 

The steward came in with a tray of ham and cheese sandwiches and a bottle of Yugoslavian beer.
       

"Until dinnertime," he beamed, speaking in his own tongue. "Breakfast tomorrow morning from 6:30 to 8:30. We sail late tomorrow night."
 

Orient grinned and took the tray. His knack for languages was already smoothing his trip. Yang food to be sure, but it would help settle down the tension he still felt. He said this would do him, he would skip the dining room this evening.
 

He ate in bed, read for a few hours, then slipped into a deep sleep.
 

He was awakened in the morning by the breakfast bell. He got up immediately, washed, put on a pair of suede slacks and a turtleneck sweater, and went out into the passageway toward the stairs.
 

The dining room was narrow, but since it ran the width of the boat, it didn’t seem overly cramped. Orient noticed with some disappointment that there were three communal tables for six instead of individual tables. He didn’t want to be more sociable than necessary, and he doubted if he could keep getting room service.
 

This morning, however, there was only one other passenger at breakfast, a heavy, round man with a gray beard and dark glasses who was sitting at the far table, reading as he ate. Orient took an empty table near the door.
 

He was pleasantly surprised that the orange juice, grapefruit, yogurt, and honey he ordered were all available. At least he’d be able to maintain a semblance of his regular diet. After breakfast he took a stroll on the deck.
 

The Trabik was in the process of being loaded, but Orient could see that progress was slow. The holds were open and still almost empty. The first crates were being craned from the pier. Three or four stevedores were standing on the rear deck guiding the swinging load into the hatches. Two crewmen were below decks at the bottom of the hold, removing the crates from the loading platform and stocking them. He watched them for a while, then went up the stairs to the upper deck.
 

The day was crisp and clear. A steady breeze was keeping the air pure in Brooklyn, and Orient could see the skyline across the bay glowing gray and silver, the immense structures of glass and steel flashing in the sun.
 

The ship was narrow, but longer than Orient had originally estimated. There were three tiers above the main deck. The tiered section contained the crew and passenger quarters and the officers’ bridge. It was located at the rear of the ship, leaving a long forward deck area. Right now the forward and rear decks were covered with a messy webbing of cables, beams, and netting.
 

Orient wandered about the upper decks, examining the ship until the chill drove him back to his quarters. As he went down the stairs he saw the bearded man, his magazine sticking out of his raincoat pocket, leaning against the rail watching the loading operation.
 

When he entered his room, he saw that the bed had been made, the tray cleared away and the rest of the cabin straightened out. Perhaps there was some sort of room service after all. He changed into a pair of plain cotton karate pajamas and began the series of physical exercises that set up the rhythms for his concentration. Much later the free glide of his meditation was disrupted by the lunch bell.
 

When he went back to his room after lunch, he saw that things had changed. His roommate had arrived, a thin young man with straight, shoulder-length blond hair who was wearing a red jersey sweatshirt with a large white star on the front. He was unpacking some articles from a knapsack and placing them on the bed.
 

Orient introduced himself. "I think we’re sharing this cabin," he said.
 

The boy looked up and smiled, squinting his blue eyes. "I’m Presto Wallace," he said softly. "I hope I haven’t disturbed any of your stuff while I’ve been getting myself squared away."
 

"This is your house," Orient answered genially, using the polite Eastern form. He was genuinely relieved that his roommate for the next ten days seemed to be adaptable. He sat down on the couch.
 

The objects Presto was putting on the bed were lenses and cameras. The boy was crouched on the floor examining each piece of equipment carefully, taking it out of the knapsack, checking it with a small flashlight, brushing it, polishing it, and then placing it on a soft piece of brown cloth with great patience, almost reverence. Orient picked up his book and began to read. It was a good sign that his roommate was a craftsman.
 

During the afternoon the tentative talk between them developed into an easy conversation. Presto volunteered that the boat wasn’t leaving for at least another day. His motorcycle was still on the dock waiting to be loaded.
 

"Big BMW," Presto confided. "Hope they take it easy when they load her up. Where you headed?"
 

"Tangier."
 

Presto nodded reassuringly as if he understood why a man would want to go to such a place.
 

"How about you?" Orient asked before Presto had a chance to ask anything else.
 

"Oh, I’m going around Morocco some. Maybe Marrakesh. Then Spain, Amsterdam, and London."
 

"Photographer?" Orient pointed to the bed.
 

Presto looked at his equipment mournfully. He had an earnest, scholarly way of speaking, the serious air of a science student. "Yeah. Gonna see what I can do with a 16-millimeter Rolex, some fast film, and a couple of still cameras."
 

Orient thought of his own film project, lying unfinished in Andy Jacobs’s safe.
 

Presto decided to have a look around the ship. After he left, Orient went back to his reading. He planned to catch up on some study during the long voyage and had selected fifteen volumes on different subjects to while away his free hours during the voyage. He hadn’t looked at anything except the sports results all the time he’d been Joker’s apprentice.
 

When Orient went to dinner, he found Presto deep in conversation with the bearded man at the far table. He joined them more out of a sense of courtesy than a desire for company. And he knew it would be impossible to avoid anyone once the boat was at sea. Presto and the man, whose name was Lew Wallet, were engrossed in a discussion of cameras and lenses, so Orient was spared the usual questions that follow an exchange of names at a ship’s dining table. After dinner Presto and Wallet decided to continue their conversation in the passengers’ lounge and Orient went out on deck.
 

The night air was clear and the starlight competed with the surrounding glow of harbor fights and blueish neon haze over New York City. Orient climbed to the upper deck. The tension he had felt yesterday was gone. As he stood looking at the light-streaked water, he looked forward to the prospect of continuing his research. Perhaps he would begin to expand his circle of students if he found another potential. He could even start thinking of ways to continue developing his tape project. He wasn’t anxious about the future any more, just curious about the present. And ready to sail. He looked down at the shadowy crates on the pier. Maybe tomorrow they would be underway.
 

When Orient got up for breakfast the next morning, Presto was still asleep. Orient showered, dressed, went to the dining room, nodded at Lew Wallet who was reading a magazine. He ate at a table by himself, then took a walk around the deck. When he got back to his cabin, Presto was getting dressed.
 

"I’m on my way to the city to pick up some tools," Presto said. "You need anything?" Orient couldn’t think of anything he wanted and settled down on the couch with another book.
 

As Presto was zipping up his parka, he took a look around at his knapsack and equipment. "I guess everything will be all right here," he said, looking over at Orient with a momentary expression of concern.
 

"Don’t worry," Orient assured him, "I’ll lock up if go anywhere." Even though he had decided that Presto would be good company, the boy obviously still didn’t know what to make of him.
 

Presto was gone all day and wasn’t back when the dinner bell rang. Orient had skipped lunch and remained in his cabin, and when he entered the dining room, he saw that some new passengers had boarded the ship.
 

Lew Wallet was sitting at the far table with a middle-aged woman wearing a black shawl. A young girl of twelve or thirteen sat next to them. Something about the trio’s attitude suggested that they were a family.
 

There were also two girls sitting by themselves at a table near the door. Orient chose the unoccupied table.
 

He tried to the make the meal quick, but as he ate, he became increasingly aware of the two girls at the table in front of him. One was a plump, pretty brunette with short hair who was listening intently to something the other girl, a tall supple-bodied blond, was saying. The blond girl turned her head and Orient saw that she was striking: long white throat, wide green eyes accentuated by heavy blue shadow stark against her creamy skin, long yellow hair, and a driving vitality that electrified her sharply defined features. As she launched into another story, she noticed Orient looking at them and smiled.
 

Orient smiled back and began to linger over his vegetables. The girls went on talking in low tones, occasionally bursting into laughter at some fresh point. The brunette girl was completely preoccupied with the conversation, speaking little but giving her full attention to everything the blond girl said.
 

Orient couldn’t hear the words but he could feel the animal vibration of high-spirited fun emanating from the blond girl. It was strong, frank, and very pleasant. He looked up and saw that she’d been staring at him. Her eyes held on his for a moment before she looked away. There was no sign of self-consciousness or shyness on her face, but as she turned her head, Orient felt something else.
 

An unfamiliar yet familiar sensation at the base of his brain. A passing tug of anxiety. Then he recognized the quality of the anxiety, and its source.
 

The blond girl was a potential.
 

The girls went on with their animated chatter as Orient finished his dessert of fresh fruit. Neither of them looked up as he left the dining room.
 

Orient wandered down the passageway and entered the passengers’ lounge.
 

This was a long narrow room with the same dimensions as the dining room. The way it was laid out, however, made it seem more spacious. There was a three-stool bar at one end of the room, two long couches against the walls, assorted armchairs, some card tables, and a record player. Three large windows on one side looked out over the rear deck of the ship. Orient sat down in an armchair facing the windows and stretched out his legs. He felt good. A cruise with a lovely telepath on board had positive possibilities.
 

He had never encountered a female potential before. He wondered if the technique he had devised to increase telepathic awareness was as effective with women as with men. He was still thinking about it when he went back to his cabin.
 

Presto was back. He was lying on his bed with a box of doughnuts balanced on his chest, reading a motorcycle magazine. "Hi," he said amiably when Orient entered, "have a doughnut."
 

"No thanks. How was the city?" Orient asked as he sat on the couch and picked up his book. "Found everything I needed but it was a bitch getting back. Cabs don’t want to come out here." He went back to his magazine.