“The crew won’t like it, sir,” I said. “Especially the Goanese stewards. You know their superstitions and how…”

“It will be all right, senor,” the little man in white broke in hurriedly.

Wilson had been right about the nervousness, but there was more to it than that; there was a strange overlay of anxiety that came close to despair. “We have arranged…”

“Shut up!” Captain Bullen said shortly.

“No need for the crew to know, Mister. Or the passengers.”

You could see they were just a careless afterthought.

“Coffins are boxed that’s them on the truck there.”

“Yes, sir. Killed in the riots. Last week.”

I paused and went on delicately, “In this heat…”

“Lead-lined,” he says. “So they can go in the hold. Some separate corner, Mister. One of the — um — deceased is a relative of one of the passengers boarding here. Wouldn’t do to stack the coffins among the dynamos, I suppose.” he sighed heavily.

“On top of everything else, we’re now in the funeral-undertaking business. Life, First, can hold no more.”

“You are accepting this — ah — cargo, sir?”

“But of course, but of course,” the little man interrupted again.

“One of them is a cousin of senor Carreras, who sails with you. Senor Miguel Carreras. Senor Carreras, he is what you say, heartbroken. Senor Carreras is the most important man”

“Be quiet,” Captain Bullen said wearily. He made a gesture with the papers. “Yes, I’m accepting. Note from the ambassador. More pressure. I’ve had enough of cables flying across the Atlantic. Too much grief. Just an old beaten man, First, just an old beaten man.” He stood there for a moment, hands outspread on the guardrail, doing his best to look like an old beaten man and making a singularly unsuccessful job of it, then straightened abruptly as a procession of vehicles turned in through the dock gates and made for the Campari. “A pound to a penny, Mister, here comes still more grief.”