“Okay, I get it! Let’s go.”
I popped my head round the door and scouted the passage. The coast was clear. The passengers who were not in bed already were having a ball in the disco upstairs.
We sneaked down the passage and found the stairs leading to the upper deck.
It was a beautiful moonlit night. All was quiet. Cape Town’s lights had long since disappeared behind the horizon, and we were cruising around the coastline.
William soon felt better. His whiskers bristled and he ran a few laps around the deck. He stopped to lift his leg against a deckchair, and then, a few paces further down the deck, he squatted and . . .
“What do you think I am supposed to do with that?” I asked.
“Didn’t you bring a plastic bag or something?” he retaliated.
But before we could start an argument, we heard voices approaching.
“Quick!” I said. “Hide in here!”
We slipped into a cupboard where fresh towels and a stack of cushions for the deckchairs were kept. The voices approached.
I immediately recognised one of them. It was Preston, the disgusting little waiter. He was talking to someone else who had a gruff voice and a thick French accent.
“You better see to it that everything is sorted out. I shall disembark tomorrow at Durban to take care of the final arrangements with Robberts. It is too risky to contact him from the ship. Just remember: any mistake, and you will pay!”
“Yes, yes, I hear you. Stop fretting!” Preston said. “I know exactly what to do. Everything will be ready.”
The stranger gave a snort. I guessed he also didn’t trust that mangy waiter.
The two of them were now standing right next to our hiding-hole, and I heard one of them strike a match. This was followed by the sweet smell of cherry pipe tobacco: filthy habit, but it smelled rather nice.
“You will have to excuse me now. I have to go and serve those horrible tourists. For all I care, you can feed them all to the sharks!”
We heard Preston’s footsteps fading towards the stairs.
But suddenly he swore loudly and vigorously.
“What’s the matter?” the rough voice of the stranger with the French accent asked.
“I stepped into something. Dog poo, I swear!”
“Oh sottises! You are imagining! There are no dogs on this boat. Go away, go do your job!”
Preston scampered off, still cursing under his breath.
The other man was still standing quietly in the dark, smoking his fragrant pipe. After a short while, he followed the way Preston had gone. Then his footsteps stopped and I saw the light of a torch flickering through the slit of the door of the cupboard where we were hiding.
He was inspecting the deck.
“Merde!” he cried.
He knocked his pipe on the railing to clean out the last tobacco, and then he was gone.
William would have to be more careful with his toilet!
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