‘Could be,’ he said at last. ‘Especially if someone wanted to hide something. And didn’t mind a bit of work both preparing a hideout and using it.’ He changed the subject and withdrew the box. ‘Seems too good to be true.’
Krystelle smiled. ‘Sometimes a guy gets the breaks. Everything’s possible. How about opening it?’
Grant stared at it carefully. It might be anything. Ovoid. Made of what looked like aluminium: a bit egg-shaped and with no obvious lid. He ran his fingers over the surface. There was a fine crack which could be felt, even if it was almost invisible in the dim room light. ‘Any ideas?’
She shook her head. ‘Have you?’
Grant weighed it in his hand. ‘Could be a mini-bomb or something. Kind of heavy.’
The girl lifted it and grasped it firmly in her hand. ‘Just an idea,’ she explained. ‘Sometimes I figure I can actually feel what a thing is like. If it’s dangerous or something.’
‘And is it?’ Grant knew that coloured people often have an awareness of danger which has been lost to most Caucasians.
She hesitated. ‘Kind of.’
‘Then give it me.’ Grant gripped it firmly between the fingers and thumbs of both hands and cautiously screwed. Almost certainly this was just a simple container. Common things are found commonly and booby traps or mini-bombs weren’t picked up on the gunn’ls of ships which knew their business.
He felt the two halves move slightly and then they began to unscrew. The inner shell was moulded to form a cup over which the upper part of the container screwed, altering both shape and size. The contents, in effect, were protected by almost two complete layers of metal sheeting and the thing held close on a teaspoonful of pure white crystalline powder. The crystals were of different sizes, some had pulverised to fine dust.
‘Probably home-made,’ he said. ‘Certainly not mass produced or it would be more even in texture. And must be important or it wouldn’t get special wrapping like this.’
‘Dope?’
Grant knew that Krystelle was teasing. She was certain to be as familiar with the appearance of all conventional drugs as he was himself, and both knew that it was neither cocaine, L.S.D., hashish, opium, morphine or any soft drug which mattered. ‘Probably,’ he said carefully. ‘We’ve news of something exciting hitting the market lately. This could be it.’
Krystelle risked a question. ‘Ties up with Ferguson? Huh?’
Grant nodded briefly. ‘And other people. Real subtle. Much more sophisticated than anything to date, and a heap more dangerous.’ He made up his mind. ‘Next time you meet ask Harry if he’s got any gen on how Maya’s been getting on this past few weeks in Rio. If he knows the answer to that he might pick a lead out of it. They tie up.’
Krystelle looked serious. ‘She okay?’
‘She is now I hope,’ he added bleakly as he remembered that he had forgotten to send flowers that morning, and with the time difference that became important.
His thoughts roamed at large over the subject. Krystelle had been busy and between them they had uncovered plenty: a tie-up between Mary Ferguson and her sister Rita: discovery of a peculiar metal container—for something: plus a complicated story of a meal on an unknown yacht. And that stank! No owner would give the captain open invitation to entertain on the grand scale in his absence. Not even under normal circumstances. And certainly not if he was carrying dope.
He paused. Then it wasn’t dope. Or else someone wanted someone to find it.
And if so that someone would open it.
Which must suggest that the drug might act without even being swallowed.
He remembered how he had often used drugs in his own work. The fine white powder! Could it be inhaled? And if so had they sniffed any? Or any dose which mattered?
He made up his mind. ‘Out, honey. And keep a damp pad at your mouth till I get this back into the box. It’ll blow about a bit while I’m easing it in. So stick a damp scarf round my own mouth as well before we start. Later it goes to London, if not before. So move, li’l brown girl.’
And then he remembered! At least one of Ferguson’s new drugs gave people a sense of euphoria. They felt uplifted and fit for anything. One part of him was now studying himself with objective neutrality while the other was saying that he was now the bestest, the biggest and most important thing ever to have hit St. Thomas.
For a few important moments the clinical part won and he diagnosed a measure of excitement within himself which was not normal. He also knew that it could have come only from the white powder, and that unless steps were taken to prevent him he would have another dose. The stuff made champagne feel like vinegar with soda. ‘Out, honey,’ he snapped. ‘But keep me from doing anything stupid. I’ve sniffed some of that powder. Maybe so have you. Better call Harry if you begin to feel different. We’ve got to watch the step, and this may need more than will power.’
The girl had watched him half in surprise. And then the importance of what he was saying hit her. She leapt back to the bathroom, bound a sponge over her nose and mouth with a damp head scarf and returned slowly back to Grant taking care not to make even a whiff of draught, and she tied a long cummerbund round his head, placed a face cloth over his mouth and bound it in place with a dry conforming bandage picked from the first aid box.
‘Easy,’ she said throatily. ‘Easy, man. Krystelle was sitting further away from it than you and she’s okay for now. Jes’ get it back in the bottle. But easy, boy. Very, very easy. Real cool, man. Cool all the way.’
Grant tipped the last grains into the box, screwed the two halves together and handed over the container. ‘Take it back to Harry. But on no account let anyone open it. And tell him to shoot it off to Paris even if he’s got to take it himself . . .’
Krystelle watched him open the windows and wipe up the last traces of powder with his pocket handkerchief. She dropped the egg of metal into her bra and smiled as he washed the table surface and burned the sheet of paper on to which he had emptied the drug.
‘Now the balcony, honey,’ he said. ‘And watch it. See I behave. I’m sure this stuff kicks. And I’m sure as Hell that I’ve got a dose which is beginning to show.’
Krystelle follow him to the balcony. It was on the top floor and more private than most. Even so it was an idea still to keep voices down. ‘Antidote. Any ideas?’
Grant was light-headed but forcing himself to try and think. The world was still a great place, and the girl beside him a piece of real home work for a change. He knew they had met somewhere before, but it was difficult to fix and didn’t matter one solitary teetotal dime. What did matter was that she had a come hither eye and was giving him an inviting tic-tac.
Krystelle moved as he lifted his hand in a clumsy gesture and then, with perfect precision, flashed open a cigarette lighter. The puff of vapour was almost noiseless and as Grant slumped forwards towards the rush matting on the floor she broke his fall, easing him on to a low deck chair. Her orders were clear. He was to be kept out of mischief, and Grant wasn’t the only one to carry gas guns.
She guessed that she herself had simply been lucky. But there had to be a reason and she wondered why as she returned to the room and looked for evidence. She again flashed her lighter using its normal release mechanism and the flame rose steadily before her as she placed it in front of the chair on which Grant had been sitting. And then she smiled. It was only accident that had saved her from near disaster. The flame was now burning at 45 degrees to horizontal against a draught from both windows and air-conditioning vents. Sure, she knew that the windows ought to have been closed when air-conditioning was on, but both she and David preferred fresh air from outside.
And then she lit a cigarette. David would be angry about this. He would feel that he had been beaten by a woman and he would want to do something. He wouldn’t fancy the way she had knocked him cold with the gas gun. That is—if he remembered! And he wouldn’t like the way she had escaped the drug. He might even begin to wonder if it had all been an ac
cident. In fact! She smiled again as she lifted the phone. It began to seem as though she would have to take a dose of gas herself and join him. They could waken up together and if he surfaced first he would feel just great at getting the chance to play Sir Galahad to the unconscious lady. But above all his ego would be safe. David had taken too many hard knocks lately and it might be good for everyone if he felt that this had been shared with everyone around.
She was connected with Harry’s room in less than five seconds, which meant that there was no monitoring activity. But the code she was using would baffle even David’s people if ever they got on to it. Codes were really private things. And to work they had to be really efficient things. So this was both private and efficient.
She giggled slightly as she heard a familiar voice, and then, speaking slowly, issued instructions.
She giggled only because she knew that no one could ever understand classical Greek with each word spoken as though spelled backwards and starting at the end of every sentence. Especially when only every second sentence was in reverse Greek and the others were in French Guiana patois—but also pronounced backwards.
Harry spoke only one. ‘Scram.’
It was an odd word, both final and down to earth. And she liked it. Only she knew that it meant ‘message received, understood and will be acted upon right away.’
She joined Grant again on the balcony. His colour was good and he was sleeping peacefully. Harry had no time for elaborate schemes and always preferred direct action. She knew that he would simply walk into the room leaving Frank somewhere to cover his rear. And she knew that he would arrive only when he was certain that no one had seen him.
She stubbed out her cigarette. Her ears were cocked for the slightest sound, but not even she heard the door open, and Harry was half way across the room before she marked him. She lifted a hand and gave him her bag. ‘Smallest dose, Harry. And get the egg to Paris. Professor Juin. In my bra.’ The words were mouthed and Harry lip-read. She then made herself comfortable while he opened her pochette and aimed the cigarette lighter. ‘Ready?’
She nodded and drew a deep breath as Harry flicked her lighter open. She saw the tiny spurt of gas shoot towards her, and then she passed out.
Harry slipped his hand inside her bra and lifted out the metal egg. Krystelle would be out of circulation for just on fifty minutes but would waken none the worse, and the dose had been calculated only after experiments back home. But until she was back in the field Harry estimated that life would be less tense-making if Frank stayed on guard. And fifty minutes was about the time he would need to fix an Inter-Island flight to an international airport, or a trip to Paris via Miami. This was a job he would do himself. And Frank could keep tabs on this end while he was away.
He glanced at his watch. Frank would be waiting signal in another fifteen seconds. He then pressed the glass of his time-piece and sent out a low frequency wave which registered on the pick-up built into Frank’s tie pin.
It was the ‘ready and waiting if you are.’
He listened intently and heard the muted sound of a buzz coming from his own sunspectacles. His own receiver was built into the thick broad frame just near where one limb fused with the eye piece, and it worked perfectly up to five hundred metres. A message in morse rasped beside his ear. ‘Move now.’
He opened the door and stepped into the corridor. Twenty seconds later he was walking with deceptive speed down the stairway as Frank ambled into the elevator. The room would be lacking cover for less than one minute and Harry knew that Frank would take up position in a dressing room from where he could get out by one of two doors immediately Grant began to surface.
He glanced at a clock in reception. Daiquiri time! Eleven hours precisely. Early enough for just one quickie before getting on to Pan Am or Inter-Island. At this season given any luck there would be seats on almost every flight.
He thought of his own girl upstairs, and then shrugged his shoulders philosophically, She didn’t like guitar music. More important she didn’t like his guitar music. And though she was better than most of her kind Harry liked even his women to be that bit better than most. Though this one from Haiti was okay for kicks. But it was a pity she didn’t appreciate his music.
He drawled an order and brooded. To send her flowers and pay her room check or not? Was she worth it? Her skin was black as coal, but with a sheen like black opal. And her eyes danced like fire. She was fantastique at ball games and her laugh was infectious.
He scribbled a note. ‘Stay here till I come back. Maybe two days. And don’t drink more than fifteen dollars worth a day.’ He added a postscript. ‘Wear that petunia-coloured two-piece shortie next time we go swimming, and press my shirts for when I get back.’ He put it in an envelope along with a cheque for fifty dollars and gave it to a bell hop.
It was good to go away knowing there was something worth while waiting when you got back. And come to think of it there weren’t many blacks so very black. Or many real jet black so very alluring. Maybe the girl had it after all! And she would keep his bed warm till after the Miami-London-Miami-St. Thomas circuit. Which would keep him on his toes, because that egg thing was more sinister than it looked.
And he prided himself that he had an instinct for trouble.
His only comfort was that he knew how to deal with it.
Usually!
Chapter Six – ‘Sharks were messy eaters’
Frank sauntered along the alley into Grant’s room. He had passed only one small bell boy and an overwieght mammie who was dusting window ledges. Neither showed interest and no one saw him leave the corridor.
Grant was still asleep, with Krystelle unconscious beside him, and Frank looked at his sister with more than brotherly admiration.
On balance he liked Grant. At times his arrogance could be annoying. But taking everything into consideration he wasn’t too bad. And it was for sure a fact that he operated using ice cold nerves. Frank had always rated Harry high as a nerveless wonder when action broke, but even Harry admitted that Grant had the edge when it came to fast thinking, quick action or double bluff.
Harry and Grant got along because they had so much in common. They liked music. Which left Frank cold. Grant seemed genuinely to think that Harry really was a maestro with the guitar, although at first he had thought it a gambit to win Harry’s friendship. Now he knew that Grant’s admiration was sincere. And Grant was still another of that rare élite which could do without friendship. Which was probably why he had been admitted to a tight circle of types who normally fought on the other side of the law. They were all beyond the pale. Which made it easier for them to fraternise. And although neither he nor Harry liked strangers they had both found it easy enough to string along with Grant. Even although, during their first days at least, they had tried only to please his sister. Because Krystelle had fallen hard for Grant.
He stifled desire to light a cigarette. Smoke numbed the senses. And the first visitor to arrive—if any did come—might well give himself away with a whiff of tobacco. Krystelle and Harry had been emphatic that this had to be a hand played close to the chest. Grant must never find out what part Krystelle had played in knocking him out. Or the parts he and Harry were playing as watchdogs, which a whiff of weed might well do.
Though what the Hell it was all about he would have to wait and see. Harry had only advised him that they were operating on what the Organisation called plan 5 and that was about all he knew. Though plan 5 was plenty in itself. Say nothing. Do nothing. Let others contact you. Use the Greek reverse code—which meant a stricken lot of work with dictionaries before being able to phrase even the most simple sentence. And use of a mini-tape to record messages which could later be read off in correct order of letters for translation. All in all it was a bloody awful plan! But at least fool proof, and with only one snag. Doing nothing was the hardest thing for any man alive with his character and impulses.
He eased himself on the lug chair which he had lifted into a dressing
room. The place had two doors communicating with both bedroom and sitting room. So he had two lines of retreat. And from where he was sitting he could see Grant’s head lolling back against the cushion. The man was breathing deeply, snoring at times when his jaw sagged open, and sometimes twitching restlessly as though because of some nightmare dream. Krystelle, on the other hand, was more beautiful than ever in repose and Frank knew that she would waken refreshed after a dose of dope which did little more than induce a sound, deep sleep for around an hour.
He glanced from the window towards the town below. A taxi was drawing away, and he got a glimpse of Harry sitting at ease in the back. There was one smallish, light-weight suitcase beside the driver. Which meant that he was organised for only a short trip. Though why he had to go to Paris was still one more piece of the mystery which waited explanation.
He remembered the previous night. It had been quite a party in bits. Especially their visit to that yacht which was a craft beyond even Harry’s pocket. At least eleven crew members and a passenger list of around twenty when she was travelling to capacity!
He remembered the egg-shaped thing which Harry had lifted from the gunn’l. It was an open question if he had been seen or not. Harry said no but Frank felt that a deck-hand had spotted him and that might or might not be important. If it had been a plant someone must have marked them from the second they left the ship until—right now.
He stiffened slightly. Right now!
Was he being watched?
He hated working blind, and there hadn’t been time for Harry to wise him up. While Krystelle just hadn’t had time either. She, too, had had a busy night and Grant of course was out of circulation. Even the telephone must be banned for him.
But the tingling feeling persisted.
He was like a wild animal who sensed danger before it appeared. The place was sick with tension. And it wasn’t imagination. He cautiously eased his jacket and reached for the arm-pit holster which he was carrying. He was fast on the draw but liked the gun better when it was in his pocket. Holsters were sometimes clumsy. Even the best makes left a lot to be desired and this one was a shade heavy. The slings weren’t comfortable and bagged his light-weight suiting.
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