by Philip Wylie
She was nervous. They were all nervous. For, if their illicit conveyers found themselves watched, or if they became suspicious in any fashion, the aliens would not be smuggled into the United States. They would die. They knew it—or feared it.
The girl welcomed his talk. She asked questions about life in America. Was hailing a taxi the same as in France? Eating in a restaurant?
He explained the various restaurant check systems. He told her about cafeterias.
Her compact and lipstick were in the chair at her side. He made a half dozen furtive stabs at stealing the former before he got it. He put it in the pocket of the borrowed slacks he was still wearing. By and by he grimaced. “My finger. I will soak it again.”
He transferred half of her powder to a folded sheet of writing paper which he had prepared. Then he came back. She hadn’t missed the compact and she did not see him replace it. He went back to his work.
Time crawled. It was growing more and more difficult to keep his mind on the history of the Maroon Gang. He thought of Bedelia and the thought stiffened his will.
Shortly after midnight, the door was opened. There were several men in the murky hall—among them, Chuck. They carried two lanterns.
“Everybody get set! Five minutes!”
Frantically, they rummaged for the last time through their treasures. The old man stuffed photographs into a pocket. The girl went into the adjoining room and the nameless man followed next. It was a better chance than the professor had hoped for; he slipped in the room.
The man struck a match and walked toward the candle.
The professor bent down and slid his hand along the floor. He found the rusty wrench that he had decided was the best available weapon. He did not know how hard to hit.
The candle was lighting. The professor struck. The man made no sound, but he shook from head to foot and kept standing.
He struck again. The man’s scalp began to bleed. He sagged. The professor caught him.
He moved swiftly now. He shut the door. He picked up the hidden tumbler of diluted iodine and poured some of it over his face. He dried it with a filthy towel and peered into the mirror. His skin was dark, now—Indian dark. He washed his hands in the rest of the solution and wiped them. They were dark, also. He took the paper of powder from his pocket and sprinkled it in his hair. He rubbed his hair furiously and combed it with his fingers. It looked grey rather than hemp-colored, like that of the man on the floor.
He bent over the man. There was nothing in his trousers pockets. The professor stripped off his coat, donned it, and dragged the man to a dark corner. He was breathing; the professor took time to listen for that.
Now he strode to the candle and blew it out.
He opened the door a crack. They were talking—even laughing—laughing with a creepy, hysterical sound.
The outer door was unlocked once more.
“All right, you! Come ahead!”
The professor walked boldly into the room and across it. The girl had gone first—
the old man and Franz were right behind her. He joined them.
“Where’s the other one?” Franz asked. “Weren’t you both … ?”
The professor gathered himself. This was the first of an unknowable number of crises. “He said—he was not to come with us.” He had made his voice low like the voice of the unconscious man.
Chuck spoke. “The professor’s staying,” he agreed. He slammed the door and turned the big key.
They went down the turning staircase and through the patio with the huge trees.
Into the street—walking together—with men ahead and men behind.
Light hair, dark skin, the same height, though the Russian—if he was one—was Broader. Smelling of a woman’s face powder and iodine. Unfortunate, but inevitable. He would see. They crossed streets, turned corners, passed the old buildings, the shops closed for the holidays, the radio behind the ancient walls. They left the small town for the soft road. A warm night-very warm for Christmas, even in Cuba. Still and starlit.
Trees closed above the road. A dull flashlight prodded the jungle, up ahead: Presently, it touched the open door of the plane. When the French-speaking girl realized what the weighted handcuffs meant, she screamed. Someone put a hand over her mouth.
One by one, they went aboard, clanking a little.
The professor recognized Johnny’s silhouette in the murky cabin. Better than Chuck, he thought.
He need not have worried. Johnny used his flashlight only to tie them to their seats. He sat down in their rear. “Any fuss, and you are tossed out. Okay, Chuck!”
The quiet engines started. The plane taxied and lifted. All the long way, nothing was said.
The professor listened—listened for the crackle of static and the flat voice of the Miami Marine Operator. Listened for some amiable discussion with a fishing boat which might convey to the men in the plane that one of their passengers was an impostor. It did not come.
The plane descended. The professor expected the two men to jump overboard and begin pushing. But Chuck taxied the plane or some distance. Then there came a feeling of coasting and a gentle arrestation. Hands had gripped the wings. Johnny opened the door.
The next crisis was at hand.
They were herded ashore. The handcuffs were unlocked and the weights removed.
The girl wept quietly.
It was, as far as the professor could make out, a lake, of some size, with a grassy shore and trees behind the grass. A small dock. Lanterns. The same man who had driven down to the Keys on the night before—husky, with patent-leather hair. Solo, they had called him.
They were walked along the dock, to the trees. A car stood there, a car different from the black sedan. In the lantern light he saw it was greenish. Big.
“The old bird and the girl can sit in back with Cliff,” Solo said. “You two-in the trunk.”
The rear compartment lid yawned. Franz climbed in. The professor followed. Solo said, “Duck.” They ducked—and the lid came down.
The road was atrocious. They banged into each other. The floor came up and struck them. They slid about. A better road came, finally. They lay still, panting. The tires whirred. The car was going fast.
Another eternity passed.
The car stopped, waited, and started. Traffic began to stir and horns to blow around them. They were getting into Miami.
Finally, the smooth pavement gave way to another rough ride—very short. Once more, the car stopped.
This time, the rear compartment was opened.
There was no light. Stars overhead—treetops—underbrush. “All right, you guys. Get up!”
Franz and the professor painfully climbed over the bumper. The girl and the old man were gone.
Solo did not bother to use his flashlight.
“Listen. You both understand English.”
“Very well,” Franz said. The professor grunted.
“Oke. Now, get this. You’re on a street that leads to a main highway. When we leave—start moving. Separate before you get to the highway. If the cops ever pick you up--you don’t know anything about who got you here—or how. See? Not that you know much. But one of you tell anything, and we’ve got an organization that can make you regret it, wherever you are.” He turned, “Let’s go, Cliff.”
The big green car drove away. The delivery was completed. “Comfortable trip!”
Franz murmured. “Shall we go?” He laughed a little. “I am a free American citizen!
Living with my retired father, I knew you were one of the Soviet lice, the day you came in there.”
“It is a poor time for that argument,” the professor said. The highway appeared ahead of them. Occasional cars, busses, street lights. He was home again. And alive.
Chapter XV
Franz went out on the highway first. He had dusted off his clothing and made himself presentable. He walked to a painted lamp post and waited. The professor watched him board a bus.
He had recognized hi
s surroundings: Brickell Avenue—about a mile from the business district.
He did not have bus fare. He had no plans. He began walking. Nobody seemed to be following. Nobody much seemed to be on the street. Christmas Night, he thought.
A police cruise car passed.
He had an impulse to yell at it.
Then what? The Station. Questioning. Delay. Doubts. More waiting for higher authority, perhaps. Christmas Night—and higher authority unwilling to leave festivities.
He was without any proof of his story. They might even think he was crazy—iodine on his face—powder in his hair. And there was Bedelia.
He stepped into the gutter and thumbed. The cars swished past—on their way home from late evenings in the night clubs, from parties in homes, from pleasure and safety and an innocence of the world. Then a car stopped. A dark face leaned out and a soft voice said, “Ride, friend?”
They were colored people on their way to Coconut Grove. “Drop you anywhere, mister,” the driver offered.
The women in the back seat said nothing.
He picked the closest point on their route and walked from there. Coral Gables was mostly asleep. It was late for the Gables, even on that day. He left the sidewalks of West Cortez Circle at the distance of several houses and went through back yards. They might, by now, be expecting him.
There was a light in Bedelia’s home.
He stood in the shadows of their neighbor’s garage and looked—not daring to hope that Bedelia was there, fearing to investigate. His feelings overcame his judgment. He was about halfway through her leafy yard when a man stepped in front of him. A man with a gun. “What do you want, bud?”
“I—I live here.” The professor hated himself.
“Yeah? You Burke?”
“I’m Burke.”
“Come along.” The man followed the professor to the porch. He knocked. After a while Bedelia called, “Yes? What is it?”
“Guy here says he’s this Burke. I got him covered.”
He heard the downstairs couch creak. He heard her big, boney feet cantering in the hall. The porch light switched on. “Martin! Thank heaven!” They embraced.
She addressed the man with the gun. “Thank you, Dusty. Keep a sharp eye out for anybody else.”
“Okay, Miss Ogilvy.” The night ate him.
She hurried the professor into the kitchen. “What on earth have you done to yourself?”
“It’s a long story,” he said, grinning at her fondly. “Who’s your guard?”
“That’s a story, too.”
He sat down at the familiar enamel-topped table. “They told me, in Cuba, that they’d caught you. Well—not exactly. That they’d gone after you.”
She was staring. “Cuba!”
“I’ve been over the whole route,” he answered. “Is the coffee hot?”
“It’s been hot—pretty steadily, since early Christmas morning, Martin.” Her spectacles misted up and she polished them on the hem of her kimono.
“I’m not sure we’re safe—even with that guard.”
“We’ve got three of them,” she answered.
“Three! What are they? Private detectives?”
“My story will keep.”
“And mine will take a long time. I need to know about the guards.”
She looked at him—at his powdered hair, his face and hands, yellow-brown from the diluted iodine, and at his unfamiliar garments. She sighed.
“Just to reassure you, Martin. And I hope I did right.” She poured coffee in her two largest cups. “I didn’t expect you till some time in the morning. By ten o’clock, when no word came, I began to worry. You’d had time to drive back—after sunrise. It was possible, of course, that you were on to something that prevented your return or even making a phone call. But it was also possible that they’d caught you at it.”
His eyes were grim—and the odd color of his face emphasized the fact. “They did.”
“Oh, Martin… !”
“Take it easy, Bedelia. I’m right here, now.”
“Well. I reasoned that if they had caught you, they might be after me. Correct, wasn’t it? I closed up the house. But first I put hairs across several doors, with Scotch tape. My mother did it to jam closets. Then I went to the Duffys for Christmas dinner. I came back with them—the whole family—to show them our Tree. I felt nobody would bother two carloads of people and nobody did. But the hairs on the doors were broken, so I knew they had been here. When the Duffys left, I also went.
“I couldn’t think what to do. I wanted to be at home—in case you arrived—and I was afraid to be there alone. I couldn’t call the police—”
“You should have!”
Bedelia looked at him. “Then—why aren’t you?”
“Go on.”
“I felt I couldn’t because you might return and it might be premature. Finally, in the late afternoon, I got hold of Mr. Sanders. I told him that you had gone looking into something and weren’t back. I told him my house had been searched and I was worried about staying there. I asked if he could possibly send me a man or two to stand watch. He was delighted to help out.”
“Good heavens!”
“He did ask me what you were doing—and I said I had no idea. I think he finally concluded that I was an over-nervous woman. But he sent three dandy men. They arrived—at Laura’s, where I was then—around five. I came over here with them and that’s all. Now you talk!”
At the conclusion of a story that left Bedelia numb, he looked at the telephone. “I suppose I must call the police, or the F.B.I., or both of them—now. And yet I hate to.
What I have found out will cause the arrest of a lot of underlings. French Paul and that detestable Wilser and a hundred more will probably get out of it. The whole, hideous thing should be untangled quietly for a while. And I’m absolutely exhausted. I don’t know how I can even go to police headquarters—or any place-and answer hours of questions.”
“I wouldn’t, then. I’d go right upstairs and get a good night’s sleep. Morning’s sleep. Then you can go to the head of the F.B.I. Right now, there wouldn’t be anybody on duty but a clerk of some sort. A minor person. And the police—from what Double-O says—aren’t to be relied on entirely. You might be giving information to one of them who would pass it straight to the Maroon people.”
He thought about it. “I believe you’re right, Bedelia.”
“I’m sure of it! Anyone who tried to come in here after us tonight would get hurt!”
He lowered himself into his tub. He was bruised, scratched, strained-sore from head to foot. He scrubbed at his hands and face without much success. He nearly fell asleep.
The trousers of Franz Wasser and the jacket of the nameless man lay on a chair in his bedroom. He picked them up, sat tiredly on his bed, and examined them. No labels.
The customers of the Maroon Gang were careful about labels. The jacket was rather thick. He squeezed it—and went to his bureau for scissors. He ripped the lining. Inside was a second, double lining of black cloth. Stitched in sections were ten one thousand dollar bills and many hundred dollar bills. The professor was becoming accustomed to such sums. He started to the stairway door to call Bedelia. He decided the fact would wait till they had slept. He tossed the jacket with the stitched-in money onto a chair. His bed creaked just once.
In a little-patronized, old-fashioned hotel in the coastal town of Vellehomez, in Cuba, the owner of the coat—the nameless man—came into a numb consciousness about an hour after a plane had quietly taken off.
The man’s head hurt. He reached out and felt walls. One wall was cold and smooth. He remembered the antique tub. He remembered everything, then.
His coat was gone. That fact filled him with fury. The plane for America would be gone too. He got to his feet and found the door.
The kerosene lamps were still burning in the big room. No one was there.
Abandoned luggage lay about.
He walked over to the larger table and took mat
ches back to the bathroom. He lighted the candle. He looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was sticky. He started to wash. Then he noticed the diluted iodine spilled on the dirty, cracked sink—and the face powder on the floor.
He peered at his own face for a moment, and thought about the last one to arrive: Burke-the man who had spent most of the day scribbling something which their guards had taken away, every few hours. Burke—whoever he was—had dark hair and a light skin.
Iodine and powder would reverse those characteristics. They were the same height and build.
The nameless man knew what had happened—although not why. The other, whom he had estimated to be something of a fool, had gone in his place. His rage increased.
Without the money, without the coat and its lining, his arrival in America would be a mistake. He would have to return, now, to Havana—and explain to Borston. Borston would be enraged. Moscow would be bitter.
To live his life—to put behind his career—and then to be slugged by a mild-looking capitalist imbecile!
He combed his hair without a grimace. He went into the big room and sat. He waited; he could wait.
The guards who came were unfamiliar. Two of them. Slight men and tipsy. It was Christmas Night, the nameless man reflected. Bourgeois sentimentalists.
He asked, in Spanish, for their chief.
“He has gone home to his wife—his children—long since, Professor.”
“Well, I must leave. My plans are changed. I will not wait for the next trip.”
“Leave, Professor?” They laughed.
He decided that it would be futile to try to explain the substitution to them. And he understood why Burke had impersonated him. They picked up the last few sheets that Burke had written. The nameless man wished he had read them.
He watched for an opportunity—and lunged.
He had overestimated his own condition and the drunkenness of the guards. One shouted and the other stepped aside. A knife flashed. The man without a name sank slowly to his knees and fell suddenly on his face.
“Idiot!” said one of the Latins.
“He would have killed me!”
“We must get word to Julio. He will be like a whip!”