Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “Sit down,” Kurt said.

  The chunky red-faced man drew a chair to the table and seated himself.

  “You know the man?” Kurt asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You are sure?”

  “I am positive. I have studied his pictures. I have a complete physical description of him. There can be no chance of a mistake.”

  “Excellent. He must not leave the Ventura alive.”

  “Everything has been arranged,” the red-faced man said stolidly.

  “How long have you been a steward on the Ventura?” Kurt asked the man suddenly.

  “Three years,” the man answered. “But this is my last trip. It is no longer safe.”

  “This is the most important trip you will ever make,” Kurt said slowly. “Remember that. And remember too, not to indicate by so much as a raised eyebrow that you have ever seen me or my ‘sister’ before, when we come on the boat. This man is no fool. We can take no chances. Do not speak to us. Do not look at us. Do nothing to invite suspicion.”

  “I understand my job,” the red-faced man said impassively.

  “Good. Now, leave us. Good luck to you.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  The man stood up and the pale light of the cafe threw a silvery edge on the long scar on his chin. His blue eyes were coldly expressionless as he bowed formally and left.

  Maria shuddered slightly as the door closed.

  “Cold, my dear?” Kurt asked.

  Maria finished her drink quickly and set the glass down.

  “No. It was that man. He—he is a killer.”

  Kurt von Wessel looked at her for an instant with a thoughtful expression on his face. Finally he smiled ironically and his soft blue eyes were amused.

  “Precisely, my dear,” he said.

  CHAPTER III

  An “Accident”

  ON the passenger deck of the South American Steamship Ventura, Jo Matthews leaned against the railing and gazed out at the scene of crowded activity on the dock below.

  Passengers, stevedores, inspectors, ship stewards hustled back and forth in the shouting commotion, brushing past lines of well-wishers gathered to bid bon voyage to departing friends and relatives.

  Thronging up the gangplank, singly and in groups of four and five, other passengers, late arrivals and their retinues of well-wishing friends, came noisily aboard.

  There were uniformed men, in naval and army attire—some whose high rank was indicated by the gold and silver braid that bedecked them—also dotting the embarking swarms in more profusion than Jo had seen since war began.

  Nervously, now, Jo glanced at her watch.

  “Twenty of four,” she murmured anxiously. “Oh, I do hope the lanky lout will remember he’s a boat to catch.”

  “You are waiting for someone, Senorita?”

  The voice, low, polite and definitely Latin came to Jo’s ears suddenly, causing her to turn sharply in surprise.

  A tall, olive-complexioned, smiling young man with wavy dark hair faced her.

  Jo raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, really,” she began.

  The tall young Latin grinned in a manner meant to be apologetically friendly. There was something assuringly nice about the twinkle in his brown eyes.

  “I do not intend to intrude, Senorita.

  Especially if I am unwelcome. Excuse me, if you feel I have affronted you.” He was still grinning.

  In spite of herself, Jo smiled.

  “My name, Senorita,” the Latin declared, “is Carlos Benevedas.”

  “And mine,” said Jo, “is Jo Matthews. I’m glad to meet you, Senor Benevedas, even though this is slightly out of my usual insistence on formal introductions.”

  Carlos Benevedas laughed.

  “It is so, Senorita. I knew it instantly I spoke. But permit me to assure you that this is a usual fashion of introduction aboard shipboard. People are never so rigidly formal at sea, especially when bound for South American ports.”

  “I needn’t be bright,” Jo smiled, “to hazard, then, that you are South American?”

  Benevedas’ white teeth flashed in another smile.

  “More exactly, I am Peruvian. We in South America are often touchy about being so generally classed.”

  “You are returning home?” Jo asked.

  Carlos Benevedas nodded.

  “After a short stay in your most delightful country.”

  “I’m glad you like it here,” Jo said. And then she added: “I hope most of you feel the same about this country.”

  “I am sure your country will be publicly assured of that fact within the next several weeks,” Benevadas replied.

  “You mean the South American Solidarity movement, of course?” Jo asked.

  The young Peruvian nodded.

  “Precisely.”

  “That’s reassuring,” said Jo. “I’d like to pass that information on to our State Department.”

  BENEVADAS laughed appreciatively.

  “But tell me, Senorita,” he said after a moment, “you are waiting for someone, are you not? I know I noticed you glancing at your watch with much anxiety. Perhaps a fellow passenger?”

  “An excellent guess, Senor,” Jo said. “I’m just praying that my boss, who has one of the most fuzzy memories of any man on earth, won’t forget he has a sailing appointment.”

  “You are going to South America on business?” Benevedas asked.

  “Yes,” Jo nodded. “This is my first long trip, and I’m still dizzy from the thought of it. We’re going to your native Peru. My employer, Allan Curtis, is an archaeological curator and part-time explorer.”

  “Curtis, Curtis?” Carlos Benevedas put a slim finger to his cheek in recollection. “I do believe I have heard of Professor Curtis.”

  “Quite possibly,” Jo said with unconscious pride. “He has done some of the most notable discovery work on Inca ruins. He’s extremely well known in his field.”

  “But of course!” Carlos Benevedas exclaimed. “My father—he is in the Peruvian Department of State—once gave a banquet in Lima to honor several noted American archaeologists who were working in our country. I believe your Professor Curtis was one of them.” They both grinned in the warm enthusiasm of those who have found mutual friends.

  “Then Professor Curtis must be planning another such expedition?” Carlos Benevedas asked.

  Jo nodded.

  “And he moved heaven and high water, as a favor to his long-suffering secretary, to get permission from the museum people for me to go along.”

  “It will be an experience you shall never forget,” the young Latin promised her. “My country is beautiful beyond imagination. And the interior—you will see much of that I presume—offers such splendor as few men have ever seen.”

  “It sounds thrilling,” Jo declared. “Will it be dangerous?”

  Benevedas shook his head.

  “Not so dangerous that your life would be risked in such an expedition. And with the famed Professor Curtis, who knows our deepest jungles the way an ordinary man knows his own back yard, the expedition would be foolproof. No, it will not be dangerous.”

  “I’m slightly disappointed,” she declared. “Allan isn’t very imaginative, but I had a hunch when he told me something about the expedition, and others he’d been on before, that I might get a chance to see something exciting.” Benevedas laughed.

  “Exciting things you will see,” he promised. “But danger, I am sure, Professor Curtis will keep from you.”

  THE trip should be exciting,” Jo said. “The menace of submarines is supposed to be frightful.”

  Benevedas nodded soberly.

  “Yes, the menace is all you say. But I will warrant that this ship will be more than well protected. Besides, the submarine devils are more concerned with ships carrying valuable cargo than they are passenger vessels. The small cargo this vessel carries would not be worth the price of a torpedo.”

  “Are the submarines so well informed as to c
argo values and sailing schedules?” Jo asked.

  Benevedas waved his hand expressively.

  “Senorita, when you have seen as much espionage at work as I have in my own native land, nothing the enemy learns would surprise you. Yes, it is unfortunate that leakages of information very often occur. But I do not think we have too much to fear for the safe journey of this ship.”

  Jo suddenly looked down at her watch. It was ten minutes to four. She looked anxiously down at the dock.

  “Do not fear, Senorita,” said Benevedas, “a competent man never hurries. Your Senor Curtis should arrive at any moment.”

  And then Jo saw the familiar brown fedora of the lanky Allan Curtis bobbing through the crowds on the dockside. Beside him moved several porters with his luggage.

  “There he is,” Jo cried in relief.

  Benevedas smiled.

  “I told you not to be alarmed,” he said. Then: “Would you mind if I waited with you to meet Professor Curtis?”

  Jo looked at the tropical handsomeness of Carlos Benevedas, his extravagantly-tailored American attire. She grinned. If anything could bring a twinge to Allan Curtis, it would be the well-meaning attentions of a handsome Latin.

  “Not at all,” Jo said. “I’m sure Allan would love to meet you.”

  Then Curtis was coming up the gangplank, porters still carrying his grips behind him. He saw Jo, and his generous mouth and long face crinkled in a grin of salute. His eyes, behind the thick horn rims of his glasses, matched the friendly crinkle of his smile.

  Jo moved over to the front of the gangplank. Carlos Benevedas was at her side.

  “You kept me in terrible suspense,” Jo smiled, as Curtis came up to them.

  Curtis grinned.

  “The best thing to do with a lady,” he answered.

  “Did you read that out of a book, too?” Jo demanded.

  CURTIS saw Benevedas, then, and looked questioningly at him.

  Jo turned slightly.

  “Allan, this is Señor Carlos Benevedas, he’s a Peruvian returning to his beloved country. Senor Benevedas, Mr. Allan Curtis.”

  “I am charmed,” Benevedas flashed a white grin.

  “Glad to meet you,” Curtis declared, shaking hands warmly. “You aren’t related by any chance to Alvardo Benevedas, the Peruvian statesman?”

  “He is my father,” Benevedas said proudly. “I was telling Senorita Matthews, just a moment ago, that I recall my father once having had you and another American explorer as his guests at a banquet in Lima.”

  “Right you are,” Curtis grinned warmly. “A distinguished and brilliant man, your father.”

  “Muy, muy gracias, Señor,” Benevedas smiled, flattered.

  A uniformed steward suddenly appeared at Curtis’ elbow. He was a short, chunky, red-faced man. His blond hair was closely cropped, it was apparent even though he wore his uniform cap, and there was a thin scar cleaving the jaw line on the left side of his face.

  The steward’s small, cold-blue eyes studied Curtis inquisitively an instant before he spoke.

  “You are Mr. Allan Curtis?” he asked.

  Curtis nodded.

  “That’s correct.”

  “If you will pardon the inconvenience, sir, I wish you would have your porters take your luggage over there,” he indicated an open space of deck close to the yawning cargo hatches into which loading cranes were yet dropping crates, “for a last minute inspection.”

  Curtis frowned.

  “Isn’t that rather irregular? Can’t you go through my stuff in my stateroom?”

  The steward smiled.

  “I am sorry, sir, and I realize it is somewhat irregular. But there was an anonymous report turned in, undoubtedly a crank call, to the effect that contraband material has been smuggled aboard ship. We were told to check the luggage of any male passengers arriving within ten minutes of sailing time. You are the only one to arrive within that time so far. It is troublesome, but you must understand our necessity to check on any and all such reports in times such as these.”

  “Very well,” Curtis said. He turned to his porters. “Follow the steward with the baggage. Put it where he tells you.”

  “I’d prefer you to be with me during the inspection,” the steward smiled. “It will be the one courtesy I can extend.”

  Curtis nodded, following after the porters and the steward. At the place he’d indicated previously, the steward had the porters drop the luggage. They left, then, and Curtis watched the chunky fellow begin his inspection of the bags.

  ABOVE them, huge loading cranes still swung large packing crates up from the dock, over the deck, and lowered them into the yawning cargo hold.

  Curiously, Curtis continued to watch the steward as he opened the first bag. Then the steward suddenly straightened erect. He smiled at Curtis.

  “If you will excuse me an instant, sir,” he said above the noise of the loading crane winches.

  Curtis nodded, and the steward moved off toward a deck cabin door. He turned, as the fellow disappeared inside, and looked back to where Jo still stood talking to Carlos Benevedas.

  Jo caught his eye, that instant, and smilingly said something. Curtis didn’t hear it, due to the noise of the winches.

  He frowned, moving slightly toward her, cupping his hand to his ear half humorously.

  Jo started to repeat what she’d said, raising her voice, and Curtis took four more steps toward her, when he noticed that her words were suddenly frozen in a sharp exclamation of terror.

  Bewildered, Curtis started toward her.

  It was then that the huge packing case, loaded with small machinery parts, slipped from the loading crane and crashed loudly to the deck, a scant ten feet behind him.

  Curtis wheeled, saw the broken case coverings, the scattered iron parts. The complete wreckage of his luggage. The case had fallen exactly on the spot where he’d been standing less than four seconds ago.

  Something chill swept the spine of Allan Curtis as he stood there in horrified astonishment, gazing at the shattered packing case that might easily have crushed him lifeless to the deck.

  His luggage, buried beneath the parts of the broken case, was almost unrecognizable. But as Curtis ran his tongue momentarily over suddenly dry lips, he realized that he’d made a life-saving trade.

  WHEN Jo was at his side, eyes wide with terror and relief, and Benevedas was behind her, his face white in horrified shock. Others who’d been moving around the deck were now crowding around, babbling in shrill excitement.

  “Oh, thank God, Allan, thank God!” Jo said again and again.

  “What good fortune, Senor,” Benevedas exclaimed in relief and astonishment.

  “It’s all right,” Curtis found himself saying calmly. “What might have been a fatal accident was fortunately avoided. That’s all that matters. I can replace the luggage.”

  Then the steward, wide-eyed and crimson with surprise, was before him, apologizing profusely, begging to be of any possible service, assuring him of replacement of all baggage.

  “It was terrible, sir. Ghastly. I saw the crane starting to lose hold on the crate as I came from the deck cabin. I tried to shout to you. The words choked in my throat. Please forgive the frightful occurrence, sir. I beg of you.”

  “It’s all right,” Curtis repeated. “I’ll turn in a statement of the value of the luggage. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d like a drink. A rather stiff one.”

  On the way to the ship’s bar, Benevedas was still muttering excitedly, breaking into Spanish now and then under the stress of his concern.

  Jo had her hand lightly on Curtis’ arm. And though she meant thus to calm him, it was she who trembled.

  “What a hideous accident, what a horrible tragedy that almost was,” she declared somewhat shakenly,

  “Yes,” Curtis answered. “It was almost the last, ah, er, accident in my life.”

  CHAPTER IV

  A Rebuke for Carlos

  WHEN Allan Curtis sauntered into the Ventur
a’s main dining salon, some hours later, he saw that Jo Matthews was already seated at a corner table, chatting with the charming and debonair Carlos Benevedas.

  The young Latin-American sprang to his feet with a flourish as Curtis approached.

  “Greetings Senor,” he smiled. “The lovely Senorita and I were at the moment discussing your very fortunate escape this afternoon. It was truly remarkable.”

  “Yes, wasn’t it,” Curtis said. He sat down and glanced at Jo. “You look nice tonight. I’ve always liked you in that dress. What’s good on the menu?” Jo made a face at him.

  “I suppose I should swoon over the fact that you’ve even noticed that I had a dress on,” she said tartly. “And I’m glad you’ve always liked me in this dress because this is the first time I’ve worn it. As to the food tonight, the steak looks good.”

  Curtis grinned at her.

  “Thanks! I’ll try it. And I still like the dress.”

  Carlos sighed heavily.

  “Ah! You Americans are so very, very casual about the beauty of your women. In my country we sing songs, we write poems, we compose glorious music to their charms.”

  “Sounds like a darn swell country,” Jo said.

  “And so it is, Senorita,” Carlos said fervently.

  Curtis looked up at the ardent Peruvian, a glint of interest in his eyes.

  “How’s the situation with Ecuador these days, Carlos? I don’t keep up with the international situation as I should.”

  The young Peruvian shrugged hopelessly.

  “The people of Ecuador and the people of Peru desire peace and harmony. Their leaders desire it. But always something happens to prevent the happy union of the two nations. That ‘something’ is the one thing that keeps the political situation of all South America disturbed and unsettled. Imagine what your own great country would be like if two of your States were quarreling among themselves. If Arizona and California had disputes for which there was no amicable settlement, it would affect the tranquillity of the entire nation. The happy settlement of the problems of Peru and Ecuador is the key to domestic tranquillity in South America.”