The Wager

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “A goodly virtue,” Kek agreed. “One never knows when a rainy day might come. But it really isn’t a matter of money. I still have most of your boy Max’s ten thousand.”

  “I know you do. So that settles that; I’ll come with you.”

  “It’s usually polite to wait until you’re asked,” Kek said gently, and waited for the explosion.

  There was a moment’s silence. Every one of the breathless watchers knew that whatever their rival had said had not smoothed any ruffled feelings, and that the idiot had clearly asked for trouble. It came with a speed that no one—including Kek—had anticipated. Anita reached across the table and slapped Kek with all the force of an arm well tempered by daily exercise. The crack resounded over a startled gallery; two more watchers disqualified themselves on the spot. A deck steward started forward to prevent ship’s property from being damaged if further mayhem were contemplated by the lovely signorina, and then stopped, quite sure that any man who looked like Signore Huuygens undoubtedly could take care of himself.

  Anita came to her feet with hauteur, looking down at Kek with loathing, and stalked off into the saloon. Kek shook his head, for his ears were ringing, and downed his brandy in one gulp. One of the watchers came hurrying up. He was a gangling, horsefaced man dressed in wild colors.

  “Good Lord, man!” he said, barely able to keep from neighing with pleasure. “What on earth did you say to her?”

  “I can’t imagine what upset her so. I merely asked her age,” Kek said simply, and reached for Anita’s untouched drink.

  Through the porthole in his cabin Kek watched the edge of Florida creep closer, the startlingly white apartments along the beach of Pompano lined up evenly, as if at attention to pass the inspection of the MV Andropolis and the passengers crowding the rail drinking in the welcome sight of palm trees and flooding sunshine. And among them, Kek was sure, would be Anita, undoubtedly accompanied by one of the entries who had been so jumpy at the gate the day before.

  He let the curtain fall over the porthole and dropped onto his unmade bed, frowning in thought. He disliked leaving Anita with a chip on her shoulder, but as he saw it there was nothing else to do. Only once before had he ever involved Anita in any of his jobs, and he had promised himself he never would again. Still, it was a shame when one considered it. If it hadn’t been for that call from Girard, it might well have been a most enjoyable cruise. He would have to see what he could find in Barbados that might serve as a peace offering. Something from Harrison’s, possibly?

  There was a scratching at the door and he glanced over. The ship’s news, probably, being pushed beneath the portal. He came to his feet to investigate. A slim envelope carrying the ship’s crest lay at his feet. An invitation to one of the captain’s cocktail parties? Possible, since the purser’s office handled invitations, and Kek had expressly not told the purser of the planned hiatus in his trip, preferring to let them assume he had accidentally missed rejoining the ship after visiting Port Everglades. His baggage would assure them that he would eventually rejoin the cruise, and his passage was paid, so they wouldn’t really start any inquiry before their return to New York. And, of course, if anyone was keeping an eye on him, it would be good for their experience to find him missing once the ship was on its way to San Juan.

  At any rate, he thought as he bent to pick up the envelope, it could scarcely be a bill. The one major advantage of traveling by ship was you didn’t get nagged by bills one at a time; they waited until you were well rested and then slugged you with them all at once.

  He carried it to his bed and sat down, opening the envelope. He was actually not at all surprised to see it was in Anita’s scrawl. A final argument for going with him? Or one last verbal slap to accompany the physical one from the day before? He held it to the light from his bedside lamp.

  My darling Kek:

  I’ve given you nearly twenty-four hours to suffer, wondering if I was really angry, yesterday. No, darling, I was sure I was following your lead. You did want me to slap you, didn’t you? When you leave me for Rose, I think I’ll ask Max to back me on the stage. Wasn’t I good?

  I’m sorry that I slapped you that hard, but I swear it was a slip. (A Freudian slip? Or a Freudian slap?) It served two purposes, though—it convinced me the money I’ve spent on tennis wasn’t all wasted; also I think it impressed our viewing audience to HANDLE WITH CARE. Now I’ll be able to wait for you to rejoin the ship at Barbados without having to wrestle my way out of too many staterooms. (Was that why you wanted me to slap you?)

  Have a good trip and a successful one. I’m sorry I can’t go with you, but you’ll be taking my love. Try to leave that behind!

  Anita

  Kek reread the note and laughed. He should have known that Anita would see through him; it was one of the many reasons he loved her. She was smart.

  He took the note into the bathroom, tore it into small pieces and flushed them down the toilet. His smile disappeared as he went back into the stateroom to wait for docking, when he would leave the ship like any other cruise passenger investigating the beauties of Fort Lauderdale.

  Yes, my darling, he said to Anita silently, I did want to get slapped—even though not that hard—but it was not to save you from the pawing herd. It was because I still have the feeling there is someone on board with his eye on me, and on my way down from the radio shack it suddenly occurred to me that person need not necessarily be one of Girard’s boys. In fact, it might well be someone who actively dislikes Girard, as well as those who do his chores for him. Which could well make me some sort of a target.

  And I do not like you to be closely associated with targets, darling.

  6

  The huge white curving side of the MV Andropolis, geometrically dotted with neat portholes, towered above the blisteringly hot dock of Port Everglades, held in place by gargantuan hawsers warped around the pier stanchions and reeved taut by the winches on deck. It resembled a leviathan with a thousand eyes chained to the land against its will. Passengers edged their way downward with caution on the narrow gangplank, holding desperately to the railing, intimidated by the height and blinded by the glaring reflections from the white concrete below. Before the long Customs shed, the little auto-train for Fort Lauderdale waited patiently, baking in the July sun. Several taxis waited for more discriminating fares, having just unloaded those few passengers who were joining the Andropolis at Port Everglades.

  Kek stood at the ship’s railing, waiting for the crowd below to thin out. It was ten thirty in the morning, which allowed him more than ample time to have a leisurely lunch and catch his plane with time to spare. Of course, if it was necessary to lose a potential tail, he might have to forgo the leisurely lunch, but he was sure he could always get a sandwich and a drink on the plane.

  Anita stepped onto the gangplank, ignoring him completely; her arm was held protectively by a husky young man with red hair, freckles, and shoulders even wider than Kek’s. The youngster’s face was flaming, and he was hard put to keep a triumphant grin of possession from his expression. The result was he looked as if he were running out of breath. Kek yawned politely and elaborately and was rewarded by the faintest quirk of Anita’s lips, instantly suppressed. He watched the young man hand Anita from the gangplank and herd her to join the others in the small auto-train. The motorman checked the several open cars and then climbed into his miniature cab; the train hooted once and rolled off on rubber tires toward the city. There was only one cab in sight on the deserted pier, from which two elderly ladies were descending laboriously. It was time to move.

  Huuygens came down the steep gangplank easily, to be met by a staggering wave of heat at the bottom. He waited politely while the cab driver unloaded luggage from his front seat and began to move it toward the dock-porter’s area. Then, about to climb into the cab, Kek felt a slight tap on his shoulder. There was something almost diffident about the contact. He looked about in genuine surprise; he had been sure the last of the shoregoing passengers had been
on his way. Facing Huuygens was the gangling, horse-faced individual who had inquired as to his conversation with Anita the day before.

  “I say,” the man said apologetically, “I wonder if I might share your cab into town? I was phoning a friend, inside, and I’m afraid while I was talking to him I missed out on the available transportation.”

  “Of course,” Huuygens said congenially. “Hop in.”

  “You really don’t mind?” The man sounded extraordinarily anxious.

  “Not at all.”

  An accident? Possibly. This man didn’t look like a professional follower, but it was sad to think how unprofessional many professional followers were appearing these days. And why would anyone go inside to telephone when there was a battery of outside booths in plain view of taxis and auto-train? Huuygens got in and sat down, leaning back comfortably; his companion, having insisted that Kek enter first, followed, closed the door, and turned with hand outstretched. It was soft, but dry, a remarkable achievement on the sweltering day it was rapidly becoming. In the stilled cab the air conditioning continued to run, proof of the driver’s experience with Florida weather and its effect on customers.

  “My name is Ralph Jamison,” the man said. “I’m from Worcester, Mass.”

  “Kek Huuygens. I’m from New York.”

  “Enjoying the cruise so far?”

  At close quarters Huuygens could see that the other man’s blondish hair was thinning, revealing patches of pink scalp beneath; despite the youthfulness of the striped double-knit bell-bottom trousers and the open-necked exotic sports shirt, the man was much older than he appeared. Or, Kek thought, than he tried to appear.

  “I’m enjoying it very much.”

  “Me, too. Although passing Hatteras wasn’t anything to brag about.” Jamison suddenly neighed. “Come to think of it, it sure wasn’t for you! Tell me, what—”

  He paused. The driver had finished delivering the luggage of the two elderly women and had climbed back into the cab. He instantly closed the door to participate in the air conditioning, and looked back at the two men with impersonal curiosity. Jamison looked at Huuygens.

  “Where are you going?”

  Kek shrugged. “Just into town, I guess, to look around. Where do you want to be dropped off?”

  Jamison chose to ignore the question. “Have you ever been to Fort Lauderdale before?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  It was, of course, a fib, and Kek had no idea of why he had told it, other than if Jamison was keeping an eye on him, any dissembling was better than candor. Actually, although Kek had visited Fort Lauderdale many times, he had always managed his trips in the wintertime. Florida in the summer passed tolerance, and Kek had often wondered what curious aberration had led the founders of beautiful Fort Lauderdale to locate it in Florida in the first place. It was true, of course, that Florida was one place that never had to worry about avalanches, but that seemed little enough excuse.

  “Ah!” Jamison sounded as if he had hit a winning number. “Then you have to let me show you the town! I was stationed—I mean, I was stationed at Homestead when I was in the Army, and I came up to Lauderdale every chance I got. I love the place.” Jamison’s horsey smile disappeared suddenly; he looked almost woebegone. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to be by yourself?”

  Kek smiled. “Not at all.”

  Why the pause after the first “stationed”? And hadn’t Homestead been closed about the time a man of Jamison’s apparent age would have been in the Army? Maybe not; maybe it was all imagination and Jamison was simply a passenger, gregarious by nature, who had finally latched onto a listener after two days of enforced silence. It was possible. At any rate, even assuming Jamison was not as innocent as he appeared—or would like to appear—if one had to be followed, at least there were advantages in having your follower with you. It saved looking over your shoulder constantly, always bad for the neck muscles, and it also made for the economy of a single fare.

  Jamison nodded happily and leaned toward the driver.

  “Driver, could we rent the cab by the hour?” He turned instantly, raising his hand as if Kek had said something. “No! I insist! My treat. After all, it was your cab and you were kind enough to share it. The least I can do—”

  “Sure,” said the driver, cutting into the diatribe. “Twenty-five bucks an hour.”

  He could not have picked a better way to cut Jamison short.

  “Twenty-five—” Jamison inadvertently blanched but recovered quickly. “All right, driver, but I’ll have to pay you in travelers’ checks and I’ll need a receipt.” He quickly turned to Kek to explain, almost as if the other had demanded an explanation. “I, ah—I’m traveling on doctor’s orders. With a receipt I can take it off my income tax, you see.”

  “Of course,” Kek said, and leaned back, no muscle betraying the pleasant expression on his face. Was it humanly possible to be as inept a professional as this and still not starve to death in one’s selected profession? Or was the very ineptness a disguise in itself? This way lies madness, Kek thought; let time decide. He looked out the window, prepared to enjoy himself, at least until the time came when Jamison, follower or not, became a hindrance to his plans. Or, of course, until the air conditioning failed.

  Jamison leaned over a bit authoritatively; it was obvious that for twenty-five dollars an hour he intended to direct the cab as much as he could without actually taking the wheel.

  “Driver, first along the beach, north. Then up Las Olas, then over to Sunrise and down to the Intercoastal again. Then maybe to Pompano; we’ll see. And drive slowly.”

  The driver nodded agreeably and put the car into motion. With gasoline prices what they were, for twenty-five dollars an hour he was willing to creep. Jamison leaned back again, lacing his long thin legs, tucking one hand between them as if for warmth, a habit, obviously, of long standing.

  “I was about to say, back then when we first got into the cab,” he began, looking at Kek and unable to entirely mask the slightly malicious smile, “what did you actually say to that girl yesterday?”

  Huuygens smiled ruefully.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t use very good judgment. I have a tendency at times to be impetuous, and when she practically fell into my arms.…” He shook his head. “What I actually said to her is something I’d rather forget. After all, all it got me was a slap.”

  “And what a slap!” Jamison said admiringly, and grinned. His teeth, to Kek’s surprise, were not the large blocks he had expected to fit the otherwise horsey face; they were small and delicate, and pointed inward a bit. “Still,” Jamison went on, “it sure would have been worth it if it had worked. You know the old story about the guy who made a pass at every girl he met, stranger or not, and then told his friends, ‘Sure I get slapped a lot, but I also get a lot of—’”

  “I know the story,” Kek said, and smiled a man-to-man smile. Would Girard hire a man as obvious as Jamison to keep an eye on him? Highly doubtful; certainly not for protection, since Jamison would be hard put to protect a suma wrestler from a midget. Obviously, it couldn’t be Girard: if Girard wanted him watched, he’d have a man at the airport with a ticket on the same plane. And who else would—or could—have hired him? Who else but Girard knew he had planned to sail on the Andropolis?

  “Well!” Jamison said, and looked through the window, as if wondering where to begin his travelogue. “Ah! That’s the 66 Tower. And that’s the Bahia Mar, the largest marina in the world, some say. Maybe we’ll stop up at the 66 roof later for a drink. Everybody does; it’s one of the things visitors to Lauderdale all do. The platform up there rotates once every 66 minutes. It’s not a bad place for lunch, either, and the view is the best in Florida.”

  “It looks very inviting.”

  “It is. Ah! This is Las Olas Boulevard. Probably the most beautiful street in the most beautiful town in the world.”

  It was, indeed, an unusually lovely street and Kek enjoyed seeing it once again. They completed
their tour of Las Olas, including some of the adjoining islands, cut across to Sunrise and drove slowly back in the direction of the ocean. At Bay View they turned north again, passing the inlets from the main waterway, with boats of all sizes bobbing in the backyards of homes there. In the background large yachts could be seen moving majestically on the Intercoastal; they almost seemed unreal against the dark wood of the background, as if they had been posed by the Chamber of Commerce. Jamison rambled on, a fairly boring guide, while Kek turned off the little key in his head, the same key that enabled him to read his morning newspaper in peace while undergoing one of Anita’s interrogations.

  If Jamison hadn’t been hired by Girard, who had hired him? And for what purpose? Certainly the gangling man beside him scarcely posed any physical threat. So, if logic meant anything, Jamison was just what he appeared to be—a garrulous passenger, happy to show off a favorite city. Still—

  Huuygens looked at his watch. It was twelve fifteen; they had been driving nearly two hours. Beyond the window the beach of Pompano stretched north for miles, lined with condominium apartments. Time to start getting rid of the talkative Mr. Jamison, be he friend or foe. There was still a phone call to make and a plane to catch. Huuygens turned to his companion, interrupting him in a meaningless dissertation on the advantages of living on a golf course in Florida versus living on water.

  “I think I’d like that drink we talked about before, up on top of that tower you pointed out,” Kek said. “It’s hot and I could stand something cold. And after that I think I’ll ask you to excuse me; I think I’ll go back to the ship for lunch, and then probably take a nap.”

  “A good idea!” Jamison said enthusiastically, clearly indicating he might well do the same thing. He leaned forward and instructed the driver. The cab swung south and they headed for the 66 Tower. For the space of the drive, at least, Jamison was quiet, while Huuygens seriously thought of means of ridding himself of the leech. The car pulled up near the glass-enclosed elevator and Jamison reached for his wallet.