“Here’s twenty dollars on account,” he said, and scribbled hastily on two traveler’s checks. “Wait for us.”
“Take your time,” the driver said generously, and picked up the morning paper from the seat beside him.
All Fort Lauderdale spread before the two men as they rose in the elevator. Jamison’s pleasure in pointing out landmarks to his newfound friend was so genuine that for a moment Huuygens wondered if he had wronged the other man in his thoughts. Still, right or wrong, he certainly had no intention of being saddled with Mr. Jamison’s company much longer. Time was marching on.
The air conditioning in the large, slowly rotating room was welcome, and the two men sank into chairs near the abandoned and locked piano. They looked around for a waiter; all seemed busy, possibly because at least two were hovering over a table across the room. When they spread apart, Kek was able to see the reason why: Anita was sitting there, her large escort staring at her worshipfully. And with reason, Kek thought with an inner smile; you probably never got such good service before. The advantage of escorting a lovely lady.… A sudden idea struck Kek. He forced down a grin and looked across the table at Jamison.
“Pardon me, but where are the telephones?”
“Just over there,” Jamison said, and pointed.
“Do you mind? I have a few calls to make.”
Jamison seemed to be studying the location of the booths; they were well in sight and nowhere near an elevator. “Go ahead. I’ll order for you. What are you having?”
“Gin and tonic. Bombay gin,” Kek said, and got to his feet. Across the room, Anita’s eyes took in Kek and their table and swept on with no expression in her eyes. Excellent, Kek thought, and walked over to the phones.
He squeezed into a booth from which he could keep half an eye on Jamison, smiled at him through the glass, and closed the door. He dropped a coin, gave a credit card number and a telephone number and waited. Jamison was speaking to a waiter. It was several minutes and then there was the sound of a ring and the instant raising of a receiver. Girard was on the line.
“Allô!”
“This is your purchasing agent.…”
“One o’clock exactly.” Girard sounded pleased. “Where are you? At the airport? Did you pick up your ticket?”
“Not yet, but I will very soon. Are there any further changes?”
“No, everything will be as we arranged. I spoke to the salesman and he will arrange for the material tonight. You will be met tomorrow morning at the proper place on the proper hour. Anything further from your end?”
“Yes,” Huuygens said. “I told you I didn’t like being followed by professional—ah, salesmen. I now wish to add to the list. I don’t like being followed by middle-aged men in striped pants and floral shirts.”
“What?” Girard sounded genuinely puzzled by Kek’s comment.
“Let me be blunt. Are you having me followed?”
“Followed? No. Why would I want to have you—” The import of the question suddenly registered. Girard’s voice showed shock. “You’re being followed?”
“I’m not sure, but I think I am. However, not to worry.”
“Not to worry!”
“Take my word for it. Now, who have you told of our little wager?”
“Told? Nobody! Do you think I’m a fool.”
“I do not. Who introduced you to the Quinleven Club?”
“Forget him. He couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with it.”
Kek’s voice hardened. “This is important. Who?”
“The former American ambassador to my country. His name is Wellington. He wrote me a letter a long time ago, inviting me to be his guest with anyone else I wished to bring along.”
Huuygens eliminated the ambassador from any possible list of suspects. He knew Wellington quite well and the man didn’t have the intelligence to be involved in anything more complicated than politics. Besides, at the moment he was hunting tigers-or-something in the Sudan-or-someplace.
“Well,” Huuygens said thoughtfully, “that leaves only one answer. We’ve met twice, both times at the Quinleven. The only people near us during our discussions were your two bodyguards.”
There was a brief silence. When Girard spoke his voice was cold.
“The matter will be investigated.”
“Good.” Kek glanced at his watch. “I have to be going now.”
“Call me after you see the salesman tomorrow,” Girard said.
“Will do.” Kek hung up. There was still one more call to make. He looked over at Jamison, smiled again, and dropped a second coin, taking a pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket as he spoke. To anyone watching he would appear to be noting down whatever the other party on the phone was saying. He asked for information, got the number he wanted, and dialed. A moment later the telephone was answered by a deep bass voice.
“Tower 66 bar.”
“Look,” Kek said, “I know this sounds odd, but I would like to have a waiter pick up a note in a telephone booth and deliver it—
“What are you talking about?” The bass voice was suspicious.
“If you’ll look up,” Kek said patiently, “you’ll see me in a phone booth at the other end of the room. I’m the only person in one. When I go back to my table, I will leave a note in here—”
“You got to be some kind of a nut, mister—”
“Listen!” Kek said firmly. “There will also be a ten-dollar bill for you to split with the waiter.” There was immediate silence at the other end of the line. “That’s better. Now listen: I want the note delivered to that big red-headed young man sitting at the table near you with the girl—”
“The gorgeous dame? Oh, I get it. Women complications, is that it?”
“Sort of.” Kek was scribbling hastily as he spoke. He managed to turn his back on Jamison, fish a bill from his wallet, and tuck the note and the money together in the coin slot. “As soon as I leave. Understand?”
“Gotcha, pal.”
Kek hung up and squeezed himself from the booth, making his way back to the table. A waiter was coming across from the bar, while another was setting drinks before Jamison. The tall gangling man was putting a bill down on the small tray.
“You ought to at least let me pay for the drinks,” Kek said, sliding into his chair.
“No, no! My treat. My pleasure. You can buy me a couple back on board.” His small, dry hand was raised with his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Kek said pleasantly, and saw the waiter bearing his note approaching the table with Anita and her escort. He saw the man hand the note over, and hid a smile behind his glass as he drank. If Jamison was truly only an innocent passenger attempting friendliness, then Huuygens would have to buy him a great many drinks in compensation for what Kek figured was about to happen.
At the other table the red-headed, freckle-faced young man was frowning as he read the note that had just been given him:
Honey: You look like a girl that likes fun. Why don’t you duck that red-headed muscle-bound farmer and let me show you a real good time. I’m the man in the flowered shirt and striped pants sitting near the piano. We’ve got a long time before sailing and I have a friend with an apartment. How about it?
Anita was looking at her escort with curiosity.
“It’s nothing,” he said, his jaw clenched. He jammed the note into his pocket and came to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”
He started across the room, his face redder than ever. Mr. Jamison was in the process of lowering the drink he was enjoying so much, when he felt himself being lifted bodily from his chair and swung about to stare into two ice-cold, very angry blue eyes.
“You and me, buster,” said the owner of the eyes, “are going into the washroom and have a little discussion.”
Jamison squeaked and tried to pull loose. “What’s the matter with you? What are you doing? Let go of my arm!”
“I said, let’s go!”
“Hey, that hurts!”
&
nbsp; “Does it, indeed! This way, lover boy!” the young man said fiercely, and walked Jamison roughly from the table. Several waiters stood back, unwilling to tangle with anyone as obviously destructive as the large young man with freckles. Kek watched interestedly. Jamison tried to turn around.
“Stop! Waiters! Huuygens! This man is crazy! Help me!”
“I never mix in anything violent,” Kek said piously, and came to his feet.
Across the room Anita watched her escort shove the perfect stranger through the washroom door. Kek winked at her and headed quickly for the elevator. It was one fifteen, which was cutting it fine, but fortunately, Jamison had been thoughtful enough to have a cab waiting below.
7
Kek Huuygens was in an expansive mood. He had landed at Seawall Airport late the afternoon before, assured that any pursuit—had it ever existed and not merely been a figment of his imagination—had been diverted, at least until he joined the ship again; and he wouldn’t worry about that until it happened. He sincerely hoped that Jamison hadn’t been chastised too severely, but even if the man was innocent, he still deserved something for being the biggest bore in the world. And Kek had had to pay twenty-five dollars for a short cab ride, because of Jamison’s penuriousness. Still, Jamison never got his receipt, which would probably hurt the man more than the punishment he suffered in the washroom.
Now, with a good night’s rest at the Barbados Hilton behind him, a long and vigorous swim in the warm and unpolluted Caribbean, and weather that, contrary to Anita, was far more pleasant for the month of July than New York City, Kek felt good. He emerged from his taxi before Harrison’s in the Broad Street in Bridgetown, determined not to be cheap in his selection of a gift for Girard’s professional thief. The man could well have a wife or girlfriend; even a mother somewhere in his history was a possibility.
Harrison’s, as usual, was crowded to capacity, for three cruise ships were in Bridgetown harbor at the same time, and the passengers had formed lines, like ants, to and from their respective ships, seemingly determined to leave Bridgetown Wedgwoodless or know the reason why. For a moment he studied the melee from the protection of the doorway and then plunged bravely in. His target was a large table in the center of the room, covered with blue and green boxes. He managed to get enough elbow room to study the pieces laid out, each on top of a stack of boxes, and knew at once what he wanted. It was a candy dish of the proper size, something Kek felt not every professional thief would probably buy for himself. He even managed to get the attention of a clerk, and to his complete but pleasant surprise, found himself out in the street again, his brightly colored package tucked under his arm, in a remarkably short forty-five minutes.
For Harrison’s, this was close to miraculous; Kek hoped it was an augury for a quick and successful completion of his mission. He glanced at his wristwatch. Ten twenty, which left forty minutes to get to Sam Lord’s Castle. Taking the direct road east through Windsor and Marchfield rather than the more picturesque but longer route along the beach front would get him to his appointment in ample time, and still get him back to his hotel in time for lunch. In fact—
He paused, frowning. In fact—now that he thought about it—why was it necessary, or even wise, to await the arrival of the MV Andropolis in Barbados? And his not having even thought of rejoining the ship earlier was the most disturbing aspect of the affair; he wondered if perhaps in planning the matter he had overlooked some other equally simple thing. With the package in his possession he could check out of the Hilton and be at Seawall by one o’clock at the latest. There certainly had to be an afternoon plane to San Juan, and he could catch up with the ship at least two days ahead of schedule. And surprise Anita. It would also seem much more natural to the purser and/or any interested passenger if he were to rejoin the ship after only one port, rather than waiting four days to catch up with it in Barbados.
The thought wiped away his former irritation with himself. Checking the precious package at the airport would handle any matter of Customs, and he would pick it up when the ship docked in Bridgetown. With a smile at how easily things worked out for the righteous, he walked out of the shade of the Harrison’s awning into the sun of the narrow and crowded road, shouldered through to the curb, and flagged down a cab.
The trip to Sam Lord’s Castle was taken at the usual island speed, but Kek, who normally disliked being driven at all, let alone being driven at maniacal speeds, sat back quite relaxed and beamed cordially at the people his taxi almost struck at each intersection or bus stop. Certainly Providence would not permit an accident when everything was going so nicely. The huge sugar cane that towered above them reduced all vision of what might lie beyond the next curve of the winding road, but the driver was not at all intimidated, possibly feeling that with enough velocity he could overcome any unexpected obstacle that presented itself to him and his fifteen-year-old Juggernaut.
They pulled into the wide graveled drive before the white twin-porched building at eleven o’clock exactly, and the driver drew up at the bottom of the steps. In the waiting lot for taxis a cab of equal vintage was parked, its driver dozing at the wheel. Kek felt it was a further indication that all was well. The chances were strong that the cab belonged to Girard’s professional thief, and all was rolling along on schedule. He stepped down, feeling on top of the world.
The driver smiled at him through the open window, white teeth gleaming against black skin. “You wish that I wait, mon?”
“If you will.”
“A pleasure.”
“For us both,” Kek said sincerely, and trotted up the wide steps, his exotically wrapped candy dish in his hand. He certainly hoped the professional thief would like it, or if not him, at least his wife, girlfriend, or mother. If she or they weren’t on a diet, that is, so many women were. Fortunately, Anita had no need to.
The lobby was abandoned at the moment, the clerk apparently off on a chore. Through the facing doorway the castle’s famous gardens could be seen stretching down to the blue Atlantic beyond. Kek took a deep breath; Barbados was one of his favorite spots on earth, and Sam Lord’s Castle as lovely a hotel as he knew. For a moment he considered abandoning his plan to return to the ship immediately, but then he knew that he would rather be with Anita even more than enjoying Barbados. Ah, well—to work!
The Cobbler’s Reef Bar was open, and after the brilliance of the morning sun, seemed to be pitch dark. Kek paused just inside the doorway, allowing his eyesight to adjust. By the light used to illuminate the cash register he could see the aproned bartender looking in his direction, and beyond the bartender he could see a bulking shadow at the extreme far end of the bar. Kek closed his eyes a moment, squeezing them tightly shut, seeing a parade of weird shapes and lights behind his eyelids, and then opened them to find the room had miraculously cleared to a great extent. There was indeed a man at the end of the bar, his huge broad back turned resolutely away from the room, staring into a corner as per instructions; and there was, indeed, a drink before the man in a glass consistent with a sour, being neither a shot glass nor a tall glass.
There was, indeed, only one thing wrong with the script. There was no package of any sort on the bar before or near the man.
Kek had a sudden cold presentiment that his ebullience that morning had been premature to say the least. There was, of course, the possibility that this man staring so intently toward the corner was not his contact, and that his contact was merely delayed, but Kek doubted it. He sighed and walked over, seating himself next to the man, surveying the outsized shoulders, then turned and faced the bartender who had come up.
“A Benedictine sour,” he said clearly, and added: “Have you ever made one?”
“Yes, sir!” the bartender said proudly, resenting this impugnment of his knowledge of his craft. He did not add that he had made his first one only minutes before, nor did he show his amazement that two people in a row should demonstrate such inconsideration for their stomachs at that hour of the morning. Instead, he dutif
ully went back to his post and began mixing the ingredients, trying not to shudder as he did so.
So the bartender was familiar with Benedictine sours? Then the man beside him was his contact and something had apparently gone very wrong. Merde! But, in that case, why the frozen back? Which, in comparison with himself—and Huuygens was not small and knew it—belonged to an extremely large and well-muscled individual. Kek reached over and tapped one of the bulging shoulders a bit peremptorily, not at all surprised to find the jacket was not padded and that he was rapping on something very solid. He had hoped to carry out the assignment without the need for personal contact, but it seemed this was not to be. Life!
“Mister,” he said softly.
The man swung about abruptly. There was a sheepish look on his large, battered face.
“Hello, Kek,” he said.
There was a moment’s silent tableau. Then Huuygens looked at the ceiling, found no comfort there, and looked down again. He sighed mightily.
“Oh, no!” He shook his head. “André!”
“How’ve you been, Kek?”
“André,” Huuygens said, “do me a favor—”
“Sure, Kek. Anything. You know that. What is it?”
“Tell me you never heard of a man named Victor Girard. Tell me you’re vacationing in Barbados and had no appointment to meet a man here carrying a package from Harrison’s.…”
André looked embarrassed. “Well—”
“On second thought,” Kek said, “don’t tell me.” He paused. “Bartender, we’ll take our drinks in a booth.”
“As you say, sir.”
“Kek,” André said in a pleading voice, “do we have to drink this—”
“And throw that stuff away,” Kek added to the bartender. “Bring us a bottle of brandy, preferably a good Portuguese or Spanish brandy rather than French, and two glasses. Not balloons.”
“Sir!” It was said happily. The contents of a mixing glass went into the sink.
The Wager Page 7