“How? If we musn’t look at each other and musn’t touch? He’s a terrible correspondent.”
“Maybe when we get back to New York,” André suggested. “He just said he didn’t want us to know each other on board.”
“Great!” Anita said in disgust. “So you calmly walk down the corridor and pick the lock of my cabin!”
“Nobody saw me.” André sounded hurt. “These cabin locks can be opened with a limp piece of spaghetti.”
“Well, all I can say,” Anita said bitterly, “is this is by far the worst cruise I’ve been on!”
André looked contrite. “I’m sorry.”
Anita felt remorse. “Look. It isn’t your fault. You’re as taken with that character Kek as I am. What does he do? Hypnotize us?” She shook her head woefully. “It’s just that I’d like to spend some time with some friend on this trip.”
“We’ll be able to in New York,” André promised confidently. “I have a three-month visa.” He looked around the room, wetting his lips, smiling. “These reunions are thirsty work, aren’t they?”
Anita smiled despite herself. “In the drawer next to you.” She shook her head half-humorously. “That Kek! You might as well pour one for me, too.…”
Mr. Ralph Jamison of the United States Customs Service sat in his cab while being driven from his hotel to the docks, and went over the scheme he had brilliantly concocted all in the space of a day. His superior hadn’t really been convinced that Huuygens had robbed the museum, but before Jamison was through, he’d have proof enough! This Huuygens may have been able to fool some of the other men in the Department—Jamison had to sadly admit that a few of the boys could be brighter than they were—but Huuygens had never been up against a first-class opponent before.
He climbed from his cab at Customs, paid the driver, and turned to almost stumble over Kek Huuygens. Huuygens had been lounging to one side, listening to the steel-drum band entertaining the people at the pier entrance, and Jamison felt such a sudden jump of joy in his breast that he inadvertently put his hand there. He had postulated that Huuygens would return to the ship after the robbery, and there he was! And if that wasn’t proof of his complicity in the burglary, Jamison would like to know what was!
He turned to face Huuygens, his eyes gleaming as he noted the package under the other’s right arm. It was exactly the proper size to fit the carving, and had been wrapped in colorful paper in a poor attempt to disguise it. Huuygens’ other hand held a light overnight bag, but it was the package that gripped Jamison’s attention. An attempt to use the Purloined Letter technique? But then Jamison reminded himself that Huuygens, poor chap, didn’t even know he was under suspicion. He put a big smile on his face.
“Mr. Huuygens, isn’t it?”
“Well, hello, Mr. Jamison!” A sympathetic look crossed Kek’s face. “What on earth happened to you? Don’t tell me that young red-haired ruffian did that to you? But no—those marks look more recent.”
“A minor accident, of no importance,” Jamison told him, and tried not to look smug. His glance went to the package with the force of metal being drawn by a magnet; he practically had to jerk his head to break the spell. He looked up. “You missed the ship at Port Everglades—”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And at San Juan? And St. Thomas, too?” The questions any solicitous passenger would ask of another, Jamison thought, pleased with his approach.
“The truth is,” Kek said, smiling, “you made Fort Lauderdale so attractive to me, that I decided to stop over there for a few days and catch up with the ship here. By the way, how has the cruise been?”
“As a matter of fact, I—oh, the cruise has been fine!” Jamison reported and then heard himself add, quite without volition, “Been shopping?”
“Shopping? Oh, this.” Huuygens squeezed the package a bit more tightly under his arm. “Just a candy dish I saw at the hotel. Waiter was using it for an ashtray, believe it or not! Wedgwood.” He looked at Jamison helpfully. “I’m sure there’s plenty of time before sailing if you’d like to go back into town and get one. Quite cheap, you know. Really a bargain.”
Especially if you don’t pay for it, Jamison thought, and almost felt sorry for the other man’s poor ability at dissembling. “No, thanks. I’ve had enough of the shore for now. I’ll be getting back to the ship.”
The minibus had arrived. “I’ll be along a bit later,” Kek said, and tilted his head toward the drumming musicians, sweating in the hot sun. “I like steel drum. I’ll see you on board. Buy you that drink I owe you.”
Which you never drank, Jamison thought, suddenly bitter at the memory of the 66 Roof. He nodded abruptly and climbed into the bus, taking a seat near the door and leaning back, putting the events in Lauderdale from his mind, concentrating on his scheme, the details of which were clicking into place like obedient safe tumblers.
Behind him Huuygens watched the back of the minibus thoughtfully, and then bent to stow his package in the overnight bag.
Jamison was in the captain’s quarters exhibiting his credentials. The captain was only half-listening; he had a short leave coming up after this voyage and his mind was more on his farm than whatever this man was talking about. Smugglers or something. What with one cruise after another, he had planted his tomatoes and green peppers pretty late, and while the peppers were fairly safe, the tomatoes were bound to be a dubious proposition.
“We are positive,” Jamison was saying, investing in his person the full panoply of the Department’s power, “that this man is responsible for the stealing of the valuable carving, that he brought it aboard this ship, and that he is planning on trying to smuggle it into the United States. It is our firm intention to”—he almost said “foil,” but saved himself in time—“to stop him.” He bent down one finger as he started to outline his clever scheme. “First, I will need to know who, if any, passengers joined the ship here in Barbados. Other than this man Huuygens I’ve been telling you about, of course. Captain?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said,” Jamison added, an edge to his tone, “I need to know which passengers joined the ship here in Barbados, to return to New York.”
“It’s posted on the bulletin board in the purser’s square,” the captain said wearily. “C Deck.” He had a copy of the posting in a folder on his desk, but he hated to accommodate the lanky, horsefaced man across from him. In the captain’s opinion, if there were no Customs then obviously passengers would be happier, and happy passengers made for a happy ship. And a happy ship made for a happy captain. And a happy captain—He came out of it under Jamison’s most steely gaze, sighed, and reached for the folder. His finger slid down the page. “There was just one. His name is André Martins. He booked from Barbados, destination New York, three weeks ago.”
Jamison frowned. “He’s from Barbados?”
The finger moved to the right. “No. French national. His home is listed as Paris.”
Jamison’s frown disappeared. Despite his intention to maintain the discussion with the captain along calm, statesmanlike lines, he could not help but demonstrate his enthusiasm.
“Then I’ll bet he’s one of the gang! He came here for the robbery and now he’s accompanying Huuygens back to New York! Two to one he speaks French!”
“Being from Paris, I wouldn’t be surprised,” said the captain, and returned to his private thoughts. The radio shack kept him informed daily of Pennsylvania weather, but one never knew for sure just how much rain fell when the report said rain. Too much and it might have washed away that last batch of fertilizer; too little and possibly the tomatoes hadn’t even blossomed as yet. Being an absentee tomato-and-green-pepper grower had its problems.
Jamison, unaware that he did not have the captain’s full attention, went to bend down his first finger, found it already bent, and pushed down a second to join it.
“Next,” he said, “will be to thoroughly search their respective quarters—”
The captain came out of
his reverie with a start. This he had heard. “Search the cabins of passengers?”
“Oh, not by myself,” Jamison assured him earnestly. “I would want your security officer with me, of course. As a witness, if nothing else, to anything we might find.”
The captain seemed to finally realize he could not avoid the blasted problem. He sat more erect and leaned forward authoritatively, replacing green peppers and tomatoes in his mind with the question of having an internationally famous smuggler aboard his ship.
“Look,” he said reasonably, “you people have the equivalent of a young army on the dock in New York. They are paid—by the public, incidentally, which includes passengers—to be there for the sole purpose of searching baggage and to locate anything contraband. Our job on board this ship is to see that people are happy and having a good time. We are not paid to locate things people intend to smuggle.” A thought suddenly occurred to him; a touch of triumph entered his voice. “As a matter of fact, you don’t even know if people mean to smuggle until you have their declaration form in your hands, do you? They may well intend to declare and pay the duty.”
“You mean, declare and pay the duty on stolen goods?” Jamison asked smugly, proud of himself for having scored a distinct point. “On a valuable carving known throughout the world?”
“Well, no,” the captain admitted, wishing he had been more alert to that trap, and then realizing he had set it himself. “But you still haven’t given me the slightest proof that this man stole anything.” He stared at Jamison’s bruised eye. “Did you see him? Did anyone see him? All I have is your word on the thing.”
Jamison sighed. The captain was almost as bad as his superior.
“Look, Captain,” he said with a patience he was far from feeling, “if you insist, I can go through channels by radiotelephone and have my Department request permission for these searches from your company. This ship is, after all, still United States territory. Of course, asking in that manner will take time and probably interrupt a lot of your top company people in their more important duties, but I’m sure you’ll be able to explain to them why you didn’t let us make the search without any fuss.”
“I still think that searching—”
“For example,” Jamison went on, completely ignoring the captain’s weak interruption, “today is Saturday, but our Department works seven days a week. I can reach my superior by radio-telephone, and I’m sure he can locate the president of your line, probably out on the golf course—”
It had been a direct hit, and Jamison, seeing the expression on the captain’s face, knew he had been right. Outside of the Department, men simply weren’t trained to face crises.
The captain sighed deeply. He took off his cap, ran his fingers through his stubby gray hair, studied the insignia on the cap’s front as if seeing it for the first time, and then jammed it back on his head, tugging it straight. This horse-faced idiot across from him was right. After all, when one considered it from all angles, which was worse: approving a search by a Treasury man, under the eagle eye of his own trusted security officer, or facing the wrath of men to whom Saturday at the country club was sacrosanct? The truth was there was no choice. With the time he would lose in explanations—because in his company any questions at all instantly took on the form of an official inquiry that might have been instigated by the shipping board—he’d be lucky to get out to the farm at all on his short leave. And who would worry about his green peppers and tomatoes then? None of the principals involved, that was certain.
“All right.” He conceded defeat. He glanced at Jamison’s bruised face and a note of hope entered his voice. “However, if either this Huuygens or this Martins happens to come down to his cabin in the course of your search, don’t expect my security officer to leap to your rescue. You shall be on your own. I shall instruct my man to manage whatever excuse he can come up with, and then get to hell out of there, leaving you to your own devices. Is that clear?”
Jamison’s smile widened. His third finger bent down to join the other two.
“That’s the best part of the scheme,” he said smugly, and wondered why he had never thought of applying to the CIA, which obviously needed men of his caliber. “I know a very sure way to be positive both men are out of the way during the searches.” He reviewed his scheme and his face fell a bit as he suddenly remembered the young red-haired youth. “Of, course,” he added, “I shall need your good offices, but I’m sure we can rely on them, can’t we?”
13
Young Billy Standish sat at the table for two he had arranged in the dining room and glowered. It was not simply that the captain, at the last moment and without even a written invitation, had invited Anita to be his guest and dine in his quarters, thus depriving Billy of a meal he was positive might lead to something, but what on earth had ever induced the man to ask that Jamison along, too? And nobody else? Billy knew, because he had stood sulking outside the door to the captain’s quarters for fifteen minutes, divided between a desire to break in and demand the truth, and plain hunger. Hunger had won, but Billy still didn’t like the setup. He chewed moodily, scarcely aware of the quantities, wondering what on earth they could be talking about in the captain’s cabin.
The trio he was thinking of so glumly had finished their dessert; the captain’s orderly had cleared away the dishes and was bringing out the coffee when the captain cleared his throat in a manner that indicated that unfortunately the time had come to get on with the silly business to be discussed.
“Miss—”
Anita smiled brightly. “Call me Anita, Captain.”
“Thank you. With pleasure.” The captain beamed, pleased by the interruption. It seemed to him a rather shoddy business to involve a lovely young lady like this in Jamison’s scheme, but it was either that or the strong possibility of a few days on the carpet in New York. He sighed and motioned the orderly to bring cigars and brandy, and then turned back to the girl. Best to get on with it and get it over with. “Well, Anita, the fact is this gentleman here, Mr. Jamison, is with the United States Government. He—well, he would like your help.”
Anita looked at Jamison curiously. Throughout the dinner she had felt there was something faintly familiar about the man, and now it came to her. This was the man in the perfectly awful clothes who had been sitting with Kek in the 66 Roof when Billy Standish, for reasons never disclosed either at the time or since, had walked over and hustled the man around a corner, to return a few moments later dusting his hands. This could be very interesting. She looked at the captain.
“The government? My help?”
“Yes,” said the captain, pleased that the first step in the nasty business was over with. He poured himself a brandy and then suddenly remembered his manners, offering it to Anita. She shook her head and waited. The captain didn’t bother to offer anything to Jamison, but drank his drink. “Well,” he said, “you see—” He paused, sighed, and turned to his left. “Possibly you’d better explain.…”
“I think it would be best,” Jamison said coldly, and looked at Anita in his most official manner. In his evening clothes he knew he cut a distinguished figure, and he wanted his voice to be equally impressive. “Anita, I am with the Treasury Department of the United States Government. There is, on this ship, a man who is an international smuggler—”
“No!” Anita’s eyes widened in alarm; her hand automatically went to her throat, as if to protect the small, heart-shaped locket there. Had Billy Standish seen the gesture, it is almost sure he would have instantly abandoned his charcoal-broiled sirloin, medium, with mashed potatoes and peas on the side, to go to her rescue, but fortunately for his appetite he was unable to.
Jamison smiled a fatherly smile; had Billy seen it he would have called it wolfish
“No, no! There’s nothing to worry about. It’s simply that you can be useful to us in helping to trap him. And/or his accomplice.”
Anita sounded more horrified than ever. “He has an accomplice?”
“We’r
e not positive, but we’re fairly sure.” Jamison made it sound as if there were files upon files of proof merely awaiting someone’s inspection. “However, with your help—”
“My help?” Anita repeated. She had never looked or sounded so helpless in her life.
“Yes,” Jamison said firmly, and got down to business. “This man—his name is Huuygens, by the way—and a second man who boarded here at Barbados just this morning—his name is André Martins—are the two we are talking about. They stole a valuable carving—a Chang Tzu—but never mind—from the National Gallery on the island of Ile Rocheux the night before last, and they intend, one or the other, to take it past Customs in the United States when we dock.” Jamison’s jaw tightened in manly determination; his eyes became as steely as he could make them, challenging John Wayne at his best. “Or, rather, they intend to try. I intend to stop them.” He added, a bit weakly, “With your help, of course.”
“Terrible people,” Anita murmured and looked at him wonderingly. “But what can I possibly do to help?”
“It is necessary to have their cabins searched—”
“You are suggesting that I—”
“No, no!” Jamison wished he could remember exactly how he had practiced this conversation. “What I mean is,” he said patiently (after all, this was just a young woman who had little experience of life), “we need someone to keep these two men occupied while the security officer of the ship, together with myself, go through their things.” He hastened to correct any possible misapprehension. “It isn’t that I have any physical fears of the consequences of being interrupted, but we have gone to great lengths to prevent these men from knowing we suspect them at all, and we don’t want their suspicions aroused at this stage of the game. Do you understand?”
“I—I think so. You wish me—to act—how do you say? As a decoy for these men?” If Jamison could speak in fits and starts, so could she, Anita thought.
“Not a decoy,” Jamison explained, trying not to sound testy. “All you would have to do would be to allow one or both of them—both of them, preferably—to buy you drinks. Would that be so hard?”
The Wager Page 14