The Wager

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “They’re not locked.” Kek’s tone clearly indicated that only those without clear consciences needed to lock cases.

  “Good,” Jamison said, unimpressed by the playacting. “Blazak?”

  “Yes, sir!” The uniformed Customs man sprang to attention.

  With Jamison’s gesture, the search began. Blazak started with the small overnight case, while Jamison alternated his gaze from the case to Huuygens’ face. It was amazing how often people gave away their guilt, or a hiding place, by a quirk of the eyebrows or a tightening of the nostrils. Kek merely yawned, however, and leaned against one corner of the bench as Blazak went through the items there one by one. Shaving paraphernalia joined toothbrush and toothpaste, and in turn was joined by aspirin, mouthwash, spare razorblades, and deodorant. It was plain to Blazak that if an object the size of a pin failed to escape his search, certainly nothing the size of the carving he had been told they were searching for could, or would. When the overnight case had been emptied, the case’s sides, top, bottom, and ends were rapped and checked for thickness. Only when both Jamison and Blazak were certain the case was innocent of any wrongdoing, were the items replaced. Blazak snapped the lock shut and moved to the smaller of the remaining cases.

  Here the drill was repeated, with Jamison still watching and still not perturbed by the lack of evidence so far. He was sure that Huuygens had the carving—either Huuygens or his confederate—and the confederate was going through the same type of search in the adjoining room.

  The second case was emptied and studied. Then Blazak began replacing the socks, shoes, ties, and other apparel. Kek was pleased to note that Blazak, in addition to being thorough, was also neat, a trait he most probably learned at his mother’s knee, rather than in the Department.

  The second case was latched and the third case was opened, when Blazak found himself pushed aside as Jamison, in his eagerness, would not wait. “I’ll take this one myself,” he announced, and began dragging jackets and trousers precipitously from the case.

  “Hold it!” Huuygens said, annoyed. “You’ll wrinkle them!”

  “Will I, now!” Jamison said, and began pressing each garment between his hands.

  “Yes, you will, damn it!” Huuygens said, his voice taut. “Leave them alone! You’ll ruin them!”

  “Will I, now!” There was sudden triumph in Jamison’s voice; his horseface was aglow with success. He shoved a hand deep inside the inner pocket of a sport jacket. The lining had been torn and the object he had located was in back, down by the hem. A more casual examination might well have missed it. “You need a tailor,” Jamison told him with an attempt at humor, and withdrew a brightly colored package. It was the same one he had seen under Huuygens’ arm on the pier in Bridgetown, the one first seen and then removed from the duct in the other’s stateroom. “Well, well!” Jamison said, smiling. “I do believe we may have found that candy dish you lost!”

  Kek tried to look relieved. “Well. I certainly hope so. So that’s where it went, eh? I’ll have to get that lining fixed.” He put out his hand. “Let me have my declaration back and I’ll mark it down. ‘One candy dish, fifteen dollars, Wedgwood.’”

  “All my life,” Jamison said smugly, “I’ve wanted to see what a fifteen-dollar Wedgwood candy dish looked like.” He started unwrapping the package with hands that, despite himself, began to tremble with anticipation.

  “Hey!” Kek said in alarm but it was too late. The package was open.

  But Jamison did not hear him. He was staring down at the object in his hands. His lifelong ambition had finally been realized; he was seeing what a fifteen-dollar Wedgwood candy dish looked like.

  That was the day that became known in shipping circles as the Day of the Big Search, and probably made more passengers swear they would never take a ship again than the beggars in Haiti, or Hatteras at its worst. A stentorian blast on the loudspeakers advised all Customs officials to report to the office Jamison had commandeered for Operation Huuygens, and when they returned to duty it was to go through each passenger’s luggage and person with a thoroughness unequaled in the history of a department dedicated to thorough searching. Female agents were called in from adjoining piers to handle the women passengers; the Customs man nearest Anita apologized profusely as he handed her over to a large, matronly agent, but Anita was searched as thoroughly as the others. Offices were taken over for the more delicate aspects of the search. Every possible place an object the size of the carving could have been hidden was probed, poked, patted, or squeezed. And when it was finished late that afternoon, and the last fuming passenger finally released, together with Huuygens and Martins, Jamison sat alone in the little office, his aching head in his hands, considering the day from its hopeful inception to its horrible conclusion. His biggest problem—other than fruitless wonder as to how the devil Huuygens had accomplished it—was what to say to his superior when he called in to report. It was, however, the one worry he did not have to contend with, for the telephone at his elbow rang before he could formulate his thoughts, let alone place a call to Washington. It was, as he feared, his superior.

  “Jamison!”

  “Sir?”

  The icy voice was withering in its anger.

  “What in the name of God have you been doing all day? I’ve had sixteen calls in the past two hours! Did you know there was a tour of Justice Department wives on that cruise?”

  “There was?” The truth was that at that point Jamison just didn’t care.

  “And one of them just finished having hysterics over the telephone in my ear, and for fifteen minutes! What do you mean, body-searching the wife of an Assistant Attorney General?”

  “Did they do that? I personally didn’t touch a—”

  “Keep quiet! And did you know the press is saying we’re dictatorial, and that Congress should investigate your idiotic directions today? The Daily News is asking for a special committee!”

  “They are?”

  “Keep quiet! And did you know,” the man in Washington went on cuttingly, “that the president of that steamship line happens to be an old golfing friend of the Secretary of the Treasury? Your boss, and—more important—mine?”

  “He is?”

  “He is! Now, start talking, Jamison, and make it good!”

  Jamison sighed. He was past fear; now all he felt was weariness and the residual soreness of his nose and jaw.

  “I don’t know how he did it,” he said, biting back a yawn, “but he brought it in. He didn’t have it with him, nor did his confederate, either—nor anyone else, for that matter, because we searched them, but still he brought it in. Under our noses. It was a candy dish.”

  “Stop driveling! What do you mean, it was a candy dish?”

  “Wrapped in colored paper,” Jamison added, and allowed the yawn to win.

  “What are you talking about? Jamison, are you sober?”

  “He had it wrapped to look like a candy dish, only when we opened it, it was a candy dish. Like I just said,” Jamison went on, unable to fathom why his superior, normally a fairly intelligent man, seemed unable to follow the discussion.

  There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Then, “Jamison, go home and take a cold bath. And then take a glass of tomato juice with some Worcestershire sauce and two aspirin—”

  “He had aspirin—”

  “—and then sleep if off. When you feel better, report to the office. Better bring a bag with you.”

  “I’m going somewhere, sir?”

  “Yes. I intend to have papers cut, transferring you to Point Barrow.”

  “Point Barrow, sir? Isn’t that in Alaska?”

  “It is.”

  “That’s above the Arctic Circle, isn’t it, sir?”

  “It is.”

  “Do we have an office there, sir?”

  “If we don’t, we’ll open one,” said the man in Washington with finality, and hung up.

  “Yes, sir,” Jamison said obediently to the dial tone, and yawned. “I�
�ll do that, sir. And thank you, sir.…”

  André Martins, having seen their luggage properly stowed in the front seat of the taxi, climbed in beside Huuygens while the other man gave the driver directions. He looked sideways and with admiration at Huuygens as the taxi started up and swung into 57th Street, heading for the East Side.

  “How did you do it, Kek?”

  “How did I do what?”

  “You know damn well what I mean! How did you—” He paused abruptly, glancing at the driver, then lowered his voice, even though they were speaking French. “You know!”

  “Oh, that?” Kek laughed. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over a drink at the apartment.” He looked at André, a twinkle in his eye. “How did you enjoy the search?”

  “I was going to object. Strenuously,” André reported honestly, “but I figured they’d take away my visa—”

  “For breaking an inspector’s back? Or even his arm? Very likely,” Kek said dryly.

  André considered his friend with respect. “You go through that all the time? And keep your temper?”

  Kek shrugged. “It’s part of the game. Usually I’m the only one to suffer, but this time, because of that damned bodyguard of Girard’s and his big mouth—and because Jamison, for all his faults, was smart enough to figure out that if I had a confederate, it could well be whoever joined the ship in Barbados, and you were the only one who did—you and the rest had to suffer with me. I’ll try to be more careful in the future and not make verbal deals before third parties.”

  He leaned forward, directing the driver. The cab swung in an illegal U-turn, coming to rest before a large apartment. Kek paid the man and climbed down after André. The large man picked up the four suitcases with ease, refusing help, and followed Huuygens into the building. In the elevator, the doorman behind him, André looked around, smiled at the luxury, and said, “Tomorrow I’ll get the rest of my money from Girard and find myself a small hotel for a few months.”

  “You’ll pick up the money and then come right back to the apartment,” Kek said firmly. “Anita would never let me hear the end of it if you ever stayed anywhere else. And, after all, I have to live with the woman.”

  André grinned. “In that case—”

  The elevator door slid back silently. Kek led the way down the hall, dug out his apartment key, opened the door, and ushered André inside. “Put down the bags and let’s have that drink.” He raised his voice. “Anita?”

  “Yes?” The voice was faint, coming from a bedroom.

  “Come in here and have a drink with us. What are you doing?”

  Anita poked her head around the sill of the hall entrance. “I’m unpacking, darling.”

  Kek looked at her in surprise. “Unpacking?”

  “That’s what people usually do when they come back from a cruise,” Anita answered reasonably, and came into the room.

  “Ah!” Kek saw her point at last, and also her mistake. “But I promised you cruises, not a single cruise, don’t you remember? And this time we’ll have adjoining staterooms, and a flaming shipboard romance, and everything that goes with it, to make up for the last one.” He moved behind the bar and started to set out glasses while André and Anita stared at him. Kek reached for a bottle of brandy. “We leave at seven o’clock this evening, sweet. For Philadelphia, by train. The Andropolis sails from there at midnight.”

  Anita settled on a barstool with an unbelieving look on her pretty face. André sat down beside her, staring at Huuygens.

  “You’re going to take another cruise? On the same ship?”

  “Of course,” Kek said, and poured. He slid glasses over the countertop, retaining one for himself. “I have to. The carving is there on board.”

  “What?”

  “Yes—behind a dresser drawer in my stateroom. I figured Jamison wouldn’t look there again, not after he found that lovely-wrapped package missing from the air-conditioning duct.” He laughed. “That was the carving, at the time. The candy dish was where it belonged, on the vanity, full of caramels. One thing I’m pleased about—I won’t have to keep wrapping and rewrapping anymore.”

  There was a lot about this that André didn’t understand, but one thing was quite clear.

  “Yes, but when you come back this time, they’ll be twice as suspicious!”

  Kek smiled. “Not quite. As the young lady at the travel agency said, this one is just a Cruise to Nowhere, three or four days on the ocean for people who just like the sight and sound of the sea, and—although she failed to mention it—each other’s company.” He smiled genially at the two people staring at him. “And they don’t even open the ship’s shop, because, you see, passengers on a Cruise to Nowhere aren’t bothered by the nasty Customs when they return.…”

  He smiled more widely, winked, and raised his glass.

  “And if nobody else does it this time, I’ll do it myself. To a bon voyage.”

  16

  Andre Martins sat at ease on the sofa, feet elevated and a beer in one hand, doing his best to understand the mentality that could find pleasure in an early-morning game-show. The sound of a key in the lock was lost in the greater clamor from a correct answer to an infantile question on the television, for what reason André could not say. He looked up at the opening door and then jumped to his feet to help Kek with the luggage. Anita followed, looking tanned and happy, closing the door behind her. André, glad that his four days of lonely exile were ended, turned off the television set and went back of the bar, reaching for glasses.

  “How was the trip?”

  “Wonderful!” Anita said. “A lot better than the last time.”

  “I always told you cruises should be taken in doses,” Kek said, and started to shuck his jacket. “There are just so many red-haired young men in the world, and fortunately the supply ran out before this cruise, so we were able to enjoy ourselves.”

  “Don’t say anything about Billy Standish,” Anita said with mock severity. “He was thoughtful, and kind—”

  “And courteous and helpful, and everything else Boy Scouts should be,” Kek conceded. “The one thing he forgot was that Boy Scouts shouldn’t lust after beautiful young ladies.”

  Anita laughed. “If that was lust, give me—well, give me this last trip.”

  André cut into the conversation, looking at Kek. “What about—”

  “On schedule.” Huuygens put aside his jacket and bent over his small briefcase. He opened it and brought out a bulky package. The carving had been protected by several thick folds of cardboard, then further cushioned with a pair of Kek’s pajamas. He carefully unwrapped it, put aside the cardboard, and set it on the bar. Anita shook her head.

  “I’ve seen it daily on the trip. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “I know,” André said, and grinned. “Even if I never saw it except through a glass case.” He glanced at his watch and reached for the brandy. “What time do you have to be at Girard’s?”

  “Noon.” Kek swung himself onto a stool. “Plenty of time.”

  André pushed the bottle over. “Want me along? Just in case Girard changes his mind about the odds, now that the carving is actually here, and not there? Or tries to get cute in any other way? I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s not a nice man.”

  Kek shook his head and poured himself a drink.

  “I agree that Girard is not a nice man, but you don’t understand his mentality,” he said, and sipped. “I wouldn’t buy a used car from him, and if he handed anyone a pistol to start a game of Russian roulette, three to one all chambers would be loaded. But welsh on a gambling wager? He’ll live up to every comma and period on any bet he makes, if it breaks his heart. His pride wouldn’t allow him any other choice.” André didn’t look too convinced. Kek set down his drink, frowning. “You received the rest of your fee, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, sure,” André said, waving that aside. “But that was peanuts. Your case is a lot different—”

  “Not to worry,” Kek said confidently,
and finished his drink. “Well, I’ll go in and wrap this thing decently, and then go visit M’sieu Girard. I’d hate to have him pacing the floor and thinking we Huuygens were men without honor, just by being a minute late.” He picked up the carving and paused before going into his study. “I shouldn’t be with Girard too long. Where do you want to eat?”

  “How about right here?” Anita suggested. “I’m ready to start being a cook again, and I’m sure André must be tired of eating in restaurants.”

  “You can start being a cook tonight,” Kek said, and smiled. “Let’s celebrate at lunch today. In fact, let’s celebrate at the Quinleven Club. At one?” Kek looked at his watch. “And to bring your cup to overflowing,” he added, “you can even ask Max to join us. With or without Rose.”

  Anita frowned at him. “Max?”

  “Max,” Kek said firmly. “We owe him more than you think,” he added and went in to prepare his package.

  The apartment house in which Victor Girard lived was less than three blocks from Kek’s building. The day was unusually pleasant for early August, with a slight breeze and a dryness in the air that was almost invigorating. Kek walked along, his briefcase held firmly. Fifty thousand dollars to five; ten-thousand-to-one odds. Not bad, he had to admit to himself, and pushed through the heavy glass doors into the interior. He gave the doorman his name, glancing at the wall clock as he waited to be announced. Twelve o’clock exactly. A business deal to be consummated, and that would be the last time he would be forced to see M’sieu Girard. Which, Kek calculated, would be no great hardship.

  Permission finally having been granted from above, Kek entered the elevator and was whisked to the proper floor. The door opened with a whisper and he found himself in an ornate corridor that gave an indication of the kind of luxury one might expect within the apartment. Kek pressed the small button and heard the chimes within. Before their echo could die away in the stillness, the door had been yanked open and Girard was facing him. The tiny black eyes darted instantly to the briefcase, even before he stepped back to invite Huuygens to enter.

  “Come in, come in!”