Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991

Rich — or Dead by David A. Heller

Clay Felton, twenty, American student tourist, clad in leather sandals, khaki shorts, and a dusty, sweat-stained brown sport shirt, walked the narrow Oude Zijds Voorburgwal of Amsterdam in discouragement. He had hoped to find in the Zeedjik district a cheap pension for the night, but the tourist season was in full swing in Amsterdam, and anything he could afford — certainly no more than eight guilders, about two dollars and a quarter — was filled. For nearly three months, Clay had knocked around Europe on a very inadequate budget, traveling in third class coaches, cycling, staying in youth hostels, sometimes sleeping in the haystack of an agreeable farmer. Still, his money had not stretched quite far enough. He had less than ten dollars in his pocket, with three and a half days before his ship, Groot Vreeling, the last student ship of the season, sailed from Amsterdam for New York. Yet it had been a good trip. Next year it was graduation from college, and then probably the army for him. Clay was glad he had been able to spend a summer in Europe on what he had been able to scrape together.

Clay philosophically shrugged. Something would turn up. It always had. He was hungry, for he had not eaten since lunch, and then only coffee and two broodies, the small, open-faced sandwiches that are offered everywhere in Dutch cafes and food shops. He had decided to skip eating an evening meal to save money. By the most stringent economy, he would barely be able to hold out until his boat sailed for America.

Clay turned off the Oude Zijds Voorburgwal onto a dimly lighted side street. The narrow thoroughfare was dank with the dampness that comes late at night from Amsterdam’s canals, and evil-smelling. Prices ought to be cheaper here. Perhaps he could find an upstairs place where he could afford to get a room for the evening. Otherwise, it would be sitting up all night in the railroad station for him. His luggage was checked at the railway station so he could search for a room unencumbered. Clay shrugged his broad shoulders and ran a hand through pale blond hair. In spite of his natural optimism, he was discouraged. The prospect of spending a night in any of the dives he had seen, even though he had been turned down because they were full, was not something to anticipate. Anything he might find would be worse.

Clay paused by the darkened door of a cheap rooming house. Abruptly, a hand suddenly grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. His first reaction was that he was being robbed, and he struggled free. Then he saw that the hand that had grabbed him belonged to a woman, a woman of the Zeedjik, dressed in a flimsy red kimono.

The woman hissed to him in English, “Do you want someone to see you? Come in. The police could be just around the corner.”

If Clay had been thinking clearly he would have resisted, but he was startled, and his native Tennessee courtesy did not permit him to strike a woman. Before he quite realized what was happening, she had pulled him inside but paid no attention to him until she had locked the door. The window shade was drawn.

Then her manner abruptly changed. She turned to inspect him critically. “Your disguise is good, Eric. Very good. You do look like a down-at-the-heels American student traveler.”

Clay fought back the involuntary smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I do my best to look authentic,” he said.

“You have done well. Klaas will be pleased. I shall tell him how good your disguise is. Wait, I will bring your package and your money.” Then the woman in the red kimono vanished into another room.

Dazed, Clay sat down on the edge of the bed. Slowly, his mind began to work. It occurred to him that he had accidentally blundered into a dangerous situation. It was obviously a case of mistaken identity, and the terror at being observed by the police puzzled him. The police do not bother the women of the Zeedjik — or their customers. No, this must be something much more than that. Clay was sorely tempted to get out but, before he could escape, the woman returned.

Involuntarily, Clay found his eyes drawn to the young woman’s face and body. She appeared to be about twenty-five, with a hard look, but different. She belonged to the underworld, but she was almost stunningly beautiful. Her air, the way she walked, spelled money, big money. She was redhaired, with finely-etched nose and chin, an elegant mouth, and unblemished skin. Clay found himself staring at her, open-mouthed.

The woman read his thoughts and flushed slightly. Unconsciously, she drew the folds of the wispy red kimono more tightly around her.

“It was too dangerous to give you the delivery at the hotel,” she said simply. “The hotel is being watched. I had to pretend to be a woman of the Zeedjik for this one night.”

Clay Felton nodded. “Good idea.”

“Here’s your money. Count it, please, so there will be no question of a mistake. The rest you will receive when the delivery is made in America.” She handed him a thick packet of Dutch currency.

Since she expected him to count the money, he did so. It amounted to five thousand Dutch guilders — about fourteen hundred dollars, American.

“Here’s what you are to deliver. Just put it in your baggage, but be very careful with it, please.”

To Clay’s astonishment, she handed him a pair of souvenir Dutch wooden shoes. He turned them toward the light. The wooden shoes were varnished, with decals of garlands of brightly-colored tulips, and a Dutch boy and girl holding hands. In English, each shoe carried the legend Amsterdam, Venice of the North. Both wooden shoes were filled with Dutch chocolates wrapped in gold foil. The shoes were tied together and covered with cellophane. Similar chocolate-filled wooden shoes were on sale at every souvenir shop in Amsterdam for about two dollars a pair. Clay wondered what this special pair contained — heroin or diamonds?

“Clever. Shouldn’t attract any attention at Customs.”

“They won’t. There is no risk for you.”

I’ll bet, Clay thought, but he said nothing.

“You’d better leave quickly. I’ll show you out the back way.”

Clay gazed speculatively at the scantily-clad woman. She was very attractive.

“Hurry!” she urged him. “Every minute you are here, there is danger. You could be killed.”

Clay did not reply. He thrust a hand into the pocket of his khaki shorts, drew out a package of cigarettes, and offered her one, which was nervously refused. Then he lit a cigarette for himself. He gazed at her speculatively.

“Pity. Such an exotic place, such a beautiful woman. One should take advantage of life’s opportunities, don’t you think?”

The attractive, redhaired woman flushed and drew the red kimono tighter around herself. However, to Clay, she did not seem especially displeased. It had been his experience that women are more apt to be displeased with the man who does not make a pass at them then with the one who does.

“Don’t be a fool, Eric. Your boat leaves in two hours.”

“I’ll make the boat in plenty of time.” He wondered which boat it was that left in two hours. He seized her by the waist.

“No! Please don’t! Klaas would kill you — and me — if he dreamed you laid a finger on me.” The girl’s eyes were blue and very wide open. She spoke with genuine terror, her voice rising to a squeal.

Clay wondered who Klaas was, but he smiled knowingly. “You can’t very well put up much of a fuss then, can you? And then there’s the police. You wouldn’t want to attract their attention, would you?”

Without waiting for her to answer, Clay drew her toward him, but she turned away. Perhaps she feared that every moment was dangerous and only wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible. On the other hand, it might have been masculine vanity but he felt that she did not object nearly as much as she pretended. Her blue eyes were shining, and Clay imagined she was not at all displeased to think herself femininely irresistible. Nevertheless, she led him up a crumbling back stairway and let him out into the black, deserted street.

Clay turned toward the railroad station, but had gone only three blocks when he came upon a crowd of people clustered about the Zeedjik Canal. Searchlights from police boats stabbed fingers of white light through the black night. They were dragging the canal for something. Lost in the crowd, he waited. A few minutes later, the grappling hooks pulled the body of a man to the surface. Heavy weights were tied to a metal chain looped about the bare knees. Foul, oozing mud covered the face and eyes. A gasp of horror swept the crowd. The corpse’s throat had been hideously slashed so that the head was barely attached. Clay Felton noticed something else. The corpse had light blond hair, wore khaki shorts, leather sandals, and a sport shirt, and looked like an American college student.

His first impulse was to hide. It might be dangerous even to walk the few blocks to the railroad station. Instinctively, he headed into the darkness toward a bridge. In Europe, the poorest of the poor sleep under bridges — and they are seldom bothered. Running into the darkness, he found a deserted area, and then clambered under the supports of one of the innumerable bridges that dot Amsterdam.

Presently, for he had not eaten and was famished, he tore the cellophane from one of the wooden shoes filled with chocolates. Biting into the candy carefully, he cracked the chocolate off, and a sparkling, gleaming diamond was in his hand. In the two wooden shoes there were twenty-four diamonds.

Clay Felton sat hunched up in the musty dampness under the bridge and did the hardest thinking of his life. The idea of being a thief had never seriously occurred to him before. Now, however, he was in possession of a fortune. The gleaming diamonds, which he carefully placed in his money belt, made him feel like a walking branch of Tiffany’s. If he could get the diamonds safely into the United States, he would be rich. If he could not, he was dead. It was that simple. The murder of the man dragged out of the canal was proof that diamond smuggling was a deadly business. Not only the smuggling ring but also the police would be combing Amsterdam for the murderer.

Clay had no way to prove his innocence. No alibi. He did not know a soul in Amsterdam. No one could vouch for his whereabouts at the probable time of the murder.

What was worse, the smugglers could realize their mistake.

So it all boiled down to a place to hide.

Where could he hide? Hole up in a cheap hotel for three days? No. Cheap hotels would be the first place they would look. Gradually, the outline of a bold plan formed in Clay’s mind. Thinking hard, he went over it and over it and over it again in his mind. Then, bone-weary, he was gradually overcome by sleep. There was nothing he could do until morning anyway, and he needed the rest.

The noises of Amsterdam’s early morning traffic awakened him, but Clay did not venture out from his cranny underneath the bridge until swarms of people were on the street, hurrying to work. Then he felt it safe to melt into the rushing throng. His first step was to take a tram to the railway station. Then he bought a Dutch newspaper, glanced at it, saw that a picture of the murdered man was on the front page. He wanted to read the story but could not make out the language. Anyway, he was in a hurry, with more important things to do.

Clay reclaimed his baggage from the luggage room, went into the men’s room, washed quickly, and ran a comb through his disheveled hair. Then he went into a pay lavatory, took his wrinkled blue suit from the valise, and put it on. Wrapping his faded khaki shorts, sport shirt, and sandals in the Dutch newspaper, he waited until nobody was looking, then dumped the bundle into a trash container. Examining himself in the mirror, he was partially satisfied. Then he rechecked his luggage.

The next step was to find a barber. Explaining that he wanted a shave was easy, but trying to get the idea across to a Dutch barber that he wanted an unfamiliar crew haircut was harder. Somehow he managed. Next, Clay walked down the Damrak until he found an optical shop. The clerk spoke English, so it was not difficult to explain that he had lost his glasses and needed a pair to replace them for reading. No, he was sorry he did not remember the prescription. Clay glanced at some eye charts, and the clerk gave him a weak prescription that magnified objects only slightly. After selecting a dark, horn-rimmed frame for his glasses, Clay looked at himself in the mirror and was satisfied that a dramatic change had been made in his appearance. He paid for the glasses with one of the bills the redhaired girl had given him. There was much change. One thing he did not have to worry about now was money.

The next stop was a famous men’s clothing store on Dam Square where he selected a conservative outfit and emerged from the changing rooms wearing his new apparel. As an afterthought, he bought a hat to cover his light blond hair.

Clay hailed a cab and went next to the V.V.V., Amsterdam’s official tourist organization, where he requested a room at the Grand Hotel Krasnapolsky. His luck was good. The clerk was able to get him a reservation, so Clay went across the street to the railroad station, reclaimed his checked luggage, and was registered in the Krasnapolsky fifteen minutes later.

Next came a hot, soaking bath. Then he called room service and ordered breakfast: ham and eggs, toast, a jar of good Dutch jam, and a pot of black coffee. Stretched luxuriously on a soft, clean bed, Clay decided that if he might die, he was going to live first class while he could. After eating, he fell into an exhausted sleep.

Waking, he ventured into the lobby of the hotel, bought the Paris edition of a New York paper, then went into the dining room and ordered lunch. While waiting for his steak, Clay leafed through the pages of the newspaper. On page four he found what he was looking for:

Since there are swarms of tourists in Amsterdam at all seasons of the year, Clay decided that his best disguise was to hide out in plain sight — taking on the protective coloration of the sightseeing tourist. He bought a guidebook and systematically pursued the tourist sights of the city: the magnificent Rijksmuseum, with its many Rembrandts, the Stedelijk Museum, which has hundreds of Van Gogh canvases, the Rembrandthuis, the home of Rembrandt, the tropical plant museum. For three days, Clay haunted museums and art galleries, and nobody paid the slightest attention to him.

The Groot Vreeling, upon which Clay Felton was to return to the United States from Amsterdam, has a reputation as a “student ship.” Those who have sailed it describe it as a kind of floating madhouse. It has few comforts. Commercial and well-heeled passengers seldom travel it. Its appeal is economy, the cheapest way to get between Europe and America. Most of its space is booked months in advance. The cabins are packed with seven hundred college students, three or four to a tiny cabin, though a few higher-priced staterooms often go begging. Clay considered getting a stateroom or changing his reservation to fly back, but decided to do nothing that might attract attention to himself, like canceling one reservation and trying to get another.

He checked out of the Grand Hotel Krasnapolsky and arrived at the pier by taxi. An enormous mob of students milled about, but he saw nothing suspicious. For a brief moment he was exultant. He had made it. Then, as he walked down the pier, his heart sank. Far down, the red-haired woman was standing beside the embarkation gangplank. Beside her stood an enormous fat man in a dark suit and two tall, muscular men who had gangster written all over them.

Clay was panicstricken. Had they found out about him? It was logical that they should check the ship, since the Groot Vreeling was the last student ship sailing for the season. The original scheme was to have a smuggler, disguised as a student, take the diamonds across. The diamonds had been given to someone who resembled a student. Perhaps they were checking students to see if any carried a pair of souvenir wooden shoes filled with chocolates.

Clay tipped a porter to have his baggage taken aboard. Then he turned and walked half a block to a souvenir shop.

“Do you speak English here?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have fifty of these?” He pointed to a pair of the wooden shoes filled with chocolates.

“Fifty, sir?” The souvenir man was astonished.

“Yes. I’m doing some public relations work for the New York office of the Groot Vreeling. If I buy fifty of these, can you have someone stand out front and give them away? But only give them to young men students who can show a ticket for this sailing of the Groot Vreeling. A separate gift will be given on board to the young ladies.” Clay pulled out several large bills.

“I’m sure it can be arranged, sir.”

“Very well. Give me a receipt for my office, please.” Clay thought that sounded businesslike. “And remember, say, ‘Compliments of the Groot Vreeling,’ each time you give one away. And give them only to young men students who can show you their tickets.”

“You can depend on it, sir.”

“This is an experiment. If it builds good will for the line, you may get other business in the future.”

Clay paid over three hundred seventy-five Dutch guilders, got his receipt, walked a few steps to an outdoor cafe and ordered coffee, then watched as the fifty sets of chocolate-filled wooden shoes were quickly dispensed.

He chuckled as he thought of the watching four going slightly crazy trying to check all those pairs of souvenir shoes. Then he got in line and calmly walked aboard. The redhaired woman, the fat man, the two mobsters did not give him more than a passing glance. Wearing a hat, bespectacled, well-dressed, he hardly resembled at all the poor student to whom the diamonds had been given.

Clay’s cabin was on C deck, deep in the bowels of the ship. It bore no relation to the luxury in which he had been living. Two other college-age students were already in the cramped space.

“Hi, I’m Tony McKenzie, Toledo, Ohio.” A handsome, dark-haired extrovert grinned at him.

“I’m Clay Felton, Nashville, Tennessee.”

“This is Howard Braden. He’s from Chicago.”

They shook hands all around.

Tony, it quickly developed, was a smooth operator with the girls. He looked Clay over appraisingly, decided he did not have two heads and was socially acceptable.

“How about going up to the bar for a beer?”

“Okay,” Clay agreed.

As they were walking up the passageway to the Main deck, Tony grew confidential. “Clay, I’ve been circulating around. Making contacts.”

“Oh?”

“The best the Groot Vreeling has to offer this trip are a couple of belles from Louisville. I’ve made a date for us to meet them in the bar.” Then he added, “Howard’s okay, but he’s not the type any pretty girl is going to flip over, and we’ve got to move in fast.”

Clay laughed, expecting that he had been made the goat to escort a dog while Tony latched onto the dear, but when he met Janet Neal and Anne Gardner he changed his mind. Janet, a dramatic brunette, and Tony had already begun what was to be a torrid shipboard romance. Anne Gardner was a vivacious honey blonde, and had green eyes. Somewhat to Clay’s surprise, she was also intelligent. Anne seemed embarrassed at falling into the blind date category, but he quickly found himself liking her very much.

Then he glanced up and received a terrifying shock. The redhaired woman from the Zeedjik, her fat, sinister companion, and the two darksuited musclemen were on board as passengers, probably in one of the expensive staterooms which the students couldn’t afford. They walked slowly through the bar, looking people over, glancing from side to side.

The days quickly fell into a pattern, with sunning, swimming, eating, dancing, drinking beer, and at night making whatever amorous arrangements the cramped, crowded quarters of the ship permitted.

Clay permitted Tony and Janet to throw him and Anne together. It would not do to be too much the lone wolf, to behave in any way suspiciously. He took Anne swimming and dancing, played shuffleboard with her, flirted with her, kissed her casually on the moonlit deck, flattered her in an offhand, absentminded way. What he was really thinking about — night and day — was the voluptuous redhead and her companions and, above all, how to stay out of their way.

They were thorough and methodical, those four, circulating, scrutinizing everybody, eliminating the possibilities. The red-haired woman was their bird dog. She had a disconcerting way of moving quietly into circles of people and listening to conversation, straining to recognize a certain voice she had heard in the Zeedjik.

Clay was evasive and managed to stay out of their way, but surreptitiously, he kept following the spectacular figure in tight green stretch pants. His wandering eyes did not escape Anne’s alert notice.

“Who’s the redhead?” Clay arched an eyebrow toward the girl he had unexpectedly met that fateful night in the Zeedjik. Anne knew everybody on board. She made it her business to know. She was that kind of girl.

“She’s French. Her name is Francoise Bourdon. You seem to find her quite fascinating.”

“Who’s the fat guy with her?”

“He’s her uncle,” Tony McKenzie broke in, with a meaningful smirk. “His name is De Jongh, and they say he’s loaded; in the diamond business.”

“Everybody who believes he’s really her uncle go stand in the corner on his pointed head.” Anne was jealous of Clay’s sudden interest in the Frenchwoman. “I suppose she’s pretty — if you like the hard type.”

Clay grinned. “I prefer honey blondes with green eyes myself.” Then he added, “Soft and cuddly.”

“You’re maddening, Clay.”

“Why?”

“You keep saying things like that to me — and then you never do anything about it.”

It took Francoise Bourdon and De Jongh exactly five days, fourteen hours, and thirty-five minutes to find him out. There was a bull session around the postage-stamp-sized swimming pool. Clay was flirting in an absentminded way with Anne Gardner, and they were all talking and laughing. He had not even noticed Francoise, in her sexy scarlet bikini, standing behind him, carefully listening.

Then he turned suddenly and, looking straight into Francoise’s blue eyes, realized at once that she recognized him.

After that, it was just a matter of time before Francoise skillfully maneuvered him alone. He was standing by the railing when she quietly moved beside him. “Hello, Mr. Felton.”

Startled, Clay turned to see the redhaired Francoise smiling pleasantly at him. “Remember me?”

Clay recovered as quickly as he could. “Of course — from the pool.”

The scarlet mouth continued smiling. “And also from the Zeedjik, Mr. Felton. You told me — what were your words? — that I was beautiful. How unflattering to be forgotten so soon.”

Clay was too startled to deny it. Besides, denials were obviously useless.

Francoise was gay and cheery about giving him the bad news. “There is little time to waste in idle conversation, chéri. I remember your voice quite well. I must compliment you. You have — how do you say it? — a bedroom voice.”

“What happens next, Francoise?”

“Ah, you have taken the trouble to learn my name! How gallant.”

“I remember you very well, of course.”

Clay saw a flicker of interest flash across her eyes. It would do no harm to flatter her a little. He was in a very tough spot.

Abruptly, Francoise’s manner changed to great seriousness. “What a charming boy! How sad that you must soon die, unless you are very clever and do exactly what Klaas asks you to do. You must realize that you are in grave danger. You have put us to a very great deal of trouble.” There was no hint of the former light mockery.

Speculatively, Francoise’s blue eyes gazed at him, almost with affection. “You are lucky, cheri, very lucky. More lucky than any man I have ever known.”

Clay shrugged. He didn’t feel lucky. “Why?”

She turned light and gay again. “First, because, quite by accident, you happen to remind me of a sweet boy I once loved. That was very long ago, before many things happened.” For the briefest of moments a shadow of unutterable sadness flickered over Francoise Bourdon’s face. “Because of that, I have interceded with Klaas on your behalf. Second, and more important, you are now in a position to be useful to Klaas. But do not push your luck too far. Klaas is in the bar. He wishes to speak with you. Agree to do exactly what he says if you wish to live.”

Francoise slipped her arm through his. They walked into the bar, smiling and chatting like old friends. Anne Gardner saw them and turned her face away.

Klaas De Jongh rose to greet him. They shook hands quite cordially. Clay saw the fat underworld figure eyeing him with interest. The two darksuited strongmen were also sitting at the table. De Jongh ordered a round of martinis, and then got right to the point.

“The diamonds, Mr. Felton. I want them back. Most ingenious of you to have murdered the late Mr. Eric Phelan and taken his place. But, of course, you can’t possibly get away with it. I have business associates in New York. I assure you, you won’t live a day after we reach port — unless you wish to come to an arrangement with me.”

Klaas De Jongh purred the words in a soft, barely audible whisper. The menace was the more terrifying for its matter-of-fact tone.

Clay shook his head. “I didn’t murder Phelan. That was somebody else.”

De Jongh mopped his fat face with a fine linen handkerchief, and smiled through yellowed teeth. “Perhaps so. I have business rivals.”

“I didn’t do it.”

Klaas raised a fat hand. “It’s immaterial — to everyone except poor Eric, of course. And to the police. What is important now is that I had a business arrangement with Eric. I should like to persuade you to carry it out.”

“What was the arrangement?”

“Ten thousand American dollars, Mr. Felton. Simply take the stones through Customs, then turn them over to me. You will receive ten thousand dollars in cash.”

Clay Felton felt flushed and his pulse pounded. “No. That’s not very generous, Mr. De Jongh. The diamonds must be worth half a million.”

De Jongh smiled. “Let’s not quibble over price, Mr. Felton. Make it twenty thousand.”

Clay took a deep breath, then gulped down the rest of his martini. “Mr. De Jongh, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Splendid.” The fat man beamed expansively. Clay imagined that he could have asked for more and gotten it.

“One thing, Mr. De Jongh. Let’s not do anything foolish like having me thrown overboard tonight, huh? The diamonds are hidden — and you still need me to get them through Customs for you — unless you want to do that little job yourself.”

De Jongh feigned shocked indignation. “Mr. Felton! I am a man of honor!”

“Sure.” Clay tried not to make his voice sound too dry. “Well, thanks for the drink. See you tomorrow at Customs.” Clay rose and walked out on deck. For a long time, he gazed at the blue, dancing waves, cut against the ship’s side by the white foam of the vessel’s wake.

It was all a stall to buy time, to live perhaps one more night. Whatever happened, his future looked grim. Clay did not for a moment believe that De Jongh would actually pay over twenty thousand dollars for smuggling in the diamonds. Really, it was as cheap for De Jongh to promise him twenty thousand dollars as ten thousand. Once past Customs, Clay could look forward to the same fate as Eric Phelan. An attempted theft of a half million dollars’ worth of gem diamonds would not be forgiven by an international smuggling ring as rich and well organized as De Jongh’s. Also, he knew too much for the gang to permit him to live.

What next? He pondered deeply as he watched the rolling blue Atlantic. His first impulse was to panic, to hide. He could skip dinner, stay away from his cabin, perhaps hide somewhere in the engine room, or in a lifeboat (he quickly discarded that idea), or some deserted part of the ship, then make a break for it early tomorrow morning.

The problem was that a ship is a cramped, jampacked floating city in which there aren’t any unused spaces. If he tried to sneak into the engine room he’d be as conspicuous as a two-headed calf to the crew, and to hide in some obvious place, like under the canvas of a lifeboat, would be to invite death. De Jongh and his men would be sure to be watching him. If he disappeared, or acted suspiciously, they would come looking. If they ever caught him alone, it would be easy enough for De Jongh’s strongarm boys to work him over quietly, get out of him where the diamonds were, take them, and then pitch him over the side in the dark of night.

The only safe thing, Clay decided, was to stay in the middle of crowds of people, away from possible lonely passageways or deserted decks. He walked back into the bar and was relieved to see that it was filled with people. Glancing around, he saw Tony McKenzie, Anne and Janet Neal, and a circle of other students surrounding them.

“Hi, may I join you?”

“Sure. Draw up a chair.”

Clay pulled up a chair beside Anne. The talk turned to the captain’s farewell party that night, then to the war in Vietnam, the draft, the Peace Corps, and modem art, the usual things. Anne was enthusiastic about the Peace Corps and planned to join it for two years after graduation from college. A friend of hers had signed up, been sent to Nigeria, and had had many adventures which Anne described as “fabulous.”

“Clay! You’re not half listening to me!” Anne smiled at him. “Your mind is a million miles away.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ve been talking too much.”

“No. I like to hear you talk. I was just thinking that a pretty girl like you would be wasted in Nigeria.”

She was pleased with the compliment, and he forced his mind to focus on the conversation. If his preoccupation was all that evident, that was bad. He had to act and appear as natural as possible.

Somebody suggested a swim in the pool, but the girls had had their hair fixed for the captain’s party and didn’t want to get it wet.

“Why don’t we have a shuffle-board tournament?” Anne asked.

It was agreed that everybody would put a dollar in the pot, with the winning team taking all. Clay was pleased with the suggestion. That would keep a crowd together for at least a couple of hours. Then it would be time to go down and dress for dinner. It would be a dirty trick to play on Tony, who would be anxious to get Janet into as many dark corners as possible tonight, but it was his intention to stick to them like glue.

Anne and he played well in shuffleboard and reached the semifinals. Then, as if struck by inspiration, he turned to her: “Tony and Janet are going to the Captain’s Ball tonight. Why don’t we go with them and double date?”

Anne smiled and said softly, “At last! I thought you’d never ask me.”

“I thought you knew I would.”

The decks were crowded with people taking the late afternoon sun, and Clay judged it was sage to invite Anne to go for a shipboard stroll with him. They passed De Jongh’s two dark-suited men. Involuntarily, Clay flinched. He was honestly scared to death, but tried not to show it.

“Clay, there’s something mysterious about you. What’s the matter?”

Startled, for he had almost forgotten Anne was with him, he turned and really looked at her for the first time. Her eyes were full of genuine concern for him. Touched, he suddenly took her in his arms and kissed her.

“You’re in trouble, Clay. Can I help you?”

“No.”

“You don’t have a wife stashed away someplace — or a girl you’re engaged to?”

The unexpected question struck Clay’s tortured nerves as hilariously funny. It was, of course, the first question a girl would want to know about a young man in whom she was interested, but the question touched off in him an uncontrollable impulse to laugh.

Anne bristled. “It’s not so funny, Clay. Tell me how I can help you.”

Again, Clay was touched. “I can’t, Anne. I’m in trouble, but not that kind.” Instantly, he regretted the slip, but he was amused by her obvious relief that his problem was not a wife or a fiancée.

“I’ll help you in any way I can. I won’t ask any questions.”

He should not have yielded, but he was near the breaking point. “If you really want to help...”

“I do.”

“Let’s go to the ship’s library then.” Clay led her to the library and writing room, saw that it was deserted, paused only long enough to get an envelope and several sheets of writing paper, and then led her to a bar half filled with people.

“You have a drink while I write a letter.”

Clay addressed the envelope to the Commissioner of Customs, Washington, D.C., and in the letter told the entire story. Then he sealed the letter and handed it to Anne.

“If anything happens tomorrow — you’ll know if it does — mail this right away in New York. Don’t read it. It would be dangerous for you to know what’s in it. If nothing happens, I’ll get the letter back from you, tear it up, and we’ll celebrate by painting the town. Okay?”

“But Clay—”

“You said no questions.”

“No questions.” Anne put the letter in her purse.

Then Clay suddenly looked around him. He had been so intent on what he was writing that he had forgotten about De Jongh and the two musclemen. They were watching and glaring daggers at him. Unquestionably, they had a good idea what was in that letter, and to whom it might be addressed.

“Anne, give me back the letter.”

Anne Gardner thoughtfully glanced at De Jongh and the two hoodlums, then said, “No, I won’t.”

“Anne — those men. They’ve got to see you give me back the letter. You’re in serious trouble unless you do. You have no idea how much trouble.”

“I can imagine, Clay. But I’m keeping the letter anyway. If anything happens, I’ll mail it tomorrow in New York. If nothing does, I’ll give it back to you.” Anne defiantly stared De Jongh full in the eye — until the fat man dropped his gaze — then said, “It’s a kind of insurance for you, isn’t it, Clay? If they think I may mail the letter if anything happens to you, it’s less likely that something will happen, isn’t it?”

“At the cost of making it more likely that something will happen to you. Give me back the letter.”

She would not return the letter and that was that, but people had now begun to stare. Clay grabbed Anne’s arm and led her quickly down to the swimming pool, where a group of sunbathers were clustered around. De Jongh and the two men followed.

It was the last day of the trip and several couples, dreading the ending of shipboard romances, were ardently kissing. Clay led Anne to a couple of vacant deck chairs, put his arms around her, and kissed her. Then he whispered in her ear.

“Anne, when the next group of people moves toward the front of the ship, I’m going to walk you to your cabin. Bolt the door and don’t let anybody in, not even your roommates. Make them bring the steward to get in. Tonight we’ve got to stay in crowds of people. We have to have people around us all the time. All the time. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“And, darling, I’m sorry, so sorry, that I’ve got you involved in this.”

“I’m not,” Anne said, and gave him a kiss that was full of promise.

That evening was a game of hunter and hunted. They dawdled through dinner, went early to the Captain’s Ball, and stayed late. All evening long, De Jongh and his hoodlums seemed right at their elbow. Clay could not read De Jongh’s mind, but it occurred to him that De Jongh must have just about made up his mind to commit murder and take his chances with Customs. He was a fool if he hadn’t, and De Jongh did not impress him as a fool.

Finally, the ship’s orchestra played the last note of music. The ball was over. Soon the crowd would be breaking up. What then? The moment Clay Felton had dreaded was approaching. Watching De Jongh from across the room, he fancied he saw a catlike look of anticipation on the fat man’s face.

Then Anne said unexpectedly in a lilting voice, “Surprise, everybody!” The gay banter hushed. Anne stood up. “Since this is the last night aboard ship, and a lot of us who have grown fond of each other might not see each other for long time...”

A chorus of groans greeted this dismal prospect.

“Some of us girls thought it would be silly to waste the last night sleeping, so we’ve arranged a deck party...”

Cheers.

“The stewards have set up a lot of chairs on the fantail. We thought we’d spend the last night watching the full moon...”

Wild cheers.

“We won’t go to bed at all. We’ll just stay on deck until we dock tomorrow...”

Pandemonium.

Anne and Clay led the parade back to the fantail. Perhaps two hundred deck chairs and robes were waiting.

Overwhelmed, Clay turned to Anne admiringly. “You’re a pretty clever girl.”

Anne smiled brightly. “Oh, you don’t know half of how clever I am, darling. I can cook and I can sew and do all the things that well brought up young ladies are supposed to be able to do.”

She led him to two deck chairs in the center. As they kissed, she whispered, “I don’t think those men would commit murder in front of two hundred witnesses, do you?”

“No. It isn’t likely.”

“Let’s forget all about them then, darling.”

The long night that Clay had dreaded turned out to be memorable — but in a way he had not expected. As Anne slyly pointed out to him, a good woman can smooth a man’s path in unexpected ways.

The Groot Vreeling docked at dawn. Plans had been made for Clay to be the first person off the ship. Perhaps he could get the jump on De Jongh and his men. He could get off the boat, pass Customs, disappear quickly, call Anne at her hotel later.

But after a night of romance, Clay found this was the bleak morning after. De Jongh and his men had anticipated him. They were waiting to disembark, too. He was trapped. In the struggling swirl of humanity getting off the boat, Clay found himself next to De Jongh and his musclemen all the way. They surrounded him. He handed in his landing card, showed his passport to Immigration, and displayed his yellow vaccination card to the Public Health Service man. Then Clay found himself at the head of the line for Customs inspection.

The Customs man, garbed in white shirt and dark tie, smiled pleasantly. “Welcome home. Have you got your luggage ready for inspection?”

Clay smiled weakly. Once past this line, he could be either rich — or dead. “No. I haven’t any luggage. I left it aboard ship.”

The Customs inspector’s smile faded to a puzzled frown. “Aren’t you going to bring your luggage into the United States? It must pass inspection if you are.”

“No.” Clay shook his head.

“Do you have anything to declare, then?”

“Nothing,” said Clay, “except a small bag full of diamonds.”

The Customs inspector stared at him as if he were a lunatic. Then Clay reached into his pocket, took out the bag, and poured the glittering stones into the astonished inspector’s hands.

“These aren’t mine. They’re the property of that gentleman,” Clay pointed to Klaas De Jongh standing in the next line, “over there.”

The inspector glanced at the glittering diamonds, then motioned excitedly to a policeman. “Hold that man!” He pointed to Klaas.

The fat man panicked and began to run. He didn’t even reach the end of the pier before he was caught, and Francoise and the two musclemen were subsequently arrested.

There were many questions. It was hours before they released Clay Felton. But there was one item of good news. He had not known that there is a reward for information leading to the arrest of smugglers and the confiscation of valuable property that one attempts to smuggle into the United States. Up to twenty-five percent of the market value of the contraband merchandise, to a maximum reward of fifty thousand dollars, was what the man said. At any rate, it ought to be a tidy sum.

Clay quickly ducked into a phone booth to call Anne. It was time to start planning that celebration.