The Wager

12

Under the watchful eye of the first officer perched on a wing of the bridge and directing operations with a radio microphone, two squat tugs fore and aft skillfully nudged the MV Andropolis to its berth between an old rusty freighter and another cruise ship, whose early-morning passengers lined the rail and waved cheerfully across the water. In the background the gentle slopes of Barbados could be seen, rising evenly behind the low buildings of Bridgetown, reflecting the light from thick stands of palm and cane, with the brilliance of bougainvillea scattered among them. The first officer substituted megaphone for microphone as the tugs withdrew; under the shouted direction hawsers were thrown ashore, looped over stanchions, and the ship winched firmly to the dock. A dock crane bent down like some curious prehistoric bird, peering into the open hatchway that had appeared at the purser’s square; it picked up the gangplank in its steel beak and angled it accurately from the ship to the pier.

Anita had forgone breakfast to be on deck for the arrival. She scanned the dock closely for some sign of Kek, but the bare concrete held only a lineup of minibuses, the only passenger vehicles allowed on the dock, waiting patiently to carry shoregoing passengers to the customs shed and the long queue of waiting taxis beyond. Her young red-haired companion, for a welcome change, was not along; a physique such as his required refueling at regular intervals, and he was in the dining room just completing his third helping of breakfast.

A minibus had detached itself from the distant shed and was approaching the ship. It slowed to a stop at the foot of the Andropolis gangplank and Anita bent over to see who might emerge, certain it would be Kek. He had definitely promised to rejoin the ship here, and she would have thought he would have been as anxious to see her as she was to see him; and if there had been any change in his plans, there would have been a cable in some form or other she would have understood. But only one man emerged, dragging a heavy suitcase behind him while his other hand, with an iron grip, clutched papers that could only be passport and passage. It obviously was not Kek, and Anita was about to turn away in disappointment, when the man happened to look up. Anita’s eyes widened in surprise. It was impossible! But there he was, as large as ever, his face as battered as ever, and looking as good to her as ever. She leaned over the rail and screamed.

The face looking up found the source of the scream and frowned in complete nonrecognition. Then, the huge shoulders raised in a Gallic shrug of incomprehension and the large man lumbered up the gangplank with practiced ease. Anita turned and bumped into the red-haired youth. He grinned at her.

“What were you screaming about?”

“I thought I saw an old friend, but I was mistaken.”

“Well, don’t look so sad about it,” said the youth, pleased that no new friends were to be added at Barbados, the last stop before four lovely days of sailing home. He tilted his red thatch toward the shore. “How about going into town?”

“No,” Anita said slowly. “You go ahead, Billy. I think I’ll stay on board today.”

“Then I’ll stay here, too. Pool’s open. We’ll go swimming.”

Anita smiled; it was a smile that made Billy her slave. “You go ashore, the way you were planning. You’ve been talking about the lenses you wanted to buy here.” She put her hand on his arm. “You go get them.”

“Well... All right. But I’ll see you when I get back?”

“I’ll be here.”

“We’ll have dinner together? Separate table? I can arrange it with the dining room steward before I go—”

“If you want.”

“I want,” Billy told her, and disappeared, in a hurry to do his shopping and return as quickly as possible. Anita went back to the railing, pondering. Below, the minibuses were being crowded with shoregoing passengers, intent on spending money. A pity, Anita thought, that the beauties of the island would pass unnoticed by the huge majority, and that they would later proudly point to a bit of crockery as proof they had visited Barbados and were experts on its problems. She saw Billy join the others; he looked up, grinned, and waved. She smiled back and watched him climb inside.

Anita’s smile disappeared at once. She glanced down at the dock once more and then made her way inside. She walked down the steps to the dock below and the purser’s square, determination in her movements. There was no sign of the large man and his suitcase, but Anita had not expected there would be. Nor did she intend to ask the assistant purser, busy with papers as always in port, for any information. Instead, she walked to the bulletin board, noted the single name under the legend “Embarking At Barbados,” also noted the cabin number, and went back to the stairwell.

Deck B, Cabin 48. She walked down the corridor, but now in casual fashion, and paused outside Cabin 48 to search her purse for a cigarette. She pulled one out and then looked about as if to ask any approaching person for a match. There was no one in sight. Anita moved quickly to the door and rapped. There was no answer. She glanced about once again, still found herself alone, and rapped again. Again there was no answer. She paused to light her cigarette from her lighter and then walked on.

One deck above she turned into the starboard corridor, came to her cabin, and dug out her key. She unlocked the door and went in, not at all surprised to find the room occupied. André was sitting on the edge of her bed, looking a bit apprehensive.

Anita closed the door behind her, locked it, and went to sit on the small chair before the vanity. She crushed out her cigarette and crossed her arms, a danger signal to anyone who knew her well.

“If you want my honest opinion,” she said quietly, “both you and Kek have been reading too many spy stories lately. A little bit of intrigue goes a long way with me. And when I can’t even say hello to an old friend without getting the ‘cheese-it-the-cops’ sign-off, then I think we ought to rewrite the script.”

André looked unhappy. “Kek didn’t want us—”

“And, by the way, where is our friend Kek?”

“Oh, he’ll be here, don’t worry. When we came to the shed back there, he said he wanted to stay back for awhile. He said he wanted to wait and meet somebody.”

“Who?”

“All he said was it was a man in a white suit.”

“Someday,” Anita predicted grimly, “he’s going to meet two men in white suits and they’ll also have white jackets and they’ll take him and put him away. And I’ll visit him on weekends and look at him through a little window.” She sounded half-angry, half-hurt. “Why didn’t he tell me he was going to meet you?”

“Because he didn’t know,” André said honestly. “He’ll explain it to you.”

“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?”