The Wager

6

The huge white curving side of the MV Andropolis, geometrically dotted with neat portholes, towered above the blisteringly hot dock of Port Everglades, held in place by gargantuan hawsers warped around the pier stanchions and reeved taut by the winches on deck. It resembled a leviathan with a thousand eyes chained to the land against its will. Passengers edged their way downward with caution on the narrow gangplank, holding desperately to the railing, intimidated by the height and blinded by the glaring reflections from the white concrete below. Before the long Customs shed, the little auto-train for Fort Lauderdale waited patiently, baking in the July sun. Several taxis waited for more discriminating fares, having just unloaded those few passengers who were joining the Andropolis at Port Everglades.

Kek stood at the ship’s railing, waiting for the crowd below to thin out. It was ten thirty in the morning, which allowed him more than ample time to have a leisurely lunch and catch his plane with time to spare. Of course, if it was necessary to lose a potential tail, he might have to forgo the leisurely lunch, but he was sure he could always get a sandwich and a drink on the plane.

Anita stepped onto the gangplank, ignoring him completely; her arm was held protectively by a husky young man with red hair, freckles, and shoulders even wider than Kek’s. The youngster’s face was flaming, and he was hard put to keep a triumphant grin of possession from his expression. The result was he looked as if he were running out of breath. Kek yawned politely and elaborately and was rewarded by the faintest quirk of Anita’s lips, instantly suppressed. He watched the young man hand Anita from the gangplank and herd her to join the others in the small auto-train. The motorman checked the several open cars and then climbed into his miniature cab; the train hooted once and rolled off on rubber tires toward the city. There was only one cab in sight on the deserted pier, from which two elderly ladies were descending laboriously. It was time to move.

Huuygens came down the steep gangplank easily, to be met by a staggering wave of heat at the bottom. He waited politely while the cab driver unloaded luggage from his front seat and began to move it toward the dock-porter’s area. Then, about to climb into the cab, Kek felt a slight tap on his shoulder. There was something almost diffident about the contact. He looked about in genuine surprise; he had been sure the last of the shoregoing passengers had been on his way. Facing Huuygens was the gangling, horse-faced individual who had inquired as to his conversation with Anita the day before.

“I say,” the man said apologetically, “I wonder if I might share your cab into town? I was phoning a friend, inside, and I’m afraid while I was talking to him I missed out on the available transportation.”

“Of course,” Huuygens said congenially. “Hop in.”

“You really don’t mind?” The man sounded extraordinarily anxious.

“Not at all.”

An accident? Possibly. This man didn’t look like a professional follower, but it was sad to think how unprofessional many professional followers were appearing these days. And why would anyone go inside to telephone when there was a battery of outside booths in plain view of taxis and auto-train? Huuygens got in and sat down, leaning back comfortably; his companion, having insisted that Kek enter first, followed, closed the door, and turned with hand outstretched. It was soft, but dry, a remarkable achievement on the sweltering day it was rapidly becoming. In the stilled cab the air conditioning continued to run, proof of the driver’s experience with Florida weather and its effect on customers.

“My name is Ralph Jamison,” the man said. “I’m from Worcester, Mass.”

“Kek Huuygens. I’m from New York.”

“Enjoying the cruise so far?”

At close quarters Huuygens could see that the other man’s blondish hair was thinning, revealing patches of pink scalp beneath; despite the youthfulness of the striped double-knit bell-bottom trousers and the open-necked exotic sports shirt, the man was much older than he appeared. Or, Kek thought, than he tried to appear.

“I’m enjoying it very much.”

“Me, too. Although passing Hatteras wasn’t anything to brag about.” Jamison suddenly neighed. “Come to think of it, it sure wasn’t for you! Tell me, what—”

He paused. The driver had finished delivering the luggage of the two elderly women and had climbed back into the cab. He instantly closed the door to participate in the air conditioning, and looked back at the two men with impersonal curiosity. Jamison looked at Huuygens.

“Where are you going?”

Kek shrugged. “Just into town, I guess, to look around. Where do you want to be dropped off?”

Jamison chose to ignore the question. “Have you ever been to Fort Lauderdale before?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

It was, of course, a fib, and Kek had no idea of why he had told it, other than if Jamison was keeping an eye on him, any dissembling was better than candor. Actually, although Kek had visited Fort Lauderdale many times, he had always managed his trips in the wintertime. Florida in the summer passed tolerance, and Kek had often wondered what curious aberration had led the founders of beautiful Fort Lauderdale to locate it in Florida in the first place. It was true, of course, that Florida was one place that never had to worry about avalanches, but that seemed little enough excuse.

“Ah!” Jamison sounded as if he had hit a winning number. “Then you have to let me show you the town! I was stationed — I mean, I was stationed at Homestead when I was in the Army, and I came up to Lauderdale every chance I got. I love the place.” Jamison’s horsey smile disappeared suddenly; he looked almost woebegone. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to be by yourself?”

Kek smiled. “Not at all.”

Why the pause after the first “stationed”? And hadn’t Homestead been closed about the time a man of Jamison’s apparent age would have been in the Army? Maybe not; maybe it was all imagination and Jamison was simply a passenger, gregarious by nature, who had finally latched onto a listener after two days of enforced silence. It was possible. At any rate, even assuming Jamison was not as innocent as he appeared — or would like to appear — if one had to be followed, at least there were advantages in having your follower with you. It saved looking over your shoulder constantly, always bad for the neck muscles, and it also made for the economy of a single fare.

Jamison nodded happily and leaned toward the driver.

“Driver, could we rent the cab by the hour?” He turned instantly, raising his hand as if Kek had said something. “No! I insist! My treat. After all, it was your cab and you were kind enough to share it. The least I can do—”

“Sure,” said the driver, cutting into the diatribe. “Twenty-five bucks an hour.”

He could not have picked a better way to cut Jamison short.

“Twenty-five—” Jamison inadvertently blanched but recovered quickly. “All right, driver, but I’ll have to pay you in travelers’ checks and I’ll need a receipt.” He quickly turned to Kek to explain, almost as if the other had demanded an explanation. “I, ah... I’m traveling on doctor’s orders. With a receipt I can take it off my income tax, you see.”

“Of course,” Kek said, and leaned back, no muscle betraying the pleasant expression on his face. Was it humanly possible to be as inept a professional as this and still not starve to death in one’s selected profession? Or was the very ineptness a disguise in itself? This way lies madness, Kek thought; let time decide. He looked out the window, prepared to enjoy himself, at least until the time came when Jamison, follower or not, became a hindrance to his plans. Or, of course, until the air conditioning failed.

Jamison leaned over a bit authoritatively; it was obvious that for twenty-five dollars an hour he intended to direct the cab as much as he could without actually taking the wheel.

“Driver, first along the beach, north. Then up Las Olas, then over to Sunrise and down to the Intercoastal again. Then maybe to Pompano; we’ll see. And drive slowly.”

The driver nodded agreeably and put the car into motion. With gasoline prices what they were, for twenty-five dollars an hour he was willing to creep. Jamison leaned back again, lacing his long thin legs, tucking one hand between them as if for warmth, a habit, obviously, of long standing.

“I was about to say, back then when we first got into the cab,” he began, looking at Kek and unable to entirely mask the slightly malicious smile, “what did you actually say to that girl yesterday?”

Huuygens smiled ruefully.

“I’m afraid I didn’t use very good judgment. I have a tendency at times to be impetuous, and when she practically fell into my arms...” He shook his head. “What I actually said to her is something I’d rather forget. After all, all it got me was a slap.”

“And what a slap!” Jamison said admiringly, and grinned. His teeth, to Kek’s surprise, were not the large blocks he had expected to fit the otherwise horsey face; they were small and delicate, and pointed inward a bit. “Still,” Jamison went on, “it sure would have been worth it if it had worked. You know the old story about the guy who made a pass at every girl he met, stranger or not, and then told his friends, ‘Sure I get slapped a lot, but I also get a lot of—’”

“I know the story,” Kek said, and smiled a man-to-man smile. Would Girard hire a man as obvious as Jamison to keep an eye on him? Highly doubtful; certainly not for protection, since Jamison would be hard put to protect a suma wrestler from a midget. Obviously, it couldn’t be Girard: if Girard wanted him watched, he’d have a man at the airport with a ticket on the same plane. And who else would — or could — have hired him? Who else but Girard knew he had planned to sail on the Andropolis?

“Well!” Jamison said, and looked through the window, as if wondering where to begin his travelogue. “Ah! That’s the 66 Tower. And that’s the Bahia Mar, the largest marina in the world, some say. Maybe we’ll stop up at the 66 roof later for a drink. Everybody does; it’s one of the things visitors to Lauderdale all do. The platform up there rotates once every 66 minutes. It’s not a bad place for lunch, either, and the view is the best in Florida.”

“It looks very inviting.”

“It is. Ah! This is Las Olas Boulevard. Probably the most beautiful street in the most beautiful town in the world.”

It was, indeed, an unusually lovely street and Kek enjoyed seeing it once again. They completed their tour of Las Olas, including some of the adjoining islands, cut across to Sunrise and drove slowly back in the direction of the ocean. At Bay View they turned north again, passing the inlets from the main waterway, with boats of all sizes bobbing in the backyards of homes there. In the background large yachts could be seen moving majestically on the Intercoastal; they almost seemed unreal against the dark wood of the background, as if they had been posed by the Chamber of Commerce. Jamison rambled on, a fairly boring guide, while Kek turned off the little key in his head, the same key that enabled him to read his morning newspaper in peace while undergoing one of Anita’s interrogations.

If Jamison hadn’t been hired by Girard, who had hired him? And for what purpose? Certainly the gangling man beside him scarcely posed any physical threat. So, if logic meant anything, Jamison was just what he appeared to be — a garrulous passenger, happy to show off a favorite city. Still—

Huuygens looked at his watch. It was twelve fifteen; they had been driving nearly two hours. Beyond the window the beach of Pompano stretched north for miles, lined with condominium apartments. Time to start getting rid of the talkative Mr. Jamison, be he friend or foe. There was still a phone call to make and a plane to catch. Huuygens turned to his companion, interrupting him in a meaningless dissertation on the advantages of living on a golf course in Florida versus living on water.

“I think I’d like that drink we talked about before, up on top of that tower you pointed out,” Kek said. “It’s hot and I could stand something cold. And after that I think I’ll ask you to excuse me; I think I’ll go back to the ship for lunch, and then probably take a nap.”

“A good idea!” Jamison said enthusiastically, clearly indicating he might well do the same thing. He leaned forward and instructed the driver. The cab swung south and they headed for the 66 Tower. For the space of the drive, at least, Jamison was quiet, while Huuygens seriously thought of means of ridding himself of the leech. The car pulled up near the glass-enclosed elevator and Jamison reached for his wallet.

“Here’s twenty dollars on account,” he said, and scribbled hastily on two traveler’s checks. “Wait for us.”

“Take your time,” the driver said generously, and picked up the morning paper from the seat beside him.

All Fort Lauderdale spread before the two men as they rose in the elevator. Jamison’s pleasure in pointing out landmarks to his newfound friend was so genuine that for a moment Huuygens wondered if he had wronged the other man in his thoughts. Still, right or wrong, he certainly had no intention of being saddled with Mr. Jamison’s company much longer. Time was marching on.

The air conditioning in the large, slowly rotating room was welcome, and the two men sank into chairs near the abandoned and locked piano. They looked around for a waiter; all seemed busy, possibly because at least two were hovering over a table across the room. When they spread apart, Kek was able to see the reason why: Anita was sitting there, her large escort staring at her worshipfully. And with reason, Kek thought with an inner smile; you probably never got such good service before. The advantage of escorting a lovely lady... A sudden idea struck Kek. He forced down a grin and looked across the table at Jamison.

“Pardon me, but where are the telephones?”

“Just over there,” Jamison said, and pointed.

“Do you mind? I have a few calls to make.”

Jamison seemed to be studying the location of the booths; they were well in sight and nowhere near an elevator. “Go ahead. I’ll order for you. What are you having?”

“Gin and tonic. Bombay gin,” Kek said, and got to his feet. Across the room, Anita’s eyes took in Kek and their table and swept on with no expression in her eyes. Excellent, Kek thought, and walked over to the phones.

He squeezed into a booth from which he could keep half an eye on Jamison, smiled at him through the glass, and closed the door. He dropped a coin, gave a credit card number and a telephone number and waited. Jamison was speaking to a waiter. It was several minutes and then there was the sound of a ring and the instant raising of a receiver. Girard was on the line.

“Allô!”

“This is your purchasing agent...”

“One o’clock exactly.” Girard sounded pleased. “Where are you? At the airport? Did you pick up your ticket?”

“Not yet, but I will very soon. Are there any further changes?”

“No, everything will be as we arranged. I spoke to the salesman and he will arrange for the material tonight. You will be met tomorrow morning at the proper place on the proper hour. Anything further from your end?”

“Yes,” Huuygens said. “I told you I didn’t like being followed by professional — ah, salesmen. I now wish to add to the list. I don’t like being followed by middle-aged men in striped pants and floral shirts.”

“What?” Girard sounded genuinely puzzled by Kek’s comment.

“Let me be blunt. Are you having me followed?”

“Followed? No. Why would I want to have you—” The import of the question suddenly registered. Girard’s voice showed shock. “You’re being followed?”

“I’m not sure, but I think I am. However, not to worry.”

“Not to worry!”

“Take my word for it. Now, who have you told of our little wager?”

“Told? Nobody! Do you think I’m a fool.”

“I do not. Who introduced you to the Quinleven Club?”

“Forget him. He couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with it.”

Kek’s voice hardened. “This is important. Who?”

“The former American ambassador to my country. His name is Wellington. He wrote me a letter a long time ago, inviting me to be his guest with anyone else I wished to bring along.”

Huuygens eliminated the ambassador from any possible list of suspects. He knew Wellington quite well and the man didn’t have the intelligence to be involved in anything more complicated than politics. Besides, at the moment he was hunting tigers-or-something in the Sudan-or-someplace.

“Well,” Huuygens said thoughtfully, “that leaves only one answer. We’ve met twice, both times at the Quinleven. The only people near us during our discussions were your two bodyguards.”

There was a brief silence. When Girard spoke his voice was cold.

“The matter will be investigated.”

“Good.” Kek glanced at his watch. “I have to be going now.”

“Call me after you see the salesman tomorrow,” Girard said.

“Will do.” Kek hung up. There was still one more call to make. He looked over at Jamison, smiled again, and dropped a second coin, taking a pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket as he spoke. To anyone watching he would appear to be noting down whatever the other party on the phone was saying. He asked for information, got the number he wanted, and dialed. A moment later the telephone was answered by a deep bass voice.

“Tower 66 bar.”

“Look,” Kek said, “I know this sounds odd, but I would like to have a waiter pick up a note in a telephone booth and deliver it—

“What are you talking about?” The bass voice was suspicious.

“If you’ll look up,” Kek said patiently, “you’ll see me in a phone booth at the other end of the room. I’m the only person in one. When I go back to my table, I will leave a note in here—”

“You got to be some kind of a nut, mister—”

“Listen!” Kek said firmly. “There will also be a ten-dollar bill for you to split with the waiter.” There was immediate silence at the other end of the line. “That’s better. Now listen: I want the note delivered to that big red-headed young man sitting at the table near you with the girl—”

“The gorgeous dame? Oh, I get it. Women complications, is that it?”

“Sort of.” Kek was scribbling hastily as he spoke. He managed to turn his back on Jamison, fish a bill from his wallet, and tuck the note and the money together in the coin slot. “As soon as I leave. Understand?”

“Gotcha, pal.”

Kek hung up and squeezed himself from the booth, making his way back to the table. A waiter was coming across from the bar, while another was setting drinks before Jamison. The tall gangling man was putting a bill down on the small tray.

“You ought to at least let me pay for the drinks,” Kek said, sliding into his chair.

“No, no! My treat. My pleasure. You can buy me a couple back on board.” His small, dry hand was raised with his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Kek said pleasantly, and saw the waiter bearing his note approaching the table with Anita and her escort. He saw the man hand the note over, and hid a smile behind his glass as he drank. If Jamison was truly only an innocent passenger attempting friendliness, then Huuygens would have to buy him a great many drinks in compensation for what Kek figured was about to happen.

At the other table the red-headed, freckle-faced young man was frowning as he read the note that had just been given him:

Anita was looking at her escort with curiosity.

“It’s nothing,” he said, his jaw clenched. He jammed the note into his pocket and came to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

He started across the room, his face redder than ever. Mr. Jamison was in the process of lowering the drink he was enjoying so much, when he felt himself being lifted bodily from his chair and swung about to stare into two ice-cold, very angry blue eyes.

“You and me, buster,” said the owner of the eyes, “are going into the washroom and have a little discussion.”

Jamison squeaked and tried to pull loose. “What’s the matter with you? What are you doing? Let go of my arm!”

“I said, let’s go!”

“Hey, that hurts!”

“Does it, indeed! This way, lover boy!” the young man said fiercely, and walked Jamison roughly from the table. Several waiters stood back, unwilling to tangle with anyone as obviously destructive as the large young man with freckles. Kek watched interestedly. Jamison tried to turn around.

“Stop! Waiters! Huuygens! This man is crazy! Help me!”

“I never mix in anything violent,” Kek said piously, and came to his feet.

Across the room Anita watched her escort shove the perfect stranger through the washroom door. Kek winked at her and headed quickly for the elevator. It was one fifteen, which was cutting it fine, but fortunately, Jamison had been thoughtful enough to have a cab waiting below.