The Wager

7

Kek Huuygens was in an expansive mood. He had landed at Seawall Airport late the afternoon before, assured that any pursuit — had it ever existed and not merely been a figment of his imagination — had been diverted, at least until he joined the ship again; and he wouldn’t worry about that until it happened. He sincerely hoped that Jamison hadn’t been chastised too severely, but even if the man was innocent, he still deserved something for being the biggest bore in the world. And Kek had had to pay twenty-five dollars for a short cab ride, because of Jamison’s penuriousness. Still, Jamison never got his receipt, which would probably hurt the man more than the punishment he suffered in the washroom.

Now, with a good night’s rest at the Barbados Hilton behind him, a long and vigorous swim in the warm and unpolluted Caribbean, and weather that, contrary to Anita, was far more pleasant for the month of July than New York City, Kek felt good. He emerged from his taxi before Harrison’s in the Broad Street in Bridgetown, determined not to be cheap in his selection of a gift for Girard’s professional thief. The man could well have a wife or girlfriend; even a mother somewhere in his history was a possibility.

Harrison’s, as usual, was crowded to capacity, for three cruise ships were in Bridgetown harbor at the same time, and the passengers had formed lines, like ants, to and from their respective ships, seemingly determined to leave Bridgetown Wedgwoodless or know the reason why. For a moment he studied the melee from the protection of the doorway and then plunged bravely in. His target was a large table in the center of the room, covered with blue and green boxes. He managed to get enough elbow room to study the pieces laid out, each on top of a stack of boxes, and knew at once what he wanted. It was a candy dish of the proper size, something Kek felt not every professional thief would probably buy for himself. He even managed to get the attention of a clerk, and to his complete but pleasant surprise, found himself out in the street again, his brightly colored package tucked under his arm, in a remarkably short forty-five minutes.

For Harrison’s, this was close to miraculous; Kek hoped it was an augury for a quick and successful completion of his mission. He glanced at his wristwatch. Ten twenty, which left forty minutes to get to Sam Lord’s Castle. Taking the direct road east through Windsor and Marchfield rather than the more picturesque but longer route along the beach front would get him to his appointment in ample time, and still get him back to his hotel in time for lunch. In fact—

He paused, frowning. In fact — now that he thought about it — why was it necessary, or even wise, to await the arrival of the MV Andropolis in Barbados? And his not having even thought of rejoining the ship earlier was the most disturbing aspect of the affair; he wondered if perhaps in planning the matter he had overlooked some other equally simple thing. With the package in his possession he could check out of the Hilton and be at Seawall by one o’clock at the latest. There certainly had to be an afternoon plane to San Juan, and he could catch up with the ship at least two days ahead of schedule. And surprise Anita. It would also seem much more natural to the purser and/or any interested passenger if he were to rejoin the ship after only one port, rather than waiting four days to catch up with it in Barbados.

The thought wiped away his former irritation with himself. Checking the precious package at the airport would handle any matter of Customs, and he would pick it up when the ship docked in Bridgetown. With a smile at how easily things worked out for the righteous, he walked out of the shade of the Harrison’s awning into the sun of the narrow and crowded road, shouldered through to the curb, and flagged down a cab.

The trip to Sam Lord’s Castle was taken at the usual island speed, but Kek, who normally disliked being driven at all, let alone being driven at maniacal speeds, sat back quite relaxed and beamed cordially at the people his taxi almost struck at each intersection or bus stop. Certainly Providence would not permit an accident when everything was going so nicely. The huge sugar cane that towered above them reduced all vision of what might lie beyond the next curve of the winding road, but the driver was not at all intimidated, possibly feeling that with enough velocity he could overcome any unexpected obstacle that presented itself to him and his fifteen-year-old Juggernaut.

They pulled into the wide graveled drive before the white twin-porched building at eleven o’clock exactly, and the driver drew up at the bottom of the steps. In the waiting lot for taxis a cab of equal vintage was parked, its driver dozing at the wheel. Kek felt it was a further indication that all was well. The chances were strong that the cab belonged to Girard’s professional thief, and all was rolling along on schedule. He stepped down, feeling on top of the world.

The driver smiled at him through the open window, white teeth gleaming against black skin. “You wish that I wait, mon?”

“If you will.”

“A pleasure.”

“For us both,” Kek said sincerely, and trotted up the wide steps, his exotically wrapped candy dish in his hand. He certainly hoped the professional thief would like it, or if not him, at least his wife, girlfriend, or mother. If she or they weren’t on a diet, that is, so many women were. Fortunately, Anita had no need to.

The lobby was abandoned at the moment, the clerk apparently off on a chore. Through the facing doorway the castle’s famous gardens could be seen stretching down to the blue Atlantic beyond. Kek took a deep breath; Barbados was one of his favorite spots on earth, and Sam Lord’s Castle as lovely a hotel as he knew. For a moment he considered abandoning his plan to return to the ship immediately, but then he knew that he would rather be with Anita even more than enjoying Barbados. Ah, well — to work!

The Cobbler’s Reef Bar was open, and after the brilliance of the morning sun, seemed to be pitch dark. Kek paused just inside the doorway, allowing his eyesight to adjust. By the light used to illuminate the cash register he could see the aproned bartender looking in his direction, and beyond the bartender he could see a bulking shadow at the extreme far end of the bar. Kek closed his eyes a moment, squeezing them tightly shut, seeing a parade of weird shapes and lights behind his eyelids, and then opened them to find the room had miraculously cleared to a great extent. There was indeed a man at the end of the bar, his huge broad back turned resolutely away from the room, staring into a corner as per instructions; and there was, indeed, a drink before the man in a glass consistent with a sour, being neither a shot glass nor a tall glass.

There was, indeed, only one thing wrong with the script. There was no package of any sort on the bar before or near the man.

Kek had a sudden cold presentiment that his ebullience that morning had been premature to say the least. There was, of course, the possibility that this man staring so intently toward the corner was not his contact, and that his contact was merely delayed, but Kek doubted it. He sighed and walked over, seating himself next to the man, surveying the outsized shoulders, then turned and faced the bartender who had come up.

“A Benedictine sour,” he said clearly, and added: “Have you ever made one?”

“Yes, sir!” the bartender said proudly, resenting this impugnment of his knowledge of his craft. He did not add that he had made his first one only minutes before, nor did he show his amazement that two people in a row should demonstrate such inconsideration for their stomachs at that hour of the morning. Instead, he dutifully went back to his post and began mixing the ingredients, trying not to shudder as he did so.

So the bartender was familiar with Benedictine sours? Then the man beside him was his contact and something had apparently gone very wrong. Merde! But, in that case, why the frozen back? Which, in comparison with himself — and Huuygens was not small and knew it — belonged to an extremely large and well-muscled individual. Kek reached over and tapped one of the bulging shoulders a bit peremptorily, not at all surprised to find the jacket was not padded and that he was rapping on something very solid. He had hoped to carry out the assignment without the need for personal contact, but it seemed this was not to be. Life!

“Mister,” he said softly.

The man swung about abruptly. There was a sheepish look on his large, battered face.

“Hello, Kek,” he said.

There was a moment’s silent tableau. Then Huuygens looked at the ceiling, found no comfort there, and looked down again. He sighed mightily.

“Oh, no!” He shook his head. “André!”

“How’ve you been, Kek?”

“André,” Huuygens said, “do me a favor—”

“Sure, Kek. Anything. You know that. What is it?”

“Tell me you never heard of a man named Victor Girard. Tell me you’re vacationing in Barbados and had no appointment to meet a man here carrying a package from Harrison’s...”

André looked embarrassed. “Well—”

“On second thought,” Kek said, “don’t tell me.” He paused. “Bartender, we’ll take our drinks in a booth.”

“As you say, sir.”

“Kek,” André said in a pleading voice, “do we have to drink this—”

“And throw that stuff away,” Kek added to the bartender. “Bring us a bottle of brandy, preferably a good Portuguese or Spanish brandy rather than French, and two glasses. Not balloons.”

“Sir!” It was said happily. The contents of a mixing glass went into the sink.

Kek climbed down from his stool, walked to a booth, and slid in. André Martins followed, squeezing his large bulk into the restricted space across from his old friend. The two stared at each other until the bottle was on the table and the waiter had withdrawn. Kek’s face was expressionless; André looked as if he were waiting for the ax to fall. He quickly poured two drinks and took his own down in a single gulp, as if to give himself courage. Huuygens sipped his more slowly and then put his glass down. He shook his head at the other man sadly.

“André!” he said chidingly. “Whatever made you tell Girard that you were a professional thief?”

André preferred to postpone serious discussion for as long as possible. “How’s Anita?”

“Flourishing. And you didn’t answer my question.”

It had been a short enough interlude, but it had at least partially served its purpose; André had had time to pour and down a second cognac. The worst of the dreaded encounter over, he felt better. And the two brandies had done no harm to his self-confidence, which had certainly waned during his wait for Kek to arrive.

“Well,” he said defensively, “you know I can open any lock you can name. And any safe.”

Huuygens nodded agreeably. “Then you should have told Girard you were a professional burglar, not a professional thief.”

André was stung. “I’m not a burglar!”

“I know you’re not. You’re also not a thief. Certainly not a successful one. Unless you have the carving in your pocket?” The red on André’s face answered that question. Kek took pity on the large man. “I know you can open any lock or safe made, and you are also a master where explosives of any kind are concerned. And I’ve seen you break a man’s back with the back of your hand.”

André smiled proudly; it made his rugged face look almost boyish. The brandy was taking effect. “You have, haven’t you?”

“So,” Kek went on, his voice conversational, “after you knocked out the museum guards with one finger and blew up the museum with your exceptional talents, what happened? Why no carving?”

André looked down at his glass, his face reddening again. Kek continued, but this time his irritation got the better of him. He sounded aggrieved. “What in God’s name led you to tell Girard you were capable of robbing a museum? Have you ever been in a museum in your life?”

André looked up and swallowed. He fingered his empty glass nervously.

“Well,” he said, “I heard through the grapevine that this Girard was going to ask you to bring something into the States for him, and then I heard he was looking for someone to steal it for him, and—” He paused, staring at the table shamefacedly.

“And?”

André’s head came up. “And... well, I needed the job, so I told this guy to introduce me to Girard. With a strong recommendation. Or else.” A faint smile appeared on the lined face momentarily. “And he introduced me. With a strong recommendation.”

“I’m sure.”

“Well,” André said reasonably, reaching for the bottle again, “he didn’t want to get his neck broken.” He filled his glass and drank.

“I can understand his point.”

“Besides,” André went on quietly, “I wanted to see you and Anita again. It’s been too long a time for old friends.”

Kek refused to be diverted by sentiment, at least at the moment. “I hope Girard paid you in advance, is all.”

“Just half,” André said, then brightened. “But I got a tourist’s visa good for the States, which is something. Plus passage on the Andropolis...”

“As things stand right now, the States is about the last place I’d suggest you visit,” Kek told him dryly. “Girard’s there.” He shook his head, but it was half-humorously. He and André Martins had had many adventures together, and the truth was the large man had saved Kek Huuygens’ life twice, whereas Kek had only saved André’s once. Which, Kek thought, considering it, left a certain debt without a doubt. Secretly, Kek was very happy to see André again, but not in the circumstances. There was still the matter of the wager, and now it appeared there was also the matter of André’s fee, whatever it was. Plus, most likely, André’s neck. Problems, problems! He took the bottle and poured two more drinks.

“All right. What happened?”

André looked embarrassed. “They had the place wired,” he said accusingly. He sounded as if wiring a treasure in a museum was cheating, by any standard a person wished to choose. “All around the thing.”

“Wired?”

André took his drink and sipped it, a sure sign he was beginning to relax.

“Look. I didn’t have to rap any guards on the head, because they didn’t have any guards. They didn’t need any. The museum is right next to the army barracks, and the place is wired.”

“You mean they have burglar alarms? How inconsiderate!”

“Not just burglar alarms,” André said patiently. He considered finishing his drink and then decided to postpone it. He put down his glass and started to trace lines on the table with a finger the size of a sausage. “There’s this basement door, you see, down in a sort of a well, like the entrance to a cooling cellar on a farm, you know? Sort of a hatchway. It leads from the back of the museum, where they have a sort of driveway, down to a basement, which is full of junk.”

“You have a wonderful descriptive sense. Go on.”

André disregarded this. “I opened the basement door in about one minute. Who ever installed that lock should be ashamed; they haven’t used a lock of that type in any civilized country in twenty years. Then—”

“Then the alarm went off in the police station next door.”

“It’s an army barracks, not a police station,” André said patiently, “and no alarm went off, because that’s not the way the place is wired. If you’d only let me get a word in edgewise—”

“Sorry.”

“Well, all right,” André sounded only partially mollified. “Where was I? Oh, yes — in the basement. As I said, the basement is full of junk, stuff it would take ten guys to lift, junk like that. And a workshop, where they fix stuff, I guess. Anyway, maybe because it’s only junk, or because it’s too heavy to swipe, but they never bothered to wire the door—”

“Maybe they ran out of money before they— Oh, sorry.”

André looked at him chidingly. “Anyway, there’s a hallway that goes from this basement room to some steps that go up to the main floor of the museum. I listened hard and didn’t hear a sound, so I started to go up the steps and then I turned on my flash. That’s safe enough because the place doesn’t have any windows—

“Probably afraid of burglars.”

“—and there in the middle of the room was this glass case. All by itself. It’s about two feet square and three feet high and it’s on a table so it comes about to your chest. And that’s where they keep the carving that Girard wanted. I knew because of course I’d been there three or four times during the day to look the place over—”

“They call it ‘casing the joint’,” Kek said, and then dropped the banter from his voice. “Did they have guards in attendance when you were there during the day?”

“Oh, sure, during the day. One man in each room plus a man at the front entrance, to see people didn’t touch anything, or swipe anything either, I guess, because of course during the day the alarm system is off. Anyway, when I was there during the day I saw there was this metal strip inside the glass all around the edge, which I figured was an alarm, but that didn’t worry me, because I wasn’t planning on opening the case from the top. I had a glass cutter, and I intended cutting the case inside the strips, see?”

“Ingenious.”

“I figured it was like taking candy from a baby. So that night, when I was inside, like I said, I went up the steps and flashed the light around, and it was quiet as a grave. So I started toward the case—”

“And all hell broke loose.”

André stared. “How did you know?”

“It came to me in a vision. They had the place wired with floor alarms.” Kek sighed. “And you’re a bit outsized to dangle from the roof à la Rififi.”

“You couldn’t there, anyways,” André said, taking his companion literally. “It’s too high in that room and it’s smooth; nothing to hang from. And I saw a movie once where a guy walked on the ceiling with magnets, but that wouldn’t work, either, because it’s marble.”

“Things are rough all over,” Kek said. “You’re lucky you got away in one piece.”

“I know it!” André responded fervently. “When that alarm went off I jumped a mile, and then I beat it the way I came in. I was in the junk room downstairs when I heard the soldiers come busting in the front door upstairs.”

A thought struck Huuygens. “Did anyone see you?”

“Me? No.”

“Did you close the door of the basement behind you?”

“Sure. If they came after me, I wanted to hold them up as long as I could.”

Kek frowned. “Then maybe they don’t even know there was an attempt.” He turned abruptly. “Bartender, do you have today’s paper?” He waited until it was handed him and then started to leaf through the pages. “Ah! Here we are. I thought it might make the Barbados papers.”

“What’s it say?” André sounded eager.

Kek sighed and folded the paper. “It doesn’t mention you by name, if that’s what you want to know. But the authorities in Cap Antoine, capital of Ile Rocheux, do not understand the reason the alarm went off and, not wanting to take any chances, have stationed two guards around the clock to guard the famous museum. For the time being.”

“Which means until they shift the carving,” André said disconsolately, and picked up his drink, downing it.

Huuygens shook his head. Of all the inept burglary attempts in the history of crime, this one had to go to the head of the class.

“Damn it, André, didn’t Girard tell you about the alarm system?”

André’s face reddened again.

“I think he was starting to, but — well, I wanted to prove I knew my job, so — well, I interrupted him before he could say anything. I told him there wasn’t anything about the precautions museums took against burglaries that I didn’t know, and to prove it, I told him—” André paused and swallowed. He avoided looking at Huuygens. “Well, I told him I was the one who broke into the Louvre and stole the ‘Mona Lisa’ that time it was taken. Remember?”

Huuygens stared. “You told him what?”

“I told him—”

“I heard you! And he believed it?”

“Well, he believed the guy I was with, and the guy had told him he could trust me—”

“Because he didn’t want his back broken,” Kek said hopelessly. “I know.” He shook his head sadly.

There was a moment’s silence; then André spoke. He sounded truly repentant.

“I’m sorry, Kek. I guess I blew your deal. I don’t mind for myself, though I sure as hell could have used the rest of the dough, but I hate to be the cause of your losing out on the deal. I should have used my head. I should have admitted to myself I don’t know anything about robbing a museum. But I did want to see you and Anita again, and I did want that trip to the States...” His voice slowed down and stopped.

Huuygens studied the lined, craggy face with the sad blue eyes. It was obvious that André did not clearly understand the mentality of a man like Girard. To be a good winner or a loser on a wager was one thing; Girard would take his beatings on that because it was a matter of pride. But to discover he had hired a man for an important job and the job had failed because the man had lied to him about his qualifications — that was quite different. To a person of Girard’s nature, the only answer could be punishment, both swift and dire; and even André’s enormous strength and courage would not avail against any of Girard’s gunmen if they were instructed to resolve the matter. A shot in the dark, or a fast car on a dark street somewhere. It also wouldn’t be too good for the man who had sponsored André. Maybe he would have been better off with a broken back.

Kek sighed. Well, he thought philosophically, if he had to turn professional thief at this late date, at least it would be in a good cause. He smiled to himself faintly. Don’t make yourself out to be such a martyr, Huuygens, he advised himself sardonically; there’s also the matter of your fifty-thousand-to-five-dollar bet riding on it. Let’s kid everybody but ourselves, he thought, and considered André thoughtfully.

“Tell me about this museum.”

André seemed surprised, but seemed to feel this was no time to question Kek on anything.

“Well,” he said, “I told you about the basement. The first floor has three main rooms, one big one and two smaller ones. The carving is in the biggest room. The main door is between the main room and a smaller one in front; the other small one is behind that.”

“How many floors?”

“Three. The floors upstairs are split up in more rooms than the ground floor, but the second floor is all there is to the museum. The top floor is for offices.” He looked at Kek curiously. “Why?”

Kek disregarded André’s query. “Tell me about the staircase.”

“Which one? From the basement to the first floor, or from the first floor up?”

“Tell me about all of them.”

“Well,” André said, mystified, “they all go up halfway to the next floor and there’s a landing, then they go up the rest of the way. They’re wide, made of marble from the first floor to the second, but plain wood from the basement to the first and from the second to the third. Oh, yes,” he added, remembering, “there’s an alcove at the landing on the basement floor; you can get a good view of the first floor from there — floor-level, of course — without being seen. The railing is heavy; all you have to do is look between the uprights.”

“Where are the toilets? In the basement?”

“No,” André said, his mystification deepening. “They’re on the third floor, where the offices are. Why?”

“And one last question,” Kek said, his face expressionless. “How did you get here? To Barbados from Ile Rocheux, I mean?”

“By boat.” André wondered where all this was leading. “Like Girard told me to.”

“I hope you didn’t steal it, like you were also told. They leave boats lie around fairly freely around here.”

André was insulted and his tone showed it.

“I know I’m not bright, but I’m not all that stupid! I don’t know these islands, but I know the Balearics, and I have a hunch all islands are alike. You can rob museums all day long, and they could care less, but steal a man’s boat? They’ll chase you until they catch you if it takes ten years.” He shook his head decisively. “That’s where half my money went. I rented it here in Barbados and took it to Ile Rocheux. In fact, I lived on it in Ile Rocheux for almost two weeks.”

“Well!” It was the first encouraging thing Kek had heard all day. “How long a ride is it?”

“A couple of hours. Why?”

Kek disregarded the question. “And where is the boat now?”

André’s mystification increased. “Now? I returned it, of course. What do I need a boat for now?”

“Go rerent it,” Kek said gently. “Do you have money?”

“I have enough for that, but rent it for what purpose?”

“To go back to Ile Rocheux, of course. Cap Antoine, to be exact. To get the carving you forgot to bring with you.”

For a moment André’s furrowed face brightened; then it fell.

“It’s impossible, Kek. If you’d have been with me the first time, you would probably have thought of something, and we might have pulled it off. But now it’s impossible. You read it yourself. They have two guards in the room, and floor alarms, and the army barracks right next door. There isn’t a chance.”

“Just go rent the boat. If worse comes to worst,” Kek said, “we’ll get in a few days’ fishing. Do you have a map of Cap Antoine? Good. If you left the boat without provisions, get some — enough for a day, at least. Where is the boat, by the way?”

“If I get the same one, it’s down at the yacht basin at Graves End beach. The one I had was called Beachcomber. I’d like it; it’s a good boat.” He frowned. “But aren’t you coming with me?”

“I’ll meet you there in an hour or so. I’ve something to do.”

“Okay.” André came to his feet. The gloomy look on his face suddenly brightened as he contemplated the matter. “Hey! It’ll be like old times, won’t it, Kek?”

“I certainly hope so,” Huuygens said sincerely. “At least in the old times we came out of our little adventures alive and in one piece.”

He watched the huge André drain the last of his cognac and start for the door. Then he switched smoothly from the French he and André had been using to English, raising his voice a bit, speaking to the bartender.

“Could I have a telephone here, please?”

The bartender brought one over and plugged it in. Kek thanked him with a nod and a smile, and got through to the operator. He placed his call and hung up, returning to the cognac while he waited. A means of getting the carving was forming in his mind; he hoped the planning of his first burglary would be as successful as his usual schemes for bringing things through Customs in various countries of the world. He checked his idea carefully. There were dangers, of course; a pity, for example, that the architects who designed the museum for Ile Rocheux had been so non-American-oriented as to put toilets on the third floor. Still, overcoming obstacles was the reason man was given intelligence. It was a possibility at best, but without choice one took whatever chances he had to. Maybe, he thought with a smile, if this thing works I may become that “professional thief” I was decrying to Girard such a short time ago. Girard was right: every man has the right to name his own vices. I suppose, in the long run, the only thing that makes a thief professional is experience... He went back to his planning.

His call was finally completed; a moment later Girard had been called to the line.

“Allô!”

The husky voice was instantly recognizable. It was an interesting fact, Kek thought, that Victor Girard’s “Hello” was always a statement, never a question.

“M’sieu? This is your purchasing agent. I am calling from Barbados. As per instructions.”

“Ah!” Girard sounded pleased. “You have it!”

“Not exactly.”

Girard’s voice changed, hardened. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that to date our requisition has not been filled.”

“What! You mean he has not appeared?”

“Oh, he appeared,” Kek said. “Only he was alone.”

A blast of pure venom exploded into the receiver.

“That idiot! The incompetent! I was told he was the best in the business! He told me—” There was a sudden pause. When Girard spoke again his voice was deadly. “I hope nobody is playing any tricks, here, M’sieu.”

“M’sieu! Nobody is playing any tricks. And your man is the best. When I saw him here in Barbados I recognized him instantly.” Kek’s tone brooked no nonsense, especially from someone several thousand miles away. “After all, M’sieu, one can scarcely call ‘incompetent’ the man who managed to — well, obtain one of the most valuable pieces of merchandise in the world, can one? From one of the most prestigious shops in the world?” His tone almost answered the question. “Obviously not.”

“Then what happened?”

“One of those things—”

“And why isn’t he calling me? Why you?”

“He has laryngitis,” Kek answered evenly. “He’s been sleeping on a boat for the past two weeks. In any event, M’sieu, the matter isn’t closed. Far from it—”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, if M’sieu will listen, that the matter isn’t closed. Your salesman merely asked me to get some additional information from you. With it he feels sure he will be able to complete the transaction to your complete satisfaction.”

“He had better,” Girard said. The very lack of emphasis in his voice constituted a greater threat than violence. “Time is running out. Well, what information does he want?”

“An address in Cap Antoine is all, M’sieu...”

“An address?”

“We are wasting time, M’sieu.” Kek asked his question and marked down the answer on a table napkin. He tucked it into his pocket. “Thank you. That should be enough.”

“I hope so. You’ll be in touch?”

“Without fail, M’sieu. Good-bye.”

Kek hung up the telephone, made a small grimace at it as if in memory of the man at the other end of the line, and came to his feet. He carried his bill to the bar, paid it after adding a substantial tip, and then paused. The bartender looked at him expectantly.

“Sir?”

Kek came to a decision. He unwrapped the candy dish and put it on the bar.

“Here. A present for your wife.” The bartender stared at him. Kek looked concerned. “You have one, do you not?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Then give her this with my blessings. It was meant for my fiancée, but she preferred another. Man, that is, not candy dish.” Kek sighed and carefully folded the paper, putting it in his pocket. “I shall keep the wrapping in memory. With luck, I may be able to use it soon...”

He nodded to the bartender and left the bar. Behind him the bartender examined the candy dish a moment, shrugged, and then slid it along the bar to serve among the other ashtrays.