The Wager

8

“Paquet & company?” André was puzzled. “An architect’s office? What are you planning on doing? Retiring there and building?”

The two men were having an after-lunch brandy at a small restaurant just down the road from the Graves End yacht basin. Beachcomber, with both main and auxiliary gasoline tanks topped and with its normal supplies augmented by several bottles of the best cognac available in the neighborhood, bobbed gently at its dock within their sight.

“I’m planning,” Kek told him, “on seeing if you can break into architects’ offices with the same facility you exhibit with museum basements. This firm of architects happened to have handled the entire security system for the museum. Which includes the wiring job to those floor alarms that gave you such a start the other evening.”

André was watching him closely. Kek returned the other’s stare equably.

“I believe it was the poet Swinburne,” Kek went on, “who once said that even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea. In similar fashion, it occured to me that even the longest wire ought to wind, eventually, to a fuse box. If we can locate that fuse box from the plans...” He raised his shoulders in explanation, smiled at André, and finished his drink.

“It’s not a bad idea,” André agreed. “But there’s still the matter of the guards. What do we do about them? Do I knock their heads together? Of course,” he added, with less humor than he intended, “one of them might shoot me — might shoot us, that is — while I was handling his partner. And while you were figuring out what to do next. Five will get you ten the guards are armed.”

“I’ve enough bets at the moment. Maybe one too many.”

“They also probably have walkie-talkies to chat with their friends in the barracks next door.”

“Well,” Kek said, “we’ll try to figure out some method to keep us from being shot, if that’s all that’s bothering you.”

He rose, put money on the table, and led the way from the restaurant. The two men walked slowly back to the boat, the bright noonday sun hot on their faces, the cooling breeze from the ocean welcome on their skin. They climbed aboard and Kek ducked down into the small cabin. He dropped onto one of the bunks and spread out André’s map of Cap Antoine, the island’s only port. The street Girard had named was located once again; it paralleled the main avenue one block to the north. Kek raised his voice.

“André!”

The large man climbed through the hatchway. Kek turned back to the map, pointing.

“This is the place. Do you know where it is?”

André bent over the map, frowning. It took him a few moments to orient himself; then he nodded.

“Sure. I know where it is. If it’s the one I think it is, it’s the only four-story building in town.”

“And where’s the nearest point we can safely dock the boat?”

André shrugged. “We could come right in and tie up at the municipal pier, as far as that goes. Nobody pays any attention.”

“They just might,” Kek pointed out dryly, “if we came running down to the pier at top speed with the army behind us, making our getaway.”

“Oh.” André rubbed the foolish look from his face and studied the map again. One of his thick fingers came down. “Somewhere around here, I’d say. It would be maybe a mile or a mile and a half from the architect’s office. We can anchor offshore here, and take the dinghy in. The island’s generally rocky, but there’s a sand beach here and the trees come almost to the waterline. We can duck the dinghy and walk into town.”

“And the museum?”

“They call it the gallery, and it’s over here.” The finger moved, paused to point, and moved again, a short distance this time. “The barracks are on this side. They take up two full blocks, and they’re full of troops.”

“As barracks should be. We’ll try our best not to disturb them.” Kek thought for several moments while André waited. At last he looked up. “How’s the night life on the island?”

André brightened in memory. “Active. Gambling is legal on Ile Rocheux, which it isn’t in Barbados, so they get lots of folks from here going over by ferry to lose their dough. And of course they get plenty of cruise ships. The main street” — he bent over pointing it out on the map — “must have a bar every ten feet. Hostesses and slot machines in all of them. Tourism is their biggest business, I guess. Girard started it all; it’s probably the only thing of his the present administration kept.”

Huuygens looked at the man towering above him with amusement.

“You really made a study of the place, didn’t you? A pity you didn’t spend as much time planning your remarkable break-in at the museum.”

André was hurt. “It would have looked funny if I’d spent all my time in the gallery. And it would have looked even funnier if I hadn’t spent some time in the bars and at the casino. After all, I was supposed to be a visitor there, and I was there nearly two weeks.”

“Girard is right,” Kek said. “He really doesn’t care what he does with his money. Ah, well. When does all this action start and when does it stop? In the bars and at the casino?”

“In the bars the action never stops, or practically never. The casino is different; it opens at eight in the evening and closes at four in the morning.” André suddenly frowned. He rubbed his jaw dolefully. “I get you! There are going to be people wandering up and down that street where the architect’s office is located. We’ll have to wait until morning if we want to find the town really deserted, or at least as close to deserted as it ever gets.”

Kek stared at him. “Heaven forbid! And lose a full night’s sleep? I’m surprised you haven’t learned the first lesson of being a successful professional thief.” Kek’s tone was reproachful. “Quote: ‘By far the easiest place to be inconspicuous is in a crowd.’ Unquote.”

André was looking at him curiously. Kek grinned.

“But who am I to be giving lessons to the man who stole the ‘Mona Lisa’ from the Louvre?” He erased his grin and yawned instead. “Now let’s take a swim and then a nap. I don’t know whether we’ll really lose that full night’s sleep or not, but if I were a gambling man, I’d give Girard’s kind of odds that we will...”

It was nine o’clock that night when Beachcomber left its berth. All navigation lights were lit and properly trimmed, but twenty minutes later, when the western edge of Barbados had shrunk to a barely discernible band of twinkling lights against the low shadow that was the island, Kek went about the craft and methodically extinguished them. Only the faint glow of the binnacle remained, casting faint shadows across André’s craggy face. From then on they plowed steadily westward toward the dying light still faintly tinging the horizon from the already-set sun, until at last the night was completely upon them and the only sounds were the quiet slap of the small rollers against the prow, and the even burbling of the twin engines churning out the sea behind them. There was no moon and no clouds, and the sky was a low-hanging bowl of velvet pierced with millions of tiny pinholes, letting down slivers of light that failed to illuminate. The sea breeze was moderate, bringing the tang of salt air, humid and warm; the stars swung back and forth with the even swaying of the vessel.

Kek relaxed on a locker, staring into the blackness ahead. His scheme for robbing the museum was more or less firm, but he had little notion of the chances of success. Whenever planning to smuggle something through Customs, Huuygens always had the details worked out to the last step, but museum-burglarizing, he had to admit, was something rather out of his field. Well, he thought, live and learn. Even Robin Hood had to start with his first sheriff sometime and someplace.

Ile Rocheux first appeared out of the darkness as a blacker shadow towering in the night, visible mainly through its blocking out of stars. André turned his head, speaking quietly, as if aware of how sound can travel over water.

“Cap Antoine is on the far side of the island,” he said. “I didn’t want to head directly for the north point; that’s the main sea-lane, and without lights I didn’t want to play tag with some liner.” He started to swing the wheel. “We’ll run along the shore from here on. We’re about a half-hour from where we’ll anchor. There’s a ridge to the north of the town that will keep us out of sight until we’re ashore in the dinghy.”

“Unless they have patrols along the shore.”

André looked down at him, frowning. “Why would they have patrols?”

“I don’t know,” Kek said. “Maybe to keep the gamblers from escaping.” He came to his feet, trying to pierce the darkness and see the rocky shore that was approaching.

A thin line of curling white marked where the surf broke against the sheer walls that rose abruptly from the sea and disappeared into the night. The reason for the island’s name was evident; in sharp contrast to the soft, rolling hills of Barbados, Ile Rocheux had been thrust from the sea floor in some ancient cataclysm, stripped to its basic stone, rugged and forbidding. André brought the boat on course and pushed the throttles. The engines responded instantly, increasing their roar.

They chopped through the roughened sea for another twenty minutes before the northernmost point of the island was reached; a swing on the wheel and they were in the lee of the island, in calmer waters. André instantly reduced the speed, let them run in toward shore for a few minutes, and then cut the engines entirely. Beachcomber coasted forward under its own momentum. André glanced at the binnacle clock and then switched off the tiny light. They were in complete darkness.

“Eleven forty-five,” André said softly.

“The shank of the evening,” Kek said, and stared toward shore. In the distance a faint glow against the sky indicated the presence of Cap Antoine beyond a spur of hill; in the stillness they could hear the weak sound of music. Beachcomber had lost its forward motion and was rocking gently on the softly pulsing waves. André walked forward, wrapping his hands in old rags. He released the anchor and slowly paid out the chain through the hawsehole by hand, muffling any sound the chain might make. Other than a slight splash as the prongs struck the water, all was silent.

Kek was quietly lowering the light aluminum dinghy into the sea. When it was afloat, he lowered himself into it, easily holding it in place with one hand on the boat’s ladder; with his other hand he checked to make sure his pocket flashlight was in order by flicking it on inside his pocket. The faint glow was instantly extinguished and he waited in the rocking boat for André to appear.

The large man came back from the prow treading silently, and dropped with almost feline skill into the dinghy. He sat down, waited until Kek was also seated, and then took up the oars, pulling for the shore without a single splash to mark their progress. Behind them Beachcomber disappeared almost at once; Kek hoped they would be able to locate it when they returned, but resolutely put the uncomfortable thought from his mind and concentrated on trying to see the shoreline.

Sand scraped under their keel before he was even aware they were close. André waited until the surf started to draw back and then leaped lightly to the sand, holding the boat’s painter. When the next comber came he stepped back from it sharply, hauling on the rope, bringing the dinghy to a stop high on the dry sand. Kek stepped down.

“Thank you,” he said. “I should have hated to walk down the street with wet trouser legs.”

“Always the dandy.” André grinned then became serious. “Let’s get this thing into the woods.”

The two lifted the light dinghy and walked it toward the line of trees faintly visible against the glow of the city. Inside the woods the night was darker than ever. Two steps and Kek backed into a tree, the prow of the dinghy jabbing him in the stomach.

“This ought to do it,” he said quietly. “If we’re holding this thing and can’t see it, nobody else ought to be able to.”

“Right!” André said, perfectly willing, and lowered his end.

Kek put the prow down, turned, and walked into another tree. His voice became slightly aggrieved. “The next time I come here I take the ferry.” He rubbed his forehead. “Or a taxi. Where the devil is the ocean? We just came from there.”

“We don’t want the ocean,” André said patiently. “We want the road. It’s only about a hundred feet through the trees.”

“Only a hundred feet? You’re very nonchalant about damages to my person.” Kek sighed. “Ah, well. Lead on...”

The main thoroughfare of Cap Antoine, one of the five paved streets in the capital, had had its name hastily changed from Avenue Girard to Boulevard Chef de Bataillon Richereau, and there had not been time in the past twelve months to prepare proper signs as yet. However, since the avenue was known throughout the Caribbean as Sucker Street, it made small difference.

The public way fulfilled André’s description faithfully. The west side of the road had at intervals to forsake bistros and all-night pharmacies mainly dealing in for-the-prevention-of-disease-only merchandise to accommodate the wharves that ran out to sea and provided dock space for the many visitors who, in turn, provided Ile Rocheux with its main source of income. The east side of the street, however, was not so penalized. From almost every doorway jukeboxes polluted the humid night air with enough noise to make ordinary thinking impossible, let alone the careful planning of a workable burglary. Or two workable burglaries, Kek thought. André, happily leaving these problems to his admittedly more intelligent companion, glanced into each passing doorway thirstily, wetting his lips.

“One little beer can’t hurt.”

“Later,” Huuygens said firmly.

“Just one little beer?” Nostalgia enfolded André. “We should have tapped that brandy back on the boat before we left.”

“It will still be there when we get back.” There was a slight pause which both men properly interpreted to mean if we get back. Kek marched along. “How much further?”

André sighed. “Two streets down, then left one short block. Look, Kek, how about at least some tonic?”

“Tonic?”

“With some gin in it to take away the taste...”

“Later,” Huuygens said relentlessly, and followed André around the requisite corner. They walked on for less than a minute. Then—

“It’s that building—” André started, and stopped dead in his tracks. Huuygens walked right into the man. It was like walking into a brick wall. He rubbed his forehead again, beginning to get irritated.

“Now what’s the matter?”

André merely pointed. Kek looked up. The building they had been approaching, easily identifiable because of its height, was ablaze with lights. André was staring, astonished.

“What on earth—! It’s after midnight. It’s supposed to be a business office, not a bar! They ought to have been closed hours and hours ago!”

Oddly enough, the fact that the building was lit up like a hospital ship in a war zone seemed to dispel Kek’s displeasure with the way things had been going that evening. He stared up at the lighted building, a smile beginning to crease his lips.

“Well, well!” he said winking at André. “How’s your island French?”

“My what?”

“Can you do the accent they’re afflicted with down here? After all,” Kek pointed out logically, “you’ve been here two weeks, and all I’ve had to practice on was Girard’s few words.” He considered his statement and amended it. “Well, not exactly few...”

“Not me,” André said positively, and shook his head. “They talk as if they were eating at the same time. Why?”

Kek disregarded the question. “Well, in that case keep quiet and let me do the talking.”

“Talking to who?”

“To anybody. Try to merely look intelligent, or at least prosperous.”

Things were getting confused as far as André was concerned. “What do you mean? How do you look prosperous?”

“By not looking poor, of course. Let’s go.”

He started across the street. André stood a moment, wondering what their conversation had been all about, and then realized where Kek was heading. He sprang after him, grabbing his arm.

“Kek, Kek! Where do you think you’re going?”

Huuygens surveyed him companion calmly. “Into the building, of course. That’s why we came here. Up to the third floor.” He looked up at the building and sighed. “Probably by foot. I doubt they have elevators.”

“But there are people up there!” André sounded as if any building infested with people should call an exterminator.

“Of course there are people up there — it saves us the trouble of breaking and entering, which is against the law.” Kek paused, thinking. “I wonder if merely entering is against the law? I shouldn’t think so. I’ll have to check that some day. The things one has to know if one is to become a successful professional thief! Frightening!” He smiled at André in kindly fashion. “Ah, well. Let’s go.”

André stared at Kek a moment, shrugged philosophically, and followed. Who was he to question Kek Huuygens? Although he would have sworn that breaking into an office that had people in it was basically a poor operation, at least in theory.

They crossed the street, pushed into the empty lobby, discovered — as Kek had anticipated — that elevators were a needless luxury in the edifice, and began to climb the stairs. At the third floor Kek consulted a small directory mounted at the landing, and led the way to the office they wanted. Through the frosted glass brilliant illumination could be seen. Kek winked at André and turned the knob, nor did he appear at all surprised to find the door opening under his touch. André swallowed and followed.

The outer office was empty, the receptionist’s desk abandoned. Still, they could see lights pouring from the various offices into a central corridor. André looked about nervously and then bent down, whispering into Kek’s ear. He tried to be as silent as he could about it, but to his own ears he seemed to be shouting.

“Kek, this is insane! Let’s get out of here!”

Huuygens smiled at him and pushed through the little swinging gate that separated the waiting area from the offices proper. He walked down the hallway, poked his head into the first doorway, shook it in disappointment, and marched farther along the corridor. André, more convinced by the moment that his old friend was dealing from a short deck, followed, prepared to at least save the other from his own folly, if hitting someone on the head was enough to do it.

At the third office Kek apparently found what he had been looking for, which had to be the people André had so correctly stated were on the premises. André saw a big smile light up Kek’s face, and heard an unbelievably correct imitation of the island accent issuing from the other’s lips.

“Ah, madame — working hard, I see. Well, I shall not disturb you. It is simply that M’sieu Paquet wishes me to show this client the plans for his new home. We outside salesmen have no hours! No, no, that’s perfectly all right. Go right ahead with your cleaning. If you finish before we’re through, you can leave. I’ll lock up.”

He smiled and continued down the hallway, with André on his heels. As the big man passed the small office he saw an elderly woman on her knees, scrubbing the parquet floor; she didn’t bother to raise her head at his passage. Kek came at last to the room he wanted, a large drafting room with wide drawing-files in one corner. The cleaning woman had obviously done the room, for the entire arrangement was incredibly neat, with dust covers on all tables, all drafting machines at precisely the same angle, all gooseneck lamps arched to the same degree. Even the wastebaskets, now empty, occupied equivalent locations beneath each table. Kek nodded.

“Let us hope their filing system is equally neat.”

He walked over, studied the lock on the first drawer, tried it, and smiled as the drawer slid open. “My, my! What security! On the other hand, I don’t suppose many people go around stealing architect’s drawings. The resale market must be rather limited...”

André let out the breath he had been holding, it seemed to him, for several hours. “Kek, you’re incredible! How did you know it would just be a cleaning woman up here?”

Huuygens looked up from the file, surprised.

“Who else would account for all the lights being on in the whole building? One light here or another there could mean someone working late, or a meeting, or something on that order, but all the lights on in all the different offices? They probably have women working in the other offices in the building right now; when they finish they’ll go to another building.” He stopped to frown. “That wouldn’t be a bad method of robbing a place,” he said thoughtfully. “Break in and instead of stumbling around with a flashlight, turn on every light in the place. Ah, well, maybe another time...” He turned back to the file. “Museum, museum...”

“Gallery,” André said, wanting to contribute at least something to the evening’s endeavor.

“That’s right, I forgot. Here we are. Well, well. One full drawer, just for the security system. And I would be willing to bet,” he went on, “that the duplicate copies of these security drawings held by the army in their barracks are in a safe inside of a safe inside of a safe!” He shook his head humorously. “How it goes! Well, let’s hope most of these are detail drawings; I’d hate to have to wade through all of them to find what we want. We don’t have all night.”

He leafed through the vellum sheets, noting the titles in each bottom right-hand corner; then, with a nod of triumph he pulled one out.

“Here we are. ‘Basement Electrical — General Layout.’ Let’s have some better light on it.” He carried it to one of the drafting tables, laid it flat, and pulled the gooseneck lamp over, flicking the switch. “That’s better. All right, André, where are we?”

André bent over the drawing.

“Let’s see. Yes. This must be that little room I came into first, where they have the junk and the repair shop. And this is the corridor, and here are the steps.” He looked at Kek. “We ought to have the first-floor plan, too, to see where the floor alarms are.”

“We know where the floor alarms are,” Kek said reasonably. “All around the carving case. What we want is the power source, and that should be on this drawing.”

They bent over the vellum again. André checked the list of symbols neatly printed on the edge of the drawing and then returned to his study. His heavy finger came down.

“Here we are. These are the mains coming in from the street. They go to this box, here. If this thing isn’t just schematic, it would be in the basement corridor. Those would be the main fuses.”

Kek nodded. “Fine! That’s what we want. Is there anything there indicating telephones?”

“They wouldn’t be on this, but it ought to be easy enough to trace those from the nearest telephone pole.”

“True. By the way, do you remember seeing that fuse box in the corridor when you were there?”

André grinned. He was feeling better.

“On the way in I wasn’t looking, and on the way out I didn’t have time for any sight-seeing. But if it shows on the plan, there isn’t any reason why it shouldn’t be there.”

“True enough.” Kek carried the drawing back to the cabinet. He replaced it in its proper numerical position, closed the drawer, and returned to the drafting table. The gooseneck lamp was arched into its original position and Kek stepped back.

“Good enough. Step one completed, more or less. Shall we go?”

“For a beer?”

“Later!” Kek said firmly.

“All right,” André responded with remarkable tractability. The fact was that after the incredible ease with which they had entered the architect’s office and gotten the information they wanted, André had been convinced that robbing the museum — gallery, that was — would present no great problem. Although he had no idea of what Kek planned to do, his faith was high; now all he wanted was to get it over and get back to the brandy aboard the Beachcomber. He looked at Kek admiringly. “How come you never went in for this sort of thing before? You have a flair for it.”

Kek looked at André soberly.

“I’m not so sure I have,” he said quietly, “and I sincerely hope I don’t find out I don’t before tonight is over!”