The Wager

9

“It is the height of simplicity,” Huuygens observed. There was an assurance to his voice he was far from feeling. “If the idiots who designed the building had simply put the toilets in the basement, where they are in any other self-respecting museum, all we’d have to do is wait for one of them to visit the place. But since they didn’t, we’ll have to do it this way. We make enough noise to make the guards suspicious. One comes to investigate—” He raised his shoulders. “Voilà.”

The two men were strolling along the main street, their words lost in the cacophony about them. André’s interest in the conversation was such that even the soft calls from the bar doorways did not register on his consciousness. He listened to the words of his old friend and found them highly dubious.

“And if both guards come down to investigate our little noise?”

“All the better,” Kek said positively, and mentally crossed his fingers. “We simply take them, tie them up, lift the carving, and trot back to our little boat. Without, I might mention, stopping for any beer. Fini.”

André retreated. “And if only one comes downstairs?”

“As I said, we disarm him—”

“And if he yells?”

“We do our best to see he does not yell.” Kek held up his hand at once. “I don’t mean that the way I have a feeling you might think I do, if you know what I mean.”

“No,” André said honestly.

“I’m not surprised. It wasn’t well put. I mean, you hold his mouth and then we tape it up. Or, if absolutely necessary to prevent an outcry, I suppose you could knock him out, or something. But only as a last resort. And as gently as possible.”

“Gently?”

“I said, as possible. The less violence the better. I don’t want anyone hurt, that’s rule number one.”

“Including us.” André was in complete agreement. “Let’s make that rule zero. Or even minus one.”

“Fair enough. However,” Kek pointed out, “since we’re the aggressors, the burden of being careful falls on us. I don’t mind becoming a burglar — well, I do, but never mind — what I mean is I don’t want to end up being anything beyond that. Is that clear?”

André nodded. “So we have the first one tied up and gagged — because we don’t have any tape — and his partner comes down to find out what is taking the first one so long. And then we take him, too. Is that the idea?”

“In general, yes. And we do have tape. I have it in my pocket.”

André considered him admiringly. “You think of everything!” His face shifted to a small frown as he returned to considering the night’s work ahead. “But what if, when the first guard doesn’t return upstairs, instead of coming down to find out what happened, the second guard simply calls for reinforcements?”

“We intend to cut the telephone wires first, remember?”

“But what if he calls by walkie-talkie?”

“Then we run as fast as we can,” Kek said sourly. “You keep going on and on about walkie-talkies. What makes you think they have walkie-talkies? Did you see any on the daytime guards when you were in there?”

“No,” André admitted. He had been pleased with his role as devil’s advocate, but he was ready to be quitted of it. “Anyway, even if they have them we’ll be able to see them before we start anything. Like I told you, you can get a perfect look at that room through the railing from that alcove on the stair landing. You’re in the dark and they’re in the light. If they’ve got walkie-talkies, we’ll see them. Worse comes to worse, we can revise our plans—”

“Worse came to worst a long time ago,” Kek said shortly. “What the devil are we doing here, anyway?”

“Saving my neck,” André said quietly. “Or did you think I didn’t know?”

Kek glanced over at his large friend, surprised as always at the sharp insight André exhibited at times.

“Only partially. There’s still the matter of my bet with Girard.” He changed the subject. “Anyway, it’s the best idea I can come up with. Also the only one. I admit it lacks finesse. As a matter of fact, it’s a terrible plan, an awful plan, and I don’t like it at all. The only thing is I don’t have a better one. Do you?”

“No.”

“Then let’s get on with this museum-breaking, shall we? It’s late and I’m getting tired.”

“Gallery-breaking,” André said, always the stickler, and led the way in the proper direction.

The Ile Rocheux Gallery of Art, pride of the island and home of the Chang carving, “The Village Dance,” was located at the end of a narrow park on the opposite side of the city from Sucker Street, but since Cap Antoine was not all that big, the distance was not all that great. It was, however, far enough from the harbor hubbub to save it from the raucous noise, as well as from many pedestrians at that hour of the morning. André and Kek, approaching circumspectly from the path which the rear wall of the gallery faced, were suitably impressed by the deserted area, lit only by a lone streetlight, as well as by the welcome silence; nor did their rope-soled deck sneakers disturb it.

André paused, looked about, and a moment later had pushed through the tall bushes that formed the rear boundary of the gallery grounds. Kek waited only long enough to note no objection to the surreptitious entry into the grounds, and then followed.

André was standing in the deep shadows of the side wall, looking up. Above his head a telephone cable looped itself gracefully from a street pole, clung to the wall by means of a clip, and then dropped down on cleats to disappear through a small pipe into the building. The point of entry was well within André’s reach. He looked about and then reached upwards swiftly. One powerful snip and he was back in position, all in one motion. They waited tensely for several minutes to see if anyone might burst from the building to investigate. No one did. Kek nodded, pleased that nobody had been talking to his girlfriend on company time; he liked to see dedication to duty. On the other hand it was very possible they were so used to having the phone service cut off that they assumed it was normal. He tapped André on the shoulder, pointed toward the back, and nodded.

André looked around and then edged his way to the rear corner of the large edifice. He crouched, peered carefully about the edge, and then straightened up, motioning to Huuygens. Another second and he had disappeared.

Kek made the corner in a quick, silent sprint, turned it, and almost fell down the steep stairwell André had described. He caught his balance and edged downward, glaring at André. In the faint light of the streetlamp angling into the areaway, Kek could see the look of embarrassment on the big man’s face.

“I forgot to tell you it was so close, didn’t I?” André whispered.

Kek put his finger to his lips and pointed to the lock. André nodded and turned. He brought out his flashlight, flicked it on, held the beam on the lock for the briefest of moments and then flicked it off. A smile appeared on his face.

“It’s that same lock,” he said in a pleased whisper. “I can open it blindfolded.”

Kek nodded, agreeably surprised as always when confronting economy in government; a more profligate administration might well have changed locks after a suspected burglary attempt, but not those in charge of the Ile Rocheux Gallery. He hoped it might indicate equal inattention on the part of the guards to other criminal possibilities.

There was a light scraping of metal on metal, then silence for several moments. Kek was about to suggest that André put on a blindfold if that would help, when the large man tested the knob and then swung the door wide to disappear inside. Kek followed, closing the heavy door behind him. In the complete blackness of the windowless room he was suddenly aware of his breathing; it seemed to his sensitive ears to sound like a subway train on an express run. He was sure that the guards had to hear it, even through the heavy door, the fifty feet of corridor, and the thick floor that separated them.

He brought out his flashlight and switched it on. To his surprise his breathing no longer seemed to be making such a deafening racket. He promised himself to investigate this phenomenon some day, but not tonight. He swung the light about. As André had indicated, the area seemed to combine the services of storage room with workshop. Large stone figures were placed haphazardly about in the crowded space, making it look like some street scene in an ancient Arawak village. A bench along one wall was apparently used either to make repairs or for assembly of the large statues. A torso reclined on it, patiently awaiting legs and arms, the stone eyes staring calmly at the ceiling. On the far side of the room the door to the corridor was closed.

“The first thing we do,” Kek said quietly, “is to move these figures out of the way. I want a clear straight line between the two doors. If we have to leave in a hurry — and in the dark — I don’t want to run head-on into one of these stone giants. I’ve had enough of that sort of thing tonight as it is.”

André tested one. “They’re heavy.”

“I’m sure. If they were light we could run right over them. Let’s go. And quietly.”

They bent to their task, shifting the stone figures one by one until a reasonably clear path had been laid out for their escape. The limited room prevented a perfect job, but it was far better than it had been. Kek paused, panting.

“Well, with a bit of dodging we ought to make it. Even if we hit them now, all we’ll break is a shoulder, which is better than a head.” He looked at the door to the corridor. “Now, according to that drawing, the fuse box is on, or in, the corridor about fifteen feet from this room and roughly forty feet from the stairway. Right?”

André nodded. “On the left-hand wall.”

“Then let’s go.” He put the flashlight beam on the door, held it there until André was behind him and his hand was on the knob, then switched the light off. In the sudden darkness his breathing seemed loud again. He pulled the knob.

The corridor was clearly outlined without the need for any flashlight; light from the floor above shone obliquely down the stairway at the far end and angled itself across the tunnellike hallway, illuminating it sufficiently. Kek nodded briefly and stepped out. André passed him, taking up a protective stance further along the bare corridor. Kek reached up to the box, set at head height into the wall.

His admiration for Paquet et Cie. grew as he lifted the metal cover and peered within. As neat as the drafting room had been, as tidy as the file holding the drawing they had studied, just so organized was the fuse box. Little metal nameplates clearly identified each circuit, the alarms on one side, the light mains on the other. With a nod of thankfulness to the architectural firm — and a solemn promise to himself never to use them if security ever mattered in one of his endeavors — Kek slowly and silently pulled down the requisite switch and closed the box.

André had been glancing back nervously over his shoulder. Kek grinned and motioned André to come back to him. When the large man had slipped silently to his side, Kek put his lips to the other’s ear.

“Your floor plates have been defused. I’m going to take a peek upstairs. You wait here.”

André nodded. Kek walked quietly on rope soles to the steps and then started up them slowly and carefully. As he went from tread to tread, the murmur of voices from the room above grew in volume. He came to the landing and stepped back into the alcove. From there the floor line of the room above was clearly visible through the heavy posts of the railing. The room he was surveying was larger than he had anticipated; the walls were lined with huge paintings while the small case containing the precious carving was clearly visible in the center of the room in the place of honor. But the thing that caught and held Huuygens’ attention was none of the art objects; it was the fact that instead of the two guards he had been led to expect, the room contained three men — two soldiers and an officer.

Kek frowned. His plan had not considered the presence of more than two men. Would it work in the case of three? Extremely doubtful. A second might follow a first who did not reappear, but a third would undoubtedly raise an alarm at the loss of two companions. He studied the scene above, attempting to come up with a workable solution to the problem, but his head seemed stuffed with cotton wool. Another thing against burglary, he decided, was the ridiculous hours.

The officer was standing, feet apart, hands locked behind his back, speaking in a high, nasal voice. The two soldiers stood at rigid attention. Each carried sidearms but Kek was pleased to see that walkie-talkies were not in evidence. This did not, of course, reduce the problem of the extra man, but it was something. The problem, as Kek saw it, was that while it was something he could not for the life of him see what that something was. Kek leaned closer, listening to the thick island accent.

“—in the morning. Is that understood?”

Kek could now see the stripes on one of the men’s sleeves. A corporal. “Yes, Major.” This voice was lower, harsher; it made Kek think of Girard’s voice.

The major continued, his jaw thrust forward. “His plane just landed and he wanted to come directly here. He wishes to remain here with you until the carving leaves at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Kek’s frown deepened. So apparently there was still another man, making the group four in total. Good God! The place sounded like the Gare du Nord during rush hour; Kek wondered if the museum was as busy during the day as it seemed to be at night. His original scheme, it was obvious, would have to be abandoned, but in favor of what? The major’s high, nasal voice continued in his drill-instructor’s manner.

“I will have replacement guards here at seven forty-five in the morning. At that time your responsibility here will end and you will return to the barracks. Is that clear?”

The corporal’s deep tone answered. “Yes, Major.”

“The gentleman speaks no French, but I see no necessity of communication.”

“Yes, sir.”

The major nodded abruptly. “In that case I shall leave you. You will lock up behind me.”

“Yes, Major.”

So from four people we are now back to three, Kek thought. Not the Gare du Nord at rush hour, but possibly at one in the morning. Kek watched the corporal do a stiff about-face and disappear from the scene behind the strutting major. The second soldier, a private, visibly relaxed and brought out a packet of cigarettes. He shook one loose and then wordlessly offered the package to someone out of sight. A man walked into view, shaking his head in refusal. Kek’s frown deepened, but he could not say he was completely surprised to see his old friend from Worcester, Mass. and Fort Lauderdale, Mr. Ralph Jamison.

How had Jamison gotten there? Quite easily. Probably from San Juan, assuming he had gone back to the ship after his meeting with the red-haired youth. The man was becoming a nuisance; or, rather, was continuing to be one. Jamison was dressed in island whites and there was a livid bruise high on one cheekbone that was clearly visible even at that distance. Kek silently applauded the freckle-faced youngster’s chivalry, not to mention his good right hand. Any apologies Kek may have felt might have been due Jamison because of the happenings at the 66 Roof were now, as a Washington press secretary might have put it, no longer operative. Exactly what part the gangling Mr. Jamison played in the affair was still a question, but a tourist he certainly was not.

“No, thanks,” Jamison said. “I don’t smoke.”

The soldier grinned the foolish grin of people who do not understand a foreign language, and withdrew the offer. He brought his cigarette to his mouth and brought out his lighter, but before he could spin the wheel he found it jerked from his hand. Before he could protest this indignity from the returning corporal, it was followed by the cigarette being plucked from his mouth rudely.

“You know the rules!” the corporal said harshly. “No smoking in the Gallery at any time. And no matches or lighters. There are masterpieces here, you idiot!” He looked at Jamison. “Sir — do you have any matches on you? Or a cigarette lighter?”

Jamison shrugged, uncertain as to what the man was saying.

“He didn’t take a cigarette,” the soldier offered.

It was insufficient evidence to satisfy the corporal. He held up the lighter. Then he made the motion of striking a match. “Do you have any matches? Or a lighter?”

Jamison finally understood. He shook his head and then patted his pockets to demonstrate his lack of incendiary elements. The corporal nodded and turned away, walking out of Kek’s sight. On his return a few minutes later he looked grimly satisfied.

“Your lighter’s locked up for the night,” he reported in his deep, harsh voice. “You’ll get it in the morning.”

“But—”

“There are no buts! You’re lucky the major didn’t see you trying to light a cigarette in here, you idiot! If you need something in your mouth, bite your nails!”

Jamison, unable to understand the language, had been watching the scene with a touch of amusement. Now he turned from the soldier’s obvious embarrassment at being reprimanded before a stranger, and looked around. His eye fell on the case in the center of the room.

“Ah!” he said, pleased. “So that’s the famous carving, is it?”

He started to move toward it, but the corporal grabbed his arm, speaking rapidly in his island French; with his other hand he jabbed downward at the floor. Jamison would have been amazed at the corporal’s words, which recommended all smoking soldiers and all stupid foreigners to perdition, but he did get the general idea.

“I understand,” Jamison said, and pulled his arm free. “Floor alarms, eh?” He shrugged. “Well, I’ve waited this long to see the thing, I guess I can wait until morning.”

He leaned back against a column, took a copy of an American magazine from his jacket pocket, and calmly began reading. The soldier squatted down near the column and stared at his callused hands, as if surprised to see them empty of tobacco. The corporal strolled around the edges of the large room, studying the masterpieces he had so bravely defended from fire just moments before. With the magazine removed from Jamison’s pocket, Kek could note the bulge under one arm. So there were three armed men, not two! Could his original scheme possibly be revived? Kek sadly conceded it could not. How to get the carving without being seen and recognized?

An idea suddenly came, and Kek silently gave credit for it where the credit was due: to the corporal, bless him. He reviewed the scheme carefully. Very possible, he said to himself. There were of course certain chances involved, such as that someone might panic and use a gun, but he didn’t really think so. He backed quietly from the alcove and crept down the steps, pleased that whoever had built them — possibly those perfectionists, Paquet et Cie. — had made them solid enough not to creak. He approached André with a finger to his lips and led the way back to the storage room. André followed wonderingly and closed the thick door behind them. Kek flicked on his flashlight and stared up at André.

“There are three men up there, all armed.”

“Three?”

“That’s right. One of them is an American who was on the same boat as I was. He knows me.”

André glowered. “What’s he doing here?”

“According to the conversation, he’s here to accompany the carving when it leaves — which is at eight o’clock tomorrow morning — except if things work out the way I hope, it’s going to leave here a lot sooner — like in five minutes.” Kek frowned and shook his head. “Let’s forget him for the moment. Here’s the way we handle it. The first thing we do is see to it the back door, the one to the areaway, is on the latch, but not open enough for any light to show. And with the key in the lock from the outside, because we’re going to lock it when we leave, which should hold them up a little, if they catch on. Which I hope they don’t.”

“Catch on? To what?”

Kek disregarded this. “Next, we leave this door here, leading to the corridor, wide open, because I’m going to be coming through here fast. All clear so far?”

“No,” André argued. “That corridor is like a target range. Anyone comes down there will look like a clay pigeon in a shooting gallery. What keeps them from knocking you off?”

“Several things,” Kek said, and forced himself to think positively. “One, with any luck they’ll never think of the basement at all. Leave that part to me. Two, we’re going to do this job in total darkness and be out of here before they have a chance to cast any light on the problem.” He explained the corporal’s aid in saving the institution from destruction by flame. “So they shouldn’t have any means of illumination.”

“What about flashlights?”

“I didn’t see any on them.” He mentally crossed his fingers. “Let’s not think about nasty things like that. You man the fuse box and I’ll do the upstairs bit.”

“No,” André said stubbornly. “I know exactly where the case is upstairs. I can get the carving easier than you; I almost had it once. And if there are any arguments up there, I can handle them better.” His jaw hardened.

“You are going to man the fuse box and I am going to do the upstairs bit,” Kek said firmly, “and if there are any arguments, let them not be between us. The idea isn’t to prove we’re tougher than three armed men; it’s to prove we’re smarter. Besides, you didn’t do your homework on practicing the island accent, and I did. I’ll give you the signal from the stair landing. You pull the light switch in the fuse box. Then get outside and be ready to lock the door when I come through in a rush.”

“If you happen to be the first one through the door,” André said direly.

“If I’m not,” Kek replied, “and it’s a man in a white suit, you have my permission to deal with him as ungently as you wish. He should be getting used to it by now.” In the light of the flash Kek studied André’s sober face. “All clear?”

“Just be careful.”

“Yes,” Kek answered — for there was nothing else to say — and turned off the light, reaching for the knob.