Роберт Фиш - The Wager

He let the curtain fall over the porthole and dropped onto his unmade bed, frowning in thought. He disliked leaving Anita with a chip on her shoulder, but as he saw it there was nothing else to do. Only once before had he ever involved Anita in any of his jobs, and he had promised himself he never would again. Still, it was a shame when one considered it. If it hadn’t been for that call from Girard, it might well have been a most enjoyable cruise. He would have to see what he could find in Barbados that might serve as a peace offering. Something from Harrison’s, possibly?

There was a scratching at the door and he glanced over. The ship’s news, probably, being pushed beneath the portal. He came to his feet to investigate. A slim envelope carrying the ship’s crest lay at his feet. An invitation to one of the captain’s cocktail parties? Possible, since the purser’s office handled invitations, and Kek had expressly not told the purser of the planned hiatus in his trip, preferring to let them assume he had accidentally missed rejoining the ship after visiting Port Everglades. His baggage would assure them that he would eventually rejoin the cruise, and his passage was paid, so they wouldn’t really start any inquiry before their return to New York. And, of course, if anyone was keeping an eye on him, it would be good for their experience to find him missing once the ship was on its way to San Juan.

At any rate, he thought as he bent to pick up the envelope, it could scarcely be a bill. The one major advantage of traveling by ship was you didn’t get nagged by bills one at a time; they waited until you were well rested and then slugged you with them all at once.

He carried it to his bed and sat down, opening the envelope. He was actually not at all surprised to see it was in Anita’s scrawl. A final argument for going with him? Or one last verbal slap to accompany the physical one from the day before? He held it to the light from his bedside lamp.

My darling Kek:

I’ve given you nearly twenty-four hours to suffer, wondering if I was really angry, yesterday. No, darling, I was sure I was following your lead. You did want me to slap you, didn’t you? When you leave me for Rose, I think I’ll ask Max to back me on the stage. Wasn’t I good?

I’m sorry that I slapped you that hard, but I swear it was a slip. (A Freudian slip? Or a Freudian slap?) It served two purposes, though — it convinced me the money I’ve spent on tennis wasn’t all wasted; also I think it impressed our viewing audience to HANDLE WITH CARE. Now I’ll be able to wait for you to rejoin the ship at Barbados without having to wrestle my way out of too many staterooms. (Was that why you wanted me to slap you?)

Have a good trip and a successful one. I’m sorry I can’t go with you, but you’ll be taking my love. Try to leave that behind!

Kek reread the note and laughed. He should have known that Anita would see through him; it was one of the many reasons he loved her. She was smart.

He took the note into the bathroom, tore it into small pieces and flushed them down the toilet. His smile disappeared as he went back into the stateroom to wait for docking, when he would leave the ship like any other cruise passenger investigating the beauties of Fort Lauderdale.

Yes, my darling, he said to Anita silently, I did want to get slapped — even though not that hard — but it was not to save you from the pawing herd. It was because I still have the feeling there is someone on board with his eye on me, and on my way down from the radio shack it suddenly occurred to me that person need not necessarily be one of Girard’s boys. In fact, it might well be someone who actively dislikes Girard, as well as those who do his chores for him. Which could well make me some sort of a target.

And I do not like you to be closely associated with targets, darling.

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?”