Роберт Фиш - The Wager

Kek frowned. “I remember.”

“I’m afraid it was one of my clerks, as you suggested.” Girard’s voice took on a sudden viciousness. “For a paltry bribe of fifty dollars! Fifty dollars, can you imagine? The fool!”

“He told you this?”

“He told me several things,” Girard answered harshly. “He was most contrite — in the hospital.”

“Oh — the poor man had an accident? Not too serious, I hope.”

“A broken arm and two cracked ribs. He’ll recover.”

“Very good,” Kek sounded, relieved. He certainly didn’t want to be the cause, consciously or unconsciously, of Girard’s full revenge being visited on anyone. He stared at the telephone thoughtfully. “Then I imagine he also told you which one of your competitors bribed him?”

“No, M’sieu.” There was a certain amount of satisfaction in Girard’s tone. “He told me it was your competitor—”

“ My competitor?”

“Exactly, M’sieu. Your perpetual competitor.”

“I see.” So the bodyguard had gone to the United States Customs, and the result was Ralph Jamison. One would think for the amount of taxes the American citizen paid, he would get better protection from his government. Well, better the devil one knew than the devil unknown, although to call Jamison a devil seemed to be building him up in stature. Imp, possibly? “Precisely what did your clerk tell my competitor? That I intended to make the purchase? Because originally I did not.”

“No, he simply told them you intended to make the delivery. It’s all he heard, the fool. On the other hand, if he had heard more and told them more, his accident might well have been more serious.”

“Then it was fortunate all around he did not hear more.” Kek shrugged philosophically. “In any event, my competition usually assumes the worst of my business practices, so any special knowledge on their part really makes little difference.”

“I still think discretion is the better part of valor,” Girard said stubbornly. “A change in schedule seems to me definitely to be indicated. They will be expecting you to return on that ship, and after all the trouble we’ve been to—”

Kek’s eyebrows rose humorously at the “we.” Victor Girard and Lindbergh. He looked up to see André watching him carefully. He winked at the large man and went back to his phone call.

“The existence of my competition, and their knowledge of my activities will definitely be taken into consideration in determining my future plans, M’sieu. Thank you for the information.”

“Good, good! I’m glad you agree. Then you’ll be back sooner?”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit early to say,” Kek said regretfully. “To be on the safe side, why don’t we stay with our original plan and meet on the first of next month at your apartment?”

Frustration crept into Girard’s voice. Kek could see him seething; it was a pleasant sight. “But what will you be doing in the meantime?”

“Keeping busy,” Kek said gently. “With this and that. Is there anything else?”

“No,” Girard said sullenly, and then woke up. “Yes! When will I hear from you again?”

“On August first. As scheduled. If you wish a more exact point in time, make it exactly noon.” Kek paused, then added coolly. “And please be prepared to honor the exact terms of our agreement, M’sieu.”

“ I’ll be prepared. Just see that you’re prepared!” Girard said grimly, and slammed down the receiver.

Kek hung up and smiled at André.

“M’sieu Victor Girard would prefer that I do not return by way of the Andropolis ,” he explained. “It seems my old sight-seeing friend from Fort Lauderdale, the man in the white suit from our little adventure last evening, is really from the United States Customs service, and Girard is afraid he might return to the ship and — as they used to say in the Saturday afternoon serial — Discover All!”

André’s face fell. “So you won’t be coming back with us on the ship?”

Kek smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He came to his feet and studied André critically. “I have to do some shopping, so I suggest you come along. Maybe we can find some wide neckties to hide a bit of those horrors.”

Under the watchful eye of the first officer perched on a wing of the bridge and directing operations with a radio microphone, two squat tugs fore and aft skillfully nudged the MV Andropolis to its berth between an old rusty freighter and another cruise ship, whose early-morning passengers lined the rail and waved cheerfully across the water. In the background the gentle slopes of Barbados could be seen, rising evenly behind the low buildings of Bridgetown, reflecting the light from thick stands of palm and cane, with the brilliance of bougainvillea scattered among them. The first officer substituted megaphone for microphone as the tugs withdrew; under the shouted direction hawsers were thrown ashore, looped over stanchions, and the ship winched firmly to the dock. A dock crane bent down like some curious prehistoric bird, peering into the open hatchway that had appeared at the purser’s square; it picked up the gangplank in its steel beak and angled it accurately from the ship to the pier.

Anita had forgone breakfast to be on deck for the arrival. She scanned the dock closely for some sign of Kek, but the bare concrete held only a lineup of minibuses, the only passenger vehicles allowed on the dock, waiting patiently to carry shoregoing passengers to the customs shed and the long queue of waiting taxis beyond. Her young red-haired companion, for a welcome change, was not along; a physique such as his required refueling at regular intervals, and he was in the dining room just completing his third helping of breakfast.

A minibus had detached itself from the distant shed and was approaching the ship. It slowed to a stop at the foot of the Andropolis gangplank and Anita bent over to see who might emerge, certain it would be Kek. He had definitely promised to rejoin the ship here, and she would have thought he would have been as anxious to see her as she was to see him; and if there had been any change in his plans, there would have been a cable in some form or other she would have understood. But only one man emerged, dragging a heavy suitcase behind him while his other hand, with an iron grip, clutched papers that could only be passport and passage. It obviously was not Kek, and Anita was about to turn away in disappointment, when the man happened to look up. Anita’s eyes widened in surprise. It was impossible! But there he was, as large as ever, his face as battered as ever, and looking as good to her as ever. She leaned over the rail and screamed.

The face looking up found the source of the scream and frowned in complete nonrecognition. Then, the huge shoulders raised in a Gallic shrug of incomprehension and the large man lumbered up the gangplank with practiced ease. Anita turned and bumped into the red-haired youth. He grinned at her.

“What were you screaming about?”

“I thought I saw an old friend, but I was mistaken.”

“Well, don’t look so sad about it,” said the youth, pleased that no new friends were to be added at Barbados, the last stop before four lovely days of sailing home. He tilted his red thatch toward the shore. “How about going into town?”

“No,” Anita said slowly. “You go ahead, Billy. I think I’ll stay on board today.”

“Then I’ll stay here, too. Pool’s open. We’ll go swimming.”

Anita smiled; it was a smile that made Billy her slave. “You go ashore, the way you were planning. You’ve been talking about the lenses you wanted to buy here.” She put her hand on his arm. “You go get them.”