Роберт Фиш - The Wager

“All my life,” Jamison said smugly, “I’ve wanted to see what a fifteen-dollar Wedgwood candy dish looked like.” He started unwrapping the package with hands that, despite himself, began to tremble with anticipation.

“Hey!” Kek said in alarm but it was too late. The package was open.

But Jamison did not hear him. He was staring down at the object in his hands. His lifelong ambition had finally been realized; he was seeing what a fifteen-dollar Wedgwood candy dish looked like.

That was the day that became known in shipping circles as the Day of the Big Search, and probably made more passengers swear they would never take a ship again than the beggars in Haiti, or Hatteras at its worst. A stentorian blast on the loudspeakers advised all Customs officials to report to the office Jamison had commandeered for Operation Huuygens, and when they returned to duty it was to go through each passenger’s luggage and person with a thoroughness unequaled in the history of a department dedicated to thorough searching. Female agents were called in from adjoining piers to handle the women passengers; the Customs man nearest Anita apologized profusely as he handed her over to a large, matronly agent, but Anita was searched as thoroughly as the others. Offices were taken over for the more delicate aspects of the search. Every possible place an object the size of the carving could have been hidden was probed, poked, patted, or squeezed. And when it was finished late that afternoon, and the last fuming passenger finally released, together with Huuygens and Martins, Jamison sat alone in the little office, his aching head in his hands, considering the day from its hopeful inception to its horrible conclusion. His biggest problem — other than fruitless wonder as to how the devil Huuygens had accomplished it — was what to say to his superior when he called in to report. It was, however, the one worry he did not have to contend with, for the telephone at his elbow rang before he could formulate his thoughts, let alone place a call to Washington. It was, as he feared, his superior.

“Jamison!”

“Sir?”

The icy voice was withering in its anger.

“What in the name of God have you been doing all day? I’ve had sixteen calls in the past two hours! Did you know there was a tour of Justice Department wives on that cruise?”

“There was?” The truth was that at that point Jamison just didn’t care.

“And one of them just finished having hysterics over the telephone in my ear, and for fifteen minutes! What do you mean, body-searching the wife of an Assistant Attorney General?”

“Did they do that? I personally didn’t touch a—”

“Keep quiet! And did you know the press is saying we’re dictatorial, and that Congress should investigate your idiotic directions today? The Daily News is asking for a special committee!”

“They are?”

“Keep quiet! And did you know,” the man in Washington went on cuttingly, “that the president of that steamship line happens to be an old golfing friend of the Secretary of the Treasury? Your boss, and — more important — mine?”

“He is?”

“He is! Now, start talking, Jamison, and make it good!”

Jamison sighed. He was past fear; now all he felt was weariness and the residual soreness of his nose and jaw.

“I don’t know how he did it,” he said, biting back a yawn, “but he brought it in. He didn’t have it with him, nor did his confederate, either — nor anyone else, for that matter, because we searched them, but still he brought it in. Under our noses. It was a candy dish.”

“Stop driveling! What do you mean, it was a candy dish?”

“Wrapped in colored paper,” Jamison added, and allowed the yawn to win.

“What are you talking about? Jamison, are you sober?”

“He had it wrapped to look like a candy dish, only when we opened it, it was a candy dish. Like I just said,” Jamison went on, unable to fathom why his superior, normally a fairly intelligent man, seemed unable to follow the discussion.

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Then, “Jamison, go home and take a cold bath. And then take a glass of tomato juice with some Worcestershire sauce and two aspirin—”

“He had aspirin—”

“—and then sleep if off. When you feel better, report to the office. Better bring a bag with you.”

“I’m going somewhere, sir?”

“Yes. I intend to have papers cut, transferring you to Point Barrow.”

“Point Barrow, sir? Isn’t that in Alaska?”

“It is.”

“That’s above the Arctic Circle, isn’t it, sir?”

“It is.”

“Do we have an office there, sir?”

“If we don’t, we’ll open one,” said the man in Washington with finality, and hung up.

“Yes, sir,” Jamison said obediently to the dial tone, and yawned. “I’ll do that, sir. And thank you, sir...”

André Martins, having seen their luggage properly stowed in the front seat of the taxi, climbed in beside Huuygens while the other man gave the driver directions. He looked sideways and with admiration at Huuygens as the taxi started up and swung into 57th Street, heading for the East Side.

“How did you do it, Kek?”

“How did I do what?”

“You know damn well what I mean! How did you—” He paused abruptly, glancing at the driver, then lowered his voice, even though they were speaking French. “ You know!”

“Oh, that?” Kek laughed. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over a drink at the apartment.” He looked at André, a twinkle in his eye. “How did you enjoy the search?”

“I was going to object. Strenuously,” André reported honestly, “but I figured they’d take away my visa—”

“For breaking an inspector’s back? Or even his arm? Very likely,” Kek said dryly.

André considered his friend with respect. “You go through that all the time? And keep your temper?”

Kek shrugged. “It’s part of the game. Usually I’m the only one to suffer, but this time, because of that damned bodyguard of Girard’s and his big mouth — and because Jamison, for all his faults, was smart enough to figure out that if I had a confederate, it could well be whoever joined the ship in Barbados, and you were the only one who did — you and the rest had to suffer with me. I’ll try to be more careful in the future and not make verbal deals before third parties.”

He leaned forward, directing the driver. The cab swung in an illegal U-turn, coming to rest before a large apartment. Kek paid the man and climbed down after André. The large man picked up the four suitcases with ease, refusing help, and followed Huuygens into the building. In the elevator, the doorman behind him, André looked around, smiled at the luxury, and said, “Tomorrow I’ll get the rest of my money from Girard and find myself a small hotel for a few months.”

“You’ll pick up the money and then come right back to the apartment,” Kek said firmly. “Anita would never let me hear the end of it if you ever stayed anywhere else. And, after all, I have to live with the woman.”

André grinned. “In that case—”

The elevator door slid back silently. Kek led the way down the hall, dug out his apartment key, opened the door, and ushered André inside. “Put down the bags and let’s have that drink.” He raised his voice. “Anita?”

“Yes?” The voice was faint, coming from a bedroom.

“Come in here and have a drink with us. What are you doing?”

Anita poked her head around the sill of the hall entrance. “I’m unpacking, darling.”

Kek looked at her in surprise. “Unpacking?”

“That’s what people usually do when they come back from a cruise,” Anita answered reasonably, and came into the room.