De Jongh feigned shocked indignation. “Mr. Felton! I am a man of honor!”
“Sure.” Clay tried not to make his voice sound too dry. “Well, thanks for the drink. See you tomorrow at Customs.” Clay rose and walked out on deck. For a long time, he gazed at the blue, dancing waves, cut against the ship’s side by the white foam of the vessel’s wake.
It was all a stall to buy time, to live perhaps one more night. Whatever happened, his future looked grim. Clay did not for a moment believe that De Jongh would actually pay over twenty thousand dollars for smuggling in the diamonds. Really, it was as cheap for De Jongh to promise him twenty thousand dollars as ten thousand. Once past Customs, Clay could look forward to the same fate as Eric Phelan. An attempted theft of a half million dollars’ worth of gem diamonds would not be forgiven by an international smuggling ring as rich and well organized as De Jongh’s. Also, he knew too much for the gang to permit him to live.
What next? He pondered deeply as he watched the rolling blue Atlantic. His first impulse was to panic, to hide. He could skip dinner, stay away from his cabin, perhaps hide somewhere in the engine room, or in a lifeboat (he quickly discarded that idea), or some deserted part of the ship, then make a break for it early tomorrow morning.
The problem was that a ship is a cramped, jampacked floating city in which there aren’t any unused spaces. If he tried to sneak into the engine room he’d be as conspicuous as a two-headed calf to the crew, and to hide in some obvious place, like under the canvas of a lifeboat, would be to invite death. De Jongh and his men would be sure to be watching him. If he disappeared, or acted suspiciously, they would come looking. If they ever caught him alone, it would be easy enough for De Jongh’s strongarm boys to work him over quietly, get out of him where the diamonds were, take them, and then pitch him over the side in the dark of night.
The only safe thing, Clay decided, was to stay in the middle of crowds of people, away from possible lonely passageways or deserted decks. He walked back into the bar and was relieved to see that it was filled with people. Glancing around, he saw Tony McKenzie, Anne and Janet Neal, and a circle of other students surrounding them.
“Hi, may I join you?”
“Sure. Draw up a chair.”
Clay pulled up a chair beside Anne. The talk turned to the captain’s farewell party that night, then to the war in Vietnam, the draft, the Peace Corps, and modem art, the usual things. Anne was enthusiastic about the Peace Corps and planned to join it for two years after graduation from college. A friend of hers had signed up, been sent to Nigeria, and had had many adventures which Anne described as “fabulous.”
“Clay! You’re not half listening to me!” Anne smiled at him. “Your mind is a million miles away.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ve been talking too much.”
“No. I like to hear you talk. I was just thinking that a pretty girl like you would be wasted in Nigeria.”
She was pleased with the compliment, and he forced his mind to focus on the conversation. If his preoccupation was all that evident, that was bad. He had to act and appear as natural as possible.
Somebody suggested a swim in the pool, but the girls had had their hair fixed for the captain’s party and didn’t want to get it wet.
“Why don’t we have a shuffle-board tournament?” Anne asked.
It was agreed that everybody would put a dollar in the pot, with the winning team taking all. Clay was pleased with the suggestion. That would keep a crowd together for at least a couple of hours. Then it would be time to go down and dress for dinner. It would be a dirty trick to play on Tony, who would be anxious to get Janet into as many dark corners as possible tonight, but it was his intention to stick to them like glue.
Anne and he played well in shuffleboard and reached the semifinals. Then, as if struck by inspiration, he turned to her: “Tony and Janet are going to the Captain’s Ball tonight. Why don’t we go with them and double date?”
Anne smiled and said softly, “At last! I thought you’d never ask me.”
“I thought you knew I would.”
The decks were crowded with people taking the late afternoon sun, and Clay judged it was sage to invite Anne to go for a shipboard stroll with him. They passed De Jongh’s two dark-suited men. Involuntarily, Clay flinched. He was honestly scared to death, but tried not to show it.
“Clay, there’s something mysterious about you. What’s the matter?”
Startled, for he had almost forgotten Anne was with him, he turned and really looked at her for the first time. Her eyes were full of genuine concern for him. Touched, he suddenly took her in his arms and kissed her.
“You’re in trouble, Clay. Can I help you?”
“No.”
“You don’t have a wife stashed away someplace — or a girl you’re engaged to?”
The unexpected question struck Clay’s tortured nerves as hilariously funny. It was, of course, the first question a girl would want to know about a young man in whom she was interested, but the question touched off in him an uncontrollable impulse to laugh.
Anne bristled. “It’s not so funny, Clay. Tell me how I can help you.”
Again, Clay was touched. “I can’t, Anne. I’m in trouble, but not that kind.” Instantly, he regretted the slip, but he was amused by her obvious relief that his problem was not a wife or a fiancée.
“I’ll help you in any way I can. I won’t ask any questions.”
He should not have yielded, but he was near the breaking point. “If you really want to help...”
“I do.”
“Let’s go to the ship’s library then.” Clay led her to the library and writing room, saw that it was deserted, paused only long enough to get an envelope and several sheets of writing paper, and then led her to a bar half filled with people.
“You have a drink while I write a letter.”
Clay addressed the envelope to the Commissioner of Customs, Washington, D.C., and in the letter told the entire story. Then he sealed the letter and handed it to Anne.
“If anything happens tomorrow — you’ll know if it does — mail this right away in New York. Don’t read it. It would be dangerous for you to know what’s in it. If nothing happens, I’ll get the letter back from you, tear it up, and we’ll celebrate by painting the town. Okay?”
“But Clay—”
“You said no questions.”
“No questions.” Anne put the letter in her purse.
Then Clay suddenly looked around him. He had been so intent on what he was writing that he had forgotten about De Jongh and the two musclemen. They were watching and glaring daggers at him. Unquestionably, they had a good idea what was in that letter, and to whom it might be addressed.
“Anne, give me back the letter.”
Anne Gardner thoughtfully glanced at De Jongh and the two hoodlums, then said, “No, I won’t.”
“Anne — those men. They’ve got to see you give me back the letter. You’re in serious trouble unless you do. You have no idea how much trouble.”
“I can imagine, Clay. But I’m keeping the letter anyway. If anything happens, I’ll mail it tomorrow in New York. If nothing does, I’ll give it back to you.” Anne defiantly stared De Jongh full in the eye — until the fat man dropped his gaze — then said, “It’s a kind of insurance for you, isn’t it, Clay? If they think I may mail the letter if anything happens to you, it’s less likely that something will happen, isn’t it?”
“At the cost of making it more likely that something will happen to you. Give me back the letter.”