If Jamison hadn’t been hired by Girard, who had hired him? And for what purpose? Certainly the gangling man beside him scarcely posed any physical threat. So, if logic meant anything, Jamison was just what he appeared to be — a garrulous passenger, happy to show off a favorite city. Still—
Huuygens looked at his watch. It was twelve fifteen; they had been driving nearly two hours. Beyond the window the beach of Pompano stretched north for miles, lined with condominium apartments. Time to start getting rid of the talkative Mr. Jamison, be he friend or foe. There was still a phone call to make and a plane to catch. Huuygens turned to his companion, interrupting him in a meaningless dissertation on the advantages of living on a golf course in Florida versus living on water.
“I think I’d like that drink we talked about before, up on top of that tower you pointed out,” Kek said. “It’s hot and I could stand something cold. And after that I think I’ll ask you to excuse me; I think I’ll go back to the ship for lunch, and then probably take a nap.”
“A good idea!” Jamison said enthusiastically, clearly indicating he might well do the same thing. He leaned forward and instructed the driver. The cab swung south and they headed for the 66 Tower. For the space of the drive, at least, Jamison was quiet, while Huuygens seriously thought of means of ridding himself of the leech. The car pulled up near the glass-enclosed elevator and Jamison reached for his wallet.
“Here’s twenty dollars on account,” he said, and scribbled hastily on two traveler’s checks. “Wait for us.”
“Take your time,” the driver said generously, and picked up the morning paper from the seat beside him.
All Fort Lauderdale spread before the two men as they rose in the elevator. Jamison’s pleasure in pointing out landmarks to his newfound friend was so genuine that for a moment Huuygens wondered if he had wronged the other man in his thoughts. Still, right or wrong, he certainly had no intention of being saddled with Mr. Jamison’s company much longer. Time was marching on.
The air conditioning in the large, slowly rotating room was welcome, and the two men sank into chairs near the abandoned and locked piano. They looked around for a waiter; all seemed busy, possibly because at least two were hovering over a table across the room. When they spread apart, Kek was able to see the reason why: Anita was sitting there, her large escort staring at her worshipfully. And with reason, Kek thought with an inner smile; you probably never got such good service before. The advantage of escorting a lovely lady... A sudden idea struck Kek. He forced down a grin and looked across the table at Jamison.
“Pardon me, but where are the telephones?”
“Just over there,” Jamison said, and pointed.
“Do you mind? I have a few calls to make.”
Jamison seemed to be studying the location of the booths; they were well in sight and nowhere near an elevator. “Go ahead. I’ll order for you. What are you having?”
“Gin and tonic. Bombay gin,” Kek said, and got to his feet. Across the room, Anita’s eyes took in Kek and their table and swept on with no expression in her eyes. Excellent, Kek thought, and walked over to the phones.
He squeezed into a booth from which he could keep half an eye on Jamison, smiled at him through the glass, and closed the door. He dropped a coin, gave a credit card number and a telephone number and waited. Jamison was speaking to a waiter. It was several minutes and then there was the sound of a ring and the instant raising of a receiver. Girard was on the line.
“Allô!”
“This is your purchasing agent...”
“One o’clock exactly.” Girard sounded pleased. “Where are you? At the airport? Did you pick up your ticket?”
“Not yet, but I will very soon. Are there any further changes?”
“No, everything will be as we arranged. I spoke to the salesman and he will arrange for the material tonight. You will be met tomorrow morning at the proper place on the proper hour. Anything further from your end?”
“Yes,” Huuygens said. “I told you I didn’t like being followed by professional — ah, salesmen. I now wish to add to the list. I don’t like being followed by middle-aged men in striped pants and floral shirts.”
“What?” Girard sounded genuinely puzzled by Kek’s comment.
“Let me be blunt. Are you having me followed?”
“Followed? No. Why would I want to have you—” The import of the question suddenly registered. Girard’s voice showed shock. “You’re being followed?”
“I’m not sure, but I think I am. However, not to worry.”
“Not to worry!”
“Take my word for it. Now, who have you told of our little wager?”
“Told? Nobody! Do you think I’m a fool.”
“I do not. Who introduced you to the Quinleven Club?”
“Forget him. He couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with it.”
Kek’s voice hardened. “This is important. Who?”
“The former American ambassador to my country. His name is Wellington. He wrote me a letter a long time ago, inviting me to be his guest with anyone else I wished to bring along.”
Huuygens eliminated the ambassador from any possible list of suspects. He knew Wellington quite well and the man didn’t have the intelligence to be involved in anything more complicated than politics. Besides, at the moment he was hunting tigers-or-something in the Sudan-or-someplace.
“Well,” Huuygens said thoughtfully, “that leaves only one answer. We’ve met twice, both times at the Quinleven. The only people near us during our discussions were your two bodyguards.”
There was a brief silence. When Girard spoke his voice was cold.
“The matter will be investigated.”
“Good.” Kek glanced at his watch. “I have to be going now.”
“Call me after you see the salesman tomorrow,” Girard said.
“Will do.” Kek hung up. There was still one more call to make. He looked over at Jamison, smiled again, and dropped a second coin, taking a pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket as he spoke. To anyone watching he would appear to be noting down whatever the other party on the phone was saying. He asked for information, got the number he wanted, and dialed. A moment later the telephone was answered by a deep bass voice.
“Tower 66 bar.”
“Look,” Kek said, “I know this sounds odd, but I would like to have a waiter pick up a note in a telephone booth and deliver it—
“What are you talking about?” The bass voice was suspicious.
“If you’ll look up,” Kek said patiently, “you’ll see me in a phone booth at the other end of the room. I’m the only person in one. When I go back to my table, I will leave a note in here—”
“You got to be some kind of a nut, mister—”
“Listen!” Kek said firmly. “There will also be a ten-dollar bill for you to split with the waiter.” There was immediate silence at the other end of the line. “That’s better. Now listen: I want the note delivered to that big red-headed young man sitting at the table near you with the girl—”
“The gorgeous dame? Oh, I get it. Women complications, is that it?”
“Sort of.” Kek was scribbling hastily as he spoke. He managed to turn his back on Jamison, fish a bill from his wallet, and tuck the note and the money together in the coin slot. “As soon as I leave. Understand?”