“Girard is right,” Kek said. “He really doesn’t care what he does with his money. Ah, well. When does all this action start and when does it stop? In the bars and at the casino?”
“In the bars the action never stops, or practically never. The casino is different; it opens at eight in the evening and closes at four in the morning.” André suddenly frowned. He rubbed his jaw dolefully. “I get you! There are going to be people wandering up and down that street where the architect’s office is located. We’ll have to wait until morning if we want to find the town really deserted, or at least as close to deserted as it ever gets.”
Kek stared at him. “Heaven forbid! And lose a full night’s sleep? I’m surprised you haven’t learned the first lesson of being a successful professional thief.” Kek’s tone was reproachful. “Quote: ‘By far the easiest place to be inconspicuous is in a crowd.’ Unquote.”
André was looking at him curiously. Kek grinned.
“But who am I to be giving lessons to the man who stole the ‘Mona Lisa’ from the Louvre?” He erased his grin and yawned instead. “Now let’s take a swim and then a nap. I don’t know whether we’ll really lose that full night’s sleep or not, but if I were a gambling man, I’d give Girard’s kind of odds that we will...”
It was nine o’clock that night when Beachcomber left its berth. All navigation lights were lit and properly trimmed, but twenty minutes later, when the western edge of Barbados had shrunk to a barely discernible band of twinkling lights against the low shadow that was the island, Kek went about the craft and methodically extinguished them. Only the faint glow of the binnacle remained, casting faint shadows across André’s craggy face. From then on they plowed steadily westward toward the dying light still faintly tinging the horizon from the already-set sun, until at last the night was completely upon them and the only sounds were the quiet slap of the small rollers against the prow, and the even burbling of the twin engines churning out the sea behind them. There was no moon and no clouds, and the sky was a low-hanging bowl of velvet pierced with millions of tiny pinholes, letting down slivers of light that failed to illuminate. The sea breeze was moderate, bringing the tang of salt air, humid and warm; the stars swung back and forth with the even swaying of the vessel.
Kek relaxed on a locker, staring into the blackness ahead. His scheme for robbing the museum was more or less firm, but he had little notion of the chances of success. Whenever planning to smuggle something through Customs, Huuygens always had the details worked out to the last step, but museum-burglarizing, he had to admit, was something rather out of his field. Well, he thought, live and learn. Even Robin Hood had to start with his first sheriff sometime and someplace.
Ile Rocheux first appeared out of the darkness as a blacker shadow towering in the night, visible mainly through its blocking out of stars. André turned his head, speaking quietly, as if aware of how sound can travel over water.
“Cap Antoine is on the far side of the island,” he said. “I didn’t want to head directly for the north point; that’s the main sea-lane, and without lights I didn’t want to play tag with some liner.” He started to swing the wheel. “We’ll run along the shore from here on. We’re about a half-hour from where we’ll anchor. There’s a ridge to the north of the town that will keep us out of sight until we’re ashore in the dinghy.”
“Unless they have patrols along the shore.”
André looked down at him, frowning. “Why would they have patrols?”
“I don’t know,” Kek said. “Maybe to keep the gamblers from escaping.” He came to his feet, trying to pierce the darkness and see the rocky shore that was approaching.
A thin line of curling white marked where the surf broke against the sheer walls that rose abruptly from the sea and disappeared into the night. The reason for the island’s name was evident; in sharp contrast to the soft, rolling hills of Barbados, Ile Rocheux had been thrust from the sea floor in some ancient cataclysm, stripped to its basic stone, rugged and forbidding. André brought the boat on course and pushed the throttles. The engines responded instantly, increasing their roar.
They chopped through the roughened sea for another twenty minutes before the northernmost point of the island was reached; a swing on the wheel and they were in the lee of the island, in calmer waters. André instantly reduced the speed, let them run in toward shore for a few minutes, and then cut the engines entirely. Beachcomber coasted forward under its own momentum. André glanced at the binnacle clock and then switched off the tiny light. They were in complete darkness.
“Eleven forty-five,” André said softly.
“The shank of the evening,” Kek said, and stared toward shore. In the distance a faint glow against the sky indicated the presence of Cap Antoine beyond a spur of hill; in the stillness they could hear the weak sound of music. Beachcomber had lost its forward motion and was rocking gently on the softly pulsing waves. André walked forward, wrapping his hands in old rags. He released the anchor and slowly paid out the chain through the hawsehole by hand, muffling any sound the chain might make. Other than a slight splash as the prongs struck the water, all was silent.
Kek was quietly lowering the light aluminum dinghy into the sea. When it was afloat, he lowered himself into it, easily holding it in place with one hand on the boat’s ladder; with his other hand he checked to make sure his pocket flashlight was in order by flicking it on inside his pocket. The faint glow was instantly extinguished and he waited in the rocking boat for André to appear.
The large man came back from the prow treading silently, and dropped with almost feline skill into the dinghy. He sat down, waited until Kek was also seated, and then took up the oars, pulling for the shore without a single splash to mark their progress. Behind them Beachcomber disappeared almost at once; Kek hoped they would be able to locate it when they returned, but resolutely put the uncomfortable thought from his mind and concentrated on trying to see the shoreline.
Sand scraped under their keel before he was even aware they were close. André waited until the surf started to draw back and then leaped lightly to the sand, holding the boat’s painter. When the next comber came he stepped back from it sharply, hauling on the rope, bringing the dinghy to a stop high on the dry sand. Kek stepped down.
“Thank you,” he said. “I should have hated to walk down the street with wet trouser legs.”
“Always the dandy.” André grinned then became serious. “Let’s get this thing into the woods.”
The two lifted the light dinghy and walked it toward the line of trees faintly visible against the glow of the city. Inside the woods the night was darker than ever. Two steps and Kek backed into a tree, the prow of the dinghy jabbing him in the stomach.
“This ought to do it,” he said quietly. “If we’re holding this thing and can’t see it, nobody else ought to be able to.”
“Right!” André said, perfectly willing, and lowered his end.
Kek put the prow down, turned, and walked into another tree. His voice became slightly aggrieved. “The next time I come here I take the ferry.” He rubbed his forehead. “Or a taxi. Where the devil is the ocean? We just came from there.”
“We don’t want the ocean,” André said patiently. “We want the road. It’s only about a hundred feet through the trees.”
“Only a hundred feet? You’re very nonchalant about damages to my person.” Kek sighed. “Ah, well. Lead on...”