Kek frowned. His plan had not considered the presence of more than two men. Would it work in the case of three? Extremely doubtful. A second might follow a first who did not reappear, but a third would undoubtedly raise an alarm at the loss of two companions. He studied the scene above, attempting to come up with a workable solution to the problem, but his head seemed stuffed with cotton wool. Another thing against burglary, he decided, was the ridiculous hours.
The officer was standing, feet apart, hands locked behind his back, speaking in a high, nasal voice. The two soldiers stood at rigid attention. Each carried sidearms but Kek was pleased to see that walkie-talkies were not in evidence. This did not, of course, reduce the problem of the extra man, but it was something. The problem, as Kek saw it, was that while it was something he could not for the life of him see what that something was. Kek leaned closer, listening to the thick island accent.
“—in the morning. Is that understood?”
Kek could now see the stripes on one of the men’s sleeves. A corporal. “Yes, Major.” This voice was lower, harsher; it made Kek think of Girard’s voice.
The major continued, his jaw thrust forward. “His plane just landed and he wanted to come directly here. He wishes to remain here with you until the carving leaves at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Kek’s frown deepened. So apparently there was still another man, making the group four in total. Good God! The place sounded like the Gare du Nord during rush hour; Kek wondered if the museum was as busy during the day as it seemed to be at night. His original scheme, it was obvious, would have to be abandoned, but in favor of what? The major’s high, nasal voice continued in his drill-instructor’s manner.
“I will have replacement guards here at seven forty-five in the morning. At that time your responsibility here will end and you will return to the barracks. Is that clear?”
The corporal’s deep tone answered. “Yes, Major.”
“The gentleman speaks no French, but I see no necessity of communication.”
“Yes, sir.”
The major nodded abruptly. “In that case I shall leave you. You will lock up behind me.”
“Yes, Major.”
So from four people we are now back to three, Kek thought. Not the Gare du Nord at rush hour, but possibly at one in the morning. Kek watched the corporal do a stiff about-face and disappear from the scene behind the strutting major. The second soldier, a private, visibly relaxed and brought out a packet of cigarettes. He shook one loose and then wordlessly offered the package to someone out of sight. A man walked into view, shaking his head in refusal. Kek’s frown deepened, but he could not say he was completely surprised to see his old friend from Worcester, Mass. and Fort Lauderdale, Mr. Ralph Jamison.
How had Jamison gotten there? Quite easily. Probably from San Juan, assuming he had gone back to the ship after his meeting with the red-haired youth. The man was becoming a nuisance; or, rather, was continuing to be one. Jamison was dressed in island whites and there was a livid bruise high on one cheekbone that was clearly visible even at that distance. Kek silently applauded the freckle-faced youngster’s chivalry, not to mention his good right hand. Any apologies Kek may have felt might have been due Jamison because of the happenings at the 66 Roof were now, as a Washington press secretary might have put it, no longer operative. Exactly what part the gangling Mr. Jamison played in the affair was still a question, but a tourist he certainly was not.
“No, thanks,” Jamison said. “I don’t smoke.”
The soldier grinned the foolish grin of people who do not understand a foreign language, and withdrew the offer. He brought his cigarette to his mouth and brought out his lighter, but before he could spin the wheel he found it jerked from his hand. Before he could protest this indignity from the returning corporal, it was followed by the cigarette being plucked from his mouth rudely.
“You know the rules!” the corporal said harshly. “No smoking in the Gallery at any time. And no matches or lighters. There are masterpieces here, you idiot!” He looked at Jamison. “Sir — do you have any matches on you? Or a cigarette lighter?”
Jamison shrugged, uncertain as to what the man was saying.
“He didn’t take a cigarette,” the soldier offered.
It was insufficient evidence to satisfy the corporal. He held up the lighter. Then he made the motion of striking a match. “Do you have any matches? Or a lighter?”
Jamison finally understood. He shook his head and then patted his pockets to demonstrate his lack of incendiary elements. The corporal nodded and turned away, walking out of Kek’s sight. On his return a few minutes later he looked grimly satisfied.
“Your lighter’s locked up for the night,” he reported in his deep, harsh voice. “You’ll get it in the morning.”
“But—”
“There are no buts! You’re lucky the major didn’t see you trying to light a cigarette in here, you idiot! If you need something in your mouth, bite your nails!”
Jamison, unable to understand the language, had been watching the scene with a touch of amusement. Now he turned from the soldier’s obvious embarrassment at being reprimanded before a stranger, and looked around. His eye fell on the case in the center of the room.
“Ah!” he said, pleased. “So that’s the famous carving, is it?”
He started to move toward it, but the corporal grabbed his arm, speaking rapidly in his island French; with his other hand he jabbed downward at the floor. Jamison would have been amazed at the corporal’s words, which recommended all smoking soldiers and all stupid foreigners to perdition, but he did get the general idea.
“I understand,” Jamison said, and pulled his arm free. “Floor alarms, eh?” He shrugged. “Well, I’ve waited this long to see the thing, I guess I can wait until morning.”
He leaned back against a column, took a copy of an American magazine from his jacket pocket, and calmly began reading. The soldier squatted down near the column and stared at his callused hands, as if surprised to see them empty of tobacco. The corporal strolled around the edges of the large room, studying the masterpieces he had so bravely defended from fire just moments before. With the magazine removed from Jamison’s pocket, Kek could note the bulge under one arm. So there were three armed men, not two! Could his original scheme possibly be revived? Kek sadly conceded it could not. How to get the carving without being seen and recognized?
An idea suddenly came, and Kek silently gave credit for it where the credit was due: to the corporal, bless him. He reviewed the scheme carefully. Very possible, he said to himself. There were of course certain chances involved, such as that someone might panic and use a gun, but he didn’t really think so. He backed quietly from the alcove and crept down the steps, pleased that whoever had built them — possibly those perfectionists, Paquet et Cie. — had made them solid enough not to creak. He approached André with a finger to his lips and led the way back to the storage room. André followed wonderingly and closed the thick door behind them. Kek flicked on his flashlight and stared up at André.