He climbed from his cab at Customs, paid the driver, and turned to almost stumble over Kek Huuygens. Huuygens had been lounging to one side, listening to the steel-drum band entertaining the people at the pier entrance, and Jamison felt such a sudden jump of joy in his breast that he inadvertently put his hand there. He had postulated that Huuygens would return to the ship after the robbery, and there he was! And if that wasn’t proof of his complicity in the burglary, Jamison would like to know what was!
He turned to face Huuygens, his eyes gleaming as he noted the package under the other’s right arm. It was exactly the proper size to fit the carving, and had been wrapped in colorful paper in a poor attempt to disguise it. Huuygens’ other hand held a light overnight bag, but it was the package that gripped Jamison’s attention. An attempt to use the Purloined Letter technique? But then Jamison reminded himself that Huuygens, poor chap, didn’t even know he was under suspicion. He put a big smile on his face.
“Mr. Huuygens, isn’t it?”
“Well, hello, Mr. Jamison!” A sympathetic look crossed Kek’s face. “What on earth happened to you? Don’t tell me that young red-haired ruffian did that to you? But no — those marks look more recent.”
“A minor accident, of no importance,” Jamison told him, and tried not to look smug. His glance went to the package with the force of metal being drawn by a magnet; he practically had to jerk his head to break the spell. He looked up. “You missed the ship at Port Everglades—”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And at San Juan? And St. Thomas, too?” The questions any solicitous passenger would ask of another, Jamison thought, pleased with his approach.
“The truth is,” Kek said, smiling, “you made Fort Lauderdale so attractive to me, that I decided to stop over there for a few days and catch up with the ship here. By the way, how has the cruise been?”
“As a matter of fact, I... oh, the cruise has been fine!” Jamison reported and then heard himself add, quite without volition, “Been shopping?”
“Shopping? Oh, this.” Huuygens squeezed the package a bit more tightly under his arm. “Just a candy dish I saw at the hotel. Waiter was using it for an ashtray, believe it or not! Wedgwood.” He looked at Jamison helpfully. “I’m sure there’s plenty of time before sailing if you’d like to go back into town and get one. Quite cheap, you know. Really a bargain.”
Especially if you don’t pay for it, Jamison thought, and almost felt sorry for the other man’s poor ability at dissembling. “No, thanks. I’ve had enough of the shore for now. I’ll be getting back to the ship.”
The minibus had arrived. “I’ll be along a bit later,” Kek said, and tilted his head toward the drumming musicians, sweating in the hot sun. “I like steel drum. I’ll see you on board. Buy you that drink I owe you.”
Which you never drank, Jamison thought, suddenly bitter at the memory of the 66 Roof. He nodded abruptly and climbed into the bus, taking a seat near the door and leaning back, putting the events in Lauderdale from his mind, concentrating on his scheme, the details of which were clicking into place like obedient safe tumblers.
Behind him Huuygens watched the back of the minibus thoughtfully, and then bent to stow his package in the overnight bag.
Jamison was in the captain’s quarters exhibiting his credentials. The captain was only half-listening; he had a short leave coming up after this voyage and his mind was more on his farm than whatever this man was talking about. Smugglers or something. What with one cruise after another, he had planted his tomatoes and green peppers pretty late, and while the peppers were fairly safe, the tomatoes were bound to be a dubious proposition.
“We are positive,” Jamison was saying, investing in his person the full panoply of the Department’s power, “that this man is responsible for the stealing of the valuable carving, that he brought it aboard this ship, and that he is planning on trying to smuggle it into the United States. It is our firm intention to” — he almost said “foil,” but saved himself in time — “to stop him.” He bent down one finger as he started to outline his clever scheme. “First, I will need to know who, if any, passengers joined the ship here in Barbados. Other than this man Huuygens I’ve been telling you about, of course. Captain?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said,” Jamison added, an edge to his tone, “I need to know which passengers joined the ship here in Barbados, to return to New York.”
“It’s posted on the bulletin board in the purser’s square,” the captain said wearily. “C Deck.” He had a copy of the posting in a folder on his desk, but he hated to accommodate the lanky, horsefaced man across from him. In the captain’s opinion, if there were no Customs then obviously passengers would be happier, and happy passengers made for a happy ship. And a happy ship made for a happy captain. And a happy captain— He came out of it under Jamison’s most steely gaze, sighed, and reached for the folder. His finger slid down the page. “There was just one. His name is André Martins. He booked from Barbados, destination New York, three weeks ago.”
Jamison frowned. “He’s from Barbados?”
The finger moved to the right. “No. French national. His home is listed as Paris.”
Jamison’s frown disappeared. Despite his intention to maintain the discussion with the captain along calm, statesmanlike lines, he could not help but demonstrate his enthusiasm.
“Then I’ll bet he’s one of the gang! He came here for the robbery and now he’s accompanying Huuygens back to New York! Two to one he speaks French!”
“Being from Paris, I wouldn’t be surprised,” said the captain, and returned to his private thoughts. The radio shack kept him informed daily of Pennsylvania weather, but one never knew for sure just how much rain fell when the report said rain. Too much and it might have washed away that last batch of fertilizer; too little and possibly the tomatoes hadn’t even blossomed as yet. Being an absentee tomato-and-green-pepper grower had its problems.
Jamison, unaware that he did not have the captain’s full attention, went to bend down his first finger, found it already bent, and pushed down a second to join it.
“Next,” he said, “will be to thoroughly search their respective quarters—”
The captain came out of his reverie with a start. This he had heard. “Search the cabins of passengers?”
“Oh, not by myself,” Jamison assured him earnestly. “I would want your security officer with me, of course. As a witness, if nothing else, to anything we might find.”
The captain seemed to finally realize he could not avoid the blasted problem. He sat more erect and leaned forward authoritatively, replacing green peppers and tomatoes in his mind with the question of having an internationally famous smuggler aboard his ship.
“Look,” he said reasonably, “you people have the equivalent of a young army on the dock in New York. They are paid — by the public, incidentally, which includes passengers — to be there for the sole purpose of searching baggage and to locate anything contraband. Our job on board this ship is to see that people are happy and having a good time. We are not paid to locate things people intend to smuggle.” A thought suddenly occurred to him; a touch of triumph entered his voice. “As a matter of fact, you don’t even know if people mean to smuggle until you have their declaration form in your hands, do you? They may well intend to declare and pay the duty.”
“You mean, declare and pay the duty on stolen goods?” Jamison asked smugly, proud of himself for having scored a distinct point. “On a valuable carving known throughout the world?”