Experiment in Crime (10 page)

The nameless man said nothing.

About noon, the door opened. Two Cubans beckoned. The professor was escorted to a room down the dark, tiled hallway. It was a smaller room, well furnished and electrically lighted. More men sat in it--men he had never seen. Americans. One of these was bald and bug-eyed. He did the talking.

"My name is Wilser. Sit down, Professor."

He looked pasty, the professor thought. Like a big-eyed larva.

"Paul," said Wilser, "was unable to cover over this morning. I have talked with Chuck and Johnny." He hesitated. "Your knowledge of our--organization--surprised me.

How did you come by it?"

Professor Burke smiled a little. If he had thought that his removal from the room of the aliens was a hopeful sign, he did not think so now. Not after looking at Wilser.

"The way I found out all I know. Watching. You hardly need a diagram of my methods.

Your men uncovered them."

"How did you know about The Foot's dock?"

"Haven't you figured that out?"

"We know you and that horse-faced landlady of yours were down there looking for ferns. Now. Tell us how you got onto it. We want to keep it from happening again."

The professor smiled once more, slightly. "In that case, Mr. Wilser, before you drive your cars north from the Keys you should wash the white marl off their wheels.

And you better cut back the ferns along the road to the dock. They are a special kind of fern--a sort of sport of a Glades genus--which is peculiar only to a few, small Keys."

"Where'd you see a car--with marl and these ferns?"

"You might ask French Paul."

Wilser thought that over. "Oh." His eyes lighted unpleasantly--as if there were little hot places in them. "Naturally," he then said, "we went right after that landlady of yours."

Professor Burke's heart turned to stone.

"Is there anybody else?" Wilser asked.

"Nobody."

"We want to be quite sure of that, Professor. Quite sure. We intend to be—before.

. . ! There's another matter. Chuck has told me some details of your knowledge of the Maroon Gang. Paul thought that under the existent circumstances you might be willing to write it out for us. Make everything less--painful--for you, in the end."

"I'll write it out."

"Every angle you know. There are several that Paul would find very interesting, I think. Singular: information. Who gave it to you? Double-O Sanders?"

"I told you, I've spent years in--research."

"It doesn't matter. You can work in the room with our waiting clients. It's--secure.

How long will it take?" The professor said, "A couple of days."

"Days!"

"I know a lot about the Maroon Gang."

Wilser thought that over. He turned to one of the men. "Okay. Give him the stuff to write with and a table of his own. Another lamp. Pick up his copy from time to time.

I'll see you again, Professor."

He spent the afternoon writing.

The other people in the room did not question or interfere. They were accustomed to holding back questions and to avoiding interference. The members of the Maroon Gang would have many reasons for wanting to know all they could of their predecessors, associates and contacts. Blackmail was only one.

As he wrote, the professor paused frequently--apparently to recall details of his subject. Actually, he was thinking. They had Bedelia. They had no intention of letting him go alive. Bedelia might already be--gone.

Before dinner, Franz and the man without a name listened for the wind. It had not risen. This fact put three of the foreigners in a state of eagerness; the nameless man did not show any emotion. The professor went on writing into the evening. His ink-covered pages had been collected several times.

It might have been eight o'clock.

He needed three things. One of them could stay where it was; he could get it if he had the right opportunity.

He quit writing and went over to the nameless man. "Tova-rich!" he said sharply.

The man looked up instantly. It was the only undeliberate move the professor had seen him make. Not proof of anything, except that the man knew Russian.

"Could I borrow your iodine again? My finger--I am afraid it may be getting infected."

The man did not speak at all. He rose, went over to his suitcase, and came back with the bottle.

"I will soak it," the professor said, "in a little iodine and water."

He took the bottle to the antediluvian bathroom. He poured about half of it in one of the two dirty glasses of the washbowl and hid the glass behind the battered bathtub. He diluted the iodine in the bottle with water, and--after delaying--returned it with thanks.

The man accepted it inexpressively.

The professor sat down beside the French girl.

She was nervous. They were all nervous. For, if their illicit conveyers found themselves watched, or if they became suspicious in any fashion, the aliens would not be smuggled into the United States. They would die. They knew it--or feared it.

The girl welcomed his talk. She asked questions about life in America. Was hailing a taxi the same as in France? Eating in a restaurant?

He explained the various restaurant check systems. He told her about cafeterias.

Her compact and lipstick were in the chair at her side. He made a half dozen furtive stabs at stealing the former before he got it. He put it in the pocket of the borrowed slacks he was still wearing. By and by he grimaced. "My finger. I will soak it again."

He transferred half of her powder to a folded sheet of writing paper which he had prepared. Then he came back. She hadn't missed the compact and she did not see him replace it. He went back to his work.

Time crawled. It was growing more and more difficult to keep his mind on the history of the Maroon Gang. He thought of Bedelia and the thought stiffened his will.

Shortly after midnight, the door was opened. There were several men in the murky hall--

among them, Chuck. They carried two lanterns.

"Everybody get set! Five minutes!"

Frantically, they rummaged for the last time through their treasures. The old man stuffed photographs into a pocket. The girl went into the adjoining room and the nameless man followed next. It was a better chance than the professor had hoped for; he slipped in the room.

The man struck a match and walked toward the candle.

The professor bent down and slid his hand along the floor. He found the rusty wrench that he had decided was the best available weapon. He did not know how hard to hit.

The candle was lighting. The professor struck. The man made no sound, but he shook from head to foot and kept standing.

He struck again. The man's scalp began to bleed. He sagged. The professor caught him.

He moved swiftly now. He shut the door. He picked up the hidden tumbler of diluted iodine and poured some of it over his face. He dried it with a filthy towel and peered into the mirror. His skin was dark, now--Indian dark. He washed his hands in the rest of the solution and wiped them. They were dark, also. He took the paper of powder from his pocket and sprinkled it in his hair. He rubbed his hair furiously and combed it with his fingers. It looked grey rather than hemp-colored, like that of the man on the floor.

He bent over the man. There was nothing in his trousers pockets. The professor stripped off his coat, donned it, and dragged the man to a dark corner. He was breathing; the professor took time to listen for that.

Now he strode to the candle and blew it out.

He opened the door a crack. They were talking--even laughing--laughing with a creepy, hysterical sound.

The outer door was unlocked once more.

"All right, you! Come ahead!"

The professor walked boldly into the room and across it. The girl had gone first--

the old man and Franz were right behind her. He joined them.

"Where's the other one?" Franz asked. "Weren't you both . . . ?"

The professor gathered himself. This was the first of an unknowable number of crises. "He said--he was not to come with us." He had made his voice low like the voice of the unconscious man.

Chuck spoke. "The professor's staying," he agreed. He slammed the door and turned the big key.

They went down the turning staircase and through the patio with the huge trees.

Into the street--walking together--with men ahead and men behind.

Light hair, dark skin, the same height, though the Russian--if he was one--was Broader. Smelling of a woman's face powder and iodine. Unfortunate, but inevitable. He would see. They crossed streets, turned corners, passed the old buildings, the shops closed for the holidays, the radio behind the ancient walls. They left the small town for the soft road. A warm night-very warm for Christmas, even in Cuba. Still and starlit.

Trees closed above the road. A dull flashlight prodded the jungle, up ahead: Presently, it touched the open door of the plane. When the French-speaking girl realized what the weighted handcuffs meant, she screamed. Someone put a hand over her mouth.

One by one, they went aboard, clanking a little.

The professor recognized Johnny's silhouette in the murky cabin.
Better than
Chuck,
he thought.

He need not have worried. Johnny used his flashlight only to tie them to their seats. He sat down in their rear. "Any fuss, and you are tossed out. Okay, Chuck!"

The quiet engines started. The plane taxied and lifted. All the long way, nothing was said.

The professor listened--listened for the crackle of static and the flat voice of the Miami Marine Operator. Listened for some amiable discussion with a fishing boat which might convey to the men in the plane that one of their passengers was an impostor. It did not come.

The plane descended. The professor expected the two men to jump overboard and begin pushing. But Chuck taxied the plane or some distance. Then there came a feeling of coasting and a gentle arrestation. Hands had gripped the wings. Johnny opened the door.

The next crisis was at hand.

They were herded ashore. The handcuffs were unlocked and the weights removed.

The girl wept quietly.

It was, as far as the professor could make out, a lake, of some size, with a grassy shore and trees behind the grass. A small dock. Lanterns. The same man who had driven down to the Keys on the night before--husky, with patent-leather hair. Solo, they had called him.

They were walked along the dock, to the trees. A car stood there, a car different from the black sedan. In the lantern light he saw it was greenish. Big.

"The old bird and the girl can sit in back with Cliff," Solo said. "You two-in the trunk."

The rear compartment lid yawned. Franz climbed in. The professor followed. Solo said, "Duck." They ducked--and the lid came down.

The road was atrocious. They banged into each other. The floor came up and struck them. They slid about. A better road came, finally. They lay still, panting. The tires whirred. The car was going fast.

Another eternity passed.

The car stopped, waited, and started. Traffic began to stir and horns to blow around them. They were getting into Miami.

Finally, the smooth pavement gave way to another rough ride--very short. Once more, the car stopped.

This time, the rear compartment was opened.

There was no light. Stars overhead--treetops--underbrush. "All right, you guys.

Get up!"

Franz and the professor painfully climbed over the bumper. The girl and the old man were gone.

Solo did not bother to use his flashlight.

"Listen. You both understand English."

"Very well," Franz said. The professor grunted.

"Oke. Now, get this. You're on a street that leads to a main highway. When we leave--start moving. Separate before you get to the highway. If the cops ever pick you up-

-you don't know anything about who got you here--or how. See? Not that you know much. But one of you tell anything, and we've got an organization that can make you regret it, wherever you are." He turned, "Let's go, Cliff."

The big green car drove away. The delivery was completed. "Comfortable trip!"

Franz murmured. "Shall we go?" He laughed a little. "I am a free American citizen!

Living with my retired father, I knew you were one of the Soviet lice, the day you came in there."

"It is a poor time for that argument," the professor said. The highway appeared ahead of them. Occasional cars, busses, street lights. He was home again. And alive.

Franz went out on the highway first. He had dusted off his clothing and made himself presentable. He walked to a painted lamp post and waited. The professor watched him board a bus.

He had recognized his surroundings: Brickell Avenue--about a mile from the business district.

He did not have bus fare. He had no plans. He began walking. Nobody seemed to be following. Nobody much seemed to be on the street.
Christmas Night,
he thought.

A police cruise car passed.

He had an impulse to yell at it.

Then what? The Station. Questioning. Delay. Doubts. More waiting for higher authority, perhaps. Christmas Night--and higher authority unwilling to leave festivities.

He was without any proof of his story. They might even think he was crazy--iodine on his face--powder in his hair. And there was Bedelia.

He stepped into the gutter and thumbed. The cars swished past--on their way home from late evenings in the night clubs, from parties in homes, from pleasure and safety and an innocence of the world. Then a car stopped. A dark face leaned out and a soft voice said, "Ride, friend?"

They were colored people on their way to Coconut Grove. "Drop you anywhere, mister," the driver offered.

The women in the back seat said nothing.

He picked the closest point on their route and walked from there. Coral Gables was mostly asleep. It was late for the Gables, even on that day. He left the sidewalks of West Cortez Circle at the distance of several houses and went through back yards. They might, by now, be expecting him.

There was a light in Bedelia's home.