Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991

Abruptly, Francoise’s manner changed to great seriousness. “What a charming boy! How sad that you must soon die, unless you are very clever and do exactly what Klaas asks you to do. You must realize that you are in grave danger. You have put us to a very great deal of trouble.” There was no hint of the former light mockery.

Speculatively, Francoise’s blue eyes gazed at him, almost with affection. “You are lucky, cheri, very lucky. More lucky than any man I have ever known.”

Clay shrugged. He didn’t feel lucky. “Why?”

She turned light and gay again. “First, because, quite by accident, you happen to remind me of a sweet boy I once loved. That was very long ago, before many things happened.” For the briefest of moments a shadow of unutterable sadness flickered over Francoise Bourdon’s face. “Because of that, I have interceded with Klaas on your behalf. Second, and more important, you are now in a position to be useful to Klaas. But do not push your luck too far. Klaas is in the bar. He wishes to speak with you. Agree to do exactly what he says if you wish to live.”

Francoise slipped her arm through his. They walked into the bar, smiling and chatting like old friends. Anne Gardner saw them and turned her face away.

Klaas De Jongh rose to greet him. They shook hands quite cordially. Clay saw the fat underworld figure eyeing him with interest. The two darksuited strongmen were also sitting at the table. De Jongh ordered a round of martinis, and then got right to the point.

“The diamonds, Mr. Felton. I want them back. Most ingenious of you to have murdered the late Mr. Eric Phelan and taken his place. But, of course, you can’t possibly get away with it. I have business associates in New York. I assure you, you won’t live a day after we reach port — unless you wish to come to an arrangement with me.”

Klaas De Jongh purred the words in a soft, barely audible whisper. The menace was the more terrifying for its matter-of-fact tone.

Clay shook his head. “I didn’t murder Phelan. That was somebody else.”

De Jongh mopped his fat face with a fine linen handkerchief, and smiled through yellowed teeth. “Perhaps so. I have business rivals.”

“I didn’t do it.”

Klaas raised a fat hand. “It’s immaterial — to everyone except poor Eric, of course. And to the police. What is important now is that I had a business arrangement with Eric. I should like to persuade you to carry it out.”

“What was the arrangement?”

“Ten thousand American dollars, Mr. Felton. Simply take the stones through Customs, then turn them over to me. You will receive ten thousand dollars in cash.”

Clay Felton felt flushed and his pulse pounded. “No. That’s not very generous, Mr. De Jongh. The diamonds must be worth half a million.”

De Jongh smiled. “Let’s not quibble over price, Mr. Felton. Make it twenty thousand.”

Clay took a deep breath, then gulped down the rest of his martini. “Mr. De Jongh, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Splendid.” The fat man beamed expansively. Clay imagined that he could have asked for more and gotten it.

“One thing, Mr. De Jongh. Let’s not do anything foolish like having me thrown overboard tonight, huh? The diamonds are hidden — and you still need me to get them through Customs for you — unless you want to do that little job yourself.”

De Jongh feigned shocked indignation. “Mr. Felton! I am a man of honor!”

“Sure.” Clay tried not to make his voice sound too dry. “Well, thanks for the drink. See you tomorrow at Customs.” Clay rose and walked out on deck. For a long time, he gazed at the blue, dancing waves, cut against the ship’s side by the white foam of the vessel’s wake.

It was all a stall to buy time, to live perhaps one more night. Whatever happened, his future looked grim. Clay did not for a moment believe that De Jongh would actually pay over twenty thousand dollars for smuggling in the diamonds. Really, it was as cheap for De Jongh to promise him twenty thousand dollars as ten thousand. Once past Customs, Clay could look forward to the same fate as Eric Phelan. An attempted theft of a half million dollars’ worth of gem diamonds would not be forgiven by an international smuggling ring as rich and well organized as De Jongh’s. Also, he knew too much for the gang to permit him to live.

What next? He pondered deeply as he watched the rolling blue Atlantic. His first impulse was to panic, to hide. He could skip dinner, stay away from his cabin, perhaps hide somewhere in the engine room, or in a lifeboat (he quickly discarded that idea), or some deserted part of the ship, then make a break for it early tomorrow morning.