The Longest Second (19 page)

“That adds up,” Burrows said.

“It adds up. But we still don’t know if Pacific got that bill himself from the National Security & Trust, or whether he got it from someone else.”

“It doesn’t make too much difference one way or another. He had it.”

THAT
afternoon and evening I remained in my room at the Arena reading the books by General Henry. In the long technical descriptions of Rommel’s successes in desert warfare, I could find no hint to help me. But as his tide of success slowed, eventually stalled, and the Afrika Korps began its retreat, I began to follow the report with more and more interest. I studied the detailed maps carefully, marking with an increasing excitement the routes of defeat and disaster.

Late that night, I had another smoke, stretched out on my bed and went to sleep. Sometime, early in the morning, the old familiar nightmare began again. It returned with the room, the spot of light, the faces forming in the darkness. And the waiting ... the long wait. But now it seemed that the faces were beginning to approach the light and I could nearly identify them while I was waiting to hear a voice. The voice, I knew, would sweep away the veil of terror, would make the truth clear. The scene hung suspended in time, revolving slowly in space ... a mobile turning, twisting.

When I awakened, I could not return to my sleep. I left my bed and drew a chair close to the window and looked out into the night where there was no dawn, and the buildings stood row on row like sentinels around a world into which I could not enter, and from which I could not escape.

With the first light which weakly infiltrated the cracks and crevices of the streets, I threw myself on my bed and fell once more into a restless sleep. I was awakened later in the morning by my phone. It was Bozell calling to tell me that he had talked to Maxwell Claussen and arranged for me to meet the correspondent at the International Press Club. “I explained to him about your difficulty talking, so he understands. He’ll meet you at the door going into the bar at noon.”

The International Press Club is located in a reconverted townhouse on East Thirty-sixth Street, and I met Claussen, a wiry man with thick gray hair, at twelve o’clock. Bozell had evidently described my appearance as Claussen came up to me and introduced himself when I appeared. We moved into the bar, and sat down at a small table. After ordering drinks, he said to me, “I understand you’re interested in Saudi Arabia.”

I told him yes, I was, and I wrote out a question on my pad.

After reading it, Claussen said, “In Saudi Arabia about 15 per cent of the population are slaves. Slaves in the true sense of the word, owned body and soul by their masters. About ten thousand slaves a month are run through the Red Sea past the British gunboats. The runners drop the slaves in Arabia near the Asudi Desert. The main route to Mecca, which is the chief slave market, is through Yemen.”

In reply to my next question, he explained, “The British can’t stop the running because before their ships can overhaul the slave boats, the slaves are tossed overboard in irons and drowned.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Why?” Claussen appeared unable to determine my exact meaning. “Why, what?”

I tried very hard. “Why slaves now?”

“Oh!” he replied, “I think I understand what you mean. Well, Saudi Arabia in particular, and a few of the other minor Arab states, have made millions through their oil money. The countries are all underdeveloped and they need slaves to build the new construction, as well as to work on the coffee and sugar plantations. They need slaves of both sexes. The biggest market is in Mecca and is called Al-Suweika. The largest slave market for women is in Jidda.” My next question was more involved, so I wrote it. Claussen said, “Certainly all this is well known. It’s on an international scale too. A report on this situation was made to the United Nations, but it was shelved, too hot to handle because of the international oil situation. So, no official action was ever taken.”

“Thanks,” I told him. We finished our drinks, and I left.

I decided to move into Wainwright’s apartment. The room at the Arena was inconvenient and depressing. I had sufficient funds, and there was no reason, except for Amar, to remain out of sight. Santini had found me, and I knew that Amar would find me, eventually, too.

All of Wainwright’s clothes were in his apartment, or most of them were there ... sufficient, certainly, for my needs. I removed the plastic bag with the money and certificates from outside the window, and packed it, together with my clothes, in the suitcase. Checking out of the hotel, I took a cab to Third Avenue where I stopped at the Midtown Moving and Storage Company. I arranged to put the suitcase in storage, using the name of P. Victor, and paid the rental for a year in advance. I could get to the suitcase any day that I desired, and it was easier to conceal the storage check than the money and the bankers’ acceptances. My cab had waited for me, and from the storage company I continued directly to Wainwright’s place.

For two days I lived quietly, not leaving the apartment except for meals. My time I spent waiting, waiting for Amar. There was no reason to try to run away. Although I had a fortune in Wainwright’s bankers’ acceptances, I could not cash them in another city, or country, without good identification. They were made out to Wainwright, and only here in New York could I prove that identity.

I believed, however, that Horstman might help me. But I had no way to contact him except through Amar. If I had judged Horstman wrong, I might have to eliminate both him and Amar later, but at least I would have a better idea of my situation after talking to him.

My plight was desperate, but not entirely hopeless, from what I could determine. I believed that I now understood part of the past story. Undoubtedly I had been acting as banker and investor for the Eastern syndicate represented by the Tajir Transportation Company. The profits from this company, or at least part of them, were smuggled into the United States for reinvestment as a protection against political changes in the East. Tajir, according to the hint from Juahara, dealt in the slave traffic. But on what was based the company’s original capital?

I thought I knew. Under the sands of the desert, Rommel in his retreat had cached guns, ammunition, half trucks, and remnants of his arsenal. This was the basis for the slave trading. Moslem peoples all over North Africa needed arms for their insurrections, and were willing to trade slaves for guns. The guns cost the traders nothing, and the slaves could be sold for a great profit. Someone, at one time closely connected with Rommel, knew where the arms caches were. That man had organized a vast and lucrative business built on that knowledge. He had many lieutenants in strategic spots around the world; I had been one of them; Horstman, undoubtedly, had been another.

Part of their funds had been channeled through me, and I had been robbing them. I felt no guilt about it. Gun running and slavery are not respectable occupations; my employers were murderers, slavers, and thieves. I, too, was a thief robbing other thieves. I was sorry only that I had not been more clever.

I had needed the help of Rosemary Martin to set up false accounts; she had agreed and had accepted a percentage for her share. My death, rather my attempted death, had been meant to frighten her, or goad her, into trying to secure the money for herself so it could be recovered from her later. Rosemary Martin had been unable to convert the bankers’ acceptances into cash, and she had frozen into inaction. Amar and the syndicate had waited, but the wait was too long. By that time I had recovered and Rosemary Martin had returned the key to me.

This theory of past events I worked out slowly, in the solitude of the apartment, over a period of several days. It seemed to me that the syndicate and I had reached a stalemate. I had the money, but I could be killed before I had a chance to use it. If I were killed, it could not be recovered. As long as most of it might be recovered there was no reason why the syndicate and I couldn’t reach a compromise.

Amar appeared the third evening. I had been waiting and when his knock sounded on my door, I expected him. He stood quietly, his hand in his pocket holding a revolver, and he asked politely if he could come in.

I stood to one side and he edged past me, watchful and alert. In the living room he crossed to the far side, and seated himself in a chair. “You were expecting me, of course,” he said, no question in his voice.

“Yes.”

“Otherwise you would not have returned to live here.” He regarded me uneasily. “You are sure of yourself.”

I shrugged and lit a cigarette, waiting for Amar to deliver his message from someone higher up. Finally he relaxed in his chair, although one hand remained in his pocket. He said, “You have caused much concern.
El Saiyid
made a trip especially to see you in person.” His eyes watched me, flat spots of danger. Then he added, “An honor not often conferred.”

I thought,
El Saiyid
... in Arabic the principal tribal shaykh: I was not sure if Amar meant the title literally or whether, perhaps, in slang he meant the “boss.” I said nothing, waiting for Amar to continue.

“He has arranged a meeting for tomorrow night. Eleven o’clock at the office.”

“Where?”

Amar regarded me impatiently. “Tajir,” he replied.

“No! Here.”

He shook his head. “Orders are explicit. Eleven o’clock at the location of Tajir.”

I had no intention of meeting
El Saiyid,
Amar, and the syndicate in their office or in the dock area. I was anxious to have the meeting too, but it must be held in my apartment. “No!” I told Amar flatly. “Here!”

Amar smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, although it held much of satisfaction in it. “It was anticipated,” he said, “that you might not approve of the place of meeting. So we have arranged an inducement that you will not decline. Miss Bianca Hill will be waiting for you. By then she will be greatly comforted to have you appear. No?”

“Bi-anca?”

“Yes. She will be held until tomorrow night. If you appear as requested she will not be harmed.” He arose from the chair and moved toward the door. “In case you doubt
El Saiyid
’s generosity, Miss Hill be in front of the office. When you appear, she will be released.” He slipped through the door and was gone.

Immediately I went to the phone and dialed Bianca’s number. The phone rang for a long time. No one answered.

It was certain that Amar was telling the truth about holding her. But to invite disaster because of her was to be a fool. I told myself that it was too bad, but there existed a possibility that after questioning her she would be released, because she did not have information of any kind dangerous to the syndicate. I decided that I would not permit myself to be forced to meet their terms; my concern was to bring
El Saiyid
to my apartment and, on my own ground, I would be safe. Here I could negotiate.

After I went to bed, I did not go to sleep immediately. I turned my plans over in my mind, examining them carefully. But thoughts of Bianca Hill interposed, disturbing me. These memories were unnecessary and, I felt, were sentimental. They could hold no importance in deciding my own actions. There were only two points to consider: my own safety, which I believed I could resolve; and retaining as much of the money as I could through bargaining. The rest was inconsequential.

There were pleasant memories of her which I tried to forget, but they would not go away. She was in a danger in which she had no choosing, for which she was paying because of the loyalty of her own nature. I pushed the covers from the bed and stretched on the sheets, knotting the pillow hard beneath my head. Sleep was a long time arriving.

SANTINI held the photograph in his hand and said to Burrows, “I got some stuff on this guy if you want it.” Santini, who was on the four
p.m.
to midnight shift, had arrived for work and had seen the picture on the bulletin board.

“Sure I want it,” Burrows replied. “When the picture was put up we were waiting for an ID. We have it now; it’s for Victor Pacific.”

Santini shook his head. “This guy isn’t Victor Pacific!”

“Huh?”

“Who is he then?” asked Jensen. “The ID said Victor Pacific.”

“I can tell you positively that this stiff isn’t Victor Pacific.” Burrows took the photograph from Santini’s hand and studied it carefully. Jensen hunched his straight chair closer to the desk, lit a cigarette, and placed his elbows in a comfortable position. Finally Burrows said to Santini, “Suppose you give us what you do know about it”

“I don’t know who Victor Pacific really is, but he was one guy. This guy is somebody else.” He pointed to the photograph. “I got an idea who he is and what he was. That part won’t take very long to give you. He was a no-good, slippery operator. As far as I can find out, he never did a decent thing for anybody in his whole damned life. He had the heart … the morals of a crocodile.”

Jensen said, “He sounds like a nice guy.”

Burrows regarded Santini thoughtfully. “It’s a funny thing I had a hunch about this right from the beginning.” He turned to Jensen and asked for affirmation, “Didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Jensen agreed sourly.

“I had a feeling that something was screwy. Tell me though, there didn’t happen to be
two
Victor Pacifies, did there?” Burrows asked Santini. “Even with a name like that, there might possibly be two of the same out of a couple of billion chances.”

“No,” said Santini, “it’s not like that at all. There was only one guy named Pacific who entered into the case at any time. Once, though, I considered the possibility there might’ve been two guys too.”

Jensen deliberately removed his elbows from the desk, reached over, and picked up the photograph of the corpse. He made one last attempt to put the situation back into perspective, then gave it up. He said to Santini, “Well, maybe you better give us everything you got. I still can’t believe this stiff isn’t Victor Pacific.”

“Okay,” agreed Santini. “Here’s how it is.”

I ARRIVED
near Markham Street about a quarter to eleven and walked the last block toward it, approaching slowly. Within my shoe, I could feel the concealed bill I had tucked there in case of an emergency working against my foot. The office of the Tajir Transportation Company was located in a squat, dirty, red-brick building. It was three stories high, backed against the east side of the street facing the docks across from it. Overhead, the humming tires of the cars racing on the West Side Highway sounded like swarms of angry bees in the night. By the docks, the streets are paved with stone blocks, and occasional trucks rumbled heavily in the semidarkness of the poorly lighted streets.