"Apparently," said Remo. "Maybe there was something wrong with it."
"You shoulda checked it out before you out to sea," the tall man groused. "Damn foolishness to take a chance with your equipment thataway."
"You're right, I guess. Of course, it wasn't really mine. I borrowed Trudy from a friend of mine, back in Miami."
"He'll be tickled pink to hear this news," said Dink.
Remo considered Dr. Harold Smith, then thought of Chiun and Stacy, riding with the pirates toward an unknown destination. "Yeah, I wouldn't be surprised," he said. "Speaking of news, where are we putting in for the report?"
"I reckon Fort-de-France would be the closest," Dink replied. "Right, Titch?"
"That's it," the tall man said, still frowning.
"Fort-de-France it is," Dink said. "We best be haulin' ass."
Chapter 13
Howard Morgan smiled obsequiously, turning on the well-oiled charm for Mr. Burston Sykes, of Bristol, Connecticut, and his young, blond wife. She was so young, in fact, that Morgan would have pegged her as the fat man's daughter if Sykes had not made a point of introducing her otherwise. The wedding ring on Mrs. Sykes's hand was new, the solitaire diamond on her engagement ring an easy four carats.
That spelled money, and Morgan didn't care if Ellie Sykes was Burston's daughter, as long as some of the fat American's dollars found their way into Morgan's pocket. The American was big in textiles, or so he said. Probably meant he ran sweatshops in Third World nations, but the source of his money was likewise a matter of total indifference to Morgan. The travel agent always focused on the bottom line-meaning his bottom line, the profit he could turn from any given deal.
In this case, Burston Sykes and his child bride were talking package tour, the kind of deal that would turn a handsome profit for the owner-operator of Trade Winds Travel. It meant a boat and crew, provisions, berths and tours on sundry islands-all paid in advance, with a sweet commission for Morgan himself.
It was the best deal he had closed that month-the best legitimate transaction, anyway-and Morgan was already calculating how to spend the money as he finished touching up the deal on paper. He was dotting i's and crossing t's while his clients sat beneath the lazy ceiling fan and sweated through their clothes.
"Damn hot in here," Burston Sykes said. "Why don't you spring for air-conditioning?" he groused.
"Bit pricey in the islands, don't you know? We have to make ends meet," Morgan said, striving just a little harder to preserve the phony smile. "Trimmin' expenses does the trick, you know?"
"It's still damn hot," Sykes told him. "Keep your patrons sweating, and you won't have much repeat business. You mark my words."
"Yes, sir, I'll keep that fact in mind." The paperwork was done, and Morgan spun the contract deftly, pushing it across the desk toward Burston Sykes, offering his fountain pen. "Now, if you'll just sign here, right at where X marks the spot..."
The textile magnate looked over the contract, pausing here and there to read the fine print in detail, before he signed and dated it, then passed it back to Morgan. "Done," he said.
"I'll get to work immediately," Morgan said, reserving his brightest smile for the fetching Mrs. Sykes, "as soon as you've filled out that check we spoke about...."
Sykes frowned and reached for his hip pocket, bringing out a checkbook that was probably real alligator hide. He used the pen Morgan had handed him, together with the contract. Despite his evident wealth and the relatively small fee involved, Sykes still showed visible reluctance as he filled out the check, looked it over and handed it to Morgan.
"We done here?" the businessman asked.
"Indeed we are, sir," Morgan answered. "All you and your lovely wife must do, from this point on, is pack your bags and find your way to the marina in the morning. Let's say tennish, shall we?"
"Ten o'clock it is," Sykes said.
"Your vessel is the yacht Christina," Morgan said. "She and her crew will be prepared to sail when you arrive."
"I hope so," Sykes informed him, shepherding the missus out of Morgan's office to the street, where afternoon was baking shadows on the sidewalk.
Howard Morgan smiled, folded the check in two and slipped it into his shirt pocket. It was damn good money, and his five percent was still enough to put fresh lobster on his plate for several nights if he was so inclined-or land a fresh piece in his bed, assuming that he felt like shelling out a good deal more.
If nothing else, the Sykes deal meant that he could close down for the day. He would have to, in any case, if he was going to arrange the details of the tour package he had sold. The yacht Christina was on call, he knew, together with her captain and a two-man crew, but there was shopping to be done-for food and liquor, any incidentals that a rich man and his wife would likely carry with them on a tour of the Caribbean.
He pushed back in his chair, the casters rasping on the vinyl floor, and rose to hit the kill switch on the coffee urn that occupied one corner of the Trade Winds office. Morgan was a coffee addict, even in the tropic heat, without an air conditioner, and certain clients also favored it above the cold drinks he kept handy in his minifridge.
He was about to flick the switch off when a voice behind him said, "I'll take some if you've got it made."
The sound made Morgan jump, as unexpected as it was, but the surprise paled when he turned and recognized the man who stood before his desk. "Er...Mr. Remo Rubble, isn't it?"
"That's very good."
The travel agent glanced in the direction of his office door, wondering why the damn cowbell suspended on a leather strap had failed to warn him of a new arrival in the Trade Winds office.
"Back so soon?" he said, cold perspiration forming on his face. "There's nothing wrong, I hope."
The man he knew as Remo Rubble smiled and took a long step closer, smiling as he said, "Howard, I think we need to have a little chat."
"Of course," the worried-looking travel agent said. "Sit down, by all means. Where's the missus, then? What brings you back to Puerta Plata?"
"Just a hunch," said Remo, closing on the cluttered desk with easy strides.
"A hunch?" Morgan repeated. "As regards to what, if I may be so bold?"
"Your pirate buddies," Remo said. "I'm betting you can tell me where they spend their time when they're not looting pleasure craft."
"Pirates?" There was a hitch in Morgan's voice, a subtle paling underneath his tan, but he recovered quickly for a man with no experience of rough interrogations. Or perhaps it was the ignorance of what was coming that allowed him to preserve the calm facade. "I'm sure I don't-"
His first kick drove the desk back, scraping furrows in the vinyl, slamming into Morgan's thighs and pinning the travel agent with his hips against a waist-high counter, where his flailing arm upset the coffee urn.
"God's truth!" Morgan wailed, shoving at the desk with both hands, getting nowhere. Remo had it pinned against him with one foot. The travel agent would need far more power than he had to budge the desk. For emphasis, Remo gave the desk another nudge, the hard edge digging into Morgan's groin and thighs. A wordless squawk of pain escaped his lips, as they were drawn back from tobacco-yellowed teeth.
"Hold on a moment now! You've got this wrong, I tell you! I don't-"
Remo stepped back from the desk, as if considering the papers strewed across its top. Morgan prepared to take advantage of the respite, breaking off the lie he was about to tell and shoving at the desk with both hands to release himself.
Before he found the strength to move it, though, Remo bent forward and one hand slapped the desktop. The desk acted as if an ax crashed into it. A fissure opened in the wooden desktop, front to back, and Remo had resumed his easy stance before the shattered desk collapsed into a V-shaped ruin, pinning Morgan's feet and spilling papers all around his legs.
"God rot it!" Morgan blurted out, and lost his balance, toppling forward, sprawled across the desk to lie at Remo's feet.
Remo bent down to grab a handful of the travel agent's hair and hoist him upright, holding him so that his toes were barely grazing vinyl. Morgan was surprised by his new altitude, in evident discomfort from his thighs and groin, his feet, and now the pain that lanced his scalp.
"You're obviously quite upset," said Morgan. "I assure you, even so-"
"I'm running out of furniture to break," Remo warned. "If you plan on lying to me any more, you take your chances."
"Surely you don't mean-"