There was only one sure way to find the right ship — to ask Max Solar. He knew that Sam and Terry wouldn’t approve, but he had no better choice.
Solar Industries occupied most of a modem twelve-story building not far from the house where he’d been held prisoner. He took the elevator to the top floor and waited in a plush reception room while the girl announced his arrival to Max Solar. Presently a cool young woman appeared to escort him.
“I’m Mr. Solar’s secretary,” she said. “Please come this way.”
In Max Solar’s office two men were seated at a wide desk, silhouetted against the wide windows that looked south toward Manhattan. There was no doubt which one was Solar. He was tall and white-haired, and sat behind his desk in total command, like the pilot of an aircraft or a rancher on his horse. He did not rise as Nick entered, but said simply, “So you’re Velvet. About time you got here.”
“I was tied up earlier.”
Solar waited until his secretary left, then said, “I understand you steal things for a fee of twenty thousand dollars.”
“Certain things. Nothing of value.”
“I know that.”
“What do you want stolen?”
“A ship’s manifest, for the S.S. Fiorina. She sails tomorrow from New York harbor, so that doesn’t give you much time.”
“Time is no problem. What’s so valuable about the manifest?”
“A mistake was made on it by an inexperienced clerk. All other copies were recovered and corrected in time, but the ship’s copy got through somehow. I imagine it’s locked in the purser’s safe right now. I was told you could do the job. I want this corrected manifest left in its place.”
“No problem,” Nick said, accepting the lengthy form.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” the second man said. It was the first he’d spoken since Nick entered. He was small and middle-aged, with just a trace of British accent.
Solar waved a hand at him. “This is Herbert Jarvis from South Africa. He’s the consignee for the Fiorina cargo. Two hundred and twelve cases of typewriters and adding machines.”
“I see,” Nick said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“You want some money in advance? Say ten percent — two thousand?” Solar asked, opening his desk drawer.
“Fine. And don’t worry about the time. I’ll have the manifest before the ship sails.”
“Here’s my check,” Jarvis said, passing it across the desk to Solar. “Drawn on the National Bank of Capetown. I assure you it’s good. This is payment in full for the cargo.”
“That’s the way I like to do business,” Solar told him, slipping the check into a drawer.
As Nick started to leave, Herbert Jarvis rose from his chair. “My business here is finished. If you’re driving into Manhattan, Mr. Velvet, could I ride with you and save calling a taxi?”
“Sure. Come on.” Downstairs he asked, “Your first trip here?”
“Oh, no. I’ve been here before. Quite a city you have.”
“We like it.” He turned the car onto the Major Deegan Expressway.
“You live in the city yourself?”
Nick shook his head. “No, near Long Island Sound.”
“Are you a boating enthusiast?”
“When I have time. It relaxes me.”
Jarvis lit a cigar. “We all need to relax. I’m a painter myself. I’ve a lovely studio with a fine north light.”
“In Capetown?”
“Yes. But it’s just a sideline, of course. One can hardly make a living at it.” He exhaled some smoke. “I act as a middleman in buying and selling overseas. This is my first dealing with Max Solar, but he seems a decent sort.”
“The Fiorina isn’t bound for South Africa.”
Jarvis shook his head. “The cargo will be removed in the Azores. It’s safer that way.”
“For the typewriters?”
“And for me.”
After a time Nick said, “I’ll have to drop you in midtown. Okay?”
“Certainly. I’m at the Wilson Hotel on Seventh Avenue.”
“I need to purchase some supplies,” Nick said. He’d just decided how he was going to steal the ship’s manifest.
The Fiorina was berthed at pier 40, a massive, bustling place that jutted into the Hudson River near West Houston Street. Nick reached it in mid-afternoon and went quickly through the gates to the gangplank. The ship was showing the rust of age typical of vessels that plied the waterways in the service of the highest bidder.
The purser was much like his ship, with soiled uniform and needing a shave. He studied the credentials Nick presented and said, “This is a bit irregular.”
“We believe export licenses may be lacking for some of your cargo. It’s essential that I inspect your copy of the manifest.”
The purser hesitated another moment, then said, “Very well.” He walked to the safe in one corner of his office and opened it. In a moment he produced the lengthy manifest.
Nick saw at once the reason for Max Solar’s concern. On the ship’s copy the line about typewriters and adding machines read: 212 cases 8 mm Mauser semi-automatic rifles. He was willing to bet that Solar Industries was not a licensed arms dealer.
“It seems in order,” Nick told the purser, “but I’ll need a copy of it.” He opened the fat attaché case he carried and revealed a portable copying machine. “Can I plug this in?”
“Over here.”
Nick inserted the manifest with a light-sensitive copying sheet into the rollers of the machine. In a moment the document reappeared. “There you are,” he said, returning it to the purser. “Sorry I had to trouble you.”
“No trouble.” He glanced briefly at the manifest and returned it to the safe.
Nick closed the attaché case, shook the man’s hand, and departed. The theft was as simple as that.
Later that night, at seven o’clock, Nick rang the doorbell of the little house where he’d been held prisoner. At first no one came to admit him, though he could see a light burning in the back bedroom. Then at last Terry appeared, her face pale and distraught.
“I’ve got it,” Nick said. She stepped aside silently and allowed him to enter.
Sam came out of the back bedroom. “Well, Velvet! Right on time.”
“Here’s the manifest.” Nick produced the document from the attaché case he still carried. “The only remaining original copy, showing that Solar Industries is exporting two hundred and twelve cases of semiautomatic rifles to Africa.”
Sam took the document and glanced at it. For some reason the triumph didn’t seem to excite him. “How did you get it?”
“A simple trick. This afternoon I purchased this portable copying machine from a friend who sometimes makes special gadgets for me. I inserted the original manifest between the rollers, but the substitute came out the other slot. It works much like those trick shop devices, where a blank piece of paper is inserted between rollers and a dollar bill comes out. The purser’s copy of the manifest was rolled up and remained in the machine. The substitute copy that I’d inserted in the machine earlier came out the slot. He glanced at it briefly, but since only one line was different he never realized a switch had been made.”
“Where did you get this substitute manifest?” Sam wanted to know.
“From Max Solar. I also got an advance for stealing the thing, which I’ll return to him. I’m working for you, not Solar. And I imagine he’ll pay plenty for that manifest. The clerk who typed it up must have assumed he had an export license for the guns. But without a license it would mean big trouble for Solar Industries if this manifest was inspected by port authorities.”
Sam nodded glumly. “He’s been selling arms illegally for years, mostly to countries in Africa and Latin America. But this was my first chance to prove it.”