Thefts of Nick Velvet

by Edward D. Hoch

  “No, nothing like that,” Nick reassured them. “I’m planning something that will put the Beavers on the front pages of every paper in the country and make people forget you’re in last place in the National League.”

  The jet had risen smoothly from the runway and was climbing into the clear blue sky. Pop Hastin relaxed. “We’re on our way,” he said. “Now just how do you propose to give us all this publicity? Through Sports Weekly?”

  “Partly,” Nick answered vaguely. “Suppose you introduce me to a few of the players.”

  They went forward in the plane and Pop spoke to the team’s muscular first baseman. “Stan Karowitz, this is Mr. Nicholas, a writer with Sports Weekly. He’s going to give us a good article.”

  Nick dropped into the seat next to Karowitz and started asking the Beavers’ star some routine questions, taking notes as he talked. “Do you think the Beavers are coming out of their slump, Stan?”

  “It’s a little late in the year now,” Karowitz replied, “but we think our rookies might make a strong foundation for next season.”

  Nick had been watching the stewardess walk past them to the cockpit and unlock the door with a key that dangled from her waist. She was carrying a tray with two steaming cups of coffee. “Pardon me,” he interrupted Karowitz.

  He moved quickly down the aisle behind the girl, catching the door before she could close it. The flight was still young, but he might not get another chance this good. He pushed past her, shoved the copilot aside, and pointed a pistol at the pilot’s head.

  Farnsworth, the pilot, turned as the stewardess gasped. He started to rise, then thought better of it. “Where to?” he asked in a resigned tone. “Havana?”

  “No,” Nick told him. “The island of Jabali.”

  “We may not have enough fuel for that.”

  Nick kept the pistol steady. “Well, let’s give it a try anyway, shall we?”

  Hours later, as the jet settled down on the runway at Jabali Airport, Nick Velvet breathed a sigh of relief. The fuel had indeed been low, and he wondered what he would have done if they’d run dry over the Caribbean. Or if the pilot and copilot had put up a fight. He’d never killed an innocent person during any of his assignments, and he wouldn’t have started now. More likely he would have knocked them out and tried to bring the big plane in himself—though he’d never piloted anything larger than army transports during a brief period of the Korean war.

  When he stepped out of the cockpit he faced Pop Hastin, the manager’s face flushed with fury. “Why did you bring us here?” Hastin demanded.

  “Calm down,” Nick told him. “You’re in no danger.” He motioned with his gun for Pop and the players to leave the plane.

  Roswell pushed his way through the crush. “You had no intention of writing any article! It was all a lie to hijack this plane!”

  “It wasn’t entirely a lie,” Nick pointed out. “You’ll get plenty of publicity out of this.”

  “Publicity?” Pop Hastin looked out the window at the welcome signs. “You mean somebody wanted to kidnap the Beavers?”

  Nick Velvet smiled. “That’s right. Welcome to Jabali.”

  The President of Jabali, General Tras, was waiting to greet them with his eight cabinet ministers. He was an imposing man in his full military uniform, smiling broadly yet giving an unmistakable picture of power. There were armed bodyguards on both sides of him, and his gloved fists were clenched with expectation.

  “We had your radio message, Señor Velvet. You have truly fulfilled your mission! Let us proceed to the National Hall, where I can more formally greet my guests.”

  Jorge Asignar stepped forward, wearing the purple sash of a cabinet minister. “I have the balance of your money,” he told Nick. “The President is very pleased.”

  “What are you? Secretary of Kidnaping?”

  “Minister of Information,” Asignar replied with a thin smile. Then, motioning toward the plane, he questioned, “Who are all these people?”

  “Baseball teams aren’t just nine men and a rack of bats. Not these days. They need a trainer, batboy, and press agent. They need pitching and batting coaches. They need—”

  Stan Karowitz came barreling over, looking for a fight. “What is this, anyway? Are we prisoners here?”

  Nick tried to calm him. “Their president likes baseball. You’ll be home in a few days.”

  “A few days!”

  But already the armed guards were moving in, steering everyone toward a big waiting bus. There was no opportunity for argument. Nick rode to the National Hall in the black, limousine of General Tras, sitting in the back seat between the President and Asignar. On the front fenders fluttered the flag of Jabali—a field of red with a wild boar’s head in the center, enclosed by a black triangle with three seashells along each of the triangle’s sides.

  “Jabali,” Nick observed. “The wild boar?”

  “At one time they overran our little island,” General Tras remarked. “Now they are confined to the zoos and a few game preserves back in the hills.”

  Here and there along the highway were people to cheer and wave as the big presidential car went by. When the marble-faced auditorium came into view, the crowds grew thicker.

  “This was really Jorge’s idea,” the President said, patting Asignar approvingly on the knee. “I had been training our own team for some years as a hobby, but it all meant nothing without real competition.”

  “I hope you’re prepared to risk the wrath of my government,” Nick commented dryly.

  Tras dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “The Beavers will be safely returned after a single game with the Jabali team. No one will go to war over it.”

  The auditorium was about half full when they entered. Asignar motioned Nick to a seat on the side, saying, “General Tras and the cabinet ministers always sit in row J. You can follow the proceedings from here.”

  “Fine,” Nick agreed. He’d been sitting only a few moments when a strikingly beautiful girl with long black hair slipped into place next to him.

  “You’re Nick Velvet?” she asked quietly.

  Her English was perfect, which was his first surprise. And she knew his name. “That’s right. And you are—?”

  “Maria Tras.”

  “The President’s—”

  She laughed lightly at his hesitation. “Daughter.”

  “Are you a baseball fan too?” Up on the stage Asignar was beginning to speak. Nick’s slight knowledge of Spanish indicated he was introducing the President.

  “Not like my father,” the girl was saying in answer to his question. “In fact, I was against this whole scheme. I was at Columbia for four years and I know how seriously you Americans take your baseball.”

  “That’s what I tried to tell Asignar.”

  “That man!” She made a face.

  “What does your father want? Just a game?”

  “That’s all. It was wise of you to steal the Beavers. At least it’ll be something of an even match.”

  General Tras mounted the stage and held up his hand for silence. Surprisingly, Pop Hastin was at his side. Tras spoke a few words in Spanish and then switched quickly to English. “I want now to welcome a fine and famous American baseball manager, the pride of the National League—our guest, Pop Hastin of the Beavers!”

  Even Pop seemed taken aback by the applause with which the introduction was greeted. If he’d planned to denounce the kidnaping from the stage he must have had second thoughts. He cleared his throat, grinned weakly, and said, “I can’t approve of being brought here against our will, but I am pleased at the reception we’ve received. We look forward to meeting the Jabali team on the field.”

  The audience cheered and General Tras smiled. Off to one side of the stage the shortstop Mike Nesbitt and some other players seemed far from pleased at the turn of events, but there was little they could do. General Tras resumed his speech. The big game would take place in two days’ time, on Wednesday. The teams would have Tuesday to practic
e.

  “I can’t wait to see it,” Maria Tras told Nick as they left the building.

  “I’m surprised that Pop Hastin gave in so easily.”

  “Now that it’s done, the game should be an exciting one.” She glanced sideways at Nick. “Will you be staying for it?”

  “I have no reason to. Asignar paid me the rest of my fee. But it might be wise to stay down here for a few days. Even though my true identity isn’t known I’m sure the authorities back in the States will be watching for me.”

  “I wish you would stay.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I hope you can dine with us at the presidential palace tonight. My father is inviting Pop Hastin and all the others.”

  “I don’t know if I dare face him,” Nick told her. But there was something odd about the whole business, something that bothered him. He knew he’d be there.

  The presidential palace was as regal as Nick had expected—a great white building that must have dated from the early years of the century. In certain rooms there had been obvious attempts to copy the decor of the White House in Washington, but the venture had been ruined by a tasteless plushness more, in keeping with kings than presidents.

  “Our country was founded in 1899 by the great revolutionary leader Palidez,” General Tras explained as he led them on a brief tour. “He wrote our constitution and built this house. Nueve—that was the word he lived by. This is called the Casa Nueve, a fitting name.”

  Nick nodded. “The New House,” he translated, “for a new country.”

  Maria shot him an odd glance and started to say something, but then Asignar joined them with Pop Hastin and Roswell, the publicity man. “Shall we go in to dinner?” the Minister of Information suggested.

  Roswell was seated next to Nick, and as they sat down the publicity man said, “We might make something out of this yet, no thanks to you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Pop thinks it’s a great publicity break for the team, and he’s right, of course. Every magazine in the country will want our story when we get back.”

  Later, after a meal of wild boar more fitted to a medieval monarch than a Caribbean president, Nick had an opportunity for a private word with Pop Hastin. “I’m glad you realize the publicity value in all this,” he said.

  Pop reached for some chewing tobacco. “I was upset at first, but now I’m beginning to like the idea. All season long I’ve listened to sports commentators chuckle about the Meager Beavers, and at my age that wasn’t easy to take. But now we’ve been kidnaped by you and brought down here to play the Jabali team. You didn’t kidnap the Yankees or Cards or Pirates—you kidnaped the Beavers!”

  “Well, yes,” Nick admitted. He wasn’t about to mention that he’d picked the Beavers simply because they were last in the league standing.

  “Coming out to the practice tomorrow?” Pop asked.

  “I’ll be there.”

  By morning the news of the stolen Beavers had made headlines around the world. The storm was particularly heavy in Washington, as Nick had feared, but Pop’s statement to the American Ambassador that they were well-treated and anxious to play the game had done much to cool the tense situation.

  At the stadium for the practice session Pop Hastin had a further statement for reporters. “We are here as guests of the President and we consider it an honor to be so chosen. We’ll be returning home after the exhibition game tomorrow.” In answer to persistent questions he added, “We are not being held against our wills or mistreated in any way.”

  Nick breathed a sigh of relief as he settled onto a bench to watch the practice. At least Pop’s statement should take some of the pressure off him. He glanced up to see Tras and his daughter coming over to join him. The President was obviously excited, like a small boy on a Sunday afternoon at Yankee Stadium. The General watched intently as Stan Karowitz took batting practice and actually cheered when the tall first baseman hit a line drive to the farthest corner of left field.

  “Do you think your team can take them?” Nick asked.

  “The Beavers are very good. It will be a real event for my people and I do not really care which team is victorious. But of course I will be cheering for Jabali.” He watched the pitchers for a time and then added, “Jorge has suggested a patriotic pageant before the game tomorrow. Our independence day is in a few weeks—on September 9th—and he thinks an early celebration is in order. He’s to speak to both teams about taking part.”

  Nick grunted and lit a cigarette. A few minutes later, when General Tras went down on the field to speak with his own brightly uniformed team, Maria moved next to Nick. “Something’s troubling you,” she observed.

  “I’m running low on American cigarettes.”

  “Something besides that. I’ve known you only a day, but I can see the worried look in your eyes.”

  “It’s just this whole setup,” he admitted. “I could understand one man, an absolute ruler, getting the crazy idea to steal a baseball team and bring it here, overriding the objections of his advisers. But this is different. Your father told me it was Asignar’s idea. And yet Asignar apparently isn’t even a baseball fan. At least he’s nowhere in sight today.”

  “You worry needlessly,” she assured him. “After all, the Beavers are happy with their new fame. My father is happy. You should be happy with the money you were paid. Why look for trouble?”

  “Because I brought them here. If anything happens, I’ll feel responsible.”

  That night Nick dined with Maria at Jabali’s most expensive restaurant. On the way home he noticed an anti-Tras slogan chalked in Spanish on the side of a building. Maria seemed to miss seeing it, and he did not call it to her attention.

  Nick had arranged to escort Maria to the baseball game the following day, since her father would be busy on the field during the opening ceremonies of the pageant. When he called for her at the presidential palace just after noon, he still carried the pistol he’d used to hijack the plane. He wondered why he hadn’t left it in his room, yet knew somehow that it belonged with him, even at a baseball game.

  “There’s already a lot of traffic,” he told Maria. “I didn’t know there were so many people on the island.”

  “It is a great day for them.”

  “Few foreigners, though.”

  “My father does not encourage them. He has the airport watched. Even the number of newsmen is limited.”

  “So I noticed.” They were walking through the downstairs rooms toward the door when Nick paused to examine the large oil painting over a massive stone fireplace. It was of a handsome bearded man in military uniform. “Who’s this?” he asked.

  “Palidez, our liberator. Father mentioned him at dinner the other night. Founder of our country, author of our constitution, builder of this house—”

  Nick studied the painting more closely. “He’s missing a finger.”

  “Lost in the Revolution. It became a sort of symbol. He died in 1920, rich and famous—and loved by his people.”

  One of the servants had turned on the radio and they could hear the sounds of the stadium ceremonies. “They’re starting without us,” Nick said. “We’d better hurry.”

  “I’m ready.”

  He led her out to the official car, where a dark-skinned driver waited by the open door. “Too bad all your servants can’t come.”

  “Most of them went, but the house requires so much work—you can imagine, with nine rooms on each floor.”

  Nick froze with his hand on the car door. “My Spanish is rusty,” he said, hardly breathing. “Your father said this place is called the Casa Nueve—”

  Maria chuckled. “I started to correct you the other night. New House would be Casa Nuevo. The presidential palace is called Casa Nueve, which means—”

  “Nine House! Nine rooms on each floor! And nine was the word Palidez lived by!” From the car radio came the sounds of the pageant ceremonies, the rolling of drums, the blowing of bugles. “Come on! We’ve got to get there fas
t!”

  “But why?”

  “Don’t ask questions. What I need are answers and you can give them to me.” The car pulled away from the palace grounds and headed toward the stadium. “Jorge Asignar is up to something and it’s no good.”

  “Asignar? I don’t understand.”

  Nick Velvet leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, trying to see it all. “The thing was Asignar’s idea from the start. At the airport Monday he was surprised to see nineteen players with manager and coaches and all. He didn’t need them. He only needed nine men—a baseball team. Nine men who could enter the country without attracting your father’s suspicions, without being noticed by his airport guards.”

  “Nine men—”

  “Don’t you see, Maria? This whole country is built on the mystical number nine. There are nines every where—the President and eight cabinet ministers—nine in all. Nine sea-shells on your national flag. And the cabinet always sits in row J at the auditorium—the ninth row, since theaters hardly ever have a row I. The country was liberated in 1899, on September 9—the ninth day of the ninth month. And nine-fingered Palidez did it all. He wrote the constitution and built the palace, Nine House, with its nine rooms on each floor.”

  “I know all that,” she said.

  “Then tell me what else there is. Something in the constitution that Palidez wrote. Something that Jorge Asignar needs nine men for.”

  “Nine men—” And suddenly her hand flew to her mouth. “My God, the firing squad!”

  It was then that the driver pulled over to the curb and turned to face them with a pistol in his hand.

  Nick Velvet fired a single shot through the back of the seat, hoping his aim was good. It was—the driver crumpled sideways without a sound.

  “Help shove him over,” Nick told Maria. “I’ll drive.”

  “He’s one of Asignar’s people,” she gasped.

  “He was. I’m glad I still had the gun with me. Which way should I go?”

  “Straight ahead—you can see it from here, over on the left.” As he drove she kept talking. “Palidez’s constitution states that the President of Jabali can be removed from office and sentenced to death by a secret panel of judges in a time of national crisis. But the actual execution of a President can only be carried out by a nine-man firing squad. To insure that the firing squad itself is impartial, none of the men can be citizens of Jabali.”