been short-weighted, chum.”
“Short-weighted?”
“You’ve only got half a box of tea.”
Holt peered into the box. It looked strangely shallow.
“False bottom,” Grade said. “Why?”
“You tell me.”
“Maybe I will when we’ve looked deeper.”
Grade picked up the knife, opened the large blade and forced it between the false bottom and the side of the box; after a little manipulation a rectangle of thin plywood cameout. Beneath it, rammed in so that it completely filled the available space, was a polythene bag containing what appeared to be a white, crystalline powder.
Grade made a soft hissing sound through his teeth. “Now that, Nick, boy, doesn’t look like any tea I ever saw. You know something? I begin to think your Mr. Saunders wasn’t being altogether honest with you. Not strictly on the up and up, if you get my meaning. Fact is, I think you got a crook deal.”
He lifted the bag out of the box. It was fastened with a piece of fine string. Grade untied the string and opened the bag. He took a little of the powder on his finger and touched it with the tip of his tongue.
“Bitter taste. What does that tell you, Nick?”
“Nothing.”
“It tells me something. It tells me this is heroin for a cert.”
“Heroin! Are you sure?”
“I’d lay a thousand to one.”
“It can’t be,” Holt said; but he was thinking it very well could be just that. And he did not like it.
“Just look at it this way,” Grade said. “This comes from Hong Kong. Red China is just across the border. In China the poppies grow that opium is extracted from. Morphine comes from opium. Heroin is a derivative of morphine. Are you with me?”
“I’m with you,” Holt said, and wished he wasn’t.
Grade weighed the bag in his hand. “You any idea what this little lot would be worth on the black market?”
Holt shook his head.
Grade appeared to be making a mental calculation. Then he said, “I’m guessing, mind, but if this is heroin—and somehow I can’t see Mr. Saunders bothering to hide a bagof salt away like that; if it is heroin I’d say at a low estimate it’d be worth not less than somewhere around forty thousand Australian dollars. Say twenty thousand pounds sterling.”
“You must be joking. Twenty thousand pounds for that.”
“You can get anything between one and four pounds a grain, so they tell me.”
Holt wondered just who “they” were, but he did not ask.
“So that’s why Mr. Roylance was going to be so willing to meet me in Fremantle. Nothing to do with China tea.”
“Oh, he may have a taste for that too.” Grade re-tied the bag with the thin string. “Seems to me, Nick, you were the stooge. If the customs found that junk you were the one who got caught. Not Mr. Saunders, who is probably not really Mr. Saunders anyway, and not Mr. Roylance, who is likewise probably not Mr. Roylance; just you, chum, just you.”
“Joe Soap.”
“You said it. But the chances were good that you’d get through without even having the box opened. You got that innocent look. It was a good play. How was Saunders to know that you’d have such a suspicious bastard for a cabin mate? I wonder how many innocent suckers he uses like this.”
“So much for the job in Australia,” Holt said. He could see now that there never would have been a job. He was just being used; and when he had served his purpose he would have been discarded. He no longer believed there had been any accident about that spilt beer; it had all been planned.
“Cheer up,” Grade said. “Plenty other jobs. What are you going to do about this?” He indicated the bag of heroin.
Holt picked up the bag and put it back in the box. He pushed the false bottom into place and began to scoop up the tea and refill the box.
“I’m going to hand it over to the customs when we reach port.”
“They’ll ask questions.”
“I’ll answer them. I haven’t got anything to hide.”
He folded the tinfoil over the tea, picked up a
“Short-weighted?”
“You’ve only got half a box of tea.”
Holt peered into the box. It looked strangely shallow.
“False bottom,” Grade said. “Why?”
“You tell me.”
“Maybe I will when we’ve looked deeper.”
Grade picked up the knife, opened the large blade and forced it between the false bottom and the side of the box; after a little manipulation a rectangle of thin plywood cameout. Beneath it, rammed in so that it completely filled the available space, was a polythene bag containing what appeared to be a white, crystalline powder.
Grade made a soft hissing sound through his teeth. “Now that, Nick, boy, doesn’t look like any tea I ever saw. You know something? I begin to think your Mr. Saunders wasn’t being altogether honest with you. Not strictly on the up and up, if you get my meaning. Fact is, I think you got a crook deal.”
He lifted the bag out of the box. It was fastened with a piece of fine string. Grade untied the string and opened the bag. He took a little of the powder on his finger and touched it with the tip of his tongue.
“Bitter taste. What does that tell you, Nick?”
“Nothing.”
“It tells me something. It tells me this is heroin for a cert.”
“Heroin! Are you sure?”
“I’d lay a thousand to one.”
“It can’t be,” Holt said; but he was thinking it very well could be just that. And he did not like it.
“Just look at it this way,” Grade said. “This comes from Hong Kong. Red China is just across the border. In China the poppies grow that opium is extracted from. Morphine comes from opium. Heroin is a derivative of morphine. Are you with me?”
“I’m with you,” Holt said, and wished he wasn’t.
Grade weighed the bag in his hand. “You any idea what this little lot would be worth on the black market?”
Holt shook his head.
Grade appeared to be making a mental calculation. Then he said, “I’m guessing, mind, but if this is heroin—and somehow I can’t see Mr. Saunders bothering to hide a bagof salt away like that; if it is heroin I’d say at a low estimate it’d be worth not less than somewhere around forty thousand Australian dollars. Say twenty thousand pounds sterling.”
“You must be joking. Twenty thousand pounds for that.”
“You can get anything between one and four pounds a grain, so they tell me.”
Holt wondered just who “they” were, but he did not ask.
“So that’s why Mr. Roylance was going to be so willing to meet me in Fremantle. Nothing to do with China tea.”
“Oh, he may have a taste for that too.” Grade re-tied the bag with the thin string. “Seems to me, Nick, you were the stooge. If the customs found that junk you were the one who got caught. Not Mr. Saunders, who is probably not really Mr. Saunders anyway, and not Mr. Roylance, who is likewise probably not Mr. Roylance; just you, chum, just you.”
“Joe Soap.”
“You said it. But the chances were good that you’d get through without even having the box opened. You got that innocent look. It was a good play. How was Saunders to know that you’d have such a suspicious bastard for a cabin mate? I wonder how many innocent suckers he uses like this.”
“So much for the job in Australia,” Holt said. He could see now that there never would have been a job. He was just being used; and when he had served his purpose he would have been discarded. He no longer believed there had been any accident about that spilt beer; it had all been planned.
“Cheer up,” Grade said. “Plenty other jobs. What are you going to do about this?” He indicated the bag of heroin.
Holt picked up the bag and put it back in the box. He pushed the false bottom into place and began to scoop up the tea and refill the box.
“I’m going to hand it over to the customs when we reach port.”
“They’ll ask questions.”
“I’ll answer them. I haven’t got anything to hide.”
He folded the tinfoil over the tea, picked up a
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