Free Toured to Death by Hy Conrad Page A

flawless. The clues had been challenging without being impossible, and her game-loving guests had concluded each day in the glow of their own glory, sitting out on moon-swept terraces, sharing their tales of adventure. Even teams finishing well down the list took pride in their conquest of Otto’s diabolical puzzles.
    The endless job of dealing with high-paying clients had left Amy with little time to think about her problems. Otto was dead and the game was on autopilot, with the promised, paid-for assistant nowhere in sight. The game was based on a real millionaire’s disappearance, and Georgina had been involved. Someone had thrown a rock at Marcus, and Marcus had, in turn, made an inexplicable call to Brooklyn. Amy preferred to ignore all this and sweat the small stuff.
    She paced another circuit of the quai and checked her watch. Five of the six teams were on board L’Albatros. The impressive silver-white cabin cruiser was supposed to be at this moment ferrying the group from mainland France to the island of Corsica. But where were the Doloreses?
    Paul Wickes, the Virginia headmaster, had miraculously recognized the old Corsican flag as soon as the Dodos handed in their car keys. They had arrived at the gangplank nearly two hours ago and were now relaxing on deck with their drinks.
    Burt Baker and the Prices had arrived twelve minutes later, having done it purely by logic. It was, after all, a road rally. Giving up their car in a port city could mean only one thing. It was a short walk from the Naval Museum to the harbor, and L’Albatros was easy to spot. Among all the pleasure yachts and tourist boats, it was the only vessel flying a full-size version of the antiquated flag.
    According to Otto’s instructions, if the last team did not arrive within an hour and a half of the first, the boat was required to cast off. The latecomers would be left to telephone the Paris number and find their own way to Corsica, probably by the mid-afternoon ferry. A true gamesman, Otto had operated on the theory that a few harsh consequences would serve to heighten the adventure and make it more real. But then, Otto had never met Jolynn.
    Amy could predict the woman’s reaction. “We paid for passage on that boat, not on some stinking, smelly ferry.” Every tour had a few malcontents. In this case, Jolynn Mrozek had single-handedly taken on the job.
    â€œAny sight of the doleful Doloreses?” Frank Loyola shouted down from the bow. Day three and Jolynn was already a legend. Ten minutes ago the captain had blasted his horn. Twenty of the players were on board and anxious to get moving. “The captain’s talking overtime,” Frank added. Amy wasn’t sure if she was being teased or not.
    Reluctantly, she raised a hand toward the bridge, signaling the captain to cast off. The deckhands waited for Amy to reboard, then began to unhinge the gangway. And that was when someone finally spotted the Mrozeks racing down the pier.
    â€œHow can you expect anyone to see that flag?” Jolynn said breathlessly as Amy ushered her up the restored gangway. “It’s a good thing one of us had a euro.” Her eyes fell on the others. “Are people eating already? Is it a buffet? I hate being late at a buffet.”
    Their opponents greeted them with the kind of good-natured ribbing that Vinny appreciated, the teenage twins endured, and Jolynn resented.
    â€œIf I’d known we were going to pay all this money to be laughed at . . . Oh. Box lunches,” she observed.
    What would have been a six-hour ferry ride was reduced to under four by the power and design of the yacht. It was a perfect length of time to enjoy the cry of the gulls, the Mediterranean’s salty spray, the sight of one scenic landmass receding and another one approaching. In between was a leisurely lunch. For those needing more stimulation, there were cards and board games and an Agatha Christie movie playing in the