Kek Huuygens, Smuggler

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  To make a long story short, Klees agreed with the scheme—although he still wasn’t happy about my cut—and three days later Elsa and I were on the Ile de France on our way to the States. Not first-class, but still …

  (Huuygens paused and then quite blatantly waved an arm for the waiter. I waited while his drink was poured; he raised his glass in a mock salute and drank deeply. When he resumed speaking, I thought he was changing the subject, but as he continued, I soon saw the connection.)

  You know (Huuygens continued), this America is the most amazing country! If one is too old for the draft, or has the type of job that does not require social security, he can easily pass his entire life without any official identification whatsoever. And if this lack disturbs one, it is the easiest thing in the world to arrange whatever documentation one’s ego prefers. There are Diner’s Club Cards, Hotel Credit Cards, Gasoline Credit Cards—well, I could go on half the night.

  It is really too simple for words. The only thing you require to start is an address, and this is easily arranged by renting a postal box using any address you invent. The post office never checks; if you pay your rental on time and do not allow mail to accumulate, you are completely safe. And once you have established post-box addresses, you are free to open bank accounts. And with bank accounts, of course, all doors open. The thing works like a merry-go-round, beautifully endless and completely mad.…

  Within two weeks of my return, I had established respectable cash balances in six different New York banks in the names of six different companies. I represented myself as the treasurer of each of these companies, with the only authorized signature for deposits and withdrawals. I did not rent safe-deposit boxes; instead, I purchased the largest home safe that would go through the door of our apartment, and had it installed. I had a momentary fear that the workmen might think it odd, but New Yorkers are the most blasé people in the world.

  The money for the bank deposits, of course, I had to borrow from certain old—and I admit, disreputable—acquaintances, but Klees had expressed himself as preferring the payment of high interest to allowing me to get my hands on the few dollars he did have. It was all the same to me, since the interest fell to the expense of the operation. And we were ready to go.

  I’m rather proud of the names of the companies I selected. I won’t bore you with a complete list, but they included names like The International Farm Equipment Company and the United States Agricultural Equipment Company—names designed to sound substantial. And heavy, if you know what I mean. Our stationery reflected our respectability. And the catalogues! Each company had its own masterpiece—four-color offset work with authentic pictures cut from actual catalogues, and descriptions printed in four languages. They were works of art, those catalogues, and to study the six of them was to find the answer to any agricultural problem in the world.

  Those were busy days, for in addition to arranging the printing of the stationery and the catalogues, I maintained a constant flow of money between the accounts, from one company to another, from one bank to another, so that at least once a week each account demonstrated an extremely large cash balance. It took time and it was wearing, but I must admit it was fun. I came to be greeted quite politely by bank officials, and besides, I love to handle money. I should have been a banker. Or possibly not.

  Once the stationery was in our hands, we began the necéssary correspondence with Klees Imports. Air-mail letters flowed from our apartment with a regularity that must have pleased the Post Office Department. Elsa complained of the work involved, but I was in no mood for mutiny in the ranks, and let her know it in no uncertain terms. I was too busy with the banks and the catalogue printers to sit home typing, and I certainly didn’t want an outside secretary involved! And as the correspondence grew, I also found it necessary to spend time at the Public Library reading up on the technical aspects of agricultural equipment, since Klees was now asking for details, and of course, they had to sound authentic.

  Klees, of course, was also getting quotations from competitors in all parts of the world, but since most of the factories manufacturing equipment of this nature were already swamped with orders, none of them could meet our truly miraculous delivery dates. And our prices were good, being ten per cent lower than the lowest I could find. And so our correspondence continued, growing in volume, moving from the vague to the specific, until at last we got down to the hard facts of price for quantity, delivery, contract terms, export boxing, and all those thousands of niggling details so beloved of business people.

  The agricultural problems of Europe at that time, as I’m sure you are aware, were extremely pressing, and import licenses for the type of equipment we were discussing were the easiest of all types to obtain. Particularly from the United States—which would eventually pay for it anyway, in one manner or another. I shall always remember the day we mailed out the final contracts. It was just under four months since we had put the scheme into operation—and they had been four busy months, believe me! Elsa was now free, so I gave her money for another trip to her mother. Besides, I wanted her to keep an eye on Klees and make sure that nothing went wrong at this point.

  The purchase contracts we mailed were standard in every way, as were our terms; irrevocable letters of credit in the amount of twenty per cent of the order, deposited in escrow in a reliable New York bank selected by the seller, the balance to be paid by a further letter of credit upon delivery of the merchandise to the buyer’s agent on the dock in New York.

  The cancellation clauses were also standard; forfeiture of the deposit should the purchaser refuse shipment or fail to deposit his final letters of credit before a certain date.…

  I see a gleam in your eye; you are beginning to comprehend. Yes, we had sold to Klees Imports a total of twenty-five million dollars’ worth of equipment between our impressive companies, and twenty per cent was five million dollars.

  Well, during those days when we were waiting for the initial letters of credit to be issued by the Banque National de Bruxelles, there were, of course, some anxious hours. The orders might be denied; political consideration might lead the Banque to prefer that the orders be placed in France or Italy, although this possibility was slim. Oddly enough, I had no fear that the Banque would investigate our companies; the responsibility always lies with the importer who, after all, is the one whose money is at stake.

  But the letters of credit were issued quite routinely. Within three weeks, I found in my postal boxes the first of the bank notices advising me that the escrow deposit had been made, and the other five soon followed. Now it was simply a matter of waiting until our forfeiture date rolled around. Elsa returned from her visit and advised me that Klees would further ease the problem by furnishing us with letters regretting the withdrawal of his principals, and stating that the balance could not be deposited—and indeed, these letters arrived a few days after her return. Three weeks later, the forfeiture date rolled around.

  I admit I was nervous as I entered the first bank that morning, but I need not have been. The necessary papers were prepared and signed in far less time than I had anticipated, and I walked out with our bank balance enlarged by some nine hundred thousand dollars. The transactions at the other banks proved equally uncomplicated.

  Even today, it seems hard to believe. One dreams up a scheme and puts it into operation; obviously, one avoids all pitfalls one can imagine, but at the moment of fruition, it is still difficult to accept success. But there it was: the scheme had actually worked! All that remained was to drain the accounts, and that was simply a matter of exercise. Klees was taking a boat over; that gave me a week to gather the money and lock it in our safe.

  He docked at six in the morning and called me directly from the steamer. His voice, believe me, was nervous. He actually sounded surprised when I answered. I told him everything was all right, and suggested that he check into a hotel, and then begin to arrange safety-deposit boxes for his share. I could almost hear the indecision of his thoughts over the tele
phone; whether to follow my advice or to come up immediately before I could skip. And even while I was waiting for him to answer, he hung up and—I imagine—dashed from the booth.

  He arrived at one in the afternoon, holding the largest brief case I have ever seen, and we opened the safe.

  I don’t know if you’ve ever seen five million dollars in cash, but if you have, you can imagine Klees’ reaction. He turned pale. At first, I thought he was going to faint. In all fairness, I must admit that I had had the advantage of having become more or less used to it.

  In any event, once he had at least partially recovered, we spread the money out on the floor and began dividing it. I laid aside the borrowed amount plus the interest, made a second pile covering the expenses (with the substantiating receipts), counted my share into a third pile, and pushed the balance over to him. He immediately began counting it, although he would pause every now and then to stare fixedly at my share. Looking at him over that huge pile of money, and seeing the expression in his eyes, I was suddenly happy that I wouldn’t have to have any more dealings with him. And when he finally went off, believe me, I was happy to lock the door behind him.

  (Huuygens paused; I began to lift my arm for the waiter, but he shook his head sadly. The telling of the story seemed to have drained something from him. And then a touch of the old Kek Huuygens appeared; a sardonic smile touched the edges of his eyes.)

  I note your poor attempt (he said) to avoid staring at my frayed cuffs, and I thank you. Do not worry; I shall satisfy your curiosity.

  Well, I repaid the loan and the interest, and Elsa and I settled into a comfortable routine. One evening, about a week later, we were at home studying a series of travel folders when the doorbell suddenly rang. My eyebrows raised. In my circle, it was customary to telephone before calling. But I answered it, and there was Klees. I led him in, Elsa got him a drink, and he sat down heavily opposite us.

  “What’s the trouble?” I asked.

  He hesitated a moment, frowning. “I’ve been thinking,” he said in a worried tone. “Some of the hidden dangers in what we did are just now beginning to register.”

  I stared at him in irritation. “What dangers?” I asked. “You are completely in the clear. Everything you did was legal. Even the Banque National can’t touch you unless they can prove collusion, and”—I could not help adding—“they won’t be able to do that if you keep away from here.”

  “I’m not thinking of myself,” he said significantly. “I’m thinking of you. However minor the infractions of inventing names or addresses, the fact is that you are liable for income tax on the forfeited funds, and I understand that the United States Government follows those things like a bloodhound.”

  “It’s very nice of you to worry,” I said, “but really, the problem is mine.”

  “Not quite,” he said. He frowned at me over tented fingers. “I doubt if you would keep quiet if you saw the fruits of your scheme going up the chimney while I remained free and in good shape. To be blunt, in such a case, I can foresee the possibility of blackmail applied to me for your silence. I am not happy about it.”

  I stared at him. In all honesty, the idea had not occurred to me, but I could see his point. From his standpoint, it was a legitimate concern, and one which I am sure I would have thought of had the shoe been on the other foot.

  I nodded. “What do you suggest?”

  “I have no suggestions. I only have worries.” He shrugged. “I thought it only proper to advise you of them. Possibly you can find a solution.”

  Well, after he left, I sat in deep thought. Elsa wanted to know what it was all about, but I shipped her off to bed and remained sitting and staring at the safe, picturing my money inside. The point raised by Klees was completely justifiable; I attempted to think of some means to protect us both against any contingency.

  Safe-deposit boxes? But there were court orders. False names? I shook my head. There were too many false names as it was, and it would be no protection, in any event. Swiss banks? Not half as easy as people believe. And how would I transfer the funds? I certainly couldn’t picture myself taking a boat there with a million dollars in a paper bag. Brazil? Running away would degrade the beauty of the scheme; I might as well have held up a man with a gun and robbed him.

  I slept very poorly that night and came to breakfast in a bitter and hopeless mood. But my mood changed as I sat down and stared at the remains of the morning paper which Elsa, as always, had spread across my breakfast plate in a manner to prevent eating. She had the habit of eviscerating those sections that interested me, but this day I was pleased. I poured myself some coffee and studied the glaring scandal headline, the idea forming in my mind. Like the first scheme, it appeared in all its glory, practically complete. I looked across at Elsa.

  “Chérie,” I said, “how would you like a divorce?”

  She looked up a bit crossly; morning is not Elsa’s best hour. “Please do not say such things, even in joking,” she said.

  “I am not joking,” I said.

  Her eyes clouded; she looked at me in amazement. “But why? What have I done? Why would you want a divorce? Are you not happy living with me?”

  “Extremely,” I said. “And I expect to continue to be happy living with you. But not as man and wife.”

  She stared at me as if I had lost my mind. “But why?” she wailed.

  I pulled up a chair and sat beside her, the details of the scheme falling into place with almost audible clicks. “You can even retain your married name,” I said. “We will continue exactly as we are, except that we will no longer be married.”

  “But why?” she asked again, this time with a touch of exasperation. So I told her. It took awhile, but in the end, as always, Elsa went along. And that very morning she went to visit a lawyer.

  His call came to me a little before noon, and naturally did not surprise me. He informed me that my wife had retained him to represent her in a divorce action and asked the name of my attorney. I told him I had none and did not feel the need for one. He hemmed and hawed and finally asked if I could drop down to see him. I said I could.

  He was a rather nice man, not overly bright, and obviously embarassed.

  “This is extremely unusual,” he told me. “I’m not even sure it isn’t unethical. It is customary to discuss the matter with the other’s attorney.”

  “But why?” I asked. “My wife wishes a divorce; I have no intention of contesting it. So why would I possibly require the services of a lawyer?”

  “You do not understand,” he said, and went into a struggle with himself while I waited patiently. When he finally realized that the bad news could not be kept from me indefinitely, he said apologetically. “Your wife intends to ask for a settlement of a million dollars.” He raised a hand hurriedly. “I attempted to point out to her that such a demand was madness, especially for a childless woman, and that no jury—”

  I looked at him quite calmly. “Is that all she wants?” I asked. “Then what seems to be the problem?” I thought he was going to faint. “I assume you have a corresponding firm in Reno who can handle the details at that end. I don’t mind the money,” I said, “but I refuse to allow my good name to be damaged by undertaking a divorce in this state.”

  He nodded in a dazed fashion.

  “Fine,” I said. “I assume, if there is no disagreement between my wife and myself in this matter, you can handle the affair for both of us?”

  It took him awhile to understand what I was saying, but eventually it came through to him and he reached shakily for the folder he had begun on my wife’s case. When I left a bit later, everything was in hand.

  Elsa left the next morning for Reno. I put her on the train—she hates airplanes—tucked her in her compartment with a dozen novels and sufficient bonbons, and fondly kissed her good-bye. She was quite tearful, certain that I would either starve or get run over by a taxi without her to protect me, but I finally managed to tear myself loose before the train left. She was gone a
total of eight weeks, wrote regularly three times a week asking if I were eating properly, called twice a week to confirm my answer, and returned looking wonderful. We completed our transaction with the lawyer in the safety-deposit vault of a New York bank and walked out arm in arm.

  And the next day, while I thought she was out shopping, Elsa went down to City Hall and married Waldeck Klees.

  I sat and stared at him. He stared back, an odd look in his eyes.

  “It’s the merry-go-round, don’t you see?” He spoke almost plaintively. “Beautifully endless, and completely mad.”

  The Wager

  I suppose if I were watching television coverage of the return of a lunar mission and Kek Huuygens climbed out of the command module after splashdown, I shouldn’t be greatly surprised. I’d be even less surprised to see Kek hustled aboard the aircraft carrier and given a thorough search by a suspicious customs official. Kek, you see, is one of those men who turn up at very odd times in unexpected places. Also, he is rated by the customs services of nearly every nation in the world as the most talented smuggler alive. Polish by birth, Dutch by adopted name, the holder of a valid U.S. passport, multilingual, a born sleight-of-hand artist, Kek is an elusive target for the stolid bureaucrat who thinks in terms of hollow shoe heels and suitcases with false bottoms. Now and then over the years, Kek has allowed me to publish a little of his lore in my column. When I came across him last, however, he was doing something very ordinary in a commonplace setting. Under the critical eye of a waiter, he was nursing a beer at a table in that little sunken-garden affair in Rockefeller Center.

  Before I got to his table, I tried to read the clues. Kek had a good tan and he looked healthy. But his suit had a shine that came from wear rather than from silk thread. A neat scissors trim didn’t quite conceal the fact that his cuffs were frayed. He was not wearing his usual boutonniere.