“Because,” Huuygens said, pleased with the information, “before the six forty-five arrives, you will telephone the trainmaster and arrange for a message to be put on the loudspeaker for the benefit of the incoming passengers. This message will urgently request M’sieu Alex DuPaul to telephone a certain number. If he does not appear on the earlier train, you will repeat the entire performance for the later train.”
“And what number is he to call?”
“Invent one; it’s unimportant. Because the plan is for you to be in the next cubicle—which you’d better hold before the train comes in—speaking to a dead telephone.”
“Ah!” Jacques said, understanding. “You wish to spoon-feed him, eh?”
“That is precisely it.”
“What little bit of information do we give him?”
Huuygens told him. At the other end of the line Jacques raised his shoulders in bafflement. It was certainly not a message he would have left anyone of DuPaul’s description. Still, when one did a job for Kek Huuygens, one obeyed orders.
“And after he swallows what we feed him, what then?”
“Then go home and pray he takes the bait and doesn’t go for the fisherman. Let me know if he doesn’t show at all.”
He hung up, Jacques’ “correct” in his ear, and started up the long flight of stairs; the lift did not deign to serve the basement. At the first floor he took one look at the rickety elevator and once again took to the stairs. At the second floor he started along a narrow corridor; even as he approached his room he heard a telephone ringing and somehow knew with certainty it was his own. He hurried the key into the lock and swung the door wide striding to the instrument, bringing it to his ear.
“Yes?”
“M’sieu Huuygens? Marcel, the concierge, here. There is a package for you. Special delivery. Shall I have it sent up?”
“If you will. And Marcel—” A thought had come to Kek. “My plane is arranged?”
“But of course. Any time after midnight.”
“Good.” He hesitated significantly. “And entertainment in Brussels? It’s quite early, and I have until midnight—”
“Ah!” Marcel beamed. “First, of course, a good restaurant. Not,” and he dropped his voice, “not the hotel dining room, but the Rotisserie Florentino on the rue Pierre Charon. And then a cabaret, the Maroc, I would suggest. M’sieu wishes me to make the arrangements?”
“If you would be so kind. And a car here at seven, I should think.”
“Of course.” Marcel hesitated a moment. “I shall bring you your package personally, M’sieu.”
It was only moments before a knock announced Marcel. A bill exchanged hands, tucked away into an invisible pocket with a movement any magician could have envied. Marcel bowed himself out and Kek held the cardboard tube in his hand almost reverently. He walked to the dresser, poured himself a stiff brandy and drank it, and then returned to the tube.
The thought of actually having the Hals The Innkeeper of Nijkerk in his hands, here in this nondescript hotel room in this distant city of Brussels, with half the police in the world undoubtedly searching for it, was thrilling. He twisted the end cap free and eased the rolled canvas out with great care, spreading it open upon the bed, reveling as always in the beauty, the rich full tones, the delicate but strong brushwork. For fully five minutes he studied the famous painting, and then sighed, reluctantly rerolled the picture, and restored it to its cardboard prison. A pity it wasn’t his, but it wasn’t!
He glanced at his wrist watch and increased the tempo of his moves. The bottom drawer of the dresser was opened and the tube laid carefully beneath the spare pillow and blanket stored there. There was little chance the night maid would bring out a blanket in this weather, but there was no sense in taking chances. He walked to the door, placed the “Do Not Disturb” ticket on the outside knob, and, while security was still on his mind, closed the window behind the already drawn drapes and latched the rusty lock.
He dropped to the bed reviewing his plan for getting the painting into Spain. It was a dangerous gamble, far bolder than his usual schemes and more daring than he would have preferred, but with so little time before the deadline for delivery, he could see no alternative. He paused to consider his next move. The next move, of course, was a necessary call to Madrid, and he hoped he hadn’t left it until too late. He contacted Marcel, placed the call, and went in to take a bath while waiting for it to go through.
He was facing himself in the mirror, knotting his tie, when the telephone rang. He raised it to find Madrid on the line. “Hello? Chico?”
The voice at the other end was faint, but clear.
“Who calls?”
Kek felt a weight drop from him at the familiar voice. Contacting Chico had been most important. “Chico, this is Kek Huuygens. I have little time, so attention. I’m taking a private air-taxi from Brussels to Madrid. I will arrive there about four in the morning. Do you hear?”
“I hear.” It was like a whisper.
“Good. You will meet me, please. With a car.”
“It is done.”
“And an igualidor.” It was the gutter-slang of Madrid, overinfluenced by American cinema; it meant a handgun. Kek hoped that Chico understood and that anyone else who might be listening would not.
Chico understood. He was shocked. “Igualidor? Porqué?”
“For my reasons. Until later.” Kek hung up, clicked the lever several times for Marcel, and advised him to tell the driver he would be right down. He came to his feet and shrugged himself into his jacket, picked up his topcoat, and went out to face the evening.
The Rotisserie Florentino and the Cabaret Maroc were everything that Marcel had suggested; at eleven o’clock, softly singing one of the hit tunes of the cabaret, his driver drove him back to his hotel. He excused himself long enough to collect his belongings and marched to the second floor, his singing now reduced to a nonmelodic humming in deference to the sleeping guests.
His laxity disappeared as soon as he opened the door. He went swiftly to the dresser, withdrew the cardboard tube, and checked the contents. Satisfied, he resumed his soft humming. His suitcase was brought from the closet, the tube stored in it diagonally beneath his shirts, and the balance of his clothing neatly folded and distributed about the unusual ridge, balancing it. He snapped the case shut, gathered his topcoat once again, and went to the door. One final inspection of the room and he closed the door softly behind him, starting for the steps.
The October that had been sunny and warm in Brussels was bitter cold on the high plateau of Madrid, and especially just after four in the morning. Tramping from the airplane, his breath steaming and his ears still ringing from the shuddering scream of wind and the vibrating howl of the engine, Kek kept his one free hand buried deep in his topcoat pocket and wished he had thought to come more warmly dressed.
He came into the immigration shed, located a sleepy official, had his passport examined desultorily, stamped with a yawn, and handed back. He walked into the customs sections, following arrows. An inspector detached himself from his desk and moved forward, frowning.
“The señor came—?”
“By private plane.” Kek placed his case on the table. “From Brussels.”
“Your passport, please.” The inspector’s voice indicated the height of cooperation; people who could afford to cross national borders in privately hired planes obviously rated respect. His attitude maintained until he noted the name across from the smiling picture. His eyes widened; his instruction book was filled with notes about this one! “One moment, señor!”
“Is something wrong?”
“One moment!” The inspector fled to find a superior.
Kek waited with a patience born of long experience with stubborn customs officials, although he did feel it would be nice once in a while to run across one too sleepy to notice his name on his passport. And if one couldn’t find a sleepy inspector at four in the morning, when could one? He looked up. The inspector was retu
rning, this time accompanied by the night chief of the section. The chief picked up the suitcase, tilting his head.
“Señor …?” His tone was curt; he was off before he had finished the word.
Kek tagged along obediently. Inside a room at one end of the hall the chief closed the door firmly, set the case on the floor within instant reach, and seated himself on one corner of the lone, bare table there. He looked at Kek with cold eyes.
“Señor Huuygens.” His pronunciation was atrocious. “What brings you to Spain?”
Kek considered the man carefully. “My desire to be here. My papers are in order. What seems to be the problem?”
The chief inspector studied him a moment and then sighed. “Your overcoat first, please.” He came to his feet, holding out his hand.
It was an all too familiar routine. Only when the personal search had revealed nothing incriminating did the inspector turn his attention to the suitcase. He did it with the air of one saving the best for last, bringing it to the table and opening it. Each article of clothing was carefully removed, examined, patted, and then piled neatly to one side. Kek watched with interest, as if scoring the performance against others he had known. Then—
“Ah!” said the inspector, triumphantly. He held aloft the tube.
“Yes?” Kek asked curiously.
“What is this?”
“Isn’t it marked on the outside? It’s a wall calendar.”
“Oh?” The inspector smiled at him. “And how interesting that you should have boarded a private plane in Brussels, and how even more interesting that we should have been requested by the Belgian Sûreté to be on the watch for a package almost the size of your—ah, your calendar. Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say, señor?”
“Most amazing,” Kek agreed.
“I’m forced to agree,” the inspector said with a sardonic smile. He removed the end cap of the tube, placed several fingers inside, and slowly twisted the contents free. He slowly unrolled it and bent over it. His black eyes came up, furious. “This is not—” He bit the word back. His instructions for secrecy were implicit.
“Not what?” Huuygens asked innocently. “Not a calendar? Of course it’s a calendar. I told you it was.”
The inspector said nothing. For several moments he held the calendar in his hands and then he carefully rerolled it and placed it back in the tube. His movements were those of an automaton. He studied the empty suitcase a moment and then shrugged.
“You may go.” His voice was expressionless.
Huuygens nodded his thanks, carefully repacked his clothing, and left the room. Behind him he could hear a fist slamming the table and a moment later the sound of a chair being kicked.
Outside, a thin, icy mist hovered before the tall street lamps. Kek looked about; there was a beep of a horn from the almost deserted parking lot across the roadway and he walked over, bending down to check. Satisfied, he climbed in beside the driver, tossing his suitcase in the rear.
“Chico. How are you?”
“Frozen!” The voice became querulous. “Even when you come in alone in a private plane, it takes you an hour to clear customs!”
“Yes,” Kek said simply, because it was the truth. “Do you have the gun?”
“In the glove compartment. I don’t like guns.”
“Nor do I.” Kek removed the gun, checked it, and slipped it into his topcoat pocket.
Chico turned the ignition key; the engine sprang to life. “Where to?”
“No place, yet. We wait here.” His hand went out to prevent Chico from switching off the engine. “Let it run and keep the car warm.”
“All right. How long do we wait?”
“Until the regular flight from Brussels.” He glanced at his watch. Chico had been right; he had spent well over an hour with the customs. “It should arrive in about forty-five minutes. Wake me then. All right?”
“Right,” Chico said. Kek put his head back and almost instantly fell asleep. It seemed that no more than seconds had passed before Chico was shaking him. “The plane. It’s landed.”
Kek yawned. “Thanks.” He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d better wake up.” He climbed out of the car and walked up and down the parking lot several times, swinging his arms, breathing deeply. Awake at last he returned to the car, climbed into the rear seat and put his case in front with Chico. “The passengers will be out soon. Pull the car in front of the terminal, ahead a bit, just behind the taxi rank. And keep your motor running.”
Chico said nothing. He shifted gears and edged forward, following the curved driveway to the point Kek had indicated. The two men waited. Passengers began to emerge from the terminal at last, moving toward the parking lot, or the one taxi braving the night at the rank beyond. Their shadows jumped from light pole to light pole; they, at least, were impervious to the cold. A bareheaded man in a heavy trench coat, sporting a thick mustache and carrying an overnight bag in one hand and an umbrella hooked over the other arm, came down the airport steps. He paused momentarily and then started walking rapidly in the direction of the sole taxi. Kek smiled in pleased satifaction and slipped from the car, turning to face the man at the last moment. To any onlooker it would have appeared that they had bumped by pure accident.
“Perhaps I can offer you transportation, Alex?”
The gun was held easily in his pocket, pressing against the other’s stomach. DuPaul’s black eyes widened in surprised recognition and then hardened. The tableau held for several seconds; then the mustached man shrugged.
“Good,” Huuygens said approvingly. “Your bag in the front seat and you in the back.” He tipped his head politely. “After you.”
The door was slammed; the car instantly began to move. Chico brightened the lights and half-turned his head. “Where to?”
“I want a place where we can drop our friend when we finish talking to him. Some place that will give him an hour or so of brisk walking to reach civilization in the form of taxis or telephones. Some place,” he added with a smile, “that we can reach by car, ourselves.”
“Easy,” Chico said and swung from the airport road into the two-lane highway leading away from the city toward the distant mountains.
“Good,” Huuygens said and turned back to DuPaul, sitting with a frozen expression at his side. “I’m happy you got my message.”
Chico negotiated a curve. “Your message?” he asked mystified.
“I was speaking to my friend, here,” Huuygens explained. “In Brussels I arranged for him to learn that a certain object of great value—which he thought was safely his—was, instead, in my possession in my hotel room. The man he overheard was planning on taking it away from me on the Paris Express, because he knew I was taking it into Spain for some Englishman, and he knew I hated to fly—”
For the first time DuPaul spoke. His voice was bitter. “You used me.”
“Of course,” Kek said, and added, honestly, “I had to.”
“You won’t get away with this, Kek.”
“Of course I’ll get away with it,” Huuygens said, surprised at the other’s innocence. “I’ll have my money and in all likelihood be out of Spain before you even get back to the highway. Besides,” he added logically, “the painting was given to me to deliver, you know. It’s a matter of honor.”
DuPaul didn’t answer. He sighed and leaned back in his seat, staring ahead. They had left the main road and were bumping over a rutted dirt trail, twisting higher, rising into the foothills of the mountain. The air was getting colder; Chico closed the small side window and increased the output of the tiny heater to its maximum. They came to one ridge and negotiated it; one more and Chico stopped, backed into an opening between the road and a fence, preparing to return as they had come.
“This should do it,” he said calmly.
“Good.” Huuygens turned to DuPaul, truly apologetic. “I’m sorry, Alex. You can follow the road back or cut across the fields; I’ll be gone before you can even get to a phone. You c
an take your bag if you want—” He saw the sudden light in the other’s eyes and swiftly disabused him of the notion. “No,” he said quietly. “Not the umbrella.” He smiled. “I thought you might bribe your way through customs, but the umbrella was a much better idea. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hope to get away with it.”
DuPaul, his jaw clenched tightly, climbed out of the car. Chico handed him the overnight bag and slammed the door. Huuygens held the gun steady over the edge of the window, now rolled down; with his free hand he slid his fingers inside the silk of the umbrella, verifying his guess.
DuPaul, his breath steaming in the cold air, bent forward.
“I don’t blame you,” he said quietly. “You got me to bring the painting in for you, and I don’t blame you. I had it in my hands in Brussels—in my hands!—and by now I could have been far away with it. But you knew I wouldn’t let the fat man get away with robbing me. You knew it.” He straightened up. “But when you see Thwaite, tell him I’ll find him. I swear I’ll find him.”
“I’m sure you will,” Huuygens said, and his sympathy was genuine. “I think you’ve been treated very badly, and I’m sure Thwaite deserves payment in whatever coin you choose.” He sighed. “But that is, after all, none of my concern. I had to deliver. I contracted to.”
He paused a moment, frowning in thought. Then he took a deep breath and leaned back, the revolver dangling between his legs. He raised his voice for Chico to hear. It carried clearly through the open window to the man in the road.
“No. 617 Estrada de las Mujeres, Chico. And I should judge we have approximately an hour or so to fulfill our commitment …”
Counter Intelligence
I have long since ceased to be amazed at bumping into Kek Huuygens anywhere in the world, or in any condition of financial peak or depression. He is a charming fellow, brilliant and persuasive, who buys his share of the drinks when his pocketbook permits—and with the added attraction that he does not use his considerable talent at deception against his close friends. I have often wondered just how far Kek Huuygens might have gone in life had a policy of strict moral turpitude been one of his inviolate precepts.
Kek Huuygens, Smuggler Page 5
