The ride to the hotel was extremely pleasant. The driver maneuvered his cab carefully and slowly, as if wishing the foreigner to have the opportunity of appreciating the lovely city, nor did he attempt to act as combination guide and philosopher, but kept his eyes forward and his mouth closed. A man like this could make a fortune in New York City, Kek thought with a smile, and leaned back, relaxed, to take full advantage of the rare trip.
Their route took them down the Avenida do Brasil to the landscaped Campo Grande, past sidewalk cafés mottled by the swaying shadows of overhanging trees, along streets where traffic moved calmly and evenly under the watchful and slightly threatening eye of military-clad police, and the strollers seemed to adjust their leisurely pace as if to better savor the rich flavor of the city. In the distance the Castelo de São Jorge watched their progress with calm detachment from its rugged and safe height. The cab paused at a traffic circle and then eased itself into the Avenida da República; it turned off the wide avenue halfway along its length and began winding through a series of narrow streets. The driver was aware that it was not the quickest way, but he recognized that his passenger was simpático to his beloved Lisbon, and he wished to show him the full heritage of beauty stored behind the barriers of the wide avenues. Other cities, he seemed to be saying by his action, hide their decay in their back streets; Lisbon merely stores the overflow of its richness there.
They swung from the last of the travesías, pulling into the Rua Sidónia Pais. The hotel to which Huuygens had cabled for reservations was the Ouro Vermelho; it was a narrow six-story building that faced the park, and from the outside seemed to bear out the description given by the friend in Paris who had recommended it on the basis of its “beautiful privacy.” Kek paid off the cab with a generous tip and carried his bag into the lobby; the “beautiful privacy” was partially maintained, it appeared, by the lack of a doorman. He noted that the registration desk was set in an alcove that did not permit vision of the self-service elevator, nor of the stairway that ran discreetly beside it. Here one could come and go without undue notice.
He approached the desk and leaned against it; a card was instantly slid in his direction by a young clerk whose smile seemed tattooed on his plump and pimpled face. Huuygens filled it out, referring to his passport for the myriad details required of foreigners, and then looked up to discover the clerk’s smile had vanished and had been replaced, for no apparent reason, by a look of acute embarrassment. The young man picked up the completed registration card and clutched it tightly, as if to be sure it would not be taken from him.
“Senhor.…”
Huuygens’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes?”
The embarrassment deepened. “I’m afraid, senhor, that we have no bellmen. One of them is out sick today, and the other.…” He shrugged elaborately, as if this gesture might somehow explain the other’s absence, or at least excuse it. “I should be happy to carry your bag myself, but.…” He glanced about the cluttered desk, his eyes enumerating the many reasons why he could not leave.
Kek smiled in understanding. “It’s of no consequence. I can manage quite well.”
“Ah!” The clerk was happy again. He handed over a key and then bent as far over the desk as his ample stomach permitted, waving one hand. “The lift is just around the corner. Your room is Sala 607. On the third floor.…”
Kek had traveled in Europe too extensively to be surprised by the system—or lack of it—used in numbering hotel rooms. He nodded pleasantly, picked up his bag, and found the elevator, closing the door behind him. The ancient beast of burden awoke from its catatonic slumber with a jerk and rose grumpily through the open grillwork of the shaft, petulantly enumerating its numerous infirmities by a series of groans and clanks. At the third floor Huuygens tugged the door open and closed it again, respecting the age of the lift, and the fact that he might have to use it again. He walked down the carpeted hallway, located his room, slid the key in the lock, and swung the door back. And then froze, his jaw tight, his eyes immediately on the alert.
Two men, glasses in hand, were facing him from either side of a small table near the windows; a bottle and a third glass on the table completed the tableau. For a second Kek stood tense, frowning at his unexpected visitors, and then visibly relaxed. He came into the room with a broad grin, closing the door behind him.
“Ah! A welcoming committee!”
André cocked his grizzled, giant head to one side, considering the newcomer critically a moment, and then turned to Michel. “He’s grown a bit in the past twelve years. But then, I suppose it was only to be expected.”
Michel nodded morosely and reached for the bottle. His little black eyes looked through and beyond Huuygens a moment, and then returned to see that he did not cheat himself in replenishing his drink. “Physically, anyway. If not mentally.”
Huuygens laughed. He dropped his bag on the bed and came to stand between the two. “So this is the greeting after twelve long years? This is the extent of the warmth?”
“They don’t permit firecrackers in the hotel,” André said dryly, and raised his glass in a silent toast, after which he drank it and winked congenially at Huuygens over the top of the glass. His huge hand almost engulfed the small bit of crystal. “Yes. You’ve grown quite a bit in the last twelve years.”
“I’ve been eating better than I did in the Midi,” Huuygens said lightly, and then frowned. “By the way, how did you know I had a reservation here? I didn’t know myself until the day before yesterday.”
Michel shrugged to indicate the answer was too obvious to require voicing. He sipped his drink a moment and suddenly remembered his manners. “Would you like a drink?”
“Very much.” Kek came forward, poured some brandy into a glass, and then paused. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“You look very well,” Michel said, and then cocked his head. “You find Lisbon to be as beautiful and charming as you have heard?”
Kek abandoned the question; he dropped on the bed and sipped his drink. “Lisbon seems lovely, so far. I had a good cabdriver from the airport.…” He paused, looking at his drink. “You know? This brandy isn’t bad.”
“Bad?” André was stung. “This is excellent. I selected it from the bar list myself. Charged to your room, of course.”
“What about your cabdriver from the airport?” Michel said idly.
“Oh. Only that he was unusual. He showed me the city without a lot of chatter. Quite rare.”
Michel smiled. “Who? Archimedes? No chatter? Normally you can’t shut his mouth with a truck-jack.” He shrugged. “I’m glad he’s finally learning to obey instructions.”
Kek’s pleasant manner disappeared. He leaned over, placing his glass carefully on the table, and then raised his gray eyes ominously, studying the smaller man. There were several moments of silence; when Huuygens spoke, his voice was steely.
“All right. I think we’ve had enough reunion. Maybe it’s about time we clarified certain things. I know you aren’t in favor of my being in Lisbon, but the fact is that I am here, and mostly with your help.” His eyes bored into the other’s. “And I don’t think I care to be spied on every minute I’m here.”
Michel’s expression did not alter in the least; his fixed smile merely became slightly derisive. “My dear Kek, my old friend, you still suffer from impetuosity. It was your trouble years ago, but I had assumed that age and experience would have cured you.” He shrugged. “Yes, Archimedes is a police driver—assigned to me, as a matter of fact. And yes, I had asked certain hotels to advise me when you cabled for reservations, this being one of them. I felt you wouldn’t want to stay at the Ritz, or the Tivoli, but rather at a smaller and more—select, shall we say?—hotel.” His eyes remained sardonic. “But what you failed to take into account was why I did it.”
Kek’s jaw remained hard. “And why did you do it?”
“Merely to be sure others were not doing the same. I spied on you, as you put it, to be sure nobody else was sp
ying on you. Does that make sense to you?”
Kek felt his irritation drain away, replaced by his old affection and respect. He grinned a bit ruefully. “You still have the ability to put me in my place, eh? And? Was anyone else interested in me?”
“No. And I’m sure I would know. I think the word is out to leave you alone, not to hamper you.” His voice was noncommittal. “Merely because it’s assumed you’re going to be helpful.” His eyes came up. “Once you give any indication that you are going to be anything else—well, then things are going to change.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“You’re welcome.” Michel glanced at his watch. “Well, I’d like to stay and relive the old days with you two, but I’ve got to be going. And I suppose you should call your friend, he’s expecting you sometime this morning.” He set his glass aside and reached into a pocket, bringing out a card already prepared. “Here’s the good Senhor Echavarria’s address and telephone number.” His black eyes came up, fathomless, staring through Huuygens. “Just one last word at the risk of being repetitious. Since you won’t forget this foolishness, just be careful. Believe me, this man is protected.”
“I’ll remember.”
“And don’t look to me for any more help. Because you won’t get it.”
“I’ll remember that, too.”
“Good,” Michel said in a matter-of-fact voice, and came to his feet.
André followed, pulling his huge body erect with ease. “I’ll go along, too, and let you get on with it, Kek. But how about dinner tonight? Unless, of course, you’re already across the border by then, with Michel, here, on your tail.…”
Kek smiled. “I doubt if anything is going to happen that fast. Dinner’s fine, but let’s make it tomorrow night instead. Meet me here at six and we can eat somewhere around here.”
“Six? In Lisbon? I’ll be here at eight tomorrow, and we can drink until the restaurants open. At ten.” His grin faded; he placed a large hand on Huuygens’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “And take good care of yourself, Kek. I should hate to think I was the cause of any trouble for you.”
Michel was at the door, holding it open. “A little late to think of that,” he said ironically. He waited until André had preceded him into the hallway, nodded to Huuygens almost formally, and softly closed the door after him.
Kek frowned at the closed panel a moment and then slowly walked to the window, staring out over the city. Well, here he was. And in a short time he would be face to face with Gruber. The vital thing, of course, was that—much as he wished to see Jadzia—she must not be present when he first met her husband. Three, he thought to himself with a grin that was almost savage, would really be a crowd at this point.
He sat on the edge of the bed, dragging the telephone closer, asking the clerk for a line and then dialing. There was a brief ring, and then the telephone was answered; it was almost as if the other party had been waiting.
“Hello?”
“Hello. I should like to speak with Senhor Echavarria.”
“Who wishes to speak with him?”
“My name is Huuygens.…”
“Ah! One moment, please.…”
The thickly accented voice was quickly replaced by another equally accented, but much more suave. “Ah! M’sieu Huuygens! So you are here in Lisbon! And we shall see you when?”
“Soon,” Huuygens said, and paused for a few seconds. “But alone, I think.”
“Alone? You mean Hans? But he is my servant; he is always here.”
“I do not mean Hans, m’sieu. I understand you are married and—well, I do not care to discuss business in the presence of women.…”
There was a sharp chuckle from the other. “It is easy to see that you do not know my wife, m’sieu. I know she wants to meet you, and I’m sure she eventually will. However, I agree that until we come to some arrangement, it might be best if we discussed the details privately.”
“I believe so,” Kek said.
“Which makes it even more convenient, since she is gone for the morning and will not be back until after lunch. So …?”
“So I shall be there shortly,” Kek said, bobbed his head at the telephone, and then winked at it for good measure. “Until later, then, m’sieu.…”
He hung up, glanced at his watch, and then at his bag lying on the bed. Time to unpack before he left? He smiled grimly. No, my friend, he said to himself; no excuses for further postponement. Besides, Jadzia—being a woman and unpredictable—might return early. Let’s get on with the job. He grimaced at the leather bag and walked quickly to the door.
9
The cabdriver who drove Kek from the Ouro Vermelho to the house in the Bairro da Boa Vista was a far cry from Archimedes, and, Kek thought with a wry smile, “cry” was certainly the proper word for it. He leaned back against the worn cushions, trying to deafen himself to a long list of complaints, and finally paid off the cab with a feeling of relief. It was not until he was standing alone before the wrought-iron gate that he appreciated how much the garrulous driver had helped him to relax during the trip.
As he located and pulled the bell cord on the post, his gray eyes automatically studied the house and its surroundings, noting the old but well-kept car drawn to one side of the driveway, and the high wall with its barbed wire. He was not surprised to find himself cool and completely dispassionate; it was the development of that ability that accounted for his success.
A man dressed in the garb of a servant was descending the steps. He came to the gate, accepted Kek’s name politely enough, unlocked the gate, and then locked it again once his visitor had entered. There seemed to be an ominous ring to the metal as it latched; a certain finality, a statement from the gate that beyond that point mistakes would not be tolerated. He took a deep breath and followed the stocky servant into the house, waiting once more as the outer door was closed and locked. In the dimness of the hall he stared about, his senses straining for some hint of Jadzia’s presence; other than the faint odor of some forgotten perfume, he could not note it.
There was the sound of a throat being cleared behind him; he turned and found himself facing a revolver held like a rock in the servant’s hand. For an instant a chill swept through his rigid composure. Betrayal? But there was nothing in the calm mien of the servant to indicate anything but duty being performed in a routine manner. The chill passed as quickly as it had come. Huuygens’s jaw tightened; his voice indicated his disapproval.
“And just what is that thing supposed to be for?”
Hans was not in the least perturbed either by the question or the tone of growing anger; nor did the revolver waver for an instant. “You will pardon me,” he said in very guttural and Teutonic-sounding French, “but I’m afraid I must ask you to submit to a search.”
“A search?” The mercurial eyebrows rose in honest surprise. “What on earth for?”
“For weapons.” The servant’s voice was even, reciting a litany, obviously not for the first time. They must have some interesting gatherings here, Kek thought. Check your guns at the door. “Senhor Echavarria has many valuable things in the house. I have been told who you are, and also that you are expected, but still.…” Hans made no attempt to sound apologetic, or even greatly interested. “It is the rule.”
Kek shrugged and raised his arms; his attitude seemed to say that he never carried weapons, and any fool with half an eye should be able to recognize the fact. The servant studied the athletic figure a moment, and then changed the routine.
“If you would just lean against the wall, please. With your feet back just a bit. Lean with both hands, please.…”
It must take a long time to get guests to the table if they go through this all the time, Kek thought, but nonetheless followed his instructions. In his lifetime he had been subjected to greater inconveniences than mere searches, and he was far from unfamiliar with those. A weird thought crossed his mind: if Jadzia were to enter at that moment, would she find the scene comical? Or merely normal, lik
e the delivery of the milk?
Hans completed his inspection and stepped back, pocketing the revolver in the same movement. Huuygens shrugged his jacket back into place, tugged his shirt-sleeves to a more comfortable position, and studied the stocky servant a bit sardonically.
“If you are quite finished.…”
“Sorry, sir.” Hans turned smartly and led the way to the library, quite as if there had been no interlude in the hallway at all. He announced Huuygens to the man within and then withdrew, the perfect servant, closing the door firmly behind him. Which makes three closed doors, two of them locked, Kek thought, and smiled grimly to himself. Well, we never did figure on getting out of here à la Douglas Fairbanks, anyway; we always intended to use brains rather than brawn. Let’s not forget it.
The man coming toward him was dressed in a velvet smoking jacket and had his hand outstretched, almost as if it were a sword being held up to run him through. Kek tried to view him dispassionately, and found it quite easy. He’s only a client, he said to himself. He’s not Gruber at all. Gruber doesn’t exist. Net yet.…
“My dear M’sieu Huuygens,” the thin man said in a pleased tone of voice. “I am most happy to meet you. Most happy indeed!” Huuygens found his hand being pumped enthusiastically, and then released; the hand transferred itself to his elbow, guiding him cordially to a wide divan against one wall. “Please be seated. Would you like a drink?”
How the man ever expects anyone to believe the ridiculous fiction of his being Spanish, with that guttural accent, heaven alone knows, Huuygens thought, and smiled faintly. At least the monster is polite; he offered me a drink, and he was kind enough not to refer to his servant’s habit of holding guns on people.
“Yes, I would. Thank you,” he said, and sank down on the comfortable cushions.
“Whiskey or cognac?”
The Hochmann Miniatures Page 10
