The Hochmann Miniatures

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “I should think so. Yes.”

  “Fine! And just how long do you think it will take to make your arrangements?”

  Huuygens considered the question. “It’s rather difficult to say. I shall have to arrange a tourist’s visa to Brazil, of course.…” His eyes went to the pictures on the wall again; he stepped forward, measured the largest against the length of his outstretched arm, and then nodded as he mentally recorded the dimension. He turned, adjusting his cuff. “There are several ways it can be done, of course, our job is to find the best. And most foolproof.”

  Gruber was watching him with interest. “And that will be?”

  Huuygens smiled faintly. “The one that will best assure success,” he said dryly.

  Gruber grinned; his teeth gleamed. He seemed to like the answer. “Good enough. And where are you staying?”

  “At the Ouro Vermelho. It’s a hotel on a small park, in the Rua Sidónia Pais.”

  “I know where it is.” Gruber nodded and led the way from the room. He flicked off the light, locked the room carefully, and then arranged the tapestry to cover the door. He walked Huuygens to the door of the library, holding him lightly by the arm. “A pleasure, M’sieu Huuygens. Hans will get you a taxi. I suggest we keep in touch by telephone from now on—you have the number.” He smiled knowingly. “The fewer visits you make here, the better.”

  Huuygens nodded his agreement, and then paused. “Your telephone—is it tapped?”

  “No. Or at least I don’t think so.” Gruber seemed to think about it. “No. I’m quite sure it isn’t.” He shrugged. “Still, I suggest that m’sieu be circumspect.”

  Huuygens nodded; the thin hand emerged from the smoking-jacket sleeve, shook his with the same pump-handle motion, and then withdrew. He was not surprised to see Hans waiting politely and patiently beyond the threshold in the hallway.

  “Your taxi will be here in a moment, m’sieu.”

  “Thank you.” Obviously, this was no place in which to voice any hidden secrets; only a most efficient microphone system could assure such unusual rapport between master and servant. He turned to bid his host adieu, but the library door was already closing. For a moment his eyes went the length of the hall, searching for some hint that Jadzia also lived in the dim house, but the walls of the corridor retained their impersonal rigidity.

  “M’sieu?” Hans still sounded polite, but slightly less patient.

  “Coming, dear,” Kek said in English, smiled pleasantly at the puzzled look on Hans’s face, and followed him casually down the hall. Step Three? No, not quite. But, at least, Step Two-and-a-half.…

  10

  From the depths of the easy chair, feet comfortably sprawled before him, a thoughtful Kek Huuygens stared with slitted eyes through a cloud of cigarette smoke across the park that faced his hotel, not seeing the wooded hills in the distance, but rather the high glass case in the library of the Hochmann mansion, and the famous collection of miniatures that it protected.

  When had he first seen that fantastic collection? He had, of course, glimpsed it when he had come home with Stefan that first time, although the important thing that remained with him from that first visit had been his meeting with Jadzia. He had not seen the collection to appreciate it truly until possibly a year later, when his second-year art class had obtained permission for a special trip to the estate, and their elderly professor had stood in silent admiration for several seconds before turning and delivering them a lecture on miniature paintings in general, and the exquisite Hochmann collection in particular.

  He could still hear the dry, pedantic voice with its poorly concealed undertone of excitement. “Miniature paintings, gentlemen—” there had been a slight pause “—and ladies.…”

  Stefan’s sister, Jadzia, had come into the room and was standing quietly to one side, her large green eyes fixed upon him. He grinned at her and winked, feeling that warm, happy feeling of young love. My God, but his Jadzia was beautiful! She made a slight moue and tipped her head pertly, a signal that she would meet him as soon as he was free, in the summerhouse overlooking the lake. There was the slightest pursing of her lips in an indication of a kiss, and then she had left the room as silently as she had entered. He stared after her, marveling at his great fortune in being loved in return by anyone as wonderful as she, and then suddenly became aware that a dead silence had fallen in the room, broken at that moment by the professor speaking his name.

  “With the kind permission of Mr. Janeczek,” the dry voice was saying with a sarcasm remembered all too well from the classroom, “possibly we might continue.…”

  He remembered turning red, trying to smother a cough, and then forcing himself to concentrate on the lecture. The professor had smiled, a surprisingly human smile for that terror of the classroom, and had then turned his attention back to the collection.

  “Yes, gentlemen, this collection is quite unique, and therefore quite priceless. To begin with, many—if not most—of the great artists of history have, at one time or another, delighted in demonstrating their extreme control of their media by producing miniatures—paintings complete in all detail, with all color and warmth, all richness and depth, yet on a scale so small that in many cases the full beauty of the work cannot be seen without the aid of a magnifying glass. Miniature painting dates back as far as the Romans, and was a highly developed art form in the Orient at an early date. Before the sixteenth century, Persian, Indian, and Turkish artists were producing delicate, stylized miniatures. In fact, many of these artists bred cats, since only the throat hairs of two-month-old kittens were considered fine enough for their brushes.…”

  He remembered shifting from one foot to another. Jadzia at this moment was undoubtedly scolding the steward to be sure the wine was at the proper temperature, seeing to it that the arrangements for their meeting were handled to her satisfaction. What a wife she’ll make! he thought. And then, later, in the summerhouse, when the maid had taken away the demitasse cups, Jadzia’s deep green eyes would be serious with love, probing his, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her other hand carrying his to the warm curve of her breast.… He shut the scene from him, forcing himself to concentrate on the lecture.

  “Hans Holbein the Younger was probably the first important representative of the art in Europe, and he was shortly followed by Clouet in France, and then by Hilliard and Isaac in England. And others, many others. Still, gentlemen, despite the fact that the art was widely practiced, this collection is absolutely unique.…”

  He remembered how the professor had paused, his eyes gleaming, before continuing:

  “And why is it so unusual, gentlemen? And therefore so valuable? Because, to begin with, miniatures were generally portraits, while, as you can see, the pictures you are now viewing are all landscapes, which were rarely painted in miniature form. Secondly, although the surfaces used for miniatures in those days varied from ivory to metal to—yes, gentlemen—even stretched chicken-skin, the examples you are privileged to see are all limited to one material—parchment. And lastly, while the Persians and others even called a painting as large as a book page a miniature, you will note that none of the paintings here is greater in size than two by four inches.…”

  The professor had paused, triumphant, almost as if he personally were somehow responsible for the existence of the collection simply because he had brought it to their attention.

  That was the Hochmann collection—and what had happened to it? He crushed out his cigarette and lit another immediately. In Paris he had heard that the Hochmann mansion had been bombed, destroyed. The Oberfuehrer had escaped death, and the Hochmann family had also been spared; they had been away from the house. At the time his relief in knowing that Jadzia had not been harmed had overshadowed all else. He had assumed, in common with others, that the collection had gone up in smoke, together with the thousands of books and the valuable china and the hand-carved furniture and all else, including the new refrigerator.…

  And now the miniatures w
ere here in Lisbon, part of a package Gruber intended him to take through the customs of both Portugal and Brazil. Where Gruber had managed to get that other assortment of framed garbage, God alone knew! Certainly not from the walls of the Hochmann mansion; the old count would not have given the best of them storage space in the coal cellar. And Gruber, obviously, had no notion of their worthlessness.

  This thought led to another. It was possible, therefore, that Gruber also had no idea of the true value of the miniatures; certainly he had treated them casually enough. Though Jadzia surely should know; she was raised with them. Ah, well, he thought, a minor mystery and not of great importance.

  He frowned slightly. Ten thousand dollars to get the paintings out of one country and into another.… With canvases that numerous and that large, it posed an interesting problem. He crushed out his cigarette and leaned back, closing his eyes, one hand coming up to tug at his earlobe. It was a pretty puzzle, and the solution this time had to satisfy more than the requirements of a client. It had also to satisfy him.

  The telephone beside him buzzed quietly. His eyes came open; he frowned as he reached for the instrument. Who could be calling? André? Michel?

  “Yes? Hello?”

  “M’sieu Huuygens?”

  He felt a sudden tightening of his nerves; an almost visceral chill. His large hand clenched the smooth plastic more tightly. How could he ever have thought he had forgotten that throaty, intriguing voice? Or that he would ever be impervious to it?

  “Yes, this is M’sieu Huuygens.”

  “M’sieu Huuygens, this is Senhora Echavarria. I have spoken with my husband, and he has told me of your conversation, and your—your arrangement. I.…” There was a momentary pause, but it was not one of embarrassment; her tone still retained the old note of command. Even her accent is the same, he thought; it had never changed from those ancient days when she was studying her academy French in Warsaw.

  “Yes?”

  She continued evenly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you met my husband. I feel I should like to meet you personally before you—before you consider the arrangements final.”

  Kek tried to analyze his reactions dispassionately. You knew this was going to happen when you started this business, he said to himself; be honest. You not only knew it; you wanted it. You hoped for it. Well, here it is. Admit that it was as much to see Jadzia as it was to punish Gruber that you came here in the first place. He took a deep breath.

  “I quite understand, Senhora. At your convenience.”

  “I’m in the lobby of the hotel. If I might come up?”

  “Of course.”

  There was a click as the telephone was disconnected; he hung up slowly and came to his feet. His jacket was lying on the bed; he slipped into it and unconsciously passed his hand over his thick hair and then brought it down to straighten his necktie. He walked to the window and stared down. A small beige sports convertible stood at the curb before the hotel—where none had stood when he had returned; he was suddenly sure it belonged to Jadzia. It was just the type of car she would want: fast, exaggeratedly modern without being openly ostentatious, and undoubtedly quite expensive. He grinned impetuously and felt a certain relief from his tenseness because of it. Let’s not be ungentlemanly, he said to himself; it’s also the type of car you prefer yourself.

  There was a rap at the door; he swung about, his back to the light of the window, his voice raised slightly, but noncommittal in a manner he was far from feeling. “Come in.”

  The knob turned; the door swung back. He tried to study the woman in the opening dispassionately, but despite the effort he felt his pulse begin to beat faster. She looks so much the same! he thought. The wind had ruffled her black hair a bit; it made her look as she had when she was coming in from a brisk canter, wheeling her horse to a stop before the stables back in Poland. She was dressed in a light sports suit, with an open jacket over a low-cut blouse; the curve of the breast represented complete fulfillment of that early promise. Her stomach was flat, her legs long and beautiful. Yes, Jadzia, he said to himself, I knew you would only change to improve. The fact, somehow, seemed to please him.

  “M’sieu Huuygens?”

  “Yes, Senhora.”

  She closed the door behind her and moved forward; even in that short space he could see the boyish stride of old had been replaced by the natural grace of a mature woman. She paused before him, opened her mouth to speak, and then slowly closed it. Her air of polite indifference disappeared, followed first by a questioning look of bewilderment, and then almost instantly by shock, and then by fear. It was the fear of an animal caught in a trap, a trap unfairly placed. Her eyes widened; one hand rose swiftly to her throat, as if for protection.

  “Mietek!”

  “Hello, Jadzia.” His voice, to his own surprise, was even and gentle.

  She stared at him a moment longer, as a bird stares at a snake that both fascinates and repels it, and then turned, her eyes searching the room desperately. They came back to him, attempting to understand the reason for his presence here, trying to recover from the shock of seeing him.

  “Where is M’sieu Huuygens?”

  “I’m Kek Huuygens.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “It’s the truth, Jadzia.” His voice remained gentle, convincing. “I’ve been Kek Huuygens since the war. Since I left Warsaw, as a matter of fact.”

  “You’ve been Kek.…”

  He reached out, taking her hand; it was cold. She allowed it to lay impassively in his for a moment, and then suddenly her fingers tightened convulsively and without volition. Her eyes widened and then closed as a spasm of pain crossed her face. Kek could almost see her mind racing. Had she, by coming here, unwittingly betrayed the fact that Echavarria was Gruber? Would he, Huuygens, have known otherwise? Had she, by inserting herself into the affair, threatened the entire scheme with disaster? Her eyes finally opened, deep, dark green pools of fright, staring into his, trying to calculate the damage she had done, attempting to assess her own guilt.

  “Sit down, Jadzia.”

  She sank to the bed obediently; he seated himself across from her in a chair, bending forward, still holding her hand. Her eyes continued to search his face, seeking relief from her thoughts.

  Her voice was low. “You knew, didn’t you? You recognized him.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “I recognized him.”

  “You would,” she said, and there was grudging admiration in her voice. “You’ve never seen him in your life, but you would. I think I always knew you would.” She closed her eyes and then opened them at once, as if she would be too vulnerable without his face before her. There were several moments of silence before she spoke again. “What are you going to do?”

  He studied her white face. “What do you want me to do?”

  Her eyes clouded with fear of a trap again, and all the terrors such a trap would mean. She bit her lip, fighting desperately to retain her normal position of attack, searching for cogent arguments. One came; it was weak, but all she could summon at the moment.

  “I could tell him who you are,” she said. “You would never get back into that house again. We could be gone before you could get back in.…” She wished he would exhibit some trace of emotion, some indication of his intentions. “He has many friends here; in the police, in the government. He could make trouble for you. More than trouble—he could see that real harm came to you.…”

  He nodded in quiet agreement. “Yes. If you told him, he could do that.”

  She stared at him in confusion. Where was the boy who once had this same face, only younger; the boy she could mold to her slightest whim? Could it possibly be the same strong man she was facing now? She shook her head slowly. “You’ve changed, Mietek.”

  “Kek,” he corrected her quietly. “Kek Huuygens. There is no Mietek Janeczek. He died in Warsaw. Together with his parents. And his sister.”

  She stared at him. �
��And with me?”

  “I don’t know,” he said evenly, emotionlessly. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Her fear slowly receded; under that rigid façade, he was still Mietek Janeczek, and she was still Jadzia Hochmann. She could still mold him. Her voice became soft. “What happened to us, Mietek?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, and stared down at her soft hand. “I often wondered how I would feel if we ever met. And I often thought that if we did, I’d ask you what happened to us.”

  “You wanted to ask me why I did what I did. Why I married Willi.…” It was odd, but even now, under these circumstances, she could still manage to sound faintly accusing, as if it were somehow at least partially his fault. “Isn’t that what you wanted to ask?”

  “No.” It was a lie and it sounded like one. He tried to shrug, bringing his eyes up, studying the perfect symmetry of her oval face, the full lips, the lovely curve of her throat. “It was a long time ago, Jadzia. We were children then.”

  She shook her head stubbornly, unwilling to let the answer pass, subconsciously aware that only the full truth—or at least the semblance of full truth—could gain her her ends.

  “We weren’t that much of children. I’ll tell you why I did what I did. I thought the war was going to be over in a matter of months. I thought Germany was going to win. And I thought—” her eyes were studying him, trying to gauge his reactions “—I thought, after your parents.… I thought I’d never see you again.” She shook her head slowly. “I also thought that if I married Willi, possibly things would be better, easier, for Stefan.…”

  “For Stefan?”

  “Yes. He wanted an officer’s commission. He wanted recognition for everything we—he, that is—had done for them.” She shrugged. “He was a fool. He should have known better. Once anyone has what they want from you, they throw you out. He’s dead, you know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “He died a long time ago. The underground killed him.” She didn’t even sound interested. “If they ever find me, they’ll kill me too. They still have my name on the list, even after all these years. That’s why.…” She stopped.