The Hochmann Miniatures

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  In his room he tossed the plastic bag onto the bed, slipped out of his jacket, loosened his tie, and walked to the table before the windows. He had done a good day’s work and deserved a drink; he poured himself a stiff brandy and sank down in the easy chair, sipping it, and then glanced at his watch. Still a good hour and a half before André showed up for dinner—plenty of time to make his call to Anita.

  He reached for the telephone and placed the call, leaning back idly, drawing his glass beneath his nose, appreciating the aroma. He could hear the exchange of operator-talk, and then at long last the ringing of a telephone at the other end. He frowned as the telephone continued unanswered, waited for several more rings, and then slowly depressed the lever, thinking. It was essential that he contact Anita as soon as possible, but he couldn’t leave the call in, since he had no idea where he and André would be dining. The best thing, he decided at last, would be to contact his answering service and have them keep trying Anita’s number. And have them leave a message with her to call him at midnight at the hotel.

  He released the lever and placed another call for his own number in Paris. There was the usual delay; he finished his brandy and leaned back comfortably, waiting. At last he heard the number ring; the telephone was immediately picked up. His frown deepened; his answering service never responded until the fifth ring. He spoke cautiously.

  “Hello?”

  “M’sieu Huuygens’s residence. Who is this, please?”

  Kek sat up straight in the chair. “Anita! What are you doing in my apartment?”

  “Kek! It’s lovely of you to call.” She sounded delighted. “How have you been? How are things in.…”

  “Anita! Answer me—what are you doing in my apartment?”

  “Well.…” Anita paused as if arranging things in her mind so as to be perfectly accurate. “This morning I moved your desk over to the other wall—the one nearest the door, and—You know, Kek, I don’t believe that elevator man is from the police. He was very sweet. He helped me move the desk. I gave him five francs. And do you know?” Her tone became severe. “I’m sure Marie never moved that desk since you’ve been in this apartment. The dust under it!”

  “Anita!”

  “And I think the bar should be moved, too. I’m sure it’s absolutely filthy beneath. And it would really look better near the balcony doors. But I understand there are pipes and things to the sink.…”

  Kek glowered at the instrument. “Will you leave my apartment alone? I liked the desk where it was!”

  “You haven’t seen it where it is now.” Anita’s tone expressed surprise at his unadventurous spirit as far as furniture location was concerned. “It looks much better. Of course, we’ll have to change some of the pictures around, but that shouldn’t be too much of a problem. I’ll try to get to that tomorrow. I’m sure that sweet old man will help me.”

  Huuygens was gritting his teeth. “You keep that sweet old man out of my apartment!”

  “Why, Kek! Certainly you can’t be jealous of an old man? He was a perfect gentleman today—Oh!” Anita suddenly understood. “You don’t have to worry; I was with him every minute he was here. Although I’m sure he’s not from the police. The police wouldn’t give me the keys to your apartment, would they? Besides, if he had the keys, and he was from the police, he could be in here whenever he wanted.…”

  Kek knew there was nothing incriminating in the apartment; there never was. “That’s not the point.…”

  “But,” Anita went on, the soul of cooperation, “if you wish, I can have the locks changed tomorrow.”

  “Great,” Kek said in disgust. “And just how do I get in when I get back home? Because, my sweet, you are leaving there at once!”

  “I can’t, Kek. I’ve already sublet my apartment to some Americans. For an absolutely marvelous price! Especially considering the stove doesn’t work too well, but I don’t suppose that will bother them. They didn’t look the type to eat in very often. I just hope they don’t use my good china, but then, if they don’t cook, they won’t really need china, will they?” She went on with scarcely a pause. “Kek, when you called, you expected your answering service to answer, didn’t you? Was there anything you wanted that I could do for you? There weren’t any messages, because I checked.”

  Kek had completely forgotten the original purpose of his call. He stared at the telephone a moment and raised his shoulders. The problem of the apartment and Anita’s tenancy would have to wait.

  “Yes,” he said. “As a matter of fact I was going to ask them to get in touch with you and have you call me.”

  “Oh, good! Then you did think of me!”

  “Yes,” he said, and smiled wryly. “I wanted you to do me a favor.”

  “But of course, darling.”

  He stared at the telephone in silence a moment, and then shrugged. “I have a friend, a newspaper man named Jimmy Lewis. Mark down his number.” He gave it, waited a moment, and then continued. “Do you have it? Good. Now; I promised him a story if I came across one, and I have. So I want you to call him and tell him you have a very big tip, but that you won’t be able to give it to him until tomorrow night. Is that clear?”

  “Do I tell him the tip is coming from you?”

  “You do not. Don’t give him any names. Just sound mysterious.” He thought a moment and grinned. “And sexy. That’ll hold Jimmy. Then tomorrow night you call him and give him the tip. Which is.…”

  “Why don’t I wait and do it all tomorrow?”

  “Because I want to be sure he’s there tomorrow. I don’t want him to take off for parts unknown; I want him available. Incidentally, if he is out of town now, or you can’t get in touch with him, call me back and let me know. I’m at the Ouro Vermelho here in Lisbon. If I don’t hear from you I’ll assume you got in touch with him. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  It occurred to Kek that Anita would probably make a very good secretary at that. “All right. Now, I want you to check on all the flights to Lisbon from Paris—all airlines, even small ones—and tomorrow night after the last one has left—or at least after it’s too late for him to catch the last one, I want you to call Jimmy again. If I know him, he’ll be waiting for the call.”

  “I understand. You don’t want him there until Thursday morning. And what do I say to him?”

  Kek smiled faintly. “You simply say to him: Wilhelm Gruber is in Lisbon.…”

  “Wilhelm Gruber? Isn’t he the …?”

  “Never mind who he is or isn’t. Jimmy knows who he is. Just do it exactly as I’ve said.”

  “Of course.” Anita sounded faintly hurt that Kek could think she wouldn’t. “That’s all I say? That Wilhelm Gruber is in Lisbon?”

  “Not quite,” Kek said softly. “You will also say to him: ‘The man to see for all details is the assistant chief of detectives for Lisbon; a man named Michel Morell.…’”

  André and Kek dined that night at a small restaurant perched at the end of a dock near the northern boundary of the city. Soft lights reflected colorfully from the ripples of the river; a guitarist in one corner bent far over his instrument, softly playing a fada. The occasional whisper of a huge prow cutting through the darkness in midstream gave sibilant counterpart to the music, and made the lights dance wildly in the backwash.

  The food was delicious. André finished wiping his plate with a piece of bread, popped it into his mouth, and leaned back, chewing. He swallowed, drew his napkin from his collar, and wiped his face. There was a pleased grin on his face.

  “Not bad, eh?” He lit a cigarette from the pack on the table and reached for his glass of cognac. “There are considerations to not living in France. The food here in Portugal is as good or better, and far cheaper. And the cognac?” He kissed the fingers of his free hand. “No comparison …”

  “A far cry from the old days of the Resistance, eh?” Kek also took a cigarette and lit it, leaning back comfortably, puffing on it with enjoyment.

  “I should hope so!”
André grinned. “And every now and then, as an added attraction, a friend from the outside world.” His grin faded. “You leave Friday, eh?”

  “Thursday,” Kek corrected him gently.

  “The day after tomorrow? But I thought you said.…”

  “I told Gruber we were leaving Friday.” His gray eyes twinkled. “You see, André, everything in this business is either misdirection, or timing. Or both.” He shrugged. “Senhor Enrique Echavarria will simply have to be ready with one day’s less notice. It’ll give him less time to worry and fret.”

  “I suppose you know best, but I hate to see you go so soon. When shall we see each other again?”

  “I don’t know,” Kek said honestly, regretfully. “Someplace; sometime.…”

  “I doubt it,” André said, and shook his huge head ruefully. His eyes came up. “Still, it was good to see you this time. You said before that this life is a far cry from the days of the Resistance. It is—in both ways. At least in those days I was a bit more of a man than I am today. Seeing you again makes me realize it.”

  “We were all more men then than we are today. There was more reason to be.…”

  “Yes.” André sighed and then suddenly grinned. “We had some times together, though, didn’t we? I’ll never forget you and that damned radio you dragged all over the place.…”

  Kek also grinned. “And you. I remember one time in particular—the time we knocked out that police station at Vic-le-Comte. Georges, dragging that squealing schoolgirl out of the way at the last minute—by her pigtails. And you, running like mad down the street with that rifle of yours in one hand and that suitcase in the other. You looked like a commuter trying to catch the five-fifteen.” His smile faded. “Which reminds me.…”

  André drank his cognac and reached for the bottle again. “Which reminds you of what?”

  “That suitcase of yours reminds me I need one. I came away from Paris unprepared for some of the contingencies I’ve run into, timewise and otherwise. All I brought with me was a small overnight bag.” He pushed his glass forward. “Would it be possible to borrow a suitcase? Something like you used to drag around with you?”

  “I suppose so.” André poured himself a drink and then filled Kek’s glass. “I’ll drop it off at your hotel tomorrow.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to luck.”

  Huuygens smiled and shook his head. “There’s no such thing as luck.” He raised his glass as well. “Here’s to planning, friends, misdirection, and timing.”

  “And luck,” André finished. He grinned and drank his brandy.

  12

  A leisurely breakfast in his room on Wednesday morning, and a refreshed Kek Huuygens braved the terrors of the Ouro Vermelho’s elevator, located his rented car in the cavernous bowels of the building, and drove from the garage into the Rua Sidonia Pais with a soft whistle on his lips. The affair had gone extremely well to this point, but what he considered the most important part of the scheme still had to be resolved, and that was what the schedule called for that morning.

  With a detailed map of the city spread out on the seat beside him for easy reference, he managed to get through the complex, twisting roads of the Parque Florestal de Monsanto to the Bairro da Boa Vista, and drew to the curb a block away from the street on which Gruber lived. With the motor pulsing quietly, he bent over the map, studying a tentative route that consisted in the main of secondary avenues, leading in the direction of the Tejo and the docks. Satisfied at last, he straightened up and began driving.

  His course took him along the northern edge of the huge park, and then plunged him into a network of narrow streets graced with small, clean houses with precisely trimmed gardens. A frown formed on his face as street after street exhibited a pristine similarity with the one before it. Lisbon, it seemed to him, must be the most immaculate city in the world, but that scarcely resolved his problem. With a muttered exclamation of annoyance, he pulled to the curb and consulted the map once again, the car motor patiently throbbing beneath him.

  As a result of this further study, he shifted gears and started off again, cutting further to the north this time, continuing his search as he approached the Avenida do Brasil and saw the airport in the distance. To anyone who happened to notice the handsome man taking his ease behind the wheel, Kek would have appeared to be a motorist out to enjoy the fine autumn weather, and nothing more. A more acute observer, noting the extreme care with which he scrutinized each side street he passed, and almost unconsciously slowed down to stare down each small alley, might well have come to the conclusion that he was a potential buyer checking the neighborhood before committing himself to the purchase of a house for his family. Or—considering the expensive car he drove—more probably a house for his mistress.

  Actually, his purpose was quite another. He had avoided a route that would take him near the center of the city, because the concentration of police was sure to be greater there, and he certainly wanted no part of them. Also, his requirements were scarcely to be found in the center of town. What he was looking for could only be found in the residential sections; a side street, preferably with a dead end, but one that contained at least one house with a walled garden. Not, however, walled in the manner of the Gruber home, but one that could easily be scaled.

  When, by lunchtime, he still had not found anything to his liking, he forewent lunch and continued his search, the frown on his lean face deepening. He knew, of course, that if he were unsuccessful in finding his exact requirements, he could always investigate the edge of the city and somewhere there find a path that ended in a wooded area, but he preferred a place in town, closer to the Gruber home. Every additional mile only added to the risks.

  And then, moments later, he came upon the perfect location, purely by accident. He almost passed it at first, for, to begin with, he was driving through an industrial neighborhood and had no thought of finding what he wanted here, and secondly, because the sign FOR SALE OR LEASE did not register on his mind at once. The half-glimpse he caught through the entrance, however, immediately struck him; he reversed the car and backed up for further examination. The frown disappeared as he stared down the cobblestone driveway a moment; he nodded in satisfaction and then swung the wheel, driving in.

  The entrance he had taken led past two empty two-storied stone houses that had apparently once served as twin guardians of the gate; it delivered him to an old, abandoned factory. Wooden loading docks in complete disrepair formed three sides of a large rectangle containing the roughly paved yard area. Kek set the car brake, turned off the ignition, climbed down, and walked about the place. The factory had obviously not been in use for many, many years; the high walls that loomed over him were of worn and chipped brick, with a host of ants’ nests testifying to their age. The crooked window frames had flaked their paint to yellowed wood, and their grimed panes were either broken or missing completely. The doors that sagged into the darkened interior hung pathetically on their rusted and broken hinges.

  Kek mounted the gap-toothed steps to the loading dock and tugged one of the doors open further; it came with a reluctant squeal, as if resenting interference after all those years. He peered in; the interior was empty, except for layers of dust and the debris that always seems to accumulate somehow in such places. He stepped inside, studying the overhead beams hung with cobwebs, listened to the eerie silence a moment, and then crossed the creaking wooden floor to a door leaning half-drunkenly open at the far side of the wide room. He glanced about the corner of the door and found himself staring at a thoroughfare beyond, reached by a series of grooved stone steps. He turned around; the entire place smelled of age, abandonment, and urine. He smiled to himself. It was ideal.

  With extreme satisfaction he returned to the car and spread the map out on the seat, studying it carefully. He located the spot at which he found himself, and then the house in the Bairro da Boa Vista. According to the map, the distance between the two places was roughly three miles. Even the distance was more or less what Kek had h
oped for, making the deserted factory even more ideal for his purpose. He pored over the map, studying the maze of streets separating the two points, and then folded the map, got behind the wheel, and drove from the enclosed yard with a faint smile on his lips.

  A sandwich at a nearby sidewalk café served him for lunch, eaten with the map propped up against a ketchup bottle while he carefully planned the best route between the two places and memorized the names of the streets through which he would have to pass. Satisfied at last that he had it well in mind, he returned to his car and then began traversing the memorized route. Twice, certain details not noted on the map caused him to seek nearby alternate streets, but once he had made the trip to his satisfaction he settled down to driving back and forth over it until he was positive he would not hesitate at any corner, or fail to note those intersections that could prove dangerous or delaying. It was not until he had made the trip six times in each direction that he was certain it was indelibly impressed on his mind.

  He stopped at a pôsto and filled the car with gasoline, checked the oil and tires, and then set out on his last errand. He turned the car about and drove to the carpentry shop.

  The packing case was ready, and the owner of the shop helped him load it into the trunk. He seemed a bit dismayed that its size did not permit it to be completed engulfed by the trunk, fearing for the chrome of the bumper, but Kek assured him that this fact had been known, and that—after all—the proper reason for the size of a case was to accommodate its contents, and not necessarily to fit into any previously prescribed space. It is doubtful if the owner agreed with him, or even understood him, but he accepted his payment, and Kek left with a slight grin. A cord tied between the handle of the trunk and the bumper prevented any undue rattling, and Kek drove back to the hotel garage and parked his car for the night.

  At the desk, he picked up the suitcase André had left for him, and went up to his room. He set the suitcase aside, took off his jacket, lit a cigarette, and wandered to the window, staring out over the city, considering each step he had taken so far in the scheme. Each item on the list checked off; as far as he knew, everything had been dealt with, the time schedule beautifully satisfied. Still, he felt a twinge of restlessness, and he knew it was different from the disquiet he often felt when the final stages of a complex scheme were about to be launched. There was a certain foreboding in it; an unusual sensation for him. He turned to crush out his cigarette when the telephone rang. He reached over, picking it up.