The Hochmann Miniatures

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “Yes?”

  “Mietek?” Jadzia sounded a bit breathless. “I only have a minute. I left the house on the pretext of getting cigarettes.” She paused a moment, and then went on. “Willi says that you and he are leaving Friday. Is that true?”

  “I’m not sure of the exact time; it isn’t settled yet.” Even as he spoke, Kek wondered at his own circumspection, and the hollow feeling he had inside him. “It’ll be soon, though.”

  “And what are your plans? What do you plan to do?”

  He stared at the rug, his face a mask. “I can’t tell you yet, Jadzia. You’ll have to trust me.”

  “Trust you?” Despite herself, her voice rose sharply. She brought herself under control, speaking more quietly. “Of course I trust you, Mietek. You gave me a promise.”

  He closed his eyes momentarily. Jadzia, Jadzia! You gave me a promise many years ago, and then promptly forgot it. I’ll be more honorable than that.…

  “Mietek? Did you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there anything you want me to do?”

  “No.” He took a deep breath. “Whatever happens, stay out of it.” He thought a moment, and then smiled a bit bitterly. “Do whatever Willi tells you to do.”

  She didn’t seem to think the instruction odd. “All right, darling. If you say so.” She paused another moment. “I’ve got to go, now. Good luck, dear.…” The telephone was softly disconnected.

  He stared at the silent receiver in his hand a moment, and then slowly placed it back on the hook. The brandy bottle beside the instrument gleamed invitingly in the lamplight. He took a deep breath and reached for it, drawing the cork.…

  13

  By eight o’clock the following morning his borrowed suitcase had been packed and taken down to the car to be arranged in the trunk beneath the packing case. He stopped for a pot of coffee in the small restaurant attached to the lobby, took a few minutes to check out of the hotel and pay his bill, and then moved to the public telephone in one corner. He shut the door behind him, dropped a coin in the slot and dialed a number, staring out of the glass panel as he waited. His feelings were now completely under control, his mind checking off, one by one, the few steps still to be taken.

  Hans eventually answered the ring at the other end; the request to speak with his master brought no comment either on the unusual hour or the unexpected call, but only a silence that was broken a few moments later by Gruber coming on the line. Huuygens suspected that his call had wakened the other, but aside from a nervousness that was normal under the circumstances, Gruber’s voice was controlled.

  “Yes? What is it? Is anything wrong?”

  “No.” In the booth Kek smiled faintly and then straightened his face, as if Gruber might have been able to see him. “It’s simply that there’s been a slight change in plans. Everything is ready now. We have to leave today.”

  “Today?” Gruber paused a moment, as if to gather together arguments; the best he could do was weak. “But you said Friday—tomorrow.…”

  “I don’t arrange sailing schedules, m’sieu.” Kek’s voice was cold. “The ship we take sails at noon; I only received notice myself a few minutes ago. We have to be at the dock at eleven.” He paused. “I hope you have your passport with you.”

  “Of course I have. But a few hours? It doesn’t give me.…”

  “I’m sorry,” Kek said brusquely. “We’re wasting time we honestly don’t have. I’ll see you in about fifteen minutes.”

  He hung up, pulled back the door of the booth, and quickly trotted down the steps leading to the garage. He slid into the car, revved up the motor and listened in satisfaction to its purring protestation of power, then drove to the street, turning from the ramp in the direction of the park and his destination. The early morning sun was low, blinding, and he pulled down the visor to protect his vision, smiling as he realized that after leaving Gruber’s house, at least, the sun would be at his back. A bit of luck, that; he hadn’t even considered the position of the sun. His smile faded. Let’s hope there aren’t many other things you forgot to consider, he said to himself sternly, and concentrated on the winding avenue he was following.

  At the Bairro da Boa Vista he slowed down, drove through the swank neighborhood to the street he was seeking, and turned down it. At the end of the winding avenue he stopped, swung about to turn around, and then backed the car so that the trunk was almost touching the wrought-iron gate. Beyond the gate he could see both Gruber’s ancient car and the beige convertible, parked side by side. He switched off the ignition and stepped down, leaving the keys in the ignition.

  Hans had apparently been waiting for him; he appeared on the top step even as Kek was untying the cord that held the trunk lid in position. The taciturn servant trotted down the steps and pulled open the gate; he accepted the empty crate and carried it into the house while Huuygens closed the trunk and followed along at a leisurely pace with the small plastic traveling bag.

  In the hallway, Huuygens stood in bored fashion while Hans patted his sides, ran his hands impersonally down his legs, and checked the innocence of the contents of the small bag. This routine accounted for to his satisfaction, the stocky servant picked up the case again and led the way to the library.

  Gruber was waiting at the already opened vault; there was no sign of Jadzia. The tall thin man was in a dressing gown, his hands plunged deep in the pockets, extending them. He stood aside as the two men entered; Kek nodded to him impersonally and indicated to Hans where he wanted the packing case set on the floor. The servant placed it down and then straightened up, awaiting further instruction. Gruber frowned at Huuygens.

  “Just how is this thing going to work? What are you going to do?”

  “You’ll see,” Kek said curtly, and looked about the room. His eyes returned from the gallery spread on the walls, contemplating the table thoughtfully. He nodded as he made up his mind. “Those small sketches first, I think. We’ll get them out of the way, and then tackle the larger ones on the wall.”

  Gruber hesitated a moment; Kek waited with exaggerated patience. The tall German finally shrugged and unlocked the drawer, taking out the envelope and placing it on the table. Huuygens checked the tiny squares of vellum within, nodded, and then opened his small plastic bag, rummaging through the contents to finally unearth the tissue paper and the transparent tape; he looked like a surgeon preparing to operate. Gruber watched him curiously as he wrapped the entire envelope with tissue and then placed strips of tape carefully across the folds.

  “Good. Now for the larger ones. We’ll.…” He frowned at Gruber, remembering. “Pardon, m’sieu, but you’d better go up and get dressed and packed. The ship won’t wait for us, you know.” He glanced about the room and then raised his shoulders. “And there’s little enough room to work in here as it is.”

  Gruber seemed reluctant to leave. “What ship are we taking?”

  “The Alcántara. Brazilian. Tonnage, ten thousand. With stops at Funchal, São Luis, Rosário, and so forth.” Huuygens made no attempt to disguise the sarcasm. “Which they will make whether we’re on board or not.”

  Gruber stared at him a moment and then nodded. “All right.” He turned to his servant. “Hans. You will stay here and—ah—assist M’sieu Huuygens in any manner possible.…” He watched for some sign of disappointment from Huuygens, but only encountered polite disinterest combined with a bit of impatience at the time that was passing; with a slight bob of his head he left the room.

  Kek sighed and turned to the silent Hans. “All right. Finally! Let’s get to work. Help me down with this one, will you, please?”

  They brought down the largest picture first, turned it face downward on the table, and bent back the four nails holding the stretcher frame in place. Kek lifted the raw wood rectangle with the canvas free of the frame, and nodded his head.

  “Good. You pile the frames over there in the corner. And then get a pair of pliers from my bag.” He looked into the opaque eyes of the servant.
“Here’s what we’ll do: you will pull the tacks that hold the canvas to the stretcher frames—and do it carefully, do you understand? Be sure every tack is removed, or we may inadvertently puncture one of these priceless works of art—and I’ll pack them in the case. Is that clear?”

  Hans nodded, pleased his instructions were so succinct. He dug deep in the small bag and came up with the pliers, straightened up, and then paused. He flexed the tool several times and then shook his head, bringing them close to his eyes to examine them. “Japanese,” he said with disgust, and walked quickly from the room. Moments later he had returned with another pair. “German,” he said, and held them up. “We’ll use these.”

  “Use what you want. Use your teeth, if they’ll do the job.” Kek held up a finger. “Just be careful.”

  The two got to work. One by one the canvases were freed from their imprisoning frames, untacked from the stretchers, laid tenderly in the packing case, and covered with tissue paper. The job went quite fast; whoever stretched these canvases, Kek thought, apparently must have realized the type of artist to whom they would be sold, and wasted no excessive time on either pride of workmanship, or pains. Or nails. The case filled up with works of art, while the corner of the room piled ever higher with discarded frames and stretchers. Huuygens was settling the last canvas in place when Gruber appeared once again. He was dressed for travel; one pocket sagged a bit from the obvious presence of something heavy like a revolver. Kek was careful not to note it.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” The green eyes encompassed the case, and the pile of frames. “How are things going?”

  “Fine. We’re just about finished.” Kek studied the case a moment, picked up the wrapped packet of miniatures and laid it on top of the canvases, and then folded the balance of his tissue paper and packed it about to fill the remaining space. “There. That’s the lot.” He reached for his airplane bag once again.

  Gruber watched with interest as the cover was nailed into place. Huuygens nodded in satisfaction at the professional appearance of the job, and then brought out his marking ink and brush. With his arm supported by his other wrist, he carefully began to print an address neatly on the cover of the box.

  “You certainly think of everything.” Gruber’s tone was of grudging admiration.

  “That’s why I get the fees I do.” Kek didn’t bother to look up, but continued to ply the brush, painting in the letters of the address. Ostensibly, the case was being sent to the Ótica Maranhão in the Rua Paulo Freitas in Rosário, Brazil. When the final letter had been painted, Huuygens reached into his bag again, bringing out the gummed labels he had had printed. He wet them on his tongue and placed them about the top and sides of the case in conspicuous locations. They all read: PHOTOGRAPHIC PAPER—DO NOT OPEN IN DAYLIGHT.

  For the first time the tall man smiled in true appreciation, his eyes congratulatory. “Very clever!”

  “Only because the shipping documents and the bill of lading are quite genuine.” Huuygens was returning his materials to his bag. His voice was quite even. “Except, of course, for the address of the consignee.…”

  Gruber frowned at him. “And how were you able to arrange those?”

  Huuygens zipped the bag shut and smiled coldly. “I’m afraid a complete exposition of my methods is not included in my fee, nor does it affect the end results.” He looked about. “And now, I think, we’re about finished, and still with ample time. If you will allow me.…”

  He began to pick up the awkward packing case; Hans hurried to help him. Between the two of them, they carried it through the dim hallway and down to the car, with Gruber following closely behind. Hans pulled the wrought-iron gate leaf back with one hand and then waited while Huuygens rested his end to unlock the trunk. The two men slid the packing case on top of the suitcase; Hans stood back while Huuygens slid the cord about the case, through the handles of the suitcase for further security, and then brought it out and looped it between the trunk lid and the bumper, knotting it tightly. He pushed down and felt the tautness of the rope; it would ride. He straightened up, glancing at his wristwatch.

  “We’d better be going. If you would get your luggage.…”

  Gruber smiled gently. “Hans will bring my bags. I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind.…”

  “Not at all,” Huuygens said genially, and watched the servant return to the house. He glanced up; in the open doorway, standing back in the shadows, was Jadzia. She was staring at him with a rigidity that suggested an attempt to get across a message. He looked away, turning back to Gruber, forcing himself to remain calm, to concentrate on his plan.

  “A lovely day,” he said, and smiled.

  Gruber smiled in return, a relaxed smile; and Huuygens placed his hand on the thin man’s chest and shoved with all his tremendous strength, hooking the other’s heel with his foot. The German went over backward, too startled for the moment even to cry out, and in that moment Huuygens had the gate pulled shut and had sprung for the driver’s seat of his car. Behind him he heard the outraged screams of his victim, and then two answering cries from both Hans and Jadzia, and then he had the motor going and was roaring off down the street.

  He did not think that Gruber would chance shooting when the paintings might suffer damage as a result, but that had been a chance he had recognized and been prepared to take. In any event, Gruber did not waste the time. In the rearview mirror as he shot down the shaded avenue he saw the gate being dragged open, and even as he swung wildly about the first corner of his studied route, Gruber’s car came tearing from the driveway, not even pausing for Hans to be taken aboard. Huuygens smiled grimly and settled into his driving.

  The route he had chosen had been selected both for its isolation and for the fact that the long, straight runs would favor the more adaptable speed of his newer and more powerful car. He charged down the road he was on, glancing every second or two in the rearview mirror. The hood of the pursuing car had come into view around the corner and was roaring on. Huuygens tramped on the accelerator; Gruber’s ancient car was far faster than he had thought.

  The next corner required a momentary braking; he took it with tires squealing in protest, and once more tramped on the gas. Gruber, in the car behind, took more of a chance; for a moment it appeared to the man glancing constantly in the rearview mirror that the other was going to carom into a lamppost, but the car straightened itself out, swaying erratically, and came on. It seemed to be gaining, and Huuygens pressed down on the accelerator once again, leaning far over the wheel as if to coax more speed from the straining engine.

  The two raced through the quiet neighborhood, flashing past cross-streets, whipping about parked cars, unaware of startled spectators, of anything but the chase itself; taking incredible chances, each intent only on the vibrating wheel in his hands and the growling motor beneath his feet. A major thoroughfare marked the day before by Huuygens was approaching; it was unfortunate, but there was no way to avoid traversing it. He locked his hands on the wheel, barely touched the brake to give the car more control if he required it, and then tramped on the gas, shooting through the stop sign. There was a sharp squeal of brakes as a truck swerved abruptly from his path, bumping against a curb; the faint echo of a shouted curse, and then he was through, bearing down on the accelerator once again. His eye flashed to the rearview mirror; Gruber had taken the crossing without even bothering with his brakes, and was holding his own behind him. Huuygens returned his attention to the road, marking his next turning.

  He swung about it more recklessly than ever, gripping the wheel with all his force, recovered from the wild lurch, and then cut hard into the next street, speeding up. Behind him Gruber miraculously managed to follow. The next three corners were taken in even more desperate fashion, and then in the distance the factory entrance came into view. Huuygens bent low, coaxing speed from the car, and then slammed on his brakes, swinging sharply between the two stone houses. For one brief second he thought the following car had miss
ed him, and then he heard the screeching of brakes in the road outside as Gruber also slowed for the turn. He slewed his car across the cobblestones of the yard, spinning the wheel violently, and came to a shuddering stop with his fender almost against a pillar of the loading platform.

  The other car was already in the yard, braking hard, skidding to a halt. Huuygens bent low, opening the door of his car; he took a deep breath and dove for the protection of the sagging door, none too soon. A bullet passed over his head, thudding into the brick, showering down shards and dust, and then he was through into the darkened interior, his heart pounding. But he was sure that Gruber’s interest in his property would be greater than his desire for revenge, and he was right. He paused long enough to peer about the corner of the partially opened door; he knew the danger such delay might mean, but something forced him to wait. And then his jaw locked rigidly.

  The beige convertible, with Jadzia at the wheel, was shooting through the gateway. He seemed to see the scene as a tableau—the girl, face hard, running from her car toward Gruber; the tall, thin man tearing wildly at the ropes that held the trunk lid in place. Despite himself he opened his mouth to scream, but it was too late. The sound was lost, swallowed up in the tremendous explosion that rocked the cobbled enclosure.…

  BOOK FOUR

  14