“It was simply that I prefer being on an upper floor,” Kek said and made his voice apologetic. It was true, of course, that had Herr Schneller reserved the tower suite of the hotel, Kek Huuygens would then have said that he preferred a room on a lower floor. It had been a long time since Huuygens had accepted a room reserved for him by a client or anyone connected with a client; adjoining rooms could also be rented and all sorts of naughty surveillance equipment installed. It was a sad commentary on the people he found it necessary to associate with in his business, but a true one. If adjoining rooms had to be rented, Kek Huuygens preferred to rent them himself and usually did.
As Herr Schneller should know, Kek thought with a disapproving glance at the telephone and wondered why it should make any difference to the man.
“As you wish,” Schneller said stiffly and finally managed to mask his disappointment.
“Yes,” Kek said and dismissed the subject of housing. “Will you be coming up?”
“Of course,” Schneller said, amazed at the question, and hurriedly hung up.
Kek moved back to the window as he waited, using the time to consider where he would dine that evening; there was no point in speculating on Schneller or the suitcase when they would both be in his room in minutes. Restaurants, he thought—one thing was certain, nobody could complain about the restaurants in Buenos Aires. They had to serve the best food in the world. He was in the process of making his ultimate selection between the grillroom of the hotel itself, La Cabaña, or the Little White Horse, when the doorbell of his suite rang. It was a sharp, brief, no-nonsense ring. Typical, he thought with an inner smile and walked over and opened it.
Señor Schneller filled the opening. He was so much like the image Kek had created in his mind from hearing the voice that for a moment he had the feeling they must have met before—a touch of déjà vu that passed as quickly as it had come. One never could truly forget people like Schneller. He was a large man, larger than Kek had anticipated, but Huuygens was sure that what appeared to be fat beneath the vest and jacket was solid muscle. His clothes appeared to have been forced over his bulky frame, possibly against his will; he seemed in constant danger of splitting the seams. His broad, flattish face was pale and shaved so closely that it glistened, the tiny veins etched darkly on the ivory skin. His eyes were a watery, washed-out blue, almost colorless, and his hair was cut in a brush, standing up like a used broom. He stood at military attention for a moment and then brought his heels together, clicking them lightly, making a short half-bow from the waist.
“M’sieu Huuygens.”
“Herr Schneller.”
Kek waved his guest in. The big man entered and for the first time the suitcase he held behind his back came into view. He turned and locked the door behind him, walked over to the desk, and seated himself on the small hard-backed chair there. It was not a comfortable chair, but its position beside the tall window afforded him the light he required. He brought the suitcase into his lap and with his other hand reached for his belt, producing a monstrous key ring on a thin leather strap. One key was laboriously selected, and for the first time Kek noticed the chain that passed through the suitcase handle and was fastened to a thin steel band that went around the thick wrist. Properly careful, Kek thought and watched in silence. The chain was released and removed from the handle; another key was found which unlocked the steel cuff. Schneller set the suitcase down and unhooked both keys from the ring, wheezing all the while. The two keys, the cuff, and the chain were all placed on the desk. Schneller turned, looking up.
“Delivered,” he said in a flat tone and reached for his pocket again. This time he came up with a packet of yellow cigarette papers and a sack of tobacco. He tapped grains into a slip of paper, puffing as he did so, and rolled the cigarette expertly with one hand. It was raised to the tongue, licked, and finished in a gesture so quick as to be almost invisible. Kek watched with interest. He had not seen anyone roll a cigarette for many years; he had to admit Schneller did it well. As he did most things well, Kek thought, and turned his attention to the suitcase.
“That’s it, eh?”
“That’s it.” For one brief moment the hard face relaxed a bit, even displaying the semblance of a smile. It was something like watching wax melt and then re-form. “It’s a problem carrying a suitcase through the lobby of a hotel; every bellboy wants to earn a tip by helping. And hiding a chain under a jacket sleeve doesn’t help, I assure you.” He tipped his head backward, even as he fumbled in a pocket for a match. “You might want to use the chain.”
“I might.” Kek sounded as if the question of whether he might use the chain or not was strictly his own affair. He walked closer, looking down on the suitcase he had contracted to carry through Spanish customs. Across from him Schneller finally located a pad of matches on the desk; he applied fire to the cigarette and puffed pungent smoke deep into his lungs, for which he was rewarded with a coughing spell which he finally managed to control. He sat wheezing a bit; when his breathing was better he leaned backward and placed the spent match with almost geometrical precision in the center of the ashtray and then looked up at Kek’s face with a faint smile, trying to judge the other man’s reactions.
The suitcase, Kek saw, was about two feet long, a foot and a half high, and possibly seven or eight inches in depth—what the Americans called a one-suiter, if his memory served. It had a rigid frame and body and was covered in a brown plastic embossed in a simulated leather grain. Unlike normal suitcases, however, he noticed the latches on either side were not furnished with key locks but instead were smooth; the security of the case depended entirely on a combination lock provided beneath the handle. This was partially concealed—but with no attempt to hide—by a genuine leather identification tab which snapped in place to cover it. With the exception of the locking mechanism, the small suitcase was similar to thousands, if not millions, to be found in use in any country in the world.
Kek hid the smile of triumph that automatically came to his lips. He hadn’t really even needed André for this one; combination locks of that size could be opened without even drilling. Or the hinge pins could be removed and replaced without a sign.
The man who had delivered the case lounged as easily as he could in the hard chair, puffing steadily on the cigarette pasted in one corner of his mouth. He watched Kek’s study of the suitcase almost with amusement. When he spoke the butt, stuck to his lower lip, bobbed in cadence with his speech, smoke jetting out to surround each word. His voice was husky, on the constant verge of coughing.
“I imagine Sanchez explained about the suitcase?”
Kek looked slightly surprised. “Explained?” He shrugged. “No, nothing beyond the fact that I’m to deliver it in Barcelona.”
Schneller smiled, a swift twisting of his thick lips wiped away as quickly as it had come. He picked the cigarette butt from his lower lip, turned to wipe ash from it, and then turned back quickly, as if something might possibly have happened to his beloved suitcase in the momentary absence of his attention.
“That’s all? Rather odd,” he said and carefully replaced the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “However, since I have a slight personal interest in the suitcase not being tampered with—slight, but in this case rather substantial—I’d better explain certain things. For example—” He paused for one last gargantuan puff on the flimsy cigarette; it rose in near-flame and he quickly crushed it out, relapsing in a coughing fit. When he had his breath he wiped his eyes and began again. “For example,” he repeated, “I built the case myself—built it from scratch, not adapted it—so perhaps I’d best tell you of some of its—what’s the word? Qualities? Advantages? Features?” He nodded, satisfied he was not being egotistical. “Features.”
There was a note of pride in his voice. A cold feeling began to form in Kek’s stomach. The big man reached into his pocket again for his tobacco and cigarette papers. A second cigarette was formed and lit, a second coughing fit indulged in; at last Schneller was ready
to continue, smoke spewing with the words.
“The case,” he said, “is a work of genius, and I am not bragging. A masterpiece. Under the plastic cover the sides are made of fiber-glass and polyester resin, hand-formed to shape, much like the new boats one finds today. It is extremely strong and impossible to penetrate without—” He coughed, apologetically this time, as if the possibility of getting into the case was a subject best not to mention. “Within the case, between the body and the decorative lining, is a fine copper wire mesh. As I’m sure you know, copper is an excellent conductor of electricity. This mesh is connected to a series of long-life batteries, arranged so that should one of them fail for any reason at all, the others would—will, I should say—continue to function.”
He took the cigarette from his lip and turned to remove ash. His tone had been that of a professor conducting a lecture; a blackboard pointer, Kek thought, would have seemed more appropriate in his heavy hand than the dwindling cigarette. The small butt was carefully replaced and Schneller went on.
“When the case is closed and locked, as it is now, an electrical circuit is opened. Conversely, when the suitcase is opened—or if the case should be forced, of course, or the sides punctured, or the hinges or latches tampered with in any way—then the electrical circuit is closed. And the circuit—”
He paused to take a final puff on his cigarette, began to cough, and bent over, fighting for breath. He managed to crush the cigarette out and sat erect, drawing in great gobs of air. When his voice was once more under control, he went back to his theme. Whether he was bragging or warning, his audience was listening intently.
“—the circuit,” he repeated, “will detonate four sticks of dynamite which are contained in a separate sealed compartment inside. This compartment, also containing the detonator, is completely cast in acrylic. This is to prevent anyone from trying to insert an inert gas into the case, in the hopes that the gas might prevent sparking and, hence, explosion.”
His almost colorless eyes mocked Huuygens, as if the stocky, gray-eyed man watching him so expressionlessly might actually have considered trying to circumvent his genius with some such childish means.
“Do you understand?” he asked gently.
Huuygens considered the man. It occurred to him that possibly, for one time in his career, he had bit off more than he could chew. His face continued to reflect nothing but polite interest, however, as he answered.
“I understand what you’re saying,” he said. “I don’t quite understand why you think this should interest me.”
Schneller smiled wolfishly. “Curiosity,” he said, “killed a cat. We wish to be sure it does no harm to a courier.”
Kek smiled with him. “I share your concern.” He looked down at the case, his voice mildly curious. “There is, of course, a means of disarming the mechanism? I assume the parchment is not intended to remain inside forever?”
“Parchment?” Schneller frowned in nonunderstanding.
“The contents,” Kek reminded him gently and wondered at the stupidity of Sanchez in not properly briefing his crew. Still, it was nothing as compared to his own stupidity in taking on the job in the first place. “I mean, I gather someone will eventually wish to open it? In Barcelona?”
“Oh. Oh, yes. Of course there is a means of disarming it. It is in the combination lock.” The pale-blue eyes laughed at Kek, unafraid to give the answer—anxious, in fact, to give the answer. He sat a bit more erect, watching Kek as if to make sure his words were being followed with the attention they deserved. “The lock has four numbers for completion. You—” he smiled, “I don’t mean you, personally, m’sieu, but you can fool around with it as much as you like without danger; you can hit the first number of the combination by accident or even, for the first number, of course, by design. You might even hit both the first and the second number by accident, although the chances are rare. If by the ten thousand-to-one chance you should happen to hit them and then fail to hit the third number exactly before you reverse for the final time, you are getting close to trouble. However, you still have a chance to live, assuming you are not deaf.…”
“Deaf?”
“Yes,” Schneller said proudly. “There is a warning. A bell.” He leaned over, stretching, and drew the suitcase to him. He took it in his lap, bending over it, and then looked up. “With your permission, m’sieu. If you would just turn your head a moment?”
Kek turned his head obediently, staring at a picture on the wall. It was an Ada Peacock original, a bright watercolor of a Peruvian girl striding barefoot down a mountain road, her shoes dangling from her neck, leading a burro on which her derbied bridegroom sat holding the baby. Despite the chill he had received listening to the exposition on the suitcase and its invulnerability, Kek was forced to smile at the warm colors and the happy look of fulfillment on the girl’s face. It did not take a suitcase full of cocaine to make everyone in the world happy, he thought, and then had his thoughts interrupted by the sudden sharp ring of a bell. He turned back.
“You see?” Schneller was quite pleased by the cleverness of his invention. He spun the combination; the sound ceased at once. “Separate batteries,” he said in proud explanation. “Otherwise one could let the bell ring until the main batteries were dead and could not spark the detonator.” He set the suitcase down and pushed it away from him with one foot and then leaned back smiling genially. His pale eyes dared Huuygens to find something he had overlooked. “So, as I say, care should be taken in playing with my suitcase. Because should anyone be so foolish as to disregard the warning of the bell, and should this person continue on to the final number—”
He winked jovially, as if he were in the midst of a risqué story coming to the final punch line, and then suddenly flung his hands up in the air dramatically. His twinkling little eyes widened in comic exaggeration.
“Blooey!” he said and settled down. His smile became gentle, almost childlike. “You understand?” he asked quietly.
Kek understood all too well. His voice was even. “I understand.”
“You are not surprised?”
I should not have been, Kek thought, but I am. “No,” he said.
“I expect not.” Schneller sighed, a gargantuan sigh, like a magician whose best trick has failed to impress. “I imagine it’s the sort of thing you would think of yourself if you needed to ensure privacy to the contents of a case.…”
There was a slight touch of disappointment in the accented voice; the full lips were turned down a bit at the corners. Kek felt there was no harm in reassuring the man; somebody should feel reassured, he thought, and he certainly didn’t.
“Except I should not have been able to build it.”
Schneller took heart from the statement.
“It is unusual,” he said, and now he was speaking honestly, not trying to impress but to explain. “Since the first combination lock in the early sixteen hundreds they have used bar tumblers and pin tumblers. A child could open them. My case has steel ball bearings under springs. To open it the ball bearings must each be in its proper socket, like those aggravating toys where one must roll little tiny balls into tiny depressions without dislodging the others. Only mine can’t be dislodged. And all four must be put into place in proper order, or first the bell rings and then—” He sighed. “Someday I shall patent it.…”
“Quite successfully, I’m sure,” Kek said politely. He wished the big man would go so he could start thinking. He glanced at his watch and looked up. “That’s all then?”
“Yes.” The large German seemed reluctant to leave, or possibly it was reluctance to part with his suitcase. He reached into his pocket for tobacco and paper, beginning to roll another of his thin cigarettes. “Tell me, m’sieu …” He paused, watching his thick fingers at work.
“Yes?”
Schneller seemed to be making up his mind about something. He licked the cigarette and smoothed it and then considered Kek strangely.
“Tell me, m’sieu. You had trouble enteri
ng Argentina?”
“Trouble?” Kek seemed more amused than disturbed by the question. “Nothing more than usual. What makes you ask?”
“There was a search?”
“There’s always a search,” Kek said easily and wondered what the other had on his mind. “But, as I said, nothing more than usual. Why?”
Again there was that hesitation. Schneller looked down at the small yellowish tube in his fingers as if surprised to discover it and then shoved it in the corner of his mouth, but he did not light it.
“What I’m getting at is this: M’sieu Huuygens, you have a reputation for being the most adept smuggler in the world. I know you are searched wherever you go, and I know you use your own passport and refuse to consider using a false name. I am sure a Telex has gone out to all major airports everywhere saying you are here in Argentina, and they will all be wondering why you are here—and, of course, what you plan to smuggle in from Argentina.…” He ended his statement on a rising inflection, making it a partial question.
“Unless, of course,” Kek said easily, “they think I was bringing something into this country.”
“No.” The large man shook his head decisively. “You were searched, were you not? And nothing was discovered?”
Kek laughed. “I am always searched. And nothing is ever discovered.” His laugh faded, replaced with a frown. “Just what are you getting at, Herr Schneller?”
Schneller finally selected the right words. “M’sieu Huuygens, as I’m sure you know, that suitcase is very valuable. Should you fail to deliver it in Barcelona for any reason at all, whether it was your fault or not, I doubt if either Señor Sanchez or Duarte would be very forgiving.”
The Tricks of the Trade Page 10
