The Tricks of the Trade

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Good God! He had completely forgotten he still had not called Berlin back! Was it too late! Damn! Two men, one to Orly and another to Perpignan—and two more, one to London and the other to Gibraltar! Could they have already left? Four men and their expenses, and all needless! Damn that miserable Huuygens! This was all his fault; one more thing to pay for!

  His hand shot out for the telephone, even his cigarettes forgotten for once.

  13

  It was a beautiful spring afternoon, warm and sunny, and the hired car hummed along smoothly, eating the miles of the wide parkway. The concrete sang beneath the tires, the open windows brought in the rich scent of newly mown grass. The city lay far behind, invisible even on that endless plain; here in the outskirts the bustle of the center seemed to belong to a different era as well as a different area. Little private housing developments, each styled quaintly, came and went like turreted villages of the past, their walled boundaries marching alongside the speeding car and then falling away to be replaced by another. On the distant horizon low clouds gave a simulation of hills, the only break in the monotony of the plain.

  Kek Huuygens leaned back comfortably in the rear seat, his mind on the steps still to be taken to assure his success. His plan as far as Schneller was concerned was, he knew, a chancy one, but it had possibilities; even had it been more foolproof, though, it still would have required the supplemental help of a bit of luck, and he had to hope this would be around when needed. True, he always did his best to encourage luck to aid him, and this time had been no exception.

  For example: Certainly by now even as stupid a person as Herr Schneller should have come to consider the possibility that the myriad destinations to which M’sieu Huuygens had purchased passage were all smoke screens. Certainly by now Herr Schneller should have come to consider the probability that M’sieu Huuygens had used the transportation desk in the hotel. And certainly by now Herr Schneller should have been able to rout out the clerk and bribe him enough to discover the ticket issued to Lisbon. Do not disappoint me, Schneller, Kek thought; do not be too bright, but do not be any more stupid than necessary, either. I have left you ample time to get to Lisbon ahead of me; be there when I get there so I can get you out of my hair once and for all. I have a suitcase to deliver, and you are promising to become a nuisance.…

  He glanced through the rear window of the hired car, wondering as he did so what purpose the check served. There was no indication that any of the many cars traveling in the same direction on the parkway behind him were necessarily interested in him. Or not interested in him, as far as that goes, he thought; it was a public highway, open to private detectives as well as virtuous smugglers. And it made little difference. In an hour he would be on his way, and if Schneller was not waiting for him in Lisbon, he’d have to worry about everyone around him from then on. Be stupid, Schneller, but not too stupid.…

  He turned back, facing the front, and then had to reach quickly for the strap as his driver swerved sharply through the wide gate and then straightened out into a lesser curve to bring the car to a stop before the main entrance of the airport. He descended and waited on the curb as his bag was hauled out from the driver’s seat. He paid the man and looked about. As he had known from his inspection of the premises on his arrival the previous day, a porter appeared almost instantly, his combination luggage truck and ticket stand filled with baggage checks for all airlines. Kek handed over the suitcase most willingly.

  “KLM.”

  “Yes, sir!” The porter picked up the suitcase, satisfied himself that its weight did not require verification, and reached for a KLM baggage ticket. “And your destination, sir?”

  “Lisbon,” Kek said cheerfully.

  “Yes, sir. Lisbon,” said the porter and drew a ticket properly marked LIS. He looped it around the handle of the covered suitcase, ripped off the stub in the same gesture, and handed it over, his palm out. Kek slipped it into his pocket, fumbled some change loose, and then stopped. His face was bright with embarrassment. The porter had a cold feeling something was going to cost him his tip.

  “Sir?”

  “I’m sorry,” Kek said and looked it. “I’m afraid my mind was wandering. Did I say Lisbon?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m terribly sorry. I must have been thinking of something else. I meant Amsterdam.”

  The porter smiled, relieved. “No trouble at all, sir.” He ripped the baggage tag from the handle, replaced it with one properly stamped AMS, and handed Kek the stub. Kek put it in his pocket and then remembered the old stub. He brought it out, tore it up, and dropped the pieces into a receptacle.

  “Sorry,” he said, smiling self-deprecatingly, and tipped most generously.

  “No trouble at all,” the porter assured him, pleased with the outcome of the matter, and wheeled the bag away.

  Step one.… Kek took a deep breath and walked into the large terminal, crossing the main lobby, his footsteps echoing hollowly on the polished terrazzo, his eyes routinely checking the faces of those he passed. There was none familiar, but then he realized he was being foolish. If Schneller had hired thugs to stay with him, he wouldn’t spot them in a one-second check. Forget it and hope he saw Schneller in person in Lisbon.…

  He walked over to the check-in desk of KLM and handed over his ticket envelope. A flaxen-haired lovely with perfect teeth and a well-filled blouse beneath her uniform jacket accepted the envelope; she took some of the contents and left some in the share-and-share alike of airlines throughout the world, punched, stamped, and stapled the remainder, clipped a seat assignment to the tattered remnants, and handed it back. Kek accepted it and wandered away, pitying the poor accountants who had to make sense from the paper chase that had to result from such a system.

  A raucous screech from a wall-mounted loudspeaker was apparently being repeated; Kek managed to interpret it as the first call for his flight and made his way to a queue forming before a KLM standard. He relinquished his ticket; it was returned to him more mutilated than ever and he moved on. A uniformed policeman was diligently going through hand luggage on a small bench in the aisleway; Kek, empty-handed, passed on to be politely but thoroughly patted in a search for firearms by a second policeman. Behind him as he continued toward the plane the precautions against potential hijackers continued. Now that would really be smuggling, he thought with a smile, and entered the plane. I wonder how I’d go about smuggling a plane from one place to another without using the threat of a gun? Guns took all the skill out of it. A nice problem, and one with which to while away some of the long hours of the flight, except that he had a more important problem that required solution in the very near future. Could he hand over that suitcase to Sanchez without in some way punishing him for his impolite promotional methods in getting him to take the job? Honor demanded it.…

  He found his seat and sank into it. Too early to begin to worry about the problem of Sanchez and his just retribution; time now for step one-and-a-half. Step one-and-a-half was never written down or even memorized in the course of a Huuygens scheme; when practical it came between steps one and two. Step one-and-a-half involved getting outside of a few solid drinks once step one had been safely accomplished. The sad thing, of course, was that he would have to wait until takeoff before he could prevail on one of the stewardesses to fulfill the requirements. A pity, he thought, and leaned back, staring from the window of the plane at the terminal building and the file of people waiting to enter the cabin. Maybe he shouldn’t wait for step one-and-a-half to begin thinking of Sanchez’s payment; time was running out.…

  The night had come and passed; morning had been heralded by breakfast trays, with the inevitable tangle of serving stewardesses and passengers fighting for rest-room priority, toothbrushes in hand; this had been followed almost immediately, it seemed, by the confusion of cocktails and lunch. Now at long last the aisles were cleared, the last infant settled, the magazines retrieved, and the stewardesses now sat back in the galley, exhausted, tucking wisps
of hair back under their caps and projecting their thoughts ahead to Schiphol and home.

  The seat-belt warning was flashed on; as if in response, the 707 shuddered slightly as its landing gear was lowered. It locked in place with a thump that, as always, reminded passengers that after all airplanes were only machines and like all machines subject to sudden and unaccountable failure. The flaps came down, motors whining piteously; the plane’s speed was checked. Weary travelers scratched bearded cheeks and leaned to look through the windows, seeking communion with solid earth, watching the city of Lisbon reveal itself slowly beyond the frothy edge of the huge ocean they had just traversed. It had been a boring flight—the best kind to the minds of both passengers and crew—and most of them were thinking of clearing immigration and customs and then going somewhere for a hot bath and a better rest than the convoluted position demanded by aircraft seating permitted.

  Most, but not all. Kek Huuygens’ thoughts were on neither. To begin with, he knew it would be a good ten hours more until a hot bath or rest would be possible; as for immigration and customs, he gave them no thought. His plans would work out or not; if not, alternate plans would be called for. His thoughts, therefore, were free of such mundane paths and were concentrated instead on perfecting the idea that had come to him in the long night. The Encyclopaedia Britannica, which had proven such a complication once upon a time when Kek had been attempting to aid a certain M’sieu Vries Waldeck get five million dollars into the United States, had more than repaid him. How lucky that Anita’s snoring—well, restlessness, say—had gotten him as far as “Elephants”! Now, assuming the prestigious encyclopedia was not in error—an unconscionable thought—he was fairly sure he knew how to teach Señor Sanchez a lesson. And one with a moral he could consider for some time.

  It was a practical possibility, Kek was sure, although he would be pleased to have André’s advice and consent. It would scarcely do to blow themselves up in putting his scheme into practice; no matter how meritorious the idea, it was bound to be considered a failure in that circumstance.

  He smiled happily to himself and stared down. The stained concrete of the Portela Airport in Lisbon was swirling upward to meet them; they touched down with a jar. The huge reactors instantly reversed themselves, jamming passengers back into their seats, and then released them as if by magic. The plane rolled gently down the runway, proud it had made it, and settled down, preening, before the terminal building. Seat belts were unfastened; people came to their feet in a daze, groping for belongings, amazed to be alive. There was a muffled clatter as the door was attacked from without, sunlight streamed into the cabin, and the huge bird began dropping passengers.

  Kek followed the straggling line of loaded-down people into the terminal, squinting his eyes against the glare of sunlight reflected from the white building. In the distance the even blocks of apartment buildings along the Avenida Gago Coutinho stood etched against the horizon. Kek passed inside, waited his turn in immigration, presented his passport to have it stamped, and continued on past the bustling luggage racks to the customs area. An inspector detached himself from a group at the main desk and walked over, shaking his head.

  “The senhor will need to get his luggage first—”

  “I have no luggage.”

  “No luggage?” It was quite unusual but not completely unknown. The inspector shrugged; it was not his province to see that passengers were properly accoutered. “Then, your passport, please? And your declaration form?”

  Kek handed them over. The inspector frowned at the name, checked the face against the photograph in the booklet, and then nodded. He did not seem to be as surprised as most customs inspectors to find the famous—or infamous—Kek Huuygens at his station in the Lisbon customs. He nodded again and tipped his head, retaining possession of the passport. His voice was politeness itself.

  “M’sieu Huuygens?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you could come with me, please?”

  Kek stared. “May I ask why? Since I have no luggage?”

  “Please.…”

  Kek shrugged hopelessly and followed along. They went through the gate, along a narrow aisle, and paused before a door. The inspector tapped on it with diffidence. A brusque voice from within bade them enter. The inspector opened the door and stood aside for Huuygens to go in first. Kek walked in. The inspector handed him his passport, backed out, and closed the door behind him. Kek turned. His eyes widened in surprise. Then he smiled in honest delight.

  “Michel!” Michel Morell, assistant police chief of Lisbon and an old, old friend, sat behind a battered desk in the small room. It was stuffy in the room; a fan stood on a bracketed shelf in one corner, but it was not operating, nor did it appear to be in shape to operate. The assistant chief of police was looking at Kek steadily.

  “Hello, Kek.”

  Kek grinned. “Is that all the enthusiasm you can build up after all these years? How have you been? You’re looking well.” He looked about the shabby office as if noticing it for the first time. His face fell. “What happened, Michel? A reduction in rank?” He went on without awaiting an answer. “Imagine seeing you! Somewhat of a coincidence—I ran into André the other day—”

  “I know,” Morell said quietly, interrupting. He picked up a pencil, beginning to twiddle it, watching it rather than Kek. “And it’s no coincidence. And there’s been no reduction in rank. I’m still with the police, not with customs, but in Portugal we have a bit more authority than in many other countries. Over many things.”

  Kek swung his hand to indicate the office. “Then—”

  “This isn’t my office. I came here to see you—”

  Kek smiled. “That was nice!”

  “—I heard you were passing through our city”—Morell looked up from the pencil; he smiled briefly, unhumorously—“and I thought it would be nice to make sure you did just that. Pass through, I mean.”

  Kek frowned. “You heard I was passing through?”

  “Yes.” Morell tossed the pencil aside. “I also saw André. Yesterday, in fact. He dropped into my office downtown for several reasons, one of which was to talk over old times. He mentioned he’d run into you on the street in Buenos Aires and that you’d be coming through Lisbon today on KLM—”

  “André said that?” Huuygens sounded disappointed.

  “Don’t blame him,” Morell said and shrugged. “He thought it would be a good idea if the three of us got together for old time’s sake.” He shook his head a bit sadly. “Old André isn’t too smart—he never was—but he meant well.”

  “I suppose so,” Kek said and sighed. “However, I prefer my comings and goings to be treated with the same confidence with which I give them to people. Well, it makes no difference. However,” he went on, his face brightening at the thought, “we are all here together, so why not have that reunion?”

  “For many reasons,” Morell said. He sounded almost bored with the conversation. “The main one being that you have a plane to catch.”

  “I’ll postpone it!”

  “You’ll take it,” Morell said evenly.

  Kek looked at him, hurt and puzzled. “But why? I thought we were friends.”

  “We were. And we are, anyplace except Lisbon.” Despite his. vaunted composure, Morell could not keep a touch of bitterness from his tone. “The last time you were here, friend, you very nearly got me fired. Worse, you came close to getting me imprisoned. And all for what I later heard were only a packet of miniature paintings—”

  “Only!” Kek drew himself up. “They happened to be worth a fortune!”

  “And that was worth putting me on the spot?”

  “It had nothing to do with the miniatures, and you know it. It—it was necessary to—to get your help. The miniatures had nothing to do with it. And I knew you’d fall on your feet. You always have.”

  “Thank you,” Morell said dryly. “In any event, do me a favor. Your plane to Madrid leaves in five hours, I am told. Be on it.”

&nbs
p; “I have every intention of being on it,” Kek said stiffly.

  “Good.” Morell’s black eyes studied the man before him. “No luggage?”

  “None.”

  “Which will save it being either searched or impounded,” Morell said and came to his feet. He hesitated a moment and then shrugged, a small dapper man with a frozen face and an erect, soldierly stance. “Sorry, Kek. I know the miniatures had nothing to do with it. As for my actions today, I hope there are no hard feelings.”

  “I suppose everyone has to do his job as he sees fit,” Huuygens said sententiously and opened the door for Morell. “Well, we still have five hours. Let’s go downtown and have a drink.”

  “I suggest you do your drinking alone,” Morell said with no expression, “and in the terminal.” He motioned Kek to precede him from the small office and closed the door behind them. He led the way past the customs gate to the main lobby of the terminal, Kek keeping pace with him. Morell paused in the center of the large room. For the first time he appeared a bit unhappy at his actions. “Good-bye, Kek.”

  “Good-bye.” Kek put out his hand; Morell shook it hard. Huuygens put out a hand, claiming the other’s attention for a few more moments. “By the way, Michel, you said André dropped in to see you for several reasons. What were the other ones?”

  “Just one other one. He was robbed,” Morell said. He sounded impatient with André.

  “Robbed?”

  “Yes. Can you imagine?” Morell shook his head. “I tell you, old André isn’t the man we used to know, believe me. In town five minutes, not even out of the airport proper, and somebody takes his suitcase away like candy from a baby! He says his back was turned for a second and the man—or woman, or whatever—must have picked it up and ran. He didn’t see a soul, but he still expects us to catch whoever did it and get his things back. André robbed like a child! Can you imagine?”