“Hardly.…”
“Well, we all get old, I suppose.” Morell sighed, thought a moment, and then came from his reverie. He raised a hand. “Well, take care, Kek.”
“I shall. And you too,” Huuygens said softly and watched the military carriage of the dapper policeman as Morell walked out to his car. So André had been robbed of his suitcase, eh? My, my.… He heard a small voice at about the level of his hip pocket and turned.
“Senhor?” A small boy was pushing an envelope in his direction.
“Yes?”
“A man said to give this to you. He said—” The boy swallowed; it seemed hard to believe now. “He said you’d give me”—the sum was really too much!—“fifty escudo.…”
“He did, did he?”
Kek bit back a smile. If he was being watched, as he sincerely hoped he was, amusement was not indicated at this point. He took the envelope from the boy and handed him a fifty-escudo note; the lad scampered away before minds could be changed. Kek slit the envelope, removed a key, and pointedly searched the empty cover for a note he knew would not be there. He frowned at the number on the key and started toward one side of the large room. A loudspeaker suddenly exploded, announcing the final call for the continuation of his flight to Amsterdam. Kek paused to listen, his face expressionless, and then continued on toward the lockers, his senses keyed.
From his vantage point on the narrow balcony overlooking the main chamber of the airport terminal, Hans Schneller had seen Kek emerge from the customs in company with a small, dark man; he had seen them exchange a few words, shake hands, and part. He did not understand the role of the small, dark man in the nature of things, but he didn’t care. Huuygens was here before him, and that was all that was important, because where Huuygens was, the suitcase was sure to be. He continued to watch, peering about the edge of his opened newspaper; the revolver he had carried in the false bottom of his overnight bag was now in his jacket pocket ready for use, lost in the mountainous folds; its pressure against his heavy thigh was reassuring.
He saw the boy approach Kek with the envelope and saw Kek tip the boy and tear the envelope open. Schneller frowned. What was this? He saw Huuygens study the key as if surprised to see it; Schneller suddenly smiled. What an actor! Even at that distance he no longer had any doubts as to what he was seeing; he didn’t know how in the devil Huuygens had managed the legerdemain, but there was no doubt in his mind that the key was for one of the luggage lockers lining the walls of the chamber. Nor was there the slightest doubt as to what the locker contained. How the devil had Huuygens done it? No matter.… He came to his feet, prepared to move swiftly down the flight of steps to the main floor. Huuygens was striding purposefully toward a stand of lockers almost directly beneath him. The newspaper was laid aside. It was time to act.
He came down the steps with surprising lightness in a man his size, walking up behind Huuygens. His hand was in his pocket, smothering the gun. Huuygens was fitting the key into the door of the locker. The stocky man paused in the act of opening the door and then spoke over his shoulder.
“You should stop smoking, Schneller. That wheeze of yours can be heard a block away.”
Schneller smiled grimly. His voice was little more than a whisper and he kept his lips rigid, prison-style, but it carried clearly to the other. “There’s a gun on you, Huuygens.”
Huuygens turned around slowly. His face was expressionless. He saw the bulge made by Schneller’s hand dug into the pocket. His eyes came up, curious.
“Why?”
“You know damn well why! Playing games still, eh? Still being cute, eh?” The smile seemed engraved on the large, flat face. “I saw the boy give you the key. Well, use it. Open the locker.”
Huuygens shrugged, a shrug of defeat. “If that’s what you want.…”
“It’s what I want.”
Huuygens turned back. He twisted the key in the lock and pulled the door open. From behind him Schneller chuckled.
“A suitcase cover! I didn’t know they made them in these days of plastics. Not exactly the best disguise in the world, but I suppose my combination lock did attract attention.” His voice sobered. “All right. Take it down. That’s right.… Now, set it on the floor. That’s right.… No suspicious moves. Now turn and face me. That’s right.… We’re just old acquaintances having a word with each other. Can’t you smile every now and then? Well, maybe not.… All right, that’s enough conversation. Now we say good-bye. You will walk ahead of me; I will pick up the case and be a few paces behind. And no tricks. If you try to make a run for it, I’ll shoot you here and now.…”
The proprietor of the newsstand had been watching the two but with no undue interest; now he turned to service a customer. Kek had the suitcase down and had straightened up.
“Very good,” Schneller said approvingly. “When you get outside you will turn left. I have a car in the parking lot. I’ll point it out to you outside. You will drive, I’ll be in the backseat. I’ll give you the keys when we’re in the car.…”
Kek looked toward the door. A policeman there yawned and turned to stare into the driveway leading to the building. Did Morell leave word that he was to be stopped and turned back if he tried to leave the terminal building? Let us hope not, Kek prayed; it could ruin a fine plan.
“Let’s go.…”
They were moving across the terminal now, Schneller carrying the suitcase easily in one hand. Kek walked ahead of him leisurely, approaching an exit. Time, he thought, and almost glanced at his wristwatch, though the actual hour had nothing to do with it. Come, come, André; let’s not cut it too fine! He need not have worried, for at that moment there was the sound of a scuffle behind him. He swung around and was not too greatly surprised to see André, with one huge hand gripping the suitcase handle. André’s face was indignant.
“Hey! My suitcase!”
Schneller was almost taken off guard; he managed to maintain his grip and tugged angrily. “Who the devil—Get your damned hands off my suitcase!”
“Get my hands off? Get my hands off?” André stared at the big blond man in amazement. “That’s my bag, you crook!” He turned, still holding the handle, his eyes sweeping the room. “Ah! Hey, police! Police!”
“Let go, you fool!” Schneller’s temper exploded. He swung around, his huge fist aimed at André; only the fact that his other hand was gripping the handle kept it from being a lethal blow. It struck André on the side of the head, knocking him to his knees, but the big man from Perpignan kept his grip on the suitcase. He struggled to his feet, murder in his eyes.
“Let go!” Schneller screamed. He was beginning to panic. Just when he had his hands on both Huuygens and the suitcase! And how did this ox withstand that blow? A policeman was hurrying over in response to the clamor. Schneller’s jaw tightened. He dragged out the pistol, shoving it in André’s face. “Let go, damn it!”
André’s face seemed to solidify to solid rock. He let go of the handle of the suitcase and in the same motion brought his huge fist up, crashing it against Schneller’s jaw. The blond giant was stunned momentarily; before he could recover his wits, a pile-driver blow to his stomach doubled him over. The coup de grâce was administered by another hamlike fist smashing at the back of the exposed neck. Under that battering the huge Schneller collapsed to the floor with a thud, his breath driven from him; the revolver stretched before him, useless. A policeman pushed through the crowd that had gathered, unbuttoning his holster.
“What’s the trouble here?”
“Hit me when I wasn’t looking!” André said furiously and then came back to the proper matter. “Bastard had my suitcase!” His voice had changed to indignation. “Swiped it yesterday! Must have ducked it into a locker and figured he could walk out with it today, just like that!” He rubbed a bruised knuckle.
The policeman studied him a moment and then looked down. He bent over and picked up the gun, examined it, and slid it into his pocket. The look on his face promised trouble for the man on
the floor; guns in Portugal are less approved by the police than in most countries. He rebuttoned his holster and looked up at André.
“You can identify the contents of the suitcase?”
“Of course.”
“And you reported the theft?”
“Naturally.” André looked hurt at this suggestion of dereliction. “At headquarters. Actually, to Senhor Morell himself. An old friend of mine, I might add,” he said significantly.
The policeman looked at him without expression.
“Well,” he said, “let’s all go downtown and see what this is all about.” He was not loath; airport duty consisted mainly of returning lost children to frantic parents or being mistaken for a porter. He squatted beside the unconscious man, put handcuffs on him first as a precaution, and then began to slowly slap his face, trying to bring him out of his coma. André waited patiently.
It was nearly three hours later, and André had returned from headquarters. He and Kek were sitting on the outside terrace beyond the balcony of the terminal, having a long cool drink at one of the wire tables. André chuckled.
“Our friend Schneller isn’t too bright. Trying to tackle the entire police department, can you imagine? He’d be well advised to stop smoking if he wants to take on some of the thugs on Michel’s payroll two or three at a time. He’ll be lucky if he gets away with just attempted theft; the way Michel was talking, I have a hunch they’ll lock him up and make him eat the key. Striking a policeman!” He sounded shocked at the very idea.
“You should have explained to him,” Kek said with a smile and glanced at his watch. The KLM flight to Amsterdam should have arrived by now; time to get on with the job. And André had a plane to catch, as well. He drank up and motioned to André to follow suit.
“Lots of time,” André said. “Ten minutes before my flight, at least.” He drank up nonetheless and set his glass down. “Did Michel come up to your expectations?”
Kek laughed. “Dear Michel! He never disappoints. I knew he’d elect himself a one-man greeting committee.”
“I still don’t understand why you wanted him to be—”
Kek looked at him humorously. “Because, my friend, any regular customs inspector would have taken one look at my name and put me through a complete physical search. Such a thing would be repugnant to Michel, even if it occurred to him, and especially with a friend. And I had something on me I didn’t care to explain. This.” A baggage check stub appeared in his fingers as if by magic. He slid it back into his pocket and came to his feet, smiling. “Well, time to get to work.”
André also rose. “And I’ve my plane to catch.” He picked up the suitcase he had fought so hard to take from Schneller. “I’ll meet you in Zaragoza. When does your plane get there?”
“About eight or nine, depending on Iberia. Get us some decent rooms, and rent a car—”
“I know.”
“And stop in a hardware store and get me a big screwdriver and a roll of copper wire. And some batteries—large flashlight batteries will do, although batteries with terminals would be easier—”
André paused in moving off. He stared at the other man in alarm.
“A screwdriver and wire? Look, Kek—if you’re planning on trying to jump that circuit and then pry the suitcase open, do me a favor. Wait until I’m far away. Schneller may not be overbright, but he’s a damn good mechanic. You’ll blow yourself and the case all over the province!”
“Oh ye of little faith.…”
“And why batteries? They have electric lights in Zaragoza! Unless you don’t want to see what you’re doing.”
Kek smiled at him gently. “Don’t worry about it. Just be sure to buy the stuff.” He looked at his wristwatch as the loudspeaker blared. “And there’s your plane. I’ll see you tonight.”
“All right,” André said, but he sounded dubious. He hefted the suitcase easily and walked off with a frown on his face. The batteries were beyond explanation completely, but the screwdriver and the wire? It sounded like asking for trouble.…
Kek watched him go, waited a proper interval, and then followed the big man back into the terminal. He trotted down the steps to the main floor, paying no attention to André, marching toward an airline gate a bit ahead of him. Steps two and three—Morell and Schneller—had been taken care of. Now for step four—getting the suitcase into Spain without disturbing the even lives of the Customs Inspection Service. And then for step five, and the most important one at the moment: Sanchez.…
He turned at the bottom of the steps, moving toward the KLM desk, wiping the easy expression from his face, replacing it with a scowl. It was a pity he was going to make a clerk there suffer, but—to coin a phrase—one could not make an omelet without breaking heads. It was sad that spirits also had to be broken at times.…
14
The dapper young man behind the KLM desk looked up politely. His expression changed to one of concern as he noted the look on the face of the man glaring at him over the counter. Whatever had annoyed the gentleman, it must have been something serious, and the young clerk sincerely hoped it did not involve either himself or the airline he represented. This husky, gray-eyed man with the tough jaw looked as if he could be unpleasant when he wanted to, and this seemed to be one of the times he wanted to.
The young man came to his feet quickly, advancing to the counter.
“Sir?”
“Would you mind telling me what kind of an airline you people are supposed to be running?” Kek asked truculently and mentally apologized to Royal Dutch Airlines, one of his favorites.
“Sir?”
Kek glared. “In addition to all other annoyances, does KLM also hire clerks who are deaf?”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but if you have any complaint, I’ll be only too happy to do what I can.…”
“Then I suggest you try magic,” Kek said sourly. He dug into a pocket and brought out a ticket stub. “This, in case you’ve never seen one before, is a receipt for baggage. I arrived on your flight eight thirty-two from Buenos Aires three hours ago and I’ve spent that time looking for my suitcase! Three hours! I’ve had porters looking for it, I’ve spoken to the people who bring the luggage from the plane to the terminal, but do you think they ever bother to look at what they’re doing? Never! Irresponsible, that’s what it is! I went to the baggage master—”
“I’m sorry—”
“Sorry! Who cares if you’re sorry or not? I’d scarcely expect you to be happy! But that doesn’t get me my bag, does it? Is that the way you people handle baggage?”
“Oh, no, sir,” the young man said fervently and wished he had either taken the day off or chosen another line of endeavor completely. “We seldom lose luggage, but accidents do occur, you know—” He reached under the counter for a form and slid it hesitantly across the counter, anticipating an explosion. “If you’d care to fill this out.…” He swallowed. “Our liability is limited to—”
“The devil with what you think your liability is limited to! Do you think I’m intimidated by a flock of small print on the back of a airplane ticket? Don’t be silly! And I don’t fill out forms, for your information, without my lawyer’s approval!” He looked at his wristwatch, his handsome face dark with righteous anger. “Three hours! That flight’s in Amsterdam by now! It takes less time to get from Lisbon to Amsterdam than it does to find a suitcase, for God’s sake!” He glared and muttered. “Amsterdam!”
A thought came to the young clerk, out of thin air.
“Sir—maybe your bag was mis-ticketed.…”
“How the devil could it have been mis-ticketed? I have a stub right here that says Lisbon, doesn’t it? You may be deaf but you can read, can’t you? How could even the most misguided employee of yours manage to put a tag on a suitcase for Amsterdam and then give me a stub for Lisbon? Even at your company?” He snorted.
“Sometimes tags come off in transit, sir, or get mutilated. And sometimes, if it happens at the departing airport, the baggage handling people
try to remember—”
“Try to remember? Who gave them which for where? A guessing game? Good God! What a way to handle luggage!”
“I mean, sir—we usually take any unidentified luggage to the home airport, sir. In this case, Schiphol.…”
Kek shook his head at this new evidence of mismanagement.
“My God!” he said and then gave in grudgingly. “Well, I suppose it’s a possibility, even if a small one.” He waited a second and then looked up, glaring at the red-faced young man. “Well, what are you waiting for? You’ve got a teletype to Amsterdam from here, don’t you?”
The young man snapped erect. “Oh, yes, sir, we do. We do!” He disappeared into a back room only to appear again almost instantly. “A description, sir—?”
“Why?” Kek asked tartly. “Do you expect to find a dozen extra suitcases that have been mis-ticketed in Amsterdam? I wouldn’t be surprised! Well, it’s a one-suiter, brown plastic; it’s in a plaid-design canvas suitcase cover.”
“And your name, sir?”
“You’ll be wanting my fingerprints next, I expect! The name is Huuygens, Kek Huuygens. The bag has an identification tag under the handle—if one of your people hasn’t torn it off by now—”
“Yes, sir!”
The boy hurried back into the rear room; the sound of the teletype starting up could be heard, stammering electrically. Kek bit back a rather shamefaced smile; acting the part of the heavy did not particularly please him, but in this case it was essential. He wanted reactions to be automatic, not reasoned. He only hoped the boy was adding a bit of description about his recalcitrant customer. When it was all over, he promised, he would manage to apologize in some fashion—write them it was part of Candid Camera, or something. There was a pause in the rattling noise, a sharp ring, and then the stuttering returned. Kek waited, giving every indication of impatience. At long last the young man emerged from the back room. He was weak with relief.
The Tricks of the Trade Page 15
