The Tricks of the Trade

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “We’ve located your suitcase, sir. It was ticketed for Amsterdam. How, we don’t know, but they have it at Schiphol, sir.”

  If he expected this news to transform the terrible-tempered client across the counter from him, he was doomed to disappointment.

  “And what am I supposed to do? Run up to Schiphol and claim it?”

  “Oh, no, sir!” The young man was shocked at the very idea. “We’ll fly it back on the first plane—”

  “And I’m supposed to wait for it here? My dear young man, I have a plane to Barcelona that leaves in less than two hours. TWA flight one eighty-six. Can you fly my bag back here before I embark?”

  The young man’s face fell. And everything had been going along so well, too! “I’m afraid not, sir.” Suddenly he brightened, coming up with the suggestion seconds before Kek would have led him to it. “But we could fly it to Barcelona from Schiphol, sir. You could pick it up there.”

  Huuygens considered this possibility. His face clearly indicated that he wasn’t overjoyed at the prospect of continuing on without his bag, but there seemed to be no other solution.

  “Well, all right,” he said at last with poor grace. “But do me a favor; put on that teletype the fact that I fully intend to carry this matter farther! It’s pretty bad when a paying customer has to go chasing all over an airport to get his bag, simply because of the errors of someone else someplace else!”

  “You won’t have to chase around, sir. We’ll have a representative bring it to you in the international division, sir. It’s where you arrive when you get into Barcelona from Lisbon. Between immigration and customs, sir. You’ll be paged, sir.”

  “I know where it is! This isn’t the first trip I’ve ever made, you know!” Kek said testily. “Well, if that’s the best you can do.… Get back to your teletype and tell them to send it to Barcelona, or they’ll have it in Beirut, or someplace equally outlandish! And you can definitely inform your management that they haven’t heard the last of this matter, believe me!”

  He turned away abruptly without a word of thanks for the young man who had located his suitcase. The clerk sighed, shook his head, and went back to his teletype to beg the folks in Amsterdam to please for God’s sake get the maniac’s bag on the first plane to Barcelona. Then he put through the call letters for Barcelona to give instructions and commiseration to the poor devil there who had to deliver the suitcase to this unreasonable customer.

  Kek climbed the steps to the balcony and walked out onto the terrace. He still had over an hour for his plane, and a drink would taste good and take the savor of his play-acting away. He sat down at a table and waved for a waiter.

  So far, so good. His widely traveled suitcase was about to be shipped off to Barcelona while he would shortly take off for Madrid. He shook his head sadly, but his eyes twinkled. What a way to run an airline!

  Trans World Airlines flight number 186 banked sharply in the high, cold air, moving into its landing pattern for Barajas Airport in Madrid. Above the tilted wing Kek could see the mountains, snow-capped and formidable, looming to the north. The plane straightened for its final leg; the city of Madrid tipped straight in the distance. Madrid, seen from the air, gave the appearance of a walled encampment; the apartment buildings marched to the end of the wide avenues and then stopped abruptly. There appeared to be no suburbs as other cities had, no gradual dwindling of structure or tone of neighborhood, no increase in vegetation. Madrid, Kek always thought, looked as if it had been made by some gigantic chef in the form of a huge brick-colored five-layer cake, with the chef, his creation finished and neatly trimmed, wiping away the excess dough.

  The plane touched down on the high plateau, rolling to a stop before the terminal. Kek awaited his turn to leave the plane, not overly surprised at the sharp chill in the air. October in Madrid was vastly different in temperature from October in Lisbon; here winter came early and stayed long. He wished he had brought along a topcoat but then reflected it would merely have been one more piece of clothing for the Madrid customs people to maul and wrinkle. Anita complained enough as it was about the condition of his clothes when he returned from a trip.

  He descended the steep aluminum steps and followed the straggling line of passengers into the terminal building, grateful for the heat provided even this early in the cold season. With the others he stood patiently in line at immigration and received, eventually, the usual stamp to add to the already large collection in his passport. With a sigh at the inevitability of the search he knew would be forthcoming, he walked into customs and handed his passport to the first inspector he saw, prepared for the worst.

  He was not disappointed. The inspector he had selected, he suspected, had been passed over once for advancement and was determined not to have it happen again, if dedication to his job could prevent it. He went about his task of searching Kek with a thoroughness and eagerness equal to anything Huuygens had encountered anywhere before. Still, he was sure that with any other inspector the result would have been the same; it was an occupational hazard with him. By the time the enthusiastic inspector reluctantly gave up and allowed Kek to leave the little private office, the other passengers had all cleared customs and left the depressing area deserted, the luggage counters twisted and littered with tags and papers. Kek walked into the terminal lobby, straightening his jacket and consulting his wristwatch.

  Six in the evening, Madrid time. Almost twenty hours since he had left Ezeiza in Buenos Aires, and still more time to be spent and work to be done. The thought of a hot shower, followed by a good meal both preceded and accompanied by Don Carlos Primero, was pleasant to contemplate, but unfortunately the schedule did not permit. Ah, well, he said to himself, nobody forced you to take up smuggling as a career.… He sighed and walked over to the KLM counter, prepared to carry on his charade. A young man moved over to take care of Kek and his problem; he might have been a brother to the one in Lisbon. Kek felt sorry for the whole family.

  “Sir?”

  “A suitcase,” Kek said with a weariness not all simulated. “The name is Huuygens.”

  The clerk frowned uncertainly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “A suitcase,” Kek repeated, his voice a trifle sharper. “A brown suitcase in a plaid canvas cover. With an identification tag under the handle. Clearly marked with my name, which happens to be Huuygens.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you mean you left it here with someone? I don’t believe I’ve seen any suitcase—”

  “No!” Kek shook his head impatiently. “Listen carefully,” he said, speaking distinctly and spacing his words in a manner used with the hard-of-hearing or the mentally deficient. “I flew from Buenos Aires to Lisbon by KLM, flight number eight thirty-two. I arrived in Lisbon around noon or a little before. My suitcase did not. I complained to the KLM people in Lisbon. They checked by teletype and verified that some idiot somewhere along the line had apparently mis-tagged my bag and that it had gone on to Amsterdam. They said they would fly it to Madrid so that it would be here when I arrived. I have now arrived. I am asking for my bag.” He studied the young man carefully, as if to make sure his masterful and cogent exposition had not been wasted. “Do you have the faintest idea of what I’m talking about?” he asked curiously.

  The young man shook his head. “They were going to send your suitcase here to Madrid? We’ve heard nothing about it.” A thought occurred to him. “It would have been held between immigration and customs—”

  “I just came through there,” Kek said.

  “Yes, sir. I would have known, anyway.…” The young man shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir.”

  Kek visibly forced down his anger, sighing in frustration instead. He ran his hand through his thick, curly hair, pounded it softly on the counter, and looked about the lobby as if seeking some reason to control himself. It was too much! This massive demonstration of absolute, complete disorganization was not to be tolerated! He brought his eyes back to the pale youth waiting on the other side of the counter.<
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  “Tell me,” Kek said quietly, the totality of his irritation now plainly beyond a mere exhibition of temper, “what does it take to get one’s luggage from your company? Dynamite? Blackmail? A personal acquaintanceship with a director? Don’t be afraid—tell me and I’ll try to arrange it.”

  The young man’s face was red. “They always let us know about luggage that has gone astray and is being sent to us, sir,” he said. “We have to see it’s picked up from the stewardess and held at the customs barrier. And we’ve had no—”

  “—word about a suitcase for me,” Kek finished. “And there’s been more than ample time for it to have arrived.” He nodded and leaned forward confidentially, his voice quiet. “Tell me something: Do you suppose your people in Amsterdam would be greatly disturbed if we broke an apparent rule and teletyped them to ask WHAT IN HELL THEY’VE DONE WITH MY SUITCASE?”

  The young man jumped back from the blast, his face white.

  “No, sir,” he said hurriedly. “I’m sorry. I’ll get right on the teletype to them and find out what’s happened.”

  “Thank you,” Kek said courteously. “And tell them that I’m a patient man but my patience is fraying. As are the cuffs of my shirt, and if I get some rare skin ailment from wearing it endlessly, I shall sue them for my doctor bills. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll tell them.…”

  “Thank you,” Kek said politely and watched the young man escape into the rear room of the airline section. He was sorry to be so brusque, but there was nothing else for it. He stopped worrying about it and wandered over to buy a Paris-Match to pass the time. He came back and leaned on the counter top, reading the inevitable article in that magazine on mountain climbing; he had come to the usual statistics on comparative avalanche damage, when the young man sidled up on the other side of the counter and cleared his throat. He was bearing a strip of yellow paper torn from the teletype machine and he looked as if he were on his way to the dentist.

  “Sir …”

  Kek looked up from the magazine article; this year Chamonix had managed to outdo Kandersteg in both damage and deaths. French pride was assuaged. “Yes?”

  “There’s apparently been some—” The young man faltered on the word “mistake.” Still, “error” would be no better, and he was sure that a reprise of “mis-tagged” would bring down the vaulted ceiling. He swallowed painfully. “Your bag is just coming into Barcelona on a plane now, sir.…”

  Kek stared at him, utterly stunned. The magazine lay forgotten.

  “May I ask what it’s doing in Barcelona? You did say Barcelona, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. I don’t know, sir. I mean, they sent it there.”

  “They sent it there. To Barcelona. Where it’s coming in to land. And where it will wait.” Kek’s voice was conversational. “Tell me, since I have neither immediate nor long-range plans for visiting Barcelona, how long do you think my bag will wait for me before it decides it’s tired of waiting and just goes off?”

  The sarcasm did not further unnerve the young clerk; he was beyond that. His voice had a tone of quiet desperation, as if he were merely waiting for his shift to end so he could go somewhere and get drunk.

  “I’m sorry about the difficulty, sir, but it’s only an hour’s flight from Barcelona to Madrid, sir. We don’t fly that leg, but Iberia has frequent flights, almost every hour. I’m sure I can arrange to have your bag here in Madrid in three or four hours at the most.”

  Kek smiled grimly. His gray eyes narrowed but did not leave the other’s face.

  “My entire life is being directed for me by one small suitcase and one large group of incompetents!” He straightened up, tapping the folded Paris-Match dangerously in one palm for emphasis. “I have an important appointment in Aragon—in Zaragoza, to be exact—and my flight leaves in exactly thirty minutes. As you know, Iberia does not have flights to Zaragoza every hour; this is the last flight today. To miss this flight would mean—”

  “Could I ask where you go from Zaragoza, sir?”

  Kek stared at him in astonishment.

  “Are you suggesting I give up my business and take on the profession of chasing my suitcase? Or that I spend the rest of my life in this shirt as a penance for traveling on your airline? Or that—that—” He gave up, shaking his head in amazement at the implied suggestion. “This is truly unbelievable!”

  There was a moment’s silence; then the young man cleared his throat.

  “Possibly we could get your suitcase to you in Zaragoza, sir. Iberia flies there from Barcelona—”

  “They do?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do they have any more flights today?”

  “One moment, sir.…” An official airline guide was unearthed and leafed through. The boy’s moving finger slid down a column and paused. He looked up in obvious relief. “They only have one flight, sir, but it’s an evening one. They could still make it today.…”

  Kek looked at him. “Well! Do you suppose your company can manage to get my suitcase to Iberia for its flight without shipping it to Zanzibar or Chicago this time?” The young man stood silent, watching the man across from him as if paralyzed. Kek broke up the coma. “Does your teletype run itself? Or would your expertise be of any help?”

  “Yes, sir,” the young man mumbled and staggered away.

  Kek returned to his Paris-Match. He finished the article on mountain disasters, the one on the latest fashions (pant-suit bikinis for winter wear), and was starting on the normal explanation of France’s failure in World Cup football when the young man returned. He seemed to be sleepwalking.

  “Your bag is just coming off our Amsterdam-Barcelona flight now, sir. They’ll be able to catch the Iberia flight to Zaragoza, sir. It will be waiting for you when you arrive, I’m sure,” he said in a dazed fashion.

  “Thank you,” Kek said politely and nodded abruptly. He marched off, carrying the folded Paris-Match like a colorful baton, moving toward the doorway leading to the bar.

  Still half an hour to go, and it might as well be spent usefully. And he really had to write a letter to KLM one of these days apologizing for his conduct, he thought with a smile, and pushed into the dimness of the cocktail lounge while visions of cognac danced in his head.

  Kek hadn’t known that DC-3’s were still flying, and he was inordinately pleased a little less than an hour after leaving Madrid to know that the same number were as had been when he left the capital. Happy and slightly surprised, he climbed from the small plane, deafened and shaken but all in one piece, and made for the small building that served Zaragoza as terminal, weather station, taxi stand, and sightseeing object for local residents. It was many years since Kek had found himself at a small airport, but if his scheme actually worked, as it had every indication of doing, he promised himself that small airports would see him frequently. Until the word got out that Kek Huuygens was traveling to small airports, of course, at which time a new ploy would be required. He had no doubt that at that time a new ploy would be invented.

  He followed the other three passengers into the building, basking in the warmth of the evening, now that the high plateau of Madrid had been left. A small counter in one corner advertised Iberia Airlines, and he made his way to it. It was deserted. He rapped on it a bit sharply. A wizened old man came from behind the coffee counter and walked over, drying his hands on an apron. His face was dark with distaste. This time Kek was politeness itself.

  “I beg your pardon, but the Iberia clerk—”

  “That’s me. What d’you want?”

  “A suitcase was supposed to be delivered here for me? By Iberia, from Barcelona?” And wouldn’t it be too bad if KLM really made a mistake this time and his suitcase was on its way to Madagascar or someplace?

  “Your name Huuygens?”

  Kek did not allow the sweep of relief to show on his face. “Yes.”

  “Boys who delivered it said you’ve been giving the kids from KLM a pretty rough time along the line,” the
old man said. He didn’t look pleased with the man facing him; it was true that as Iberia’s agent in Zaragoza he did not hold as glamorous a position as agents in bigger cities, but he felt a kinship with the others. “Not their fault a suitcase gets lost, you know.…”

  Kek smiled at him. The perfect answer occurred to him.

  “Tell the boys to pass the word back along the line that I’m an inspector with KLM. I was merely checking the politeness and efficiency of the boys. They all passed with flying colors,” he added, the smile still on his face. “My suitcase?”

  The old man was far from mollified with the explanation. To his mind inspectors were as bad as complaining customers—worse, in fact. Stool pigeons, the lot of them.

  “My suitcase,” Kek repeated. The smile was becoming strained.

  “Well, all right.…” The old man bent down behind the counter, tugging. The case came up; he set it on the counter, his hand still on it as if for protection.

  “Thank you,” Kek said evenly and picked it from the old man’s hands. He nodded once in thanks and walked outside.

  And that was that. It had been just as simple as he had envisioned. Merely have his suitcase chase him from airport to airport until it caught up with him at a local airport without customs service.…

  15

  A car’s lights flashed on from the parking lot; there was the sound of a motor catching, an engine revving up. The car’s lights backed out and turned, swinging about the lot, illuminating it, and then drawing closer. The car pulled up before the entrance and André leaned over, opening the door. Kek slid in, placed the suitcase on the backseat next to its mate, and slammed the door. André grinned at him and gunned the car down the driveway, heading for their inn.

  “Any trouble?”

  “None,” Kek said wearily. “It went just about as scheduled.” He sighed. “I’d better not travel on KLM for a while, though. I have a feeling I’m not in their best graces.” He looked across the car. “Did you get us rooms?”