Robert L. Fish

The Hochmann Miniatures

This book is affectionately dedicated

to my brother- and sister-in-law

DR. AND MRS. MORRIS ABRAMS

Book One

1

The year was 1954, the month was September, and the weather was hot.

Claude Devereaux, one of the large and overworked staff of customs inspectors at the incoming-passenger section of Orly airport, tilted his stiff-brimmed cap back from his sweating forehead, leaned over to scrawl an indecipherable chalkmark on the suitcase before him, and then straightened up, wondering what imbecile had designed the uniform he wore, and if the idiot had ever suffered its heavy weight on a hot day. He nodded absently to the murmured thank you of the released passenger and turned to his next customer, automatically accepting the passport thrust at him, wondering if there might still be time after his shift to stop for a bière before going home. Probably not, he thought with a sigh, and brought his attention back to business.

He noted the name in the green booklet idly, and was about to ask for declaration forms, when he suddenly stiffened, the oppressive heat — and even the beer — instantly forgotten. The bulletins on the particular name he was staring at filled a large portion of his special-instruction book. His eyes slid across the page to the smiling, rather carefree photograph pasted beside the neat signature, and then raised slowly and wonderingly to study the person across the counter.

He saw a man he judged to be in his early or middle thirties, a bit above medium height, well dressed in the latest and most expensive fashion of the boulevardier, with broad shoulders that seemed just a trifle out of proportion with his otherwise slim and athletic body. The thick, curly hair, a bit tousled by a rather bumpy ride over the Alps, was already lightly touched with gray; it gave a certain romantic air to the strong, clean-shaven face below. Mercurial eyebrows slanted abruptly over gray eyes that, the official was sure, undoubtedly proved very attractive to women. He came to himself with a start; at the moment those gray eyes were beginning to dissipate their patience under the other’s blatant inspection. Claude Devereaux suspected — quite rightly — that those soft eyes could become quite cold and hard if the circumstances warranted. He bent forward with a diffident smile, lowering his voice.

“M’sieu Huuygens...”

The man before him nodded gravely. “Yes?”

“I am afraid...”

“Afraid of what?” Kek Huuygens asked curiously.

The official raised his shoulders, smiling in a slightly embarrassed manner, although the glint in his eyes was anything but disconcerted.

“Afraid that I must ask you to step into the chief inspector’s office,” he said smoothly, and immediately raised his palms, negating any personal responsibility. “Those are our instructions, m’sieu.”

“Merde! A nuisance!” The gray eyes studied the official thoughtfully a moment, as if attempting to judge the potential venality of the other. “I don’t suppose there is any other solution?”

“M’sieu?”

“No, I suppose not.” The notion was dismissed with an impatient shake of the head. “Each and every time I come through French customs! Ridiculous!” He shrugged. “Well, I suppose if one must, one must.”

“Exactly,” Devereaux agreed politely. What a story to tell his wife! No less a scoundrel than the famous Kek Huuygens himself had come through his station in customs, and had actually tried to bribe him! Well, not exactly to bribe him, but there had been an expression in those gray eyes for a moment that clearly indicated... The inspector dismissed the thought instantly. If his wife thought for one minute that he had turned down a bribe, she would never let him hear the end of it. Better just tell her... He paused. Better say nothing at all, he thought sourly, feeling somehow deprived of something, and then became aware that he was being addressed. He came to attention at once. “M’sieu?”

“The chief inspector’s office? If you recall?”

“Ah, yes! If m’sieu will just follow me...”

“And about my luggage?”

“Your luggage?” Claude Devereaux looked along the now vacant wooden counter, instantly brought from his dream, immediately on the alert. The bulletins had been most definite about this one! Watch him! Watch him constantly! Watch his every move! His eyes returned to the man before him suspiciously.

“You mean your briefcase? Or is there more?”

“It’s all I have, but it’s still my luggage.” Kek suddenly smiled at the other confidingly, willing to let bygones be bygones, accepting the fact that the inspector was merely doing his job. “I prefer to travel light, you know. A toothbrush, a clean pair of socks, a fresh shirt...” He looked about easily, as if searching out a safe spot where no careless porter might inadvertently pick up the briefcase and deposit it unbidden at the taxi-rank, or where someone with less honest intent might not steal it. “If I might leave it someplace out of the way...”

The official glanced at the high-vaulted ceiling with small attempt to hide his amusement, and then looked down again. Really, there had to be some way he could tell this story to his wife, or at least to his girl friend! It was just too delicious! He shook his head pityingly.

“I’m afraid, m’sieu, that your briefcase must go with you to the chief inspector’s office.” He brightened falsely. “In fact, I’ll even carry it for you.”

“You’re very kind,” Huuygens murmured, and followed along.

Charles Dumas, chief inspector of the Orly section, looked up from his cluttered desk at the entrance of the two men, leaned back in his chair with resignation, and audibly sighed. Today, obviously, he should have stayed home, or, better yet, gone to the club. The small office was baking in the unusual heat of the morning; the small fan droning in one corner was doing so without either enthusiasm or effectiveness; he was beginning to get a headache from the tiny print which somehow seemed to be the only font size available to the printing office, and now this! He accepted the proffered passport in silence, indicated with the merest motion of his head where he wished the briefcase deposited, and dismissed Inspector Devereaux with the tiniest lifting of his eyebrows. Even these efforts seemed to exhaust him; he waited until the disappointed inspector had reluctantly closed the door behind him, and then riffled through the pages of the passport. He paused at the fresh immigration stamp and then looked up with a faint grimace.

“M’sieu Huuygens...”

Kek seated himself on the one wooden chair the small office offered its guests, wriggled it a bit to make sure it was secure, and then looked up, studying the other’s face. He leaned back, crossing his legs, and shook his head.

“Really, Inspector,” he said a bit plaintively, “I fail to understand the expression on your face. It appears to me if anyone has reason to be aggrieved, it’s me. This business of a personal interview each time I come through customs...”

“Please.” A pudgy hand came up wearily, interrupting. The chief inspector sighed and studied the passport almost as if he had never seen one before. “So you’ve been traveling again?”

“Obviously.”

“To Switzerland this time, I see.” The dark eyes came up from the booklet, inscrutable. “A rather short trip, was it not?”

Kek tilted his chair back against the wall, crossing his arms, resigning himself to the inevitable catechism. “Just a weekend.”

“On business?”

“To avoid the heat of Paris for a few days, if you must know.”

“I see...” The chief inspector sighed again. “And I also see that you have nothing to declare. But, then, you seldom do.”

The chair eased down softly. Huuygens considered the inspector quietly for several seconds, and then nodded as if seeing the logic of the other’s position.

“All right,” he said agreeably. “If you people are sincerely interested in a soiled shirt and an old pair of socks, I’ll be happy to declare them. What’s the duty on a used toothbrush?” He suddenly grinned. “Not used as often as the advertisements suggest, but used.”

“I’m quite sure you are as familiar with the duty schedule as anyone in my department,” Inspector Dumas said quietly, and reached for the briefcase, drawing it closer. “May I?”

Without awaiting a reply he undid the straps, pressed the latch, and began drawing the contents out upon the table. He pushed the soiled clothing to one side, opened the shaving kit and studied it a moment, placed it at his elbow, and then reached further into the depths of the briefcase.

“Ah?” His voice was the essence of politeness itself. “And just what might this be?”

“Exactly what it looks like,” Kek said, in the tone one uses to explain an obvious verity to a child. “A box of chocolates.”

The chief inspector turned the package in his hands idly, admiring the patterned wrapping embossed in gold with the name of the shop, and the rather gaudy display of ribbon bent into an ornate bow. “A box of chocolates...” His eyebrows raised in exaggerated curiosity. “Which you somehow feel does not require declaring?”

Huuygens cast his eyes heavenward as if in secret amusement. “Good heavens, Inspector! A box of candy I faithfully promised as a gift to a lady, worth all of twenty Swiss francs!” He shrugged elaborately and came to his feet with a faint smile. “Well, all right. It’s silly, I assure you, but if you wish it declared, I’ll declare it. May I have my form back, please?”

The briefest of smiles crossed Inspector Dumas’s lips, and then was withdrawn as quickly as it had come. He waved a hand languidly. “Please be seated again, M’sieu Huuygens. I’m afraid it is far from being all that simple.”

Huuygens stared at him a moment and then sank back in his chair. “Are you trying to tell me something, Inspector?”

The inspector’s smile returned, broader this time, remaining. “I’m trying to tell you I believe I am beginning to become interested in these chocolates, m’sieu.” His hand remained on the box; his voice was suave. “If I’m not mistaken, m’sieu, while you were in Switzerland yesterday — to avoid the heat of Paris, as you say — you visited the offices of Ankli and Company. The diamond merchants. Did you not?”

Kek’s voice was more curious than perturbed. “And just how did you know that?”

The chief inspector shrugged. “All visitors to diamond merchants are reported, M’sieu Huuygens.” He sounded slightly disappointed. “I should have thought you would have known.”

Huuygens smiled at him. “To be honest, Inspector, it never even occurred to me. I simply went there because M’sieu Ankli is an old friend of mine. We share an interest in—” his smile broadened “—pretty things. In any event, it was purely a personal visit.”

“I’m sure. Probably,” the inspector suggested innocently, “since you were merely avoiding the heat of Paris, you found his offices to be air-conditioned, which undoubtedly helped you serve the purpose of your trip.” He picked the box up again, turning it over, studying it closer. “Suchard’s, I see. A very fine brand. And from the famous Bonbon Mart of Zurich, too. I know the place. Excellent.” His eyes came up, unfathomable. “Caramels?”

“Creams, if you must know,” Huuygens said, and sighed.

“Oh? I prefer caramels, myself. Both, of course, are equally fattening. I hope the lady realizes that,” the inspector added, and began to slip the ribbon over one corner of the box.

“Now, really!” Huuygens leaned forward, holding up a hand. “The lady in question has nothing to fear from fat, Inspector. Or from slimness, either. However, I rather think she would prefer to receive her chocolates with the minimum of fingerprints, if you don’t mind.”

“My personal opinion,” said Inspector Dumas, sounding honest for the first time, “is that she will never see these chocolates,” and he folded back the foil-lined wrapper and began to lift the cover of the box.

Kek frowned at him. “I still have the feeling you’re trying to tell me something.”

“I am,” said the inspector succinctly, and placed the cover to one side. He raised the protective bit of embossed tissue covering the contents, stared into the box, and then shook his head in mock horror. “My, my!”

“Now what’s the matter?”

“I’m rather surprised that a house as reputable as the Bonbon Mart would permit chocolates to leave their premises in this condition.” Dumas looked up. “You say your lady friend prefers her chocolates without fingerprints? I’m afraid you should have explained that to the clerk who put these up...”

Huuygens snorted. “With your permission, Inspector, now you are just being ridiculous! Those are chocolates, and nothing more. Creams!” he added, as if the exact designation might somehow return the other to sanity. “And exactly the way they left the store.” He studied the inspector’s face curiously. “How can I convince you?”

“I’m not the one who has to be convinced,” said the chief inspector. He continued to study the contents of the box a moment more, nodding to himself, and then with a sigh at the foibles of mankind, he replaced the tissue and the cover. “I’m afraid it’s our laboratory which requires conviction. And that’s where these chocolates are going.” His eyes came up, steady. “Together, I might add, with your shaving kit.”

“My shaving kit?”

“Tubes, you know,” said the inspector apologetically. “Jars and things...”

“You’re quite sure, of course,” Kek said with a touch of sarcasm, “that the shaving kit isn’t going to one of your sons? And the chocolates to your wife?”

Inspector Dumas grinned at him. “Those chocolates to my wife? I’d fear for her teeth. Which,” he added, his grin fading slightly, “have already cost me a fortune.”

Huuygens sighed. “I only have one question, Inspector. To whom do I send a bill for the value of a practically new shaving kit? Plus, of course, twenty Swiss francs?”

“If you honestly want my opinion,” said the inspector, appearing to have considered the question fairly, “I would suggest you charge it up to profit and loss. After all, once our laboratory is through with its investigation, the cost to m’sieu may be considerably higher.” His voice hardened perceptibly. “And may I add that it would be wise for you not to leave the city until our report is in.”

Huuygens shook his head hopelessly. “I don’t believe you appreciate the position you’re putting me in, Inspector. Extremely embarrassing. How do I prove to the lady that I did not forget her? That I actually did buy her a box of Swiss chocolates, only to lose them to — if you’ll pardon me — the muttonheaded bureaucracy of the French customs?” His voice became sarcastic. “What am I supposed to use for proof? The wrapper?”

“Now that’s not a bad idea,” said the chief inspector approvingly, and grinned at the other’s discomfiture. “It has the name of the shop on it, and if you wish, I’ll even stamp it with the date as further proof.” He checked the briefcase to make sure it was unlined, running his fingers along the seams at the bottom, and then folded the ornate wrapper, stuffing it into the empty space, and shoving the soiled laundry on top of it. He unfolded his stout five-foot-seven and came to his feet, his smile completely gone, his voice once more official. “And now, m’sieu, I’m afraid I must ask you to submit to a personal search.”

Huuygens rose with a hopeless shrug. He ran his hand through his already tousled hair and studied the inspector’s face. “I don’t suppose it would do much good to inform you that I consider a personal search an indignity?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the inspector. “And now, m’sieu...”

“And not only an indignity, but one which becomes boring when it is repeated each time I come through customs?”

“If I might offer a solution,” Inspector Dumas suggested, with a brief return to humor, “it would be for m’sieu to control his wanderlust. In this fashion, of course, the entire problem of customs would be eliminated.”

“We are not amused.” Huuygens shook his head. “Admit one thing, Inspector. Admit that this treatment is unfair in my case — you’ve never once found me in violation of the law. Nor has anyone else.”

“Not yet,” the chief inspector conceded softly. “But one day we shall.” His eyes went to the box of chocolates and then returned a bit smugly. “This — unfair treatment, as you put it — is the penalty one must pay for becoming famous among smugglers as a man who continually manages to outwit us poor crétins of customs inspectors. Or so, at least, we hear...”

His smile disappeared, wiped out as by a huge hand. He became quite businesslike, suddenly aware that time was passing, and of the further fact that — important as M’sieu Huuygens might be — other, lesser, smugglers might even now be requiring his attention.

“And now, m’sieu — your coat first, please. If I may?”

“Just don’t wrinkle it,” Huuygens requested, and began to remove his jacket.

2

Jimmy Lewis, by his own account the greatest roving reporter his New York newspaper maintained in Paris — a statement difficult to dispute, since he was the only one — leaned against one corner of a news kiosk in the main concourse of Orly airport, glancing through a magazine devoted in the main to pictures of bosomy girls and ads for Lonely Hearts clubs. He was a beanpole of a young man, with sandy hair and eyes that were surprisingly innocent considering some of the things he had looked upon in his life, including the magazine he had in his hand at the moment. He towered over the hurrying crowd that swept past him; the ever-present camera and raincoat slung over his shoulder were as much a uniform for him as the butcher jacket and cap were for the kiosk attendant who was eyeing him malevolently.

Jimmy finished studying the last of the revealing photographs of mammary exaggeration, and idly raised his eyes in time to see Kek Huuygens emerge from the escalator leading from the customs section below, moving purposefully in the direction of the taxi-rank. It was impossible not to recognize that stride; Huuygens always walked with his wide shoulders thrust forward, as if he were pushing his way through a blocking crowd. With an exclamation of surprised delight, Jimmy dropped the magazine on the rack and took a loping course calculated to intercept the other somewhere in the vicinity of the lower-level restaurant. The kiosk attendant retrieved the magazine, muttering something indubitably Gallic and undoubtedly impolite; he seemed to feel that people should either pay for magazines, or at least have the decency to return them to their proper stall.

Jimmy caught up with his quarry, shifted the load on his shoulder expertly, and grinned down genially.

“Hi, Kek. How’ve you been?”

Huuygens looked up; his preoccupied expression changed to a smile. “Hello, Jimmy. As a matter of fact, I’ve been better.” He noted the raincoat and camera. “Are you coming or going?”

“Coming,” Jimmy said, and tilted his head vaguely toward the concourse. “I was down at Marseilles on another wild-goose chase. Why my editor has such a thing for missing persons, I’ll never know. I could have been covering the tennis matches, or at least staying home with my feet on the windowsill. Or on my neighbor, a gorgeous dame, who looks like she’d make a great footrest.” He grinned. “Right now I’m waiting for them to either bring my luggage out or admit frankly they lost it.” A thought occurred to him. “How about a drink? I’ll drive you home afterward, if I ever find my stuff.”

Huuygens checked his watch and then nodded. “All right. I’d love one. I’ve got to make a phone call first, but I’ll meet you in the bar.”

“Fair enough. But let’s make it the bar upstairs. Too many women in this one.”

The mercurial eyebrows raised. “And what’s wrong with women?”

“They cadge drinks,” Jimmy informed him in solemn tones, and turned away, moving toward the staircase, grinning with pleasure. Huuygens was not only an old friend, he was also one of Jimmy Lewis’s favorite people. Their habit of running into each other at odd times and strange places intrigued them both; and in the past some of Kek’s exploits had furnished him with good copy, mainly because Huuygens trusted the other to keep information to himself when requested.

Jimmy mounted the steps two at a time, pushed through the door, and found an empty table that was protected from the vaulted concourse below by draped curtains that lined the windows of the room. He pushed aside the heavy cloth, staring down a moment, and then allowed the folds to fall back as a waiter approached.

By the time Huuygens joined him, two drinks were already waiting on the table. Kek dropped his briefcase onto a third chair already accommodating the camera and raincoat, and sank down, reaching for his glass. He raised it in the brief gesture of a toast and then drank deeply. There was a satisfied smile on his face as he replaced the glass on the table.

“Ah! That’s much better.”

Jimmy studied him with less sympathy than curiosity. “Have the big, bad men downstairs in customs been giving my little boy Kek a bad time again?”

Huuygens nodded solemnly, but his eyes were twinkling. “They have.”

“I see.” Jimmy twisted his glass idly, and then raised his eyes. “And would you like to tell Daddy all about it?”

“Not yet,” Kek said calmly, and raised his glass once again.

Jimmy was far from ready to concede defeat; he had had to wheedle stories from Huuygens before. “Do you mean not yet meaning never? Or not yet like the girl in The Young Man On The Flying Trapeze’?”

“The girl in the what?” Huuygens stared at him.

“I keep forgetting you weren’t born in America,” Jimmy said, shaking his head. “This girl I refer to was in a song. The exact line goes something like this: da-dum, tum-tum, dadum, something, something, and then ends up: ‘But, gee, folks, I loved her, I offered my name; I said I’d forgive and forget — She rustled her bustle and then without shame, she said, Maybe later, not yet.’”

Huuygens laughed. “A hussy.”

“Definitely,” Jimmy agreed equably. “Indubitably. Meaning without a shadow of doubt.” He studied his friend. “Well? Which not yet is it? Maybe later, or never?”

Huuygens appeared to think about it. “Maybe later, I think. When the proper time comes.”

“Good. Or anyway, better than never.” Jimmy finished his drink and dragged aside the thick curtain, peering down. His eyes lit up. “I do believe they’ve finally decided to give up the loot. There’s a blonde down there I saw on the plane, and the dear, sweet thing is laden with luggage. On the offhand chance that they aren’t just handing out suitcases to beautiful blondes, I think I ought to go down and get mine.” He set his glass aside. “Unless you’d like another?”

“No. I’ll continue my drinking at home. I’m expecting a guest who’s usually thirsty.”

“Ah. Tough luck. Well, in that case I’ll pick up my bag and meet you in the parking lot. You know my car.” Jimmy smiled brightly. “To show you I’m not angry, I’ll even let you pay for the drinks. You can call it taxi fare to your apartment on your income tax.”

“Thank you endlessly,” Kek said politely. He grinned at the other and raised his hand for the waiter.

In the parking lot Jimmy tossed his bag, camera, and raincoat into the rear seat of his battered Volkswagen, and somehow managed to squeeze himself behind the wheel while Kek got in the other side and pulled the door shut. Jimmy released the clutch with his normal exuberance and they roared from the drive, turning into the traffic heading for the city. Kek kept his heels pressed tightly against the floorboard; Jimmy had a tendency to brake at frequent and inexplicable times.

He swooped around a truck laden with lumber, passed between two motorcycles racing with each other, and turned to Kek, grinning cheerfully. “Hey? Did you see my new camera?”

Kek refused to take his eyes from the road. “I didn’t notice.”

“It’s a beauty. I finally got a decent Graphic Super Speed 45 from the skinflints in the New York office. It used to take two porters to carry the ancient monster I had.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. And a lovely camera it is, too.”

“Why? Did you get some good pictures in Marseilles?”

“Sure. Of the town in general plus a couple of good shots of the docks.” Jimmy grinned. “I get sent off on these idiotic assignments and I’m supposed to cable back something that sounds like I know what I’m doing. Which is usually difficult.”

“Why?”

“Because, my friend, assignment cables cost money, so my dear editor tries to economize. Net result: confusion. Half the time I have no clue of what they want me to do. However, by also cabling some decent pictures, and filing enough ‘alleged’s’ — and keeping my fingers crossed — I manage to keep the brass from adding me to the unemployed.”

Kek smiled. “You mean your editor is that easily satisfied?”

“Who? My editor?” Jimmy stared at his passenger as if he were mad; traffic zipped by as his attention was diverted. He looked back to the road just in time to neatly avoid a head-on collision with a three-wheeled camionette. “I said I managed to avoid being fired. My dear editor wouldn’t be satisfied with an exclusive scoop on the secret formula for Beaujolais de Texas.”

“Whatever that is.”

Jimmy grinned. “In the bars I patronize, it’s the name given to Coca-Cola.” He suddenly braked, swung into the Avenue de Neuilly, and jammed down on the accelerator, all, seemingly, in the same motion. “And in case you want to know the reason for this long dissertation, I’ll tell you. I need some news.”

Kek glanced at him. “Why tell me?”

“Because things happen to you, my friend. Or you make them happen.” He spun the wheel without slackening speed; they shot around the Porte Maillot, nearly hitting an old man on a bicycle. Jimmy selected the Allée des Fortifications and raced on. His eyes came around again. “How about breaking down and giving me something I can use?”

Huuygens smiled. “I’ll think about it.”

“I wish you would,” Jimmy said, and sighed. “I like Paris, and I’d hate to be transferred.” He thought a moment. “Or fired.” He swung into the Avenue du Maréchal Favolle, cut between a station wagon and a speeding car, and slammed on his brakes, slewing to a squealing halt before Kek’s apartment. “Voila, m’sieu.”

Kek climbed out and retrieved his briefcase, then leaned in at the window. “Jimmy,” he said thoughtfully, “have you ever thought of doing a piece on the dangerous driving here in Paris?”

Jimmy shook his head. “I know French drivers are the worst in the world,” he said sincerely, “but you’d never convince my editor. He lives in Jersey.” He raised a hand. “Well, ta-ta. And don’t forget I need some news.”

“I won’t,” Huuygens promised. He watched Jimmy shoot into traffic, narrowly missing an irate cabdriver, and then turned with a smile into his apartment building.

His smile disappeared as soon as he entered the cab of the elevator; the little old man who operated the lift opened his mouth to greet him, but one look at the rigid features and he closed it again. Kek left the elevator at his floor, unlocked his apartment door, and closed it behind him. He dropped his briefcase on a chair and crossed the dim room to the balcony, throwing open the doors there, stepping out.

The view overlooking the Bois de Boulogne was lovely, with the stained tile roofs and their multiple searching fingers of chimney pots lost in the shimmering haze of distance beyond the green cover of the forest. The scented breeze brought with it the sharp, impatient blare of automobile horns, mixed with the delighted screams of playing children, and the admonishing cries of their exasperated nursemaids. He looked down. Below the balcony in the shadow of the tall apartment building, a small sidewalk cafe served as an oasis for the weary stroller; the colorful umbrellas, seen from above, gave it the appearance of a fanciful garden planted with careless geometry beside the river of asphalt that flowed past.

Paris! he thought, leaning on the filigree railing. A sardonic grin crossed his lips. Where else in the world could I enjoy noisy automobile horns or screaming children? Or rides with drivers like Jimmy Lewis? Or the personal attention of every customs inspector in town? The thought made him grimace; he glanced at his watch and straightened up. Anita was due in a very few minutes, and she was almost never late.

He came back into the apartment, closing the balcony doors behind him softly, as if reluctant to separate himself from the pleasant and uncomplicated life below, and then crossed to the bar in one corner of the elegant room. Two glasses were taken down from a shelf, inspected, and then meticulously wiped: his day-maid — poor, pretty soul — didn’t consider cleanliness to be a part of housekeeping. He bent and removed an ice tray from the refrigerator hidden beneath the bar sink, placed the cubes in a small silver bucket for readiness, and then took down a bottle of Argentinian brandy for himself and English gin for the lady. And wouldn’t his friends be shocked to see him drink Argentinian brandy in France! Oh, well — they just didn’t know. They also didn’t know the advantages of having friends in the import trade, he thought with a grin, and was just reaching for the Seltzer bottle when the doorbell rang. He wiped his hands on a towel, hung it back in place, and walked to the door, swinging it wide in welcome.

“Hello, Anita.”

“Kek! Darling!” The young lady facing him was smiling in unalloyed delight. “How have you been?”

She came up on tiptoe to meet his height, presenting her lips half-parted, her blonde hair a delicate swirl that hid her beautiful face, her wonderful figure outstretched. Kek embraced her warmly, holding her tightly, feeling her full curves cushion against him, smelling the rich fragrance of her perfume, and enjoying the titillation of his senses fully. Behind them, in the foyer, there was a romantic sigh from the elderly elevator operator peering through a crack in the lift door, a sharp click as the doors were finally and reluctantly closed, and then the grinding whine of cable against drum as the elevator cab began to descend. Kek pulled away from the embrace, grinning broadly.

“Very good, Anita.”

Anita made the motion of a curtsy. “Thank you, sir.” She walked quite matter-of-factly into the apartment, fanning herself with one hand. “What a day! I’m dying of thirst!” Her blonde head tipped toward the door in curiosity. “I love these greetings, Kek — and I wish you loved them half as much — but, really! When you called me today, I couldn’t imagine why you wanted me to put on such a show just for the benefit of the elevator operator.”

“Because he’s new,” Kek said.

“You mean, you want to break him in properly?”

Kek laughed. “No. Because I’m sure he’s being paid by the police to keep an eye on me.” He moved back of the bar, busying himself with their drinks.

Anita seated herself on a barstool with a swirl of skirt that momentarily displayed long and beautiful legs, set her purse on another, and then reached for the cigarette box. She took one and lit it with a tiny lighter, blowing smoke, and then proceeded to remove tobacco from her tongue with the tip of her fingernail. This normal ritual attended to, she looked at him archly.

“And if he is being paid by the police, what of it? And why the necessity of a mad love scene in front of him? What are they after you for? Celibacy?”

Kek laughed again and handed her her drink. They clicked glasses, smiled at each other in true affection, and then tasted their drinks. Kek nodded in appreciation of the heady body of the brandy, and shook his head.

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s simply that they’re expecting me to have a visit from a lovely lady today, and you’re that lady.”

“Wonderful! I like being your lovely lady. Only—” Anita took a sip of her drink and set it down “—it would be nice if you didn’t have to be pressured by the police into asking to kiss me.”

Kek grinned. “They only think they pressured me. Actually, they don’t even think that.”

“Whatever that means,” Anita said, and looked at him pensively as a further thought struck her. “And just why did the police expect you to have a visit from a lovely lady today?”

“Because I told the customs that I had brought her some chocolates from Switzerland, and naturally...”

Anita shook her head disconsolately. “You make less and less sense as you go on, but I suppose I should be used to it by now. And anyway, I’d forgive you almost anything for chocolates. What kind are they?”

“They aren’t, I’m afraid,” Kek said ruefully. “Or if they still are, by this time they’ve been so mauled, pinched, poked at, X-rayed, and generally examined with the fabled efficiency of the police laboratory, that I doubt if anyone would want to eat them.” He grinned and raised his eyes heavenward. “And may Allah give them sticky fingers for their nasty suspicions!”

“Amen,” Anita said devoutly, and set her glass down firmly. “And speaking of nasty suspicions, who were you bringing those chocolates back for? Which lovely lady? Because I’m sure it wasn’t me.”

Huuygens’s eyes twinkled. “Jealous?”

“Very.” Her violet eyes stared into his seriously.

“Well,” Kek said slowly, his big hand twisting his glass on the bar to form a series of damp circles, “in this case you needn’t be. Because while I didn’t realize it at the time, it seems I was actually bringing them back for a certain Inspector Dumas. Who, believe me, is certainly no lovely lady.”

“And why were you bringing them back for this Inspector Dumas?”

“Because he searched me so nicely,” Kek explained gravely. “Today he was even more careful than usual. Not one single tickle.”

“Kek Huuygens, you are impossible!” Anita shook her head in exasperation and then immediately brought a hand up to check her coiffure. She saw the expression in Kek’s eyes her gesture had triggered, and suddenly grinned. It was a gamin grin that made her look even younger than her twenty-five years. “Well, at least highly improbable. Are you going to tell me what this is all about, or aren’t you?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you,” Kek said with exaggerated patience. “You simply refuse to understand. I returned from Switzerland today, as you know, and the customs searched me, became suspicious of my chocolates — which I had brought as a gift for a lovely lady — and took them away.”

“And I’m the lovely lady you brought them for.”

“Right.”

“I see.” Anita nodded. “And you therefore immediately called me up and asked me to come over and kiss you publicly for the benefit of the elevator operator, just so I could be told that my chocolates were taken in customs. Is that it?”

“To a large extent—”

“But not entirely.” Anita crushed out her cigarette, finished her drink, and set down her glass, eyeing him carefully. “What else did you want this lovely lady to do? Because I’m sure it’s more than that.”

“It is.” Kek finished his drink and set it aside with an air of finality. “I want you to make a delivery for me.”

“A delivery? From your trip today?” He nodded; she frowned at him uncertainly. “But you said they searched you.”

“Oh, they did that, all right.”

“And even took away your chocolates — or rather, my chocolates.”

“They did that, too.”

“Then I don’t understand—”

“What they didn’t take away,” Kek said quietly, “was the wrapper of the box. And that’s what I want you to deliver.”

“The wrapper?”

“That’s right. That’s what I wanted, and they were kind enough to allow me to bring it in. Actually,” Kek added, remembering, “the chief inspector practically forced it on me. Probably doesn’t like his office any more littered than it already is.”

He winked at her, walked over to his desk, and unlatched his briefcase. The soiled clothing went onto a chair; the foil-lined paper from the candy box was carefully extracted and gently smoothed on the desktop. Anita came down from her barstool and crossed the room, looking down.

“What is it?”

Kek smiled proudly. “That, my darling Anita, is the last known page of a particular Bach Cantata, original, in the hand of the master himself. And worth a great deal of money.” As always when he spoke of art objects, there was an undercurrent of excitement in his deep voice; Anita loved to listen to him at such moments. Kek reached for a pen. “I should like you to deliver it to this address...”

He carefully printed a name and street address on a small slip of paper, placed it with the wrapper, and cautiously rolled it into a tube, fastening it with a bit of gummed tape. “Tell this man that the foil and paper peel away quite easily with a slight amount of heat. Not too much, no more temperature than the bare hand can stand. He’ll know. Oh, and tell him the adhesives were very carefully selected. They’ll do the manuscript itself no harm.”

Anita raised her eyes from the small tube on the desk and shook her head in wonder. “You’re fantastic! What would have happened if the customs had kept the wrapping? Or simply thrown it into the wastebasket? I suppose then you’d have had to go out and rob a garbage truck.”

Kek grinned at her. “Not exactly rob one — I’ve become quite friendly lately with the driver who hauls away the trash. Not exactly by accident. A greater tragedy, of course, would have been my disappointment at having wasted one of my better performances.”

“Instead of which you save them for me.” She picked up the tube, placed it in her large purse, and then looked at him, her eyes wide and questioning. “I suppose your man wants his manuscript right away?” Kek nodded. “And will I see you later?”

He shook his head, smiling regretfully. “Not tonight. I have a lot of work to do. But possibly the theater tomorrow night? And then supper?”

“If you wish.” She moved to the door and then paused, turning to study him gravely. “Kek — why do I do these things for you?”

“I don’t know,” Kek said, and smiled. “But I’m glad you do.”

“You know very well why I do them,” Anita said quietly. “I do them because I’m in love with you.”

Kek’s smile disappeared; one hand came up to tug at his earlobe. His eyes were serious and slightly sad. “My dear Anita, I’m honestly sorry to hear you say that. We’ve had fun together, and I had hoped we could keep on having fun. I’m truly fond of you. But love?” He ran a hand through his thick hair and then shrugged. “Why would you want to love me? It certainly has no future.”

“It could have,” she said softly, and stared down at her fingers clasped tightly about her purse. “It could have if you wanted it to.” Her large eyes came up, searching his face intently. “I think I’d be good for you.”

“You’re good for me now,” Kek said, and walked over to her. “Too good for me.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, looking down into her violet eyes, and then bent and gently kissed her forehead. He drew back a bit, studying her face a moment, coming to a decision.

“Anita, let me have that manuscript back. I’ll deliver it myself. I’ve been wrong to involve you in these things as much as I have.”

She tried to smile, but behind the veil of her lashes the pain showed. “You know, Kek, I think that’s the closest you’ve ever come to saying anything truly affectionate to me. No; I’ll deliver it. And I’ll see you tomorrow...” She turned abruptly, opened the door, and closed it quickly behind her. Kek stared at the door panel a moment, and then walked pensively back to the bar.

Married to Anita? He shook his head slowly while he poured another large dose of brandy into his glass. Admittedly, she was everything a man ought to look for in a wife — beautiful, intelligent, passionate; even punctual — but married to anyone? No. Not again. He had tried it once, with Lisa in Brussels, and that had certainly been no solution! The time for a lasting marriage for him had been spoiled forever by the war and the changes it had wrought in places and people; and the woman had been quite another. Too many years had passed since then. And, even more important, his life was not the kind to ask a woman to share. Anita might remain silent about his mode of living, but she would not be happy with it. And why invite anyone to unhappiness, even if they thought they wanted it?

He put the thought of women and marriage from him, added ice to his glass, and was just reaching for the Seltzer bottle when the telephone rang sharply. With an apologetic grimace to his drink for the interruption, he replaced the bottle, walked across the room to his desk, leaned over, and picked up the instrument.

“Yes?”

“M’sieu Huuygens?”

It was a woman’s voice, low and musical, unfamiliar, and made all the more enticing for that. Kek automatically brightened, and then shook his head at himself. No, he thought with a rueful smile, when you react this way you are definitely not ready for marriage. But on that basis, is any man ever ready for marriage?

“Speaking.”

The voice assumed a slightly chilly tone, as if its owner had somehow subtly read his thoughts. “This is long distance, m’sieu. Lisbon is on the wire. One moment please.”

He shrugged philosophically, glancing over at the bar and its nearly prepared drink with regret for not having brought it with him, then moved around the desk to drop into the upholstered chair there, pulling sufficient telephone cord with him. He propped one knee lazily against the edge of the desktop and leaned back, waiting. Lisbon? Who did he know in Lisbon? Nobody in particular that he remembered at the moment, but that meant very little. His acquaintances had a tendency to move from place to place with little or no notice, even as he did himself. Besides, of late, with his burgeoning reputation, his commissions had been coming from many strange cities, and often from people who were even more exotic. And the means by which his clients managed to contact him were sometimes quite involved.

He waited patiently while the telephone indulged itself in a series of weird sounds; they finally faded to be dominated by another feminine voice. This one, however, was neither low nor musical; it also sounded aggrieved at the trouble to which it had been put.

“Lisboa aquí. Senhor Huuygens? Kek Huuygens?” Her pronunciation of his name was atrocious, and her entire tone breathed suspicion. Nobody, she seemed to be saying, could truly have such a name.

Kek shrugged, wondering if this one were married, and if so, how she had ever managed it. “Yes, this is he.”

“One moment, then. Here’s your party, senhor...”

The high, nasal tone was replaced by a man’s voice, so opposite to the other in both depth and clarity that it took a moment for the waiting man to adjust to it. His caller spoke in French, and sounded a bit anxious.

“M’sieu Huuygens? Kek Huuygens?”

One thing is certain, Huuygens thought with growing irritation; nobody receiving a long-distance call should ever forget his own name! “Speaking. Who is this?”

“This?” The deep voice paused a moment, as if assessing the chances of being believed, took a deep and audible breath, and then plunged bravely ahead. “This, M’sieu Huuygens, is a man to whom you owe the sum of one million francs...”

The slightly satanic eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch; the lips quirked in appreciation both of the approach and the amount. “One million francs?”

“We have a good telephone connection, which is not always the case here in Lisbon.” His caller seemed pleasantly surprised, as if his luck with the telephone service might augur well for his mission. The satisfaction disappeared from his tone, instantly replaced by a return to business. “Yes, m’sieu. One million francs. Which I should like to collect as soon as possible.”

“I’m sure.” The gray eyes narrowed slightly; his hand came up to tug at his earlobe. A new means of introduction from someone recommended to him? A bit of cuteness on the part of the police? A fishing excursion? Or just a nut? Still, Huuygens thought, even the insane usually hesitate before paying international telephone rates. And besides, his telephone number was not in the directory.

His voice remained even, conversational. “May one be permitted to enquire just how a debt of this size was incurred?”

The deep voice became accusing, outraged at this evident evasion. “You promised it, m’sieu.”

A slight frown crossed Huuygens’s face. There was something in the vibrant timbre of that heavy voice that teased his memory. Where in the devil had he heard that deep voice before? He shook his head, putting the thought aside for the moment, returning to the matter at hand.

“I did? Then one might think that I would recall the incident. I do not mean to boast, m’sieu, but I am normally quite conscientious about debts, even to grocers, tailors, and bars, and a million francs is a lot of money. I am also quite conscientious about promises, although in general I try to contain them to fairly reasonable amounts.” He shook his head, smiling faintly. “No, m’sieu, I’m afraid you must be mistaken. Or possibly you have the wrong person.”

The voice hardened threateningly. “Don’t try to deny it, Huuygens! It was you, and you did promise it!”

The man at the desk refused to lose his equanimity; the call was beginning to be entertaining. He tugged at his earlobe a moment. “I hesitate to doubt your word, m’sieu, but possibly it might help if you were kind enough to refresh my failing memory. Just when did I promise this amazing sum? And, of course, why did I promise it? And—” his finger dropped from his earlobe to trail lazily along the telephone cord, his voice remained suave “—it would, quite naturally, help to know to whom I promised it.”

There was another deep, audible breath at the other end of the line. “You promised it to me, m’sieu. To be completely factual, you promised it to any one of several of us, but I’m the one that’s claiming it. As to when—” for the first time the voice exhibited hesitancy, as if wondering whether the evidence it was about to offer would be believed “—well, I’ll admit it was a long time ago...”

“Just how long ago?” Kek asked pleasantly.

“Well, almost twelve years ago, as a matter of fact—”

“Twelve years?” The faint, slightly sardonic smile on the face of the man at the desk faded, to be replaced by a frown. He dropped his knee from the edge of the desk and leaned forward, his manner more alert. Where had he been twelve years ago? And where in the devil had he heard that voice before?

“Where did all this take place?”

“Well,” said the deep voice reflectively, “to be exact, it was in the Auvergnes, in the foothills back of Allanche, leading up to Mont Du. And it took place on a rainy, terrible, uncomfortable day; and we were all trying to squeeze ourselves into a cave — if one could not be accused of gross exaggeration in calling that miserable, muddy depression a cave — and you were messing about with the radio...”

Huuygens leaned forward, his gray eyes wide now in excitement, his strong hand gripping the receiver almost fiercely. Of course that deep voice had sounded familiar! Even after all these years, how could he have ever forgotten that voice! My God, was it possible?

“André! André! It’s you!”

“Kek, Kek!” The deep voice was now laughing. “I was afraid there for a moment that your memory of old friends might be as poor as your memory of old promises. However...” In his mind’s eye Huuygens could see the huge man at the other end of the line raising his wide shoulders in a humorous shrug, could see one mammoth hand come up to stroke the thick mustache in delight. “However, if you don’t want to pay your million-franc debt, I don’t suppose there’s much I can do about it.” The voice paused as if considering possible alternatives. “I’ll tell you what — would you consider settling for a drink instead? If I make it something inexpensive?”

“André, you fool! You clown! You actor!” Kek grinned at the telephone in pure enjoyment. “What a performance! I told you years ago you were wasting your talents! How have you been? And where in the devil have you been? And what are you doing in Lisbon?”

“Trying to make a living,” André explained easily. “Unfortunately, a lot of other people here have the same ambition, although I can’t imagine why. I’ve been here for years. Doing what? Well, a little of this and a little of that. And even less of succeeding,” he added, as if wishing to be honest about it. “This is a lovely town, Kek, and the weather and women are incomparable. I can see why ex-kings and dictators come here to retire. But I don’t recommend it for anyone who wants to work up to eating regularly.”

Huuygens leaned on his elbow, shaking his head in wonder, marveling at hearing from André after all these years. One hand pushed through his thick hair and then pressed against his scalp, trying to force the marvel of it through his head.

“My God, it’s good to hear your voice again! How many years has it been? Twelve, you say? Yes, I suppose it actually was. 1942... Time doesn’t fly, it disappears! The last time I saw you — yes, I guess it was that night in the cave. I tried to find all of you later, but they had me chasing around with that damned radio all over the Midi. Or another radio equally damned, all over some other place. Whatever happened to the others? To Georges? And Michel?”

“Michel is here in Lisbon — a big wheel in the police department, yet! Can you imagine it? Michel? But he is... He’s assistant to the chief of detectives, if you can believe it. In fact, he’s become a Portuguese citizen. After what happened to his wife, he didn’t want to stay in France, and one has to live somewhere. He—”

Kek frowned. “What happened to his wife?”

“You didn’t hear? No, I guess not. I heard you went to America right after the war. Well, what happened was that after the war they shaved her head, and I guess she didn’t like it.” The deep voice was even, conversational. “Anyway, that night she went into the bathroom and cut her throat. Not her wrists, mind you, but her throat...”

“My God!”

“Yes,” André said quietly. “It isn’t easy to cut your throat. Not and do a decent job. Yet I understand this was an excellent job. Almost professional. However—” he took a deep breath and continued “—anyway, as I was saying, after that Michel came to Lisbon. And has done very well. In fact, he was invited to this party, and he’s the one — but I’ll tell you about that later.” The heavy voice paused and then continued soberly. “And Georges? He died. Yes. Back there in the Auvergnes. I thought you must have known.”

Huuygens stared at the instrument in his hand with clouded eyes. He hadn’t known, but he shouldn’t have been surprised. That night in the damp cave had left Georges feverish, wandering in his thoughts, a very sick man. Now that he recalled, they had been forced to abandon Georges the following morning or none of them would have lived. And he, of course, had his instructions to deliver the radio to the group at Mauriac, over the summit of Mont Du. And had never seen the others after that night. So Georges had died...!

“Of pneumonia?”

“Of bullets. The Boches saw him crawling on the trail and they shot him. Maybe they thought he was a rabbit. A rabbit carrying a rifle.” André’s voice was flat, cold. “As you say, it was a long time ago. I think we should not have left him, though.”

“We had no choice.”

“I also agree with that. We had no choice. And it was his decision, he was the group leader. However!” The deep voice dropped the subject with the one word, coming back to the present, becoming lighter, relegating the bitter, frustrating memory of Georges dead on the trail to the dim past where it belonged. “You know, Kek, I had no idea I’d actually be able to get in touch with you, but I thought it worth a try.”

“And I’m glad you did. My God, I’m glad you did! You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice again, after all these years. When are you coming to Paris?”

“Paris?” There was a sharp bark of sardonic laughter. “I’m afraid I’m not as subtle as you in this business of outwitting the customs guards. They still have a warrant out for me in Paris. Some matter of smuggling cigarettes, back in the days when smuggling cigarettes was still a profitable affair — which will give you some idea of how long ago it was. And how long the miserable flics can hold a grudge.” The voice became pensive, thoughtful. “Today, of course, tobacco companies spend a fortune in advertising just to get people to take the unhealthy things off the shelves.” The voice changed again, becoming philosophical. “Ah, well, that’s the way it goes. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time — with the wrong product.”

Huuygens grinned affectionately. André hadn’t changed a bit. “Well, we’ll just have to get together someplace else, then. By the way, how did you manage to get in touch with me? Where did you get my unlisted telephone number?”

“Kek, Kek! You’re famous, my boy! Or infamous, if you prefer. In my circles you are not only well known, but also highly considered, and — to be honest — exceedingly envied. Any man who has been able to...” The deep voice suddenly paused — when it spoke again all lightness and frivolity had disappeared. “By the way, Kek — are you sure your apartment isn’t bugged?”

“Bugged?”

“That’s an American expression which is taking its rightful place in the languages of the world,” André said, but without any attempt at humor. “I mean, is your telephone tapped?”

Huuygens laughed aloud. “This is still France and not America, André. You’ve been away so long you’ve forgotten. The flics will follow you on the street, they will burst in on you at the most embarrassing moments, they will drag you in for an interrogation at the drop of a hat and question you with a baton, but tap your telephone? Never! It would be a denial of personal liberty.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Why?”

“All right, then. I was explaining about the telephone number, and I was about to say that in my circles you are quite well known. Any man who has been able to constantly tweak the noses of the douanes is a hero to the people I associate with. And me? Well, I’m just in the lower echelon of the business — the labor end, you might say, instead of the executive — but at least I’ve managed enough connections to get your telephone number when I need it.”

“Need it?” Huuygens leaned forward, concerned, his smile disappearing. “Is anything wrong? Are you in trouble? Is there anything I can do? Because if there is, you only have to ask. You know that. I owe you that and much more.”

“Good!” André’s voice returned to its former heartiness. “Then you mean I won’t have to just settle for a bottle of beer? You mean you actually intend to keep your promise and pay off the million francs?”

Huuygens laughed aloud. “André, you character! Back to acting again, eh? You’ve pulled me in twice, and that’s bad for my reputation as a man who’s hard to fool. Just what is this business of a million francs you keep harping about?”

“You honestly don’t remember?” The deep voice was suspicious. “Or are you still trying to weasel out of your word?” He gave the other the benefit of the doubt. “Well, let me revive your memory — and I might mention that Michel was also a witness. And since, as I said, he is now connected with the police, his word carries weight. I mention this in case...”

Huuygens grinned. “Will you get on with it!”

“All right.” André’s voice lost its banter; when he continued there was a certain hesitancy in his voice, as if — having come this far — he was now doubtful of the wisdom of pressing the subject. “In the cave that night, while the rest of us were trying to keep from freezing to death — and trying even harder to keep you from blasting that damned radio until we all got caught and shot, you insisted on listening to it. And, believe me, the racket was beginning to make me nervous.” The voice paused. “Do you remember, yet?”

Kek’s grin had faded. There was something in André’s tone, some fear of revelation coupled with some need to reveal, that was completely foreign to the lightness of their previous conversation. “I remember something. But I don’t remember what it was...”

“Then we go on.” André drew a deep breath. “There was a lot of static, and we were just about to rip the thing out of your hands, when a news broadcast came on, and an announcement was made. And then, suddenly, you weren’t the young boy you had been up till then; suddenly you were a man. And you said — and I think I’m pretty close, considering how long it’s been — you said: ‘I’ll kill the animal! I’ll kill him!’ And then you said—” Andre paused “—you said: ‘I’d give a million francs to have his skinny neck between my hands right now!’”

There was a moment of silence, and then André went on, soft and a bit fearful. “Do you remember now, Kek?”

A shock as of electricity passed through the man sitting at the desk. Despite a rigid control practiced successfully over years, his jaw clenched so tightly he could feel a shard of pain edging up his cheekbone, pressing against his temple. The gray eyes closed a moment; when they reopened they were chips of flint, set in a stone face, staring unseeingly across the darkening room.

“Kek? Kek? Are you still there?” The deep voice cursed itself angrily. “I’m an idiot to tell you in this manner. A fool! I should be hung! Me and my damned sense of the dramatic! Kek? Kek?”

Huuygens seemed to hear the words as if from a distance — lost in a blinding red haze of hate, a hate he thought he had conquered years before. Conquered? No, not that. But certainly controlled. He forced away the bitter rancor, attempting to bring himself under restraint, to speak naturally.

“I’m here.” He took a deep breath, expelled it, and then took another. Slowly his jaw unlocked; his hand eased its crushing bite on the receiver. He stared at the desk with eyes as hard as obsidian. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, André? Not about this?”

“I’m sorry, Kek. Honestly sorry. I’m a fool. Michel didn’t even want me to let you know at all, but I insisted. He finally agreed, but he told me to just say he’d seen the man, and leave the rest to you. But me, with my big mouth, and my damned sense of humor...!”

Huuygens waved this aside almost wearily; his head was bent, his hand pressed over his eyes. “He’s in Lisbon?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Or at least Michel is positive, and he was a witness at Nuremberg, remember. And while your friend was smart enough not to get caught and hung, Michel saw pictures of him there together with Bormann and the rest. Michel says it’s him, all right. Oh, I guess he’s had a bit of plastic surgery somewhere, sometime, but Michel says there isn’t any doubt.”

“You haven’t seen him yourself?”

“No.”

“He’s living there? In Lisbon?”

“That’s right. And apparently has been for years. Maybe ever since he left Poland, for all I know. He disappeared before the others, you remember.”

“What name is he using?” The initial shock was now well under control; the sharp brain was beginning to function normally again.

“Echavarria. Enrique Echavarria.” The deep voice chuckled, attempting to introduce a touch of levity into the conversation, to somehow ease the shock he knew he had caused. “What a joke! What a plaisanterie! The man apparently claims to be from Madrid, but Michel says his Spanish is awful. Atrocious. He says it sounds like it’s being filtered through a strudel.”

At the other end of the line Huuygens recorded the important information in his brain, discarding the attempt at humor. “And how did Michel happen to see him?”

“Your Boche friend threw a party at his villa for some of the top police officers here — and their wives, those that had them — and Michel’s superior in the department brought him along. Michel is coming along very nicely here, I tell you. I shouldn’t be surprised—”

“A party?” Huuygens frowned at the telephone almost suspiciously. “That was rather stupid, wasn’t it? And dangerous? The man is supposed to be in hiding, and he throws a party?”

“I’m quite sure he knew who he was inviting,” André said dryly. “After all, he was sentenced to hang over eight years ago, and he’s still around. He isn’t a complete fool, you know. You have to remember that a lot of people in Portugal sympathized with the Boches, and particularly most of the police. And I’m sure most of the people he invited — if not all of them — have collected plenty from him at one time or another, for one favor or another. After all, the testimony at Nuremberg indicated that he left Poland with money — not his, but still — and he’s undoubtedly paid to insure his safety and new identity more than once. And I’m sure the major portion of it went to the police.”

“But, still — a party?”

“Well,” André said slowly, reflectively, “I suppose a man can’t live alone in a big house year after year without seeing anyone. He might just as well be in Spandau prison.”

Huuygens’s eyes narrowed even further; he paused a moment and then took a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “You say he lives alone?”

There was a moment’s hesitation at the other end of the line. “I meant that figuratively, Kek. In Portugal nobody lives alone. He has a servant, of course, and...” The deep voice trailed off.

“And?”

“And his wife...”

Huuygens fought against the sick hurt he thought had been wiped out years before. Control yourself! he instructed himself sternly. You are Kek Huuygens now, a man respected in the toughest of circles, a man whose nerve has been proven in many a tight spot, a man whose brain has outwitted his opponents repeatedly. Don’t start acting like a lovesick student now!

“Kek? Kek? Are you still there?”

“I’m still here.”

“What do you plan to do?”

He stared at the smooth surface of the desk without seeing it.

“I don’t know.” He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut, pressing the lids tightly with the fingers of his free hand, trying desperately to concentrate. It was useless. He opened them again, examining the broad space of the room carefully, seeing in the growing shadows a host of ghostly figures. They froze in expectancy as his eyes tracked them down, as if breathlessly awaiting his decision. He stared them down, forcing them back into the frieze of the wallpaper, into the still folds of the draperies.

“André. Do you have a telephone where I can reach you?”

“Yes. Moncada 917.” Again André attempted lightness. “Also untapped, or at least Michel tells me. Although in my case it’s only that I’m not that important.”

Huuygens reached for his pen, marking down the number. “And when is the best time to reach you?”

“Tell me when you’ll call. I’ll be here.”

The strong fingers holding the pen scrawled a wavering line across the sheet of paper, returned to underscore the number several times fiercely, as if each stroke were a knife thrust across his enemy’s throat, and then tossed the pen aside, almost wearily. “Before morning. Will you be there? I have to think this thing out.”

“I’ll be here until I hear from you. I’ll go out and get something to eat, and then I’ll come right back.” There was a moment’s hesitation. “Will you be wanting to speak with Michel?”

“I don’t know. I have to think.”

“And, Kek?”

“Yes?”

There was a deep chuckle from the other, a remembered sound from the days of the Resistance, the revengeful sound of a man with an enemy firmly in his gunsight, and this time no chance of error from wind or distance. “We’ll be having that drink together soon, eh?”

“Very soon,” Huuygens said quietly. “And in Lisbon.”

“Good! I’ll be hearing from you, then.”

“Before morning. And thank you very much, André.”

He placed the receiver almost exactingly on its hook, stared at it a moment, and then slowly came to his feet. He walked to the bar, picked up his drink and studied it a moment, and then methodically poured it down the drain. Tonight he had a lot of thinking to do — thinking and planning. And while careful planning was the basis of his success in his profession, tonight his plan had to be even more exacting of his brain, for tonight he would be facing a personal element never present before. He was smart enough to realize the dangers such involvement might offer to his thinking. No — tonight the plan had to be perfect in every detail. The slightest error could not be tolerated; the tiniest loophole had to be firmly caulked. Nor could there be any recklessness, nor any dashing chance-taking; the stakes this time were far too high. And liquor and thinking did not mix.

He moved to an easy chair in one corner and sank into it, leaning back, trying to force himself to relax and his mind to begin its analysis. The sun had dipped below the edge of the Bois, and the room was shadowed, but he preferred it that way. He tented his fingers, pressing them together with all his force, and then suddenly released them; the exercise was repeated several times. It was a means he often used to command his body and mind to obedience, to relax his tensions; his hands came down to the arms of the chair, resting, while his mind began to consider the problem.

But where to begin? Which step to take first, and from the essential and irrevocable first step, which move to follow? And how could he even begin to plan that first step when, despite everything, memories continued to fight for possession of his attention, flooding his mind completely with a mad jumble of people and events and attitudes and places and — worst of all — bitter emotions? Under such circumstances, concentration was impossible!

He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head angrily at himself, and then suddenly relaxed. Of course! Simply stop fighting yourself, he said to himself, let the memories come. Let them emerge from that locked vault where they had been forcibly thrust and held so many years ago. But let them come in decent order, honestly and accurately, and then let them depart, leaving your mind purged, freed of the slavery of bitterness, coldly ready to go to work.

Where to begin? In the mud and cold of that miserable cave back of Allanche? No. That would come later. If the purposes of this self-flagellation were to be satisfied, it had to be done properly and completely. Go back to that day in the library of the Hochmann mansion, when you were waiting for Stefan, with the sound of the bombers over Warsaw echoing in the huge paneled room, and Jadzia had come in upon you...

3

It had not been difficult to enter the large house undetected; ever since he and Stefan had met four years earlier as entering students in the Art College of the university, the Hochmann house had been a second home to him. He therefore used a little-known and long-abandoned door that led from an old icehouse to the small pantry adjoining the huge kitchens. The Germans were on the roads as well as in the air, and he had no intention of being detained and questioned before his mission had even started. A radio blasting from a light pole in the square in Targówek as he had come through, walking warily, approaching the bridge, had announced the passage of enemy troops through Molotov and Kielce, and said the Germans were closing in on the city. Even the government spokesman, quoted blandly by the radio, doubted if the line on the east shore of the Wisla, running erratically from Praga to Brod, could be maintained in face of the merciless bombardment.

He paused, listening carefully. The kitchens were silent, except for the humming of the new electric refrigerator; those servants who had not already fled were probably in the upper reaches of the house, hastily packing for evacuation, or watching the tiny antics of the planes in the sky to the north from the foolish vantage point of the undereave dormers. A quick cautious step and he was at the angle of the main hallway, looking down past the large dining room and the library toward the two wide drawing rooms in the front, facing the Jez Czerniakowskie. The passage was deserted. Feeling a bit safer here in the cool dimness of the friendly corridor, and with the familiar spring of the thick carpet beneath his feet, he moved guardedly toward the front of the house, intent upon finding Stefan.

The sound of voices coming from the front drawing room made him pause uncertainly; the person speaking, of course, was Stefan, but the high, slightly stuttering pitch that usually made him smile a bit in pity now sounded rather imperious. Poor Stefan! Still, he was Jadzia’s brother, and that counted for something. In fact, he realized, it counted for everything. He started forward and then stopped again, suddenly this time. There had been a response in German, authoritative but not argumentative. His eyes narrowed as he moved automatically to the wall as if for protection; he scanned the empty hallway once again, quickly, intently, and then stepped into the library, closing the door silently behind him. Whatever the reason for a German-speaking visitor, his own presence must remain undisclosed until the other had left and he could see Stefan alone. The hastily formed student committee needed money to fight the enemy, and his assignment had been to contact Stefan. Since the death of the old Count and Countess Hochmann the year before, Stefan was a very rich young man. And despite some of his rather wild notions and his tremendous inferiority complex, he was still his friend, still his future brother-in-law, and more important at the moment, he was still a Pole.

The library was sunny, with the drapes pulled wide, giving out onto a lovely view of the formal gardens beyond, running down to the edge of the lake. He moved to the windows and began tugging the drapes shut; one of them refused to close and he abandoned it, stepping back, instead, from its view. It was odd how, in the quiet of the huge book-lined room, the steady drone of the planes above seemed almost peaceful; they might have been a local flying club out for an afternoon’s sport, or a particularly large swarm of bees investigating the roses. Even the dull booming coming from the center of the city to the north did not appear threatening, but more like a fireworks at a festival fair.

It was all too appallingly sudden, he thought desperately. We have not been permitted the time to appreciate its true horror or its terrifying reality. To us, in our shock, it is still playacting, simply because it cannot and must not be what it really is. In the evening, when the warm September sun has set, it will prove to have been for our entertainment, rather than our destruction; and the characters will wipe the grisly greasepaint from their furrowed faces and then go home; and the ruins will cease to smoke and will spring back up, possibly even refurbished; and the dead will climb smilingly to their feet and return, perhaps even a bit reluctantly, to the weary business of their everyday lives.

He turned from the somnolent and falsely peaceful view offered by the recalcitrant drape, and began making the rounds of the room restlessly. The murmur of voices from the drawing room beyond could still be heard faintly. The door of the library opened suddenly, unexpectedly, frighteningly, but before he could react to the shock of panic and try to seek some sort of shelter, he saw with relief that it was unnecessary. Jadzia had come into the room and was moving with that purposeful, boyish stride of hers toward the desk before the fireplace, lightly humming a tune; it struck him as odd in view of the tragedy of the day. She paused, the tune fading, surprised at finding the drapes closed, and then swung about. He saw her blanch at sight of him, catch her breath, and then hastily return to close the door and bolt it. He frowned curiously as he walked toward her.

“Darling; what’s the matter?”

“Mietek! You fool! What are you doing here?” His arms went out to her but she stepped back, her green eyes furious. “Keep your hands off me! You have to get out of here at once! Mietek! Are you listening to me?”

Mietek. Mietek Janeczek. After fifteen years it was even difficult to remember one’s own name. Certainly, today it was extremely doubtful if he would look up at hearing it called out in a restaurant or on the street, or pay particular attention at hearing it mentioned on the radio. Still, there was no denying it had been the name he had been born with, had grown up with. Mietek Janeczek — even the name sounded strange, but no more strange than the picture of that young, innocent, foolish boy who carried it...

Despite the rebuff and the tenseness of the moment, he could not help but feel a tendency to smile. He had seen Jadzia in her furies before, although never one directed at himself. It always struck him as comical to see a beautiful girl in her late teens so angry as to stamp her tiny foot. She looks like a small child deprived of a favorite toy, he thought; or a sleek cat of its dinner.

Jadzia gripped his arm with a strength he had never witnessed nor suspected before. “Stop your idiotic grinning! Mietek, listen to me! You have to leave here at once, do you hear?”

His smile faded; he shook his head as much in bafflement at her attitude as in denial of her demand. “You don’t understand, my darling. I came here to see Stefan, but he’s busy. The students have formed a defense committee, and we need money for arms. We—”

“You are a fool!” She stared at him as if amazed he could be so youthfully naïve. “You come to a Hochmann for help? Do you know who is in the drawing room with Stefan? Wilhelm Gruber!”

Wilhelm Gruber... Now that he recalled, it was the first time he had heard the name, but certainly not the last. Gruber, the monster; Gruber, the unspeakable; Gruber, the animal; Gruber, the vicious, murdering...! Not now, the man in the chair instructed himself harshly; this is no time to indulge yourself in the luxury of hate.

He locked his big fingers and squeezed with all his strength, bringing pain, and then released his grip, forcing himself to relax. Go on with the memories and get them over with. Unless André is mistaken — and I doubt it — I think I know at long last where Wilhelm Gruber is...

His eyebrows rose. “And who the devil is Wilhelm Gruber?”

“He’s been appointed S.S. Oberfuehrer for this district, and he’s going to use this house as his headquarters. He’s a very big man in the Party. And handsome, too, if you want to know. His staff will be arriving at any minute. If you’re found here—” her voice hardened “—everyone will suffer...”

“Suffer?”

“Mietek, don’t be a stubborn fool! The soldiers are looking for you. I heard them talking about it just now.”

His surprise deepened into a queer sense of unreality. “Why should the soldiers be looking for me?”

“Don’t pretend!” Jadzia was beginning to get seriously angry. “A German sergeant was shot and killed in Kielce this morning, by a civilian. Stefan heard the description of the killer; several other soldiers saw it happen. Stefan told Colonel Gruber it sounded very much like you.”

“I don’t believe you!” The air of unreality thickened; he seemed to see her pretty face through a haze. He reached out, locking his big fingers cruelly on her shoulder, glaring down into her large eyes, amazed at his anger at her, made all the fiercer because of her very desirability. “You’re lying! You’re lying! Stefan would never say anything like that about me!”

“You’re hurting me,” she said, almost curtly. Despite his anger his grip relaxed. She pulled herself away. “And keep your voice down! Did you kill that soldier?”

“Of course not! I wasn’t in Kielce; and you know how I feel about weapons! But what if I had? They’re the enemy, they invaded our country!” He ran his hand through his thick hair almost in desperation. “Why would Stefan say anything like that? Why?”

“You forget our name, Mietek.” Her voice was cold, but a touch of pride had entered it. “Hochmann is a German name, you know. And we are proud of it. Why shouldn’t he say so if you were guilty?”

He shook his head in bewilderment. “But you’re Poles!”

“Labels mean little today. The future means everything — and that lies with the Nazi Party.”

He stared at her, amazed at the adult tone, at the change in her. “I can’t believe it!”

“Whether you believe it or not, you have to leave. For everyone’s sake.” There was a peremptory tone to her voice, not the demanding request he might have expected from an imperious young girl, but the authoritative instruction of a much older person. Jadzia even looked different — older, sterner, triumphant somehow. What had happened to her in the short week since he had seen her last? What had happened to everything? The world had gone mad! He wet his lips.

“When will I see you again?”

Her eyes held his evenly. “I don’t know. Possibly never. Or possibly when this is all over. The Germans are going to win this war, and win it quickly. Only the fools in London think differently. In a month or less it will be over. We’re — they’re too strong; too prepared. They’ve been denied too long. Willi — Colonel Gruber says—” She caught her words, as if realizing she was wasting valuable time. “You have to leave. Now!”

He stared at her blindly. “But you say the soldiers are looking for me. For killing somebody...”

“If you didn’t kill him, there’s nothing to worry about. They’ll find the one who did. Colonel Gruber’s not an unfair person, he’s simply doing a job that has to be done.” Her hand went to his arm, urging him toward the door. “Now you have to go. I’ll keep them occupied in the drawing room while you get out.”

“Wait!” He pulled back, his voice bitter. “If you feel the way you do, why not turn me in to them?”

“Because Colonel Gruber might think we’re protesting too much.” Her voice was quite matter-of-fact. “He’s still not convinced of our beliefs. He might think we were using you as a smoke screen. No; it would be better for everyone if you just disappeared.” She studied the shocked look on his face quite impersonally. “Well, you wanted to know... Now you’d better be going.”

He stood numbly while she went to the door and turned the key. Her eyes came up briefly for one last enigmatic look at him. “Goodby, Mietek...” And then she was gone.

“Goodby Mietek...” Today, fifteen years later, the hurt of that last meeting, the confusion of it, the bewilderment of it, had faded, although it had never completely disappeared. What had not faded, but instead had grown in intensity with each return of memory, was his consuming, passionate hatred of Wilhelm Gruber. And why didn’t he hate Jadzia equally? Or did he? Huuygens stirred restlessly in his chair, his jaw clenched tightly.

Where had he been when he had heard the news of his family? In Volócz, actually; he had just crossed the border into Hungary, traveling on false Dutch papers the student committee had managed to arrange. Dutch, he recalled, because he spoke the language, having studied it to further his interest in the Dutch painters, and because Holland was not in the war as yet; and also because the rarity of such a passport in Poland at that time made critical examination less likely. It had proven to be a good selection.

In any event, he had gotten as far as Volócz and was in the small café attached to the ramshackle railroad station, waiting for a train to take him to Budapest, and the radio was blaring martial music...

The coffee was terrible, tasting of chicory and moldy wheat; the curdled milk skimmed the grayish surface in weird and obscene swirls. The cake was stale and looked as if the mice had been at it and had rejected it. Still, one had to eat, and he preferred not to be seen unnecessarily pushing his way through the corridors of the train, or seated across from an unknown companion in the dining car, attempting to make — or avoid — conversation.

He managed as much of the distasteful combination as he could, and came to his feet, reaching into his pocket for some change. Over the babble of voices in the smoke-filled room, he noted that the martial music had stopped, that the announcer was now speaking in Polish.

“This is Radio Warszawa...”

The words were barely distinguishable above the chatter of the diners in the room and the drinkers at the bar; he heard them without conscious volition. He studied the coins in his hand, picked out the exact amount of his bill to conserve his limited funds, placed it on the counter, and was just turning toward the door when the words coming from the small box in one corner made him pause. It was a news broadcast, as most of them were, lately, and he suddenly felt homesick at hearing his native tongue spoken amid the strange jargon about him. At the moment it satisfied his needs even more than the facts from the front. In any event, as he had already bitterly learned, the news these days was so colored either by direct Nazi broadcasts, or by more-than-willing collaborators, as to be almost meaningless.

“...in Radom. In Praga, the destruction of the oil-storage facilities, two miles from the center of this suburb of Warszawa, continues under constant dive-bombing attacks by Stukas. Fortunately, due to the extreme accuracy of the trained pilots, civilian casualties are practically nonexistent... In Warszawa itself, the family of terrorist Mietek Janeczek, the student who murdered a sergeant of the 88th Tank Regiment in cold blood in Kielce last week, has been seized by the authorities and shot on orders of Colonel Wilhelm Gruber, S.S. Oberfuehrer of the Warszawa district, as an example to all other assassins and saboteurs that acts of terrorism will not be tolerated by the government.

“Colonel Gruber made it clear that this announcement is being made as a warning to all subversives, and that he is certain that all right-thinking Poles, aware of the dangers of communism and its ally, International Judaism, will recognize the justice of the act...

“In Poznan, the pacification of the city continues. German troops have opened their field kitchens and hospitals to women and children, and plans are under way to establish temporary housing for innocent victims of the Polish aggression... In Berlin...”

He remained, half-bent to retrieve his suitcase by the door, frozen in shock and disbelief. A waiter, passing, paused to frown at the wide eyes and twisted face, and then shrugged and went on about his business; drunks were becoming more frequent with every passing day, and younger, too. Mietek forced himself to come erect, his suitcase locked in a grip of iron, and stumbled through the doorway.

The brisk, fall breeze blowing across the railroad platform did nothing to revive him. A choking sensation and a dangerous buzzing in his ears made him realize he was near to fainting; he let his suitcase slip from his hand and slumped upon it, bending his head in his hands, locking his fingers in his thick hair. They could not be dead! It was impossible! The man on the radio was lying — it was a trap to bring him back to Warsaw! Dead? His father? Impossible! And even more impossible, his mother and younger sister.

It was all a mistake; he had misunderstood; he had heard the radio incorrectly. Who would possibly want to harm any of them? Riesek Janeczek, gentle scholar, retired from his medical practice to dabble in his laboratory, always sitting as far back as possible in his easy chair, looking at the foibles of the world with a faint smile on his face as he calmly puffed his pipe... Frania Janeczek, nee Lochner, mother, teacher, confidante; always bustling about on one friendly errand or another, always cheerful, so proud of her family, and pretty in a way he had never realized until this moment... Little Marysia — little? Almost fifteen... He groaned and swallowed the bile in his throat, and then raised his head to stare blindly along the deserted tracks.

Return? Even as the thought flared up in him of getting back to Warsaw somehow, some way, to strike down the vicious criminals who had done this monstrous thing, he rejected it coldly and firmly. Those few moments on that railroad platform had transformed him from an adventurous boy into a dedicated man; a man prepared to play the murderous game by the rules established by the enemy. Revenge? There would be revenge! But it would be on his terms, and not those of Colonel Wilhelm Gruber, S.S. Qberfuehrer of Warsaw. And at a time and place of his choosing.

His jaw locked painfully as he thought of his parents and sister. Exactly where had they been killed? In that large, airy apartment he had always loved so much? Immediately after the sharp rap on the door? In the street below, with the neighbors watching in horror, a few minutes later? In a prison, lined up against a wall, blindfolded, handcuffed? Had his father kept his calm smile throughout, taking it as only one more frailty of a world sick with madness? Had any of them begged for a life taken without any justification? Had Marysia cried for all the lost things she would never see, never know, never experience? And when they had fallen, had anyone taken a revolver and walked over, thrusting it down, brutally pressing the trigger? First on one, and then the second, and then the last? He turned swiftly and vomited violently over the edge of the platform and then leaned back, his face ghastly, wiping his lips convulsively, shuddering, trying to erase the gruesome image from his mind.

Of what great crime had they been guilty? Of gentleness, perhaps; of goodness — illicit qualities in this new world dominated by murder and destruction. Of innocence, certainly; a far greater and more dangerous crime. As innocent as Jadzia, who saw in the war only the possible aggrandizement of Germany and the Nazis. What would be her reaction now? She had always been so fond of his parents, even as they loved her and had looked forward with eagerness to her becoming their daughter-in-law. How would she justify this murderous crime? Or would it make her open her eyes to the monster headquartered in her home?

In the distance a train wailed; the rusting rails before him began to hum. He came to his feet slowly, numbly, automatically dragging his battered suitcase to a safer margin from the platform’s edge, and then stood mute and drugged among the chattering cluster of passengers and well-wishers as the hissing engine crept into the station spitting steam. He waited until only the stragglers had not been accommodated, managed his way into an overloaded compartment, slid his suitcase into the overhead luggage rack on top of somebody’s poorly tied bundle of clothing, and then edged to the comparative freedom of the narrow corridor. The train had finally ingested its human cargo and was straining to be off; one last exhortation by the uniformed guards to the couples locked in a final embrace across the compartment sills, and the engine started up asthmatically, tugging at itself with groans and clanks.

Mietek stared out of the dusty window, his rigid face a mask. Beneath his feet the worn linoleum of the corridor began to throb with accelerating clatter from the uneven rails. Gru-ber! they said angrily; Gru-ber, Gru-ber, Wil-helm Gruber, Wil-helm Gru-ber, Wilhelm Gruber, Wilhelm Gruber, Wilhelmgruber, Wilhelmgruber, wilhelmgruber, wilhelmgruber, wilhelmgruberwilhelmgruberwilhelmgruberwilhelmgruber... The engine in front responded with a hoarse scream.

Huuygens stirred restlessly in his chair and shook his head as if to clear it. The room was now completely dark; the moonlight filtering in between the curtain and the sill was lost before it reached the rug. He sighed. What memory next? The wasted eight months in Paris before the capitulation of Vichy? Wasted because they had been spent in vainly trying to contact Jadzia — or rather, in waiting for an answer? Certainly one of the letters he had managed to smuggle into Poland should have been delivered!

A pointless consideration, then as now, he thought with wry bitterness. Forget it. Go on to that night in the cave. There’s still work to be done when we’re finished...

Georges was in the lead, as always; slim, intense Georges Claremont, slogging along in the thick mud, his rumpled beret pulled low, his tattered sweater buttoned to his chin, now coughing almost constantly, and suffering even greater spasms from attempting to stifle the racking sounds. November in the Auvergnes was no place to be: the upper slopes threatened snow, and the Boches were thick in the vicinity. Behind Georges came André Martins, the giant from Perpignan, his own rifle slung over his back, that of Georges in one hand, and his ever-present suitcase in the other. Both bandoliers were slung about his corded neck like grotesque necklaces. He carried the load effortlessly, swinging along easily behind Georges, softly humming a flamenco tune from one of the border gypsy tribes. Third in line he came, Kek Huuygens now, one year in the underground, attached with fierce pride to the men he worked with, even as he was attached to the killing. He cradled their precious battery radio wrapped in a bit of oil-silk recovered from an abandoned parachute; his rifle was hung carelessly from his shoulder like an afterthought. And finally, in the rear, Michel Morell, quiet, watchful Michel, a lashed pack on his back which contained their worldly possessions: two spare pair of socks per man, far too little ammunition, and even less food.

The trail they followed lay beneath sodden trees, dripping from the late autumn storm which had passed but now threatened to return, possibly carrying sleet or snow from the summit above. Georges suddenly halted, caught in a paroxysm of coughing, doubling over, fighting uselessly against the violent attack. André moved forward at once, laying aside his burden, reaching out to support the smaller man, almost raising him with his enormous hands. Georges bit his lip and then exploded in another coughing fit. André turned to the others, worried.

“We’ll have to find someplace to spend the night...”

They looked about silently, their breath steaming in the cold dampness. The gray hills, mounting ever higher, were losing their outline in the growing mist and darkness. The trees, black against the gray, stood like sentries, watching. Georges fought to bring himself under control; he pulled back, straightening up, loosening André’s grip from his sweater, panting.

“We can still make another hour tonight. Kek has to be in Mauriac tomorrow with the radio. Without fail. And we’ll be getting our instructions on the eleven o’clock broadcast tonight.”

“So we’ll wait for our instructions,” André said harshly, and shrugged. “What difference does it make? Here or higher up? Where it’s even colder and nastier?”

Georges shook his head stubbornly. “I’m sure we’re going to be told to meet the others in the neighborhood of Saignes. Soon, sometime in the next day or two. And the more we make tonight, the less we’ll have to do tomorrow. And the higher we go, the less chance of running into the Boches...” The coughing fit returned, interrupting him. He bit down on it, struggling to catch his breath.

Michel eyed him a moment and then leaned forward. “There’s a cave near here we can stay in,” he volunteered with his usual quiet levelness of tone. “I used to come up here for walks on Saturdays...” The others regarded him with surprise; Michel had never mentioned being from this district. But then he had mentioned very little of himself in the nearly eleven months they had been assigned together. “Yes,” he added quietly, and nodded. “I used to teach grammar school in Cantal. My home is there.”

André frowned. “Cantal? Your home is there?” He tipped his head toward Georges, lowering his voice. “Is there any chance...? He’s a lot sicker than he thinks, you know.”

“No.” Michel’s voice was completely emotionless. “My wife seems to prefer the Boches. It would be impossible.” He turned, staring up the mountain, studying the terrain. “The cave is less than a quarter of a mile from here. Up above. We’d better get there before the rain starts again.”

He moved to the front of the group, taking the lead. They swung from the trail behind him, moving silently through the gaunt stands of chestnut and pear trees, their legs soaked from the tall grass and thickets of sodden bushes. André slipped the second rifle across his shoulder; his free hand was used to support Georges. Kek slipped on a muddy patch and went down, but he held the radio high, protecting it, and then clambered back to his feet and followed.

The cave was a darker shadow on the gray hillside, ringed by a series of gorse clumps, offering small protection from weather or sight. Michel held up his hand; they paused, panting, while he crept forward alone to investigate. A moment later he was waving them forward.

Georges was placed as far to the rear of the shallow depression as was possible; the huge André stripped off his thick jacket and wrapped it about the other’s shoulders, refusing the weak protests. Michel dropped his pack near the entrance and took up his position there, squatting down and staring out into the dusk and the drizzle that was beginning again, his rifle nestled in readiness across his knees. Kek unwrapped the radio with almost loving care, placed it on the folded oil-silk for protection against the mud of the cave floor, and knelt beside it, turning it on, warming it up, and rubbing his hands for warmth as he did so. The small box came to life with a sharp squeal, instantly muffled by the boy’s hand. From the rear of the cave Georges began to say something and then was caught in a torrent of coughing. He forced it down, speaking harshly.

“Turn off the radio. My coughing makes enough noise without that.”

“I just want—”

“Turn it off! We’ll be listening to it at eleven. And we have to save the batteries.”

“There’s plenty of life in these,” Kek said stubbornly, and bent closer to the small, cloth-covered speaker, playing with the knobs. “Besides, they have more batteries in Mauriac.” Voices mixed with static hummed in the small enclosed space.

Turn it off!” André said shortly. “You can hear that damned thing for miles! The Boches aren’t deaf, you know.”

“On a night like tonight the Boches are all inside, sitting in front of a fire somewhere,” Kek said doggedly. “I just want to get the news.” He twisted the knobs with the delicate care of a safe-cracker dialing a particularly tricky combination. Suddenly a voice in French came on, clear and loud; the boy instantly turned the volume down, bending closer, adjusting the fine tuning.

“Damn it...!” André began hotly, but Kek held up his hand, commanding silence. In the small space the disembodied voice from the box seemed to whisper. Despite themselves, the men in the cave bent toward the sound, listening intently. Somewhere beyond the cold and discomfort of the tiny cave, beyond the constant fear of the hunted, men actually lived in warm rooms, were well dressed and well fed, walked the streets openly, instead of skulking from tree to tree; and more important, were able to communicate.

“... the Pacific, the Japanese continue to punish the Americans, pushing them back. Three battleships and two destroyers were reported sunk in air raids conducted from Japanese bases, with considerable loss of life. There are no reports of Japanese losses in the action... On the eastern front, the drive for Moscow is now in full swing, and it is expected that the troops of the Reich will celebrate the New Year in what — until now — has been known as Red Square...

“In Paris, the big news is not of war but of a more pleasant subject. Tomorrow, high German officials will attend the wedding at Notre Dame cathedral of General Wilhelm Wolfgang Gruber and the Fräulein Jadzia Hochmann. Fräulein Hochmann is the sister of the well-known Polish patriot Stefan Hochmann. There is speculation whether the Fuehrer himself may be present...

“In Berlin...”

André reached over with a huge, hairy hand and twisted the radio knob, switching it off. He snorted in disgust.

“Social notes, yet! For this we waste our batteries! For garbage like this we take a chance of being heard and caught. And shot!” He paused, uncertainly, staring through the growing darkness of the recessed cavity. “Kek. Kek! What’s the matter?”

Huuygens was sitting with his young, shaggy head bent, as if under a guillotine; even as André watched him in amazement, the boy’s large fists clenched tightly and then began to pound the mud floor of the cave with a slow rhythm that was terrifying in its approach to insanity. André frowned at him, astounded.

“What in the devil...?”

The gray eyes of the youth came up, chips of black granite burned deep into the ashen, streaked face. He looked through André without seeing him and drew back his lips like an animal attacked. His voice was more the voice of age than that of youth, almost hypnotic in the intensity of its hatred.

“I’ll kill him. I’ll kill the monster...”

“What the devil...?”

The boy’s fingers became talons; he held them poised a moment and then plunged them into the earth floor of the cave, ripping, tearing, ravishing the rock beneath the mud, shredding his fingernails in a bloody passion of fury. “I’d give a million francs to have that vicious bastard’s neck between my hands for one minute...!”

“Stop it! And keep your voice down!” It was an unfair criticism; Huuygens’s growlings were the low animal-sounds of a beast suffering its pain without the release of noise. André clamped a large hand on the boy’s arm. His eyes narrowed as comprehension slowly came to him. “Gruber... He’s the one you’ve told us about.”

Kek’s head remained bent as his passion spent itself. He shuddered as he brought himself under control and then came to his feet slowly, rubbing his muddy, bloody fingers on his trousers. He stepped over the now-silent radio, moving as if in a trance to the entrance of the cave. “I’m going to Paris,” he said in a harsh voice that defied opposition. “Someone else can take the radio to Mauriac.” His tone indicated that they could leave it behind, or even drop it in the Loire, for all he cared.

From the rear of the cave Georges spoke in a rasping whisper. “No. You’re going to Mauriac. That’s an order...”

“No,” Kek said quietly, simply, and turned to find himself facing Michel, who had risen and was standing with his rifle held horizontally, barring the narrow entrance.

“You’re going to Mauriac,” Michel said evenly. He might have been back teaching school, explaining the reason for a poor grade to a student. He might also have been a man standing, barring passage to freedom, with a gun “Paris can wait. And will. So will your Wilhelm Gruber and your Jadzia Hochmann.” He raised one hand, forestalling interruption; the other remained quite firm with its rifle poised. “Yes, you’ve told us about them both, many times. They can wait. But Mauriac can’t. They need that radio urgently.”

“You don’t understand.” There was a tremor in the strong young voice of the boy, a tremor he thought he had outgrown in the past few moments, if not in the past year. “You don’t understand...”

Michel’s teeth momentarily flashed white in the deepening shadows.

“I don’t?” he asked softly, and then tilted his head. “Just over these mountains — an hour’s stroll on a clear day; no more, I assure you — is Cantal and my home. And my wife, whom I love very much. And sharing her bed every night of the week is a Boche lieutenant.” His voice remained emotionless. “And tomorrow I will go to Saignes — or wherever we are sent — and not to Cantal. And tomorrow you will go to Mauriac with the radio, and not to Paris.” He paused a moment, and then continued gently. “Because, my young friend, that’s the quickest way to where you really want to go.”

Kek stared at him wordlessly. The thin face before him was a blur blocking his exit; the hands holding the rifle were now relaxed and far from threatening. With a muttered exclamation he turned and stumbled back inside the cave, slumping down beside the radio, unmindful of the damp cold of the cave floor, or the growing pain from his torn fingers.

“You shouldn’t go around offering million-francs like that,” André said dryly. “Somebody might take you up on it some day.” He studied the expressionless face of the boy a moment longer and then looked up. “Hey! Michel! How about digging down in that pack of yours and seeing what you’ve got to eat? Preferably pressed duck...”

“With truffles?”

André shook his head in disdain. “You can’t drink truffles. See that you find a bottle of nice, dry champagne in there. Something from the year 1920, preferably...”

4

Kek Huuygens took a deep breath and lay back in his chair, relaxed and oddly at peace with himself. Yes, that was how it had gone. Those were the memories, the shadows that remained in the hidden recesses of his mind throughout the years. So far they had refused to disappear completely of their own volition, or to age to decent death and be properly buried. Still, they were there, and what action would finally exorcize them? He came to his feet slowly, easily, and walked to the small bar, taking a glass of cold water, sipping it, and then placed the glass on the counter and crossed the room to the balcony doors. He opened them and stepped out into the moonlight.

The Bois had misted over; the dark green cover reflected myriad sparkles of moonlight, the streetlamps below outlined the twisting boulevards with soft halos. In the distance the occasional clatter of heels on the sidewalk could be heard, and the faint roar of an automobile, accelerating, taking advantage of the lack of traffic at that hour of the morning. He leaned on the railing, his large hands relaxed, looking out into the beauty of the night, his mind calmly and carefully considering the problem he faced.

To begin with, did he really want to do anything about the matter after all these years? He was comfortable, his life was interesting and enjoyable, and he had long since trained himself not to expand his energies on unprofitable pastimes. Was not his first reaction to the news that Gruber was in Lisbon, available after all these years, only an automatic response, triggered to a large extent by a guilt he felt at the death of his parents and sister, and the loss of Jadzia? Was it not, in truth, what he felt he should sense, rather than the feeling he actually did experience?

He was not surprised to find himself smiling a bit grimly at the thought. No, my friend, he said softly to himself; you will not escape that easily! No scientific gimmickry, no pseudopsychological loopholes for you! Nor could you find release from your private demons in merely denouncing Gruber to the authorities. To begin with, considering his many connections among the officials in Lisbon, it is doubtful that he would remain uninformed long enough to be available for extradition — and at least now I know where he is. And even if, by some miracle, he was actually detained and returned to Germany for trial, what sentence would he get? Five years? Out in three with good behavior? Twelve months each for my father, my mother, and my sister? That certainly isn’t the answer!

And as for the argument that your personal feelings for Jadzia might warp your judgment or cause you to lose objectivity; well, that would be a poor compensation to show for fifteen years’ experience. On the other hand, don’t make the mistake of thinking those personal feelings will have no effect. Merely recognize the facts and include them in your calculations; be more cautious in your estimates and more careful in your planning.

He stared out into the darkness. Grayish wisps of fog still eddied in faint patches over the Bois; the deserted pavement below glistened damply. He nodded, satisfied. Step One had been accomplished; the acceptance of the job. That was often the most difficult of all decisions to be made; tonight it had been quite easy. Had it been too easy? Dangerously easy? He shook his head in impatience. Step One was finished; forget it and move on to Step Two.

He tried to picture Gruber in Lisbon, tried to visualize how he had arrived, when he had arrived. Almost without volition a glimmer of an idea formed in his mind. Somewhere he had seen a newspaper article that might be useful... He studied the idea and began to expand upon it, but not — as he usually did at such moments — with a grin of appreciation for his own brilliance. Instead a frown crossed his face; his hand went up automatically to tug at his earlobe. For several minutes he allowed his imagination scope and then reined it in, shaking his head. Until more facts were available, it was impossible to formulate a complete and foolproof scheme; at the proper moment a suitable plan would come. Step Two, therefore, should content itself with getting him to Lisbon on a logical basis, and nothing more.

There were, of course, several ways this could be accomplished, but the newspaper article seemed the best approach. If his surmise was correct, it could very well work. He went back to that portion of the plan and restudied it, rejecting this point, adding that, consolidating, checking, unconscious of time. It was not until he was completely satisfied with each step that he straightened up, alert and confident as always once an operation was under way, and walked quickly back into the living room.

The lamp above the desk was flicked on; under the cone of light the black plastic of the telephone gleamed invitingly. He winked at it reassuringly, seated himself comfortably in the swivel chair, and raised the receiver, dialing the operator.

“Hello? I should like to place an international long-distance call, please. To Lisbon... What? Lisbon, in Portugal, of course. What? There are others? That many, eh? All in America...? Amazing... No, this is to Portugal...”

He shrugged lightly. The operator’s voice sounded acerbic, probably at being troubled at that early hour. This one is definitely married, he thought with a grin; only long practice at putting a husband in his place could develop that accusatory tone.

“Yes, operator. Moncada 917. That’s right. How long? I see... Could you call me back?” He nodded, gave his number politely to the instrument, and smiled as he heard it correctly repeated. “Thank you...”

He hung up and leaned back, tenting his fingers. Now, where had he seen that newspaper article? It had been here at home, within the past few days. If it wasn’t in the pile in the kitchen, waiting for the maid to eventually get rid of them, he would simply have to go to the newspaper office, dig it out, and get a copy. As he recalled, the article had been sufficiently indecisive to serve the purpose perfectly. He could, of course, always go to one of those silly shops in Pigalle that catered to tourists, and have something fictitious printed in one of those comic newspapers, but it would be taking a chance. And on this job, no chances would be taken that could possibly be avoided.

He came to his feet, walked through the dining room to the small kitchen, and turned on the light. As he had suspected, the maid had postponed the disposal of the papers — probably, he thought with a smile, in the vague hope that they would somehow disappear by themselves. Bless all lazy maids, he said to himself, and began leafing through the stack.

He found the article almost immediately, carefully ripped out the page containing it, and returned to his desk. He folded the sheet to bring the column he wanted on top, placed it beneath the lamp, reseated himself, and read it once again. This time his attention was far greater than when he had first noted it. He shrugged; it was not exactly what he might have wished, but still, it should do very well. Or at least, well enough. He started to lean back again when the telephone suddenly rang. He bent forward at once, picking it up.

“Hello?”

“Ready with your call to Lisbon...”

A strange voice replaced that of the operator. “Yes? Hello?”

Kek frowned; the voice was not that of André. “Is this Moncada 917?”

“Yes. Kek? This is Michel Morell.” Kek smiled; after two words he had recognized that controlled tone. The dry, pedantic voice continued. “André is here. I’ll call him in a minute, but I wanted to speak with you first. André told me about his conversation with you, and I came over here to wait for your call.”

Kek grinned. “Michel! How have you been? André told me about you and your job there. In the police, eh? Very good. As for André, you don’t have to call him; as a matter of fact, I was calling to get your telephone number. I wanted to talk to you.”

Michel’s voice became almost cold, highly official. “And I wanted to talk to you. Forget the entire matter, Kek. Put it out of your mind. As soon as I had told André, I was instantly sorry. It was a bad mistake on my part.”

“A mistake?”

“You know what I mean.” Michel paused a moment and then continued, his tone less official now, friendlier. “Kek, I know all about you. I suppose every police officer on the continent does. You’ve done pretty well. I don’t pretend to know all the details of how you’ve done it, but you have. And you’ve come out of it with just about everything you want — certainly everything you need. So why jeopardize it all for the momentary, childish satisfaction of trying to get even? Especially about something that happened so long ago?”

Huuygens smiled at the telephone gently. “What makes you think I intend to jeopardize anything?”

“Because I know you. Because—”

“Then, if you know me so well, why do you try to talk me out of something you’re sure my mind is made up about? By your own theory, you wouldn’t succeed.”

“Kek, Kek! Don’t be a fool!” Michel sounded impatient. “To begin with, do you honestly imagine the man is just sitting there with his eyes closed and his fingers in his ears? Or that you’re the only enemy he’s ever made? The only one in fifteen years who has wanted him dead? But he’s alive, I tell you! And not by accident!” Michel took a deep breath. “Secondly, I should hate to be on the other side from any of our old group. But I take my job seriously, Kek. I’d be lying to you if I allowed you to get any other idea. And third...”

“Yes? What else?”

Michel’s voice dropped in pitch, becoming somber. “Third, my friend, remember this: revenge is an empty thing. Here in Portugal we say: ‘Revenge is a cold supper from an empty plate...’”

Huuygens frowned at the telephone. “That’s a rather strange proverb, coming from you.”

“There’s nothing strange about it,” Morell said quietly. “It couldn’t come from a more authentic source. Take my friendliest advice, Kek, forget the entire matter.”

Huuygens’s voice was equally quiet, and equally firm. “I can’t.”

There was a brief pause; when Morell spoke again he sounded genuinely sad. “If you can’t, you can’t. But I’m very sorry to hear it. I think you’re making a mistake.”

“It won’t be my first.”

“But possibly your last. Well, I’ve warned you. Now — what did you want to talk to me about?”

Despite himself, Kek grinned. “I don’t believe it matters much, now. I was going to ask a favor of you.”

“In connection with this affair? I’m sorry. Ask me a favor that will keep you out of Portugal, and I’ll be more than happy to accommodate you. But...”

There was the sound of a muffled explosion of a deep voice in the background, and a moment later André was on the line.

“Kek? This is André.” The giant made no attempt to hide either his impatience or his disgust. “I heard enough of that idiotic conversation to get a fair idea of what you were discussing. And the direction it was taking. As I understand it, you plan on a visit to our fair country, and Michel does not approve. Is that it?”

Huuygens smiled ruefully. “That’s putting it mildly, but accurately.”

“And I also gather that you wanted some favor of Michel. What is it?”

“Why?” Huuygens shrugged. His mind was already discarding his initial plan, searching out alternate routes to his goal. “Michel refuses to have anything to do with it. Or with me. And I can’t exactly force him.”

“Chansons! What stupidity! On both your parts!” The big man snorted. “He’ll do it for you, or he’ll do it for me. Either way, it’ll be done. Just tell me what you want.”

Kek grinned at the other’s tone of derring-do; it brought to mind the many times that same attitude had saved them in the grim days of the Resistance. His grin slowly faded as he stared into the vague darkness beyond the perimeter of light cast by the lamp. Possibly Michel was right in warning him off; certainly he had done it in all sincerity. But that discussion was pointless; Step One was finished — done. The decision had been made. The question now was whether it was smart to involve Michel at all, especially with his attitude. Still, there was no doubt that Morell was the man to handle it, and if André said it would be done, it doubtless would be done. An interesting decision...

“Kek?”

“I’m still here. I’m thinking.”

“There’s a time for thinking, and a time for talking. Just tell me what you wanted.”

For several additional seconds Huuygens stared at the receiver, weighing, considering. At last he sighed, conceding. “All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell you what I had in mind. Then you can tell me if it’s possible, knowing Michel.”

He closed his eyes, better to review the various steps of the scheme, and then began speaking, slowly, evenly, his mind ticking off each detail one by one as he voiced them, like an auditor going down an inventory, checking off items. At the other end of the line André listened carefully, marking each word. When Huuygens finally finished speaking, the big man chuckled softly in appreciation.

“I begin to see why I’m still in the lower brackets of this racket. It’s a lovely scheme. There’s no absolute guarantee, of course, but if it’s handled right, it should work. And Michel — he’s sitting here making faces at me, but don’t worry — he’s the one who can handle it right. He’s got just the right degree of honesty and larceny nicely mixed to do it. It’s the basis of police work, I suppose.” There was a brief pause. “What paper did you say had the article?”

“France-Soir,” Huuygens said, and opened his eyes, suddenly realizing that André was quite serious, that Michel would cooperate. “It was in last Friday’s edition. I’d mail you a copy, but you should be able to pick one up there. It would be much better. The less correspondence between us, the better.”

“France-Soir? There’s no need. Michel gets it in the mail. It doesn’t always get here regularly, but if he doesn’t have last Friday’s copy yet, it ought to be arriving soon. Or we can even get one at the library. All right, then; I’ve got the picture.” The chuckle was suddenly repeated. “Wonderful! You’ll be hearing from us soon. Or, anyway, from me.”

“I’ll be waiting to hear from anyone,” Huuygens said quietly. “And say goodby to Michel for me.”

“I’ll do it. Take care.”

There was a soft click as the telephone was disconnected. Huuygens placed the receiver back in its cradle and leaned back, tenting his fingers, pressing them together. André seemed sure that Michel would cooperate, and maybe he would. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. He shrugged. The worst that could happen was that he would receive another telephone call, and would have to make a change in plans. It wouldn’t be the first time, but still, time would be wasted, which would be a pity.

He closed his eyes again, reviewing his long conversation with Lisbon, word for word. What had Michel said, early in their talk? Revenge is a cold supper from an empty plate...

He grinned sardonically and opened his eyes, staring across the silent room with an almost savage glint in his gray eyes. Maybe we can warm it up a bit, he thought. Maybe we can add a little salt and pepper to make it more palatable. Because, warm or cold, we’re going to sit down to that meal...

Book Two

5

At one of the spindly wire-legged tables that effectively blocked pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk before Celotto’s café in the Rua da Prata, in Lisbon, Michel Morell reviewed his latest copy of France-Soir while he idly stirred his thick coffee and awaited the arrival of his superior, Orlando Braz Camargo. Their offices were in one of the ancient stone buildings that lined the Praça do Comércio, part way between Celotto’s and the docks of the Rio Tejo, and the usual fine autumn weather of the Portuguese capital made having breakfast in the open air an enjoyable and customary way to start the day, just as the leisurely stroll to work following their café de manhã paved the way to a more pleasant approach to police tasks that, at best, were seldom pleasant.

Morell had changed little since the days of the Resistance. The nine years since the end of the war had treated him kindly as far as personal appearance was concerned, although an acute observer who had known him in the old days would have noted the more rigid line of the jaw, the thinner outline of the compressed lips, and the fact that the compact body had a certain triggerlike tautness to it. He looked as if each year that passed tightened up a bit on some inner ratchet, drawing up on some hidden spring, threatening him with eventually reaching a breaking point and flying apart. His sunken cheeks glistened with a fine sheen of sweat, for he had never become fully accustomed to the perpetual heat of the country. His eyes, however, remained the same; unfathomable black marbles in an expressionless, pallid face, seemingly looking through the person to whom he spoke, as if searching for something beyond, something he might possibly find in the background. Something, possibly, as evasive as the truth...

He carefully folded his three-day-old newspaper to the page he wanted, placed it on the checkered cloth of the table, and was just bending forward to read the article again, when a shadow fell across the journal. He looked up, smiling in his usual enigmatic and slightly watchful fashion, as Camargo drew up a chair and seated himself across from him. The newcomer shifted himself a bit to fit into the tiny fabricated contraption, and snapped his fingers loudly for a waiter. As was normal, the two men postponed conversation until Camargo’s order had been taken, and then nodded to each other quite formally, almost as if they were meeting for the first time.

“A lovely day,” Camargo commented; as the superior of the two in officialdom, it was his responsibility. He lit a cigarette with an elaborate gesture, blowing the smoke ferociously in the direction of the street. His greeting was a standard gambit, also used when the weather was inclement and they were forced to take their refreshment indoors, although at such times it was customary to tinge the tone with sarcasm.

He folded his own paper, the Correio de Manhã, and slouched a bit lower in his chair, as if to bring himself to the level of the journal. He was a large man in his middle forties, with a deep tan and spiky brown hair that appeared to be mowed rather than cut. His heavy, fleshy face might have been carved from darkly stained wood, for other than the expressions that occasionally appeared in his small eyes, he seldom permitted himself the luxury of emotional demonstration. There was something in his build that also hinted of wood; of wooden blocks stacked one upon the other. He wore his clothes as if they had been forced over his muscular body almost against his will, jutting out at corners, failing to disguise the bulk beneath.

Their croissants came, hot and flaky, and also more coffee. The waiter was nodded away, their attention was put to filling their cups with sugar, Portuguese-style, and then soaking it with the heavy brew. They sipped, almost in unison, and then returned to their newspapers. There were several moments of contented silence, broken suddenly by a low bark of amusement from Michel. Camargo had laid aside his newspaper in favor of eating; he continued to spread butter thickly over a bun and then paused, holding it poised before his mouth. A large garnet ring on one finger winked impatiently.

“Yes? What is it?”

“An article in the paper,” Michel said easily, and smiled with a grim tightening of his jaws. He raised the paper from the table, looked at the article again, and then glanced over the top at Camargo, shaking his head. “Just the sort of thing that is very apt to bring someone like Mister Kek Huuygens among us.”

The croissant disappeared in a brief flash of white, block-like teeth. Camargo reached for another, his cufflinks shooting beyond the tight fit of his jacket, pinning together the brilliant whiteness of his shirt. “Kek Huuygens?”

“Yes.” Michel contemplated the other a bit curiously. “Kek Huuygens. You’ve heard of the man, of course?”

“You mean this fellow who is supposed to be able to set the customs people on their ears?” Camargo snorted, popped the next croissant into his mouth, chewed briefly, and swallowed. He reached for his coffee, his tiny eyes bright with disdain. “I’ve heard of him. I’ve read some of the bulletins they’ve put out on him. But I don’t believe half the things I’ve heard or read.” He reached up to brush a crumb from his cheek. “If that much.”

“Ah,” Michel said quietly, as if proving a point. “But, you see, I do. I know of several affairs he was mixed up with. Unbelievable!”

“Precisely my feeling,” Camargo said, and permitted himself a brief smile, pleased with his own wit. “Unbelievable.”

“No, no!” The smaller man shook his head in impatience at his superior’s obtuseness. “I’m serious. The man is incredible in being able to mislead very intelligent people. I could give you example after example...” He chattered on brightly, while Camargo finished eating and lit a cigarette, listening with a polite incredulity that slowly changed to quiet interest. When Michel paused at last, Camargo leaned back in his chair, staring at the other thoughtfully through a cloud of smoke. He crushed out his cigarette and then allowed his large hand to lay on the table, fingers curled, like a huge spider preparing to spring.

“And now, my friend,” he said softly, “suppose you explain to me why you have been telling me all about this Senhor Kek Huuygens. Because I’m quite sure it wasn’t by accident.”

“I beg your pardon?” Michel stared at him in hurt surprise. “Really! I don’t know what you mean. I just happened to see this article, and it brought to mind...”

“Please.” Camargo raised his hand and let it fall to the table. The empty coffee cups bounced in response. “We’ve worked together a long time. I know you well, Morell, and idle conversation isn’t one of your talents. Or one of your faults, if you prefer.”

Michel shook his head obstinately. “I still don’t know what you mean. I simply saw this article, and it made me think that...”

“Article?” Amusement at the poor evasion tinged the larger man’s voice. “What article?”

“Here, in France-Soir.” Michel leaned forward, twisting the folded newspaper, sliding it across the table. He suddenly seemed to realize that his companion was not blessed with knowledge of French, and took the paper back with an apologetic air. “I’m sorry. I’ll translate it for you.” He studied the article a moment, his lips moving in silent reading, and then shrugged.

“Well, the exact wording isn’t important, but the general idea is that the United Nations commission for locating stolen art objects — stolen during the war by the Nazis, that is, from museums, private collections, and so forth — now considers its work in France completed, and expects to continue its investigations in certain neighboring countries.” His eyes came up innocently. “That’s what it says.”

“I see. And they mention Portugal? In particular?”

“No, not in particular. But...”

“I understand.” Camargo’s voice was heavy. “But you still think this commission might come here. Why?”

Michel raised his thin shoulders. “Why not? After all, Portugal is a neighboring country...”

“France is fortunate in enjoying a host of neighboring countries...” Camargo’s tone was harsh, but it was a harshness he himself deplored; he took a deep breath, forcing himself to return to the casual tone he felt more appropriate for a man of his control. “... To be accurate, however, Portugal isn’t one of them.”

“Well, I don’t think they—”

“So I repeat: why do you think this commission will be coming here?”

“For no definite reason. It’s just...” Michel paused, seemingly attempting to be completely candid in his reply. “Well, you must admit that one might consider your friend Senhor Echavarria could well be interested.”

Camargo pounced. “Senhor Echavarria? Why?”

“Because,” Michel said slowly, his black eyes fixed without expression on the other man’s narrowed glare, “he seemed to me the type who would appreciate advance notice of any — well, any danger...”

There were several moments of charged silence; then Orlando Braz Camargo folded his newspaper and set it aside in the manner of one stripping down in preparation for struggle. He seemed to be relieved to be joined at last in a battle he had not only anticipated, but the inevitability of which he had known for several minutes. He leaned over the table, tapping the checkered cloth with a thick finger for emphasis, speaking with deadly purpose.

“Morell, let me tell you something. And I want you to listen carefully and understand me completely. Senhor Echavarria is a friend — not only of mine, but of several very big people in our government. And we do not bother our friends. Is that clear?”

“Nor even warn them?” Michel’s voice was amusedly disbelieving. “Then whom do you usually warn of danger? Your enemies?”

Camargo studied the thin, sardonic face before him a moment, trying to read the true purpose behind the enigmatic, mocking eyes, although he was sure he already knew the answer. “Warn him? Of what dangers?”

“Of the dangers of an investigation, of course.”

Camargo nodded slowly, convinced his suspicions had been correct. His tiny eyes drilled into the other. “I don’t think you understood me before, Morell. Not only do we not bother our friends, but we also do not threaten them.” His voice grew even heavier. “Nor blackmail them.”

“Threaten? Blackmail?” Michel stared at him, shocked. “You haven’t understood me, apparently, but if that’s the way you feel, forget the entire matter! I thought I was doing you a favor, because you seemed to be friendly with the man, and because you were kind enough to present me to him.” His voice was coldly disapproving, resentful of the other’s implications. “If you mean, do I intend to call the commission’s attention to him, I do not. You may believe me or not, but that is the truth. It is simply that I don’t believe you appreciate the thoroughness of this commission. If any article of artistic worth has been sold, or even discussed in art circles, by dealers, or collectors, or anyone — if anything on their long list is even suspected to be in the area, well, that area will be investigated. Thoroughly, and by trained people. And this commission comes with more authority than you might think.” He shook his head forcefully; his black eyes were almost hypnotic. “When I say danger, I mean danger. And, believe me, it has nothing to do with me. I know what happened in other countries.”

Orlando Camargo was still far from convinced of the purity of the other’s motives. “And just what form of gratitude were you expecting for your — ah — your friendly warning?”

“Apparently it makes no difference since you choose to disregard it,” Michel said stiffly. He glanced across the street to a clock set in a tower there, verified his findings with his pocketwatch, and then came to his feet. Every inch of his small body proclaimed his just resentment at the innuendos he had suffered. He stared down at the tablecloth a moment, thinking, and then heaved a deep sigh, raising his eyes, forcing a smile. “Ah, well, there’s no point in making it a big issue among ourselves. There’s no purpose in arguing, you and I. It’s getting late. Shall we go to work?”

Camargo brought himself erect ponderously. He tossed some coins on the table and then paused.

“You go ahead,” he said slowly. “I have some errands to do first.”

Michel nodded. His black eyes once again noted the time across the street. “I’ll see you at the office later, then,” he said, and for some reason Camargo had the feeling that the stern mien Morell was presenting hid some secret amusement. “Até logo.”

“Até logo,” Camargo said slowly, and watched the smaller man saunter off down the street, his thin body skirting with almost balletic skill the boxes of debris set out each morning for the rubbish collectors. The large man stared down at the table and the copy of France-Soir that Michel had left behind, almost as a calculated testament to his honesty. For a moment Camargo considered calling after the other to remind him of the forgotten paper; then he leaned over and picked it up, folding it, tucking it into a pocket of his tight jacket. His tiny eyes came up, thoughtfully considering the foreshortened figure now moving almost jauntily down the sunny street, approaching the nearest corner.

Damn that Morell! he thought bitterly. How many more people will Gruber pay before he decides it’s just too much? I should never have taken Michel to that dinner party in the first place; I should have known he’d eventually get bright ideas and try to be cute! Anyone who professes honesty and dedication to the law the way he does is the last one on earth to be trusted. Especially with his history. His wife a suicide? What a joke! Damn him, damn him anyway! I wonder how high his price will be to keep his mouth shut? And will Gruber pay? Or will it have to come out of my pocket...?

6

The house which Senhor Enrique Echavarria — ex-General Wilhelm Wolfgang Gruber — had chosen for his exile was located at the end of a slightly curving, long avenue in the Bairro da Boa Vista, at the northern edge of the Parque Florestal de Monsanto, one of the more exclusive — and therefore safer — sections of Lisbon. The house itself was neither exceptionally spacious nor particularly grand, but it was a well-built home of weathered stone and proven shingled roof, and it did offer the seclusion of extensive gardens and thick stands of trees. It was further protected by a high stone wall that ran around three sides of the rectangular property and was topped by several strands of barbed wire, discreetly hidden in the ivy. While such added security was rarely seen in this new days of universal brotherhood and trust, it was still quite satisfactory to his neighbors, since they, too, preferred privacy. In all honesty it was a quite adequate abode in a carefully selected neighborhood, chosen well before the actual need for it had arisen, and Gruber never failed to congratulate himself on his foresight in having arranged it.

A short driveway ran from the side of the house, ending in a large wrought-iron gate which, Camargo knew, was always kept locked. He noted the automobile of ancient vintage pulled to one side, and the absence of the small sports car that usually shared the driveway; so the Senhora was out, but the person he wished to see was available.

He parked his car, descended, searched for and found the old-fashioned bellpull set in a tangle of vines on one post, and tugged at it impatiently. There was a movement at one of the windows, the hint of a curtain being drawn aside and then replaced, and a few moments later a heavyset man dressed in the leather jacket and apron of the Portuguese man-servant came from the house. He recognized his visitor and unlatched the gate, stood aside almost at military attention while the other entered, locked the gate once again, and then led the way into the house without a word.

In the hallway the servant paused long enough to tilt his head abruptly in the direction of the library, and then disappeared toward the kitchen in the rear. Camargo moved down the carpeted hallway and turned into the library. He paused a moment to adjust his eyesight; despite the bright morning sunlight outside, the room was shadowed by a stand of leafy trees that hugged the windows, bending low as if attempting to peer within. A man arose from a desk at the far end of the room and moved forward.

He was a tall, thin man who walked with a stiff military stride that no amount of practice had been able either to overcome or disguise. His sharp features still exhibited traces of their once-youthful handsomeness, although tiny scars at the nose and mouth proclaimed to the trained eye the passage at some time of the surgeon’s knife. The result would have made many of his past victims laugh — if it had not made them want to cry — for Gruber now sported a nose that more than hinted at being Hebraic in origin. It was very nearly the nose he himself had once held up as the only proof necessary to merit extinction in the ovens. His thin wedge-shaped face was topped by thinning hair, dyed an impossible black, and the Hitler mustache he had once worn proudly was now trimmed to the hairline favored by the Iberians.

He moved down the length of the room, coming into the stronger light near the doorway, and brought one hand up jerkily like a toy soldier performing a movement, thrusting it out.

“Orlando. You’re well, I hope.” It was not a question. The cold politeness of the slightly harsh voice made no more attempt to disguise its underlying concern at the unexpected visit than it did to sound even faintly interested in the other’s well-being. For a moment Camargo felt a touch of resentment, then he forced it away.

“I’m fine.” He shook the outstretched hand and felt it withdrawn almost at once; he allowed himself to be led to a divan against one wall and seated. Gruber sank down in an armchair opposite him, staring at him with eyes that Camargo suddenly noted as being green. Odd, he thought; I would have sworn they were blue. He caught himself, remembering his manners. “And you? And your Senhora?”

Gruber waved a languid hand in disinterest. “Out shopping. One of these days Hans will simply have to learn to drive.” He dismissed the question, calmly studying the tense face before him. “And just what brings you here?”

“I...” Camargo hesitated.

“Would you like a drink?”

“No. I...”

Gruber’s voice became slightly impatient, the voice of a staff officer speaking to an enlisted man about some minor request. “Come, man! What’s the trouble?”

Camargo took a deep breath. “Do you remember a man called Morell? Michel Morell? My assistant, actually...”

Gruber nodded, his blue-green eyes narrowing slightly, becoming even greener. “I remember him quite well. You brought him to our last dinner party.” His tone seemed to indicate that if anything unfortunate came of that encounter, the one who would suffer for it would be Camargo. “Why?”

“Well...” Camargo looked about the room, searching for inspiration, finding none. The figures in the tapestry on the wall across from him stared back with impersonal disinterest. They seemed to be saying that in their time they had looked down on more authentic martyrs. His eyes came back to his host unhappily.

“Well, we were having breakfast today — we usually meet at Celotto’s in the morning — and he began this long-winded conversation about this man Huuygens, and then—”

Gruber frowned. “Who?”

“Kek Huuygens. He’s a man who — well, never mind. He has nothing to do with it in any event. He was just Morell’s way of leading up to the subject. The point is...” Camargo hesitated once again.

One of Gruber’s well-kept hands came up.

“Start at the beginning and tell me the whole story,” he said evenly, his eyes fixed on the other’s face. “Word for word. Everything Morell said, everything you said. Apparently something he said upset you, and even more apparently, it seems to involve me. So I want it all. Complete and in sequence.”

The stocky Camargo seemed relieved to be able to tell the story from the beginning, almost as if it somehow removed him from any complicity in the event, making him merely a spectator rather than a participant. Several times during the detailed account Gruber closed his eyes to concentrate better, and then opened them at once, preferring to watch the heavy face of the man across from him during the recital. In general, Camargo thought, relieved, he’s taking the threat to his well-being rather better than I thought.

He came to the end of his account and hesitated a moment. He had been leaning forward, speaking in the steady, clipped tones of one accustomed to making detailed verbal reports; now he shifted himself back in his chair, seeming to feel that a personal observation was needed to complete the story and balance it off.

“I’m sure that Morell simply wants some money,” he said, and was surprised to find Gruber smiling at him in a curious fashion. He frowned. “He must want money. Why else...?”

“Why else, indeed?” Gruber asked a bit absently, and his smile widened. “I think I should like to meet this Morell once again. In fact, under the circumstances, I think I should like to meet him as soon as possible. You will arrange it?”

“Of course, but—”

“Actually,” Gruber continued smoothly, “I would suggest you telephone him now, asking him to come out here. Immediately.” He raised a hand. “You need not be here when he arrives. You might find it to be... ah... embarrassing...”

The expression on Camargo’s face indicated his doubts as to the wisdom of the idea, but he came to his feet dutifully, moving to the desk in the corner. He raised the instrument, dialed, waited a few moments, and then spoke into it quietly. When he had finished he replaced the receiver and returned.

“He’ll be here in a few minutes — as soon as his driver comes back from an errand.”

“Thank you,” Gruber said, and came to his feet, his abruptness indicating the end of the interview. Camargo frowned down at the floor, dubious about leaving without all the finer details arranged.

“I shouldn’t give him too much money,” he said. “I can bring some pressure on him, if necessary. And also, despite his talk, I don’t believe he would actually say...”

“Actually say anything to harm me?” Gruber’s faint smile turned cruel. “I hope not. I should hate to think that any person you brought to my home would treat my hospitality so poorly.” His hand came up rigidly, held out. “Goodby. Thank you for coming.”

There was the sound of the door in the front hallway being opened and then closed. A moment later a woman passed down the hallway and then paused at the library entrance, glancing in. Gruber smiled.

“Come in, my dear. You remember Captain Braz Camargo, I’m sure. He stopped by for a moment, but he’s just leaving.”

The woman stepped forward, holding out one hand. Camargo bent over it; it seemed odd to him that the small hand was so cold, considering the heat of the day. He straightened up, feeling as always a touch of envy that an automation like Gruber should be the possessor of anyone this young, this beautiful, and obviously so much more blessed with finer sensibilities.

“Senhora,” he said politely, and stepped away.

Jadzia nodded, her eyes studying his face for the purpose behind his visit. “Senhor,” she said, equally polite, and waited until he had turned to shake hands one last time with Gruber. “Hans will show you out,” she said, and turned. Hans was standing silently at the doorway, his face a mask; Camargo would have sworn that nobody had called the servant. “And Hans,” the woman added coolly, “there are some things in the car...”

Their visitor followed the servant down the shadowed hallway. Jadzia moved further into the room and sank down gracefully on the divan. She studied the enigmatic smile on her husband’s face a moment and then frowned slightly.

“And why,” she asked, her musical voice curiously muted, “should Captain Camargo be visiting us? Without being invited?”

She had spoken in German. Gruber dropped into a chair opposite her, and leaned forward. He grinned; it split his thin face wolfishly. “To bring us good news, although he doesn’t know it. He’s somewhat of a fool, Camargo...” His grin disappeared as suddenly as it had come. His green eyes fixed themselves on his wife’s face, reveling as always in her cool beauty, the fine features, and the fire he knew too well lay beneath. “Just how long have you hated living in Lisbon, Jadzia?”

“How long?” She studied him evenly, and then shrugged lightly. “How long has it been that we’ve lived here? Virtual prisoners?” She thought a moment and then nodded, satisfied that her answer had been accurate. “That’s how long—”

“Prisoners, yes,” Gruber admitted. “But you far less than me. At least you’ve been able to get about with the car in the daytime; I’ve had to stay inside this house except for a few excursions at night...” He bit back the rest of his complaint, realizing the uselessness of such discussion, and returned to the point, watching his wife’s face with a touch of triumph. “We may be able to leave Portugal, possibly...”

The girl sat up; for the first time a touch of animation came to the lovely face. “Do you mean it? Do you really mean it? And go to Brazil? In Brazil, I could—” the animation suddenly disappeared, replaced by suspicion — “Is this another one of your grand illusions, Willi? Because if it is...”

“Grand illusion?” He shrugged, but his green eyes continued to glitter with excitement. “Maybe. But at least it’s a chance.” He clasped his thin fingers together, staring at her across the ridges. “There’s going to be a man here soon; you may remember him from our last party. His name is Morell, a Frenchman — without a country, like so many others we could name. But, unfortunately, no more sympathetic for that. In any event, he started to work on Camargo this morning; to try to get some money from me—”

“He recognized you? At the party?”

Gruber’s shoulders came up. “I don’t know, and I don’t think it’s too important. Obviously, he knows I’m not Spanish but German. Living here under a false name. Whether he recognized me as a person isn’t the point. What he did recognize was a chance to make some money.”

Jadzia stared at the floor. “Those parties were a mistake...”

“I’m not so sure.” To her surprise, Gruber was smiling broadly. “But let me go on. This Morell had a wild story of trying to help me, but — forgetting all his protestations — what he was actually doing was threatening me. Threatening to report me to the United Nations commission looking for art objects lost — or stolen — during the war—”

“What?” Her face had turned white.

He held up a hand and shook his head. “No, my dear. Don’t worry. I’m quite sure the man had no real intention of doing anything of the sort. What would it gain him? No, he simply wants money. Like all the others. He’ll be here in a few minutes, and he’ll be handled easily enough. That isn’t the point.”

“Then, what...?”

Gruber’s smile remained; he leaned forward even more. “The point is far more delicate. When this Morell was talking to Camargo this morning, leading up to his blackmail attempt — because that’s what it was — he mentioned a man named Huuygens—”

Jadzia frowned uncertainly. “Huuygens?”

“That’s the way it sounded to me. Kek Huuygens, or something very like it.”

“And who is he?”

“I think he’s a man we can use,” Gruber said, and rubbed his hands together. “Camargo isn’t the brightest man on earth — and I doubt that this Morell is, considering the heavy-handed way he handled this matter — but still, bless them both, they gave me an idea. Morell merely mentioned this Huuygens as a means of leading up to his main purpose, but still—”

“And just who is this Huuygens?”

“Well,” Gruber said, “he’s apparently well known in the underworld as a man who makes his living taking things through customs. Things which customs normally wouldn’t allow...”

Jadzia studied his face a moment, and then shook her head. “I know what you mean, Willi, but I don’t like it. A man like that could never be trusted.”

“Possibly not. On the other hand, possibly yes. His reputation seems to be that he can. For a price, of course, but it’s a price I’d be prepared to pay if it meant getting out of Portugal.” He came to his feet, beginning to pace the library, his thin hands clasped behind his back. He swung about and came back to the divan, frowning down at the woman seated there.

“Unless we can take our things with us, of course, we can’t leave at all. We’re getting to the point, financially, where we will soon have to start selling things, and whether Camargo knows it or not, this Morell was telling the truth about this commission. I don’t mean they’re heading for Lisbon on the next plane, but it’s really only a matter of time. To sell anything, particularly at this time, would be extremely dangerous.” He thought a moment. “Also, of course, Lisbon today is probably the worst market in the world.”

“I realize all these things,” Jadzia said patiently, “but I still think it would be very dangerous trusting something to a complete stranger, and a stranger who, by his profession, is patently a thief.”

“Not a thief, my dear,” Gruber corrected gently. “An agent.” He paused and then smiled; the smile broadened as a further thought came to him. “As a matter of fact, I think I know how I can take steps to guarantee his honesty. At least in our case.”

“And how would you do that?”

Gruber shook his head. “Don’t worry, it can be done.” He rubbed his hands together as he considered the idea that had struck him; the more he thought about it, the better he liked it.

Jadzia shrugged. “And how would you get in touch with this man?”

“Ah,” Gruber said, as if pleased that the question had been asked. “That is where our friend Morell comes in. This Huuygens — if he isn’t a figment of somebody’s imagination, and Camargo assures me he’s real enough — has to be able to be contacted somewhere, by someone. He could scarcely operate if nobody in the world could get in touch with him. And I’m sure that our wise Frenchman-without-a-country can manage it, if anyone can.”

“Again for a price?”

“Again for a price, yes. But...” He shrugged. “He was expecting to be paid, and he will be. It will be a different service he performs, that’s all. I doubt that a man like Morell cares why he gets paid, as long as he does.” He took a deep breath, his eyes gleaming. “Once we get to Brazil, it will be worth it. Werner is there, and Egglehof, and — well, many of our old friends. Who know their way about.” He shook his head. “Imagine! To be able to walk the streets, even if it’s only a small village in the interior, to have friends who aren’t vultures like Morell and Camargo. Oh, yes; it will be worth it!”

There was a faint tinkle from somewhere in the dim recesses of the house, like the muffled sound of a music box buried beneath pillows for the illicit enjoyment of some child. It was oddly pleasant in the musty room, and a moment later the shadow of Hans moved silently past the library door, a wraith destroying without intent the almost gay mood of the bell. Gruber swung about, his posture military, his green eyes alert.

“That will be Morell now, I should think.” He smiled down at the woman, a triumphant smile, revealing even, white teeth. “I think it would be best if I spoke to him alone...”

7

Anita, her long blonde hair falling over her pretty face, brought her attention from the gay prints on the wall of Kek’s apartment back to her drink on the bar. She stared into its depths, wondering what there was about the placid gin and tonic that somehow failed to harmonize with her mood, and then suddenly reached out with a tinted fingernail to submerge one of the ice cubes. The drink responded by releasing hundreds of tiny bubbles. Satisfied, she swung about on her stool, looking at her companion with one of those bursts of inspiration that made her such an interesting and unpredictable girl.

“Kek! I have a wonderful idea!” She brought her drink up and sipped it impatiently, anxious to be done with it and return to her thesis. A frown crossed her face; she set her drink down and hurried on, anxious to correct any misinterpretation. “I don’t mean getting married...”

Huuygens, sprawled comfortably in an easy chair and nursing a brandy, grinned at her. “Well, at least that’s a step in the right direction.”

“Yes.” Anita’s head bobbed. “This idea is much better. Why don’t I move in with you?” Kek’s eyes widened in shock that was only partially pretense; Anita hurried on, determined to get in all her ammunition before a cease-fire was unfairly declared.

“It’s a beautiful idea, Kek. Look.” She swung her hand about, encompassing the apartment. “Your maid has no idea of how to keep a house clean. If there were a woman here, she wouldn’t dare leave the kitchen the way she does or the bathroom. And I’m sure she hasn’t dusted properly in weeks.” She shook her head. “And your answering service? I’ll bet they make lots of mistakes, but if—”

Kek pretended to be stung. “My answering service is infallible.”

“Well—” Anita was reluctant to abandon any weapon. “—Maybe...” She instantly attacked on another flank. “There’s something else: your maid doesn’t get here until ten in the morning—”

“Nine.”

“It’s still too late to make you breakfast. You have to make your own. And that’s—”

“I eat at the café downstairs.”

“But that’s just the point,” Anita said triumphantly, as if pleased that Kek was being so cooperative. “You shouldn’t. Restaurant food is — is — boring. Especially in the morning.” She took a quick sip of her drink and returned to the fray, refreshed. “Just think how nice it would be to have a hot breakfast waiting for you when you got up in the morning...”

Kek shuddered. “All I can tolerate in the morning is coffee. Black.”

She shook her head with almost maternal pity. “It’s the very worst thing you could do. You should have something solid.”

He grinned. “Like you?”

Anita smiled, an enigmatic smile, like a cat dreaming of some hidden cache of mice. “That, too. And just think, you wouldn’t have to take me home at some ungodly hour of the morning, and then try and find a cab when it’s raining, halfway across the city—”

“You live exactly two blocks from here,” Kek pointed out.

“Well — I might move someday...” She returned to her drink for comfort, pouting at it. “I still think it’s a wonderful idea. I could see that your laundry went out on time, and that you always had enough liquor in the house, and you know I’m a good cook, and if you were working on anything, I’d be as quiet as a mouse...”

The gray eyes of the man in the chair twinkled. “You’re making me think I should hire you instead of my maid.”

Anita swung about, her pout instantly disappearing, replaced by a brilliant smile. “Kek! That’s a marvelous idea!” She considered it a moment, and then added thoughtfully, “We could keep Marie on, of course, to help me, and I could live in. It’s perfect.”

Kek shook his head in wonder. “Anita, you’re incorrigible.”

“Well,” Anita said, her tone accepting the logic of it, “if a woman is living with a man, I shouldn’t think he’d want her to be corrigible. At least not all the time.” She gave him her gamin grin, but there was more than a hint of seriousness behind it. “When would you like me to start?”

“I’d have to think about it, of course,” Kek said slowly. “One doesn’t change maids lightly. Not these days.”

“Not change,” Anita said firmly. “Supplement.”

“Even supplementing maids takes thought.”

“But you’ll think about it?”

“Definitely,” Kek said solemnly.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Anita swung about on the upholstered stool several times, like a child at a soda fountain, her ankles neatly crossed, propelling herself with one hand on the bar. She brought herself to a stop and then folded her hands in her lap, looking at him almost demurely.

“Now, if I were living here, I could also be a sort of secretary for you. I don’t take shorthand, and I don’t type, but I could always learn. And even before I learned, I could be useful to you. I could remind you of things...”

Kek grinned at her. “Such as my letting you know my decision?”

“Exactly.” Anita looked pleased at his complete grasp of the full potential of her suggested employment.

Kek shook his head slowly, and then raised his glass in a toast to her convoluted logic.

“You know, Anita,” he said with admiration, “I’m sure you’d get along fine in my business. No...” He raised a hand quickly. “Don’t suggest a partnership. I have a feeling I’d end up being the junior partner.”

The telephone rang sharply before Anita could protest the unfairness of this statement; he drank the last of his brandy and leaned toward the desk at his side, exchanging the empty glass for the instrument. He brought it to his ear.

“Hello? Who? Yes, this is he...” He cupped the receiver with one hand, looking at her over the rim. “Long distance.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

He shook his head. “And travel those two blocks halfway across the city to your apartment, alone and late at night? No. Besides, all good secretaries are confidential, if they’re anything at all. Instead of leaving, you can practice being a good maid. By getting me another drink, please...”

She came down from her stool immediately, retrieved his glass, and returned to the bar. The instrument in Kek’s hand became alive, exchanging foreign languages in a bored fashion. The smile disappeared from his face at once, making it appear leaner, and somehow more predatory. He pulled himself erect in his chair.

“Hello? Yes, I’m still here. And I’m still M’sieu Huuygens.” There was a brief pause. “Hello?”

Anita poured a generous amount of brandy into the glass and brought it back, balancing it carefully, determined to deliver a glass of brandy as no other maid in the world could hope to deliver it. She placed it within reach on the desktop and stood back, watching him gravely. The complete change from the easygoing, laughing man who had been relaxing in the chair to the hard person bending almost fiercely over the telephone somehow made her feel happy. It was as if just being present at the metamorphosis bound them closer together. It was a feeling she could not have explained, even to herself, but she knew she reveled in it.

Huuygens took a deep breath, and expelled it abruptly as a voice came on. “Hello? André? What? I’m fine.” He brushed aside the other’s opening words impatiently. “Everyone’s fine, and I’m sure you are, too. Now — what else is new?”

At the other end of the connection, André debated whether to be cute or not, and finally settled on a line somewhere in between. He managed to sound curious. “Kek? Tell me something — how does one go about getting in touch with you? To offer you a job?”

There was a moment of silence, and then Huuygens closed his eyes, masking the sudden gleam of excited triumph that had appeared in them. He opened them almost at once, as if afraid he might miss some of the beauty of the situation. Anita, watching him, felt a wave of tenderness at the thought that the man she loved could be so mercurial, so changeable. Huuygens chuckled softly.

“So it worked, eh?”

“Like chopped corn before a sow,” André said proudly. “Like a double dose of huile de ricin. Like a charm,” he added hastily, not wanting to be misunderstood. He grinned down at the instrument nestled in his massive hand. “Now, my friend, the problem is this — how does Michel manage to contact you?”

Kek’s chuckle grew to a laugh; he reached over with his free hand, retrieving his brandy and sipping it, savoring it. Anita stood patiently at one side, waiting until she could again prove useful. Kek returned the brandy glass to the desk, and then paid attention to the question, nodding.

“Well, now — certainly Michel would never disclose his methods of contacting a person. He’s far too experienced for that. I’d suggest he get in touch with me through devious channels and by employing mysterious means. If he thinks it will help, he can also use persons unknown.” He grinned. “Knowing Michel, I’m sure he’ll manage.”

“Good enough,” André said, satisfied. “I’ll tell him. He still isn’t too happy about this whole affair, you know, but he’s doing fine.”

“I never did believe he had completely forgotten that Boche lieutenant,” Huuygens said shrewdly. “What else?”

“Oh, yes. How long does it take these mysterious means and devious channels to get in touch with you? To locate you, that is? And also, of course, to interest you in a proposition?”

Huuygens pursed his lips, thinking. His gray eyes narrowed as he studied the question and came to a decision.

“Five days, I should say. Earlier than that, and it might appear that I was at the beck and call of any voleur — practically in the classified section of the telephone book, you might say. Later than five days, and the man might get the idea that I was too exclusive for his tastes, or that I didn’t exist at all. He might get impatient and look for another solution to his problem.” He paused a moment, thinking. “As to making the proposition interesting to me, I’m afraid that will have to wait. I don’t know what his problem is, so I can’t say how much it will cost to solve it. I’d suggest that Michel merely tell him that the fee will have to be discussed when I get there. I’d also suggest he could mention that, in any event, it won’t be cheap.”

“I’m sure,” André said, and grinned. “Punishment never is. One last thing: assuming it takes five days to get in touch with you, how much longer will it take for you to get here?”

“That depends. Not too long, I shouldn’t think. Two more days, probably, depending upon how far I have to travel, and what accommodations I’m able to make. If Michel were unfortunate enough to locate me in, say, Canada, or the Orient, it might be even longer.” His grin had returned; he was enjoying himself. “However, if he were lucky enough to find me closer — say in Paris — then I might be able to make it in as little as a day.”

“Let’s hope he’s lucky, then,” André said optimistically, and grinned. “Now let me try to translate that timetable. What you’re saying is that we’ll see you in about a week?”

“Right. I’ll call you when I’ve checked into a hotel. And thanks for the message.”

“De nada. Our service runs twenty-four hours a day.” André chuckled and hung up.

Kek placed the receiver back in its cradle and leaned forward, clasping his hands together, squeezing them tightly. He allowed them to relax and they sprang apart, almost by themselves. He came to his feet, beginning to stride up and down restlessly, as if resenting the necessity of delaying the start of action as much as six or seven days, even though he knew his decision to postpone his arrival in Lisbon that long had been the correct one. He suddenly paused, staring at the rug without seeing it. In six days, then, he would see Jadzia... What would be her reaction? More important, what would be his own? He put the thought away, forcing it out of his mind. There would be time enough to think about that in the next week.

He swung about and found himself facing Anita; a chill came over the girl as she saw the way his eyes had unconsciously widened, as if he had completely forgotten her presence. She tried to smile bravely, although she was trembling inside.

“Kek? You’re going away?”

Huuygens nodded. “In about a week.”

“Where?”

“To Lisbon.”

“And will you be gone long?”

He shrugged and took a deep breath, his eyes suddenly gleaming. “A week, probably, if all goes well.” The gleam faded. “Or less, if it doesn’t...”

Anita studied his face with worry. “But I thought — I mean, you said that the customs — I mean, will they let you go?”

Kek suddenly grinned. “You mean the business of the chocolates? Oh, yes! I even received a formal apology from them, although I’m afraid it was given a bit grudgingly. But it was given, which is what counts.” He looked at her a moment as if seeing her for the first time, and then snapped his fingers. “How would you like to go out dancing? It’s not too late.”

“If you wish,” she said in a tiny voice.

“I wish,” he said, and placed a finger under her chin, raising her head, staring into her troubled eyes. “As a matter of fact, I wish very much. And when I come back from Lisbon, I’ll bring you—”

“Don’t bring me chocolates. Don’t bring me anything.” Her eyes looked deep into his. “Just bring me back yourself.”

Kek laughed. “All right,” he said, equably, and raised his shoulders. “Although, to be honest, I have as much trouble getting that through customs as anything else...”

Book Three

8

From the safe height of the Air France Viscount, Kek Huuygens stared thoughtfully out of the window; a brandy — his third in the short time since leaving Paris — stood on the small tray before him, and a cigarette burned steadily in his fingers. In the distance the hazy horizon seemed marked by a gentle curve; he smiled to himself a bit grimly. There was an old proverb: The world turns, but it also returns. In a few hours a world he had thought dead and buried would return, if only for a few days. And just how would he utilize that remarkable resurrection? He crushed out his cigarette, finished his brandy, and watched the well-formed stewardess remove the glass and tray. Don’t think about what is coming up, he said to himself; don’t waste the time. Take it step by step. When the proper hour comes, you’ll know what to do.

He relaxed and stared down, content to admire the beauty of the scene. The shallow sandbars north of Lisbon had turned the blue ocean into a series of white-capped waves reeling drunkenly toward the shore; they looked, from the air, like a lace-edged skirt flapping in the breeze from some huge, cosmic clothesline. Beyond the wide beach the white apartments and hotels of Estoril stood in even, geometric rows, glistening in the early morning sun.

The plane banked steeply, dropping lower, and the broad Tejo itself was beneath them. The Tower of Belém slid past, foreshortened, and then the tiny docks harboring toy ships; a second sharp bank and the city, sheltered in its irregular amphitheater of hills, drifted below. Through the leafy cover of trees the boulevards could be seen, and then the growing height of the apartments along the Avenida Gago Coutinho. The plane whined in protest as its wheels descended, grunted as they locked in place, and then spread its flaps philosophically, checking its headlong rush. The stained concrete runway of Portela airport hastily rose to meet it. Kek unbuckled his seatbelt and stared through the window as the plane wheeled to a stop before the administration building. Lisbon. Step Three...

The apron baked in the bright sun. The passengers descended the metal steps cautiously, blinking at the dazzling glare, and then moved gratefully to the welcome shade of the building, herded by a young girl in uniform. Huuygens undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie a trifle, taking his place in the ragged queue that had formed before the first desk. He brought his passport from an inner pocket, holding it in his hand for presentation. The line shuffled forward; passports were examined, stamped, and returned. He found himself at the desk and handed the green booklet over; the official before him exhibited neither curiosity nor delay. The stamp rose and fell; the cold eye of the official passed on to the next passenger. The uniformed man might have been a machine stamping labels on bottles as they moved evenly down a conveyor.

Kek shrugged. He allowed the police to add their stamp to the growing collection with an equal lack of interest, and then tucked the booklet into his pocket for easy access and followed the others into the customs section. The passengers here, released from the restrictions of the queue, were scattered along the barrier, searching out their luggage, waving at friends beyond the guarded doorway, attempting to attract the attention of any one of the inspectors, all of whom were grouped about a desk in the center of the room, seemingly shuffling declaration forms as a means of postponing release of the prisoners as long as possible. Huuygens noted his lone piece of luggage at the very end of the low counter, set apart from the others. He smiled slightly with an awareness of history, and moved up to it; an inspector detached himself from the group at the desk and came over immediately, accepting the proffered passport. The briefest of glances and it was immediately returned; even before Huuygens could unfasten the latch of the bag, a chalkmark had been scribbled on the leather, and the inspector had retired without looking back, almost as if he were being chased. Kek’s eyebrows rose; he smiled in appreciation. In this untidy world in which we live, he thought, it is truly pleasant to encounter good organization once in a while. Pleasant, but also thought-provoking.

He stopped in the main lobby of the airport long enough to exchange some francs for escudos, using the opportunity to scan the faces about him, but they all exhibited the normal blank self-concern of any group of strangers preoccupied with their own affairs. He surrendered his bag to a porter and followed him to the taxi-rank.

The ride to the hotel was extremely pleasant. The driver maneuvered his cab carefully and slowly, as if wishing the foreigner to have the opportunity of appreciating the lovely city, nor did he attempt to act as combination guide and philosopher, but kept his eyes forward and his mouth closed. A man like this could make a fortune in New York City, Kek thought with a smile, and leaned back, relaxed, to take full advantage of the rare trip.

Their route took them down the Avenida do Brasil to the landscaped Campo Grande, past sidewalk cafés mottled by the swaying shadows of overhanging trees, along streets where traffic moved calmly and evenly under the watchful and slightly threatening eye of military-clad police, and the strollers seemed to adjust their leisurely pace as if to better savor the rich flavor of the city. In the distance the Castelo de São Jorge watched their progress with calm detachment from its rugged and safe height. The cab paused at a traffic circle and then eased itself into the Avenida da República; it turned off the wide avenue halfway along its length and began winding through a series of narrow streets. The driver was aware that it was not the quickest way, but he recognized that his passenger was simpático to his beloved Lisbon, and he wished to show him the full heritage of beauty stored behind the barriers of the wide avenues. Other cities, he seemed to be saying by his action, hide their decay in their back streets; Lisbon merely stores the overflow of its richness there.

They swung from the last of the travesías, pulling into the Rua Sidónia Pais. The hotel to which Huuygens had cabled for reservations was the Ouro Vermelho; it was a narrow six-story building that faced the park, and from the outside seemed to bear out the description given by the friend in Paris who had recommended it on the basis of its “beautiful privacy.” Kek paid off the cab with a generous tip and carried his bag into the lobby; the “beautiful privacy” was partially maintained, it appeared, by the lack of a doorman. He noted that the registration desk was set in an alcove that did not permit vision of the self-service elevator, nor of the stairway that ran discreetly beside it. Here one could come and go without undue notice.

He approached the desk and leaned against it; a card was instantly slid in his direction by a young clerk whose smile seemed tattooed on his plump and pimpled face. Huuygens filled it out, referring to his passport for the myriad details required of foreigners, and then looked up to discover the clerk’s smile had vanished and had been replaced, for no apparent reason, by a look of acute embarrassment. The young man picked up the completed registration card and clutched it tightly, as if to be sure it would not be taken from him.

“Senhor...”

Huuygens’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes?”

The embarrassment deepened. “I’m afraid, senhor, that we have no bellmen. One of them is out sick today, and the other...” He shrugged elaborately, as if this gesture might somehow explain the other’s absence, or at least excuse it. “I should be happy to carry your bag myself, but...” He glanced about the cluttered desk, his eyes enumerating the many reasons why he could not leave.

Kek smiled in understanding. “It’s of no consequence. I can manage quite well.”

“Ah!” The clerk was happy again. He handed over a key and then bent as far over the desk as his ample stomach permitted, waving one hand. “The lift is just around the corner. Your room is Sala 607. On the third floor...”

Kek had traveled in Europe too extensively to be surprised by the system — or lack of it — used in numbering hotel rooms. He nodded pleasantly, picked up his bag, and found the elevator, closing the door behind him. The ancient beast of burden awoke from its catatonic slumber with a jerk and rose grumpily through the open grillwork of the shaft, petulantly enumerating its numerous infirmities by a series of groans and clanks. At the third floor Huuygens tugged the door open and closed it again, respecting the age of the lift, and the fact that he might have to use it again. He walked down the carpeted hallway, located his room, slid the key in the lock, and swung the door back. And then froze, his jaw tight, his eyes immediately on the alert.

Two men, glasses in hand, were facing him from either side of a small table near the windows; a bottle and a third glass on the table completed the tableau. For a second Kek stood tense, frowning at his unexpected visitors, and then visibly relaxed. He came into the room with a broad grin, closing the door behind him.

“Ah! A welcoming committee!”

André cocked his grizzled, giant head to one side, considering the newcomer critically a moment, and then turned to Michel. “He’s grown a bit in the past twelve years. But then, I suppose it was only to be expected.”

Michel nodded morosely and reached for the bottle. His little black eyes looked through and beyond Huuygens a moment, and then returned to see that he did not cheat himself in replenishing his drink. “Physically, anyway. If not mentally.”

Huuygens laughed. He dropped his bag on the bed and came to stand between the two. “So this is the greeting after twelve long years? This is the extent of the warmth?”

“They don’t permit firecrackers in the hotel,” André said dryly, and raised his glass in a silent toast, after which he drank it and winked congenially at Huuygens over the top of the glass. His huge hand almost engulfed the small bit of crystal. “Yes. You’ve grown quite a bit in the last twelve years.”

“I’ve been eating better than I did in the Midi,” Huuygens said lightly, and then frowned. “By the way, how did you know I had a reservation here? I didn’t know myself until the day before yesterday.”

Michel shrugged to indicate the answer was too obvious to require voicing. He sipped his drink a moment and suddenly remembered his manners. “Would you like a drink?”

“Very much.” Kek came forward, poured some brandy into a glass, and then paused. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“You look very well,” Michel said, and then cocked his head. “You find Lisbon to be as beautiful and charming as you have heard?”

Kek abandoned the question; he dropped on the bed and sipped his drink. “Lisbon seems lovely, so far. I had a good cabdriver from the airport...” He paused, looking at his drink. “You know? This brandy isn’t bad.”

“Bad?” André was stung. “This is excellent. I selected it from the bar list myself. Charged to your room, of course.”

“What about your cabdriver from the airport?” Michel said idly.

“Oh. Only that he was unusual. He showed me the city without a lot of chatter. Quite rare.”

Michel smiled. “Who? Archimedes? No chatter? Normally you can’t shut his mouth with a truck-jack.” He shrugged. “I’m glad he’s finally learning to obey instructions.”

Kek’s pleasant manner disappeared. He leaned over, placing his glass carefully on the table, and then raised his gray eyes ominously, studying the smaller man. There were several moments of silence; when Huuygens spoke, his voice was steely.

“All right. I think we’ve had enough reunion. Maybe it’s about time we clarified certain things. I know you aren’t in favor of my being in Lisbon, but the fact is that I am here, and mostly with your help.” His eyes bored into the other’s. “And I don’t think I care to be spied on every minute I’m here.”

Michel’s expression did not alter in the least; his fixed smile merely became slightly derisive. “My dear Kek, my old friend, you still suffer from impetuosity. It was your trouble years ago, but I had assumed that age and experience would have cured you.” He shrugged. “Yes, Archimedes is a police driver — assigned to me, as a matter of fact. And yes, I had asked certain hotels to advise me when you cabled for reservations, this being one of them. I felt you wouldn’t want to stay at the Ritz, or the Tivoli, but rather at a smaller and more — select, shall we say? — hotel.” His eyes remained sardonic. “But what you failed to take into account was why I did it.”

Kek’s jaw remained hard. “And why did you do it?”

“Merely to be sure others were not doing the same. I spied on you, as you put it, to be sure nobody else was spying on you. Does that make sense to you?”

Kek felt his irritation drain away, replaced by his old affection and respect. He grinned a bit ruefully. “You still have the ability to put me in my place, eh? And? Was anyone else interested in me?”

“No. And I’m sure I would know. I think the word is out to leave you alone, not to hamper you.” His voice was noncommittal. “Merely because it’s assumed you’re going to be helpful.” His eyes came up. “Once you give any indication that you are going to be anything else — well, then things are going to change.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“You’re welcome.” Michel glanced at his watch. “Well, I’d like to stay and relive the old days with you two, but I’ve got to be going. And I suppose you should call your friend, he’s expecting you sometime this morning.” He set his glass aside and reached into a pocket, bringing out a card already prepared. “Here’s the good Senhor Echavarria’s address and telephone number.” His black eyes came up, fathomless, staring through Huuygens. “Just one last word at the risk of being repetitious. Since you won’t forget this foolishness, just be careful. Believe me, this man is protected.”

“I’ll remember.”

“And don’t look to me for any more help. Because you won’t get it.”

“I’ll remember that, too.”

“Good,” Michel said in a matter-of-fact voice, and came to his feet.

André followed, pulling his huge body erect with ease. “I’ll go along, too, and let you get on with it, Kek. But how about dinner tonight? Unless, of course, you’re already across the border by then, with Michel, here, on your tail...”

Kek smiled. “I doubt if anything is going to happen that fast. Dinner’s fine, but let’s make it tomorrow night instead. Meet me here at six and we can eat somewhere around here.”

“Six? In Lisbon? I’ll be here at eight tomorrow, and we can drink until the restaurants open. At ten.” His grin faded; he placed a large hand on Huuygens’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “And take good care of yourself, Kek. I should hate to think I was the cause of any trouble for you.”

Michel was at the door, holding it open. “A little late to think of that,” he said ironically. He waited until André had preceded him into the hallway, nodded to Huuygens almost formally, and softly closed the door after him.

Kek frowned at the closed panel a moment and then slowly walked to the window, staring out over the city. Well, here he was. And in a short time he would be face to face with Gruber. The vital thing, of course, was that — much as he wished to see Jadzia — she must not be present when he first met her husband. Three, he thought to himself with a grin that was almost savage, would really be a crowd at this point.

He sat on the edge of the bed, dragging the telephone closer, asking the clerk for a line and then dialing. There was a brief ring, and then the telephone was answered; it was almost as if the other party had been waiting.

“Hello?”

“Hello. I should like to speak with Senhor Echavarria.”

“Who wishes to speak with him?”

“My name is Huuygens...”

“Ah! One moment, please...”

The thickly accented voice was quickly replaced by another equally accented, but much more suave. “Ah! M’sieu Huuygens! So you are here in Lisbon! And we shall see you when?”

“Soon,” Huuygens said, and paused for a few seconds. “But alone, I think.”

“Alone? You mean Hans? But he is my servant; he is always here.”

“I do not mean Hans, m’sieu. I understand you are married and — well, I do not care to discuss business in the presence of women...”

There was a sharp chuckle from the other. “It is easy to see that you do not know my wife, m’sieu. I know she wants to meet you, and I’m sure she eventually will. However, I agree that until we come to some arrangement, it might be best if we discussed the details privately.”

“I believe so,” Kek said.

“Which makes it even more convenient, since she is gone for the morning and will not be back until after lunch. So...?”

“So I shall be there shortly,” Kek said, bobbed his head at the telephone, and then winked at it for good measure. “Until later, then, m’sieu...”

He hung up, glanced at his watch, and then at his bag lying on the bed. Time to unpack before he left? He smiled grimly. No, my friend, he said to himself; no excuses for further postponement. Besides, Jadzia — being a woman and unpredictable — might return early. Let’s get on with the job. He grimaced at the leather bag and walked quickly to the door.

9

The cabdriver who drove Kek from the Ouro Vermelho to the house in the Bairro da Boa Vista was a far cry from Archimedes, and, Kek thought with a wry smile, “cry” was certainly the proper word for it. He leaned back against the worn cushions, trying to deafen himself to a long list of complaints, and finally paid off the cab with a feeling of relief. It was not until he was standing alone before the wrought-iron gate that he appreciated how much the garrulous driver had helped him to relax during the trip.

As he located and pulled the bell cord on the post, his gray eyes automatically studied the house and its surroundings, noting the old but well-kept car drawn to one side of the driveway, and the high wall with its barbed wire. He was not surprised to find himself cool and completely dispassionate; it was the development of that ability that accounted for his success.

A man dressed in the garb of a servant was descending the steps. He came to the gate, accepted Kek’s name politely enough, unlocked the gate, and then locked it again once his visitor had entered. There seemed to be an ominous ring to the metal as it latched; a certain finality, a statement from the gate that beyond that point mistakes would not be tolerated. He took a deep breath and followed the stocky servant into the house, waiting once more as the outer door was closed and locked. In the dimness of the hall he stared about, his senses straining for some hint of Jadzia’s presence; other than the faint odor of some forgotten perfume, he could not note it.

There was the sound of a throat being cleared behind him; he turned and found himself facing a revolver held like a rock in the servant’s hand. For an instant a chill swept through his rigid composure. Betrayal? But there was nothing in the calm mien of the servant to indicate anything but duty being performed in a routine manner. The chill passed as quickly as it had come. Huuygens’s jaw tightened; his voice indicated his disapproval.

“And just what is that thing supposed to be for?”

Hans was not in the least perturbed either by the question or the tone of growing anger; nor did the revolver waver for an instant. “You will pardon me,” he said in very guttural and Teutonic-sounding French, “but I’m afraid I must ask you to submit to a search.”

“A search?” The mercurial eyebrows rose in honest surprise. “What on earth for?”

“For weapons.” The servant’s voice was even, reciting a litany, obviously not for the first time. They must have some interesting gatherings here, Kek thought. Check your guns at the door. “Senhor Echavarria has many valuable things in the house. I have been told who you are, and also that you are expected, but still...” Hans made no attempt to sound apologetic, or even greatly interested. “It is the rule.”

Kek shrugged and raised his arms; his attitude seemed to say that he never carried weapons, and any fool with half an eye should be able to recognize the fact. The servant studied the athletic figure a moment, and then changed the routine.

“If you would just lean against the wall, please. With your feet back just a bit. Lean with both hands, please...”

It must take a long time to get guests to the table if they go through this all the time, Kek thought, but nonetheless followed his instructions. In his lifetime he had been subjected to greater inconveniences than mere searches, and he was far from unfamiliar with those. A weird thought crossed his mind: if Jadzia were to enter at that moment, would she find the scene comical? Or merely normal, like the delivery of the milk?

Hans completed his inspection and stepped back, pocketing the revolver in the same movement. Huuygens shrugged his jacket back into place, tugged his shirt-sleeves to a more comfortable position, and studied the stocky servant a bit sardonically.

“If you are quite finished...”

“Sorry, sir.” Hans turned smartly and led the way to the library, quite as if there had been no interlude in the hallway at all. He announced Huuygens to the man within and then withdrew, the perfect servant, closing the door firmly behind him. Which makes three closed doors, two of them locked, Kek thought, and smiled grimly to himself. Well, we never did figure on getting out of here à la Douglas Fairbanks, anyway; we always intended to use brains rather than brawn. Let’s not forget it.

The man coming toward him was dressed in a velvet smoking jacket and had his hand outstretched, almost as if it were a sword being held up to run him through. Kek tried to view him dispassionately, and found it quite easy. He’s only a client, he said to himself. He’s not Gruber at all. Gruber doesn’t exist. Net yet...

“My dear M’sieu Huuygens,” the thin man said in a pleased tone of voice. “I am most happy to meet you. Most happy indeed!” Huuygens found his hand being pumped enthusiastically, and then released; the hand transferred itself to his elbow, guiding him cordially to a wide divan against one wall. “Please be seated. Would you like a drink?”

How the man ever expects anyone to believe the ridiculous fiction of his being Spanish, with that guttural accent, heaven alone knows, Huuygens thought, and smiled faintly. At least the monster is polite; he offered me a drink, and he was kind enough not to refer to his servant’s habit of holding guns on people.

“Yes, I would. Thank you,” he said, and sank down on the comfortable cushions.

“Whiskey or cognac?”

“Cognac, please,” Huuygens said cordially, and watched the tall, thin man march to a cabinet in one corner, open it, and pour two measured doses into glasses. The care with which the amounts were calculated indicated quite clearly to the seated man that Gruber wished to be certain his hospitality was sufficiently generous, without taking any chance that heads would not be clear once their discussion began. Teutonic thoroughness, Kek thought, and studied the figure of the man he had hated so many years. No, now that he’s actually before me, he doesn’t disturb me at all. Possibly because he has ceased to be a person. Now he’s just a symbol, a thing to be punished.

Gruber returned, handed him his glass, and sank down in a chair to one side. He raised his glass. “Salud.”

“Salud.”

They sipped, and then Gruber leaned back, his green eyes bright as he studied the calm figure before him. “You have quite a reputation, M’sieu Huuygens.”

Huuygens acknowledged the implied compliment with a polite tip of his head. “Thank you.”

“And yet you seem younger than I would have thought.”

Huuygens shrugged lightly. “Youth, m’sieu, is a relative thing.” Whatever that means, he thought to himself, and grinned inwardly. An idiotic statement, to be sure, but no more idiotic than his. He drank a bit of his cognac and waited.

“Yes,” Gruber said absently, and set aside his glass, leaning forward. “M’sieu Huuygens, I have checked on you thoroughly — or, to be perfectly honest — as thoroughly as I could. I don’t want to waste any more of your time than is necessary, I’m sure you are a busy man. Still...” He hesitated.

“Yes?”

The green eyes came up. “Well, I’m just not sure that you are the man I need.” He paused a moment and then went on. “May I ask you a question that you may think impertinent?”

Huuygens waved a hand. “My feelings, m’sieu, are rather calloused.”

“Good. I mean—” Gruber let it pass in favor of more important things “—M’sieu Huuygens, what is the largest thing you have been able to bring through customs undetected?” He hurried on, as if anxious not to be misunderstood. “I’m not attempting to query you on your methods, but I’m sure it is fairly easy to bring in — in — well, small things. Concealed. I’ve read...”

Huuygens shook his head sadly. “M’sieu. If you wish something taken from Lisbon concealed on my person, I suggest we are wasting time. And that my trip has been an unfortunate error. Each time I pass through a customs gate, they search me completely. Completely!” He set aside his glass and came to his feet with dignity. “It would be much simpler for you to carry the item yourself. I thought—”

Gruber stared up at him and shook his head. “M’sieu Huuygens, please be seated.”

“I thought—” Huuygens continued, as if he had not been interrupted, “—that you wished something substantial handled.”

“But I do!” Gruber contained himself with an effort. “Which is precisely why I asked you—”

“What the largest thing was that I ever brought through customs?” Huuygens smiled faintly in remembrance, studied his client’s face a moment, and then slowly reseated himself, picking up his glass of cognac. “Actually — although I trust m’sieu not to mention it widely — it was an elephant.”

“An elephant!” From the tightening of the lips and the cold look that appeared in Gruber’s eyes, it was evident he thought he was being made a fool of. “M’sieu, I am being serious!”

“And so am I,” Huuygens said equably, and smiled gently. “You see, M’sieu Echavarria, there are many ways to bring things through customs. One is, as you suggested, to hide it on one’s person.” His tone clearly indicated that he did not think much of this method. “Another, of course, is through the use of misdirection of one type or another. For example, to hide one object in a larger object, and in this way to...”

Gruber stared at him. “But what’s larger than an elephant?”

“A circus,” Huuygens said simply, and drained his glass. He placed it on the table next to him with an air of finality, tenting his fingers, watching his host.

Gruber seemed to be studying the answer, and then he smiled. He raised his glass, tossed off his drink, and also put his glass aside.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe we can do business.” He paused, as if to formulate his thoughts in words that would be least incriminating, took a deep breath, and then plunged directly to the heart of the matter. “Some years ago, m’sieu, I... well, I was fortunate enough to inherit certain paintings which, until now, I have been able to keep simply for my own pleasure.” He spread his hands in a gesture calculated to inspire sympathy and smiled sadly. “Now, unfortunately, conditions have changed, and I find myself forced to sell them...”

For a moment Huuygens experienced a sudden sense of unreality. The statement had been so exactly the one he had projected when he first thought of how to be invited to Lisbon, that he had the momentary feeling of living the moment a second time. He thrust the thought aside, forcing his mind to concentrate on Gruber’s words.

“Ah?”

“Yes. I—” Gruber paused, studied his guest’s face, and found only a look of polite interest “—yes. However, m’sieu, my problem is a bit complicated. To begin with, in Portugal at present, it is most difficult to find a proper customer. It’s a small country, and money is rather tight. However, in South America I have certain old friends who, I am convinced, could lead me to dealers or even wealthy collectors who would be willing to pay a decent price. My particular problem...” His voice trailed off; he watched Huuygens encouragingly.

Huuygens nodded. “Your particular problem,” he said evenly, “is to get these paintings into South America without being disturbed by customs.” His eyes were steady on Gruber’s face. “And my specialty, of course, is arranging just such accommodations. May I ask what country in South America you were considering?”

For a moment the tall, thin man hesitated; then he shrugged. It was obvious that the destination had to be revealed sooner or later. He took a deep breath. “Brazil.”

Huuygens nodded, as if pleased. “Good.”

“Why good?”

“Because Brazil is blessed with at least six ports of call other than the major ones of Rio and Santos.” His tone clearly indicated that he was revealing no secrets. “For anything as bulky as paintings, I would not care to use planes. They can fall down, or — even worse — arrive and be searched. Ships are much better, especially in a small port.” His voice was almost pedantic. “Venezuela is much more limited in ports, as are Uruguay and even Argentina...” He paused and looked at his host with curiosity a moment before continuing.

“However, Brazil is also blessed — if that is the proper word — with a customs service that is often venal. Bribable. So why...?” He spread his hands.

Gruber understood. “So why have I gone to the trouble of contacting M’sieu Huuygens?”

“Exactly.”

The thin German studied the strong face before him. This Huuygens was no fool, that was evident. But there was no reason why he should be taken into confidence on all things, or why he should be told that the bribing of customs officials had led to two cases of blackmail that he knew of, and to one case of arrest and extradition. And while he would have to be told that he, Gruber, expected to leave the country also, there was no reason for him to know the departure was one he intended to accomplish without the knowledge of his friends in the police or the government. Too many of those friends might resent the sudden loss of their extra income, might even get nasty about it.

“Because,” Gruber said smoothly, “I prefer it that way. In any event, I’m prepared to pay to have it done that way. Say I’m opposed to bribery on principal...” He smiled coldly. “The question is, are you interested in helping me solve my problem?”

Huuygens shrugged delicately. “M’sieu, for a price, one is always interested.”

“Ah! And the price would be?”

Kek looked at him evenly. “I would have to see the paintings first.”

Gruber shook his head. “I’m afraid that would not be possible, m’sieu. Once we have a deal, fine. Until then, no.”

Huuygens nodded slowly, as if recognizing the merit of the statement. His eyes came up. “In that case, m’sieu, my price will be ten thousand dollars.”

Gruber sat more erect. “Ten thousand—”

“Dollars, m’sieu. Not escudos, nor francs. United States dollars. Payable one half in advance, and the balance when the goods are delivered at destination.”

Gruber shook his head in grudging admiration. “You don’t work cheaply, do you?” He came to his feet, striding up and down the dim room, his hands clasped behind his back. He came back and stared down at the man on the divan. “Ten thousand when the paintings have been sold,” he said, and then conceded a point. “If you insist, one thousand as an advance now, and the balance when the paintings have been sold.”

Huuygens shook his head, but inside he was grinning almost ferociously. My dear Gruber, he said to himself, don’t be so worried. We’ll come to terms, but allow me to bargain first. It’s what you obviously expect. You would undoubtedly become suspicious if I accepted your ridiculous offer.

“M’sieu Echavarria, I know nothing of the value of your paintings, or — if you will pardon me — whether you can find a market for them once they are inside Brazil.” He shrugged. “You can scarcely expect me to take a chance that I might not be paid.”

“On the other hand,” Gruber pointed out, “I know nothing of your ability even to get the paintings out of Portugal.” He imitated Kek’s shrug exactly. “You can hardly hope for an advance that large without my seeing any evidence that you can succeed.”

Huuygens appeared to be giving some thought to the possible justice of Gruber’s point of view. His strong fingers drummed on the arms of the divan as he considered the problem, frowning. At last he looked up.

“Well, then, m’sieu, suppose we overlook the advance. Five thousand dollars when the paintings are safely out of Portugal, and the balance when they are safely inside Brazil.” He raised a finger. “But not dependent on their sale, merely their delivery.”

For several seconds Gruber considered him; there was something in the other’s attitude that seemed to say that bargaining was over. He nodded suddenly, and thrust out his hand.

“Fair enough.” One brief up-and-down motion and Gruber smiled. It was rather a malicious smile. “One more thing, M’sieu Huuygens. My wife was rather worried about trusting you, and I told her I thought I knew how to guarantee it, at least in our case.” His smile remained rigid. “In making your plans, there is one further fact you must take into account. I wish the details arranged in such a manner that at no time are the paintings physically out of my sight. That is an essential condition.”

Huuygens stared at him; the mercurial eyebrows went up. “I beg your pardon?”

“No excuses, please.” Gruber’s voice had suddenly become hard. “That is an absolute essential. It isn’t that I distrust you, or the means you plan to employ, but there is far too much at stake here for me to take the slightest chance.”

“You plan, then, on traveling on the same ship?”

“Yes.”

Huuygens frowned. “As a general rule, my efforts are expended in getting things through customs. Not people.” His frown changed into a sudden smile as a thought struck him. “Other than myself, of course.”

Gruber was not amused. “Well?”

“Do you have your passport? Because I’m afraid I’m not a forger.”

“I have my passport.”

“And a valid visa for Brazil?”

Gruber nodded. “Yes. We both have.”

“Both? Ah, yes — your wife. She travels with you, then?”

“Yes. If we come to an agreement, you will have an opportunity to meet her.”

But not in your presence, Huuygens thought. Because the shock of that meeting for Jadzia could lead to anything from denouncement on the spot to inadvertent betrayal. Well, where and when he would meet Jadzia was something that would have to be worked out. He looked up.

“And Hans? Your servant?”

“No. He stays here.” Gruber was becoming a trifle impatient. “Well, m’sieu?”

Huuygens refused to be rushed. “You realize that you’re making the problem much more complicated?”

The thin man smiled sardonically. “But not impossible, I’m sure. Not for the famous M’sieu Huuygens. And certainly not for the extremely large fee he is demanding.”

“Plus expenses,” Huuygens added, almost idly.

“Expenses?”

“I hadn’t planned on an ocean trip.” Kek smiled apologetically. “As you said, m’sieu, it isn’t a question of mistrust, but only one of sound business practice. The time involved is an unfortunate loss, but...” He shrugged lightly. “The rest will do me good. And I haven’t been to Brazil for years.”

Gruber studied him. “We’re agreed, then?”

“We’re agreed.”

“Good.” The thin man smiled, pleased. “I was certain we would make an arrangement. And now that that’s settled, if you would care to see the... ah, the merchandise?”

Huuygens rose to his feet with that hesitancy of one waiting to be shown something. Gruber walked across the room with his military strut and drew aside the tapestry that hung on the opposite wall; its absence revealed a small door set in the side of the room. A combination of two keys was required to open the two locks; the thin man flicked on a light and stepped aside, allowing Kek to enter. The gray eyes surveyed the room carefully; it had apparently been a serving pantry of some sort when Gruber had first obtained the house, but now it was a vault. The walls had been lined with steel, as well as the ceiling, and Huuygens was sure that under the soft carpet on which he was standing the floor had been similarly equipped. He glanced up. One small vent located at the juncture of a wall and the ceiling provided fresh air from some outside source; from the rising whine of a concealed motor, he suspected the fan was activated when the door was opened.

“Well?” Gruber was looking about in evident pride.

Kek stepped forward. Hung on every available square inch of wall space were framed pictures. There was a small wooden table set in the center of the room, but there was still ample space to study the collection properly.

Gruber chuckled in self-congratulation.

“You should feel honored. You’re the first person ever to see this room — other than my wife, of course. Hans and I did all the work ourselves.”

Huuygens nodded politely, stepped to the first painting, and then felt a tingle at the base of his scalp. Could it be, despite the cordiality of their entente, that Gruber had only been playing with him? He moved to the second, and then to the third, his nerves becoming more tense with each picture. Certainly it was possible; because the paintings he was studying were a series of poor copies produced by obviously second-rate students. His eyes narrowed slightly. Could the German honestly believe he had a fortune in his hands, if only these pictures could be sold, or was he standing behind him now, waiting with that cruel smile of his for Huuygens to betray himself?

He turned slowly, every nerve on edge, and knew at once that it had been no trap. The tall, thin man was staring at the mounted pictures with such pride, such rapture, such avarice, that Huuygens felt his alarm disappear, to be replaced with a stab of contempt. You poor animal! he thought. Is this what you have guarded all these years? Is this trash the legacy you brought from your career of murdering and torturing? Is this the future you have been dreaming of? Living on the proceeds of what these miserable daubs will bring?

A wild desire to chortle almost overwhelmed him; he forced it down, willing himself to composure, walking slowly from picture to picture, pretending to study them, to admire them. A second thought came without volition: poor Jadzia! She should have spent more time listening to the discussions on art between Stefan and himself and less in worrying about her most recent gown! He completed his tour of the small room to find Gruber watching him closely.

“Well? What do you think?”

Huuygens shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m no art expert. Their value—”

“I don’t mean that,” Gruber said impatiently. “I realize that art isn’t your field. I mean, now that you’ve seen what I want brought into Brazil, can you handle it?”

“Are these all?”

“Yes. No!” Gruber turned to the table in the center of the room. He slid open a drawer, reached within, and brought out a small envelope. “There are also these.”

He opened the envelope and tossed the contents out onto the table top. For a moment the desire to laugh came back to Huuygens; from his position they appeared at first like an assemblage of postcards. In addition to the garbage on the wall, he thought, what else do you want smuggled into Brazil? French postcards? He came forward, bent over the desk, and then froze in almost uncontrollable shock. Despite his iron control he felt a tremor of excitement shoot through him, felt his mouth grow tight with tension.

What he was observing was a series of small rectangles of vellum, bright with color. For the first time since he had left Poland, he was looking at the famous Hochmann collection of miniatures! It was not possible; they had been destroyed! He closed his eyes a moment and then opened them avidly, staring down. The most famous, the most valuable collection of miniature paintings in the world, here! Locked in a drawer in a small room that housed the world’s worst copies! He clenched his jaw, tried to breathe deeply without being noticeable, but his eyes were still slightly dazed as he looked around. Gruber, fortunately, was paying him no attention. Instead, he was smiling down at the tiny rectangles much as one will smile at children playing in the park.

“Rather pretty, aren’t they?” He turned around. By this time Huuygens had managed an expression of polite interest. “I thought of taking them with me in my luggage, but since you’re handling the rest, you might as well include these.”

Kek tipped his head. “If you wish.”

“Good. Can you handle the... the affair?”

“I should think so. Yes.”

“Fine! And just how long do you think it will take to make your arrangements?”

Huuygens considered the question. “It’s rather difficult to say. I shall have to arrange a tourist’s visa to Brazil, of course...” His eyes went to the pictures on the wall again; he stepped forward, measured the largest against the length of his outstretched arm, and then nodded as he mentally recorded the dimension. He turned, adjusting his cuff. “There are several ways it can be done, of course, our job is to find the best. And most foolproof.”

Gruber was watching him with interest. “And that will be?”

Huuygens smiled faintly. “The one that will best assure success,” he said dryly.

Gruber grinned; his teeth gleamed. He seemed to like the answer. “Good enough. And where are you staying?”

“At the Ouro Vermelho. It’s a hotel on a small park, in the Rua Sidónia Pais.”

“I know where it is.” Gruber nodded and led the way from the room. He flicked off the light, locked the room carefully, and then arranged the tapestry to cover the door. He walked Huuygens to the door of the library, holding him lightly by the arm. “A pleasure, M’sieu Huuygens. Hans will get you a taxi. I suggest we keep in touch by telephone from now on — you have the number.” He smiled knowingly. “The fewer visits you make here, the better.”

Huuygens nodded his agreement, and then paused. “Your telephone — is it tapped?”

“No. Or at least I don’t think so.” Gruber seemed to think about it. “No. I’m quite sure it isn’t.” He shrugged. “Still, I suggest that m’sieu be circumspect.”

Huuygens nodded; the thin hand emerged from the smoking-jacket sleeve, shook his with the same pump-handle motion, and then withdrew. He was not surprised to see Hans waiting politely and patiently beyond the threshold in the hallway.

“Your taxi will be here in a moment, m’sieu.”

“Thank you.” Obviously, this was no place in which to voice any hidden secrets; only a most efficient microphone system could assure such unusual rapport between master and servant. He turned to bid his host adieu, but the library door was already closing. For a moment his eyes went the length of the hall, searching for some hint that Jadzia also lived in the dim house, but the walls of the corridor retained their impersonal rigidity.

“M’sieu?” Hans still sounded polite, but slightly less patient.

“Coming, dear,” Kek said in English, smiled pleasantly at the puzzled look on Hans’s face, and followed him casually down the hall. Step Three? No, not quite. But, at least, Step Two-and-a-half...

10

From the depths of the easy chair, feet comfortably sprawled before him, a thoughtful Kek Huuygens stared with slitted eyes through a cloud of cigarette smoke across the park that faced his hotel, not seeing the wooded hills in the distance, but rather the high glass case in the library of the Hochmann mansion, and the famous collection of miniatures that it protected.

When had he first seen that fantastic collection? He had, of course, glimpsed it when he had come home with Stefan that first time, although the important thing that remained with him from that first visit had been his meeting with Jadzia. He had not seen the collection to appreciate it truly until possibly a year later, when his second-year art class had obtained permission for a special trip to the estate, and their elderly professor had stood in silent admiration for several seconds before turning and delivering them a lecture on miniature paintings in general, and the exquisite Hochmann collection in particular.

He could still hear the dry, pedantic voice with its poorly concealed undertone of excitement. “Miniature paintings, gentlemen—” there had been a slight pause “—and ladies...”

Stefan’s sister, Jadzia, had come into the room and was standing quietly to one side, her large green eyes fixed upon him. He grinned at her and winked, feeling that warm, happy feeling of young love. My God, but his Jadzia was beautiful! She made a slight moue and tipped her head pertly, a signal that she would meet him as soon as he was free, in the summerhouse overlooking the lake. There was the slightest pursing of her lips in an indication of a kiss, and then she had left the room as silently as she had entered. He stared after her, marveling at his great fortune in being loved in return by anyone as wonderful as she, and then suddenly became aware that a dead silence had fallen in the room, broken at that moment by the professor speaking his name.

“With the kind permission of Mr. Janeczek,” the dry voice was saying with a sarcasm remembered all too well from the classroom, “possibly we might continue...”

He remembered turning red, trying to smother a cough, and then forcing himself to concentrate on the lecture. The professor had smiled, a surprisingly human smile for that terror of the classroom, and had then turned his attention back to the collection.

“Yes, gentlemen, this collection is quite unique, and therefore quite priceless. To begin with, many — if not most — of the great artists of history have, at one time or another, delighted in demonstrating their extreme control of their media by producing miniatures — paintings complete in all detail, with all color and warmth, all richness and depth, yet on a scale so small that in many cases the full beauty of the work cannot be seen without the aid of a magnifying glass. Miniature painting dates back as far as the Romans, and was a highly developed art form in the Orient at an early date. Before the sixteenth century, Persian, Indian, and Turkish artists were producing delicate, stylized miniatures. In fact, many of these artists bred cats, since only the throat hairs of two-month-old kittens were considered fine enough for their brushes...”

He remembered shifting from one foot to another. Jadzia at this moment was undoubtedly scolding the steward to be sure the wine was at the proper temperature, seeing to it that the arrangements for their meeting were handled to her satisfaction. What a wife she’ll make! he thought. And then, later, in the summerhouse, when the maid had taken away the demitasse cups, Jadzia’s deep green eyes would be serious with love, probing his, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her other hand carrying his to the warm curve of her breast... He shut the scene from him, forcing himself to concentrate on the lecture.

“Hans Holbein the Younger was probably the first important representative of the art in Europe, and he was shortly followed by Clouet in France, and then by Hilliard and Isaac in England. And others, many others. Still, gentlemen, despite the fact that the art was widely practiced, this collection is absolutely unique...”

He remembered how the professor had paused, his eyes gleaming, before continuing:

“And why is it so unusual, gentlemen? And therefore so valuable? Because, to begin with, miniatures were generally portraits, while, as you can see, the pictures you are now viewing are all landscapes, which were rarely painted in miniature form. Secondly, although the surfaces used for miniatures in those days varied from ivory to metal to — yes, gentlemen — even stretched chicken-skin, the examples you are privileged to see are all limited to one material — parchment. And lastly, while the Persians and others even called a painting as large as a book page a miniature, you will note that none of the paintings here is greater in size than two by four inches...”

The professor had paused, triumphant, almost as if he personally were somehow responsible for the existence of the collection simply because he had brought it to their attention.

That was the Hochmann collection — and what had happened to it? He crushed out his cigarette and lit another immediately. In Paris he had heard that the Hochmann mansion had been bombed, destroyed. The Oberfuehrer had escaped death, and the Hochmann family had also been spared; they had been away from the house. At the time his relief in knowing that Jadzia had not been harmed had overshadowed all else. He had assumed, in common with others, that the collection had gone up in smoke, together with the thousands of books and the valuable china and the hand-carved furniture and all else, including the new refrigerator...

And now the miniatures were here in Lisbon, part of a package Gruber intended him to take through the customs of both Portugal and Brazil. Where Gruber had managed to get that other assortment of framed garbage, God alone knew! Certainly not from the walls of the Hochmann mansion; the old count would not have given the best of them storage space in the coal cellar. And Gruber, obviously, had no notion of their worthlessness.

This thought led to another. It was possible, therefore, that Gruber also had no idea of the true value of the miniatures; certainly he had treated them casually enough. Though Jadzia surely should know; she was raised with them. Ah, well, he thought, a minor mystery and not of great importance.

He frowned slightly. Ten thousand dollars to get the paintings out of one country and into another... With canvases that numerous and that large, it posed an interesting problem. He crushed out his cigarette and leaned back, closing his eyes, one hand coming up to tug at his earlobe. It was a pretty puzzle, and the solution this time had to satisfy more than the requirements of a client. It had also to satisfy him.

The telephone beside him buzzed quietly. His eyes came open; he frowned as he reached for the instrument. Who could be calling? André? Michel?

“Yes? Hello?”

“M’sieu Huuygens?”

He felt a sudden tightening of his nerves; an almost visceral chill. His large hand clenched the smooth plastic more tightly. How could he ever have thought he had forgotten that throaty, intriguing voice? Or that he would ever be impervious to it?

“Yes, this is M’sieu Huuygens.”

“M’sieu Huuygens, this is Senhora Echavarria. I have spoken with my husband, and he has told me of your conversation, and your — your arrangement. I...” There was a momentary pause, but it was not one of embarrassment; her tone still retained the old note of command. Even her accent is the same, he thought; it had never changed from those ancient days when she was studying her academy French in Warsaw.

“Yes?”

She continued evenly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you met my husband. I feel I should like to meet you personally before you — before you consider the arrangements final.”

Kek tried to analyze his reactions dispassionately. You knew this was going to happen when you started this business, he said to himself; be honest. You not only knew it; you wanted it. You hoped for it. Well, here it is. Admit that it was as much to see Jadzia as it was to punish Gruber that you came here in the first place. He took a deep breath.

“I quite understand, Senhora. At your convenience.”

“I’m in the lobby of the hotel. If I might come up?”

“Of course.”

There was a click as the telephone was disconnected; he hung up slowly and came to his feet. His jacket was lying on the bed; he slipped into it and unconsciously passed his hand over his thick hair and then brought it down to straighten his necktie. He walked to the window and stared down. A small beige sports convertible stood at the curb before the hotel — where none had stood when he had returned; he was suddenly sure it belonged to Jadzia. It was just the type of car she would want: fast, exaggeratedly modern without being openly ostentatious, and undoubtedly quite expensive. He grinned impetuously and felt a certain relief from his tenseness because of it. Let’s not be ungentlemanly, he said to himself; it’s also the type of car you prefer yourself.

There was a rap at the door; he swung about, his back to the light of the window, his voice raised slightly, but noncommittal in a manner he was far from feeling. “Come in.”

The knob turned; the door swung back. He tried to study the woman in the opening dispassionately, but despite the effort he felt his pulse begin to beat faster. She looks so much the same! he thought. The wind had ruffled her black hair a bit; it made her look as she had when she was coming in from a brisk canter, wheeling her horse to a stop before the stables back in Poland. She was dressed in a light sports suit, with an open jacket over a low-cut blouse; the curve of the breast represented complete fulfillment of that early promise. Her stomach was flat, her legs long and beautiful. Yes, Jadzia, he said to himself, I knew you would only change to improve. The fact, somehow, seemed to please him.

“M’sieu Huuygens?”

“Yes, Senhora.”

She closed the door behind her and moved forward; even in that short space he could see the boyish stride of old had been replaced by the natural grace of a mature woman. She paused before him, opened her mouth to speak, and then slowly closed it. Her air of polite indifference disappeared, followed first by a questioning look of bewilderment, and then almost instantly by shock, and then by fear. It was the fear of an animal caught in a trap, a trap unfairly placed. Her eyes widened; one hand rose swiftly to her throat, as if for protection.

“Mietek!”

“Hello, Jadzia.” His voice, to his own surprise, was even and gentle.

She stared at him a moment longer, as a bird stares at a snake that both fascinates and repels it, and then turned, her eyes searching the room desperately. They came back to him, attempting to understand the reason for his presence here, trying to recover from the shock of seeing him.

“Where is M’sieu Huuygens?”

“I’m Kek Huuygens.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“It’s the truth, Jadzia.” His voice remained gentle, convincing. “I’ve been Kek Huuygens since the war. Since I left Warsaw, as a matter of fact.”

“You’ve been Kek...”

He reached out, taking her hand; it was cold. She allowed it to lay impassively in his for a moment, and then suddenly her fingers tightened convulsively and without volition. Her eyes widened and then closed as a spasm of pain crossed her face. Kek could almost see her mind racing. Had she, by coming here, unwittingly betrayed the fact that Echavarria was Gruber? Would he, Huuygens, have known otherwise? Had she, by inserting herself into the affair, threatened the entire scheme with disaster? Her eyes finally opened, deep, dark green pools of fright, staring into his, trying to calculate the damage she had done, attempting to assess her own guilt.

“Sit down, Jadzia.”

She sank to the bed obediently; he seated himself across from her in a chair, bending forward, still holding her hand. Her eyes continued to search his face, seeking relief from her thoughts.

Her voice was low. “You knew, didn’t you? You recognized him.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I recognized him.”

“You would,” she said, and there was grudging admiration in her voice. “You’ve never seen him in your life, but you would. I think I always knew you would.” She closed her eyes and then opened them at once, as if she would be too vulnerable without his face before her. There were several moments of silence before she spoke again. “What are you going to do?”

He studied her white face. “What do you want me to do?”

Her eyes clouded with fear of a trap again, and all the terrors such a trap would mean. She bit her lip, fighting desperately to retain her normal position of attack, searching for cogent arguments. One came; it was weak, but all she could summon at the moment.

“I could tell him who you are,” she said. “You would never get back into that house again. We could be gone before you could get back in...” She wished he would exhibit some trace of emotion, some indication of his intentions. “He has many friends here; in the police, in the government. He could make trouble for you. More than trouble — he could see that real harm came to you...”

He nodded in quiet agreement. “Yes. If you told him, he could do that.”

She stared at him in confusion. Where was the boy who once had this same face, only younger; the boy she could mold to her slightest whim? Could it possibly be the same strong man she was facing now? She shook her head slowly. “You’ve changed, Mietek.”

“Kek,” he corrected her quietly. “Kek Huuygens. There is no Mietek Janeczek. He died in Warsaw. Together with his parents. And his sister.”

She stared at him. “And with me?”

“I don’t know,” he said evenly, emotionlessly. “I honestly don’t know.”

Her fear slowly receded; under that rigid façade, he was still Mietek Janeczek, and she was still Jadzia Hochmann. She could still mold him. Her voice became soft. “What happened to us, Mietek?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and stared down at her soft hand. “I often wondered how I would feel if we ever met. And I often thought that if we did, I’d ask you what happened to us.”

“You wanted to ask me why I did what I did. Why I married Willi...” It was odd, but even now, under these circumstances, she could still manage to sound faintly accusing, as if it were somehow at least partially his fault. “Isn’t that what you wanted to ask?”

“No.” It was a lie and it sounded like one. He tried to shrug, bringing his eyes up, studying the perfect symmetry of her oval face, the full lips, the lovely curve of her throat. “It was a long time ago, Jadzia. We were children then.”

She shook her head stubbornly, unwilling to let the answer pass, subconsciously aware that only the full truth — or at least the semblance of full truth — could gain her her ends.

“We weren’t that much of children. I’ll tell you why I did what I did. I thought the war was going to be over in a matter of months. I thought Germany was going to win. And I thought—” her eyes were studying him, trying to gauge his reactions “—I thought, after your parents... I thought I’d never see you again.” She shook her head slowly. “I also thought that if I married Willi, possibly things would be better, easier, for Stefan...”

“For Stefan?”

“Yes. He wanted an officer’s commission. He wanted recognition for everything we — he, that is — had done for them.” She shrugged. “He was a fool. He should have known better. Once anyone has what they want from you, they throw you out. He’s dead, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“He died a long time ago. The underground killed him.” She didn’t even sound interested. “If they ever find me, they’ll kill me too. They still have my name on the list, even after all these years. That’s why...” She stopped.

“Why you’re still with Gruber?”

She seemed to like the question. “Yes. Here in Lisbon. Trapped here in Lisbon—”

“Trapped? Do you mean by me?”

A bitter smile crossed her face. She pulled her hand from his and unconsciously smoothed her skirt. “By everything. By not being able to leave this country without—” the thought automatically led to another; she looked at him curiously, almost calculatingly “—Kek Huuygens... so you really are Kek Huuygens... I read the reports the police gave Willi on you. Did you really do all the things they say you did?”

He smiled faintly. “I don’t know what they say I did.”

“They say you have no nerves. They say you can...” She paused a moment, and then plunged directly to the heart of her problem; it was as if she could not help herself. “The paintings; you saw them this morning. They’re all we — I, have, Mietek. If they can’t be brought safely out of Portugal into Brazil—”

“What about the miniatures?”

“The miniatures?” She looked confused by the change in subject. “Do you mean the miniatures we had at home? Papa’s collection?” She shook her head. “Those were destroyed. Years ago, early in the war. The whole house was destroyed.”

She’s telling the truth as she sees it, Kek suddenly thought. She doesn’t know. Did Gruber keep them a secret from her purposely? Or does he actually think they aren’t that important?

She was looking at him curiously. “What made you ask about them?”

He shrugged. “Only that they were valuable.”

She nodded. “I know. Willi says the other paintings are valuable, too. He got them in various places; he was always bringing one or two back from places he visited. He says that in Brazil...” She stopped suddenly, and then stared at Kek. “You hate him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“But it was the war, don’t you see? It was the war. In a war people kill other people, it doesn’t mean...” She saw the look in his eyes and suddenly remembered his parents. She stopped and took a deep breath. “May I have a brandy, please?”

He looked at her in surprise. “Of course.”

“And a cigarette, please.”

He reached around, poured a drink, and handed it to her, then held a match as she drew on the cigarette. She drained the drink quickly, as if it were medicine, and then puffed nervously on the cigarette a few moments before crushing it out in an ashtray. She kept her head averted as she asked her next question. Her voice was low.

“You hate me, too. Don’t you?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I’ve never hated you.”

“I’m glad.”

There was a brief light in her eyes that disappeared as quickly as it had come. She stared down at the rug a moment and then raised her eyes, intent on his understanding the importance of her plight.

“Mietek, I have to get out of Portugal. I can’t stand it any more. Those paintings — what they represent — are my only hope. If there’s any trouble, if you do anything foolish now, and the police are involved in any way, it would ruin everything.” She waited for him to speak, and then went on with a touch of bitterness.

“You don’t know what it is to be in a place you hate, a place you hate because it’s like a dungeon you can’t leave. Oh, yes, I have a car, and I leave the house — I have to or I’d go mad — but do you know how far I’ve been from the house since I’ve been here? Not even to Estoril! I go out shopping, or I drive around the park sometimes, but that’s all. This is the second time in over eight years I’ve ever been in the center of the city.” She shrugged. “Even Willi goes out sometimes in his car — he’s afraid that mine would draw unwelcome attention to him. At night, he drives around the park, looking down on the city, and then comes home to hide.”

Her eyes were brooding; she leaned forward, staring at him. “And the people we see; we talk to? We occasionally eat with? Only people who are safe. Policemen that don’t dare say a word, or they’ll lose what Willi gives them to keep quiet. Government officials who pretend they’re in sympathy, but really laugh at us, I think, while they take all they can get. And their fat wives—”

“And Hans.”

“And Hans. He was a sergeant major, would you know it?” She shook her head. “And even Hans only stays because the cars will be his to sell, once we leave. His name is on the list, too...”

She reached for his hand again; the brandy seemed to have warmed her, to have brought some life back into her. She gripped his hand strongly, the fingers of one hand stroking the back of his; she bent toward him, her perfume suddenly heady.

“Mietek — you’ve got to help me. You’re the only one that can. Those paintings are my only hope, they’ve got to get into Brazil safely. Do you understand?” She watched him carefully, and then continued, speaking slowly. “Willi isn’t the only one who knows the people in Brazil who will buy them. I also know who they are and where they are. I also know how to contact them...”

He studied her almost clinically. “Do I understand you? You mean, get them into Brazil, with or without Willi?”

“Yes.” Her voice was emotionless; only the brightness of her eyes betrayed her tenseness. “Yes. With or without Willi...”

He leaned back, his gray eyes half closed. “I see.”

“I knew you would...” She bent forward suddenly, drawing him toward her, pressing her lips on his mouth lightly at first, but then with mounting pressure. Her lips opened; her sharp teeth bit down softly on his lip, and then she pushed him away, coming to her feet quickly, purposefully. She stripped her jacket from her, and then her blouse, dropping them to the floor; her eyes were bright with excitement, fixed almost hypnotically on his. She seated herself on the bed and then allowed herself to fall back; her green eyes were almost black with emotion. Her hair spread out across the white bedspread like an opened fan, framing her lovely face.

“Mietek, come here...”

He knelt by the bed, almost unconscious of his actions, his mind blank to everything but her presence there. She drew his head to her full breasts, arching her back convulsively as his lips touched her, and then reached for his hand, pulling it with urgency to her thigh, pressing it tightly with her tense fingers.

“Touch me, Mietek; touch me, touch me...” There was a thickness in her voice, an almost drunken abandon, but there was also an underlying thread of triumph. “Oh, Mietek, Mietek, oh, my darling Mietek...”

The plan came to him in the night, almost complete in detail.

He had half wakened and turned on his side, unconsciously reaching for the warm body that had locked with his in such frenzied passion that afternoon. His hand encountered only the bare sheet; the perfume Jadzia had worn still clung sweetly to the pillow as witness that it had not been just a dream.

He rolled over, clasping his arms behind his head, staring up at a ceiling only faintly visible in the moonlight that glanced in the open window. Other than the pure animal pleasure of satiated completion that he felt, his mind was deliciously empty. And that nature which abhors a vacuum filled it at once with a plan.

It did not greatly surprise him. Ideas came to him with considerable ease, and often at unpredictable times, and he never argued with the quirk in his mental processes that made it possible. Nor did he ever explore too deeply which particular circumstance actually triggered the flow of ideas.

He knew, of course, that with this scheme he would have to be more exigent; but he also knew, almost instinctively, that the basic idea was a good one. There were obviously many details to be worked out carefully and intelligently; facts to be remembered and others to be obtained — such as the direction in which the ornate wrought-iron gate swung, and to what extent he could depend upon André. Or Michel, who might be called upon, almost certainly without his own knowledge. There was a great deal to do, but bedtime was not the time to do it, nor bed the proper place in which to do it. Especially not this bed, with its host of contradictory memories.

With or without Willi, eh? Sweet girl...

Tomorrow morning would do to start work. He nodded to himself, pleased that at last he had a working basis for the operation, and then rolled over, closing his eyes. A faint smile touched his lips as a final thought came before sleep claimed him again.

With or without Willi, eh? Hardly a choice...

11

By noon the ashtray had been filled and emptied several times into the wastebasket beneath the desk, but the brandy bottle had not been touched. The remains of several pots of coffee and three sandwiches accounted for both his breakfast and his lunch. Twice, the comely camarera had been sent away when she came to straighten out the room, and even now was petulantly sorting linens in the tiny closet at the end of the hall, wondering unhappily just what there was about her to cause the handsome gentleman in 607 to remain a gentleman.

Kek crushed out his cigarette and leaned over, studying the final list on his desk, the result of hours of untiring thought. He lit another cigarette automatically and came to his feet, moving to the window, staring down unseeingly. His mind checked each of the many steps of the plan, going over them for the tenth time or more, reviewing the timetable he had established, trying to find some fault, some chink in the unassailable and inevitable logic of the scheme. He could find none. There were always, he knew, unknown factors that cropped up unexpectedly; these would have to be dealt with at the moment, as best they could. The mark of success was nearly always the ability to handle such unknown factors smoothly and without panic. But far more important was to arrange things so that something that should have been foreseen and calculated did not suddenly appear as a surprise.

He turned back to his desk, dropping into the chair there, frowning at the list once again, and then nodded decisively. It was a good plan, with every opportunity of success, and he had studied it long enough. It was now time to put it into practice. With the feeling of relief that always came at this stage of a job, he crumpled the paper and applied a match to it, placing it in the ashtray to burn itself out, and then mixing the still-warm ashes with the matchstick.

The telephone rang; he tossed the matchstick on top of the other debris in the ashtray and reached over to pick up the receiver.

“Hello? Yes?”

“M’sieu Huuygens?” The question was obviously rhetorical, or the caller would not have continued. “This is Senhor Echavarria...” The guttural voice was without emotion. “Do you have any news?”

“News?”

“How are your plans going?”

Kek smiled faintly, staring at the still-smoking ashes. He reached out and retrieved the matchstick, stirring them a bit more. “Very well.”

“Good! And do you have any idea yet as to how long it will be until...” The voice trailed off significantly.

Huuygens closed his eyes, pictured the timetable a moment, and then reopened them. “At the moment it’s a bit difficult to say, exactly. It depends to a large degree on what I am able to accomplish today. My visa will be ready tomorrow, but there’s also the question of selecting the right — transportation...”

“Of course.”

“Still, I hope we may be able to finalize our business on Friday.”

“In four days? So soon?” The guttural voice sounded surprised.

Kek assumed a cold tone. “Time is money, m’sieu. As it is, I shall have to spend a week in travel that I had not originally calculated.”

Gruber hurried to clarify his position. “I’m not objecting to the time, I was merely rather amazed. For me, the sooner the better. Would you suggest I call you on Thursday, then? In the evening?”

“That would be fine. By then I should be able to give you the exact time.”

“Good. And now that that’s out of the way,” Gruber continued smoothly, “I might mention that my wife informs me that she met you yesterday. And seemed quite convinced that you are the ideal man for the — ah, the assignment.”

“Oh?” Kek sounded noncommittal, but he frowned, wondering what the other was leading up to.

“Yes. She also appeared to be quite attracted to you,” Gruber went on, and suddenly chuckled. The chuckle disappeared as if swallowed, replaced by the original suave tone. “Quite enthusiastic. You would have to know my wife better to realize how rare that is with her. Unfortunately...” His voice trailed off apologetically.

Kek waited a moment and then spoke. “Unfortunately what, m’sieu?”

Gruber appeared to change the subject. “From your conversation of yesterday, m’sieu, it occurs to me you are undoubtedly planning on transporting the — ah, the merchandise — on a carrier that might not have proper accommodations for a lady.” He coughed diffidently. “Also, of course, Friday is a bit sooner than we had originally thought. I’m afraid my wife will not be able to... to—”

“You mean, will not be able to accompany us?”

“Exactly! She could join me — us, that is — later. There are many things she could find to do around the house.” A further thought struck Gruber, an argument possibly even more convincing. “I also imagine it might ease your problem somewhat if fewer people were involved in your travel arrangements—”

“Changing my plans every five minutes scarcely eases my problem!” Kek made no attempt to hide his irritation. He waited a few seconds and then went on, making a concession. “However, I haven’t gotten along so far that it seriously upsets anything. If that is the way you prefer it—”

“Fine! I appreciate your cooperation, m’sieu. I honestly think it would be much better this way. For all of us. I’ll call you on Thursday, then. Until then, m’sieu...” The telephone was disconnected with a soft click.

Huuygens hung up slowly. He could almost see the other man leaning back in his chair in the dim library, a wolfish grin of satisfaction on his lips. The thought brought a similar smile to his own; the smile grew to a laugh. In his mind he mentally crossed off the first item on the list he had just burned. Thanks to Gruber, it would not be necessary for him to devise some argument to prevent Jadzia from accompanying them. That had been part of the scheme, a necessary part to clear his conscience, and Gruber — dear, jealous, stupid Gruber — had been kind enough to do it for him. He came to his feet and reached for his jacket, winking at himself grimly in the mirror as he pulled it on and walked to the door with a smile.

If our friends cooperate with me as well as our enemies, he thought, and if I handle my part of the scheme properly, this thing may work out very well indeed...

The afternoon, as he had anticipated, was a busy one. To begin with, he stopped at a stationer’s shop and bought a large pad of red-edged gummed labels, all blank, a roll of transparent tape, a metal rule, and also a small bottle of marking ink, a fine brush, several packages of tissue paper, and a plastic bag of the type used for airplane travel in which to carry the other items. After the stationer’s shop, he next visited a small job-printing house in the neighborhood, where he had the gummed labels printed to his direction. Then, almost as an afterthought, he asked the man to print him some business cards.

The legend that Kek produced for the printer to copy indicated that his name was Sr. Enrique Echavarria, and that he enjoyed the position of managing director of the Banco Internacional Económica of Madrid. The printer, a young man with far more important matters on his mind, gave no particular thought to the routine request, but set the type and went to work. Huuygens, waiting at a window and watching the traffic go by, considered with pride the name of the bank he had chosen. If there isn’t a bank with that name, he thought with an inner smile, there certainly should be; it sounds so beautifully substantial!

His next stop was at an automobile rental agency in the Avenida da Republica. The business cards he had just had printed — together with his distinguished appearance — worked their magic, and in a short while the necessary papers had been signed, a suitable deposit given, and he drove from the agency in a carefully selected sedan of demonstrated power. It was not, he realized, as flashy a car as Jadzia’s, but he was sure it would probably excite far less notice.

His next move was postponed until he was well away from the agency; had he made it there it might well have aroused curiosity. He drove into the park across from the hotel, selected a rather deserted drive, drew to the curb, and descended. He walked to the rear of the car, opened the trunk, and measured it carefully; to any passing driver he appeared to be merely a man checking his spare tire. Huuygens knew he could always exchange the car on one pretext or another if the measurements were not to his liking, but fortunately there was no need. The trunk was of a size that would serve perfectly.

There were still many things to do that day, and he got right to them. A hardware store nearby furnished him with a hammer, a box of nails, a screwdriver, and a pair of pliers. The owner of the store would have been amazed had he watched his customer once he was back in the car, because the first thing Kek did was to use the hammer and screwdriver as levers to twist the pliers until they were useless. He tried the jaws several times, failed to close them, and grinned as he tossed the tools into the plastic bag together with his stationer’s supplies.

His last chore for the day was to locate a small carpentry shop and order a packing case made to the dimensions he carried in his head. The cover, he explained to the owner, was to be made separately, and he would nail it shut once the box had been packed. The two hovered over sketches until Kek was sure the man knew exactly what he wanted; a price was established, a deposit given, and Kek left the shop with the assurance that the box would be ready by the next afternoon.

It was past six o’clock by the time he left the carpentry shop, and he drove back to the hotel with a feeling of accomplishment. It was the same good feeling he always had when a job was well under way, and the time schedule was being properly respected. He parked the car in the hotel garage and took the elevator up to his floor; even the ancient lift seemed in better spirits, or at least to Kek’s ears the usual metallic complaints were less strident.

In his room he tossed the plastic bag onto the bed, slipped out of his jacket, loosened his tie, and walked to the table before the windows. He had done a good day’s work and deserved a drink; he poured himself a stiff brandy and sank down in the easy chair, sipping it, and then glanced at his watch. Still a good hour and a half before André showed up for dinner — plenty of time to make his call to Anita.

He reached for the telephone and placed the call, leaning back idly, drawing his glass beneath his nose, appreciating the aroma. He could hear the exchange of operator-talk, and then at long last the ringing of a telephone at the other end. He frowned as the telephone continued unanswered, waited for several more rings, and then slowly depressed the lever, thinking. It was essential that he contact Anita as soon as possible, but he couldn’t leave the call in, since he had no idea where he and André would be dining. The best thing, he decided at last, would be to contact his answering service and have them keep trying Anita’s number. And have them leave a message with her to call him at midnight at the hotel.

He released the lever and placed another call for his own number in Paris. There was the usual delay; he finished his brandy and leaned back comfortably, waiting. At last he heard the number ring; the telephone was immediately picked up. His frown deepened; his answering service never responded until the fifth ring. He spoke cautiously.

“Hello?”

“M’sieu Huuygens’s residence. Who is this, please?”

Kek sat up straight in the chair. “Anita! What are you doing in my apartment?”

“Kek! It’s lovely of you to call.” She sounded delighted. “How have you been? How are things in...”

“Anita! Answer me — what are you doing in my apartment?”

“Well...” Anita paused as if arranging things in her mind so as to be perfectly accurate. “This morning I moved your desk over to the other wall — the one nearest the door, and — You know, Kek, I don’t believe that elevator man is from the police. He was very sweet. He helped me move the desk. I gave him five francs. And do you know?” Her tone became severe. “I’m sure Marie never moved that desk since you’ve been in this apartment. The dust under it!”

“Anita!”

“And I think the bar should be moved, too. I’m sure it’s absolutely filthy beneath. And it would really look better near the balcony doors. But I understand there are pipes and things to the sink...”

Kek glowered at the instrument. “Will you leave my apartment alone? I liked the desk where it was!”

“You haven’t seen it where it is now.” Anita’s tone expressed surprise at his unadventurous spirit as far as furniture location was concerned. “It looks much better. Of course, we’ll have to change some of the pictures around, but that shouldn’t be too much of a problem. I’ll try to get to that tomorrow. I’m sure that sweet old man will help me.”

Huuygens was gritting his teeth. “You keep that sweet old man out of my apartment!”

“Why, Kek! Certainly you can’t be jealous of an old man? He was a perfect gentleman today— Oh!” Anita suddenly understood. “You don’t have to worry; I was with him every minute he was here. Although I’m sure he’s not from the police. The police wouldn’t give me the keys to your apartment, would they? Besides, if he had the keys, and he was from the police, he could be in here whenever he wanted...”

Kek knew there was nothing incriminating in the apartment; there never was. “That’s not the point...”

“But,” Anita went on, the soul of cooperation, “if you wish, I can have the locks changed tomorrow.”

“Great,” Kek said in disgust. “And just how do I get in when I get back home? Because, my sweet, you are leaving there at once!”

“I can’t, Kek. I’ve already sublet my apartment to some Americans. For an absolutely marvelous price! Especially considering the stove doesn’t work too well, but I don’t suppose that will bother them. They didn’t look the type to eat in very often. I just hope they don’t use my good china, but then, if they don’t cook, they won’t really need china, will they?” She went on with scarcely a pause. “Kek, when you called, you expected your answering service to answer, didn’t you? Was there anything you wanted that I could do for you? There weren’t any messages, because I checked.”

Kek had completely forgotten the original purpose of his call. He stared at the telephone a moment and raised his shoulders. The problem of the apartment and Anita’s tenancy would have to wait.

“Yes,” he said. “As a matter of fact I was going to ask them to get in touch with you and have you call me.”

“Oh, good! Then you did think of me!”

“Yes,” he said, and smiled wryly. “I wanted you to do me a favor.”

“But of course, darling.”

He stared at the telephone in silence a moment, and then shrugged. “I have a friend, a newspaper man named Jimmy Lewis. Mark down his number.” He gave it, waited a moment, and then continued. “Do you have it? Good. Now; I promised him a story if I came across one, and I have. So I want you to call him and tell him you have a very big tip, but that you won’t be able to give it to him until tomorrow night. Is that clear?”

“Do I tell him the tip is coming from you?”

“You do not. Don’t give him any names. Just sound mysterious.” He thought a moment and grinned. “And sexy. That’ll hold Jimmy. Then tomorrow night you call him and give him the tip. Which is...”

“Why don’t I wait and do it all tomorrow?”

“Because I want to be sure he’s there tomorrow. I don’t want him to take off for parts unknown; I want him available. Incidentally, if he is out of town now, or you can’t get in touch with him, call me back and let me know. I’m at the Ouro Vermelho here in Lisbon. If I don’t hear from you I’ll assume you got in touch with him. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

It occurred to Kek that Anita would probably make a very good secretary at that. “All right. Now, I want you to check on all the flights to Lisbon from Paris — all airlines, even small ones — and tomorrow night after the last one has left — or at least after it’s too late for him to catch the last one, I want you to call Jimmy again. If I know him, he’ll be waiting for the call.”

“I understand. You don’t want him there until Thursday morning. And what do I say to him?”

Kek smiled faintly. “You simply say to him: Wilhelm Gruber is in Lisbon...”

“Wilhelm Gruber? Isn’t he the...?”

“Never mind who he is or isn’t. Jimmy knows who he is. Just do it exactly as I’ve said.”

“Of course.” Anita sounded faintly hurt that Kek could think she wouldn’t. “That’s all I say? That Wilhelm Gruber is in Lisbon?”

“Not quite,” Kek said softly. “You will also say to him: ‘The man to see for all details is the assistant chief of detectives for Lisbon; a man named Michel Morell...’”

André and Kek dined that night at a small restaurant perched at the end of a dock near the northern boundary of the city. Soft lights reflected colorfully from the ripples of the river; a guitarist in one corner bent far over his instrument, softly playing a fada. The occasional whisper of a huge prow cutting through the darkness in midstream gave sibilant counterpart to the music, and made the lights dance wildly in the backwash.

The food was delicious. André finished wiping his plate with a piece of bread, popped it into his mouth, and leaned back, chewing. He swallowed, drew his napkin from his collar, and wiped his face. There was a pleased grin on his face.

“Not bad, eh?” He lit a cigarette from the pack on the table and reached for his glass of cognac. “There are considerations to not living in France. The food here in Portugal is as good or better, and far cheaper. And the cognac?” He kissed the fingers of his free hand. “No comparison...”

“A far cry from the old days of the Resistance, eh?” Kek also took a cigarette and lit it, leaning back comfortably, puffing on it with enjoyment.

“I should hope so!” André grinned. “And every now and then, as an added attraction, a friend from the outside world.” His grin faded. “You leave Friday, eh?”

“Thursday,” Kek corrected him gently.

“The day after tomorrow? But I thought you said...”

“I told Gruber we were leaving Friday.” His gray eyes twinkled. “You see, André, everything in this business is either misdirection, or timing. Or both.” He shrugged. “Senhor Enrique Echavarria will simply have to be ready with one day’s less notice. It’ll give him less time to worry and fret.”

“I suppose you know best, but I hate to see you go so soon. When shall we see each other again?”

“I don’t know,” Kek said honestly, regretfully. “Someplace; sometime...”

“I doubt it,” André said, and shook his huge head ruefully. His eyes came up. “Still, it was good to see you this time. You said before that this life is a far cry from the days of the Resistance. It is — in both ways. At least in those days I was a bit more of a man than I am today. Seeing you again makes me realize it.”

“We were all more men then than we are today. There was more reason to be...”

“Yes.” André sighed and then suddenly grinned. “We had some times together, though, didn’t we? I’ll never forget you and that damned radio you dragged all over the place...”

Kek also grinned. “And you. I remember one time in particular — the time we knocked out that police station at Vic-le-Comte. Georges, dragging that squealing schoolgirl out of the way at the last minute — by her pigtails. And you, running like mad down the street with that rifle of yours in one hand and that suitcase in the other. You looked like a commuter trying to catch the five-fifteen.” His smile faded. “Which reminds me...”

André drank his cognac and reached for the bottle again. “Which reminds you of what?”

“That suitcase of yours reminds me I need one. I came away from Paris unprepared for some of the contingencies I’ve run into, timewise and otherwise. All I brought with me was a small overnight bag.” He pushed his glass forward. “Would it be possible to borrow a suitcase? Something like you used to drag around with you?”

“I suppose so.” André poured himself a drink and then filled Kek’s glass. “I’ll drop it off at your hotel tomorrow.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to luck.”

Huuygens smiled and shook his head. “There’s no such thing as luck.” He raised his glass as well. “Here’s to planning, friends, misdirection, and timing.”

“And luck,” André finished. He grinned and drank his brandy.

12

A leisurely breakfast in his room on Wednesday morning, and a refreshed Kek Huuygens braved the terrors of the Ouro Vermelho’s elevator, located his rented car in the cavernous bowels of the building, and drove from the garage into the Rua Sidonia Pais with a soft whistle on his lips. The affair had gone extremely well to this point, but what he considered the most important part of the scheme still had to be resolved, and that was what the schedule called for that morning.

With a detailed map of the city spread out on the seat beside him for easy reference, he managed to get through the complex, twisting roads of the Parque Florestal de Monsanto to the Bairro da Boa Vista, and drew to the curb a block away from the street on which Gruber lived. With the motor pulsing quietly, he bent over the map, studying a tentative route that consisted in the main of secondary avenues, leading in the direction of the Tejo and the docks. Satisfied at last, he straightened up and began driving.

His course took him along the northern edge of the huge park, and then plunged him into a network of narrow streets graced with small, clean houses with precisely trimmed gardens. A frown formed on his face as street after street exhibited a pristine similarity with the one before it. Lisbon, it seemed to him, must be the most immaculate city in the world, but that scarcely resolved his problem. With a muttered exclamation of annoyance, he pulled to the curb and consulted the map once again, the car motor patiently throbbing beneath him.

As a result of this further study, he shifted gears and started off again, cutting further to the north this time, continuing his search as he approached the Avenida do Brasil and saw the airport in the distance. To anyone who happened to notice the handsome man taking his ease behind the wheel, Kek would have appeared to be a motorist out to enjoy the fine autumn weather, and nothing more. A more acute observer, noting the extreme care with which he scrutinized each side street he passed, and almost unconsciously slowed down to stare down each small alley, might well have come to the conclusion that he was a potential buyer checking the neighborhood before committing himself to the purchase of a house for his family. Or — considering the expensive car he drove — more probably a house for his mistress.

Actually, his purpose was quite another. He had avoided a route that would take him near the center of the city, because the concentration of police was sure to be greater there, and he certainly wanted no part of them. Also, his requirements were scarcely to be found in the center of town. What he was looking for could only be found in the residential sections; a side street, preferably with a dead end, but one that contained at least one house with a walled garden. Not, however, walled in the manner of the Gruber home, but one that could easily be scaled.

When, by lunchtime, he still had not found anything to his liking, he forewent lunch and continued his search, the frown on his lean face deepening. He knew, of course, that if he were unsuccessful in finding his exact requirements, he could always investigate the edge of the city and somewhere there find a path that ended in a wooded area, but he preferred a place in town, closer to the Gruber home. Every additional mile only added to the risks.

And then, moments later, he came upon the perfect location, purely by accident. He almost passed it at first, for, to begin with, he was driving through an industrial neighborhood and had no thought of finding what he wanted here, and secondly, because the sign FOR SALE OR LEASE did not register on his mind at once. The half-glimpse he caught through the entrance, however, immediately struck him; he reversed the car and backed up for further examination. The frown disappeared as he stared down the cobblestone driveway a moment; he nodded in satisfaction and then swung the wheel, driving in.

The entrance he had taken led past two empty two-storied stone houses that had apparently once served as twin guardians of the gate; it delivered him to an old, abandoned factory. Wooden loading docks in complete disrepair formed three sides of a large rectangle containing the roughly paved yard area. Kek set the car brake, turned off the ignition, climbed down, and walked about the place. The factory had obviously not been in use for many, many years; the high walls that loomed over him were of worn and chipped brick, with a host of ants’ nests testifying to their age. The crooked window frames had flaked their paint to yellowed wood, and their grimed panes were either broken or missing completely. The doors that sagged into the darkened interior hung pathetically on their rusted and broken hinges.

Kek mounted the gap-toothed steps to the loading dock and tugged one of the doors open further; it came with a reluctant squeal, as if resenting interference after all those years. He peered in; the interior was empty, except for layers of dust and the debris that always seems to accumulate somehow in such places. He stepped inside, studying the overhead beams hung with cobwebs, listened to the eerie silence a moment, and then crossed the creaking wooden floor to a door leaning half-drunkenly open at the far side of the wide room. He glanced about the corner of the door and found himself staring at a thoroughfare beyond, reached by a series of grooved stone steps. He turned around; the entire place smelled of age, abandonment, and urine. He smiled to himself. It was ideal.

With extreme satisfaction he returned to the car and spread the map out on the seat, studying it carefully. He located the spot at which he found himself, and then the house in the Bairro da Boa Vista. According to the map, the distance between the two places was roughly three miles. Even the distance was more or less what Kek had hoped for, making the deserted factory even more ideal for his purpose. He pored over the map, studying the maze of streets separating the two points, and then folded the map, got behind the wheel, and drove from the enclosed yard with a faint smile on his lips.

A sandwich at a nearby sidewalk café served him for lunch, eaten with the map propped up against a ketchup bottle while he carefully planned the best route between the two places and memorized the names of the streets through which he would have to pass. Satisfied at last that he had it well in mind, he returned to his car and then began traversing the memorized route. Twice, certain details not noted on the map caused him to seek nearby alternate streets, but once he had made the trip to his satisfaction he settled down to driving back and forth over it until he was positive he would not hesitate at any corner, or fail to note those intersections that could prove dangerous or delaying. It was not until he had made the trip six times in each direction that he was certain it was indelibly impressed on his mind.

He stopped at a pôsto and filled the car with gasoline, checked the oil and tires, and then set out on his last errand. He turned the car about and drove to the carpentry shop.

The packing case was ready, and the owner of the shop helped him load it into the trunk. He seemed a bit dismayed that its size did not permit it to be completed engulfed by the trunk, fearing for the chrome of the bumper, but Kek assured him that this fact had been known, and that — after all — the proper reason for the size of a case was to accommodate its contents, and not necessarily to fit into any previously prescribed space. It is doubtful if the owner agreed with him, or even understood him, but he accepted his payment, and Kek left with a slight grin. A cord tied between the handle of the trunk and the bumper prevented any undue rattling, and Kek drove back to the hotel garage and parked his car for the night.

At the desk, he picked up the suitcase André had left for him, and went up to his room. He set the suitcase aside, took off his jacket, lit a cigarette, and wandered to the window, staring out over the city, considering each step he had taken so far in the scheme. Each item on the list checked off; as far as he knew, everything had been dealt with, the time schedule beautifully satisfied. Still, he felt a twinge of restlessness, and he knew it was different from the disquiet he often felt when the final stages of a complex scheme were about to be launched. There was a certain foreboding in it; an unusual sensation for him. He turned to crush out his cigarette when the telephone rang. He reached over, picking it up.

“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 missed 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

Jimmy Lewis marched through the broad entrance of Portela airport with a hard look on his normally pleasant face. Somewhere in Paris there was a joker whose sense of humor had not only cost him a wasted trip, but had also earned him a chilling talking-to by a small but angry assistant chief of detectives for Lisbon. Plus an escorted ride to the airport in a police car, and the admonition to take the first plane out of Portugal. True, the joker had possessed a sexy voice, but at the moment his only interest in her was quite different; all he wanted was to locate her and beat her to death with her own right arm.

The wide tiled concourse of the airport terminal was fairly crowded as he made his way toward the Air France counter. While he skirted the noisy groups scattered about, he reluctantly dismissed the lovely idea of murder, and concentrated instead on composing a cable to his editor that might explain, even it did not justify, the fiasco. Done poorly, it might put the clincher on his getting fired; done with skill, it might even allow him to have the paper foot the expenses instead of their coming from his own pocket.

In his preoccupation he scarcely noticed the handsome man in dark glasses who sat hunched over a magazine on a bench nearest the broad windows; it was only as he was passing that the man accidentally shifted his feet, nearly tripping him. Jimmy turned to remonstrate, and then paused, his dark frown disappearing in favor of a wide smile. He shifted his camera to join his overnight bag in his left hand while he thrust out his right, his irritation instantly forgotten in his surprise.

“Kek! What are you doing here?”

To his amazement, his reception from his old friend was anything but cordial. The extended hand was disregarded; the eyes that were raised to his were obscured by the dark glasses, but the hard set of the jaw and the lips pressed thinly together clearly marked disapproval. The man came to his feet, folding his magazine, tucking it into his pocket.

“I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, m’sieu,” he said stiffly in French, and walked away.

Jimmy stared after him in astonishment. Any doubts he might have entertained were instantly removed by that familiar vibrant voice, and no one who knew the man could fail to recognize that purposeful stride. Jimmy watched him come to the wide stairway and mount it in the direction of the second-floor restaurant; one strong hand moved up at regular intervals to grasp the polished handrail and then release it, as if he were somehow measuring it for some mysterious purpose. The man paused at the top for several seconds, glancing down at him, and then turned to disappear through the heavy doors. Jimmy hesitated only a fraction of a second, and then followed him.

The man was sitting on the sun deck when he arrived, alone at one of the wire-legged tables that were scattered about the balcony; he watched Jimmy approach quite calmly. This time he made no attempt to retreat further nor to avoid recognition. Jimmy tossed his gear onto one of the empty chairs at the table and dropped down into another.

“All right, Kek. What’s this all about? Why all the cloak-and-dagger nonsense?”

Huuygens’s eyes came back from their contemplation of the doorway over Jimmy’s shoulder; he studied the tall young man for several seconds. Then he finally nodded, as if he had come to a conclusion after considerable thought.

“You can do me a favor.”

“Of course.”

The dark glasses gauged the other carefully; their obscurity seemed to add even more impersonality to the emotionless voice. “I have a reservation on Air France back to Paris. Someone may or may not be watching the ticket counter, but I’d rather not take any chances. If you could pick it up for me...”

There was no doubt that he was speaking with deadly seriousness; Jimmy’s eyes narrowed at the thought of some intrigue that might salvage something out of his useless trip. Wherever Huuygens was, there was sure to be news, if only he could dig it out.

He nodded. “All right. Is it in your name?”

For a moment the lips quirked in the old Huuygens manner, but instantly straightened out. “Of course,” he said dryly, but there was none of the usual humor in his voice. “I have enough problems with the people at French customs without trying to get past them with a false passport.”

Jimmy unfolded his six-foot-three, staring down.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Watch my things and I’ll go get your ticket. And my own. Which are going to be side by side on the same flight. Because once we are on that plane, I expect you to repay me by explaining what this is all about.”

Kek nodded slowly in agreement. “The last time I saw you I promised you a story, didn’t I? Well, once we’re on the plane, you’ll get it.” He frowned; one hand came up unconsciously to tug at his earlobe; his voice was somber. “This is one I think I want to get off my chest.”

“Good enough. What about your luggage?”

“I’m traveling light this time. Even lighter than usual.” The strong hands spread themselves in apology. “I have no luggage.”

One final condition occurred to Jimmy. “And while I’m gone, you can order the drinks.” He grinned. “And pay for them.”

He expected at least a smile in return, but the handsome face remained wooden. “If you wish,” Kek said with complete indifference, and raised a hand to attract the attention of a waiter.

The plane had lifted itself to cruising altitude; their seat-belts were lying relaxed in their laps, two glasses of Maciera Five Star reposed on the trays before them, and their cigarettes were burning steadily. Jimmy Lewis properly felt that all conditions had been met; he turned to his companion.

“All right, Kek,” he said quietly. “What’s the story?”

Huuygens took one last puff on his cigarette and crushed it out; there was a certain finality in the gesture. His hand reached out, grasping the glass of cognac, twisting it on the plastic tray to form damp circles. His eyes came up, expressionless.

“You were always a curious man, Jimmy,” he said quietly. “And on occasion I’ve satisfied that curiosity, partly because I know you and like you, but mainly because you’ve known when to reveal something, and when to keep it to yourself. The story I’m about to tell you will surprise you, I’m sure — and I’m not even going to tell you how much to publish and how much to keep back. I’m going to leave that to your good judgment.” He paused, waiting for Jimmy to comment, but the other merely continued to eye him steadily. Huuygens sighed.

“Once upon a time there was a man who had done me great harm — a man I hated more than any person on earth — a man masquerading under the name of Enrique Echavarria—”

“Keep going.”

“All right.” Huuygens shrugged. He picked up his cognac, downed it quickly, and shuddered a bit. Jimmy frowned; it was quite unlike Kek to drink this way. Huuygens reached up to ring for the stewardess, and then leaned his head back against the seat cushion, speaking to Jimmy, but staring up at the ceiling of the plane. The afternoon sun, slanting in the window beside him, marked the rugged outline of his profile.

“Well, about a week ago I received a telephone call from Lisbon, telling me that Echavarria was there...” His voice went on quietly, telling it all — his memories, his emotions, his actions. Even his doubts. He seemed to be recalling it softly for his own examination, rather than for Jimmy’s benefit. The stewardess kept his glass filled without instruction; Jimmy had stopped drinking in favor of listening with absorbed attention.

The sun had almost sunk to the horizon by the time Huuygens came to the culmination of that wild chase through the back streets of Lisbon. He paused a moment and then raised his glass, downing it. His eyes came up to Jimmy’s; his voice was bitter.

“She drove into the yard and ran over to him just as he was untying the ropes. I think I tried to yell, but it was too late. The explosion destroyed everything...”

Jimmy’s eyes slowly widened as the full meaning of Kek’s words registered. He stared at his companion in shocked horror.

“You booby-trapped him!”

Kek opened his mouth to reply and then paused. The stewardess had appeared at their seats, collecting their glasses, indicating the lighted panel over their seats. They crushed out their cigarettes and tightened their seat-belts. Jimmy continued to stare at him in wonder. “You booby-trapped him!”

“Yes,” Kek said simply.

“That suitcase André gave you was a bomb! He knew...”

“Of course he knew.” Kek’s tone was almost curt. “All through the Resistance he was our dynamiter. André and his suitcases were well known in the Midi. And he knew I hadn’t come to Lisbon just for the trip. He knew why I had come.”

Jimmy’s head continued to shake wonderingly. “You booby-trapped him. You led him on and on until he didn’t even stop to think before he tore at those ropes. You—” he suddenly frowned “—you also booby-trapped the girl.”

“I don’t know.” Huuygens turned his head, staring expressionlessly out of the window at Paris glittering below. “I don’t know if I knew she would follow, or not. But the point is, you see, that she didn’t trust me. Don’t ask me if I knew she wouldn’t — or couldn’t — because I don’t know...” He brought his eyes back. “Still, she shouldn’t have married the man who killed my family...”

“Then you lied to her,” Jimmy said slowly. “You told her you didn’t hate her.”

“I didn’t hate her.” Kek shook his head. “I don’t believe you can ever hate the first girl you love, even though it may be someone who never really existed. You see, love is an emotional thing, while hate — contrary to popular belief — is a logical thing.” His eyes went back to the window. “No, I didn’t hate her. Maybe I should have, but I didn’t—”

“And those miniatures,” Jimmy went on, “that you said were so precious...”

The plane was swiftly dropping lower; a grinding sound reverberated as the landing gear was lowered and locked in place. Kek turned to Jimmy.

“Do you have your car?”

“In the parking lot, as usual. Why?”

“I want a ride home. Wait for me after customs.”

“Wait for you?” Jimmy stared at him. “You’ll have to wait for me. You have no luggage.”

Kek smiled bitterly. “Do you honestly think so? You know better than that. The customs people tend to examine me rather thoroughly, luggage or not.” He turned to stare down at the runway, watching it rush up to meet them.

Jimmy realized the truth of Kek’s statement within minutes. As they came through immigration and Huuygens presented his passport, a small conference immediately began, and even as the tall reporter advanced with the other passengers into the customs section, he saw his friend taken aside, politely but firmly, and then ushered down an aisle toward a small room.

He waited in the parking lot with growing impatience. It was fully an hour before Huuygens finally made his appearance; he crawled into the front seat of the Volkswagen and closed the door. Jimmy started the engine at once, shifted into gear, and cut into the traffic moving toward the city. Once on their way he turned to his companion.

“Well?”

Huuygens shrugged. “Well, they seemed a bit perturbed that I had no luggage for them to search — I don’t know if it struck them as suspicious, or if they resented not being able to tear it apart — so they gave me a personal search that was even more efficient than usual. I had to undress and allow them to go through my clothing piece by piece. Not pleasant — nor particularly unusual — but unfortunately there isn’t much I can do about it.”

“I didn’t mean that.” Jimmy slowed down a bit to allow a truck to pass; the very novelty of his action clearly indicated his interest in his subject. “We were speaking about those precious miniatures just before we landed—”

“Oh, those?” Huuygens lit a cigarette and flicked the match from the window almost absently. He nodded. “Well, of course, much as I wanted to destroy Senhor Enrique Echavarria, I hated to see that fabulous collection of miniatures destroyed. So, in my hotel room that morning...” He paused suddenly, and then stared at Jimmy’s profile in wonder. “Good heavens! Do you realize it was only this morning? It seems like days ago.”

“The miniatures,” Jimmy repeated stubbornly.

Kek leaned back again. “Amazing! It’s fantastic how the mind can be fooled on the question of time. I shouldn’t be surprised if there isn’t a method here that might be used to confound our dear friends in customs—”

“The miniatures!” Jimmy insisted.

“Ah, yes. Well, this morning, then, I carefully prepared a package the size and shape that the miniatures would occupy when I later wrapped them in the library vault; the contents were nothing more than stationery from the hotel. And I carried it in my inside jacket pocket, between the lining and my passport. Admittedly, Hans’s search was only perfunctory, but in any event he wasn’t interested in the feel of paper; he was looking for weapons. And when I later packed the miniatures, I made sure that even the transparent tape I used was placed in the same position on the package as they were on the false one in my pocket.”

Jimmy nodded slowly as the pieces fell in place in his mind. “And when the servant went out to get a better pair of pliers, you simply exchanged the two packages and slipped the miniatures into your jacket pocket.”

Kek nodded, as if pleased by the other’s intelligence, and tossed his cigarette out of the car window. “Exactly.”

Jimmy frowned as he further considered the facts. “But what did you do with them? The miniatures, I mean? After all, the search you went through in customs...”

Kek smiled at him gently. “I told you in Lisbon that you were doing me a favor by picking up my ticket. Of course I had to lure you to the sun deck where I would be alone when you so kindly returned to the lower level for the tickets...”

He reached into the back seat of the car and picked up the Graphic Super Speed camera. His smile became slightly rueful.

“I’m afraid your film pack had to be dropped in a rubbish bin; it would have been difficult to explain at customs. I hope it contained nothing more interesting than the pictures you usually take.”

He took the camera from the case and retrieved a small packet from the film-pack throat. He tapped it reflectively a moment, and then with a sigh slipped it into his pocket. The camera was returned to its case and replaced on the back seat.

They were in the Avenue de Neuilly, approaching the Bois de Boulogne. Jimmy cut through traffic, preparing to make the turn at the Porte Maillot; he stared through the windshield with a puzzled expression on his face.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he said slowly, “that you planned this thing so carefully, in such detail, and then simply had the miraculous good fortune to run into me accidentally at Portela airport to get your miniatures out of Lisbon?” His eyes swung from the road to Kek’s face; there was a moment’s silence as he studied the sardonic look on the other’s face, the slanted eyebrows, the steady gray eyes. He returned his attention to the traffic. His voice was bitter.

“I’m really not very bright, am I? Enrique Echavarria’s real name was Wilhelm Gruber. Wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Kek said softly.

The car swung to the curb before the apartment building. The two men sat in silence for several moments, each with his own thoughts; the engine of the little Volkswagen throbbed gently, waiting to be off once again. At last Jimmy nodded.

“Yes,” he said slowly, thoughtfully. “It’s quite a story. Wilhelm Gruber dead — blown up in a car registered to an unknown Spaniard... I think it can be reported without involving you in any way. I may turn out to be a hero to my editor, of course, but that can’t be helped.” A sudden thought came to him; he looked up, grinning cheerfully. “By the way, someday I’d like to meet that sexy-voiced decoy you used to get me down to Lisbon.” His eyes remained steady on Huuygens’s face. “I have a feeling there might be quite a story in her. And you.”

Kek glanced out the car window, up toward his apartment. A light shone from behind his balcony, friendly and inviting. He got down from the car, closing the door behind him, smiling at the man behind the wheel. He suddenly felt a release from the tensions of the past week, a soothing sensation of calmness, of sanity, of coming safely to a welcome haven after a storm-tossed trip.

“Someday you might be right,” he said, and turned toward the apartment with a growing feeling of anticipation that surprised even himself...

Content

Robert L. Fish
The Hochmann Miniatures

Book One

1

2

3

4

Book Two

5

6

7

Book Three

8

9

10

11

12

13

Book Four

14