Robert L. Fish

Kek Huuygens, Smuggler

This book is dedicated to:

Dr. Arnold Katz — The Patient Resident

Phyllis, wife and — The Greek Interpreter

plus

Paul, Sarah,

Amy and Laura — The Three Students

With Love

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following publications for permission to reprint the stories listed:

Argosy for “Merry Go Round,” Counter Intelligence,” and “The Hochmann Miniatures.”

MD for “A Matter of Honor” and “The Collector.”

New American Library for “Sweet Music,” portions of which appeared in the novel The Hochmann Miniatures.

Playboy for “The Wager.”

Introduction

One of the most common questions put to writers at cocktail parties is, “Where do you get your ideas?” Well, other than rarely getting them at cocktail parties, most writers have no idea where they get their ideas. On a few occasions when they do remember where they got a particular inspiration, it usually stays with them a long time.

It was this way with Kek Huuygens.

I was living in Rio de Janeiro at the time, and enjoying it very much, spending my hours divided about equally between golf and trying to think up workable plots so that my writing could sustain my sport habit, not to mention my family. This one day, after a round at the Gavea Country Club, I was sitting on the veranda with my partner of the day, a man named Les Weldon, sipping a gin tonic, when he turned to me and said sadly, “Old So-and-so-died yesterday.”

“Oh?” I asked, vastly disinterested. My mind, at the time, was torn between a scene on the Rio docks I was hoping to use in a book I was hoping to write, and the fact that I had inexplicably developed a shank that day, than which there is no greater curse.

“Yes,” he said. “He was quite a man. Polish, you know, but during the war he went to Holland and took on a Dutch name. Fought with the underground in France and later became an American citizen.”

“That’s nice,” I said. I figured if maybe I turned my right hand over just a trifle and, of course, kept my stupid head down and my stupid eye fixed on the stupid ball, maybe I could control the stupid club-head from turning in my stupid hand, and send the shank back to wherever it came from. The Devil’s Pro Shop, probably.

“Yes,” Les said. “Now that he’s dead I could tell you things about him I couldn’t while he was alive, because not everything he did was strictly within the law.”

“That’s nice,” I said. I wondered if possibly one of our opponents that day had gone in for Macumba, which was the local version of Voodoo. Possibly he had had a small figurine of me made, and was opening the tiny hand and turning the miniature club just as I swung. I’d have to keep an eye on him the next time we played.

“Yes,” Les said. “There was the time, for example, when he smuggled five million dollars into the United States from Belgium. Legally — or anyway, almost legally.”

I looked up, frowning, my mind at last drawn from my shank, at least temporarily. You can never forget a shank completely.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “How do you smuggle legally?”

“I said, or almost legally,” Les said reprovingly. “I’ll tell you about it.” And he did.

And Kek Huuygens was born.

Naturally Kek has had many adventures since then, as many as I have been able to dream up, because the original, while quite a man in his own way, unfortunately didn’t serve literary requirements other than in his five million dollar caper. Still, I thank him (and Les Weldon, of course) for bringing Kek to life.

Kek has developed, of course, over the years since he was born in Rio de Janeiro. He has become quite a man, taken on a more definite form, fixed his idiosyncracies more firmly, become more of a person. He has experienced more: married and divorced, loved and been loved, hated and been hated. He has traveled a long way from the Warsaw of his youth; he has seen the world.

I have no idea where Kek Huuygens is at the moment; we’ve sort of lost track, unfortunately. But wherever he is, I know that behind those cool gray eyes that razor-sharp mind is busy, putting the little cogs together in some scheme or other to confound the customs service of one country or another. I am sure, as always, he has some plan he is perfecting, which will bring gain to others, but mostly to himself.

I just wish I knew what it was!

Robert L. Fish

Merry-Go-Round

“One million dollars...”

The man facing me was Kek Huuygens, and he bit his lip as if he had said something slightly nasty; his eyes dropped to stare moodily into his empty glass. It had contained Unterberg and Coca-Cola, a sickening combination he had ordered with the disclaimer that it was good for his stomach. He looked as if some solid food would have been much better. Until I ran into him in the street a few minutes before, I hadn’t seen Huuygens for fourteen years — not since 1944 — but he hadn’t changed. And in the old days, Kek Huuygens had always been good for copy. So I merely forced a deprecating laugh.

“One thousand dollars?” I said it with just the proper amount of disbelief he would have expected. “I didn’t think that Kek Huuygens ever bothered with anything that small.”

“Not one thousand,” he said quietly. His eyes treated me with the scorn my subterfuge merited. “One million.” His finger tapped idly against the side of his glass with just the hint of apology; even in his present shabby state there was no doubt that the man was an artist.

I waved for the waiter. Huuygens acknowledged my hospitality with the faintest of nods.

The waiter came and replenished our glasses. Huuygens watched the pouring of his drink with almost clinical detachment, but once the waiter had turned his back, he drank deeply, eagerly, and then wiped his lips. He saw my look and smiled bitterly.

“Gaudy, but not neat, eh?” he said. “Not the man you used to know? Well, I’m not the man you used to know.”

I didn’t say a word. He studied me a moment in silence and then sighed. “I’m not even the man I used to know,” he said with soft regret, and added quietly, qualifyingly, “not within a million miles.”

I sipped my drink.

It all started in Brussels (Huuygens said after a pause, eyeing me with mild hatred for having placed him in my debt for the paltry sum of two drinks). The idea sprang into my head full-grown, out of nowhere. A brilliant, fantastic idea, and simple as all great ideas are simple. Ideas have been my ruin... In any event, I had come to Brussels on a sort of vacation. Elsa, my wife — and I’m sure you remember her — wanted to visit her mother in Maastricht and also do some shopping, and I had at that time a little money and no particular reason not to bring her.

This particular day, I was free of Elsa and having lunch with a friend of mine — or at least, he was a friend at the time. Friends are cheap when one can buy one’s own drinks... In any event, I was having lunch with this man and our conversation fell into the standard pattern of all luncheon conversations in those days. This was directly following the war, you understand, and restaurant talk in Europe followed the certain ritual of a tribal dance where each partner knows the steps of the other. We began by discussing the Belgian franc, moved almost with rhythm to the solidity of the Swiss currency — this coincided with the fish course — and came to the English pound-sterling with the trifle.

You must remember those days; you were with the Tribune in Paris then, as I recall. If you saw a man and a woman walking together, arms locked about one another’s waists, heads bent to touch in closest intimacy, you could be sure they were not talking about love. They were talking about foreign exchange, or documents, or passports, or permits, or — but I am getting away from my subject.

As I was saying, I was having lunch with this friend when suddenly he looked up, and then leaned across the table and said in a low voice: “Speaking of the tragedies connected with exchange” — we hadn’t been, but we would have been soon enough, with the brandy — “the perfect example just walked in. Don’t look now, but...” He hesitated a moment and then continued. “He’s the handsome, youngish-looking fellow the fat waitress is placing in that corner by the rubber plant.”

I looked over his shoulder into a faintly stained mirror in time to see a rather young, blond man being seated at the corner table. I turned my gaze back to my friend.

“And just what is his great tragedy?” I asked a bit lightly

“Five million dollars,” my friend answered seriously “Or at least, the equivalent of that sum in Belgian francs.’

Despite my normal equilibrium, I’m afraid my interest showed. Five million dollars in any currency was alway guaranteed to interest me. My friend smiled understandingly. “That’s Waldeck Klees, of Klees Imports. You’ve heard of him?”

Of course I had heard of him. I said as much, and then asked, “But I was given to understand that he had either sold or abandoned the company his father left him, and gone off to America.”

“He would love to,” my friend said with a faint smile. “He would adore to. But the Belgian Government won’t allow him to transfer any of his francs to dollars.”

I stared across the table in amazement. “But certainly...”

My friend shook his head as he read my thoughts. “No,” he replied. “I know the people in the black market who made the offer, and the most they would give him is twenty-five per cent. Nobody knows what can happen to currencies here, and there is growing danger in such transactions.”

My eyes went back to the mirror, studying the young man. A tragic figure. Waldeck Klees... of Klees Imports...

And that’s when the idea struck me. It came all at once, clear and complete. My face must have shown something, because my friend looked at me curiously, but I forced myself to smile, and finished our meal as quickly as possible.

When I got home that afternoon, Elsa was draped over a chaise longue reading a policier and eating bonbons. I have never been able to understand how she could practically live on bonbons and maintain that fabulous figure! But in any event, she was there and I sat down on the foot of the chaise longue and pushed her feet aside to make room.

“Chérie,” I said, “we are about to entertain at a cocktail party.”

“Why?” she asked with the little pout that never failed to intrigue most men, but which could irritate me beyond measure.

“Because I say so,” I told her bluntly. “The only thing is that it is absolutely essential that one particular man be there. And how you arrange this is completely in your hands.”

“Who?”

“Waldeck Klees. I’m sure you’ve heard the name.”

She thought a moment. Elsa could be quite smart at times, and she knew when not to argue. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve heard of him. I believe he’s a friend of the Fleurs.” She looked at me coolly. “When do you want the party and how many people do you want to invite?”

I smiled at her. “As soon as possible. And I should like it to be small — a friendly little group. I’m sure you know what I want.”

Well, I never even asked Elsa how she arranged it, but a week later, I found myself hosting a very delightful, intimate cocktail party. We were living then in the Boulevard Franklin Roosevelt, in one of those squatty little ultra-modern apartments that have sprung up like gold-plated sugar cubes along the park there. The flat, of course, was not mine. It belonged to a friend who was traveling, but there was no need for anyone to know that. And the servants, of course, had been hired for the evening.

I handled my duties as a host in a manner quite satisfactory, but still I managed to be alone when Elsa appeared with Klees, so that I was free to spend a few moments with him. I expressed my delight in meeting a person I had heard so much about, slipped my arm through his, stopped the butler to provide us with drinks, and led him off to an isolated corner. As we sat down, he glanced about.

“You have a very lovely establishment.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “We’ve been very happy here. However, we’ll be leaving for America in a few weeks. You see” — I smiled a bit apologetically — “I’ve finally managed to get my money out of Belgium in dollars.” I looked about the room. “It has really been a fine apartment, though. Tell me,” I went on, bringing my eyes back to him, “have you seen the Parisian Ballet? I understand that Marchand is wonderful.”

He denied having attended the ballet, accepted a replenishment of his drink, and leaned back thoughtfully.

“Legally?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The money,” he said quietly. “Were you able to get it out legally?”

“Of course.” I lifted my eyebrows at his implied suggestion. “I should scarcely have mentioned it otherwise. And of course, I couldn’t travel so freely if anything illegal were involved.”

“But just how...” he began, but I had already arisen and turned in the direction of some late guests who had entered.

“Some old friends,” I explained apologetically. “If you’ll excuse me...”

Somehow, I never managed to be alone with him the rest of the evening. Elsa passed some time talking to him, and I smiled vaguely at him several times from various small groups, but my duties as host prevented my getting together with him. When the party finally broke up, I shook hands with him and thanked him for having accepted our invitation. He nodded.

“We must have lunch together soon,” he said, holding my hand.

“I should be delighted,” I answered. “I’ll give you a ring.” He stared at me a moment and then went off to join the others at the lift.

Well, of course he called me about two days later, and after consulting a mythical appointment calendar, I arranged to see him a few days later at his club. His club was one that I knew by name and one which I had always dreamed of being invited to join although, of course, I never was. It was a small building located in one of those lovely winding streets running off the Grand’ Place, and boasted the finest cuisine in all Brussels — which is saying quite a bit.

In any event, we settled ourselves comfortably in the bar before the fire, and Klees wasted no time in getting down to business.

“I will tell you quite frankly why I wanted to meet you,” he said. “You claim you have a method for getting money out of Belgium in dollars — and legally. I should like to hear how you were able to accomplish it.”

I managed to look a bit upset, as if embarrassed by a host taking unfair advantage of a guest’s position. “I simply happened to mention it in passing.” I protested, “to explain our reason for leaving our apartment...”

He looked me right in the eye. “You mentioned it for no such reason,” he said with complete calm. “The apartment is not yours. The servants were hired for the evening. I have spent the last few days checking on you, my friend. You are a Pole by birth, passing yourself off as a Dutchman, and you have actually been an American citizen by naturalization for a year or so. Your wife is a Belgian, a former actress... And I am also convinced that the purpose of that obviously spurious cocktail party was simply to intrigue me with a suggestion for getting my money out in dollars.”

His face was suddenly split in that infernal boyish grin of his.

“Well — I’m intrigued. It was what you wanted, what you were aiming for. So please, let us waste no more time with these pointless dramatics.”

If I looked startled, believe me, it was not all acting. Still, I could not help but point out that had I approached him — at his home, say — I would have been thrown out by the butler.

His big hand waved this aside.

I became all business. “How much do you want to transfer?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Five million dollars’ worth of francs.”

I nodded. “It will take some time. Six or seven months, at least.”

He frowned. “You bring it out in dribs and drabs?”

“Oh, no,” I assured him. “When it comes, it comes at once, issued by the Belgian Government through one or more of its banks.” He stared at me. “But it will be expensive,” I added.

“Just how expensive?”

I matched his forthrightness. “It will cost you one million of those five million dollars,” I said evenly. “That will be my fee. Also...”

“One million dollars?”

“Much cheaper than the black market,” I pointed out. “And safe.” He merely stared at me, so I continued. “There will be certain expenses involved, as well. These would also fall to your account.”

“Naturally,” he said drily. He leaned against the cushion of his chair in deep thought. I passed the time in slowly sipping my martini. At last he nodded.

“Very well,” he said. “If you can demonstrate to me how this money can be legally transferred from Belgian francs to dollars within a reasonable period of time, you can consider me interested.”

I studied the face before me. This, of course, was the only flaw in the scheme — if you can call it a flaw: the fact that I would have to disclose the scheme without any guarantees. Still, it was obvious that the details would have to be divulged; and also, I thought I could trust the man.

I pushed my glass aside and leaned forward, speaking slowly. He nodded from time to time as if in appreciation of the brilliance of the idea. When at last I finished, he leaned back, pursing his lips as he considered every phase of my plan.

“Yes,” he said at last. “Yes. It is certainly possible. Very clever. Of course it places me a bit more in your hands than I like to be...”

“True,” I admitted, since, of course, it was perfectly true and we both knew it. “Still, there is no other way to do it. You can’t be in two places at the same time. And if I were to cheat you, I could end up in prison for stealing; whereas, if I don’t cheat you, I end up with a million dollars and no trouble.”

He nodded and pushed himself to his feet. “Well, we shall have to think about it,” he said, and turned in the direction of the dining room. “Shall we eat?”

I frankly admit that the next two days were nervous ones for me. By the evening of the second day, I had just about come to the conclusion that either Klees had decided not to go along with the idea, or was going to make the move with somone else. For the tenth time, I was on the verge of calling him, when he finally rang through on the telephone and asked me to meet him for lunch.

To make a long story short, Klees agreed with the scheme — although he still wasn’t happy about my cut — and three days later Elsa and I were on the Ile de France on our way to the States. Not first-class, but still...

(Huuygens paused and then quite blatantly waved an arm for the waiter. I waited while his drink was poured; he raised his glass in a mock salute and drank deeply. When he resumed speaking, I thought he was changing the subject, but as he continued, I soon saw the connection.)

You know (Huuygens continued), this America is the most amazing country! If one is too old for the draft, or has the type of job that does not require social security, he can easily pass his entire life without any official identification whatsoever. And if this lack disturbs one, it is the easiest thing in the world to arrange whatever documentation one’s ego prefers. There are Diner’s Club Cards, Hotel Credit Cards, Gasoline Credit Cards — well, I could go on half the night.

It is really too simple for words. The only thing you require to start is an address, and this is easily arranged by renting a postal box using any address you invent. The post office never checks; if you pay your rental on time and do not allow mail to accumulate, you are completely safe. And once you have established post-box addresses, you are free to open bank accounts. And with bank accounts, of course, all doors open. The thing works like a merry-go-round, beautifully endless and completely mad...

Within two weeks of my return, I had established respectable cash balances in six different New York banks in the names of six different companies. I represented myself as the treasurer of each of these companies, with the only authorized signature for deposits and withdrawals. I did not rent safe-deposit boxes; instead, I purchased the largest home safe that would go through the door of our apartment, and had it installed. I had a momentary fear that the workmen might think it odd, but New Yorkers are the most blasé people in the world.

The money for the bank deposits, of course, I had to borrow from certain old — and I admit, disreputable — acquaintances, but Klees had expressed himself as preferring the payment of high interest to allowing me to get my hands on the few dollars he did have. It was all the same to me, since the interest fell to the expense of the operation. And we were ready to go.

I’m rather proud of the names of the companies I selected. I won’t bore you with a complete list, but they included names like The International Farm Equipment Company and the United States Agricultural Equipment Company — names designed to sound substantial. And heavy, if you know what I mean. Our stationery reflected our respectability. And the catalogues! Each company had its own masterpiece — four-color offset work with authentic pictures cut from actual catalogues, and descriptions printed in four languages. They were works of art, those catalogues, and to study the six of them was to find the answer to any agricultural problem in the world.

Those were busy days, for in addition to arranging the printing of the stationery and the catalogues, I maintained a constant flow of money between the accounts, from one company to another, from one bank to another, so that at least once a week each account demonstrated an extremely large cash balance. It took time and it was wearing, but I must admit it was fun. I came to be greeted quite politely by bank officials, and besides, I love to handle money. I should have been a banker. Or possibly not.

Once the stationery was in our hands, we began the necéssary correspondence with Klees Imports. Air-mail letters flowed from our apartment with a regularity that must have pleased the Post Office Department. Elsa complained of the work involved, but I was in no mood for mutiny in the ranks, and let her know it in no uncertain terms. I was too busy with the banks and the catalogue printers to sit home typing, and I certainly didn’t want an outside secretary involved! And as the correspondence grew, I also found it necessary to spend time at the Public Library reading up on the technical aspects of agricultural equipment, since Klees was now asking for details, and of course, they had to sound authentic.

Klees, of course, was also getting quotations from competitors in all parts of the world, but since most of the factories manufacturing equipment of this nature were already swamped with orders, none of them could meet our truly miraculous delivery dates. And our prices were good, being ten per cent lower than the lowest I could find. And so our correspondence continued, growing in volume, moving from the vague to the specific, until at last we got down to the hard facts of price for quantity, delivery, contract terms, export boxing, and all those thousands of niggling details so beloved of business people.

The agricultural problems of Europe at that time, as I’m sure you are aware, were extremely pressing, and import licenses for the type of equipment we were discussing were the easiest of all types to obtain. Particularly from the United States — which would eventually pay for it anyway, in one manner or another. I shall always remember the day we mailed out the final contracts. It was just under four months since we had put the scheme into operation — and they had been four busy months, believe me! Elsa was now free, so I gave her money for another trip to her mother. Besides, I wanted her to keep an eye on Klees and make sure that nothing went wrong at this point.

The purchase contracts we mailed were standard in every way, as were our terms; irrevocable letters of credit in the amount of twenty per cent of the order, deposited in escrow in a reliable New York bank selected by the seller, the balance to be paid by a further letter of credit upon delivery of the merchandise to the buyer’s agent on the dock in New York.

The cancellation clauses were also standard; forfeiture of the deposit should the purchaser refuse shipment or fail to deposit his final letters of credit before a certain date...

I see a gleam in your eye; you are beginning to comprehend. Yes, we had sold to Klees Imports a total of twenty-five million dollars’ worth of equipment between our impressive companies, and twenty per cent was five million dollars.

Well, during those days when we were waiting for the initial letters of credit to be issued by the Banque National de Bruxelles, there were, of course, some anxious hours. The orders might be denied; political consideration might lead the Banque to prefer that the orders be placed in France or Italy, although this possibility was slim. Oddly enough, I had no fear that the Banque would investigate our companies; the responsibility always lies with the importer who, after all, is the one whose money is at stake.

But the letters of credit were issued quite routinely. Within three weeks, I found in my postal boxes the first of the bank notices advising me that the escrow deposit had been made, and the other five soon followed. Now it was simply a matter of waiting until our forfeiture date rolled around. Elsa returned from her visit and advised me that Klees would further ease the problem by furnishing us with letters regretting the withdrawal of his principals, and stating that the balance could not be deposited — and indeed, these letters arrived a few days after her return. Three weeks later, the forfeiture date rolled around.

I admit I was nervous as I entered the first bank that morning, but I need not have been. The necessary papers were prepared and signed in far less time than I had anticipated, and I walked out with our bank balance enlarged by some nine hundred thousand dollars. The transactions at the other banks proved equally uncomplicated.

Even today, it seems hard to believe. One dreams up a scheme and puts it into operation; obviously, one avoids all pitfalls one can imagine, but at the moment of fruition, it is still difficult to accept success. But there it was: the scheme had actually worked! All that remained was to drain the accounts, and that was simply a matter of exercise. Klees was taking a boat over; that gave me a week to gather the money and lock it in our safe.

He docked at six in the morning and called me directly from the steamer. His voice, believe me, was nervous. He actually sounded surprised when I answered. I told him everything was all right, and suggested that he check into a hotel, and then begin to arrange safety-deposit boxes for his share. I could almost hear the indecision of his thoughts over the telephone; whether to follow my advice or to come up immediately before I could skip. And even while I was waiting for him to answer, he hung up and — I imagine — dashed from the booth.

He arrived at one in the afternoon, holding the largest brief case I have ever seen, and we opened the safe.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen five million dollars in cash, but if you have, you can imagine Klees’ reaction. He turned pale. At first, I thought he was going to faint. In all fairness, I must admit that I had had the advantage of having become more or less used to it.

In any event, once he had at least partially recovered, we spread the money out on the floor and began dividing it. I laid aside the borrowed amount plus the interest, made a second pile covering the expenses (with the substantiating receipts), counted my share into a third pile, and pushed the balance over to him. He immediately began counting it, although he would pause every now and then to stare fixedly at my share. Looking at him over that huge pile of money, and seeing the expression in his eyes, I was suddenly happy that I wouldn’t have to have any more dealings with him. And when he finally went off, believe me, I was happy to lock the door behind him.

(Huuygens paused; I began to lift my arm for the waiter, but he shook his head sadly. The telling of the story seemed to have drained something from him. And then a touch of the old Kek Huuygens appeared; a sardonic smile touched the edges of his eyes.)

I note your poor attempt (he said) to avoid staring at my frayed cuffs, and I thank you. Do not worry; I shall satisfy your curiosity.

Well, I repaid the loan and the interest, and Elsa and I settled into a comfortable routine. One evening, about a week later, we were at home studying a series of travel folders when the doorbell suddenly rang. My eyebrows raised. In my circle, it was customary to telephone before calling. But I answered it, and there was Klees. I led him in, Elsa got him a drink, and he sat down heavily opposite us.

“What’s the trouble?” I asked.

He hesitated a moment, frowning. “I’ve been thinking,” he said in a worried tone. “Some of the hidden dangers in what we did are just now beginning to register.”

I stared at him in irritation. “What dangers?” I asked. “You are completely in the clear. Everything you did was legal. Even the Banque National can’t touch you unless they can prove collusion, and” — I could not help adding — “they won’t be able to do that if you keep away from here.”

“I’m not thinking of myself,” he said significantly. “I’m thinking of you. However minor the infractions of inventing names or addresses, the fact is that you are liable for income tax on the forfeited funds, and I understand that the United States Government follows those things like a bloodhound.”

“It’s very nice of you to worry,” I said, “but really, the problem is mine.”

“Not quite,” he said. He frowned at me over tented fingers. “I doubt if you would keep quiet if you saw the fruits of your scheme going up the chimney while I remained free and in good shape. To be blunt, in such a case, I can foresee the possibility of blackmail applied to me for your silence. I am not happy about it.”

I stared at him. In all honesty, the idea had not occurred to me, but I could see his point. From his standpoint, it was a legitimate concern, and one which I am sure I would have thought of had the shoe been on the other foot.

I nodded. “What do you suggest?”

“I have no suggestions. I only have worries.” He shrugged. “I thought it only proper to advise you of them. Possibly you can find a solution.”

Well, after he left, I sat in deep thought. Elsa wanted to know what it was all about, but I shipped her off to bed and remained sitting and staring at the safe, picturing my money inside. The point raised by Klees was completely justifiable; I attempted to think of some means to protect us both against any contingency.

Safe-deposit boxes? But there were court orders. False names? I shook my head. There were too many false names as it was, and it would be no protection, in any event. Swiss banks? Not half as easy as people believe. And how would I transfer the funds? I certainly couldn’t picture myself taking a boat there with a million dollars in a paper bag. Brazil? Running away would degrade the beauty of the scheme; I might as well have held up a man with a gun and robbed him.

I slept very poorly that night and came to breakfast in a bitter and hopeless mood. But my mood changed as I sat down and stared at the remains of the morning paper which Elsa, as always, had spread across my breakfast plate in a manner to prevent eating. She had the habit of eviscerating those sections that interested me, but this day I was pleased. I poured myself some coffee and studied the glaring scandal headline, the idea forming in my mind. Like the first scheme, it appeared in all its glory, practically complete. I looked across at Elsa.

“Chérie,” I said, “how would you like a divorce?”

She looked up a bit crossly; morning is not Elsa’s best hour. “Please do not say such things, even in joking,” she said.

“I am not joking,” I said.

Her eyes clouded; she looked at me in amazement. “But why? What have I done? Why would you want a divorce? Are you not happy living with me?”

“Extremely,” I said. “And I expect to continue to be happy living with you. But not as man and wife.”

She stared at me as if I had lost my mind. “But why?” she wailed.

I pulled up a chair and sat beside her, the details of the scheme falling into place with almost audible clicks. “You can even retain your married name,” I said. “We will continue exactly as we are, except that we will no longer be married.”

“But why?” she asked again, this time with a touch of exasperation. So I told her. It took awhile, but in the end, as always, Elsa went along. And that very morning she went to visit a lawyer.

His call came to me a little before noon, and naturally did not surprise me. He informed me that my wife had retained him to represent her in a divorce action and asked the name of my attorney. I told him I had none and did not feel the need for one. He hemmed and hawed and finally asked if I could drop down to see him. I said I could.

He was a rather nice man, not overly bright, and obviously embarassed.

“This is extremely unusual,” he told me. “I’m not even sure it isn’t unethical. It is customary to discuss the matter with the other’s attorney.”

“But why?” I asked. “My wife wishes a divorce; I have no intention of contesting it. So why would I possibly require the services of a lawyer?”

“You do not understand,” he said, and went into a struggle with himself while I waited patiently. When he finally realized that the bad news could not be kept from me indefinitely, he said apologetically. “Your wife intends to ask for a settlement of a million dollars.” He raised a hand hurriedly. “I attempted to point out to her that such a demand was madness, especially for a childless woman, and that no jury—”

I looked at him quite calmly. “Is that all she wants?” I asked. “Then what seems to be the problem?” I thought he was going to faint. “I assume you have a corresponding firm in Reno who can handle the details at that end. I don’t mind the money,” I said, “but I refuse to allow my good name to be damaged by undertaking a divorce in this state.”

He nodded in a dazed fashion.

“Fine,” I said. “I assume, if there is no disagreement between my wife and myself in this matter, you can handle the affair for both of us?”

It took him awhile to understand what I was saying, but eventually it came through to him and he reached shakily for the folder he had begun on my wife’s case. When I left a bit later, everything was in hand.

Elsa left the next morning for Reno. I put her on the train — she hates airplanes — tucked her in her compartment with a dozen novels and sufficient bonbons, and fondly kissed her good-bye. She was quite tearful, certain that I would either starve or get run over by a taxi without her to protect me, but I finally managed to tear myself loose before the train left. She was gone a total of eight weeks, wrote regularly three times a week asking if I were eating properly, called twice a week to confirm my answer, and returned looking wonderful. We completed our transaction with the lawyer in the safety-deposit vault of a New York bank and walked out arm in arm.

And the next day, while I thought she was out shopping, Elsa went down to City Hall and married Waldeck Klees.

I sat and stared at him. He stared back, an odd look in his eyes.

“It’s the merry-go-round, don’t you see?” He spoke almost plaintively. “Beautifully endless, and completely mad.”

The Wager

I suppose if I were watching television coverage of the return of a lunar mission and Kek Huuygens climbed out of the command module after splashdown, I shouldn’t be greatly surprised. I’d be even less surprised to see Kek hustled aboard the aircraft carrier and given a thorough search by a suspicious customs official. Kek, you see, is one of those men who turn up at very odd times in unexpected places. Also, he is rated by the customs services of nearly every nation in the world as the most talented smuggler alive. Polish by birth, Dutch by adopted name, the holder of a valid U.S. passport, multilingual, a born sleight-of-hand artist, Kek is an elusive target for the stolid bureaucrat who thinks in terms of hollow shoe heels and suitcases with false bottoms. Now and then over the years, Kek has allowed me to publish a little of his lore in my column. When I came across him last, however, he was doing something very ordinary in a commonplace setting. Under the critical eye of a waiter, he was nursing a beer at a table in that little sunken-garden affair in Rockefeller Center.

Before I got to his table, I tried to read the clues. Kek had a good tan and he looked healthy. But his suit had a shine that came from wear rather than from silk thread. A neat scissors trim didn’t quite conceal the fact that his cuffs were frayed. He was not wearing his usual boutonniere.

“I owe you three cognacs from last time — Vaduz, wasn’t it? — and I’m buying,” I said as I sat down.

“You are a man of honor,” he said and called to the waiter, naming a most expensive cognac. Then he gave me his wide friendly smile. “Yes, you have read the signs and they are true — but not for any reasons you might imagine. Sitting before you, you can observe the impoverishment that comes from total success. Failure can be managed, but success can be a most difficult thing to control...”

Hidden inside every Kek Huuygens aphorism there is a story somewhere. But if you want it produced, you must pretend complete indifference. “Ah, yes,” I said, “failure is something you know in your heart. Success is something that lies in the eye of the beholder. I think—”

“Do you want to hear the story or don’t you?” Kek said. “You can’t use it in your column, though, I warn you.”

“Perhaps in time?”

“Perhaps in time, all barbarous customs regulations will be repealed,” he said. “Perhaps the angels will come down to rule the earth. Until then, you and I alone will share this story.” That was Kek’s way of saying “Wait until things have cooled off.”

It all began in Las Vegas (Huuygens said) and was primarily caused by two unfortunate factors: one, that I spoke the word ‘banco’ aloud and, two, that it was heard. I am still not convinced that the player against me wasn’t the world’s best card manipulator, but at any rate, I found myself looking at a jack and a nine, while the best I could manage for myself was a six. So I watched my money disappear, got up politely to allow the next standee to take my place and started for the exit. I had enough money in the hotel safe to pay my bill and buy me a ticket back to New York — a simple precaution I recommend to all who never learn to keep quiet in a baccarat game — and a few dollars in my pocket, but my financial position was not one any sensible banker would have lent money against. I was sure something would turn up, as it usually did, and in this case it turned up even faster than usual, because I hadn’t even reached the door before I was stopped.

The man who put his hand on my arm did so in a completely friendly manner, and I recalled him as being one of the group standing around the table during the play. There was something faintly familiar about him, but even quite famous faces are disregarded at a baccarat table; one is not there to collect autographs. The man holding my arm was short, heavy, swarthy and of a type to cause instant distaste on the part of any discerning observer. What caught and held my attention was that he addressed me by name — and in French. “M’sieu Huuygens?” he said. To my absolute amazement, he pronounced it correctly. I acknowledged that I was, indeed, M’sieu Kek Huuygens. “I should like to talk with you a moment and to buy you a drink,” he said.

“I could use one,” I admitted, and I allowed him to lead me into the bar. As we went, I noticed two men who had been standing to one side studying their fingernails; they now moved with us and took up new positions to each side, still studying their nails. One would think that fingernails were a subject that could quickly bore, but apparently not to those two. As I sat down beside my chubby host, I looked at him once more, and suddenly recognition came.

He saw the light come on in the little circle over my head and smiled, showing a dazzling collection of white teeth, a tribute to the art of the dental laboratory.

“Yes,” he said, “I am Antoine Duvivier,” and waved over a waiter. We ordered and I returned my attention to him. Duvivier, as you must know — even newspapermen listen to the radio, I assume — was the president of the island of St. Michel in the Caribbean, or had been until his loyal subjects decided that presidents should be elected, after which he departed in the middle of the night, taking with him most of his country’s treasury. He could see the wheels turning in my head as I tried to see how I could use this information to my advantage, and I must say he waited politely enough while I was forced to give up on the problem. Then he said, “I have watched you play at baccarat.”

We received our drinks and I sipped, waiting for him to go on.

“You are quite a gambler, M’sieu Huuygens,” he said, “but, of course, you would have to be, in your line of work.” He saw my eyebrows go up and added quite coolly, “Yes, M’sieu Huuygens, I have had you investigated, and thoroughly. But please permit me to explain that it was not done from idle curiosity. I am interested in making you a proposition.”

I find, in situations like this, the less said the better, so I said nothing.

“Yes,” he went on, “I should like to offer you—” He paused, as if reconsidering his words, actually looking embarrassed, as if he were guilty of a gaffe. “Let me rephrase that,” he said and searched for a better approach. At last he found it. “What I meant was, I should like to make a wager with you, a wager I am sure should be most interesting to a gambler such as yourself.”

This time, of course, I had to answer, so I said, “Oh?”

“Yes,” he said, pleased at my instant understanding. “I should like to wager twenty thousand dollars of my money, against two dollars of yours, that you will not bring a certain object from the Caribbean through United States Customs and deliver it to me in New York City.”

I must admit I admire bluntness, even though the approach was not particularly unique. “The odds are reasonable,” I admitted. “One might even say generous. What type of object are we speaking of?”

He lowered his voice. “It is a carving,” he said “A Tien Tse Huwai, dating back to eight centuries before Christ. It is of ivory and is not particularly large; I imagine it could fit into your coat pocket, although, admittedly, it would be bulky. It depicts a village scene — but you, I understand, are an art connoisseur; you may have heard of it. In translation, its name is The Village Dance.” Normally, I can control my features, but my surprise must have shown, for Duvivier went on in the same soft voice. “Yes, I have it. The carving behind that glass case in the St. Michel National Gallery is a copy — a plastic casting, excellently done, but a copy. The original is at the home of a friend in Barbados. I could get it that far, but I was afraid to attempt bringing it the rest of the way; to have lost it would have been tragic. Since then, I have been looking for a man clever enough to get it into the States without being stopped by Customs.” He suddenly grinned, those white blocks of teeth almost blinding me. “I am offering ten-thousand-to-one odds that that clever man is not you.”

It was a cute ploy, but that was not what interested me at the moment.

“M’sieu,” I said simply, “permit me a question: I am familiar with the Tien Village Dance. I have never seen it, but it received quite a bit of publicity when your National Gallery purchased it, since it was felt — if you will pardon me — that the money could have been used better elsewhere. However, my surprise a moment ago was not that you have the carving; it was at your offer. The Tien, many years in the future, may, indeed, command a large price, but the figure your museum paid when you bought it was, as I recall, not much more than the twenty thousand dollars you are willing to — ah — wager to get it into this country. And that value could only be realized at a legitimate sale, which would be difficult, it seems to me, under the circumstances.”

Duvivier’s smile had been slowly disappearing as I spoke. Now he was looking at me in disappointment.

“You do not understand, m’sieu,” he said, and there was a genuine touch of sadness in his voice at my incogitancy. “To you, especially after your losses tonight, I am sure the sum of twenty thousand dollars seems a fortune, but, in all honesty, to me it is not. I am not interested in the monetary value of the carving; I have no intention of selling it. I simply wish to own it.” He looked at me with an expression I have seen many times before — the look of a fanatic, a zealot. A Collector, with a capital C. “You cannot possibly comprehend,” he repeated, shaking his head. “It is such an incredibly lovely thing...”

Well, of course, he was quite wrong about my understanding, or lack of it; I understood perfectly. For a moment, I almost found myself liking the man; but only for a moment. And a wager is a wager, and I had to admit I had never been offered such attractive odds before in my life. As for the means of getting the carving into the United States, especially from Barbados, I had a thought on that, too. I was examining my idea in greater detail when his voice broke in on me.

“Well?” he asked, a bit impatiently.

“You have just made yourself a bet,” I said. “But it will require a little time.”

“How much time?” Now that I was committed, the false friendliness was gone from both voice and visage; for all practical purposes, I was now merely an employee.

I thought a moment. “It’s hard to say. It depends,” I said at last. “Less than two months but probably more than one.”

He frowned. “Why so long?” I merely shrugged and reached for my glass. “All right,” he said grudgingly. “And how do you plan on getting it through Customs?” My response to this was to smile at him gently, so he gave up. “I shall give you a card to my friend in Barbados, which will release the carving into your care. After that” — he smiled again, but this time it was a bit wolfish for my liking — “our wager will be in effect. We will meet at my apartment in New York.”

He gave me his address, together with his telephone number, and then handed me a second card with a scrawl on it to a name in Barbados, and that was that. We drank up, shook hands and I left the bar, pleased to be working again and equally pleased to be quitted of Duvivier, if only for a while.

Huuygens paused and looked at me with his satanic eyebrows tilted sharply. I recognized the expression and made a circular gesture over our glasses, which was instantly interpreted by our waiter. Kek waited until we were served, thanked me gravely and drank. I settled back to listen, sipping. When next Huuygens spoke, however, I thought at first he was changing the subject, but I soon learned this was not the case.

Anyone who says the day of travel by ship has passed (Huuygens went on) has never made an examination of the brochures for Caribbean cruises that fill and overflow the racks of travel agencies. It appears that between sailings from New York and sailings from Port Everglades — not to mention Miami, Baltimore, Norfolk and others — almost everything afloat must be pressed into service to transport those Americans with credit cards and a little free time to the balmy breezes and shimmering sands of the islands. They have trips for all seasons, as well as for every taste and pocketbook. There are bridge cruises to St. Lucia, canasta cruises to Trinidad, golf cruises to St. Croix. There are seven-day cruises to the Bahamas, eight-day cruises to Jamaica, 13-day cruises to Martinique; there are even — I was not surprised to see — three-day cruises to nowhere. And it struck me that even though it was approaching summer, a cruise would be an ideal way to travel; it had been one of my principal reasons for requiring so much time to consummate the deal.

So I went to the travel agency in the hotel lobby and was instantly inundated with schedules and pamphlets. I managed to get the reams of propaganda to my room without a bellboy, sat down on the bed and carefully made my selection. When I had my trip laid out to my satisfaction, I descended once again to the hotel lobby and presented my program to the travel agent there. He must have thought I was insane, but I explained I suffered from Widget Syndrome and required a lot of salt air, after which he shrugged and picked up the phone to confirm my reservations through New York. They readily accepted my credit card for the bill — which I sincerely hoped to be able to honor by the time it was presented — and two days later, I found myself in Miami, boarding the M. V. Andropolis for a joyous 16-day cruise. It was longer than I might have chosen, but it was the only one that fit my schedule and I felt that I had — or would, shortly — earn the rest.

I might as well tell you right now that it was a delightful trip. I should have preferred to have taken along my own feminine companionship, but my finances would not permit it; there are, after all, such hard-cash outlays as bar bills and tips. However, there was no lack of unattached women aboard, some even presentable, and the days — as they say — fairly flew. We had the required rum punch in Ocho Rios, fought off the beggars in Port-au-Prince, visited Bluebeard’s Castle in Charlotte Amalie and eventually made it to Barbados.

Barbados is a lovely island, with narrow winding roads that skirt the ocean and cross between the Caribbean and Atlantic shores through high stands of sugar cane that quite efficiently hide any view of approaching traffic; but my rented car and I managed to get to the address I had been given without brushing death more than three or four times. The man to whom I presented the ex-president’s card was not in the least perturbed to be giving up the carving; if anything, he seemed relieved to be rid of its responsibility. It was neatly packaged in straw, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, and I left it exactly that way as I drove back to the dock through the friendly islanders, all of whom demonstrated their happy, carefree insouciance by walking in the middle of the road.

There was no problem about carrying the package aboard. Other passengers from the M. V. Andropolis were forming a constant line, like ants, to and from the ship, leaving empty-handed to return burdened with Wedgwood, Hummel figures, camera lenses and weirdly woven straw hats that did not fit. I gave up my boarding pass at the gangplank, climbed to my proper deck and locked myself in my stateroom, interested in seeing this carving upon which M’sieu Antoine Duvivier was willing to wager the princely sum of 20,000 United States dollars.

The paper came away easily enough. I eased the delicate carving from its bed of straw and took it to the light of my desk lamp. At first I was so interested in studying the piece for its authenticity that the true beauty of the carving didn’t strike me; but when I finally came to concede that I was, indeed, holding a genuine Tien Tse Huwai in my hands and got down to looking at the piece itself, I had to admit that M’sieu Duvivier, whatever his other failings, was a man of excellent taste. I relished the delicate nuances with which Tien had managed his intricate subject, the warmth he had been able to impart to his cold medium, the humor he had been genius enough to instill in the ivory scene. Each figure in the relaxed yet ritualistic village dance had his own posture, and although there were easily 40 or 50 men and women involved, carved with infinite detail on a plaque no larger than six by eight inches and possibly three inches in thickness, there was no sense of crowding. One could allow himself to be drawn into the carving, to almost imagine movement or hear the flutes. I enjoyed the study of the masterpiece for another few minutes and then carefully rewrapped it and tucked it into the air-conditioning duct of my stateroom, pleased that the first portion of my assignment had been completed with such ease. I replaced the grillwork and went upstairs to the bar, prepared to enjoy the remaining three or four days of balmy breezes — if not shimmering sands, since Barbados had been our final port.

The trip back to Miami was enjoyable but uneventful. I lost in the shuffleboard tournament, largely due to a nearsighted partner, but in compensation I picked up a record number of spoons from the bottom of the swimming pool and received in reward, at the captain’s party, a crystal ashtray engraved with a design of Triton either coming up or going down for the third time. What I am trying to say is that, all in all, I enjoyed myself completely and the trip was almost compensation for the thorough — and humiliating — search I had to suffer when I finally went through Customs in Miami. As usual, they did everything but disintegrate my luggage, and they handled my person in a manner I normally accept only from young ladies. But at last I was free of Customs — to their obvious chagrin — and I found myself in the street in one piece. So I took myself and my luggage to a hotel for the night.

And the next morning I reboarded the M. V. Andropolis for its next trip — in the same cabin — a restful three-day cruise to nowhere...

Huuygens smiled at me gently. My expression must have caused the waiter concern — he probably thought I had left my wallet at home — for he hurried over. To save myself embarrassment, I ordered another round and then went back to staring at Huuygens.

I see (Kek went on, his eyes twinkling) that intelligence has finally forced its presence upon you. I should have thought it was rather obvious. These Caribbean cruise ships vary their schedules, mixing trips to the islands with these short cruises to nowhere, where they merely wander aimlessly upon the sea and eventually find their way back — some say with considerable luck — to their home port. Since they touch no foreign shore, and since even the ships’ shops are closed during these cruises, one is not faced with the delay or embarrassment of facing a customs agent upon one’s return. Therefore, if one were to take a cruise preceding a cruise to nowhere and were to be so careless as to inadvertently leave a small object — in the air-conditioning duct of his stateroom, for example — during the turn-around, he could easily retrieve it on the second cruise and walk off the ship with it in his pocket, with no fear of discovery.

Which, of course, is what I did...

The flight to New York was slightly anticlimactic, and I called M’sieu Duvivier as soon as I landed at Kennedy. He was most pleasantly surprised, since less than a month had actually elapsed, and said he would expect me as fast as I could get there by cab.

The ex-president of St. Michel lived in a lovely apartment on Central Park South, and as I rode up in the elevator, I thought of how pleasant it must be to have endless amounts of money at one’s disposal; but before I had a chance to dwell on that thought too much, we had arrived and I found myself pushing what I still think was a lapis-lazuli doorbell set in a solid-gold frame. It made one want to weep. At any rate, Duvivier himself answered the door, as anxious as any man I have ever seen. He didn’t even wait to ask me in or inquire as to my taste in aperitifs.

“You have it?” he asked, staring at my coat pocket.

“Before we go any further,” I said, “I should like you to repeat the exact terms of our wager. The exact terms, if you please.”

He looked at me in irritation, as if I were being needlessly obstructive.

“All right,” he said shortly. “I wagered you twenty thousand dollars of my money against two dollars of yours that you would not bring me a small carving from Barbados through United States Customs and deliver it to me in New York. Is that correct?”

I sighed. “Perfectly correct,” I said and reached into my pocket. “You are a lucky man. You won.” And I handed him his two dollars...

I stared across the table at Huuygens. I’m afraid my jaw had gone slack. He shook his head at me, a bit sad at my lack of comprehension.

“You can’t possibly understand,” he said, almost petulantly. “It is so incredibly lovely...

A Matter of Honor

“Two thousand,” the fat man said, drumming his pudgy fingers lightly on the veined marble tabletop. His voice was soft, slightly lisping, but not in the least feminine. His face was round and white and soft and doughy; looking into his eyes one’s first impression was there were raisins embedded there. “Two thousand,” he repeated quietly.

“Pounds, of course,” Kek Huuygens said genially.

“No. Not pounds of course; dollars of course,” said the fat man sounding faintly amused. His name was Thwaite and he was English and dressed in a bilious tweed too heavy for the day and too ancient for the style.

It was the year 1948, in those difficult days following the Second World War, and there were few men who could afford to argue the conditions of offered employment, especially in Europe and particularly those who — like Kek Huuygens — lived on the outskirts of the urbanity known as the law. But Kek Huuygens had long since set a high value upon his rather unique services and was determined not to scab, or at least not upon himself.

“Then I’m afraid you have the wrong man,” he said with what sounded like true regret. He was an athletic young man in his late twenties, with shoulders of a bulk that seemed to negate his height of six feet. His neat double-breased suit pointed up the basic error of the tweed. He had an unruly mop of brown hair set above a strong, handsome face and widespread intelligent gray eyes. At the moment these eyes shared the other’s amusement. “Inflation, you know,” he added apologetically. “The curse of the Continent.”

The fat man’s shrug indicated that rising prices also affected him. “Two thousand dollars, American,” he said, attempting to sound inflexible, and then made a concession. “Plus expenses, of course.”

“Two thousand pounds sterling,” Huuygens said, equally cooperative. “Naturally, plus expenses.”

“Fifteen hundred pounds,” the fat man said sullenly.

“Two thousand.”

“But no expenses.” A white finger was raised for emphasis.

“Plus all expenses. Naturally.”

The fat man sighed in defeat. “Payment on delivery, of course.”

“Of course.” Huuygens beckoned a waiter. The two men were sitting in the Grand’ Place in Brussels, the warm late-morning autumn sun was glinting from the rococo steeples across from them, and their filtres were empty and pushed to one side. “Have a drink,” Huuygens said sympathetically. “On me.”

The fat man waggled a puffed finger in reluctant self-denial, tapping his overflowing stomach for explanation. Huuygens raised a hand, stopping the approaching waiter in his tracks. The aproned figure, unperturbed, returned to flicking invisible motes from spotless tables.

“All right,” Huuygens said quietly. “What is it this time?”

“A Hals,” Thwaite said, almost proudly. He didn’t hesitate. Who hired Huuygens hired reliability above all else. One paid well, but one received service. He had lowered his voice to little more than a whisper, but he was practiced enough in the art not to lean forward in compensation. Nor did Huuygens strive to hear. The raisin eyes studied the younger man from above a ridge of yeasty flesh. “The Innkeeper of Nijkerk.”

Huuygens’ eyebrows raised the merest fraction of an inch.

“The Innkeeper of Nijkerk,” he said quietly, and nodded. “Sothebys made over fifty thousand pounds just handling the auction, as I recall. And I also seem to recall that the picture was loaned by the Frick museum in New York for the Hals exhibit at the Clouet Gallery here next week.” He paused a moment and then smiled widely. “Did I charge too little?”

“I don’t rate Sotheby’s prices,” Thwaite said coldly.

“True,” Huuygens granted with a smile of apology. His smile faded; his tone became practical. “I’ve seen The Innkeeper many times at the Frick. I’d say it’s roughly two feet by four feet. I don’t recall the exact catalogue dimensions. Scarcely a post card!” He frowned into space, considering the problem while Thwaite waited patiently. The gray eyes came back to earth. “One question — is the Clouet aware that come the opening day of their exhibit there will be an unfortunate hiatus in their presentation? A certain pristine virginity on one deprived wall or another?”

The fat man frowned at this lightness of tone; he seemed to consider it in poor taste, especially in discussing an object of the value of the Hals. “They know it’s gone, if that’s what you’re trying to ask. They should have known since yesterday evening. Why?”

Huuygens made no attempt to answer. “And they’re keeping it a secret between themselves and the Sûreté with the hope the painting will be recovered before they are forced to make a most embarrassing confession to the Frick. And, of course, the insurance people.” His eyes came up. “Do they also know how the picture was taken?”

“They do not. Nor,” Thwaite added coldly, “is it any of your concern. Your job is to see that the canvas is delivered in Madrid—”

“Madrid?”

“Yes. Any objection?”

“None. I was merely asking. I’m quite fond of Madrid, actually.”

“Well, as I was saying, you are to deliver the canvas in Madrid to the address I will give you. Before ten o’clock tomorrow night—”

“Tomorrow?” Huuygens stared and then shook his head. “Impossible.”

“Ten o’clock tomorrow night,” the fat man corrected gently. “And since when is anything impossible for the great Kek Huuygens? Where a sum like two thousand pounds is involved?”

Huuygens disregarded the sarcasm. “Why the rush?”

“Because my customer insists upon delivery at midnight tomorrow.”

Kek’s fingers drummed a tattoo on the table as he considered this added problem. One thing was certain, it would not be easy. Another thing was equally certain; somehow he would manage it. A second thought suddenly struck him. Certainly no previously arranged customer would expect delivery within a day or two, which meant only one thing: Thwaite undoubtedly wanted the picture out of Brussels that quickly for an entirely different reason. Kek looked up.

“Who worked with you on this job?”

“I beg your pardon?” The fat man was shocked by what he considered a breach of professional etiquette. “What possible business is that of yours?”

“My dear Thwaite,” Huuygens said flatly, “we both know your reasons for wanting the painting in Madrid so quickly has nothing to do with your customer’s impatience. And I happen to dislike running into unforeseen complications in the middle of a job — like irate partners-in-borrowing, to coin a phrase. They might have a tendency to take their frustrations out on me. I like to know who’s behind me.” His voice didn’t harden, but it seemed to. “All right, now. Who worked with you on the job?”

Thwaite frowned across the table for several moments, the raisins almost buried in the rolled piecrust of his brows. Huuygens was completely trustworthy, at least as far as a client was concerned. He was not a thief, although his profession often caused him to deal with thieves. In the three years since the war, the athletic gray-eyed man had built up quite a reputation as a person remarkably capable of doing the customs service in the eye. And always without betraying customer or confidence. The reputation extended to both sides of the Atlantic and were he not completely trustworthy he would have come to a watery grave long since, somewhere in between.

“All right,” Thwaite said. “If you must know, a local man. His name is Alex DuPaul. Maybe you know him, or know of him.”

No muscle twitched on Huuygens’ smooth cheeks, but his mind registered the information as approximately five and a half on the Richter scale. “I know him,” he said expressionlessly. He also knew if Alex DuPaul were involved, then the fat man had worked for DuPaul, and not the other way around. DuPaul was in a position to finance a trick like this and also had the brains; Thwaite had neither. Huuygens kept his voice conversational. “Did you and DuPaul come to a satisfactory arrangement about the Hals?”

“Our business, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think. However—” Huuygens took pity on him. It may have been the disconsolate appearance of the sagging tweed, or it may have been that since he disliked the other so intensely he felt obligated to greater charity. “As you say, it’s your problem. However, if I were in your spot, I doubt if I’d be sitting around the Grand’ Place. A trifle public, no?”

Thwaite looked into the steady gray eyes. Subterfuge at this point would be pointless. “DuPaul is in Ghent today. He won’t be back until sometime this evening.”

“At which time you’ll be well on your way to Madrid?”

Thwaite looked at him and nodded. “Yes.”

“Does DuPaul know your customer?”

“He knows the sale is intended for Madrid; nothing more.” The fat man’s tone clearly indicated how much he wished DuPaul didn’t even know that. He dug into a pocket, bringing out a crumpled pad and a pencil. “You’ll want the address in Madrid.” He wet the stub and brought it down. “It’s out a bit from the center. No. 617 Estrada de las Mujeres. Not that there are any out there,” he added absently and neatly folded the sheet.

Huuygens rewarded this care by tearing the paper to shreds, placing the bits in an ashtray, and lighting them. He watched them burn.

“Six seventeen Estrada de las Mujeres,” he repeated, shaking his head at the other’s carelessness. He came to his feet. “I’ve checked into the Colonies Hotel. You will please send the painting to me there.”

There was a moment of shocked silence. “Send it?”

“By post,” Huuygens continued smoothly. “I don’t want it delivered by private messenger, and I think any further meetings between us — before Madrid — would only increase your stomach tension. Regarding the Hals, I assume it is rolled and in its smallest dimensions. When you leave here, stop and purchase a large wall calendar from any well-known stationery shop. You will inform the salesman that you intend to mail it as a gift, at some future time. The cardboard tube they will furnish will be properly labeled with the name of the shop. You will merely replace the contents and drop it into the nearest post office with sufficient postage.” He smiled at the other. “And you will send it fourth class,” he added, almost negligently. “Special handling.”

Thwaite was shocked to the core; even the tweed seemed to draw up. “But—”

“But what?” Kek asked curiously.

“The fourth class, that’s what!” The fat man seemed on the verge of exploding. “The post office can open it!”

“Of course they can open it,” Huuygens said gently. “Which is precisely why they won’t. And the special handling will insure its delivery to me before the afternoon is out. If you get it mailed relatively soon,” he added rather pointedly.

“But a fourth-class package sent special handling?”

“Far more common than you think,” Huuygens assured him. “Especially for printed matter. The cheapest of one service and the fastest of the other.” He glanced at his watch. “I really must go. There are things to be done if we’re going to meet your schedule.”

“But — how will you manage it through Spanish Customs?” Even as he spoke he knew he was committing a gaffe in asking, but he could not hold back the words. Even discussing the matter seemed to keep the precious painting in his possession that many more minutes. “Certainly not by posting it in a mailing tube?”

Huuygens smiled at him. “You don’t give me time for that. And unfortunately all customs, even Spanish, examine packages that come in the mail very carefully.” He sighed deeply, but his eyes were twinkling as he considered the sheer audacity of the plan he had decided upon. “No,” he said, “I’m afraid the precious Hals will have to be carried through customs. In person...”

In those far-distant days of 1948, the public telephones at the Colonies Hotel were located at the foot of a long flight of steps leading from the ground floor to the basement. Kek, pausing at the top step and considering his plan, decided that proper scheduling indicated he should see the concierge before doing any phoning. He therefore turned and moved past the entrance to the bar, past the reception desk, until he located the small cubby-hole. He leaned over the tiny counter; an even tinier man popped up.

“M’sieu?”

“The planes to Madrid. Before morning—”

“Ah!” The little man behind the counter flew at a stack of schedules on the cluttered desk, happy to be of assistance to this distinguished-looking guest. He managed to withdraw a folder without disturbing the delicate balance of the pile, opened it with a flourish, and ran his finger down a column. “Ah! Madrid! Yes, M’sieu, a midnight flight. A Dakota. It stops only at Riems, Lyon, Marseilles, Barcelona, and then Madrid.” He beamed. “A mere six hours.”

Huuygens considered. The fast train to Paris and then the Gibraltar Express would make the trip in only a few hours more than the flight, and in far greater comfort, but the fast train to Paris did not leave Brussels until seven in the morning, and the Gibraltar Express did not leave the Gare d’Austerlitz for the south until late in the afternoon. It would have to be a plane. But if he were to take the plane it might cause complications. A solution came to him. “Do they have an air-taxi service at the airport?”

“Oh, yes! One of the finest! They fly American planes only.”

“And the time to Madrid? And the cost?”

“One moment—” The telephone appeared as if by magic in the tiny hand; a number was given and the concierge stared somberly across the lobby as he waited. “Hello?” There followed a rapid-fire conversation in Flemish; the concierge cupped the receiver. “Four hours by Beechcraft, M’sieu. Eight thousand Belgian francs.”

“Good. I’d like to leave a bit after midnight.”

“M’sieu has his travel documents in order?”

“M’sieu always has his travel documents in order,” Kek assured him dryly.

“In that case I shall arrange everything. Your room and name, M’sieu?”

Kek gave the required information and went back to the steps leading to the basement. The call he wanted to make would best be made from a public phone. He trotted down the steps, located a cubicle, and dropped in a coin. An operator came on the line; he gave a number and waited patiently; eventually there was the sound of ringing and almost immediately the receiver at the other end was lifted. The voice that came on was cautious.

“Hello?”

“Jacques?”

“Who is this, please?”

“This is Kek Huuygens.”

Relief instantly manifested itself in the other’s tone. “Kek, it’s good to hear you! You’re in Brussels?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe we can have dinner together tonight. I can reserve a table at the Rotisserie Ardennes.” It was a boast, bragging of freedom from fear of the police, at least at the moment.

“I’m sorry,” Kek said, “but I hope to be leaving Brussels tonight. But I have a job for you.” Huuygens paused a moment and then continued in what appeared to be a complete non sequitur. “A man returning from a day’s journey to Ghent; he could come only by train, no?”

“Unless he had an automobile, of course.” In those days nobody had an automobile and Jacques’ voice rejected the possibility.

“The omnibus?”

“He’d need kidneys of steel and a backbone of ash. Three years since the war,” Jacques said fervently, “and the roads still haven’t been touched. Nor have the omnibuses,” he added, wanting to distribute the responsibility squarely. “No, the normal thing to do would be to come by train.”

“Good. I want you to meet a man who will be coming by train from Ghent.”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “Kek, you know for you I would do almost anything. But it’s only eight months since I’m out of jail, and—”

“There’s nothing like that involved.”

Relief returned. “All right, then. His name?”

“Alex DuPaul, but his name is unimportant.”

“And he comes by which train from Ghent?”

“I have no idea. Sometime this evening is all I know.” Kek had expected some argument at this latitude, but instead Jacques seemed pleased.

“There are only two,” he said. “Six forty-five and eight fifty. After that, only the one that collects the milk, about four in the morning.”

“Good. We’ll assume he won’t come on that.”

“And this man — what do I do with him?”

“In a minute. First, his description. About five feet eleven in height; between a hundred eighty-five and a hundred ninety-five pounds. He—”

“How many kilo is that?”

Kek shook his head at his own stupidity. “Sorry. About one meter eighty; between eighty-five and ninety kilo. He looks like a brigand; a long mustache coming below his chin on the sides, normally light brown but fairly stained with tobacco. Thick hair, usually needing cutting. A man in his early forties. He’s hard to miss. Never wears a hat and seldom a cravat; a scarf usually serves for him. A Bohemian. But tough.”

“I have him. Now, what do I do with him?”

“In a moment. Are you familiar with the train station?”

“From Ghent? It’s the Gare du Nord. I know it.”

“It has telephone booths?”

“Of course,” Jacques said, mystified, and then corrected himself. “Not booths, but little partitions. There are two of them on a column near the news kiosk. Why?”

“Because,” Huuygens said, pleased with the information, “before the six forty-five arrives, you will telephone the trainmaster and arrange for a message to be put on the loudspeaker for the benefit of the incoming passengers. This message will urgently request M’sieu Alex DuPaul to telephone a certain number. If he does not appear on the earlier train, you will repeat the entire performance for the later train.”

“And what number is he to call?”

“Invent one; it’s unimportant. Because the plan is for you to be in the next cubicle — which you’d better hold before the train comes in — speaking to a dead telephone.”

“Ah!” Jacques said, understanding. “You wish to spoon-feed him, eh?”

“That is precisely it.”

“What little bit of information do we give him?”

Huuygens told him. At the other end of the line Jacques raised his shoulders in bafflement. It was certainly not a message he would have left anyone of DuPaul’s description. Still, when one did a job for Kek Huuygens, one obeyed orders.

“And after he swallows what we feed him, what then?”

“Then go home and pray he takes the bait and doesn’t go for the fisherman. Let me know if he doesn’t show at all.”

He hung up, Jacques’ “correct” in his ear, and started up the long flight of stairs; the lift did not deign to serve the basement. At the first floor he took one look at the rickety elevator and once again took to the stairs. At the second floor he started along a narrow corridor; even as he approached his room he heard a telephone ringing and somehow knew with certainty it was his own. He hurried the key into the lock and swung the door wide striding to the instrument, bringing it to his ear.

“Yes?”

“M’sieu Huuygens? Marcel, the concierge, here. There is a package for you. Special delivery. Shall I have it sent up?”

“If you will. And Marcel—” A thought had come to Kek. “My plane is arranged?”

“But of course. Any time after midnight.”

“Good.” He hesitated significantly. “And entertainment in Brussels? It’s quite early, and I have until midnight—”

“Ah!” Marcel beamed. “First, of course, a good restaurant. Not,” and he dropped his voice, “not the hotel dining room, but the Rotisserie Florentino on the rue Pierre Charon. And then a cabaret, the Maroc, I would suggest. M’sieu wishes me to make the arrangements?”

“If you would be so kind. And a car here at seven, I should think.”

“Of course.” Marcel hesitated a moment. “I shall bring you your package personally, M’sieu.”

It was only moments before a knock announced Marcel. A bill exchanged hands, tucked away into an invisible pocket with a movement any magician could have envied. Marcel bowed himself out and Kek held the cardboard tube in his hand almost reverently. He walked to the dresser, poured himself a stiff brandy and drank it, and then returned to the tube.

The thought of actually having the Hals The Innkeeper of Nijkerk in his hands, here in this nondescript hotel room in this distant city of Brussels, with half the police in the world undoubtedly searching for it, was thrilling. He twisted the end cap free and eased the rolled canvas out with great care, spreading it open upon the bed, reveling as always in the beauty, the rich full tones, the delicate but strong brushwork. For fully five minutes he studied the famous painting, and then sighed, reluctantly rerolled the picture, and restored it to its cardboard prison. A pity it wasn’t his, but it wasn’t!

He glanced at his wrist watch and increased the tempo of his moves. The bottom drawer of the dresser was opened and the tube laid carefully beneath the spare pillow and blanket stored there. There was little chance the night maid would bring out a blanket in this weather, but there was no sense in taking chances. He walked to the door, placed the “Do Not Disturb” ticket on the outside knob, and, while security was still on his mind, closed the window behind the already drawn drapes and latched the rusty lock.

He dropped to the bed reviewing his plan for getting the painting into Spain. It was a dangerous gamble, far bolder than his usual schemes and more daring than he would have preferred, but with so little time before the deadline for delivery, he could see no alternative. He paused to consider his next move. The next move, of course, was a necessary call to Madrid, and he hoped he hadn’t left it until too late. He contacted Marcel, placed the call, and went in to take a bath while waiting for it to go through.

He was facing himself in the mirror, knotting his tie, when the telephone rang. He raised it to find Madrid on the line. “Hello? Chico?”

The voice at the other end was faint, but clear.

“Who calls?”

Kek felt a weight drop from him at the familiar voice. Contacting Chico had been most important. “Chico, this is Kek Huuygens. I have little time, so attention. I’m taking a private air-taxi from Brussels to Madrid. I will arrive there about four in the morning. Do you hear?”

“I hear.” It was like a whisper.

“Good. You will meet me, please. With a car.”

“It is done.”

“And an igualidor.” It was the gutter-slang of Madrid, overinfluenced by American cinema; it meant a handgun. Kek hoped that Chico understood and that anyone else who might be listening would not.

Chico understood. He was shocked. “Igualidor? Porqué?”

“For my reasons. Until later.” Kek hung up, clicked the lever several times for Marcel, and advised him to tell the driver he would be right down. He came to his feet and shrugged himself into his jacket, picked up his topcoat, and went out to face the evening.

The Rotisserie Florentino and the Cabaret Maroc were everything that Marcel had suggested; at eleven o’clock, softly singing one of the hit tunes of the cabaret, his driver drove him back to his hotel. He excused himself long enough to collect his belongings and marched to the second floor, his singing now reduced to a nonmelodic humming in deference to the sleeping guests.

His laxity disappeared as soon as he opened the door. He went swiftly to the dresser, withdrew the cardboard tube, and checked the contents. Satisfied, he resumed his soft humming. His suitcase was brought from the closet, the tube stored in it diagonally beneath his shirts, and the balance of his clothing neatly folded and distributed about the unusual ridge, balancing it. He snapped the case shut, gathered his topcoat once again, and went to the door. One final inspection of the room and he closed the door softly behind him, starting for the steps.

The October that had been sunny and warm in Brussels was bitter cold on the high plateau of Madrid, and especially just after four in the morning. Tramping from the airplane, his breath steaming and his ears still ringing from the shuddering scream of wind and the vibrating howl of the engine, Kek kept his one free hand buried deep in his topcoat pocket and wished he had thought to come more warmly dressed.

He came into the immigration shed, located a sleepy official, had his passport examined desultorily, stamped with a yawn, and handed back. He walked into the customs sections, following arrows. An inspector detached himself from his desk and moved forward, frowning.

“The señor came—?”

“By private plane.” Kek placed his case on the table. “From Brussels.”

“Your passport, please.” The inspector’s voice indicated the height of cooperation; people who could afford to cross national borders in privately hired planes obviously rated respect. His attitude maintained until he noted the name across from the smiling picture. His eyes widened; his instruction book was filled with notes about this one! “One moment, señor!”

“Is something wrong?”

“One moment!” The inspector fled to find a superior.

Kek waited with a patience born of long experience with stubborn customs officials, although he did feel it would be nice once in a while to run across one too sleepy to notice his name on his passport. And if one couldn’t find a sleepy inspector at four in the morning, when could one? He looked up. The inspector was returning, this time accompanied by the night chief of the section. The chief picked up the suitcase, tilting his head.

“Señor...?” His tone was curt; he was off before he had finished the word.

Kek tagged along obediently. Inside a room at one end of the hall the chief closed the door firmly, set the case on the floor within instant reach, and seated himself on one corner of the lone, bare table there. He looked at Kek with cold eyes.

“Señor Huuygens.” His pronunciation was atrocious. “What brings you to Spain?”

Kek considered the man carefully. “My desire to be here. My papers are in order. What seems to be the problem?”

The chief inspector studied him a moment and then sighed. “Your overcoat first, please.” He came to his feet, holding out his hand.

It was an all too familiar routine. Only when the personal search had revealed nothing incriminating did the inspector turn his attention to the suitcase. He did it with the air of one saving the best for last, bringing it to the table and opening it. Each article of clothing was carefully removed, examined, patted, and then piled neatly to one side. Kek watched with interest, as if scoring the performance against others he had known. Then—

“Ah!” said the inspector, triumphantly. He held aloft the tube.

“Yes?” Kek asked curiously.

“What is this?”

“Isn’t it marked on the outside? It’s a wall calendar.”

“Oh?” The inspector smiled at him. “And how interesting that you should have boarded a private plane in Brussels, and how even more interesting that we should have been requested by the Belgian Sûreté to be on the watch for a package almost the size of your — ah, your calendar. Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say, señor?”

“Most amazing,” Kek agreed.

“I’m forced to agree,” the inspector said with a sardonic smile. He removed the end cap of the tube, placed several fingers inside, and slowly twisted the contents free. He slowly unrolled it and bent over it. His black eyes came up, furious. “This is not—” He bit the word back. His instructions for secrecy were implicit.

“Not what?” Huuygens asked innocently. “Not a calendar? Of course it’s a calendar. I told you it was.”

The inspector said nothing. For several moments he held the calendar in his hands and then he carefully rerolled it and placed it back in the tube. His movements were those of an automaton. He studied the empty suitcase a moment and then shrugged.

“You may go.” His voice was expressionless.

Huuygens nodded his thanks, carefully repacked his clothing, and left the room. Behind him he could hear a fist slamming the table and a moment later the sound of a chair being kicked.

Outside, a thin, icy mist hovered before the tall street lamps. Kek looked about; there was a beep of a horn from the almost deserted parking lot across the roadway and he walked over, bending down to check. Satisfied, he climbed in beside the driver, tossing his suitcase in the rear.

“Chico. How are you?”

“Frozen!” The voice became querulous. “Even when you come in alone in a private plane, it takes you an hour to clear customs!”

“Yes,” Kek said simply, because it was the truth. “Do you have the gun?”

“In the glove compartment. I don’t like guns.”

“Nor do I.” Kek removed the gun, checked it, and slipped it into his topcoat pocket.

Chico turned the ignition key; the engine sprang to life. “Where to?”

“No place, yet. We wait here.” His hand went out to prevent Chico from switching off the engine. “Let it run and keep the car warm.”

“All right. How long do we wait?”

“Until the regular flight from Brussels.” He glanced at his watch. Chico had been right; he had spent well over an hour with the customs. “It should arrive in about forty-five minutes. Wake me then. All right?”

“Right,” Chico said. Kek put his head back and almost instantly fell asleep. It seemed that no more than seconds had passed before Chico was shaking him. “The plane. It’s landed.”

Kek yawned. “Thanks.” He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d better wake up.” He climbed out of the car and walked up and down the parking lot several times, swinging his arms, breathing deeply. Awake at last he returned to the car, climbed into the rear seat and put his case in front with Chico. “The passengers will be out soon. Pull the car in front of the terminal, ahead a bit, just behind the taxi rank. And keep your motor running.”

Chico said nothing. He shifted gears and edged forward, following the curved driveway to the point Kek had indicated. The two men waited. Passengers began to emerge from the terminal at last, moving toward the parking lot, or the one taxi braving the night at the rank beyond. Their shadows jumped from light pole to light pole; they, at least, were impervious to the cold. A bareheaded man in a heavy trench coat, sporting a thick mustache and carrying an overnight bag in one hand and an umbrella hooked over the other arm, came down the airport steps. He paused momentarily and then started walking rapidly in the direction of the sole taxi. Kek smiled in pleased satifaction and slipped from the car, turning to face the man at the last moment. To any onlooker it would have appeared that they had bumped by pure accident.

“Perhaps I can offer you transportation, Alex?”

The gun was held easily in his pocket, pressing against the other’s stomach. DuPaul’s black eyes widened in surprised recognition and then hardened. The tableau held for several seconds; then the mustached man shrugged.

“Good,” Huuygens said approvingly. “Your bag in the front seat and you in the back.” He tipped his head politely. “After you.”

The door was slammed; the car instantly began to move. Chico brightened the lights and half-turned his head. “Where to?”

“I want a place where we can drop our friend when we finish talking to him. Some place that will give him an hour or so of brisk walking to reach civilization in the form of taxis or telephones. Some place,” he added with a smile, “that we can reach by car, ourselves.”

“Easy,” Chico said and swung from the airport road into the two-lane highway leading away from the city toward the distant mountains.

“Good,” Huuygens said and turned back to DuPaul, sitting with a frozen expression at his side. “I’m happy you got my message.”

Chico negotiated a curve. “Your message?” he asked mystified.

“I was speaking to my friend, here,” Huuygens explained. “In Brussels I arranged for him to learn that a certain object of great value — which he thought was safely his — was, instead, in my possession in my hotel room. The man he overheard was planning on taking it away from me on the Paris Express, because he knew I was taking it into Spain for some Englishman, and he knew I hated to fly—”

For the first time DuPaul spoke. His voice was bitter. “You used me.”

“Of course,” Kek said, and added, honestly, “I had to.”

“You won’t get away with this, Kek.”

“Of course I’ll get away with it,” Huuygens said, surprised at the other’s innocence. “I’ll have my money and in all likelihood be out of Spain before you even get back to the highway. Besides,” he added logically, “the painting was given to me to deliver, you know. It’s a matter of honor.”

DuPaul didn’t answer. He sighed and leaned back in his seat, staring ahead. They had left the main road and were bumping over a rutted dirt trail, twisting higher, rising into the foothills of the mountain. The air was getting colder; Chico closed the small side window and increased the output of the tiny heater to its maximum. They came to one ridge and negotiated it; one more and Chico stopped, backed into an opening between the road and a fence, preparing to return as they had come.

“This should do it,” he said calmly.

“Good.” Huuygens turned to DuPaul, truly apologetic. “I’m sorry, Alex. You can follow the road back or cut across the fields; I’ll be gone before you can even get to a phone. You can take your bag if you want—” He saw the sudden light in the other’s eyes and swiftly disabused him of the notion. “No,” he said quietly. “Not the umbrella.” He smiled. “I thought you might bribe your way through customs, but the umbrella was a much better idea. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hope to get away with it.”

DuPaul, his jaw clenched tightly, climbed out of the car. Chico handed him the overnight bag and slammed the door. Huuygens held the gun steady over the edge of the window, now rolled down; with his free hand he slid his fingers inside the silk of the umbrella, verifying his guess.

DuPaul, his breath steaming in the cold air, bent forward.

“I don’t blame you,” he said quietly. “You got me to bring the painting in for you, and I don’t blame you. I had it in my hands in Brussels — in my hands! — and by now I could have been far away with it. But you knew I wouldn’t let the fat man get away with robbing me. You knew it.” He straightened up. “But when you see Thwaite, tell him I’ll find him. I swear I’ll find him.”

“I’m sure you will,” Huuygens said, and his sympathy was genuine. “I think you’ve been treated very badly, and I’m sure Thwaite deserves payment in whatever coin you choose.” He sighed. “But that is, after all, none of my concern. I had to deliver. I contracted to.”

He paused a moment, frowning in thought. Then he took a deep breath and leaned back, the revolver dangling between his legs. He raised his voice for Chico to hear. It carried clearly through the open window to the man in the road.

“No. 617 Estrada de las Mujeres, Chico. And I should judge we have approximately an hour or so to fulfill our commitment...”

Counter Intelligence

I have long since ceased to be amazed at bumping into Kek Huuygens anywhere in the world, or in any condition of financial peak or depression. He is a charming fellow, brilliant and persuasive, who buys his share of the drinks when his pocketbook permits — and with the added attraction that he does not use his considerable talent at deception against his close friends. I have often wondered just how far Kek Huuygens might have gone in life had a policy of strict moral turpitude been one of his inviolate precepts.

This time, I ran into him in Paris. My newspaper had transferred me back there after an absence of almost eight years, and this particular day, I was walking morosely back from the office to my hotel, reflecting unhappily on the changes that had taken place in the city since I was last there. I was edging past a crowded sidewalk café when an arm reached out to detain me. I turned and found myself staring into Kek Huuygens’ smiling eyes.

“Have a seat,” he said calmly, almost as if it had been but hours since we had met instead of at least three years — and that time across an ocean. He raised a beckoning arm for the waiter, his eyes never leaving my face. “The last time I saw you, I was unfortunate enough to have to ask you to buy me a drink. Allow me to repay you.”

“Kek Huuygens!” I exclaimed delightedly, and dropped into a chair at his side. Besides being excellent company, Huuygens has always been good for copy, and one of the changes in Paris that had discouraged me was the very lack of copy; Frenchmen, in my absence, had seemingly become civilized. My eyebrows raised as my glance flickered over the figure across from me. The excellent cut of his obviously expensive suit, the jaunty angle of his Homburg, the trim insolence of his mustache, not to mention the freshness of his boutonniere at that late hour of the afternoon, all were in sharp contrast to his appearance the last time I had seen him in New York.

His eyes followed my inspection with sardonic amusement. “What will you have to drink?”

“A brandy,” I said, grinning at him. I allowed my grin to fade into a rather doubtful grimace; one thing I thought I had learned about Huuygens was how to jar a story out of him. I ran my eye over him again. “Illegality seems to be more profitable than when last we met.”

He placed my order with the waiter who had finally appeared, and then returned his attention to me. “On the contrary,” he said with a faint smile. “I finally took the advice of all my well-meaning friends and discovered, to my complete astonishment, that the rewards of being on the side of the law can be far greater than I had ever anticipated.”

“Oh?” I tried not to sound sceptical.

His eyes twinkled at my poor attempt at deception. “I shall not keep it a secret from you,” he said drily. “I am forced, however, to ask you to keep what I am about to tell you a secret from everyone else.”

I stared at him. “But why?” I asked unhappily.

“In the interests of that law and order you are always extolling,” he replied even more drily. We waited in silence while the waiter placed my brandy before me; he slipped the saucer onto Huuygens’ pile and disappeared. Kek’s eyes were steady upon my face. I shrugged, raised my glass in a small gesture of defeat, and sipped. Huuygens nodded, satisfied with my implied promise, and leaned back.

Now that I realize the benefits that can derive from honesty (Huuygens said smiling in my direction), I shall have to review America again in a different light. However, just after I last saw you, I had not as yet been converted, and since it becomes increasingly embarrassing to sponge on friends, I managed to return to France where I have a cousin I actually enjoy sponging on. Immediately following the war, he and I were sort of partners in black-market foodstuffs, but we split up when I realized that the man was completely dishonest. Besides, in those days, they were beginning to impose the death penalty for this particular naughtiness, and there are limits to the extent I will indulge in gambling — especially with my life.

In any event, there must have been something about foodstuffs that attracted my cousin, because when I got back to Paris, I found he had turned to legality with a vengeance, and was the owner of a chain of what have become known throughout the world as supermarkets. I personally cannot understand the success of these sterile, automated dispensers of comestibles, all so daintily packed in transparent plastic — especially in France, since it is obviously impossible to haggle with a price stamped in purple ink on the bottom of a tin. However, there it is; the fact was that my cousin was rolling in money. And while he was far from pleased to add me to his ménage, even temporarily, there was very little he could do about it. Normally, I hate to stoop to threatening a man with his past, but in his case, it took no great appeasement of my conscience.

For a while, I thought his wife would prove an even greater obstacle. She was built like a corseted Brahma bull, with a trailing mustache, an eye like a laser beam, and a voice that made me think of nothing so much as a shovel being dragged across rough concrete. However, he apparently explained to her the alternatives to my presence, and after that, she was actually quite innocuous.

Do not think that I was pleased myself to be in this position of practically begging, but there was nothing else I could do. Even the most modest of schemes requires capital, and I was broke. And while I could bring myself to accept — and even insist upon — my cousin’s hospitality, I could not use my knowledge of his past to extract money from him. It would have been against my principles. However, the situation wasn’t all bad; my cousin had a fine cook, a nubile and willing housemaid, an extensive library and an excellent cellar, so I found myself settling in quite comfortably and actually even in danger of vegetating.

One evening, however, my cousin returned home in a preoccupied mood. Throughout dinner, a time he usually spent in alternately stuffing himself and listing his assets, he sat quiet and scowling at his plate, nor did he touch his dessert. Something was obviously wrong, and on the offhand chance that it might involve me or my sinecure in his home, I nailed him immediately after dinner in the library.

“Stavros,” I said — you must understand that while both of us were Poles, and I had long since adopted the fiction of being Dutch, my cousin, for reasons I cannot attempt to explain, preferred the pretense of a Greek background. Maybe it was useful in his business. But I digress. In any event, I said, “Stavros, something is bothering you. Can I be of any assistance to you?”

He began to wave his hand in a fashion to indicate denial, and then he suddenly paused and stared at me thoughtfully through narrowed eyes. “Do you know,” he said slowly, “possibly you can. Certainly if there is some scheme here, some attempt to be over-clever, you would be the ideal one to ferret it out.”

“Scheme?” I asked, and poured myself a generous brandy. I sat down opposite him. “What are you talking about?”

He hesitated as if reluctant to take me into his confidence, but then the weight of his problem overcame his irresolution. He leaned forward. “Do you know anything about supermarkets?”

My eyebrows raised. I was about to give him the same opinions I have just voiced to you, but then I realized it would serve no purpose. “No,” I said simply. “I know that people serve themselves from shelves and pass before a clerk who sums up their purchases. They pay and take the stuff with them. That’s all I do know.”

He nodded. “And that’s all you should know. Or anyone should know. But somebody appears to know something else.” He paused a moment and then leaned forward again. “Kek, in the supermarket business, we are used to pilfering — small items that women put into their purses, or tuck into a baby carriage beneath the blankets; things that children steal and sometimes eat right in the store, or hide in their boots—”

“Horrible!” I murmured.

“Yes,” he agreed. “But — and this is the important thing — we can calculate to the merest fraction of a per cent the exact amount we will lose through this thievery. It is done scientifically, on computers, based on multiple experiences and probability curves, and these calculations are never wrong.” He sighed helplessly. “I mean, they were never wrong before. But now — my God!”

“Tell me,” I suggested.

“Yes,” he said more calmly. “Well, in our largest store, the percentages have gone absolutely berserk! Stealing on a scale that is impossible! And the frightening thing is that we don’t know how it is done!” He pounded one fist against his forehead in desperation. “I have received the report from the detective agency today. I have had detectives pose as customers, as cashiers, as clerks unloading cartons or stamping prices on tins. I have had the store watched, day and night, both from the outside and the inside, week after week — and yet, it continues. I have done everything possible, and now, I am about to go out of my mind. If somebody has discovered a method of pilfering that our system cannot cope with...” He shrugged fatalistically and shivered.

He did not have to spell it out for me. I reached over for the bottle of brandy, nodding sympathetically. “And how does your system work?” I wanted to know.

He got to his feet and began to pace back and forth across the thick rug of the library. It was evident that the subject was close to his heart, and had he been delineating success rather than failure, his attitude could only have been described as enthusiastic.

“This store has eight check-out counters,” he said. “At each is stationed a clerk who punches the keys of the cash register for each purchase. These figures are reproduced on a continuous tape within the register, and no one has access to this record except the head auditor in the main office. The manager of the store removes it...” He saw my eyes light up and shook his head. “No. The manager removes a small box that contains the tape, but he cannot open this box. He sends the boxes in daily, together with the cash he has collected, and they always balance.”

He paused and then raised a finger in a slight gesture, as if equating one thing with another. “At the same time, we have our constant inventory control of the stocks, and these are also in the hands of people not connected with the individual store, and people of utmost confidence. And we also employ an outside firm of auditors to spot-check these stocks from time to time. Of late, I have had them checking daily.” He raised his two hands, palms upwards. “A comparison of the register tapes and the inventory records indicates the unseen losses which, as I say, are completely calculable. At least, in every store in the chain except this one.”

“But, surely,” I said. “A dishonest clerk...”

He shook his head. “We follow the establishment procedures of the American supermarkets, and to steal from a supermarket on a large scale is far from being as simple as it may appear to you at first. Believe me.”

Knowing him, I believed him. “What can I do to help you?”

He frowned. “I honestly don’t know. But someone has apparently discovered a means of pilfering, of swindling us, that we cannot resolve. And since your experience—” He paused and then raised one hand apologetically. “I would not consider asking your help just in return for your... your—” He wanted to say “sponging” but couldn’t bring himself to it; he was never the bravest of men. “Your presence as a guest in my house...” It was weak and he knew it. His voice firmed, but with bitterness behind it. “If you can discover what is going on and put a stop to it, there will be a reward.”

“How great a reward?” I asked quietly. The thing was beginning to intrigue me.

He bit his lip. “One — five — ten thousand francs!” he said.

“They have been doing a job on you, haven’t they?” I said gently.

“Yes,” he replied simply. “They certainly have.”

“Tomorrow, then, I shall be a customer in that store,” I said, and reached over for the bottle of brandy. I admit there was a bit of bravado in my tone, but he said nothing. And so we left it at that...

Kek Huuygens paused in his tale and peered at me across the table. “Speaking of brandy,” he said politely, “your glass is empty.” He raised a manicured hand for the waiter. “As I recall, on our last visit, I was placed in your debt to the amount of two drinks.”

I stared at him. I was still irritated at having been sworn to secrecy. “If we are all now to be firmly committed to a policy of honesty,” I said a bit shortly, “it was actually three.”

He smiled at me with evident enjoyment of my position. “Then it shall be three. I trust you.”

The waiter came and replenished our glasses. Kek Huuygens sipped from his drink and then leaned back again, remembering.

The following day was a Saturday (Huuygens continued evenly), with weather pleasant enough to allow me to walk, which, considering my financial situation, was just as well. I had offered to do the shopping for the cook in order to appear at the market in the proper guise of a customer, but it seems that owners of supermarkets do not buy at retail. However, I am sure that had she accepted, the funds she would have doled out would have been calculated to a sou to accord with the list she would have furnished. I’m afraid my status in that household was no great secret.

My cousin was then living — and still lives, as a matter of fact — in the Avenue Michelet in St-Ouen, and since the store in question was located in Clichy, the walk really wasn’t too bad. As I strolled along, I put my mind to work on various means of swindling a supermarket, based on the system of security I had had outlined to me the evening before. But I soon abandoned this exercise. To hear my cousin describe it, all standard methods had been thoroughly investigated, and I knew him well enough to know that the scheme would have to be incredibly simple to have escaped his detection.

I am quite serious. I was sure that under the weight of that study, any complicated scheme would have been bound to be discovered; and besides, I have always preferred simple schemes myself. They are the only ones with any chance of success. So I gave up all thought of the matter until I could see the arena of battle in person, and just walked along enjoying the lovely weather.

When I first set eyes on the supermarket, my first thought was that I had taken a wrong turn somewhere and had ended up at the aerodrome of Bourget, because the place looked like nothing so much as a hangar set in the middle of a huge concrete apron. That, of course, was the car park. I had seen similar installations in the States, but I had had no idea that my cousin’s wealth extended to properties of such dimension. For a moment, I felt a twinge of sympathy for the person or persons who were draining a portion of that wealth away, but then I thought of the reward, as well as of my need for it. With a shrug, I pushed through the swinging doors that led to the interior.

I had never been in a supermarket on a Saturday before, and at first, I thought I had inadvertently stumbled onto a riot of some proportion, or possibly a student demonstration, because the place was jammed with noisy people, all apparently going in different directions; but after a moment, I could see that there was a bit of organization to the confusion, and I took a shopping cart and pushed into the melee. I shall never understand why, with so many fine American customs and inventions to choose from, Europeans always seem to select the very worst ones to copy, such as supermarkets, television, or — but again, I digress.

The aisles of the store had arrows mounted above them in a futile effort to get traffic to flow along a rational pattern, but naturally, nobody was paying the slightest attention to them. I managed, by using my shopping cart as a battering ram, to cover about one-third of the store, but I then abandoned it in favor of doing a solo. This involved quite a bit of side-stepping and agile pirouetting, but it did allow me more rapid coverage of the area. Any fears I had had about appearing out of place as a non-shopper were forsaken at once. In that mob, I could have been nude or playing the bagpipe, and still have remained entirely unnoticed for a week.

I took the store, section by section, paying particular heed at first to those clerks who dispensed such non-packaged items as meat and vegetables. I was pleased to note that, despite the regimentation of such modern mechanical means of distribution, fruits were still being mauled, pinched and squeezed in time-honored fashion; but no world-shaking ideas sprang from this observation. I paused to watch young lads hastily piling tins in mounds to replace the attritional inroads of the thundering herd, but other than a forced admiration for their acrobatic skills, nothing came of this. I studied the entrances, the exits, the freezers, the shelves, the window, even — to give you some idea of the bankrupcy of my thoughts — the fans set high in the arched roof above.

Eventually, I worked my way to the front of the store and the check-out counters. There was a long line of impatient consumers before each one, and so great was the crowd that even the manager had been pressed into service, and was standing over his register at the end of the line, sweating away like the hired help, pounding on the keys. The other check-out clerks were no less busy, but at least they were more attractive. And I do mean attractive — if that is not too light a word for girls that are beautiful. There were three redheads, two brunettes and three blondes; and whoever handled the personnel hiring for my cousin’s chain of supermarkets deserved a merit badge for good taste.

I stood with my back against a precarious mountain of soap boxes and watched their dainty hands fly over the register keys, watched them bend down to pack their sales into paper sacks, noting particularly the gaping of their blouses as they performed these necessary chores. It added nothing toward the solution of my problem, of course, but at least it was a pleasant respite in a day that was beginning to promise nothing but failure. And suddenly remembering that fact brought my mind back to business, and once again, I started back through the aisles.

Well, to make a long story short, I spent another fruitless two hours wandering through that hungry crowd, and for all the good it did, I might just as well have stayed home with the housemaid. I saw, of course, all the obvious possibilities, such as backing a truck up to the rear door and simply carting away a load of things, but I was sure that these had been thoroughly checked. And so, with one last adoring look at the beautiful girls at the check-out counters, I finally gave up and headed back toward my cousin’s home.

I walked slowly, reviewing everything I had seen on my tour of the huge premises, but other than the beauty of the girls, I could think of nothing even worth recalling. As a rule, I do not mind failure; in my life, it has occurred rather frequently and I have learned to be philosophical about it. I did, of course, mind the loss of the ten-thousand-franc reward, but since I saw no way of earning it, I put that thought aside as well, and allowed my memory to drift back to the girls at the check-out counters. And then, all at once, I saw the entire scheme.

Of course! Simple — as I knew it would have to be — and beautiful — as all truly great schemes are! It came to me so complete, it struck me so sharply, that I stopped dead in my tracks, and a lady behind me, pushing a pram, bumped into me; but after my ordeal with shopping carts that morning, I barely noticed it. She pushed past me, muttering darkly, but I paid no attention. My mind was racing, for immediately upon comprehending the scheme, I had also seen a way to improve upon it — or at least, to improve upon it as far as I, personally, was concerned. I must have stood in that spot for at least ten minutes, reviewing the entire thing in my mind, before I turned about and started back to the supermarket.

The line at the manager’s counter was, as were all the others, quite long, but I placed myself at its end and waited patiently, eyeing the girls at the other counters appreciatively until my turn came.

When at last I faced the manager, he looked up with a frown when he noted that I had no merchandise with me.

“Monsieur,” I said, “if I could speak with you a moment...”

He glared at me impatiently. “Solicitations are not allowed, and if you are selling anything, we do no purchasing here,” he said brusquely. “All that is handled at the central office. And now, if you will pardon me...”

I bent over and whispered something in his ear. His hand, which had already been reaching for a package from the next customer, froze. His eyes widened, then closed for several moments, then reopened. For a period of at least ten seconds, he said nothing; he merely stared at me with horror. And then, as I knew he would, he pushed down a small gate that directed the customer to go to a different line, and led me into his office.

Our conversation was short but quite pointed. When I walked out, I left behind me a disappointed man, it is true — but also a greatly relieved man. In a way, I felt sorry for him, because he had invented a truly great scheme, but unfortunately, in this life, one must always look out for oneself, and the failure of his plan was definitely necessary to the success of my own.

Well, as you can well believe, I returned to my cousin’s home at a much more spritely pace, let myself in and went directly to the library. As usual, on a Saturday afternoon, Stavros was seated at his desk going over his personal accounts. At my entrance, he looked up, and at the expression on my face — for I am no great dissembler — he jumped excitedly to his feet and hurried in my direction.

“Kek! You have discovered it!” he exclaimed. His tone was a neat blend of hope and disbelief.

“I have,” I said, as modestly as I could under the circumstances, and proceeded to pour myself a drink.

“Wonderful! Marvelous!” He was almost beside himself with joy. “One morning in the supermarket and you find what a dozen detectives were unable to locate in four months. Fantastic! And when I think of what they cost me...” He swallowed the balance of this thought as being economically unsuitable for expression. He stared at me almost proudly. “How did they work it?”

I did my best to look shocked. “That was not our bargain,” I said reprovingly. “I agreed — in return for ten thousand francs — to discover the scheme and put a stop to it. That was all you asked of me. I did not agree to disclose it.”

His face fell. “So!” he said heavily. “You did not really discover it! I should have known better! You are merely attempting...”

I held up my hand. “As a guest in your house,” I said, “permit me to prevent you from insulting me. I said I discovered the means by which you have systematically been swindled, and I have.” I walked over and seated myself on the corner of his desk, taking, of course, my drink with me. “Tell me,” I said, “how long will it take you and your auditors to determine that I am telling the truth? How long will it take your financial experts to discover that the losses have stopped?”

He frowned at me in great indecision. My cousin, despite his many good qualities, such as an unerring palate for brandy and a sharp eye for presentable housemaids, suffers from a suspicious nature. “I will have a good indication within a week,” he said slowly. “And in two weeks I can be absolutely certain.”

“Good!” I said heartily. “Then, giving you two weeks to acquire your absolute certainty, I shall expect your check for ten thousand francs. Fortunately,” I added aloofly, “I prevented you from saying anything that would require — in addition to the money — an apology.” And I started to rise

“Wait!” he said. He shook his head and began to pace back and forth. It was evident that he did not like the situation. He swallowed once or twice and finally came out with what was on his mind. “Why?” he enquired plaintively, “Why won’t you tell me the scheme?”

“I’ll tell you in two weeks,” I said

You’ll tell me the scheme in two weeks?” he asked. Hope had returned to his voice.

“No,” I said politely. “In two weeks, I’ll tell you why I won’t tell you.”

And with that I downed my drink and started for the door. It had occurred to me that I had missed lunch, and besides on a Saturday afternoon, I had become accustomed to a nap. I could almost feel his eyes burning through my back as I turned the handle of the door.

Kek Huuygens paused and smiled at me. “Of course,” he said apologetically, “now that I’ve explained everything, you can see the wonderful scheme, and my subsequent plan, so you can now understand why I was forced to ask for your promise of secrecy...”

“I see nothing of the sort!” I’m afraid my voice rose a bit. “I do not see the scheme, nor do I see your plan, nor do I understand the need for my silence! As a matter of fact...”

He held up a hand to stop the flow of my language and looked at me almost with pity. “Well,” he said, “have another brandy and you soon will.” He called over the waiter, and then looked at me again and shrugged for my stupidity. “Prosit,” he said, holding up his glass.

Well (Huuygens continued, finally putting his glass to one side), the two weeks passed. Far too slowly for my liking, but pass they did. Each evening, Stavros would return from his office and I could tell from the look in his eyes that the figures were bearing out my promise that the losses would stop. But, being the stubborn man he is, he could not bring himself to admit that I was shortly due for a check. Once or twice, I could have sworn that he was on the verge of claiming that the losses had not stopped, but despite his cupidity, he was not downright stupid, and something must have told him this would not have worked for an instant.

In any event, two weeks from that Saturday, I went into the library and pulled a chair up to face him across his desk. “Well?” I asked quietly.

He sighed. “The losses have stopped,” he admitted, albeit with hesitancy. “I shall draw you a check in the amount agreed upon.” He stared at me. “And in return, you will tell me why you will not tell me...” He could not go on; it was evident that he was under a certain amount of stress.

“Certainly,” I said equably. “I will not describe the scheme to you because I have discovered — and stopped — a nefarious means of dishonesty which, were it ever bruited about, could lead to similar attempts by others in supermarkets. In your own chain of supermarkets, to be exact. Attempts, I might mention, that I guarantee would be equally successful. At great cost to you. And since you are no fool...”

Stavros stared at me with growing knowledge of what I was saying. “I am the worst kind of fool,” he said at last, bitterly. “I should have known better than to say one word to you about this. You, of all people!” He shoved the papers on the desk away from him with an angry motion, as if they somehow represented the dishonesty he was always so ardently combatting. His eyes came up. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well,” I said in a reasonable tone of voice, “I thought that ten thousand francs a week would be ample payment for seeing that the scheme is not repeated in any of the other stores.” I held up my hand. “This would be in addition to the reward which I have already earned.”

He clenched his teeth and glared at me. “This is blackmail!” he said tightly. “This is a crime!”

“A crime?” I asked innocently. “To prevent stealing? To see that you are not bankrupt through pilfering? Any other action on my part, it seems to me, could only be interpreted as being dishonest. And, to be frank, would lead you into disaster in short order.” I looked at him evenly across the desk. “Well?”

One thing about Stavros is that he knows when he is beaten. I could almost hear the wheels click in his head as he calculated my demands against his losses should they spread to the other stores.

“I assume,” he said in a voice drained of emotion, “that with this income, you will be able to move from my home into a place of your own?”

“I have spent the last two weeks locating a suitable apartment,” I assured him. “With this income, I can swing it.”

“Then allow me to help you by according with your wishes,” he said politely. “Of course, you know that I shall have to continue spending money on detectives.”

“I imagined you would,” I said coldly and got to my feet. “Otherwise, my demands would have been much higher.”

And that’s how we left it.

Kek Huuygens grinned at me across the table. “And so I live a comfortable life,” he said. His hand gestured idly, including his wardrobe and the sidewalk cafe in general. “And shall continue to — at least, until my cousin figures out how he was being swindled. Which is almost impossible, since it has been stopped and the evidence removed from the area of his investigation.”

“But I still don’t understand it,” I said in irritation, “How did the scheme work? What did you whisper into the ear of the manager of that store?”

“Have another brandy,” he said, and waited once again until we were served. I could barely contain my impatience, but Huuygens, in one of his moods, is not to be rushed. When our glasses were again full, he viewed me in quite another manner — seriously this time — and then nodded as if he had come to an important decision.

“I can trust you,” he said at last. “And it is too good a story to remain untold, although only by me” — his finger came up — “and not by you. What I said to the manager of the store was this: ‘You are the ninth counter.’”

I had started to raise my glass to my mouth, but I paused and set it down untouched. I opened my mouth to say something, and then closed it again as Kek’s words came through to me in all their meaning. Kek nodded, happy that I had at last seen the light.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Stavros had told me there were eight girls checking out goods at these counters. But the manager had added a ninth counter which he handled himself. And which was completely beyond the control of my cousin’s vaunted auditors.” He grinned at me. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I admitted. “Truly beautiful.”

He raised his glass. “To beautiful schemes,” he said. And then added quietly, a glint in his eye, “And if I buy the next one, you will then owe me two.

The Collector

As a general rule I run into Kek Huuygens by pure accident, but this time, believe it or not, I actually knew where it might be possible to find him. It was not, of course, an address or anything that simple, but mutual friends had seen him in the casino in Monte Carlo and said he looked to be quite prosperous. Knowing Huuygens, I felt there was a good chance he might be on a winning streak and if he were, I was sure he’d still be there when I arrived. Kek is an old and valued friend, Polish by birth, Dutch by name, American by passport, and as international as one can get. He has often furnished me with some of my best copy — and even, at times, permitted me to publish it. While Huuygens’ normal activity is to confound the various customs services of the world — for a fee, of course — he is also quite a gambler. I had always wanted to do a column on the difference in gambling habits between a place like, say, Vegas, and a place where you don’t carry nickels around in a paper cup like, say, Monte Carlo. And the thought of an old friend to serve as both guide and source of expertise was a strong temptation. Besides, I owed myself a vacation and by far the best bait for a vacation on the Riviera is New York in winter.

My cab from the Nice airport arrived at the hotel about dusk. I checked in, changed to dinner clothes, and strolled over to the casino. Although it was just about the dinner hour, the place was quite crowded. As I walked from table to table through the various rooms, studying the taut faces of the players, I began to fear that perhaps Huuygens had moved on, for he is a restless soul, but then I spotted him standing behind a fat man playing roulette. I was surprised that he was not involved in the game. I placed myself directly behind him, cleared my throat loudly, and nudged him as if by accident, anticipating the startled look of amazement when he saw who had caused his discomfort, but when he turned there was only the slightest humorous quirking of an eyebrow to change his expression.

“Well, well,” he said, quite as if we had seen each other for dinner, rather than a year ago and across an ocean. “Come into the bar and have a drink.”

I followed him into the long, dark-paneled ornate room and sat across from him at the table he selected. We both ordered and I studied him. As our mutual friend had reported, Kek looked both prosperous and content.

“And what are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’ve been thinking of a column on gambling,” I said. “I heard you were here and I was sure you could help.”

Kek shook his head; he tried to look sad but there was a twinkle in his eye. “I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong man. I’ve given up on gambling; there’s too much of an element of risk in it.”

I frowned at him. “Then what on earth are you doing at the casino?”

“I’ve become a collector,” he said calmly, “and my reason for being here is merely to look for donors.”

“A collector?” I must have sounded puzzled. “But you’ve always been a collector. And what do you mean, to look for donors?”

Kek paused as our waiter placed our drinks before us, waited until we were alone once more, and raised his glass in a salute. I responded; we sipped our cognac and then Kek put his glass down.

“I’ve become a different type of collector,” he said. He saw the look on my face and laughed. “I suppose you won’t be satisfied until you have the complete story of my reformation. I may even permit you to print it. Some day...”

To begin with (Huuygens said, twisting his brandy glass idly), as I say, I’ve become a different type of collector. I collect money. And — although this is not particularly germane to the point and you won’t know what I’m talking about for a while — I seldom like the type of people I collect from, and I have to put Ralph White and his wife Vera at the top of the list. They are the sort of Americans you run into over here; the ones with huge villas who will wine and dine you when you have all the funds you need to wine and dine yourself, but who wouldn’t permit you within a fork length of their kitchen door when you could really use a meal. Something like bankers, you might say.

In any event, this particular day I had been watching White play baccarat, and when he left the game rooms I followed him into the bar — we actually sat at this very table — and sat down across from him without being invited. I spoke to him quite frankly.

“Ralph,” I said, “I’ve been recruited to do some rather noble work, and this year, you know, I’m looking for a rather large contribution from you. It’s for an extremely worthwhile charity—”

He interrupted me brusquely. “You’re collecting for charity?” There was more than a touch of disbelief in his voice, but then he shrugged the matter off as being unimportant. “Well,” he went on, “it really makes no difference. You may or may not know it, but I’m stoney.” He tipped his head in the direction of the game rooms as if in explanation.

Well, of course I knew he was low in funds, if that isn’t an exaggeration of his true financial position. Little things, like the number in help and the cheaper wines served at their parties, were apparent. Actually, with the way he played cards, one has to wonder how he lasted as long as he did. However, I kept up the charade.

“Broke?” I asked, my own tone surpassing his in disbelief. “But what about that villa?”

“What about it?” he asked gloomily. “The rent’s paid on it for the season, but then...” He allowed it to drift off into a tragic picture of himself and Vera, in rags, sleeping under a bridge.

“Oh, come!” I said. “What about those diamonds your wife drapes herself with! Or aren’t they real?”

“Oh, they’re real enough,” he said bitterly, and upended his drink. I had known, of course, they were real. He tapped the table for a refill, and added, “And Vera would part with them about as soon as she’d part with her right arm.”

“And when do you think she’ll part with her right arm?” I asked quietly. “When you two are forced to eat it?”

He looked at me with sudden suspicion. Ralph never was much of a trusting soul. “Just what are you getting at, Huuygens? Because if I know you, you’re getting at something.”

I shrugged. “All I’m trying to say,” I said, “is that despite the old proverb, there are still a few ways to eat your cake and still have it, if you know how.”

He stared. “Such as?”

“Such as paste,” I said bluntly. “You’d be amazed at how realistically they make some of these imitations these days.”

“And then what?” he said in his usual surly manner. “Sell the real ones? Vera would never do it, not in a million years, even if she had a dozen replicas and each one better than the original! And even if I could convince her — which I know damn well I couldn’t — you know what you get for stuff when you’re forced to sell? Nothing!”

The man was really innocent, you see?

“Sell?” I said. “Heavens no!” I leaned closer to him as the waiter placed a second drink before him, refused one for myself — I never mix drinking with business — and went on once the waiter had left. “First, as I say, you have replicas of the diamonds made. Then you throw a cocktail party—”

“A cocktail party?” Ralph was not only innocent, he also wasn’t very bright.

“Exactly,” I said patiently. “You invite all sorts of the usual hangers-on around here; you might even bring some in from Mentone, or Nice. And when the party is in full swing— My God!” I rolled my eyes dramatically. “People walking in and out and the jewels gone! Obviously stolen! Hysterics, tears, hair-tearing, the police, and,” I paused significantly, “eventually, of course, the insurance company.”

He stared at me, his little pig eyes beginning to glimmer with what for him passed as intelligence. “And where would the diamonds really be?” he asked softly.

“In a safety-deposit box, of course,” I said evenly, “waiting for you when you go back to the States. Vera, with a wig of a different color and shape, and with dark glasses and slacks to hide extra-high heels, and possibly some padding here and there — or, now that I remember, the removal of some padding here and there — Vera simply rents a safety-deposit box in-well, Nice, for example. Less than ten miles from here; close enough for a visit now and then. The Banque Succursàle National there, I happen to know, does not ask too many embarrassing questions of the people who rent their boxes.”

His suspicion returned instantly. “And just how do you know that?”

I looked at him pityingly. “Because,” I said — and I suppose my sincerity showed, since I was being perfectly honest — “this is not the first time the scheme has been tried.”

“Nice,” he said thoughtfully, and then frowned. “But under what name?”

I had been prepared for that. “A French name,” I suggested. “It will add to the disguise and be further confusing for one and all. Vera speaks French, doesn’t she?”

“Barely,” he said. “And with an awful accent.”

Well, of course I knew Vera White spoke French with an accent that would have shamed a Corsican. She also had a nasal voice that sounded like a brake-drum that hadn’t been greased in a long, long time, but that is neither here nor there. “Well, then,” I said, “what language does she speak?”

White sighed. “She took three years of Spanish in college, but I wouldn’t exactly say she speaks it. Anyway, what difference does it make?”

“The bank,” I said patiently, “won’t know she barely speaks it. And as for what difference it makes, she has to pick out a name she can easily remember, because it would be quite foolish to write it down.” I thought a moment. “Blanco,” I said at last, with conviction. “That’s it. Señora Blanco.”

“Blanco?”

“It means ‘White,’” I explained. “She could hardly forget that.”

He studied me a long moment. When next he spoke his eyes were narrowed and his voice was now almost casual. “And I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you might just happen to know the name of someone who is skilled in the art of making these paste replicas?”

“By the most curious of coincidences, I do,” I said and laid a card on the table. White looked at me for several moments in a contemplative fashion and then reached out, picked up the card, and tucked it carefully into a pocket.

“I’ve heard of you, Huuygens,” he said slowly, “and I know that blackmail is not your business. Nor thievery.”

I tried to look modest, because, of course, he was perfectly right.

“However,” he went on, “I understand you have other talents. I don’t suppose, when Vera and I get home and face the distinct possibility of encountering problems getting those diamonds through customs, that you might be willing to help? For a slight fee, naturally?” He sounded almost respectful. “You know, Huuygens,” he said, “you’re quite a rogue.”

I considered him coldly. “I don’t believe you understand,” I said evenly. “To begin with, regardless of what you may or may not have heard of my talents, I do not have the slightest intention of taking your diamonds through customs into the United States or anywhere else. I’m far too busy here in Monte Carlo at the moment to think of leaving.”

He considered me without expression.

“It’s simply what I tried to tell you at the beginning,” I went on patiently. “I’m interested in getting a contribution for this charity, and if in the course of getting that contribution I have to be a rogue, so be it.”

And we left it at that.

Huuygens finished his drink with a slight gesture and tapped on the table for a refill.

“And what happened?” I asked.

“What happened? It worked,” Kek said, a bit wonderingly that I should even doubt it. “Vera White had the replicas made, she rented the safety-deposit in the name of Blanco, they threw their cocktail party — to which, I might mention, I refused an invitation — and a good time was had by all. Until, of course, the local gendarmes arrived. As I say, it worked completely to plan.”

I studied him speculatively a moment. “This worthwhile charity you collect for — I assume that is yourself?”

Kek sounded surprised at the question. “Of course,” he said.

“And one final question. Exactly how much did Ralph White finally contribute to your — ah, favorite charity?”

“Ralph White?” he said. “Not a dime.” He saw my startled look and shrugged. “But then, I suppose he was hardly to blame. He could scarcely afford it.”

I stared at him. The waiter appeared with our drinks, put them down and departed. Kek Huuygens suddenly smiled at me broadly across the table, his eye twinkling.

“But the insurance company could and did,” he said. “Twenty percent of the recovered value.” He reached for his glass and then winked at me. “As usual...”

Sweet Music

The month was September, the place was Paris, 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 embarassed 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 visted 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.

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, da-dum, 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 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 throught 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.”

“So they took away the chocolates,” the girl said, in a tone that indicated she didn’t know whether to be disappointed or not. It seemed to her odd, from the story she had just heard, that Kek was not more subdued. “You seem to be taking it rather lightly.”

“One learns to be philosophical about these things,” Kek said, and smiled faintly. “Besides, the shaving kit was an old one, and the twenty Swiss francs, as the Inspector said, can be charged up to profit and loss. Or, rather, added to my expense account which, plus my fee, will be ten thousand dollars. Ask the man for a check, will you?”

The girl stared at him. “But you said—!”

“I said they took away the chocolates,” Kek said gently. “They left me the wrapper. In fact, they practically forced it upon me.” He reached into his briefcase and withdrew the garish paper. “Between the foil and the outer wrapper is the last known page of a particular Bach Cantata, original, in the hand of the master, and worth a great deal of money. Tell the man with a little heat, not too much, the foil and paper come away quite easily. The adhesives chosen were carefully selected; they’ll do the manuscript no harm.”

The girl looked at him in amazement.

“Kek, you are fantastic! And just what would have happened if the customs had kept the wrapper? Or thrown it in the wastebasket? I suppose then you would have had to go out and rob a garbage truck!”

Kek grinned at his associate affectionately.

“Not exactly rob one,” he said. “I’ve spent quite a bit of time cultivating the driver who hauls away the trash. Fortunately,” he added, patting the wrapper,” we shall not require his services, because I’d much rather spend the time with you...”

The Hochmann Miniatures

I suppose, in the four years since my newspaper reassigned me to the Paris office, I have been instructed no less than a dozen times to investigate a rumor that Wilhelm Gruber had been seen in one place or another somewhere on the continent of Europe. Off I have dashed with my overnight bag, my raincoat and the new Super Speed Graphic 45 I finally managed to get the office to buy to replace the ancient monster of a camera I had found on my arrival. My instructions — coming by cable, and cables costing money — never bothered to give me the slightest indication of where the rumor about Gruber started or who started it, so I usually found myself wasting both time and money, and taking a few pictures of the locale and filing enough “allegeds” and “mysteriouses” to sufficiently satisfy our New York telegraph desk, if not myself. However, the exotic place names from which my cables were sent helped give them some degree of authenticity and romance, so, from a reader-interest standpoint, I suppose my editor was more or less justified in sending me on these pointless assignments.

This time, the Nazi war criminal was purported to have been seen in Lisbon, but the results of my time there were no more sucessful than on previous occasions. The Portuguese police assured me blandly that it was impossible for Herr Gruber to be in Lisbon, since war criminals were not allowed in the country, and the local newspapers were, if possible, even less co-operative. The one man I knew who might have helped — a correspondent for a London weekly — was off somewhere covering an explosion in some industrial section, and his office had no idea when he might return. The day was therefore completely unproductive, and I caught a cab to the airport, trying to find some consolation in the fact that at least Paris was only a short journey away by jet, and I would be home with my wife and children that evening.

The wide, tiled concourse of the airport terminal was fairly crowded as I made my way toward the Air-France counter, and I skirted the noisy groups, my mind busily composing a cable that would combine the best of my old dispatches while still appearing sufficiently original to avoid a nasty cable from my editor in return. In my preoccupation, it was surprising that I even noticed the stocky figure wearing dark glasses that sat hunched over a magazine on the bench nearest the broad windows. In truth, I had passed the man by before I suddenly realized that I knew him. I turned back, shifting the Speed Graphic case to join my overnight bag in my left hand while I thrust out my right.

“Kek!” I said in honest delight. “Kek Huuygens!”

I have known Huuygens for many years — since shortly after the war, in fact — and he is a fascinating character. He is a Pole by birth, and he affects a Dutch background, although he has actually been a naturalized American citizen for many years. He lives by his wits, and since these are exceptional in every respect and further fortified by an amazing knowledge in many fields, he usually lives very well. And since, besides being a man of great charm, his exploits have more than once provided me with valuable copy, he is one of my favorite people.

But this time, to my astonishment, my reception was anything but friendly. The humorous banter that normally marked our unexpected encounters in strange places at odd times was pointedly missing; my extended hand was disregarded. The eyes that were raised to mine were obscured by the dark glasses, but the hard set of the jaw and lips clearly marked disapproval. He came to his feet, folding his magazine and tucking it into a pocket.

“I’m afraid you have made a mistake, monsieur,” he said stiffly in French, and walked away.

I stared after him in amazement. Any doubts I might have entertained had instantly been removed by that familiar vibrant voice, and no one who knew the man could fail to recognize that half-marching stride or the set of the shoulders. I watched him come to the wide stairway and mount it in the direction of the second-floor restaurant. One hand moved up at regular intervals to grasp the polished handrail and then release it, as if, for some mysterious reason, he were measuring it. He paused at the top for several seconds, glancing down at me, and then turned to disappear through the heavy doors. I hesitated in indecision for a moment, then followed him.

He was sitting on the sun deck when I arrived, alone at one of the wrought-iron tables that were scattered about the balcony. He watched me calmly as I approached. This time, to my surprise, he made no attempt either to retreat further or to avoid my recognition. I tossed my gear onto one of the empty chairs at the table and sat down in another.

“What’s this all about, Kek? Why all the cloak-and-dagger secrecy?”

His eyes came back to me from their contemplation of the doorway over my shoulder, and he studied me in contemplative silence for several moments. Then he nodded, as if he had come to a conclusion after considerable thought.

“You can do me a favor,” he said slowly.

“Of course.”

The dark glasses watched me carefully. “I have a reservation on Air-France back to Paris.” His voice was emotionless. “I doubt that anyone will be watching the ticket counter to see if I pick it up, but I should prefer not to take the slightest chance of being observed. By the wrong people. So, if you could pick it up for me...”

There was no doubt that he was deadly serious. My eyes narrowed at the implication of some intrigue that could well prove interesting to me as a newspaperman. I nodded. “All right. Is it in your name?”

For a moment the lips quirked in the old Huuygens manner, but they immediately straightened out. “Of course,” he said drily, but there was none of his usual good humor in his voice. “I have enough problems with the people at French Customs without trying to get past them with a false passport.”

I came to my feet and stared down at him. “All right,” I said quietly. “Watch my things and I’ll go get your ticket. And my own. Which,” I added significantly, “are going to be together. On the same flight. Because once we are on that plane, I expect you to repay me by explaining what this is all about.”

He nodded somberly. “Once we are on the plane...”

I started to turn away and then paused as another thought came to me. “What about your luggage?”

“It’s still at my hotel. I didn’t have time to stop by for it.” He shrugged. “It’s of no consequence. I’ll send them money from Paris, and they’ll forward my things.” His tone indicated that they could also keep them, for all he cared.

One last condition occurred to me. “And while I’m gone, you can order the drinks.” I smiled. “And pay for them.”

I expected a smile in return, but his handsome face remained wooden. All he said was, “If you wish,” in a voice that indicated complete indifference. As I left, he was raising one hand languidly to attract the attention of the waiter.

You have always been a curious man (Huuygens said. Our plane had lifted itself to cruising altitude, our seat belts were lying relaxed in our laps, two glasses of Madiera Five-Star reposed on the trays before us and our cigarettes were burning steadily.) I suppose, it’s a mark of your trade (he went on). In the past, I have often been willing to satisfy that curiosity of yours, because the affairs I have described to you have remained confidential whenever I made that a prior condition. And also, to be honest, because in general the matters we discussed were never really of a particularly serious nature. This time, I’m afraid, the matter is quite serious. However, you did me a far bigger favor than you know by picking up my ticket, and you shall have the story you were promised. I shall leave it to your intelligence to decide how much of it you will reveal, and when.

In any event, let me begin at the beginning. As I’m sure you know, I have a growing reputation as a man who manages on occasion to — shall we say, supersede? — some of the regulations which the customs services of most countries impose on items that cross their borders. As a result, in the past few years, people have called on me with increasing frequency for my help, and where nothing more than the morality of a regulation was concerned, I have been inclined to accept the commission. And, of course, been adequately paid for it.

To make a long story intelligible, about a week ago in Paris, I was approached by somebody through channels we need not discuss, other than to say that they were sufficiently involved. I was told that a certain Spanish gentleman, named Enrique Echavarria, living at present in Lisbon, had a collection of art treasures which he found himself forced to dispose of, and since the market in Portugal was not the best-paying, he wanted to get them to France where he could realize a greater income from their sale. Fortunately, unlike yourself, I am not of a curious nature, and I therefore did not bother to ask why, if these art treasures were legally held, their owner felt it necessary to employ the services of a man named Kek Huuygens and pay him what even I would not call a modest fee. However, once I was assured that narcotics were not involved, I accepted the commission. I packed a bag, flew to Lisbon, registered at my hotel and then presented myself at the address which had been given to me.

It was a small house at the end of a long avenue, set well back in the seclusion of extensive gardens and thick stands of trees, and protected by a high stone wall topped by barbed wire in a manner rarely seen in these new days of universal brotherhood and trust. The short driveway extending from the side of the house contained an automobile of rather ancient vintage, and ended in a large wrought-iron gate which, when I arrived, I found locked. I dismissed my taxi, found an old-fashioned bell pull set in a tangle of ivy on one post and rang it.

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 heavy-set man, dressed in the leather jacket and apron of the Portuguese manservant, came from the house. I gave him my name. He nodded and unlocked the gate, waited until I had entered, and then locked the gate once again behind me and followed me into the hallway of the house. I turned to present him with my hat and found myself facing a revolver.

“What is that for?” I asked a trifle testily.

He was not in the least perturbed by either my question or my tone. “You must forgive me,” he said in guttural and Teutonic-sounding French, “but I must ask you to submit to a search.”

“A search?” I was honestly surprised. “For what?”

“For weapons,” he said evenly. “Senhor Echavarria has a very valuable collection of paintings which he would not like to have stolen. I know who you are, of course, and also that you are expected. But still” — he did not sound in the least apologetic — “it is the rule.”

I shrugged. I never carry weapons, and in the course of my lifetime, I have been subjected to far greater inconveniences than mere searches. And I am far from unfamiliar with those. So I raised my arms and allowed him to make sure that I was unarmed. I might add that he did it with considerable skill. When at last he had assured himself of my complete innocuousness, he pocketed his gun and led me into the library. He took my hat, announced me to the man inside and quietly withdrew, closing the door.

The person seated at the desk at the far end of the long room rose. In the shadows caused by the trees hugging the windows behind him, it was difficult to see his face.

“M’sieu Huuygens!” he said in a pleased tone of voice. “I am very glad to meet you! I have heard much of you and of — ah, your exceptional abilities!”

There was something oddly familiar about the voice. Even the terrible French accent seemed to strike a chord. It was like the faintly remembered taste of some strange dish dredged up from the fleeting memory of some childhood feast. He came around the desk and walked up to me, his hand outstretched, setting himself beneath the more revealing light at my end of the room. I think I can feel justly proud that in no way did I allow my sudden recognition to color either my visible emotions or my actions, for the monster with whom I was shaking hands so cordially was none other than Wilhelm Gruber!

Huuygens paused in his tale and eyed me curiously. He had removed his dark glasses, and his deep-set gray eyes contained a light of speculation.

“You jumped when I mentioned that name,” he said slowly, thoughtfully. “You positively jumped!”

I refused to be led from the main stream of a story I suddenly realized could be extremely important. I cleared my throat and spoke, trying to sound noncommittal. “Go on with what you were saying.”

He studied me a moment and then grinned in sudden conviction. It was like the old Huuygens again. Ever since the plane had lifted from the runway, he had been more relaxed, and now he appeared almost carefree.

“Ah!” His grin widened. “I think I understand! As I recall, chasing the elusive Herr Gruber was one of your obsessions — or, at least, the obsession of your editor. And was probably — no, I should say certainly — the reason you were in Lisbon.” He continued to regard me with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, bear with me. Who knows? Possibly some part of the story I am telling you will enable you to file a cable to New York with fewer of your usual evasions.”

He seemed suddenly to realize that our glasses were empty. He rang for the steward, waited until we had again been served and then leaned back, twisting the stem of his glass idly between his fingers, putting his interrupted thoughts in order.

You may wonder (Huuygens continued at last, and his smile had disappeared as if it had never been, and his voice had returned to its somber inflection) how I was able to recognize Wilhelm Gruber so instantly, when he obviously had no conception that we have ever seen each other before. Or that I probably hated him as much or more than I have ever hated a man. Certainly, he had grown older; after all, more than twenty years had passed since Poland. And he had also changed his appearance. The Hitler mustache I remembered had been shaven off, and some surgeon at one time or another had used his instruments for the purpose of making that Aryan face less suspect. It would almost make one laugh, if it did not make one want to cry, because now he sported quite a Hebraic nose, almost the image of the nose he had once held up as the only proof necessary to merit extinction.

But, in any event, I recognized him. Instantly. When one sees, from hiding, his entire family — father, mother and younger sister — dragged from their house and slaughtered in the street on the orders of one man; when one later watches, through strands of barbed wire, that same man daily strutting up and down, demonstrating the unspoken threat of his authority by the savage, rhythmic beating of his whip against the polish of his high boots; when one has lived daily with that arrogant voice proclaiming the wave of the future in terms of hatred and torture, in a tone holding more joy than intimidation — well, one does not forget that man. Believe me. Nor have I ever forgotten Wilhelm Gruber!

But still, there I was, holding his damp palm and pumping it enthusiastically, attempting wildly to recover my equilibrium. Fortunately, he wearied of the exercise and released me. Turning away, he began to stride up and down before me as he formulated his thoughts into words he felt would be most enticing to a man of my profession. At last, he paused, facing me.

“M’sieu Huuygens,” he began, “I shall not waste your time. I have checked on you quite thoroughly, and I am convinced that you are the man I need for — ah, for the solution to my problem. You see, some years ago I... well, I was fortunate enough to inherit certain paintings which, until now, I have been able to keep simply for my pleasure.” He spread his fat hands. “Now, unfortunately, conditions have changed and I am forced to sell them.”

How he ever expected anyone to believe the ridiculous fiction of his being Spanish with that guttural accent, Heaven alone knew! But I listened quietly enough, even though my mind was whirling along at breakneck speed. He looked at me with the air of a man about to tell a stranger a naughty story, but uncertain of its reception. Then he continued.

“However, m’sieu, my problem is that in this country, it is most difficult to find a proper customer. But in France, I have certain old friends who could lead me to certain dealers willing to pay a decent price. My particular problem...”

“Your problem is to get them to France,” I said evenly, although I was feeling anything but calm, “without being disturbed by customs. And my specialty is arranging just such accommodations.”

He smiled widely. “Exactly!”

“Then,” I said, “let me see these paintings. To judge their size, and from that, the size of the problem.”

He nodded profoundly, as if I had confirmed his first estimate of my brilliance, and led me to a small door set in the side wall of the room, across from the windows. It required a combination of two keys to open. He flicked on the light, stepped aside, and I entered.

What the room had been before, I do not know — possibly a serving pantry of some sort — but now it was a vault. The walls had been lined with steel, as well as the ceiling. I was sure that under the carpet on which I was standing, the floor was also steel. One small vent, located at the juncture of one wall and the ceiling, provided fresh air, from where I do not know. And hung on almost every square inch of the walls were framed paintings.

“You are the first man other than Hans and myself ever to see this room,” Gruber said almost proudly. “We did the work here ourselves.”

He followed me as I walked from painting to painting. There was plenty of space in which to study the collection — except my mind was elsewhere, seething. I do not believe I have ever been so confused in my life. It was not until he had spoken to me again — several times, probably (and what he said I still don’t know) that I forced myself to bring my thoughts to bear on the paintings themselves. And once again, it was only by the greatest effort that I prevented myself from betraying my feelings. Had the same situation developed with any other client, my first reaction would have been to laugh, because even the most cursory perusal demonstrated that nine-tenths of the paintings were poor copies made by obviously second-rate students, and the other tenth, while possibly original, were the work of artists — if that is not too flattering a word — who would have been better advised to restrain their efforts to the exterior of houses.

But although the pitiful daubs I faced were a sure indication of Gruber’s complete ignorance, I could not see how this fact could be of any use to me, and it was therefore with a completely unemotional face that I withdrew a collapsing rule, measured the largest of the monstrosities, closed my eyes a moment to remember the measurements and then turned to face him once again.

“These are all?”

“No,” he said, and turned to a table that was centered in the room. He slid open a drawer and brought out a small envelope. “There are also these.”

He spread the contents of the envelope before me. From where I stood, they appeared at first like postal cards. It was not until I came closer that I realized their full import. And when I did, I’m afraid that, despite my intentions, my mouth fell open. Fortunately, Gruber was also studying the small pictures and did not notice. I bent over them again, but there was no doubt at all in my mind. For the first time in over twenty years, I was looking at the famous Hochmann Collection of miniatures.

I do not know if you are familiar with this precious collection. It had been the pride of the Warsaw Art Museum in those happier days before the war. As a student, I had gone there to admire it many times, and I knew it well. The Hochmann family had collected these, and in 1922, when the last Count Hochmann went to make whatever excuses he thought God would accept, his will directed that the collection be left to the Warsaw Art Museum and exhibited there under his family name. Two weeks after Poland capitulated to the Nazis, the collection disappeared and, despite the offer of a huge reward, had never been seen since. Until now...

This collection of miniature paintings was unique. Many artists of history 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 could not be realized without the aid of a glass. Miniature painting goes back as far as the time of the Romans and was highly developed in the Orient at an early date. Before the sixteenth century, Persian, Indian and Turkish artists were producing delicate, stylized miniatures; in fact, many artists bred cats, since only the throat hairs of two-month-old kittens were considered fine enough for their brushes.

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 eventually even by artists in the then new United States of America — people such as Watson and Peale, and of course, Malbone, who was quite exceptional. Actually, it was an art form that continued up until the time of Ross, who had the extreme misfortune of seeing his ability superseded by the advent of photography. Ah, well, progress! Why must we always suffer from it?

But you must forgive me for having gone off on a tangent; you have to see miniatures to truly appreciate the effect they can have on you. However, as I was saying, the Hochmann Collection was most unusual. To begin with, miniatures were generally portraits, but the Hochmann Collection was limited to landscapes, which were rarely painted in miniature form in those days. Second, although the standard surface for miniatures at that time varied from ivory to metal to — although I cannot imagine how they did it — stretched chicken-skin, the Hochmann examples were limited to parchment. And finally, while the Persians even called a painting as large as a book page a miniature, the Hochmann Collection had no painting larger than two by four inches. There are, of course, many fine collections of these paintings in the world today — in New York and London, and, of course, in the Louvre — but I have still always favored the Hochmann Collection... But I have really digressed again, and I apologize. In any event, there I was, staring at it almost unbelievingly.

I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to keep a straight face. Gruber was watching me.

“Well?” he asked a bit impatiently. “What do you think?”

“I’m afraid I’m not an art expert, m’sieu,” I said at last, raising my shoulders. “Their value...”

“I don’t mean that,” he said with more than a touch of irritability, obviously caused by anxiety. “I realize that art is not your field. I mean, now that you’ve seen what I wish transported to France, can you handle the assignment?

I looked at him with dignity. “I’m sure you do not wish to insult me, m’sieu,” I said. “Of course, I can handle it. It will require several days of preparation, but I can see no insurmountable problem.”

“Good,” he said, and smiled in a faintly malicious manner. “One thing, however. In making your plans, I should suggest that you take one further fact into account: you must arrange the details so that at no time are the paintings out of my sight.”

I stared at him. “But...

“No excuses, please.” His voice was suddenly hard; he should have had the surgeon change his vocal chords as well as his nose. “That is an absolutely essential condition. I will not say that I distrust you, but there is far too much at stake here for me to take the slightest chance.”

I nodded, as if I could see his point, and then raised my head. “You realize, of course, m’sieu, that you are making the problem more complicated and difficult?”

He smiled sardonically. “But not impossible, I’m sure. Certainly not for the famous Kek Huuygens, and certainly not for the extremely large fee he will be paid.”

“No,” I admitted after a dignified pause.

“Fine! I was positive you could manage it.” And he led me from the room.

In the hallway, Gruber held out his hand. “And when shall I see you again?”

I thought. “In two or three days,” I finally said. “I shall have to study the problem and then make the necessary arrangements.”

“Until two or three days, then,” he said, and disappeared back into the library.

His servant showed me to the gate, unlocked it and waited until my taxi came.

Well, back at the hotel, I fell into a chair, closed my eyes and gave the matter the full power of my concentration. To merely report Gruber or turn him in — and to the Portuguese authorities, at that — was patently ridiculous. In the first place, with the political philosophy that obtains in the charming land we have just left, or at least with many of their officials, it is doubtful that Gruber would remain uninformed long enough to face extradition. And at least, now I knew where he was. And even if, by some miracle, he was arrested and returned to Germany for trial, what sentence would he face? Five years? Out in three years with good behavior? Twelve months each for my father, my mother and my sister? I shook my head and concentrated harder.

Ideas, as you know, come to me with considerable ease, but this time I was far more exigent with their content. I threw out at least the first ten that occurred to me, and when at long last one finally came along that offered some feasibility, I did not, as I usually do, smile brightly at my own genius, but went over it again and again, scowling, checking every little detail in my mind for some flaw, changing this minute move and adding that one, trying to remember small things about the house and the driveway — like whether the big gate swung inward or outward; like the distance from the gate to the nearest side-road that cut away from the street.

All these points I reviewed and checked again and again until the tiniest detail was clear in my mind. It sounds both easy and fast as I recount it now, but I actually spent the balance of the day on it, had no alcohol with my dinner in order to maintain the clarity of my mind and worked on the plan far into the night. It was not until I knew each piece was locked securely in place that I finally went to bed.

The following day was a busy one. To begin with, I stopped at a stationer’s shop and bought a pad of large, red-edged gummed labels, all blank, and a small bottle of marking ink and a fine brush. I took the labels to a small job-printing house in the neighborhood and had them printed to my direction. And then, almost as an afterthought, I asked the man to print me some business cards. The legend I produced for him to copy indicated that I was a man named Enrique Echavarria and that I enjoyed the position of Director General of a large bank in Madrid. (I think I called the bank Banco Internacional Econòmica; if there isn’t a bank with that name, there should be.) The printer, a young man with far more important matters on his mind, gave no particular thought to the request, but hand-set the type and went to work.

My next stop was at an automobile rental agency. The business cards I had just had printed worked their magic — and I like to think my distinguished appearance did no harm — and I left the required deposit and drove away in a carefully selected sedan of demonstrated power and with a trunk of the size I calculated I would need for my scheme. Once away from the agency, I pulled to the curb, opened the trunk and measured it exactly. It would have excited unnecessary curiosity had I done it at the agency. Fortunately, it was sufficiently large for my needs.

There were still many things to do, and I got right to them. A hardware store nearby furnished me with a hammer, a small packet of nails and one of those plastic airplane bags in which to convey all of my other purchases. I also bought a large square pad of tissue paper. My last chore of the morning was to locate a small carpentry shop and order a packing case of the dimensions I carried in my head. I made a rapid calculation and indicated the depth I wanted, plus the fact that one side would eventually act as a cover and that I would nail it shut once it had been packed. We hovered over sketches until I was sure the man knew what I wanted. He calculated a cost, promised delivery for the following afternoon, and I left a deposit and went on my way.

By this time, it was well past the luncheon hour, even by Lisbon’s rather liberal standards, but I had no appetite for food. So I got in the car and started looking up some old friends of mine from the days I spent in the Resistance. Fortunately, I have made a point of maintaining old contacts — which explains why you and I are still friends — and now it really paid dividends. This part of the scheme, in which I had anticipated the greatest difficulty, actually presented no problem at all. Of course, you must remember the type of people these friends were. They were not, let us say, the types you would invite to help you count your cash, but for my purpose, they were ideal. So, as I say, this part of the scheme presented no problem — except that after furnishing me with my requirements, they all insisted on having a drink with me. By this time, I did not mind. With the majority of the steps in the plan accomplished, I felt I could relax.

I came back to the hotel that night feeling in an almost gay mood. There was a note in my box requesting me to call a certain number, so I took the creaky elevator to my floor, went to my room and did so. A moment after I had introduced myself to Gruber’s servant, the voice of the monster himself came on the line. He sounded a bit nervous.

“Well? How are your plans going?”

“Excellently,” I replied with complete honesty.

“And you will be here when?”

“The day after tomorrow,” I said. “About ten in the morning. I’ll bring all the necessary packing materials with me to box the — ah, the merchandise. And it shouldn’t take more than an hour or so. You should be packed,” I added, “for a sea voyage. We’re due on board at noon.”

“And which dock do we sail from?”

“I’ll give you the details at the proper time,” I said a bit curtly.

“Fair enough,” he said in an infinitely more satisfied tone, and rang off. I grinned at the telephone for a moment and then went downstairs to have dinner.

The following morning, I began what was probably the most important part of the entire scheme. This consisted of driving slowly about the city’s suburbs, staring down one alley after another. I particularly avoided the center of the city since the concentration of police there was greater, and I certainly didn’t want any involvement with them. And also because the place I was looking for had to be a reasonable distance from Gruber’s house, but still had to fulfill the conditions of being a dead-end street with a walled garden, either at the end or near the end. Or if not a walled garden, something very similar. A street, in short, where I could abandon the car once I was done with it.

When, by lunch-time, I still had not found a suitable location, I began to get a bit worried, and — because the entire success of the scheme depended on this — I once again did without food in order to continue my search.

It was less than an hour later that I came upon the perfect place, and purely by accident. I almost passed it at first, for the sign, FOR SALE OR LEASE, did not register on my mind at once, but the half-glimpse I caught through the entrance made me immediately reverse the car and back up for further study. I stared down the cobbled driveway, nodded in approval, then drove in.

The entrance I had taken led past two empty two-storied stone houses that had apparently once served as twin guardians of the gate. It delivered me to an old abandoned factory. Wooden loading docks in poor repair formed three sides of a huge quadrangle about the roughly cobbled yard area. I set the car brake, descended and walked about the place.

The factory had obviously not been in use for many, many years. The high walls that loomed over me were worn brick, with occasional ants’ nests testifying to their age. The window frames had flaked their paint to yellow wood and their glass was either broken or completely missing. The doors that sagged into the darkened interior hung pathetically on their rusted hinges. I mounted the loading dock and dragged one of the doors open even further, peering within. The interior was empty, except for layers of dust and the debris that somehow seems to accumulate almost by itself in such places. I walked across the creaking floor to a door leaning half-drunkenly open at the far side of the room and found myself staring at a thoroughfare beyond, led to by a series of grooved steps. The entire place smelled of age and urine. It was ideal.

With supreme satisfaction, I returned to the car and brought out the scale map of the city I had acquired. I checked the place at which I found myself, as well as the location of Gruber’s house, and found them to be about three miles apart. The distance was not exactly what I would have preferred — I had wanted a longer run — but so perfect was the abandoned factory for my use that I never for a moment considered any change in my already revised plans. I pored over the map, memorizing the maze of streets that led from one place to the other. Then, putting the car into gear, I began traversing them.

I spent the balance of the afternoon going back and forth between the two places and even remembered to get gasoline. Then, I drove over to the carpentry shop.

The packing case was ready, and the owner of the shop helped me load it into the trunk of the car. For some reason, he seemed a bit dismayed that its size did not permit it to be engulfed completely by the trunk, but I assured him that this fact had been anticipated and that the proper size of a case was to accommodate its contents, not to fit into any special space.

A cord tied between the handle of the trunk and the bumper prevented any rattling, and I drove back to the hotel garage and parked my car for the night.

I slept like a log, although I had anticipated tossing and turning — not because the plan was in any danger, but precisely because it was not, if you know what I mean. I have always been a trifle suspicious of success... But I slept wonderfully.

The following morning, I actually found myself singing in the shower, but I soon stopped that. There was still much to be done, and success — viewed in the cold light of morning — was far from assured. But even if everything worked out as I hoped, I somehow felt that singing wasn’t quite appropriate. So I stopped it. But the fact is that I really still felt like singing.

Once I was dressed, I got to work on the material my friends from the Resistance had provided for me, and about a half-hour later, I had it all neatly stowed in a toolbox. I carried it down to the hotel garage, placed it in the trunk of the car and slid the packing case in again. I pulled the trunk lid in place and tied it down. This done, I drove out to Gruber’s place and backed the car up against the gate.

As usual, the scrolled gate was locked, but apparently they had been watching for me, because even before I could pull the bell, the servant had appeared from the house and was opening the gate and swinging one leaf back. I dragged the empty packing case from the car and closed the trunk. He took the case from me and carried it into the house while I followed with my airplane bag and the folder of tissue paper tucked under my arm. I stood in bored fashion while he patted my sides and looked carefully into the small plastic bag. Then, I walked into the already opened vault while he carried the empty wooden case, placing it upon the table.

Gruber had appeared from somewhere, watching this procession narrowly. I decided that any suspicions he might have could best be alleviated by assignment, and turned to him curtly.

“The small paintings first,” I said. “Then the larger ones on the wall.”

He nodded and unlocked the drawer of the table, placing the small envelope before me. I checked its contents and then carefully wrapped it in tissue paper. He watched me carefully as I placed strips of transparent tape across the folds. I finished and stared at him in return.

“You had best get ready,” I said. “The ship won’t wait for us. And there’s little enough room in here to work, as it is.”

He nodded and turned to his servant.

“Hans, you stay here and... ah, assist...”

Of course, he meant that Hans would keep an eye on me. But I had not only anticipated it; I had hoped for it. After all, there were quite a number of canvases that had to be removed from their stretchers, and it involves as much work for a worthless daub as for a masterpiece. I nodded equably and waited until Gruber had left.

“All right,” I said brusquely to Hans. “Help me with these, will you?” We brought down the largest picture first, turned it on its face and bent back the four nails holding the stretcher frame in place. I withdrew the raw wood rectangle holding the canvas and then bent to search through the Pandora’s box of my airplane bag — without success. I looked up, frowning.

“I don’t seem to have a pair of pliers. Do you have some? Or even a small screwdriver, I suppose...”

He stared at me a moment — his mind, I am positive, never worked too rapidly at the best of times — then hurried from the room. When he returned with the tool, I nodded at him in congratulation.

“All right,” I said. “You will pull the tacks that hold the canvas to the stretcher frame. Remove them from the canvas, or we may puncture one of these priceless works of art. And I will pack the pictures into the case. Is that clear?”

He nodded, pleased that his instructions were so succinct, and we got to work. One by one, each canvas was laid tenderly into the packing case and covered with two sheets of tissue paper. The work went faster than I had anticipated. Whoever had stretched these canvases apparently realized the type of artist to whom they would be sold, and wasted no excessive amount of either pains or nails on the job. The case filled with works of art, while the corner of the room piled ever higher with discarded frames and stretchers. I was setting the last picture into place, when Gruber appeared once again.

“How are things going?” he asked.

“Fine!” I said. “Just about finished, thanks to Hans’ assistance.” I picked up the wrapped packet of miniatures and laid it on top, folding sheets of tissue about it to fill the space. “There!” I said. “That’s the lot.” And I laid the balance of my tissue on top of everything, set the cover in place and reached for my airplane bag.

Gruber watched me closely as I took the packet of nails from my bag and nailed the cover down securely. “We can strap it with steel banding aboard ship,” I said, almost as if to myself, and bringing out my pot of marking ink and my brush, I began printing an address neatly on the outside cover of the case.

“You certainly think of everything,” Gruber said almost grudgingly.

“Naturally,” I answered shortly, hoping that Hans would not recall that I had not thought to bring pliers. I continued to ply my brush, painting in the letters of the address. The case was being sent to a ficticious camera shop in Lyon, and when I had completed the final letter, I reached into my bag and brought out the gummed labels I had had printed. I wet them with my 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. I must say they gave the whole package an extremely authentic appearance.

The scarred face broke into a smile of appreciation. “Very clever.”

“Only because the shipping documents and bill of lading are quite genuine. Except, of course, for the address of the consignee.”

He frowned at me. “And how were you able to arrange that?”

I stared at him coldly. “I’m afraid an exposition of my methods is not included in my fee,” I said.

I picked up the awkward case, refusing help, and carried it from the room, through the hallway and down to the car. As you can well imagine, both Gruber and his servant hurried to accompany me. I waited while Hans pulled the gate leaf to one side, then slid the large box into the trunk of the car. With my back to the two men, I hooked a wire there about the case and, with several turns, fastened it securely to the handle of the toolbox within. I brought the lid of the trunk down to rest against the case, and then bound the bumper and the trunk handle together with my cord. I straightened up, turning to the servant.

“All ready. If you would bring my hat and Senhor Echavarria’s valise, I think we had best be leaving. And my small airplane bag, too, if you please.”

The timing at this point was, of course, extremely critical, and I do not pretend that I was not nervous. But the servant merely nodded and returned to the house.

As the servant entered the doorway, I turned to Gruber and smiled. He smiled in return, a relaxed smile, and I placed my hand on his chest and shoved him with all my might, hooking his heel with my foot. He went over backwards, too startled for the moment even to cry out. In that moment, I had the gate pulled shut and had sprung for the driver’s seat of my car. Behind me, I heard his outraged screams and then the answering cry from his servant as he clattered from the house.

Then I had the motor going and was roaring off down the street.

I did not think they would chance shooting when the paintings might suffer damage as a result, but it had been a chance I had recognized and one I had been prepared to take. In any event, they did not waste the time. In the rear-view mirror, as I shot down the shaded avenue, I saw the gate being dragged open and even as I swung wildly about the first corner, Gruber’s car tore from the driveway, not even pausing to take the servant aboard.

The route I had selected had been chosen not only for its isolation, but also because it provided long, straight runs, and I had not turned from the road I was on when the hood of the pursuing car had come into view about the corner and was roaring down toward me. I put on a burst of speed, braked slightly to maneuver the next corner with my tires squealing and once again tramped on the gas. Gruber, in the car behind, took more of a chance; for an instant, as I glanced up into my rear-view mirror, I thought he was going to skid into a lamppost, but his car finally managed to straighten from its sway and came on. It seemed to be gaining, and I tramped on the accelerator until the distance between us had widened again.

Three more corners were taken in this desperate fashion, and three more roads raced down, before the factory entrance came into view, and it was just as I slammed on my brakes and swung into it that he made it into the street. For one brief moment, I thought he had missed me, but the sound of his brakes, screeching as he slowed for the sharp turn, came to me. I swung the wheel desperately and came to a shuddering stop with my fender almost against the pillar of the loading platform. I was trapped.

He also instantly braked his car. I opened the door of mine, took a deep breath and dove for the loading platform and the protection of the sagging door — none too soon. A bullet passed over my head, thudding into the brick and showering down small shards and dust. And then I was through to the darkened interior, my heart pounding. But I was sure that Gruber’s interest in his property would be greater than his desire for revenge, and I was right. I paused long enough to peer back through the half-opened door, and sure enough, he was tearing at the rope that held the trunk lid in place. I started across the room and had barely made the doorway on the other side, when the explosion came.

Huuygens paused in his tale; I stared at him with growing intelligence in my eyes. Undoubtedly, that must have been the explosion my correspondent friend from London had gone to investigate!

“You booby-trapped him!”

He opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment the steward appeared at our side, indicating the lighted panel over our heads. Huuygens crushed out his cigarette, and we both tightened our seat belts. I shook my head wonderingly. “You booby-trapped him!”

“Yes,” he said quite simply.

“You led him on until he didn’t even stop to think before he tore open that trunk lid. And started to wrestle those pictures out...” I suddenly frowned, remembering. “And those precious miniatures went up in the explosion as well.”

For a long moment he stared into my eyes. The plane was dropping and the sound of the landing-gear being lowered and locked into place was clearly audible.

“I shall tell you about that later,” he said. “Wait for me at the cab rank, and I’ll drive into town with you.”

“Wait for you? You’ll have to wait for me. You have no luggage.”

He smiled bitterly. “I told you the advantages of my reputation. Well, there are also disadvantages. One is that the customs officials have my name in a little book, and they tend to examine me rather thoroughly. Whether I have luggage or not...”

He was right, of course. As we came through Immigration, and Huuygens presented his passport, I saw a small conference begin, and even as I advanced with the other passengers into Customs, I saw him being taken politely but firmly aside and ushered into a small room.

Needless to say, I waited at the cab rank with growing impatience. When he finally appeared, Huuygens crawled in the cab beside me and smiled. I gave my address to the driver, then turned to him. “Well?”

“Well, they gave me an extremely efficient search. I was forced to undress and allow them to go through my clothing, piece by piece.” He spoke in English and in a low tone to protect our privacy from the driver. “Not pleasant, but unfortunately, there is very little one can do about it.”

“I don’t mean that,” I said with a touch of annoyance. “You were going to tell me about the miniatures.”

“Oh, those?” He smiled at me. “Well, of course, much as I wanted to destroy Gruber, I certainly never had the slightest intention of destroying that fabulous collection of miniatures. After all, they are extremely unique and their loss would be irreparable. And also, of course, I’m sure that the offer of a reward still exists. So, in my hotel room that morning...” He paused suddenly, then stared at me in wonder. “Good heavens! Do you realize it was only this morning? It seems like days ago!”

“Go on with the story,” I said brusquely.

He leaned back again. “Amazing! Yes, the story. Well, this morning, then, I carefully prepared a package the size and shape that the miniatures would occupy when I later wrapped them. The contents were nothing more than stationery from the hotel. I carried it in my inside jacket pocket, between the lining and my passport with the package of tissue paper held tightly against it when Hans made his search. In any event, he wasn’t interested in the feel of papers under his hand; he was looking for metal. Then, when I later packed the miniatures, I made sure that even the transparent sticking tape I used was placed in the same position as on the false package in my pocket.”

I nodded as the pieces fell into place. “And when you sent the servant out for the pair of pliers, you simply exchanged the two packages and slipped the miniatures into your pocket.”

He nodded, pleased by my intelligence.

I frowned. “But then, what did you do with them? The miniatures, I mean. After all, the customs search and everything...”

His smile broadened. “I told you before that you did me a far greater favor than you knew when you picked up my ticket for me at the Lisbon Airport. And, 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 across my body and picked up my Speed Graphic. 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.”

I stared at him as he took the camera from its case and retrieved a small packet from the film-pack throat. He tapped it reflectively with a fingernail and finally slipped it into his pocket. Then, he returned the camera to its case.

“Do you mean,” I said slowly, “that you planned this whole thing so carefully, and then simply had the good fortune to run into me at the airport to get your miniatures out of Lisbon? What would you have done if I had not appeared?”

He looked slightly hurt, like a child unfairly accused. “Naturally, I had a plan. Not as good, I’ll admit, as the one that occurred to me the instant I saw you come marching across the airport concourse with your lovely camera and your lovely honest face. But still, not such a bad plan, either. I intended...” He paused, and the hurt look disappeared to be replaced by a grin that slowly widened. He shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I shall not tell you. To begin with, you’ve had enough story for one day, and — more important — the more I think about it, the better I like the plan. I may some day want to use it.”

Content

Robert L. Fish
Kek Huuygens, Smuggler

Introduction

Merry-Go-Round

The Wager

A Matter of Honor

Counter Intelligence

The Collector

Sweet Music

The Hochmann Miniatures