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 h
ave 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 k
idneys 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?”
Kek Huuygens, Smuggler Page 4