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 inspect
or 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.…”
Kek Huuygens, Smuggler Page 8