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 cons
ider 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.
Kek Huuygens, Smuggler Page 9