Kek Huuygens, Smuggler

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “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 onl
y 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 ente
red, 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!