Kek Huuygens, Smuggler

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  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 i
nto 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 …”

&nb
sp; 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.”