It was an extremely long discourse for Chico, but his country’s honor had been at stake. He glanced back again. “How about a spot like that?”
“Lovely,” Huuygens said, pleased, and turned back to Alex DuPaul, who sat rigidly erect, staring out of the car window into the growing dawn with no expression on his face at all. The pistol never left his side. “I’m happy to see you got my message.”
Chico negotiated a curve expertly in the growing light.
“Your message?” he asked, mystified.
“I was speaking to my friend here,” Huuygens explained in a congenial tone. “Back in Brussels I arranged a message for him, explaining that a certain object of great value—which he thought was safely in his possession—was, instead, hidden in my room at the Colonies Hotel in a cardboard calendar tube. The man giving the message intended to way-lay me on the fast train to Paris, since he knew I was planning on taking it into Spain for some Englishman. Our friend here immediately suspected, quite correctly, that his trusted partner had already taken off for Madrid, and all he could do—and quickly—was to check the Colonies Hotel. I’m quite sure he realized the possibility of the whole thing being a trap, but he could scarcely fail to check, could he?”
“Scarcely,” Chico said in complete agreement.
“I really didn’t think the rusty window lock would stop him,” Huuygens went on, and then turned to his companion in the rear seat. “Or did you come in through the front door of the room? The Colonies Hotel is a bit careless in their hardware, if you ask me.”
DuPaul continued to stare straight ahead, his jaw hard.
Huuygens returned to his conversation with Chico. “And what do you think he found when he checked my room at the Colonies Hotel?”
“That you were not telling the truth,” Chico assayed.
“I’m ashamed of you,” Kek said sternly.
“Then he found you were telling the truth.”
“That’s better,” Huuygens said, mollified. “And naturally, finding me so upright, honorable, and trustworthy in the matter of having the painting, he assumed I would be equally upright, honorable, and trustworthy in the matter of taking the fast train to Paris.”
Chico was better prepared for this one. “But this time you lied.” He sounded sad.
“I prefer to call it misdirection. It sounds better.”
For the first time DuPaul spoke. He tone was bitter, his voice harsh. He almost sounded as if speech might even be painful for him. His eyes remained staring straight ahead, refusing to even consider the man at his side.
“You can put your gun away.”
“I’d rather not,” Huuygens said. He sounded regretful.
“May I smoke?”
“Of course. I’ll get your cigars. What pocket are they in?”
“The outside of my trench coat.”
“Permit me …” The pistol was held steadily. Kek patted the other’s pockets first, although he was sure DuPaul would never have attempted to bring a firearm through Spanish customs. That was really asking for trouble. He located the packet of cigarillos, extracted one, placed it in the other’s mouth, and lit it. At no time did the bulge in his pocket waver. He thought how much he would enjoy a cigarette himself, but felt at the moment that abstinence might be the better part of intelligence. Lisa, he thought, you can be proud of me!
DuPaul took a deep draw on the small black cigar, bringing the acrid smoke deep within his lungs, and then slowly exhaling it. He took the small cigar from his mouth, brushed away the tiny bit of ash that had formed, and replaced it between his lips, speaking around it.
“You used me,” he said, still staring straight ahead.
“I’m afraid I did. I had little choice.”
“You won’t get away with this, Kek.”
“Of course I’ll get away with it,” Huuygens said. His tone was slightly disappointed in the other for having made such a ridiculous statement. “I’ll have my money—plus expenses—and be out of Spain before you can even get back to a main highway, if Chico knows this country like he says he does. Besides,” he added logically, “I fail to see your complaint. The painting was handed to me by Thwaite, and I contracted to deliver it to Spain. And you know how I feel about obligations to clients, Alex.”
“Even a client like Thwaite? A thief?”
Kek smiled gently. “I’m sure The Innkeeper of Nijkerk wasn’t a gift to you from the Clouet Gallery.”
“You know what I mean.” DuPaul’s voice became even more bitter. “Thwaite! That fat animal! By himself he couldn’t filch a carton of milk from a porch stoop at four in the morning!”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Kek said, and his smile faded, replaced by a look of sympathy. “Still, you must know what I mean. I’ve never failed an assignment yet, and I hope I never do. It’s a matter of pride. And you also know I never delve into the motives of those who hire me; it could lead to soul-searching, which I avoid like the plague.”
He considered the other man carefully.
“It’s a matter of honor, delivering what I contract to deliver. Tell me: exactly what do you find wrong with that attitude?”
DuPaul didn’t answer. He merely clamped his lips tighter on his cigarillo, puffing smoke furiously.
“And if it comes to that,” Kek Huuygens continued evenly, “you have no one to blame but yourself. You took the painting from my room and had it in your hands. All you had to do was keep it. Think of the enormous chance I was taking that you wouldn’t take off for Canada, or Sweden, or some far-off place like that …”
“And let that animal Thwaite get away with stealing from me?” The harsh voice was even harsher.
Kek nodded. “Exactly. And that was my gamble. You knew the customer for the painting was in Spain, and you knew that Thwaite was in Spain. I was sure you’d get here as quickly as possible. So you see, Alex, we both have pride. Yours let you down this time, that’s all.” He suddenly smiled widely. “By the way, I must say I was surprised to find you had actually replaced the painting with a real calendar; I didn’t think you had that much imagination. I had gone out and bought one to put in the tube after you took the painting. It cost me thirty-two francs and I had to throw it away.”
“A pity,” DuPaul said dryly.
“It really isn’t that bad,” Huuygens said, passing it off. “I shall merely add it to my expenses, of course.”
They had come to an intersection in the highway; only a break in the wooden fence along the road indicated the entrance of another route. Chico swung left, leaving the smooth pavement, bumping over the deep ruts. The winding trail ran on a fairly straight, level course for a short distance and then began to slowly climb into the foothills of the mountains, twisting and dipping as it cut its way around the smooth slopes of hills. Dawn was now fully on them, revealing stunted trees accompanying them at the roadside, and burnt grass stubble inching out of the rock. The air was even colder here in the upper reaches; Chico closed the small side window that had helped him to defrost the windshield, and increased the output of the small heater to its maximum. They came to a ridge and negotiated it; from their momentary vantage point the land below them sloped in small hummocks to a stand of trees in the distance. There was no sign of the highway they had left. Chico continued; another ridge, a curve, a dip, and he suddenly braked to a halt. He backed into a small clearing between the road and an opening in the brush that probably served for a cattle crossing, preparing to return in the direction from which they had come. He glanced over his shoulder proudly.
“How’s this?”
Kek studied the deserted landscape; they might have been on the moon. Above them the rocky hill swept up to join others mounting to a thick forest topping the mountain. Below them the fields stood cold and barren.
“How does one ever find a place like this in the first place?” Kek asked curiously.
“One knows farm girls in the neighborhood,” Chico said shortly.
“Oh. Of course.” He turned to A
lex DuPaul, his voice truly apologetic. “I’m afraid this is the end of the line. All passengers out. You can follow this road back, or cut across the fields, which may be shorter—but I’m sure you’ll manage. Actually, you look the type who would enjoy a good ten-kilometer hike each day before breakfast.”
DuPaul stared at him with no expression. Huuygens continued.
“You can take your luggage with you, or if you prefer and do not wish to be encumbered with it on your stroll back to civilization, we can drop it off at the airport for you on our way back to the city.”
He saw the sudden puzzled expression cross the other’s face, instantly brought under control. Kek shook his head, smiling gently, disabusing him of the notion.
“No,” he said quietly. “I’ll have to keep your umbrella a while longer, I’m afraid. I thought you would probably try to bribe your way through customs—and I was fairly sure you’d succeed—but the umbrella was far better.” His smile returned; his tone was that of a parent pleased with his child’s performance in school. “Quite a good idea, really. Not original, of course, but quite good. Unfortunately, not one I could hope to get away with. You’d be amazed,” he went on earnestly, taking the other into his confidence, “at the searches I am forced to endure!”
If he was looking for sympathy, he was wasting his time. DuPaul, his hard jaw clamped tightly, climbed to the ground. He tossed the cigar away, opened the front door to retrieve his small bag, closed it again, and stood in the road, staring at Huuygens. Kek pressed down on the lock of the back door and ran the window down. The gun was withdrawn and held steadily in his hand now, while with his other hand he unsnapped the cloth band holding the umbrella rigidly folded. He slid a questing hand inside the silk, verifying his guess. It was quite accurate.
DuPaul leaned forward a bit, speaking in at the open window. His breath steamed in the sharp morning air. He seemed to have become more philosophical now that his loss was a fact.
“I don’t blame you, Kek,” he said, the harshness now gone from his voice. “It was clever. You got me to steal the picture and bring it in for you, but only because I was a fool. However, I’m not always quite this foolish.” He paused a moment and then added quietly, “And when you see that fat cochon, Thwaite, tell him I’ll find him and strip him of his bacon. No matter where he tries to hide.”
“I’m sure you will,” Huuygens said, and his sympathy was genuine. “I personally think you’ve been treated shabbily, and if it makes you feel better, you may be assured I shall never do business with Thwaite again. I’m sure he deserves whatever coin you choose to pay him with. But,” he added quite calmly, “that is, after all, your affair and none of mine. Good-bye, Alex.”
The other did not reply but stood quietly in the road, as if waiting for the car to leave. Kek paused a moment, frowning in thought. He took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat, the revolver now dangling idly between his legs. Then he raised his voice for Chico to hear. It carried clearly through the open window to the stocky man in the trench coat, standing in the road.
“Number 617 Estrada de las Mujeres, Chico. And even though delivery to the customer doesn’t take place until midnight tonight, I suggest we hurry. I should like to deliver the merchandise and collect the money—and be on my way out of Spain—as quickly as possible.”
He turned and smiled once again out of the window.
“Good-bye, Alex …”
4
“I thought—in all politeness—that the least I could do in return for your failure to close the car window was to buy you a good lunch,” Alex DuPaul said with a smile.
It was a week following their previous encounter and he and Kek were seated in the Blue Room of the Chambord Restaurant in the Rue de la Loi back in Brussels, having just finished an excellent meal. There are those who claim the cuisine in the Green Room of the Chambord is superior, but since no alcohol is permitted in the Green Room—a fiat dating from some long-forgotten scandal of the sixteenth century—the Green Room normally caters to gentlewomen visiting the city, or to young ladies being escorted to matinees by their younger brothers. The Blue Room, on the other hand—in those bleak days of 1948—was mostly peopled by the growing number of entrepreneurs who handled the banking and other businesses so vital to a country recovering from a disastrous war; and these gentlemen obviously needed their cocktails if they were to save the country.
DuPaul drew his case of black cigars from his pocket, offering one to his companion, but Huuygens politely refused, preferring one of his own cigarettes. The two men lit up, the black smoke mingling with the blue, and leaned back in their comfortable chairs, idly fingering their brandy glasses. Either in honor of his guest or because the Blue Room maintains rigid standards (as does the Green Room as well, of course), DuPaul had managed a haircut and even wore a neat cravat and dress shirt. His moustache, however, still retained its independence.
“Thank you for a most delightful lunch,” Kek said, and meant it.
The luncheon had indeed been a delight. To Huuygens’ amazement, DuPaul was far more cognizant of matters of art than he had suspected, and the two men had left other matters to be discussed after their food had been enjoyed. Now, however, that they were relaxing with their tobacco and cognac, Kek brought up a subject both men had left untouched during their meal, as if by mutual consent.
“I hope,” he said casually, “that my unfortunate failure to close the car window did not lead our fat friend in Madrid to suffer anything irremediable? Because of his in-discretion?”
His tone was light, but his eyes were quite serious.
“Nothing physical,” DuPaul said, and smiled. “In my profession one has sufficient problems with the police—as well as sufficient enemies—without creating others needlessly.”
“Good!”
“However,” DuPaul continued, his green eyes twinkling wickedly, “I’m afraid he suffered something much worse than the beating he deserved for what you so lightly term a mere ‘indiscretion.’ His pocketbook underwent the pangs of starvation.”
“But I thought the customer was his?”
DuPaul wiped ash from his cigar and laughed, but there was no humor there.
“Thwaite is a fool! His customer was an overly rich idiot who would have blabbed about his secret Hals to every acquaintance he had, probably including the commissioner of police. I had little trouble persuading Thwaite to give me his name. I knew the man.” He shook his head in disgust. “Had I known who Thwaite wanted to sell the painting to in the first place, we could have all been saved a lot of trouble!”
“But—?”
DuPaul grinned. “So I simply offered my services as intermediary between the insurance company and the naughty people who stole the painting, and was fortunate enough to be rewarded by them twice.” He shrugged. “As you said, one has one’s pride, especially in doing a good job. And being properly paid for it, of course.”
“And Thwaite? He’ll keep quiet?”
DuPaul’s grin disappeared; his voice hardened.
“He’ll keep quiet, and be very happy to. He was lucky to get his fare back to England and enough to pull him out of the red.” The grin suddenly returned. “Do you know what he said to me?”
“No. What?”
“He said, as if it somehow excused what he had done—that was the kind of tone he used—he said, ‘But I’ve just paid two thousand pounds to Huuygens to bring the picture into the country. And he brought it in.’ He was almost weeping. I said to him, ‘If you did, you’re a fool, but I don’t believe you in any event. I’m positive Huuygens didn’t bring the picture through customs!’”
“How could he believe you?” Kek said, enjoying the tale.
“He couldn’t, of course. That’s what made it so pleasurable.” He looked across the table, serious now. “You see, that was our big argument in the first place. To give the fat man credit, possibly he would have stayed honest—though probably he would not—had I agreed with him to use your services in the firs
t place. But I was sure we didn’t need them. And I proved it.”
“You did very well,” Kek said with a smile. “I’m afraid I underestimated you.”
“But scarcely as much as I underestimated you,” DuPaul said dryly. “Anyway, that’s what happened to our friend Thwaite. Nothing that a bit of honesty on his next job won’t cure.”
He raised his drink in a mock toast to Thwaite’s honesty on his next job. Kek raised his as well.
“I hope you gave him enough to at least buy a new suit,” he said, and drank.
DuPaul finished his drink, wiped his moustache fastidiously, and then pointed to the two empty glasses. Their waiter tremblingly picked them up and moved toward the bar as fast as his eighty years would permit. At the Chambord he was considered a young man among the staff.
“Tell me,” DuPaul said, suddenly changing the subject as if weary of Thwaite, or even the memory of him, “you’ve spent a lot of time in America lately, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Kek said. “Actually, I’ve applied for citizenship. I’m only here for a few months. We’re borrowing the apartment of a traveling friend.”
“We?”
“Yes,” Kek said, and smiled. “I’m an old married man, now. All of three months.”
DuPaul suddenly snapped his fingers. “Of course! You’re married to Lisa Nieuport, the actress. I read about it someplace.” He waved his hand vaguely, dismissing that subject as well. “What’s it like?”
“It’s lovely,” Kek said amazed. “What did you expect?”
DuPaul grinned. “No, no! I mean America. What’s it like?”
Kek accommodated himself to the sudden shift in conversation.
“Very nice. Of course it’s a gigantic country, the size of Europe, practically, and I don’t even know a small part of it. I live in New York and I like that very much, although even in the few years I’ve been there it has changed. I have a sad feeling that in time it will approximate all big cities, and be unlivable,” he said with far more prophecy than he knew. “But in the meantime, it’s fine. For one thing,” he added, “the money remains stable, which is a pleasant change from the Continent.”
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