“I wonder”—there was a brief pause—“could you possibly make it today?”
“Today? Now, there’s a thought,” Kek said approvingly. “Yes; today would be fine.” Let’s not be too hard to get, he thought, smiling.
“Excellent! At my club? It’s the Montagnard in the Boulevard LeClerc. It’s eleven now. Twelve thirty, shall we say? In the bar?”
“Very good. I’ll see you then.”
The two men said good-bye and hung up. Kek walked back into the living room with a whistle on his lips. Lisa looked up from her script, one finger guarding her place.
“You have that smug look again, darling.”
“Sorry, sweet.” Huuygens rearranged his features and went into the bedroom, coming out with a necktie in one hand. He stood before a mirror and knotted it to his satisfaction, slipped into his jacket, and picked up his topcoat. “I’ll be gone for lunch.”
Lisa frowned. “At this hour?”
“It’s early, but I think I’ll walk.”
“You mean you want to think, and to think you have to smoke, and if you smoke very much in front of me, I nag you. Right, my darling?”
“In every respect, my sweet.”
“This lunch,” Lisa said. “With M’sieu Waldeck, I imagine. Are you going to do some work for him, darling?”
“I hope to, yes.”
“Art appraisal, no doubt,” Lisa murmured. “You endeared yourself to him to such an extent by your constant attention at our party that of course he would think of you immediately.” She smiled at him brightly and returned to her script without waiting for an answer.
Kek gave her an odd look for a moment, shrugged, and smiled. You always wished you had married a bright wife, he said to himself, so don’t complain if you discover you actually got one. He blew an affectionate kiss in the direction of the bowed blond head, and let himself out of the apartment.
The bar of the Montagnard Club is a dark friendly room with a beamed ceiling and lit in the main by the flickering of flames from the huge stone fireplace set in the end of the room. Discreet booths line the walls, but the place of honor is a pair of comfortable settees with high wooden backs that face each other across a stone coffee table immediately before the fire. Members of the club are permitted to telephone and reserve this most impressive spot for themselves and their guests. It was here that Kek found Vries Waldeck when one of the porters ushered him in.
The fire was blazing brightly, but so cleverly was the draft arranged that only a pleasant glow of warmth came to their occupants, rather than the blast of heat one might have expected. Waldeck came to his feet as Kek edged his way between the table and the seat; two very light-colored martinis were set before them even as the two men were seated. Kek smiled to himself; he had to admire the organization of a club like that.
The two men shook hands across the table. Kek picked up his drink and sipped it. His smile broadened.
“Beautiful!”
“We learn quickly,” Waldeck said, and also smiled.
Kek sipped again, set his glass down, and lit a cigarette, glancing about the room.
“Speaking of lovely establishments …”
“Yes,” Waldeck said, and repeated Kek’s words of a few evenings before. “I’ve been quite happy here.”
“You live here?”
“I keep a small apartment here for when I’m in town. My home is actually in Grammont.” He shook his head in mock despair. “It’s one of those huge, drafty, uncomfortable places with bad drains and miles of corridors that just get dusty and serve no other purpose; and, of course, the place never has enough hot water. I should think it was copied from the worst of those pseudo-castles the British became so fond of building during the Victorian epoch. However—” He shrugged humorously, and changed the subject. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering our lunch: poached fresh salmon, broccoli in our club’s own sauce, and a good Chablis, to be served in roughly half an hour. That should give us ample time for another drink. Is that satisfactory?”
“Very.”
“Good.” Vries Waldeck’s entire attitude suddenly seemed to change; his smallish eyes seemed to sharpen on his guest’s face, to become colder. His pointed nose looked almost waxen; he no longer looked such a young man. “In that case, M’sieu Huuygens, I suggest we get down to business.”
“Business?” Kek asked innocently, and brushed ash from his cigarette.
“Yes. I will tell you quite frankly why I wanted to meet you for lunch today. You made the statement that you have a method for getting money out of Belgium—from francs to dollars—and legally. I should like to hear how you are able to accomplish it.”
Huuygens managed to look upset, embarrassed by his host taking such unfair advantage of a guest’s position.
“I simply mentioned the matter in passing,” he said with a faint touch of reproach in his voice. “Merely to explain to you why we are leaving our apartment …”
Waldeck’s smile became even more rigid, more arctic.
“And was that the subject you found so necessary to discuss with M’sieu Maldeghem?”
“Who?” Kek was honestly puzzled.
“That very old friend of yours you left me for, at your party. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, that! Well—”
“My dear Huuygens,” Waldeck said, one hand raised to interrupt the other. “Please save yourself the trouble. You mentioned the matter of money, and the possibility of exchange, for a far more cogent reason. I have spent the last few days checking on you, my friend, and checking on you in great detail.” He smiled. “That apartment it breaks your heart to sell or sublease—well, you may stop commiserating with yourself. It doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to a man named Willi Louvain. M’sieu Louvain may or may not be a friend of yours—logic would indicate he is, since you are living there—but he is most certainly not you. The servants for your cocktail party came from a caterer; Louvain’s butler and cook are both on holiday.”
He threw that bit of information in with the air of giving something free, to show the full extent of his arsenal of facts, and paused to sip from his drink before continuing with his litany. Kek crushed out his cigarette and lit another. He was listening to the exposition with the greatest of interest.
Waldeck continued. “You are a Pole by birth, born Petrek Janoczek—”
“Mietek Janoczek,” Huuygens corrected helpfully.
“Pardon. Mietek Janoczek.” Waldeck waved it aside, but a slight frown flickered across his brow. It was evident he hated being wrong in anything. “You were born in Warsaw and left during the first days of the bombing. You fought with the Maquis in France and have a habit of passing yourself off as a Dutchman. Actually, you are traveling on temporary American papers, issued on the basis of your having made an application for citizenship in that country. You are here in Brussels on a temporary basis, mainly, I am led to believe, because your wife’s mother lives not far from here. Maastricht, I believe.” He paused, staring evenly across the stone table. “Is there anything I left out?”
Kek appeared to consider the question carefully, and then shook his head. “No; I don’t believe so.”
“Ah, yes!” Waldeck’s pale hand raised again. “Also, you have quite a reputation as a clever man in getting things through customs. I’m told you’ve never been caught at it—”
“You do have sources,” Kek murmured with true appreciation.
“I do. As a matter of fact, I recently met a man whose connections with the underworld enabled me to recover a rather valuable painting. His knowledge of people in shady businesses is remarkable. And he tells me you are a very clever man in general.”
“Whoever he is,” Kek murmured, “extend him my thanks.”
“So if you are such a clever man,” Waldeck continued, “it made it all the more difficult to believe that those clumsy lies you told at your cocktail party—lies so simple to disprove—could have been told except for a very definite purpose. You expected me to u
ncover them. You wanted me to.”
“Very good,” Huuygens said appreciatively. “And therefore?”
“And therefore—” Vries Waldeck paused to finish his drink before continuing. Kek accompanied him, setting his glass down and crushing out his cigarette. Two more ice-cold martinis appeared from the shadows behind them instantly. “And therefore,” Waldeck went on, “it became apparent that the entire cocktail party was spurious and was held for no other reason than to intrigue me with a suggestion for getting my money out of Belgium in dollars.”
He paused triumphantly. There was a moment’s silence as Kek waited. Then Waldeck’s face went through that odd transformation, that smile that changed it from the hard, cold man to the young, eager boy.
“Well,” he said with a grin, “you wanted to intrigue me, and I’m intrigued. You went to a lot of trouble to do it, and I appreciate the effort. It was what you were aiming at; so please, let’s move along. Let us waste no more time on pointless dramatics.”
“Dramatics? Pointless?” Kek smiled at him gently and shook his head. “Had I come to your home in Grammont, or to your club here, what would my reception have been? Suppose I had shown up and sent in my card. The chances are you would not even have wasted the time to see me. But even had you been polite enough to give me an audience—and I had told you I could get your Belgian francs changed to dollars, legally—what would have happened?”
He spread his hands, continuing to smile. Waldeck remained silent.
“Be honest. You would either have called the police—which would have been the intelligent thing to do, since it might well have been a trap of the exchange division of the National Sûreté—or you would have had your porter—or your butler, had it been in Grammont—throw me into the road as a drunk, a charlatan, or both.”
“At least try to throw you,” Waldeck said quietly, studying his companion’s athletic build, but listening intently to every word.
“Or try to, if you prefer.” Kek accepted the change without any attempt at false modesty. He leaned forward a bit. “Now: suppose instead of trying to see you personally, I had written you a letter? Certainly I would not have gone into any details of my scheme in writing; the most I could have done in a letter would be to suggest that you check on my bona fides. Do you know where that letter would have ended up?” He leaned back again, gesturing contemptuously toward the fireplace. “There.”
“I suppose what you say is true,” Waldeck said thoughtfully.
“Of course it’s true. But”—Kek raised a finger for emphasis—“when a man goes out of his way to invite you—a perfect stranger—to a cocktail party at which he tells some really ridiculous lies, particularly in connection with a subject in which we are vitally interested, such as francs-to-dollar exchange, then the natural reaction is to find out why the man is going to so much trouble merely to lie. And to lie so poorly. And in the course of finding out, you found out many other things.”
“Such as?” Vries Waldeck had lost control of the conversation, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Such as the fact that I do accomplish things. Successfully. Such as the fact that I can be trusted. Such as the fact that it was no lie at all that I know how to get your francs converted into dollars—”
Waldeck stared at him a moment and then smiled that infernal boyish smile of his. “All right,” he said. “I said I was intrigued. That was your object, and you’ve succeeded. What’s the scheme?”
Kek Huuygens finished his drink and crushed out his cigarette. He pushed both the ashtray and his empty glass away from him, indicating he was completely ready for business.
“How much do you want to transfer?”
Waldeck didn’t hesitate. “Five million dollars worth of francs.”
Huuygens nodded. “Almost a quarter of a billion. Quite a sum.”
“Yes.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Huuygens’ eyes raised to the other. “It will take some time. Five to six months. No more than six, I think I can guarantee. Possibly less than five, but not much.”
Vries Waldeck took a deep breath, letting it out shudderingly. Now that they were actually discussing the matter so close to his heart, he seemed to have become more tense.
“Five to six months …” He frowned. “You bring it out in dribs and drabs?”
“No.” Huuygens shook his head impatiently. “When it comes, it comes at once. Issued by the Belgian government through one or more of the major banks. Legally.”
“Impossible!”
Kek looked at him. Impossible? he thought. Because you haven’t figured out how to do it? You wouldn’t have figured out how to meet Vries Waldeck at a cocktail party, either; or be having lunch with him at the Montagnard Club.
“It’s not only possible,” he said quietly, “or even highly probable. It’s certain.” He paused significantly. “And also, of course, it’s rather expensive.”
It was a word guaranteed to catch Vries Waldeck’s immediate attention. His voice hardened imperceptibly as he tackled this new angle to his already complex problem.
“How expensive?”
“One million dollars. Twenty percent of your five million dollars. That will be my fee. Also—”
“One million dollars?” Only the tradition of being a member of the club through the continuance of four generations kept Waldeck’s voice from becoming a full-fledged scream. He instantly brought his voice under control, and then repeated the figure. “One million dollars?” He had now chosen sarcasm as being the best weapon, rather than outrage. “You really do have dreams of grandeur, don’t you?”
“Not at all,” Huuygens pointed out. “Consider the difference between my offer and that of the black market.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the offer the black market made you for your five million dollars worth of francs,” Kek said quietly. “They offered you twenty-five percent. I’m offering you eighty percent.”
“How—?”
“I also have connections.” Kek smiled gently. “And there’s one other advantage: my way is safe.”
“You say!”
“I say.” Kek looked at him calmly. “I also started to say, before, there will be certain expenses. These will also fall to your account, of course.”
Waldeck considered him with no expression at all.
“Of course,” he said dryly.
He seemed to have recovered from his initial shock. Kek was certain the majority of the dramatics had been that and nothing more. Obviously any scheme that was truly operative would not come cheap, and Waldeck was bound to know it.
The blond Belgian drank the balance of his drink and looked at his empty glass as if surprised to find it in that condition. He glanced tentatively toward the bar. It was apparent he was considering augmenting his pre-luncheon instructions and adding one more round to the schedule, but then he pulled himself together and reconsidered. This was no time to become addled, or even slightly dulled, with alcohol. His eyes came back to the gray stone of the coffee table; several minutes passed before he finally looked up.
“Just how much will these expenses be?”
“Nominal, I assure you. Less than one hundred thousand dollars.”
Vries Waldeck’s eyebrows went up. This time it was not acting.
“I see,” he said. He could not keep the heavy sarcasm from his voice. “We’ve now reached a point where one hundred thousand American dollars is considered nominal.”
Kek merely shrugged, his eyes calmly watching the other. Waldeck seemed to realize he would find little sympathy there; the problem was his and his alone. He studied the surface of the stone coffee table again, but this time for only a relatively short time.
“Very well,” he said, looking up. Even his voice had changed; he sounded the executive, the man who checked on Huuygens thoroughly, and was prepared to make instant decisions. “Very well! If you can demonstrate to my satisfaction how this sum of money can be legally
transferred from Belgian francs to American dollars within a reasonable period of time—six months at the maximum, let us say—you can consider me interested.”
Kek Huuygens studied the sharply chiseled features before him. It was now his turn to stop and think. It was, of course, the only flaw in his scheme—if one could call it a flaw, he thought—that he would have to disclose the plan without any guarantees that Vries Waldeck would not simply take it over and act on his own, together with a confederate of his choosing. Still, it was obvious that the details would have to be divulged eventually if a deal were to be consummated, and since Waldeck would have to work with someone, there was really no reason why it should not be with Kek Huuygens, the author of the idea.
First sell the plan! Kek said to himself sternly; then sell yourself!
“Well?” Waldeck asked impatiently.
Kek pushed his empty martini glass farther to one side and leaned forward a bit, speaking slowly, detailing his scheme, listing each step that would have to be taken to make the plan successful. He made no effort to minimize the difficulties. At his elbow his cigarette converted itself into ash, untouched. Vries Waldeck listened impassively, watching the other’s handsome face, nodding from time to time in appreciation of the brilliance of the idea. This Alex DuPaul, who had assured him of Kek Huuygens’ cleverness, had certainly been right. The scheme was definitely workable. If handled right, of course.
A waiter appeared from the shadows behind them, coming to stand at their side. His silent, chiding attitude clearly informed them that their salmon was not improving with age, and in time would not even do for the staff. Vries Waldeck waved him away impatiently, continuing to listen to the important details of the scheme being presented to him. When at last Kek finished his exposition and sat back, Waldeck nodded, crossing his arms, pursing his lips as he reviewed each phase of the plan. Then, at last, he smiled admiringly.
“Yes,” he said, pleased. “Yes! It is certainly possible. It’s extremely ingenious, very clever, and I congratulate you.” He smiled a bit ruefully. “Actually, you know, it’s the sort of scheme I should have thought of myself, in my position, but I didn’t. I looked everywhere but in the right direction.” He looked up, almost belligerently. “My father would have thought of it at once.”
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