Whirligig

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “Take care, my darling,” she said, whispering. “I mean it.”

  “And you take care, sweet. And I mean it. And have a good trip.”

  Kek kissed her again, threw her a kiss from the doorway, and then watched from the platform outside her window as she waved to him. The conductor closed and latched the heavy doors; there was a sudden shivering of steel as the engine started up, telescoping car against car until they were all moving smoothly, edging in ever-increasing speed from the station. Kek waited until the train had disappeared into the tunnel, and then slowly walked back to the main rotunda of the station.

  The divorce was necessary as a protection for everyone concerned, but he felt that six weeks away from Lisa at this stage of the game was still a high price to pay just to assure Vries Waldeck that nothing could threaten his security. Or your own, he reminded himself, trying to be honest. Or Lisa’s too, for that matter.

  He lit a cigarette absentmindedly and made his way through the throngs populating the huge area as well as the corridor leading to Lexington Avenue. He managed to catch a cab at the entrance, instructing the man to take him to his address. I’ll watch for the laundry on the way, he promised himself, somehow feeling it would be an action done for Lisa, but it was only as the taxi was drawing up before his apartment that he remembered he had completely forgotten the laundry, oddly disturbed about nothing he could identify.

  Lisa was gone a total of eight weeks; she wrote regularly, three times a week—mainly to ask Kek if he were eating properly—called twice a week to confirm his answers, and returned looking marvelous. She had acquired a deep tan and her figure, if anything, Kek thought, had only changed for the better. She was full of her trip, bubbling with information about the désert avec couleurs au delà croyance, and the vastes montagnes, not to mention the machine fantastique that the natives called the bandit avec un bras. She would have continued chattering indefinitely except that Kek touched her arm and held a finger before his lips. She frowned at him.

  “Qu’avez-vous?”

  “English, remember, sweet?”

  “I said—you know what I said! Why do you stop me from talking?”

  “To say something myself, with your permission.” Kek grinned at her; then the grin faded. “I’ll take your bags home. I want you to take a cab to the Manhattan Riverside Bank. It’s on Seventh Avenue and Thirty-eighth Street. I want you to rent a safe-deposit box, a large one, pay the rental for it in cash, and then wait for me in the lobby of the bank. I’ll be there with Mr. Ahlberg in”—he glanced at his watch—“forty-five minutes.”

  Lisa pouted. “Do we have to do it today? We haven’t seen each other for two months …”

  “I’d prefer it,” Kek said evenly. “I’d like it out of the way. It won’t take long. We can sign the few papers Ahlberg will bring along and then go home. I’ve already taken care of Ahlberg’s fee, so we’ll be through with him. It took most of my ready money, so we’ll have to cash one of the bonds fairly soon, but that we won’t have to do today.”

  “I’m glad of that, at least,” Lisa said, and looked at him obliquely, a twinkle in her eye. “Are you going to feed me before you take me home?”

  “I suppose so,” Kek said with feigned dejection. “I don’t know why, though, because you’ll just be eating again in a few hours …”

  “Of course I will,” Lisa declared spiritedly. “I understand living in sin is even more tiring than normal relations. Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Conscience, probably,” Kek said, and bent to kiss her upturned face lightly …

  12

  It was one week after Lisa’s return from Nevada, a beautiful day in late July; one of those days, moderate in both temperature and humidity and bound together with a lively breeze, that New York demonstrates every so often just to confound its critics. Kek Huuygens, strolling idly in Central Park and unconsciously doing his best to avoid collision with dauntless scooter-operators or intrepid tricyclists, suddenly thought he heard his name being called. He paused, frowning in surprise, and slowly turned. Sprawled on a park bench, his legs spread out comfortably before him and his moustache wafting faintly in the wind, was Alex DuPaul. He came to his feet, negotiating the raucous children adroitly, grasped Kek’s arm and led him to the safety of the bench, beaming at him.

  “Well! Kek! I’ve been trying to get in touch with you just to say hello.” He shrugged lightly, his eyes bright with his pleasure at meeting his old friend. “You forgot to leave a forwarding address, however. Anyway, it’s good to see you. How have you been? You certainly look well.”

  “I feel well,” Kek said, feeling a sudden flood of warmth to see a friendly face and hear a friendly voice after the barren months of having to avoid personal contact with people.

  “And how’s Lisa?”

  “Fine.” Kek gestured toward the bench. “Let’s sit down.”

  “Let’s find a bar instead. You’re a native here; where could we go where they’ll give you a drink dressed as we are? I mean, as I am?”

  “Follow me,” Kek said, and took the other’s arm, steering him in the direction of the nearest exit, and hence, oasis.

  “One thing I’ve discovered in my short stay here,” DuPaul said, marching along at Huuygens’ side, “is that the beer is drinkable. Nothing like Dutch beer, but drinkable. Certainly, when you compare it with the English beer it rates all those Gold Medals they all seem to have won. Probably at local bars.”

  Huuygens dropped the subject of beer. “And how’ve you been?”

  “Great. The reason I’ve become such an expert on English beer—and such an enemy—is that I’ve been spending quite a bit of time in London. You probably don’t know it, but I’m now on the payroll of Lloyd’s—on a retainer basis only, of course.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes,” DuPaul said, enjoying the telling of his tale. “Whenever a famous painting is stolen, they call me in to try and locate the culprits, and if I should be lucky enough to manage to get in touch with them, its my job to dicker with them over the price for the painting’s return. When I actually complete a transaction, I get a commission above my retainer fee based on the amount of the insurance, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” Kek said dryly.

  “It’s frighteningly legitimate, you know, and actually at times quite interesting.”

  “I should imagine,” Kek commented. “But are there enough expensive paintings being stolen to keep you busy?”

  “Odd as it may appear, it seems there are just enough being stolen—no more, no less. I imagine I’m just a fortunate fellow,” DuPaul said, and chuckled.

  They had come along the path to the exit at Central Park South and Sixth Avenue; Kek grasped his companion firmly by the arm and hustled him across the street with the green light, dodging the taxicabs curving into the park, narrowly escaping destruction under the benevolent eye of a traffic policeman standing on the corner. DuPaul wiped the perspiration from his brow and then eyed the luxurious hotels and apartments that formed a phalanx along the south side of the avenue. He shook his head.

  “I’m afraid I’m not dressed for any fancy places. I didn’t know I was going to run into you …”

  “Worry not,” Kek said, and laughed. He led the way toward Fifty-sixth Street and turned toward Seventh Avenue. “Remember, the doormen, elevator operators, and bellmen at these fancy places also have to have sustenance, you know. Ah, here we are …”

  He pushed into an interior so dark after the brilliance of the sun outside that for a moment they were temporarily blinded and had to pause in their tracks until their eyesight adjusted. The sharp, yeasty odor of beer, however, reassured them that they had not stumbled into an avant-garde movie theater by mistake. They fumbled their way to a corner booth and sank into it. A waitress appeared instantly.

  “You do the ordering,” DuPaul suggested. “My English still isn’t up to it.”

  “Two double brandies. Martel,” Kek said. “With water on the side.” He tur
ned back to DuPaul, who had lit one of his little cigars and was adding its aroma to the alcohol odor.

  “You still smoke those things?”

  “Of course.” DuPaul watched Kek light a cigarette and then leaned back, luxuriating in the pleasant cool breeze generated by a floor fan in one corner, enjoying the cigar and the heady scent of beer. “By the way,” he said casually, “I heard that our mutual friend Vries Waldeck sold out the business and now lives in the States. Recalling our last conversation, I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?” He saw the look on the other’s face and chuckled. “I promise not to publish it.”

  “I’m sorry.” Kek smiled. “Yes, I’m afraid I had quite a bit to do with it.”

  “Then tell me about it. I’ve plenty of time. Until three, anyway; then I have to get cleaned up and see a client.” DuPaul peered at his watch, managing to distinguish the numerals. “It’s only a few minutes until two. Plenty of time to unburden yourself.”

  “If you’re really interested,” Kek said. He paused while their drinks were placed on the table. The waitress hesitated a moment, since the house rules demanded that the clientele pay after each round. She knew that had the moustached gentleman been alone, the rule would have been enforced, but one look at the handsome, gray-eyed athletic man opposite, and she was sure she could let them run up a bill.

  Kek waited until she had left, raised his glass in a silent toast, tapped it against DuPaul’s extended glass, and drank. He set the half-filled glass down, patted his lips with a handkerchief, and then leaned back in the booth.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I got his money out. From francs to dollars. And legally, or at least with enough semblance of legality that we’re both walking the streets today as free men.”

  “For a decent fee, I hope.”

  “Twenty percent,” Kek said. “A bit better than the black market.”

  “I should say! How did you ever do it?”

  “Very simply,” Kek said. He paused to crush out his cigarette and immediately lit another, took a sip of his drink, and began his story. He started at the beginning, at the luncheon with DuPaul where he had first heard of the problem, took him through the cocktail party, the agreement, the ship’s voyage, the months of work and worry, and finally through to the success of the scheme. He then explained Waldeck’s concern over blackmail, and his divorce from Lisa as a solution. Across from him DuPaul listened closely, lost in admiration for the other’s intelligence, nerve, and—he felt—his touch of luck.

  “And that’s the way it was,” Huuygens said, completing his story. He raised his glass—it was their third round—finished his drink accompanied by DuPaul, and rapped on the table in the best Fairbanks’ manner. “Lisa’s divorce became final a week ago, we settled our business at the bank, had lunch and went home.”

  “Fantastic,” DuPaul said in an awed tone of voice. He glanced at his wristwatch and sat up straight. “My Lord! It’s later than I thought! I’ll have to pass up that last drink; I have to run.” He smiled across the table warmly. “Well, I said in Brussels that if I met you in New York and if you pulled it off, I’d let you buy me dinner, but I’m afraid I’ll have to just settle for the drinks. I’m off to Chicago tonight.”

  Kek’s arm stretched across the table, detaining him. When he spoke he sounded slightly apologetic.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to pay for the drinks …”

  DuPaul frowned at him. He sank back onto the hard bench.

  “Yes,” Huuygens said conversationally. “You see—one frets and frets that something might go awry—but one always seems to worry about the wrong things.”

  “But you said everything worked fine!”

  “Oh, yes. Excellent.” Kek nodded, a faint smile on his lips. “And three days after Lisa got back from Nevada and we settled the affair at the bank, she went down to City Hall and married Vries Waldeck …”

  Alex DuPaul merely stared at him.

  “She left me a note, though,” Huuygens added softly. He sounded reminiscent, and also a bit amused. “She was very sorry for the whole thing, but she honestly didn’t think a rich woman and a poor man had much of a chance of happiness. She was sincere; it was the practical Walloon in her speaking. And poor Vries Waldeck did need a guardian. Especially, I imagine—though she didn’t say so—to care for his money. She knew I would understand and forgive her—and also make no trouble.” He sighed deeply, staring into his empty glass. “She knew me better than I did, myself …”

  DuPaul looked around, noted the waitress not appearing, and rapped sharply on the table for further service. Kek’s eyes came up to the other’s grave face gratefully.

  “It’s what we were discussing aboard ship, Lisa and I,” he said softly. “Remember that I told you? It’s a carrousel—a whirligig. Beautifully endless and completely mad …”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Kek Huuygens Mysteries

  1

  To André Martins, it was wonderful to be back in his beloved Paris, his sprawling, lively, beautiful, romantic, exciting, fantastic Paris. How long had it been? He shook his huge, tousled head, reaching up to scratch under the cheap cap he had pushed back on his curly white hair. Maybe it was better not even to think about it; memories were dangerous things. It had been a damned long time, far too long, that’s all he knew; but now he was back, and bulldozers and tanks wouldn’t get him away again. He strode along, enjoying every second; the air seemed to smell better, the sun to shine more brightly, and he felt young again—or at least younger. Paris in September! Perfection! Actually, he suddenly remembered, it was the first of October, but what the hell! Close enough.

  He crossed the Porte de Maillot with an insouciance that came from having lived in Spain, where they not only drove as recklessly as they did in Paris but where they had fewer cars and therefore greater mobility in pedestrian pursuit. Gaining the far curb, he paused a moment to glance down the Avenue de la Grand Armée toward the Arc de Triomphe. Home! With a smile of deep satisfaction on his weather-beaten face, he took a deep breath and continued on his way, enjoying the shade of the trees along the edge of the Bois de Boulogne. He had dropped off the metro a good deal before his destination, preferring to climb into the upper world and enjoy his Paris a bit. He had also wanted to take the time to savor the pleasure of the surprise he had in store for his old friend Kek Huuygens.

  The luxury apartment building was ahead of him. His eyebrows went up at the degree of affluence implied; he had known that Kek was eminently prosperous, but this looked like the apartment of ministers, or black marketeers. He checked the address on the marquee and then shrugged; it was the correct address, or at least the last one he had had. Could they have built a new building on the spot since he had last heard from Kek? It would be too disappointing; he put the thought aside and pushed through the heavy swinging glass doors, entering into a cool, dim interior. After the bright sun of the street it took several moments for his eyesight to adjust; after the wait he located the concierge’s built-in corner desk to his left and made his way to it.

  “M’sieu Huuygens, please? His apartment number?”

  He smiled genially down at the tiny man behind the desk, relieved now that it was apparent the name Huuygens was not unfamiliar, that Kek actually did live there. The sudden look of suspicion on the small, wrinkled face did not surprise André in the least; his appearance invoked suspicion more often than not. He removed his benign gaze from the little uniformed man and stared about the lobby a minute. Posh, very posh. Nice. And he would bet the flowers were real. The whole décor earned his approval.… He brought his attention back to the concierge to discover the guardian of the gate had moved from behind his counter and now stood four-square—or more like two-square, André thought—before the elevator door. Possibly the little man was deaf?

  “M’sieu Huuygens. Kek Huuygens,” André repeated in an elevated tone. “His apartment number, please?”

  The little man tilted his head and looked up.
From his vantage point André appeared quite mountainous, a series of lumpy foothills climbing higher and higher to be topped by a craggy, snow-capped peak wearing a wrinkled cap. He appeared somewhat the size of King Kong, which the concierge remembered vaguely from his youth; what the big man did not appear, however, was the type visitor usually admitted to the apartment of a fine gentleman such as M’sieu Kek Huuygens. This uncouth giant obviously lacked the savoirfaire one expected in visitors to this very superior apartment building—visitors not using the servants’ entrance or the service doorway in the rear, that is.

  “Are you expected?”

  André grinned, taking the little man into his confidence. On a day like today it was impossible to have secrets.

  “No. As a matter of fact, I hope to surprise him.”

  And who would not be surprised, the concierge thought with irritation, to open a door and find a duplicate of the Abominable Snowman facing him? Nor did the little concierge doubt for a moment that the surprise would scarcely be pleasant; this one, in addition to looming over normal-sized people like the Matterhorn, also had a face that looked as if it had been run over by a taxi and repaired by an intern. The concierge brought to mind Marshal Foch and Willie Pep, neither very large men, and determined not to be intimidated by mere size.

  “I’m afraid M’sieu Huuygens is not at home,” he said coldly. His tone clearly added the words, To you.

  “And I am afraid,” André said pleasantly, “that I would require M’sieu Huuygens to advise me of that fact in person.” His smile did not abate in the least. He reached over and lifted the concierge politely, so that they were face to face. The little man had the sudden feeling there were miles of empty air beneath his feet. The face before him seemed to be enlarged, its pores visible like a view in a shaving mirror or the close-up of the villain on a wide movie screen. The face opened, showing huge blocks of teeth; it was speaking to him. “M’sieu Huuygens—his apartment number, please?”