The concierge swallowed convulsively; the altitude gave him a ringing in his ears. He doubted that either Marshal Foch or Willie Pep had ever faced a challenge quite this threatening. In a far less dangerous position, if he recalled his distant days as an élève of history, even Napoleon had seen fit to surrender.
“Six fourteen,” he murmured faintly and felt himself descending, to be deposited gently back on his feet, with the solid footing beneath him restoring his courage. He straightened his uniform with a tug, shot his cuffs, and brushed himself off. No telling what the monster had touched before! It would be a pleasure calling the flics when this one was denied admission to 614. May they bring truncheons, pistols, and loaded capes and may the large one not know that the cloaks contained weights sewn into the hem, not to drape more gracefully, but precisely to teach troublemakers a lesson!
“Thank you,” André said graciously, remembering his mother’s teachings, and turned to the elevator.
The elevator operator had been watching the scene in the lobby from within the elevator cab, behind the protection of the closed door, peeking through the little, wire-embedded glass window. André became aware that the cab was at his floor. He bent down, glowering through the glass and pressing the bell button deafeningly at the same time. The door opened reluctantly and André found himself facing a gnome as tiny as the concierge; the gnome was rubbing his ear resentfully. And were there five more, André wondered, and if so what do they do? Man the boilers and sweep the halls? And if so, where is Snow White?
“Good evening,” he said to the operator with a slight bow and entered the small cab. “Six, please.” He waited a moment, staring ahead to the street, and then looked down at the tiny man curiously. “I said, the sixth floor, please. Do you take me up, or do I take you up?”
The door slid closed with a grudging click, as if it shared the management opinion of this interloper. They rose in that majestic accoustical purity reserved for the vertical conveyance of the very rich, with the elevator operator staring stonily at the door. André approved of the transport, even as his mind on another plane prepared for his meeting with Kek Huuygens. It had been years—not since they had seen each other in Lisbon, in fact. It would be good to see Kek again—if he was home, that is. André hoped fervently that his old friend was home; he had a strong premonition that should Apartment 614 be deserted or refuse him entrance, he might well encounter police when he descended, and he was in far too good a mood to wish for trouble. Besides, it would do his newly regained passport little good to return home and get into a fight with the flics the very first day! Maybe later, but not the first day.…
The elevator slid to a stop with the faintest hint of motion; the door opened with a mechanical whisper. André found himself unconsciously following its example.
“Thank you,” he said in a subdued tone of voice and walked quietly across the carpeted corridor to tap diffidently on the door of 614, almost directly opposite the elevator. He suddenly seemed to realize that while inaudibility might be properly appropriate to the edifice, it scarcely resulted in doors being answered unless the tenant happened to have his ear to the panel; at the same moment he discovered the doorbell set quite conspicuously in the door jamb and pressed it firmly. He swung about with a broad smile, presenting his back to the little peephole which he knew might be used. Facing him was the elevator operator. André winked at him in friendly fashion, forgiving all, and waited. There was the sound of the peephole cover being opened and closed, and then the further sound of a key being turned in a lock. André grinned widely, not only anticipating Kek’s surprise and delight, but also the consternation of the elevator operator at the reunion. He waited a moment and then swung around.
His wide grin maintained for a moment, frozen, and then turned into a painful grimace. He was facing a very pretty girl in a very pretty dress, and he automatically knew that she was neither the cook nor the daily cleaning woman. He swallowed, his face reddening.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered and swore to himself on his father’s honor that as soon as he escaped he would go downstairs, tear the concierge into pieces fit for bouillabaisse, and distribute them along the various mail slots back of his own desk. For luck! It not only would teach the little nain not to play games with visitors, but it would undoubtedly also prove a boon to the tenants of the building. He pictured himself receiving laurels from the tenants; it saved him from facing the girl, who was frowning at him in speculation. He reached up and took off the cheap cap, wishing he could have afforded a haircut.
“I’m sorry,” he said, suddenly aware of his age and his hands and his feet and his size and their size, and that his nose had been broken and his face scarred, and that his white hair was standing out in uncontrolled spikes. “I was looking for a friend of mine … a Kek Huuygens.… And the concierge.…”
The girl’s face cleared. She grinned at him, a friendly grin. “You’re André.”
“… the little son of a—I mean, the little—well, he told me downstairs that this was the apartment. Six-fourteen—” It occurred to him the mistake might have been his; he stepped back to look the top of the door in the eye. No, the number was right. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle—It wasn’t my fault—”
“André Martins.” The girl bobbed her head vigorously, convinced she was right. Her shoulder-length blond hair swirled at the motion and then settled back, swaying protectively about her neck; her eyebrows cocked at him, daring him to deny it.
“—but when I get downstairs—” André paused to stare in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re André Martins. Right?”
“You know me? How?” He looked behind him, as if the answer might be in someone feeding the girl cue cards, as he had seen on television, and then turned back. It occurred to him that possibly he owed the tiny concierge an apology, but the thought didn’t bother him greatly. Another thought followed too quickly, explaining the mystery. “I didn’t know Kek had married.”
“He hasn’t,” the girl said. “Yet.” She grinned at him, a pixie grin showing small but perfect teeth. Her skin, he noticed, was blemish-free, tanned, undoubtedly by the tennis court rather than cosmetics. “He’s a stubborn man, but I expect you know that. Unfortunately for him, I am too. You’ll cut the cake yet.” She stood aside, smiling at him. “Come in. My name is Anita.” She shook hands, giving him a strength of grip that surprised him, stood back as he entered, and closed the door behind him. The elevator operator sighed and reluctantly took the cab downward. “Kek’s in the living room.”
She led the way down a corridor, her soft skirts swaying about her in the narrow hallway. Soft lighting illuminated paintings on both walls; the large man sank self-consciously in the heavy pile of the rug. It came to him that possibly it had been a mistake to drop in on Kek unannounced like this. And unkempt. He didn’t fit into this milieu. He belonged in another scene; the docks were his area. Maybe it was a mistake to try to renew ties fashioned so many years before; maybe he should have called Kek on the phone and met him someplace else—at a bar someplace, maybe. Or maybe it would have been better not even to have come. It was a long time, and people went their ways, and they changed. They forgot; usually it was a lot easier to forget. He smiled to himself wryly. Only he hadn’t changed; he was as ragged and broke and as much a failure as he had always been.
The girl stood aside once again, allowing—almost forcing—André to enter the living room first. Kek Huuygens was standing behind a bar in one corner of the large, sunny room, carefully pouring drinks, his attitude that of a person who properly respected liquor. Three glasses stood before him. André looked about the luxuriously appointed room and then back at Kek. Huuygens was a man in his early forties, a bit above medium height, athletically built, his thick, curly hair beginning to be touched with gray. His slate-gray eyes were calmly judging quantities as he poured; his strong, handsome features were as André remembered.
“Hello, André.” His wide-spaced eyes studie
d the other man with apparent impersonality, but there was a hidden twinkle in them, and his mercurial eyebrows were slanted sharply, a characteristic André remembered. It indicated curiosity. André froze, his hand on his cap still. Kek probably wondered why he was here; or rather, Kek probably thought he was here to borrow money! He would have turned and left, but the girl blocked the doorway.
“Hello, Kek. Look, I was just—”
“You’re late,” Huuygens said calmly and continued pouring.
André shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs. Late? It began to appear to him that his surprise—to mix a metaphor—was on the other foot.
“Late?” He knew he sounded stupid, but that was because he was stupid, he told himself, and crossed the room to the bar, dragging a stool back and half-sitting on it, staring at Huuygens. Huuygens nodded to him politely and slid a glass across to him. Anita took her glass and retired to a sofa at the far side of the room, watching the two men.
“Argentinian,” Huuygens said, indicating the amber liquid in the glasses. “It’s called Reserva San Juan. A nice combination of the best elements of the brandies of France and Spain. Or France and Portugal, if you prefer.”
André stared at him a moment and then upended his glass. He set it down without commenting on the quality of the cognac he had just drunk; in point of fact he had not even tasted it.
“What’s this ‘late’ business?” he asked suspiciously and reached for the bottle, refilling his glass with half an eye, his main attention fixed on Kek. “How could you even know I was coming?”
Huuygens sipped his drink, nodded in appreciation for its flavor, and placed his glass on the bar.
“I hear things,” he said simply. “Especially about old friends—and particularly old friends I’m interested in. You left Lisbon over a year ago and moved to Barcelona—”
“Things were dead in Lisbon.” André spoke almost without volition; the entire situation was impossible.
“—and you didn’t do much better in Barcelona, even with the leads furnished you by Pereira—”
André shrugged. “When it was raining business sense, God gave me a fork.” Light suddenly struck. He looked up, frowning. “You told Pereira to give me those leads!”
“Yes,” Kek said equably. “At any rate, they didn’t work out as well as we both hoped, so when you finally got a pardon from the French government—”
André was forced to grin. “One of the few advantages, I admit, of changing republics.” The cognac was making its presence felt; the strangeness of the meeting was fading, replaced by a friendly warmth.
“Yes,” Kek agreed and continued. “As I said, you left Barcelona yesterday, heading for Paris. I knew you’d come to see me as soon as you got here—or at least I hoped so. I also calculated you’d try to save the fare of an airplane.” He glanced at his watch, smiling. “The train from Barcelona arrived several hours ago—”
“Train!” André snorted and poured himself another drink. “What train! Bus! Then the metro. Then a spot of walking. The metro,” he added, “doesn’t smell like it used to.” He frowned in reminiscence, as if the bad smell of the metro was one of the things he had missed during his exile, now taken from him by strangers, and drank his drink.
“Ah,” Huuygens said in understanding, and nodded, pleased that the mystery was resolved. “That’s why, then. At any rate you’re here, and I’m very happy.”
“I’m rather pleased myself.” André wiped his lips on his cuff and looked at the bottle. It would be pressing hospitality of even an old friend to have more than three drinks. If it were offered, of course—Kek seemed to have read his mind; he poured another drink for André and raised his glass.
“Here’s to luck.” He drank and set his glass down. “Well, enough of this lovemaking. Where are your bags?”
“At the bus terminal. I came right over. I’ve got to get a room someplace and get settled, and then—”
“You’re staying here.” It was Anita speaking from across the room. “Your room is all ready.” Her eyes smiled at him. “Extra-length bed and all.”
André swung to face her. “No, no! Look—”
“You look,” Huuygens said calmly. “You saved my life three times in the old days, and then we lost track of each other until Lisbon and that affair of those miniature paintings, and that was a long time ago.” He shrugged. “It seems about the only way not to lose track of you is to keep you in sight. So you stay here.”
“You don’t seem to have much trouble keeping people in sight,” André said dryly. “Anyway, I can’t—”
“Besides,” Huuygens said evenly, interrupting, “I’m sure we can be useful to each other.”
André frowned and shook his head. “Kek, Kek! You should know me well enough to know I never took charity in my life, and I’m too old to start now. Besides—you need me on one of your jobs?” He snorted. “You’re known everywhere as the best smuggler in the world, and the smartest. Me? I didn’t even get away with bringing in a few lousy cases of cigarettes from Algiers right after the war! Miles from Marseilles and the police boat picks me out like I’d put out an SOS or something!” He shook his head decisively. “Thank you, but no. I’ll drink your liquor and have a meal on you from time to time, but no.” He looked up almost defiantly. “And I didn’t come to borrow money, either.”
“Are you all done?”
André raised a hand. “Don’t say it, because I’ll only repeat the whole thing.”
“And Anita says I’m stubborn! You listen to me—”
He was interrupted by the sudden sharp ringing of the telephone. All three swung around to face the unexpected sound. Kek’s eyes narrowed; it was an unlisted number, available only to those who were acquainted with the true nature of his vocation. Anita came to her feet, putting down her glass, moving to the telephone on the desk. There were times when Kek preferred not to be home to certain calls.
“Hello?”
The sound of a voice could be heard, muted, filtered through the receiver, audible to the two men in the quiet of the large room. Anita nodded, quite as if her caller could see her; she looked around.
“It’s a Señor Sanchez. He’d like to see you. He says he has an important job for you.”
“Ask him where he got my telephone number.”
Anita returned to the conversation on the telephone. A moment later she turned again; there was a slightly mischievous smile in her eys. She covered the receiver with her hand.
“He says he got it from a very reliable source.” She paused a moment for effect. “He says he got it from an old friend of yours. You may remember him—André Martins.”
“Me?” André sat erect in shock. “Never!” He crossed himself and then paused to think. “Sanchez? Luis Sanchez? From Barcelona?” Anita shrugged her lack of knowledge. “It has to be him; he’s the only one who would even know my name.”
Kek looked at him. “Who is he?”
“A sour apple,” André said and made a face. “A real loss to society.”
“A lot of my clients are,” Kek said, grinning. His grin faded. “You never gave my name? Or mentioned this number?”
“Never!” André raised his hand. “Not only not to Sanchez, but to nobody. However,” he added, bringing his hand down, “I know it’s available, and it certainly would be to anyone with Sanchez’s connections. As well as the fact that we know each other and that we’re old friends.”
“Well,” Kek said, thinking about it, “at least he doesn’t sound like police. And people who lie to me I find interesting.” He looked at Anita, patiently holding the telephone mouthpiece cupped. “When does he want to come over?”
“Now, he says. He’s in a bar just down the street.”
“Good enough.” Kek smiled. “Tell him to come along.”
Anita spoke into the telephone and hung up. Without being bidden, she came to the bar, placed the cognac bottle on the glass shelf back of the bar, and set the used glasses in the sink beneath the
counter; Kek’s interviews with perspective clients were nondrinking affairs. She wiped the surface with a towel and hung it up neatly. Kek came from behind the bar, pulled a chair around to face the corridor, and then looked sideways at André.
“How well do you know this Sanchez?”
“Well, if he’s the one from Barcelona, and he must be, then I know him well enough,” André said. He didn’t sound particularly proud of the acquaintanceship.
Kek thought a moment, a frown on his face, and then dropped into the chair. He looked up. “Take a good look at him through the peephole when he rings. Annie will let him in. You stay out of sight until he’s left.”
“Why?”
Kek smiled at him. “Call it a hunch.”
“All right,” André said agreeably, seeing no reason to argue, especially against a hunch. He moved to his feet, following Anita toward the front door. The bell rang just as he came up to it. One look through the withdrawn peephole cover was enough; he put the cover back in place and nodded vigorously to Anita and then went on back to the end of the corridor, pushing through a swinging door. He found himself in the kitchen and let the door swing shut softly behind him.
It occurred to him that possibly Kek was right. Maybe they could be useful to each other. Because in André’s experience, anyone who dealt with Señor Luis Sanchez or his friends at times needed more than brains. Sometimes a little muscle came in handy.
He looked at the refrigerator door with a pang, remembering his last meal, a long time ago, and then forced himself to go and sit down at the table, staring through the curtained window at the parkland across the street. He also hadn’t come to visit an old friend just to raid an icebox.…
2
Señor Luis Anselmo Sanchez y Miranda was a tall, painfully thin man with a narrow face, cavernous cheeks, thin lips, and a large nose revealing flaring nostrils over a hairline mustache. His wedge-shaped forehead was split geometrically by a sharp widow’s peak that made him look slightly satanic; the black hair that flowed back on each side seemed polished, as if by wax. His eyes were hooded, his skin mottled, and his teeth could have stood both straightening and cleaning, but what his personal features lacked in beauty was at least partially compensated for by his clothing; he was impeccably dressed in a tight checkered suit favored by Spaniards of a certain type.
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