Whirligig

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Kek smiled at him. “The thought also occurred to me, but what happens when we open it and find it’s not what he claims it is? Tell the man we caught him fibbing? That’s a pretty serious insult to a Spaniard, you know.”

  “I know,” André said sympathetically and smiled.

  “Besides, by that time I would have agreed to take the case through customs; and I hate to go back on my word. It would be a very unpleasant situation.” He changed the subject. “Who does this Sanchez work for?”

  “Sanchez?” André shook his head. “Nobody. He works for himself.”

  “Not in this deal,” Kek said. “I’m sure he’s not the top man. He made me his offer of ten thousand dollars, and that was that. You could almost hear the wheels going around in his head when I walked him to the door. He would have given his arm to have upped the ante and closed the deal then and there. But since he didn’t”—he raised his shoulders expressively—“it seems obvious he wasn’t authorized to.”

  “Well,” André said slowly, “if Sanchez is just a junior partner in the deal, then it has to be a very big deal, indeed. Luis Sanchez doesn’t usually play second fiddle to anyone.” He looked at Kek. “So he says the suitcase doesn’t hold narcotics. What story did he make up? Gold?”

  “He wouldn’t have said that.” Anita entered into the conversation and the two men looked at her with interest as she leaned over, brushed ash from her cigarette, and then leaned back again. André was intrigued by her statement.

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “Because,” Anita told them calmly, “he said the suitcase weighed thirty pounds or a bit more. Take away the weight of the suitcase itself, no matter how light it is, and what do you have? With gold worth about five hundred dollars a pound?” She shrugged. “He’d be paying more than half just to get the stuff past customs. I don’t imagine he’s in business just to keep Kek in cognac.…”

  Kek smiled at her proudly and winked at André.

  “Not to mention,” he added, “that gold is as easily converted to currency in Argentina—if not more easily—than in Spain. And with currency you simply put it in your pocket and walk through almost every customs in the world. Even me.” He shook his head. “You two don’t understand. It isn’t that he didn’t tell me what was in the suitcase—he did. It’s just that I don’t believe him.”

  Anita paused in the act of lighting another cigarette. “What did he say?”

  Kek smiled. He stared into his glass as if seeking answers to Sanchez’s credibility in the amber depths of his drink, slowly swirling the liquid. The ice cubes clinked against the glass musically and then subsided, bobbing lightly on the surface. His eyes came up.

  “He said the suitcase contained documents—old parchment land grants originally given by the Spanish crown for lands that constitute most of what is now the city of Buenos Aires. He went on to say they had been stolen long ago but that these parchments prove that his friends—his clients, I should say—legally own most of the town.” He smiled. “It isn’t such a bad story, when you think about it. It’s just crazy enough, just far-fetched enough, to be almost believable. And if he dreamed it up on the spur of the moment, the man is a genius.”

  “Only you don’t believe him,” André said.

  “No. For one thing, thirty pounds of parchment would cover quite a few grants, and considering that the entire part of Argentina that now includes Buenos Aires was included in one grant, it weakens his story, don’t you think?”

  Anita grinned mischievously. “Maybe they wrote big.”

  “Then, even assuming he has a thirty-pound piece of sheepskin, there’s the fact that until the end of the eighteenth century any land grant for what is now Buenos Aires would have been an insult to the receiver; that area was considered worthless. It wasn’t until 1776, the year of the American Revolution, that the final grant was given, the final legal grant, the one that had the real value; that was when Spain created a new viceroyalty from the overall viceroyalty of Peru and made Buenos Aires its capital. Which, in case you’re interested, was done to protect the districts along the River Plate from the Brazilians—”

  Anita stared at him. “A historian! I learn something new about you every day!”

  Kek shrugged modestly. “Not a historian—an insomniac. When you are asleep and snoring, my darling, preventing me from getting any rest—”

  “Snoring? Me?”

  “You, my sweet. Someday I shall take the tape recorder into the bedroom and gather proof. At any rate,” Kek said with a grin in her direction, “at those times I read the encyclopedia until I get drowsy enough to overcome the local disturbances, and I’m all the way up to Elephants. If he’d have said Finland instead of Argentina, I’d have had to wait until next week to catch him. We won’t even talk about Venezuela.”

  “Which proves I can’t snore very much, if you’re only up as far as ‘Elephants’!”

  “I’m a slow reader.” Kek’s light tone disappeared. “At any rate, there was that final land grant issued, but where our friend Sanchez made an even greater mistake was in forgetting one thing: He forgot that by that year they were well past the age of parchment. The final grants of the Spanish crown were written in quill and ink, on oil paper. If anyone found that grant recently—assuming it had ever been lost—all he would have to do would be simply to mail it to Barcelona, registered mail, and forget all about the expensive services of M’sieu Kek Huuygens.” He smiled. “That’s the end of the lesson, children.”

  André frowned. “So what’s in the suitcase?”

  “A good question,” Kek conceded. “If it were coming from the Middle East, I’d bet on drugs; or even if he wanted to get it into Spain from France. Marseilles has become the leading producer of heroin in the world. I mention this in case either of you native-born Frenchmen need facts to brag about your native land. But drugs from South America?” He frowned and then unconsciously tugged at an earlobe as he pondered the problem. When he spoke his tone was apologetic. “André—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m afraid that offer of hospitality was a bit premature. I’d like you to go back to Barcelona. With your contacts, possibly you could find out what Sanchez is up to.”

  André’s first reaction was to ask how, but he contained himself. It would be tantamount to admitting that his position in the smuggling elite of Barcelona was well on the outskirts, and that the André that Kek remembered from the old days—the André of decision and forceful will—no longer existed. Better to bluff, he said to himself, and he came to his feet, grinning at Huuygens.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised but what I could dig something up.” His grin widened. “On expenses, I assume?”

  “Definitely. And by plane, this time—first class.” Kek smiled. “To be charged to Señor Luis Sanchez and Company—if we take on the job, that is.”

  André’s face fell. “And if you don’t take on the job?”

  “In that case,” Kek suggested dryly, “try to hunch down when you buy your ticket. Otherwise the airline might charge you for two seats.…”

  3

  “He wants a few days to consider it,” Sanchez said into the telephone. His voice was conspiratorial, his skeletal hand cupping the receiver, as if that might in some way keep the words from filtering out into improper ears somewhere along the miles of long-distance wire. “I’ll have to wait around until he makes up his mind.”

  At the far end of the call to Barcelona there was an unhappy sound. Señor Antonio Maria Duarte y Bertrand, the senior partner in the deal, was not pleased with the delay. Time was, after all, money. And money was Señor Duarte’s business, among many other things.

  “What does he call a few days?”

  “Three or four. Less than a week, he said.”

  “Three or four, first! Then a week! Next it will be a month! What does he need time for?”

  Sanchez shrugged. What a stupid question!

  “You ask him,” he said. “He didn’t go into detail. He simply sa
id he didn’t know me personally and that he wanted to check on my credentials. To make sure I’m not from the police, I suppose,” he added, well content that a check on his credentials would reveal quite the opposite. “And I imagine he wants to be sure he’ll be paid if he takes the job.”

  “To hell with him!” Duarte said shortly. “We’ll get somebody else!”

  “We will not get somebody else,” Sanchez said savagely. “Maybe you don’t care about your share, but I certainly care about mine! We will get Huuygens. Just be a little patient!”

  “Patient! Why didn’t you increase the offer? Time is important, damn it!”

  “Increase the offer, he says! Why didn’t you give me permission to increase the offer?” Luis Sanchez made a rude noise, properly aggrieved. What a damn shame he hadn’t the money to swing the deal himself but had to go in with this unspeakable idiot, Antonio! “You were the one who set ten thousand as the limit—not me!”

  “It is, after all, my money,” Antonio pointed out, quite unaware of any illogic in his position, and then realized that further discussion along these lines would be fruitless and only benefit the Compañia Telefónica. “Why didn’t you use Rosa? That’s why you took her along, isn’t it? Wasn’t that one of your reasons?”

  Sanchez risked a quick glance at the woman lying on the bed beside him, and automatically lowered his voice. “It wouldn’t have worked.”

  Duarte frowned at the instrument in his hand. “He’s cierva?”

  “No, no! It isn’t that. It’s simply that he’s got something—ah—better.…”

  Light finally dawned on Duarte. “Is Rosa listening?”

  “Naturally.”

  “So what do we do? Just wait?”

  Sanchez paused a moment in thought. “Antonio—”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a man in Barcelona; he’s named André Martins. A Frenchman or a Basque—one or the other. Do you know him?”

  “This is a city of two million people! Do I know an André Martins! There must be fifty—”

  “You can’t miss this one,” Sanchez said, interrupting brusquely. “He’s a giant and no chicken. He hangs around the docks, picks up a few pesetas doing this and that. He looks like a bum, has a face like an ex-prizefighter, always wears a cap, usually needs a shave, has gray hair, almost white—”

  “Oh, him?” At the other end of the line Duarte nodded knowledgeably. “If it’s the one I think it is, I’ve seen him around, but I never knew his name. Why? What about him?”

  Sanchez lowered his voice even farther.

  “He’s a friend of this Huuygens, or he was once upon a time. Anyway, Huuygens apparently trusts him, God knows why. But I heard it before, and Huuygens practically confirmed it. Anyway, see if you can find this André. Give him—” Sanchez paused to consider and then realized there was no need to instruct Duarte on that score, “Well, give him a few pesetas—that’s a lot of money for that one—and get him to telephone Huuygens directly. For a price this André should do anything you ask him to, broke as he is.”

  “Call Huuygens about what?”

  Sanchez raised his eyes to the cracked plaster of the ceiling in supplication and then brought them down again. How Duarte had managed to get where he was was a continuing mystery!

  “To give me—us—me a good name, for God’s sake! Have you been listening? To tell Huuygens he’ll be paid! To tell him we’re not police or customs men! Huuygens will listen to him, I tell you. And we can save some of that time you’re so concerned about!”

  “If I can find this André what’s-his-name—”

  “André Martins. Write it down before you forget it. And try looking if you want to find him,” Sanchez advised coldly. “Try the Porteño Bar; he’s around there when he’s got the price of a drink—there or the Cinco Puertas. Try the whole damn dock area. He’s too damned big to get lost.” His tone became sarcastic. “You won’t find him at the Ritz, so don’t waste time there.”

  “I’ll look for him.”

  “Thank you,” Sanchez said dryly. “And call me back if you find him, hear? I’ll be waiting.”

  “I’ll call.” There was a sudden chuckle from Duarte. “Give my love to Rosa. Don’t let her tire you out too much.…”

  If anyone in the world tires me out, Sanchez thought bitterly, it’s you! “Good-bye,” he said and hung up without waiting for a reply. He glanced down at the curvaceous woman half sitting, half lying on the bed, watching her through half-lidded eyes. Her face had a bit too much makeup; her robe draped open, exposing undergarments that barely contained her lush flesh. Her mouth was pouting.

  “Well? What did he say?”

  Sanchez stared at her. “What business is it of yours?”

  “I just wanted to know how long we’re going to be here.”

  “It doesn’t depend on him or what he says,” Sanchez said. “Anyway, we stay as long as it takes, as long as I say. You’re getting paid by the day, aren’t you?”

  Rosa ran a red tongue over even redder lips and smiled at him. “I like to earn my keep, though,” she said and swung herself from the bed, dropping the robe, holding a seductive pose a moment and then reaching behind her for the catch to her brassiere. She dropped it to the floor and cupped her full breasts provocatively, smiling at Sanchez invitingly, and then slipped a finger under the waistband of her panties.

  Sanchez sighed. He must be getting old, he thought; at the moment he was more interested in the suitcase than in sex. Of all the girls he might have brought from Manuela’s place in Barcelona, he had to pick the one nymphomaniac there! Still, the fact remained that there were several days to waste, at the least, and he had to stay near the telephone in case Huuygens called, and the telephone wasn’t far from the bed.…

  He smiled at the thought and started to loosen his necktie. The beauty of pure logic, he thought, and watched admiringly in the mirror as Rosa completed undressing.

  André Martins, wandering down the Ramblas toward the Puerta de la Paz and the port, cap tipped back on his head, hands stuffed into his pockets, wondered disconsolately why he had ever permitted Kek to hand him this impossible assignment. Why hadn’t he spoken up and said he wasn’t suited for the job? The fact was he hadn’t a clue as to where to start. True, on the plane coming down, still buoyed up by Kek’s faith, a series of minor miracles had appeared before him: A friendly bartender would lean over and whisper the answer to his problem; a girl at Manuela’s place would pause in dressing to tell him, in appreciation, that she had heard of a mysterious suitcase from her last client, etc., etc. Dreams, all dreams! The fact was, his return was a complete waste of time and money. He hadn’t the faintest idea of where to begin.

  He paused in the shadow of the Columbus monument a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow and reset his cap and then continued on toward the docks. It was not that he felt the docks were a better place to begin any investigation—for no place could be better or worse if the proper place did not exist—it was simply that he felt more at home near the water. He crossed the street at the far side of the large square, continued on to the waterside, and turned up past the huge warehouses, pleasuring in the sharp salt smell of the sea, the tang of fish and kelp, the pungency of tarred rope. Ships towered above him, leviathans tethered to land by straining cables, their bilges pumping constantly; dock cranes creaked and groaned as they dipped and swayed from holds, swiveling like ill-jointed Tinker toys. Gulls wheeled in the sunlight, screaming at each other, searching the pulsing ripples of the harbor for food. It wasn’t all that bad here in Barcelona, he thought; what did he want with Paris, anyway? It was too far in the past; he shouldn’t have gone back. All he could do for his old friend, Kek, was add to his problems. Maybe it would be best if he just mailed back the money Kek had given him and get a job on one of the ships. Go away, far away. Maybe to South America—Argentina, maybe.

  The thought of the country brought him to his senses. No, that wasn’t the answer; he had never run from anything in his
life. He had to try, at the very least. But how?

  He paused to watch a battered freighter edge its way into the harbor; from his position on the quay it seemed sure to strike the mole, but it steamed ahead, cautiously but surely. Confidence, he thought bitterly; that’s what I need. Where to start? Well, a little voice in his head said—possibly encouraged by the freighter’s entrance into the harbor—why not start with your wild dreams on the plane? The bartender, remember? Or the girl at Manuela’s place? At least failure in either of those places would be better tolerated. He tried to gain comfort from the thought, but it helped little. With a sigh he turned away from the sea and the breakwater and sought out a bar he had known since his first days in Barcelona.

  The bartender was a person he had never seen before in his life. He was an old man whose wrinkles almost hid his cataracted eyes. For a moment André almost walked out, but then he squared his shoulders and strode up to the high marble counter with a slight swagger. He leaned over the counter confidentially.

  “What do you hear from Sanchez?”

  The bartender paused in his task of shakily wiping a glass and looked around blurrily, finally locating the source of the interruption. He had been thinking of the south.

  “Who?”

  “Sanchez,” André said and made himself sound impatient. “Luis Sanchez.”

  The bartender shook his head sadly, his wattles swinging back and forth.

  “I never heard of him, señor. But then, I’m a stranger to these parts. I come from Marbella, in the south.” He leaned over the counter hopefully. “You know it?”

  “No,” André said shortly.

  “Oh,” the bartender said, his voice steeped in disappointment. He started to polish a glass and then stopped again, as if remembering something. “It’s warm there,” he said, as if André had denied it. “It’s cold here. Not now, but pretty soon. I know. I was on a ship that docked here in December once.” He peered at André myopically, challenging him to doubt. “It was cold.”

  “Yes,” André said.

  “I just started yesterday,” the old man confided. “They won’t have me on the ships because of my sight, but I can see good enough to pour drinks.” He didn’t really sound so sure he could.