“What is it?”
Kek smiled proudly. “That, my darling Anita, is the last known page of a particular Bach Cantata, original, in the hand of the master himself. And worth a great deal of money.” As always when he spoke of art objects, there was an undercurrent of excitement in his deep voice; Anita loved to listen to him at such moments. Kek reached for a pen. “I should like you to deliver it to this address.…”
He carefully printed a name and street address on a small slip of paper, placed it with the wrapper, and cautiously rolled it into a tube, fastening it with a bit of gummed tape. “Tell this man that the foil and paper peel away quite easily with a slight amount of heat. Not too much, no more temperature than the bare hand can stand. He’ll know. Oh, and tell him the adhesives were very carefully selected. They’ll do the manuscript itself no harm.”
Anita raised her eyes from the small tube on the desk and shook her head in wonder. “You’re fantastic! What would have happened if the customs had kept the wrapping? Or simply thrown it into the wastebasket? I suppose then you’d have had to go out and rob a garbage truck.”
Kek grinned at her. “Not exactly rob one—I’ve become quite friendly lately with the driver who hauls away the trash. Not exactly by accident. A greater tragedy, of course, would have been my disappointment at having wasted one of my better performances.”
“Instead of which you save them for me.” She picked up the tube, placed it in her large purse, and then looked at him, her eyes wide and questioning. “I suppose your man wants his manuscript right away?” Kek nodded. “And will I see you later?”
He shook his head, smiling regretfully. “Not tonight. I have a lot of work to do. But possibly the theater tomorrow night? And then supper?”
“If you wish.” She moved to the door and then paused, turning to study him gravely. “Kek—why do I do these things for you?”
“I don’t know,” Kek said, and smiled. “But I’m glad you do.”
“You know very well why I do them,” Anita said quietly. “I do them because I’m in love with you.”
Kek’s smile disappeared; one hand came up to tug at his earlobe. His eyes were serious and slightly sad. “My dear Anita, I’m honestly sorry to hear you say that. We’ve had fun together, and I had hoped we could keep on having fun. I’m truly fond of you. But love?” He ran a hand through his thick hair and then shrugged. “Why would you want to love me? It certainly has no future.”
“It could have,” she said softly, and stared down at her fingers clasped tightly about her purse. “It could have if you wanted it to.” Her large eyes came up, searching his face intently. “I think I’d be good for you.”
“You’re good for me now,” Kek said, and walked over to her. “Too good for me.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, looking down into her violet eyes, and then bent and gently kissed her forehead. He drew back a bit, studying her face a moment, coming to a decision.
“Anita, let me have that manuscript back. I’ll deliver it myself. I’ve been wrong to involve you in these things as much as I have.”
She tried to smile, but behind the veil of her lashes the pain showed. “You know, Kek, I think that’s the closest you’ve ever come to saying anything truly affectionate to me. No; I’ll deliver it. And I’ll see you tomorrow.…” She turned abruptly, opened the door, and closed it quickly behind her. Kek stared at the door panel a moment, and then walked pensively back to the bar.
Married to Anita? He shook his head slowly while he poured another large dose of brandy into his glass. Admittedly, she was everything a man ought to look for in a wife—beautiful, intelligent, passionate; even punctual—but married to anyone? No. Not again. He had tried it once, with Lisa in Brussels, and that had certainly been no solution! The time for a lasting marriage for him had been spoiled forever by the war and the changes it had wrought in places and people; and the woman had been quite another. Too many years had passed since then. And, even more important, his life was not the kind to ask a woman to share. Anita might remain silent about his mode of living, but she would not be happy with it. And why invite anyone to unhappiness, even if they thought they wanted it?
He put the thought of women and marriage from him, added ice to his glass, and was just reaching for the Seltzer bottle when the telephone rang sharply. With an apologetic grimace to his drink for the interruption, he replaced the bottle, walked across the room to his desk, leaned over, and picked up the instrument.
“Yes?”
“M’sieu Huuygens?”
It was a woman’s voice, low and musical, unfamiliar, and made all the more enticing for that. Kek automatically brightened, and then shook his head at himself. No, he thought with a rueful smile, when you react this way you are definitely not ready for marriage. But on that basis, is any man ever ready for marriage?
“Speaking.”
The voice assumed a slightly chilly tone, as if its owner had somehow subtly read his thoughts. “This is long distance, m’sieu. Lisbon is on the wire. One moment please.”
He shrugged philosophically, glancing over at the bar and its nearly prepared drink with regret for not having brought it with him, then moved around the desk to drop into the upholstered chair there, pulling sufficient telephone cord with him. He propped one knee lazily against the edge of the desktop and leaned back, waiting. Lisbon? Who did he know in Lisbon? Nobody in particular that he remembered at the moment, but that meant very little. His acquaintances had a tendency to move from place to place with little or no notice, even as he did himself. Besides, of late, with his burgeoning reputation, his commissions had been coming from many strange cities, and often from people who were even more exotic. And the means by which his clients managed to contact him were sometimes quite involved.
He waited patiently while the telephone indulged itself in a series of weird sounds; they finally faded to be dominated by another feminine voice. This one, however, was neither low nor musical; it also sounded aggrieved at the trouble to which it had been put.
“Lisboa aquí. Senhor Huuygens? Kek Huuygens?” Her pronunciation of his name was atrocious, and her entire tone breathed suspicion. Nobody, she seemed to be saying, could truly have such a name.
Kek shrugged, wondering if this one were married, and if so, how she had ever managed it. “Yes, this is he.”
“One moment, then. Here’s your party, senhor.…”
The high, nasal tone was replaced by a man’s voice, so opposite to the other in both depth and clarity that it took a moment for the waiting man to adjust to it. His caller spoke in French, and sounded a bit anxious.
“M’sieu Huuygens? Kek Huuygens?”
One thing is certain, Huuygens thought with growing irritation; nobody receiving a long-distance call should ever forget his own name! “Speaking. Who is this?”
“This?” The deep voice paused a moment, as if assessing the chances of being believed, took a deep and audible breath, and then plunged bravely ahead. “This, M’sieu Huuygens, is a man to whom you owe the sum of one million francs.…”
The slightly satanic eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch; the lips quirked in appreciation both of the approach and the amount. “One million francs?”
“We have a good telephone connection, which is not always the case here in Lisbon.” His caller seemed pleasantly surprised, as if his luck with the telephone service might augur well for his mission. The satisfaction disappeared from his tone, instantly replaced by a return to business. “Yes, m’sieu. One million francs. Which I should like to collect as soon as possible.”
“I’m sure.” The gray eyes narrowed slightly; his hand came up to tug at his earlobe. A new means of introduction from someone recommended to him? A bit of cuteness on the part of the police? A fishing excursion? Or just a nut? Still, Huuygens thought, even the insane usually hesitate before paying international telephone rates. And besides, his telephone number was not in the directory.
His voice remained even, conversational. “May o
ne be permitted to enquire just how a debt of this size was incurred?”
The deep voice became accusing, outraged at this evident evasion. “You promised it, m’sieu.”
A slight frown crossed Huuygens’s face. There was something in the vibrant timbre of that heavy voice that teased his memory. Where in the devil had he heard that deep voice before? He shook his head, putting the thought aside for the moment, returning to the matter at hand.
“I did? Then one might think that I would recall the incident. I do not mean to boast, m’sieu, but I am normally quite conscientious about debts, even to grocers, tailors, and bars, and a million francs is a lot of money. I am also quite conscientious about promises, although in general I try to contain them to fairly reasonable amounts.” He shook his head, smiling faintly. “No, m’sieu, I’m afraid you must be mistaken. Or possibly you have the wrong person.”
The voice hardened threateningly. “Don’t try to deny it, Huuygens! It was you, and you did promise it!”
The man at the desk refused to lose his equanimity; the call was beginning to be entertaining. He tugged at his earlobe a moment. “I hesitate to doubt your word, m’sieu, but possibly it might help if you were kind enough to refresh my failing memory. Just when did I promise this amazing sum? And, of course, why did I promise it? And—” his finger dropped from his earlobe to trail lazily along the telephone cord, his voice remained suave “—it would, quite naturally, help to know to whom I promised it.”
There was another deep, audible breath at the other end of the line. “You promised it to me, m’sieu. To be completely factual, you promised it to any one of several of us, but I’m the one that’s claiming it. As to when—” for the first time the voice exhibited hesitancy, as if wondering whether the evidence it was about to offer would be believed “—well, I’ll admit it was a long time ago.…”
“Just how long ago?” Kek asked pleasantly.
“Well, almost twelve years ago, as a matter of fact——”
“Twelve years?” The faint, slightly sardonic smile on the face of the man at the desk faded, to be replaced by a frown. He dropped his knee from the edge of the desk and leaned forward, his manner more alert. Where had he been twelve years ago? And where in the devil had he heard that voice before?
“Where did all this take place?”
“Well,” said the deep voice reflectively, “to be exact, it was in the Auvergnes, in the foothills back of Allanche, leading up to Mont Du. And it took place on a rainy, terrible, uncomfortable day; and we were all trying to squeeze ourselves into a cave—if one could not be accused of gross exaggeration in calling that miserable, muddy depression a cave—and you were messing about with the radio.…”
Huuygens leaned forward, his gray eyes wide now in excitement, his strong hand gripping the receiver almost fiercely. Of course that deep voice had sounded familiar! Even after all these years, how could he have ever forgotten that voice! My God, was it possible?
“André! André! It’s you!”
“Kek, Kek!” The deep voice was now laughing. “I was afraid there for a moment that your memory of old friends might be as poor as your memory of old promises. However.…” In his mind’s eye Huuygens could see the huge man at the other end of the line raising his wide shoulders in a humorous shrug, could see one mammoth hand come up to stroke the thick mustache in delight. “However, if you don’t want to pay your million-franc debt, I don’t suppose there’s much I can do about it.” The voice paused as if considering possible alternatives. “I’ll tell you what—would you consider settling for a drink instead? If I make it something inexpensive?”
“André, you fool! You clown! You actor!” Kek grinned at the telephone in pure enjoyment. “What a performance! I told you years ago you were wasting your talents! How have you been? And where in the devil have you been? And what are you doing in Lisbon?”
“Trying to make a living,” André explained easily. “Unfortunately, a lot of other people here have the same ambition, although I can’t imagine why. I’ve been here for years. Doing what? Well, a little of this and a little of that. And even less of succeeding,” he added, as if wishing to be honest about it. “This is a lovely town, Kek, and the weather and women are incomparable. I can see why ex-kings and dictators come here to retire. But I don’t recommend it for anyone who wants to work up to eating regularly.”
Huuygens leaned on his elbow, shaking his head in wonder, marveling at hearing from André after all these years. One hand pushed through his thick hair and then pressed against his scalp, trying to force the marvel of it through his head.
“My God, it’s good to hear your voice again! How many years has it been? Twelve, you say? Yes, I suppose it actually was. 1942.… Time doesn’t fly, it disappears! The last time I saw you—yes, I guess it was that night in the cave. I tried to find all of you later, but they had me chasing around with that damned radio all over the Midi. Or another radio equally damned, all over some other place. Whatever happened to the others? To Georges? And Michel?”
“Michel is here in Lisbon—a big wheel in the police department, yet! Can you imagine it? Michel? But he is.… He’s assistant to the chief of detectives, if you can believe it. In fact, he’s become a Portuguese citizen. After what happened to his wife, he didn’t want to stay in France, and one has to live somewhere. He——”
Kek frowned. “What happened to his wife?”
“You didn’t hear? No, I guess not. I heard you went to America right after the war. Well, what happened was that after the war they shaved her head, and I guess she didn’t like it.” The deep voice was even, conversational. “Anyway, that night she went into the bathroom and cut her throat. Not her wrists, mind you, but her throat.…”
“My God!”
“Yes,” André said quietly. “It isn’t easy to cut your throat. Not and do a decent job. Yet I understand this was an excellent job. Almost professional. However—” he took a deep breath and continued “—anyway, as I was saying, after that Michel came to Lisbon. And has done very well. In fact, he was invited to this party, and he’s the one—but I’ll tell you about that later.” The heavy voice paused and then continued soberly. “And Georges? He died. Yes. Back there in the Auvergnes. I thought you must have known.”
Huuygens stared at the instrument in his hand with clouded eyes. He hadn’t known, but he shouldn’t have been surprised. That night in the damp cave had left Georges feverish, wandering in his thoughts, a very sick man. Now that he recalled, they had been forced to abandon Georges the following morning or none of them would have lived. And he, of course, had his instructions to deliver the radio to the group at Mauriac, over the summit of Mont Du. And had never seen the others after that night. So Georges had died …!
“Of pneumonia?”
“Of bullets. The Boches saw him crawling on the trail and they shot him. Maybe they thought he was a rabbit. A rabbit carrying a rifle.” André’s voice was flat, cold. “As you say, it was a long time ago. I think we should not have left him, though.”
“We had no choice.”
“I also agree with that. We had no choice. And it was his decision, he was the group leader. However!” The deep voice dropped the subject with the one word, coming back to the present, becoming lighter, relegating the bitter, frustrating memory of Georges dead on the trail to the dim past where it belonged. “You know, Kek, I had no idea I’d actually be able to get in touch with you, but I thought it worth a try.”
“And I’m glad you did. My God, I’m glad you did! You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice again, after all these years. When are you coming to Paris?”
“Paris?” There was a sharp bark of sardonic laughter. “I’m afraid I’m not as subtle as you in this business of outwitting the customs guards. They still have a warrant out for me in Paris. Some matter of smuggling cigarettes, back in the days when smuggling cigarettes was still a profitable affair—which will give you some idea of how long ago it was. And how long the miserabl
e flics can hold a grudge.” The voice became pensive, thoughtful. “Today, of course, tobacco companies spend a fortune in advertising just to get people to take the unhealthy things off the shelves.” The voice changed again, becoming philosophical. “Ah, well, that’s the way it goes. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time—with the wrong product.”
Huuygens grinned affectionately. André hadn’t changed a bit. “Well, we’ll just have to get together someplace else, then. By the way, how did you manage to get in touch with me? Where did you get my unlisted telephone number?”
“Kek, Kek! You’re famous, my boy! Or infamous, if you prefer. In my circles you are not only well known, but also highly considered, and—to be honest—exceedingly envied. Any man who has been able to.…” The deep voice suddenly paused—when it spoke again all lightness and frivolity had disappeared. “By the way, Kek—are you sure your apartment isn’t bugged?”
“Bugged?”
“That’s an American expression which is taking its rightful place in the languages of the world,” André said, but without any attempt at humor. “I mean, is your telephone tapped?”
Huuygens laughed aloud. “This is still France and not America, André. You’ve been away so long you’ve forgotten. The flics will follow you on the street, they will burst in on you at the most embarrassing moments, they will drag you in for an interrogation at the drop of a hat and question you with a baton, but tap your telephone? Never! It would be a denial of personal liberty.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Why?”
“All right, then. I was explaining about the telephone number, and I was about to say that in my circles you are quite well known. Any man who has been able to constantly tweak the noses of the douanes is a hero to the people I associate with. And me? Well, I’m just in the lower echelon of the business—the labor end, you might say, instead of the executive—but at least I’ve managed enough connections to get your telephone number when I need it.”
The Hochmann Miniatures Page 3