The Hochmann Miniatures

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Damn that Morell! he thought bitterly. How many more people will Gruber pay before he decides it’s just too much? I should never have taken Michel to that dinner party in the first place; I should have known he’d eventually get bright ideas and try to be cute! Anyone who professes honesty and dedication to the law the way he does is the last one on earth to be trusted. Especially with his history. His wife a suicide? What a joke! Damn him, damn him anyway! I wonder how high his price will be to keep his mouth shut? And will Gruber pay? Or will it have to come out of my pocket …?

  6

  The house which Senhor Enrique Echavarria—ex-General Wilhelm Wolfgang Gruber—had chosen for his exile was located at the end of a slightly curving, long avenue in the Bairro da Boa Vista, at the northern edge of the Parque Florestal de Monsanto, one of the more exclusive—and therefore safer—sections of Lisbon. The house itself was neither exceptionally spacious nor particularly grand, but it was a well-built home of weathered stone and proven shingled roof, and it did offer the seclusion of extensive gardens and thick stands of trees. It was further protected by a high stone wall that ran around three sides of the rectangular property and was topped by several strands of barbed wire, discreetly hidden in the ivy. While such added security was rarely seen in this new days of universal brotherhood and trust, it was still quite satisfactory to his neighbors, since they, too, preferred privacy. In all honesty it was a quite adequate abode in a carefully selected neighborhood, chosen well before the actual need for it had arisen, and Gruber never failed to congratulate himself on his foresight in having arranged it.

  A short driveway ran from the side of the house, ending in a large wrought-iron gate which, Camargo knew, was always kept locked. He noted the automobile of ancient vintage pulled to one side, and the absence of the small sports car that usually shared the driveway; so the Senhora was out, but the person he wished to see was available.

  He parked his car, descended, searched for and found the old-fashioned bellpull set in a tangle of vines on one post, and tugged at it impatiently. There was a movement at one of the windows, the hint of a curtain being drawn aside and then replaced, and a few moments later a heavyset man dressed in the leather jacket and apron of the Portuguese man-servant came from the house. He recognized his visitor and unlatched the gate, stood aside almost at military attention while the other entered, locked the gate once again, and then led the way into the house without a word.

  In the hallway the servant paused long enough to tilt his head abruptly in the direction of the library, and then disappeared toward the kitchen in the rear. Camargo moved down the carpeted hallway and turned into the library. He paused a moment to adjust his eyesight; despite the bright morning sunlight outside, the room was shadowed by a stand of leafy trees that hugged the windows, bending low as if attempting to peer within. A man arose from a desk at the far end of the room and moved forward.

  He was a tall, thin man who walked with a stiff military stride that no amount of practice had been able either to overcome or disguise. His sharp features still exhibited traces of their once-youthful handsomeness, although tiny scars at the nose and mouth proclaimed to the trained eye the passage at some time of the surgeon’s knife. The result would have made many of his past victims laugh—if it had not made them want to cry—for Gruber now sported a nose that more than hinted at being Hebraic in origin. It was very nearly the nose he himself had once held up as the only proof necessary to merit extinction in the ovens. His thin wedge-shaped face was topped by thinning hair, dyed an impossible black, and the Hitler mustache he had once worn proudly was now trimmed to the hairline favored by the Iberians.

  He moved down the length of the room, coming into the stronger light near the doorway, and brought one hand up jerkily like a toy soldier performing a movement, thrusting it out.

  “Orlando. You’re well, I hope.” It was not a question. The cold politeness of the slightly harsh voice made no more attempt to disguise its underlying concern at the unexpected visit than it did to sound even faintly interested in the other’s well-being. For a moment Camargo felt a touch of resentment, then he forced it away.

  “I’m fine.” He shook the outstretched hand and felt it withdrawn almost at once; he allowed himself to be led to a divan against one wall and seated. Gruber sank down in an armchair opposite him, staring at him with eyes that Camargo suddenly noted as being green. Odd, he thought; I would have sworn they were blue. He caught himself, remembering his manners. “And you? And your Senhora?”

  Gruber waved a languid hand in disinterest. “Out shopping. One of these days Hans will simply have to learn to drive.” He dismissed the question, calmly studying the tense face before him. “And just what brings you here?”

  “I.…” Camargo hesitated.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “No. I.…”

  Gruber’s voice became slightly impatient, the voice of a staff officer speaking to an enlisted man about some minor request. “Come, man! What’s the trouble?”

  Camargo took a deep breath. “Do you remember a man called Morell? Michel Morell? My assistant, actually.…”

  Gruber nodded, his blue-green eyes narrowing slightly, becoming even greener. “I remember him quite well. You brought him to our last dinner party.” His tone seemed to indicate that if anything unfortunate came of that encounter, the one who would suffer for it would be Camargo. “Why?”

  “Well.…” Camargo looked about the room, searching for inspiration, finding none. The figures in the tapestry on the wall across from him stared back with impersonal disinterest. They seemed to be saying that in their time they had looked down on more authentic martyrs. His eyes came back to his host unhappily.

  “Well, we were having breakfast today—we usually meet at Celotto’s in the morning—and he began this long-winded conversation about this man Huuygens, and then——”

  Gruber frowned. “Who?”

  “Kek Huuygens. He’s a man who—well, never mind. He has nothing to do with it in any event. He was just Morell’s way of leading up to the subject. The point is.…” Camargo hesitated once again.

  One of Gruber’s well-kept hands came up.

  “Start at the beginning and tell me the whole story,” he said evenly, his eyes fixed on the other’s face. “Word for word. Everything Morell said, everything you said. Apparently something he said upset you, and even more apparently, it seems to involve me. So I want it all. Complete and in sequence.”

  The stocky Camargo seemed relieved to be able to tell the story from the beginning, almost as if it somehow removed him from any complicity in the event, making him merely a spectator rather than a participant. Several times during the detailed account Gruber closed his eyes to concentrate better, and then opened them at once, preferring to watch the heavy face of the man across from him during the recital. In general, Camargo thought, relieved, he’s taking the threat to his well-being rather better than I thought.

  He came to the end of his account and hesitated a moment. He had been leaning forward, speaking in the steady, clipped tones of one accustomed to making detailed verbal reports; now he shifted himself back in his chair, seeming to feel that a personal observation was needed to complete the story and balance it off.

  “I’m sure that Morell simply wants some money,” he said, and was surprised to find Gruber smiling at him in a curious fashion. He frowned. “He must want money. Why else …?”

  “Why else, indeed?” Gruber asked a bit absently, and his smile widened. “I think I should like to meet this Morell once again. In fact, under the circumstances, I think I should like to meet him as soon as possible. You will arrange it?”

  “Of course, but——”

  “Actually,” Gruber continued smoothly, “I would suggest you telephone him now, asking him to come out here. Immediately.” He raised a hand. “You need not be here when he arrives. You might find it to be—ah—embarrassing.…”

  The expression on Camargo’s face indicate
d his doubts as to the wisdom of the idea, but he came to his feet dutifully, moving to the desk in the corner. He raised the instrument, dialed, waited a few moments, and then spoke into it quietly. When he had finished he replaced the receiver and returned.

  “He’ll be here in a few minutes—as soon as his driver comes back from an errand.”

  “Thank you,” Gruber said, and came to his feet, his abruptness indicating the end of the interview. Camargo frowned down at the floor, dubious about leaving without all the finer details arranged.

  “I shouldn’t give him too much money,” he said. “I can bring some pressure on him, if necessary. And also, despite his talk, I don’t believe he would actually say.…”

  “Actually say anything to harm me?” Gruber’s faint smile turned cruel. “I hope not. I should hate to think that any person you brought to my home would treat my hospitality so poorly.” His hand came up rigidly, held out. “Goodby. Thank you for coming.”

  There was the sound of the door in the front hallway being opened and then closed. A moment later a woman passed down the hallway and then paused at the library entrance, glancing in. Gruber smiled.

  “Come in, my dear. You remember Captain Braz Camargo, I’m sure. He stopped by for a moment, but he’s just leaving.”

  The woman stepped forward, holding out one hand. Camargo bent over it; it seemed odd to him that the small hand was so cold, considering the heat of the day. He straightened up, feeling as always a touch of envy that an automation like Gruber should be the possessor of anyone this young, this beautiful, and obviously so much more blessed with finer sensibilities.

  “Senhora,” he said politely, and stepped away.

  Jadzia nodded, her eyes studying his face for the purpose behind his visit. “Senhor,” she said, equally polite, and waited until he had turned to shake hands one last time with Gruber. “Hans will show you out,” she said, and turned. Hans was standing silently at the doorway, his face a mask; Camargo would have sworn that nobody had called the servant. “And Hans,” the woman added coolly, “there are some things in the car.…”

  Their visitor followed the servant down the shadowed hallway. Jadzia moved further into the room and sank down gracefully on the divan. She studied the enigmatic smile on her husband’s face a moment and then frowned slightly.

  “And why,” she asked, her musical voice curiously muted, “should Captain Camargo be visiting us? Without being invited?”

  She had spoken in German. Gruber dropped into a chair opposite her, and leaned forward. He grinned; it split his thin face wolfishly. “To bring us good news, although he doesn’t know it. He’s somewhat of a fool, Camargo.…” His grin disappeared as suddenly as it had come. His green eyes fixed themselves on his wife’s face, reveling as always in her cool beauty, the fine features, and the fire he knew too well lay beneath. “Just how long have you hated living in Lisbon, Jadzia?”

  “How long?” She studied him evenly, and then shrugged lightly. “How long has it been that we’ve lived here? Virtual prisoners?” She thought a moment and then nodded, satisfied that her answer had been accurate. “That’s how long——”

  “Prisoners, yes,” Gruber admitted. “But you far less than me. At least you’ve been able to get about with the car in the daytime; I’ve had to stay inside this house except for a few excursions at night.…” He bit back the rest of his complaint, realizing the uselessness of such discussion, and returned to the point, watching his wife’s face with a touch of triumph. “We may be able to leave Portugal, possibly.…”

  The girl sat up; for the first time a touch of animation came to the lovely face. “Do you mean it? Do you really mean it? And go to Brazil? In Brazil, I could—” the animation suddenly disappeared, replaced by suspicion—“Is this another one of your grand illusions, Willi? Because if it is.…”

  “Grand illusion?” He shrugged, but his green eyes continued to glitter with excitement. “Maybe. But at least it’s a chance.” He clasped his thin fingers together, staring at her across the ridges. “There’s going to be a man here soon; you may remember him from our last party. His name is Morell, a Frenchman—without a country, like so many others we could name. But, unfortunately, no more sympathetic for that. In any event, he started to work on Camargo this morning; to try to get some money from me——”

  “He recognized you? At the party?”

  Gruber’s shoulders came up. “I don’t know, and I don’t think it’s too important. Obviously, he knows I’m not Spanish but German. Living here under a false name. Whether he recognized me as a person isn’t the point. What he did recognize was a chance to make some money.”

  Jadzia stared at the floor. “Those parties were a mistake.…”

  “I’m not so sure.” To her surprise, Gruber was smiling broadly. “But let me go on. This Morell had a wild story of trying to help me, but—forgetting all his protestations—what he was actually doing was threatening me. Threatening to report me to the United Nations commission looking for art objects lost—or stolen—during the war——”

  “What?” Her face had turned white.

  He held up a hand and shook his head. “No, my dear. Don’t worry. I’m quite sure the man had no real intention of doing anything of the sort. What would it gain him? No, he simply wants money. Like all the others. He’ll be here in a few minutes, and he’ll be handled easily enough. That isn’t the point.”

  “Then, what …?”

  Gruber’s smile remained; he leaned forward even more. “The point is far more delicate. When this Morell was talking to Camargo this morning, leading up to his blackmail attempt—because that’s what it was—he mentioned a man named Huuygens——”

  Jadzia frowned uncertainly. “Huuygens?”

  “That’s the way it sounded to me. Kek Huuygens, or something very like it.”

  “And who is he?”

  “I think he’s a man we can use,” Gruber said, and rubbed his hands together. “Camargo isn’t the brightest man on earth—and I doubt that this Morell is, considering the heavy-handed way he handled this matter—but still, bless them both, they gave me an idea. Morell merely mentioned this Huuygens as a means of leading up to his main purpose, but still——”

  “And just who is this Huuygens?”

  “Well,” Gruber said, “he’s apparently well known in the underworld as a man who makes his living taking things through customs. Things which customs normally wouldn’t allow.…”

  Jadzia studied his face a moment, and then shook her head. “I know what you mean, Willi, but I don’t like it. A man like that could never be trusted.”

  “Possibly not. On the other hand, possibly yes. His reputation seems to be that he can. For a price, of course, but it’s a price I’d be prepared to pay if it meant getting out of Portugal.” He came to his feet, beginning to pace the library, his thin hands clasped behind his back. He swung about and came back to the divan, frowning down at the woman seated there.

  “Unless we can take our things with us, of course, we can’t leave at all. We’re getting to the point, financially, where we will soon have to start selling things, and whether Camargo knows it or not, this Morell was telling the truth about this commission. I don’t mean they’re heading for Lisbon on the next plane, but it’s really only a matter of time. To sell anything, particularly at this time, would be extremely dangerous.” He thought a moment. “Also, of course, Lisbon today is probably the worst market in the world.”

  “I realize all these things,” Jadzia said patiently, “but I still think it would be very dangerous trusting something to a complete stranger, and a stranger who, by his profession, is patently a thief.”

  “Not a thief, my dear,” Gruber corrected gently. “An agent.” He paused and then smiled; the smile broadened as a further thought came to him. “As a matter of fact, I think I know how I can take steps to guarantee his honesty. At least in our case.”

  “And how would you do that?”

  Gruber shook his head.
“Don’t worry, it can be done.” He rubbed his hands together as he considered the idea that had struck him; the more he thought about it, the better he liked it.

  Jadzia shrugged. “And how would you get in touch with this man?”

  “Ah,” Gruber said, as if pleased that the question had been asked. “That is where our friend Morell comes in. This Huuygens—if he isn’t a figment of somebody’s imagination, and Camargo assures me he’s real enough—has to be able to be contacted somewhere, by someone. He could scarcely operate if nobody in the world could get in touch with him. And I’m sure that our wise Frenchman-without-a-country can manage it, if anyone can.”

  “Again for a price?”

  “Again for a price, yes. But.…” He shrugged. “He was expecting to be paid, and he will be. It will be a different service he performs, that’s all. I doubt that a man like Morell cares why he gets paid, as long as he does.” He took a deep breath, his eyes gleaming. “Once we get to Brazil, it will be worth it. Werner is there, and Egglehof, and—well, many of our old friends. Who know their way about.” He shook his head. “Imagine! To be able to walk the streets, even if it’s only a small village in the interior, to have friends who aren’t vultures like Morell and Camargo. Oh, yes; it will be worth it!”

  There was a faint tinkle from somewhere in the dim recesses of the house, like the muffled sound of a music box buried beneath pillows for the illicit enjoyment of some child. It was oddly pleasant in the musty room, and a moment later the shadow of Hans moved silently past the library door, a wraith destroying without intent the almost gay mood of the bell. Gruber swung about, his posture military, his green eyes alert.