“That will be Morell now, I should think.” He smiled down at the woman, a triumphant smile, revealing even, white teeth. “I think it would be best if I spoke to him alone.…”
7
Anita, her long blonde hair falling over her pretty face, brought her attention from the gay prints on the wall of Kek’s apartment back to her drink on the bar. She stared into its depths, wondering what there was about the placid gin and tonic that somehow failed to harmonize with her mood, and then suddenly reached out with a tinted fingernail to submerge one of the ice cubes. The drink responded by releasing hundreds of tiny bubbles. Satisfied, she swung about on her stool, looking at her companion with one of those bursts of inspiration that made her such an interesting and unpredictable girl.
“Kek! I have a wonderful idea!” She brought her drink up and sipped it impatiently, anxious to be done with it and return to her thesis. A frown crossed her face; she set her drink down and hurried on, anxious to correct any misinterpretation. “I don’t mean getting married.…”
Huuygens, sprawled comfortably in an easy chair and nursing a brandy, grinned at her. “Well, at least that’s a step in the right direction.”
“Yes.” Anita’s head bobbed. “This idea is much better. Why don’t I move in with you?” Kek’s eyes widened in shock that was only partially pretense; Anita hurried on, determined to get in all her ammunition before a cease-fire was unfairly declared.
“It’s a beautiful idea, Kek. Look.” She swung her hand about, encompassing the apartment. “Your maid has no idea of how to keep a house clean. If there were a woman here, she wouldn’t dare leave the kitchen the way she does or the bathroom. And I’m sure she hasn’t dusted properly in weeks.” She shook her head. “And your answering service? I’ll bet they make lots of mistakes, but if——”
Kek pretended to be stung. “My answering service is infallible.”
“Well—” Anita was reluctant to abandon any weapon. “—Maybe.…” She instantly attacked on another flank. “There’s something else: your maid doesn’t get here until ten in the morning——”
“Nine.”
“It’s still too late to make you breakfast. You have to make your own. And that’s——”
“I eat at the café downstairs.”
“But that’s just the point,” Anita said triumphantly, as if pleased that Kek was being so cooperative. “You shouldn’t. Restaurant food is—is—boring. Especially in the morning.” She took a quick sip of her drink and returned to the fray, refreshed. “Just think how nice it would be to have a hot breakfast waiting for you when you got up in the morning.…”
Kek shuddered. “All I can tolerate in the morning is coffee. Black.”
She shook her head with almost maternal pity. “It’s the very worst thing you could do. You should have something solid.”
He grinned. “Like you?”
Anita smiled, an enigmatic smile, like a cat dreaming of some hidden cache of mice. “That, too. And just think, you wouldn’t have to take me home at some ungodly hour of the morning, and then try and find a cab when it’s raining, halfway across the city——”
“You live exactly two blocks from here,” Kek pointed out.
“Well—I might move someday.…” She returned to her drink for comfort, pouting at it. “I still think it’s a wonderful idea. I could see that your laundry went out on time, and that you always had enough liquor in the house, and you know I’m a good cook, and if you were working on anything, I’d be as quiet as a mouse.…”
The gray eyes of the man in the chair twinkled. “You’re making me think I should hire you instead of my maid.”
Anita swung about, her pout instantly disappearing, replaced by a brilliant smile. “Kek! That’s a marvelous idea!” She considered it a moment, and then added thoughtfully, “We could keep Marie on, of course, to help me, and I could live in. It’s perfect.”
Kek shook his head in wonder. “Anita, you’re incorrigible.”
“Well,” Anita said, her tone accepting the logic of it, “if a woman is living with a man, I shouldn’t think he’d want her to be corrigible. At least not all the time.” She gave him her gamin grin, but there was more than a hint of seriousness behind it. “When would you like me to start?”
“I’d have to think about it, of course,” Kek said slowly. “One doesn’t change maids lightly. Not these days.”
“Not change,” Anita said firmly. “Supplement.”
“Even supplementing maids takes thought.”
“But you’ll think about it?”
“Definitely,” Kek said solemnly.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
Anita swung about on the upholstered stool several times, like a child at a soda fountain, her ankles neatly crossed, propelling herself with one hand on the bar. She brought herself to a stop and then folded her hands in her lap, looking at him almost demurely.
“Now, if I were living here, I could also be a sort of secretary for you. I don’t take shorthand, and I don’t type, but I could always learn. And even before I learned, I could be useful to you. I could remind you of things.…”
Kek grinned at her. “Such as my letting you know my decision?”
“Exactly.” Anita looked pleased at his complete grasp of the full potential of her suggested employment.
Kek shook his head slowly, and then raised his glass in a toast to her convoluted logic.
“You know, Anita,” he said with admiration, “I’m sure you’d get along fine in my business. No.…” He raised a hand quickly. “Don’t suggest a partnership. I have a feeling I’d end up being the junior partner.”
The telephone rang sharply before Anita could protest the unfairness of this statement; he drank the last of his brandy and leaned toward the desk at his side, exchanging the empty glass for the instrument. He brought it to his ear.
“Hello? Who? Yes, this is he.…” He cupped the receiver with one hand, looking at her over the rim. “Long distance.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
He shook his head. “And travel those two blocks halfway across the city to your apartment, alone and late at night? No. Besides, all good secretaries are confidential, if they’re anything at all. Instead of leaving, you can practice being a good maid. By getting me another drink, please.…”
She came down from her stool immediately, retrieved his glass, and returned to the bar. The instrument in Kek’s hand became alive, exchanging foreign languages in a bored fashion. The smile disappeared from his face at once, making it appear leaner, and somehow more predatory. He pulled himself erect in his chair.
“Hello? Yes, I’m still here. And I’m still M’sieu Huuygens.” There was a brief pause. “Hello?”
Anita poured a generous amount of brandy into the glass and brought it back, balancing it carefully, determined to deliver a glass of brandy as no other maid in the world could hope to deliver it. She placed it within reach on the desktop and stood back, watching him gravely. The complete change from the easygoing, laughing man who had been relaxing in the chair to the hard person bending almost fiercely over the telephone somehow made her feel happy. It was as if just being present at the metamorphosis bound them closer together. It was a feeling she could not have explained, even to herself, but she knew she reveled in it.
Huuygens took a deep breath, and expelled it abruptly as a voice came on. “Hello? André? What? I’m fine.” He brushed aside the other’s opening words impatiently. “Everyone’s fine, and I’m sure you are, too. Now—what else is new?”
At the other end of the connection, André debated whether to be cute or not, and finally settled on a line somewhere in between. He managed to sound curious. “Kek? Tell me something—how does one go about getting in touch with you? To offer you a job?”
There was a moment of silence, and then Huuygens closed his eyes, masking the sudden gleam of excited triumph that had appeared in them. He opened them almost at once, as if afraid
he might miss some of the beauty of the situation. Anita, watching him, felt a wave of tenderness at the thought that the man she loved could be so mercurial, so changeable. Huuygens chuckled softly.
“So it worked, eh?”
“Like chopped corn before a sow,” André said proudly. “Like a double dose of huile de ricin. Like a charm,” he added hastily, not wanting to be misunderstood. He grinned down at the instrument nestled in his massive hand. “Now, my friend, the problem is this—how does Michel manage to contact you?”
Kek’s chuckle grew to a laugh; he reached over with his free hand, retrieving his brandy and sipping it, savoring it. Anita stood patiently at one side, waiting until she could again prove useful. Kek returned the brandy glass to the desk, and then paid attention to the question, nodding.
“Well, now—certainly Michel would never disclose his methods of contacting a person. He’s far too experienced for that. I’d suggest he get in touch with me through devious channels and by employing mysterious means. If he thinks it will help, he can also use persons unknown.” He grinned. “Knowing Michel, I’m sure he’ll manage.”
“Good enough,” André said, satisfied. “I’ll tell him. He still isn’t too happy about this whole affair, you know, but he’s doing fine.”
“I never did believe he had completely forgotten that Boche lieutenant,” Huuygens said shrewdly. “What else?”
“Oh, yes. How long does it take these mysterious means and devious channels to get in touch with you? To locate you, that is? And also, of course, to interest you in a proposition?”
Huuygens pursed his lips, thinking. His gray eyes narrowed as he studied the question and came to a decision.
“Five days, I should say. Earlier than that, and it might appear that I was at the beck and call of any voleur—practically in the classified section of the telephone book, you might say. Later than five days, and the man might get the idea that I was too exclusive for his tastes, or that I didn’t exist at all. He might get impatient and look for another solution to his problem.” He paused a moment, thinking. “As to making the proposition interesting to me, I’m afraid that will have to wait. I don’t know what his problem is, so I can’t say how much it will cost to solve it. I’d suggest that Michel merely tell him that the fee will have to be discussed when I get there. I’d also suggest he could mention that, in any event, it won’t be cheap.”
“I’m sure,” André said, and grinned. “Punishment never is. One last thing: assuming it takes five days to get in touch with you, how much longer will it take for you to get here?”
“That depends. Not too long, I shouldn’t think. Two more days, probably, depending upon how far I have to travel, and what accommodations I’m able to make. If Michel were unfortunate enough to locate me in, say, Canada, or the Orient, it might be even longer.” His grin had returned; he was enjoying himself. “However, if he were lucky enough to find me closer—say in Paris—then I might be able to make it in as little as a day.”
“Let’s hope he’s lucky, then,” André said optimistically, and grinned. “Now let me try to translate that timetable. What you’re saying is that we’ll see you in about a week?”
“Right. I’ll call you when I’ve checked into a hotel. And thanks for the message.”
“De nada. Our service runs twenty-four hours a day.” André chuckled and hung up.
Kek placed the receiver back in its cradle and leaned forward, clasping his hands together, squeezing them tightly. He allowed them to relax and they sprang apart, almost by themselves. He came to his feet, beginning to stride up and down restlessly, as if resenting the necessity of delaying the start of action as much as six or seven days, even though he knew his decision to postpone his arrival in Lisbon that long had been the correct one. He suddenly paused, staring at the rug without seeing it. In six days, then, he would see Jadzia.… What would be her reaction? More important, what would be his own? He put the thought away, forcing it out of his mind. There would be time enough to think about that in the next week.
He swung about and found himself facing Anita; a chill came over the girl as she saw the way his eyes had unconsciously widened, as if he had completely forgotten her presence. She tried to smile bravely, although she was trembling inside.
“Kek? You’re going away?”
Huuygens nodded. “In about a week.”
“Where?”
“To Lisbon.”
“And will you be gone long?”
He shrugged and took a deep breath, his eyes suddenly gleaming. “A week, probably, if all goes well.” The gleam faded. “Or less, if it doesn’t.…”
Anita studied his face with worry. “But I thought—I mean, you said that the customs—I mean, will they let you go?”
Kek suddenly grinned. “You mean the business of the chocolates? Oh, yes! I even received a formal apology from them, although I’m afraid it was given a bit grudgingly. But it was given, which is what counts.” He looked at her a moment as if seeing her for the first time, and then snapped his fingers. “How would you like to go out dancing? It’s not too late.”
“If you wish,” she said in a tiny voice.
“I wish,” he said, and placed a finger under her chin, raising her head, staring into her troubled eyes. “As a matter of fact, I wish very much. And when I come back from Lisbon, I’ll bring you——”
“Don’t bring me chocolates. Don’t bring me anything.” Her eyes looked deep into his. “Just bring me back yourself.”
Kek laughed. “All right,” he said, equably, and raised his shoulders. “Although, to be honest, I have as much trouble getting that through customs as anything else.…”
BOOK THREE
8
From the safe height of the Air France Viscount, Kek Huuygens stared thoughtfully out of the window; a brandy—his third in the short time since leaving Paris—stood on the small tray before him, and a cigarette burned steadily in his fingers. In the distance the hazy horizon seemed marked by a gentle curve; he smiled to himself a bit grimly. There was an old proverb: The world turns, but it also returns. In a few hours a world he had thought dead and buried would return, if only for a few days. And just how would he utilize that remarkable resurrection? He crushed out his cigarette, finished his brandy, and watched the well-formed stewardess remove the glass and tray. Don’t think about what is coming up, he said to himself; don’t waste the time. Take it step by step. When the proper hour comes, you’ll know what to do.
He relaxed and stared down, content to admire the beauty of the scene. The shallow sandbars north of Lisbon had turned the blue ocean into a series of white-capped waves reeling drunkenly toward the shore; they looked, from the air, like a lace-edged skirt flapping in the breeze from some huge, cosmic clothesline. Beyond the wide beach the white apartments and hotels of Estoril stood in even, geometric rows, glistening in the early morning sun.
The plane banked steeply, dropping lower, and the broad Tejo itself was beneath them. The Tower of Belém slid past, foreshortened, and then the tiny docks harboring toy ships; a second sharp bank and the city, sheltered in its irregular amphitheater of hills, drifted below. Through the leafy cover of trees the boulevards could be seen, and then the growing height of the apartments along the Avenida Gago Coutinho. The plane whined in protest as its wheels descended, grunted as they locked in place, and then spread its flaps philosophically, checking its headlong rush. The stained concrete runway of Portela airport hastily rose to meet it. Kek unbuckled his seatbelt and stared through the window as the plane wheeled to a stop before the administration building. Lisbon. Step Three …
The apron baked in the bright sun. The passengers descended the metal steps cautiously, blinking at the dazzling glare, and then moved gratefully to the welcome shade of the building, herded by a young girl in uniform. Huuygens undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie a trifle, taking his place in the ragged queue that had formed before the first desk. He brought his passport from an inner pocket
, holding it in his hand for presentation. The line shuffled forward; passports were examined, stamped, and returned. He found himself at the desk and handed the green booklet over; the official before him exhibited neither curiosity nor delay. The stamp rose and fell; the cold eye of the official passed on to the next passenger. The uniformed man might have been a machine stamping labels on bottles as they moved evenly down a conveyor.
Kek shrugged. He allowed the police to add their stamp to the growing collection with an equal lack of interest, and then tucked the booklet into his pocket for easy access and followed the others into the customs section. The passengers here, released from the restrictions of the queue, were scattered along the barrier, searching out their luggage, waving at friends beyond the guarded doorway, attempting to attract the attention of any one of the inspectors, all of whom were grouped about a desk in the center of the room, seemingly shuffling declaration forms as a means of postponing release of the prisoners as long as possible. Huuygens noted his lone piece of luggage at the very end of the low counter, set apart from the others. He smiled slightly with an awareness of history, and moved up to it; an inspector detached himself from the group at the desk and came over immediately, accepting the proffered passport. The briefest of glances and it was immediately returned; even before Huuygens could unfasten the latch of the bag, a chalkmark had been scribbled on the leather, and the inspector had retired without looking back, almost as if he were being chased. Kek’s eyebrows rose; he smiled in appreciation. In this untidy world in which we live, he thought, it is truly pleasant to encounter good organization once in a while. Pleasant, but also thought-provoking.
He stopped in the main lobby of the airport long enough to exchange some francs for escudos, using the opportunity to scan the faces about him, but they all exhibited the normal blank self-concern of any group of strangers preoccupied with their own affairs. He surrendered his bag to a porter and followed him to the taxi-rank.
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