“Why you’re still with Gruber?”
She seemed to like the question. “Yes. Here in Lisbon. Trapped here in Lisbon——”
“Trapped? Do you mean by me?”
A bitter smile crossed her face. She pulled her hand from his and unconsciously smoothed her skirt. “By everything. By not being able to leave this country without—” the thought automatically led to another; she looked at him curiously, almost calculatingly “—Kek Huuygens … so you really are Kek Huuygens … I read the reports the police gave Willi on you. Did you really do all the things they say you did?”
He smiled faintly. “I don’t know what they say I did.”
“They say you have no nerves. They say you can.…” She paused a moment, and then plunged directly to the heart of her problem; it was as if she could not help herself. “The paintings; you saw them this morning. They’re all we—I, have, Mietek. If they can’t be brought safely out of Portugal into Brazil——”
“What about the miniatures?”
“The miniatures?” She looked confused by the change in subject. “Do you mean the miniatures we had at home? Papa’s collection?” She shook her head. “Those were destroyed. Years ago, early in the war. The whole house was destroyed.”
She’s telling the truth as she sees it, Kek suddenly thought. She doesn’t know. Did Gruber keep them a secret from her purposely? Or does he actually think they aren’t that important?
She was looking at him curiously. “What made you ask about them?”
He shrugged. “Only that they were valuable.”
She nodded. “I know. Willi says the other paintings are valuable, too. He got them in various places; he was always bringing one or two back from places he visited. He says that in Brazil.…” She stopped suddenly, and then stared at Kek. “You hate him, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“But it was the war, don’t you see? It was the war. In a war people kill other people, it doesn’t mean.…” She saw the look in his eyes and suddenly remembered his parents. She stopped and took a deep breath. “May I have a brandy, please?”
He looked at her in surprise. “Of course.”
“And a cigarette, please.”
He reached around, poured a drink, and handed it to her, then held a match as she drew on the cigarette. She drained the drink quickly, as if it were medicine, and then puffed nervously on the cigarette a few moments before crushing it out in an ashtray. She kept her head averted as she asked her next question. Her voice was low.
“You hate me, too. Don’t you?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I’ve never hated you.”
“I’m glad.”
There was a brief light in her eyes that disappeared as quickly as it had come. She stared down at the rug a moment and then raised her eyes, intent on his understanding the importance of her plight.
“Mietek, I have to get out of Portugal. I can’t stand it any more. Those paintings—what they represent—are my only hope. If there’s any trouble, if you do anything foolish now, and the police are involved in any way, it would ruin everything.” She waited for him to speak, and then went on with a touch of bitterness.
“You don’t know what it is to be in a place you hate, a place you hate because it’s like a dungeon you can’t leave. Oh, yes, I have a car, and I leave the house—I have to or I’d go mad—but do you know how far I’ve been from the house since I’ve been here? Not even to Estoril! I go out shopping, or I drive around the park sometimes, but that’s all. This is the second time in over eight years I’ve ever been in the center of the city.” She shrugged. “Even Willi goes out sometimes in his car—he’s afraid that mine would draw unwelcome attention to him. At night, he drives around the park, looking down on the city, and then comes home to hide.”
Her eyes were brooding; she leaned forward, staring at him. “And the people we see; we talk to? We occasionally eat with? Only people who are safe. Policemen that don’t dare say a word, or they’ll lose what Willi gives them to keep quiet. Government officials who pretend they’re in sympathy, but really laugh at us, I think, while they take all they can get. And their fat wives——”
“And Hans.”
“And Hans. He was a sergeant major, would you know it?” She shook her head. “And even Hans only stays because the cars will be his to sell, once we leave. His name is on the list, too.…”
She reached for his hand again; the brandy seemed to have warmed her, to have brought some life back into her. She gripped his hand strongly, the fingers of one hand stroking the back of his; she bent toward him, her perfume suddenly heady.
“Mietek—you’ve got to help me. You’re the only one that can. Those paintings are my only hope, they’ve got to get into Brazil safely. Do you understand?” She watched him carefully, and then continued, speaking slowly. “Willi isn’t the only one who knows the people in Brazil who will buy them. I also know who they are and where they are. I also know how to contact them.…”
He studied her almost clinically. “Do I understand you? You mean, get them into Brazil, with or without Willi?”
“Yes.” Her voice was emotionless; only the brightness of her eyes betrayed her tenseness. “Yes. With or without Willi.…”
He leaned back, his gray eyes half closed. “I see.”
“I knew you would.…” She bent forward suddenly, drawing him toward her, pressing her lips on his mouth lightly at first, but then with mounting pressure. Her lips opened; her sharp teeth bit down softly on his lip, and then she pushed him away, coming to her feet quickly, purposefully. She stripped her jacket from her, and then her blouse, dropping them to the floor; her eyes were bright with excitement, fixed almost hypnotically on his. She seated herself on the bed and then allowed herself to fall back; her green eyes were almost black with emotion. Her hair spread out across the white bedspread like an opened fan, framing her lovely face.
“Mietek, come here.…”
He knelt by the bed, almost unconscious of his actions, his mind blank to everything but her presence there. She drew his head to her full breasts, arching her back convulsively as his lips touched her, and then reached for his hand, pulling it with urgency to her thigh, pressing it tightly with her tense fingers.
“Touch me, Mietek; touch me, touch me.…” There was a thickness in her voice, an almost drunken abandon, but there was also an underlying thread of triumph. “Oh, Mietek, Mietek, oh, my darling Mietek.…”
The plan came to him in the night, almost complete in detail.
He had half wakened and turned on his side, unconsciously reaching for the warm body that had locked with his in such frenzied passion that afternoon. His hand encountered only the bare sheet; the perfume Jadzia had worn still clung sweetly to the pillow as witness that it had not been just a dream.
He rolled over, clasping his arms behind his head, staring up at a ceiling only faintly visible in the moonlight that glanced in the open window. Other than the pure animal pleasure of satiated completion that he felt, his mind was deliciously empty. And that nature which abhors a vacuum filled it at once with a plan.
It did not greatly surprise him. Ideas came to him with considerable ease, and often at unpredictable times, and he never argued with the quirk in his mental processes that made it possible. Nor did he ever explore too deeply which particular circumstance actually triggered the flow of ideas.
He knew, of course, that with this scheme he would have to be more exigent; but he also knew, almost instinctively, that the basic idea was a good one. There were obviously many details to be worked out carefully and intelligently; facts to be remembered and others to be obtained—such as the direction in which the ornate wrought-iron gate swung, and to what extent he could depend upon André. Or Michel, who might be called upon, almost certainly without his own knowledge. There was a great deal to do, but bedtime was not the time to do it, nor bed the proper place in which to do it. Especially not this bed, with its host of contradictory memor
ies.
With or without Willi, eh? Sweet girl.…
Tomorrow morning would do to start work. He nodded to himself, pleased that at last he had a working basis for the operation, and then rolled over, closing his eyes. A faint smile touched his lips as a final thought came before sleep claimed him again.
With or without Willi, eh? Hardly a choice.…
11
By noon the ashtray had been filled and emptied several times into the wastebasket beneath the desk, but the brandy bottle had not been touched. The remains of several pots of coffee and three sandwiches accounted for both his breakfast and his lunch. Twice, the comely camarera had been sent away when she came to straighten out the room, and even now was petulantly sorting linens in the tiny closet at the end of the hall, wondering unhappily just what there was about her to cause the handsome gentleman in 607 to remain a gentleman.
Kek crushed out his cigarette and leaned over, studying the final list on his desk, the result of hours of untiring thought. He lit another cigarette automatically and came to his feet, moving to the window, staring down unseeingly. His mind checked each of the many steps of the plan, going over them for the tenth time or more, reviewing the timetable he had established, trying to find some fault, some chink in the unassailable and inevitable logic of the scheme. He could find none. There were always, he knew, unknown factors that cropped up unexpectedly; these would have to be dealt with at the moment, as best they could. The mark of success was nearly always the ability to handle such unknown factors smoothly and without panic. But far more important was to arrange things so that something that should have been foreseen and calculated did not suddenly appear as a surprise.
He turned back to his desk, dropping into the chair there, frowning at the list once again, and then nodded decisively. It was a good plan, with every opportunity of success, and he had studied it long enough. It was now time to put it into practice. With the feeling of relief that always came at this stage of a job, he crumpled the paper and applied a match to it, placing it in the ashtray to burn itself out, and then mixing the still-warm ashes with the matchstick.
The telephone rang; he tossed the matchstick on top of the other debris in the ashtray and reached over to pick up the receiver.
“Hello? Yes?”
“M’sieu Huuygens?” The question was obviously rhetorical, or the caller would not have continued. “This is Senhor Echavarria.…” The guttural voice was without emotion. “Do you have any news?”
“News?”
“How are your plans going?”
Kek smiled faintly, staring at the still-smoking ashes. He reached out and retrieved the matchstick, stirring them a bit more. “Very well.”
“Good! And do you have any idea yet as to how long it will be until.…” The voice trailed off significantly.
Huuygens closed his eyes, pictured the timetable a moment, and then reopened them. “At the moment it’s a bit difficult to say, exactly. It depends to a large degree on what I am able to accomplish today. My visa will be ready tomorrow, but there’s also the question of selecting the right—transportation.…”
“Of course.”
“Still, I hope we may be able to finalize our business on Friday.”
“In four days? So soon?” The guttural voice sounded surprised.
Kek assumed a cold tone. “Time is money, m’sieu. As it is, I shall have to spend a week in travel that I had not originally calculated.”
Gruber hurried to clarify his position. “I’m not objecting to the time, I was merely rather amazed. For me, the sooner the better. Would you suggest I call you on Thursday, then? In the evening?”
“That would be fine. By then I should be able to give you the exact time.”
“Good. And now that that’s out of the way,” Gruber continued smoothly, “I might mention that my wife informs me that she met you yesterday. And seemed quite convinced that you are the ideal man for the—ah, the assignment.”
“Oh?” Kek sounded noncommittal, but he frowned, wondering what the other was leading up to.
“Yes. She also appeared to be quite attracted to you,” Gruber went on, and suddenly chuckled. The chuckle disappeared as if swallowed, replaced by the original suave tone. “Quite enthusiastic. You would have to know my wife better to realize how rare that is with her. Unfortunately.…” His voice trailed off apologetically.
Kek waited a moment and then spoke. “Unfortunately what, m’sieu?”
Gruber appeared to change the subject. “From your conversation of yesterday, m’sieu, it occurs to me you are undoubtedly planning on transporting the—ah, the merchandise—on a carrier that might not have proper accommodations for a lady.” He coughed diffidently. “Also, of course, Friday is a bit sooner than we had originally thought. I’m afraid my wife will not be able to—to——”
“You mean, will not be able to accompany us?”
“Exactly! She could join me—us, that is—later. There are many things she could find to do around the house.” A further thought struck Gruber, an argument possibly even more convincing. “I also imagine it might ease your problem somewhat if fewer people were involved in your travel arrangements——”
“Changing my plans every five minutes scarcely eases my problem!” Kek made no attempt to hide his irritation. He waited a few seconds and then went on, making a concession. “However, I haven’t gotten along so far that it seriously upsets anything. If that is the way you prefer it——”
“Fine! I appreciate your cooperation, m’sieu. I honestly think it would be much better this way. For all of us. I’ll call you on Thursday, then. Until then, m’sieu.…” The telephone was disconnected with a soft click.
Huuygens hung up slowly. He could almost see the other man leaning back in his chair in the dim library, a wolfish grin of satisfaction on his lips. The thought brought a similar smile to his own; the smile grew to a laugh. In his mind he mentally crossed off the first item on the list he had just burned. Thanks to Gruber, it would not be necessary for him to devise some argument to prevent Jadzia from accompanying them. That had been part of the scheme, a necessary part to clear his conscience, and Gruber—dear, jealous, stupid Gruber—had been kind enough to do it for him. He came to his feet and reached for his jacket, winking at himself grimly in the mirror as he pulled it on and walked to the door with a smile.
If our friends cooperate with me as well as our enemies, he thought, and if I handle my part of the scheme properly, this thing may work out very well indeed.…
The afternoon, as he had anticipated, was a busy one. To begin with, he stopped at a stationer’s shop and bought a large pad of red-edged gummed labels, all blank, a roll of transparent tape, a metal rule, and also a small bottle of marking ink, a fine brush, several packages of tissue paper, and a plastic bag of the type used for airplane travel in which to carry the other items. After the stationer’s shop, he next visited a small job-printing house in the neighborhood, where he had the gummed labels printed to his direction. Then, almost as an afterthought, he asked the man to print him some business cards.
The legend that Kek produced for the printer to copy indicated that his name was Sr. Enrique Echavarria, and that he enjoyed the position of managing director of the Banco Internacional Económica of Madrid. The printer, a young man with far more important matters on his mind, gave no particular thought to the routine request, but set the type and went to work. Huuygens, waiting at a window and watching the traffic go by, considered with pride the name of the bank he had chosen. If there isn’t a bank with that name, he thought with an inner smile, there certainly should be; it sounds so beautifully substantial!
His next stop was at an automobile rental agency in the Avenida da Republica. The business cards he had just had printed—together with his distinguished appearance—worked their magic, and in a short while the necessary papers had been signed, a suitable deposit given, and he drove from the agency in a carefully selected sedan of demonstrated power. It was not, he
realized, as flashy a car as Jadzia’s, but he was sure it would probably excite far less notice.
His next move was postponed until he was well away from the agency; had he made it there it might well have aroused curiosity. He drove into the park across from the hotel, selected a rather deserted drive, drew to the curb, and descended. He walked to the rear of the car, opened the trunk, and measured it carefully; to any passing driver he appeared to be merely a man checking his spare tire. Huuygens knew he could always exchange the car on one pretext or another if the measurements were not to his liking, but fortunately there was no need. The trunk was of a size that would serve perfectly.
There were still many things to do that day, and he got right to them. A hardware store nearby furnished him with a hammer, a box of nails, a screwdriver, and a pair of pliers. The owner of the store would have been amazed had he watched his customer once he was back in the car, because the first thing Kek did was to use the hammer and screwdriver as levers to twist the pliers until they were useless. He tried the jaws several times, failed to close them, and grinned as he tossed the tools into the plastic bag together with his stationer’s supplies.
His last chore for the day was to locate a small carpentry shop and order a packing case made to the dimensions he carried in his head. The cover, he explained to the owner, was to be made separately, and he would nail it shut once the box had been packed. The two hovered over sketches until Kek was sure the man knew exactly what he wanted; a price was established, a deposit given, and Kek left the shop with the assurance that the box would be ready by the next afternoon.
It was past six o’clock by the time he left the carpentry shop, and he drove back to the hotel with a feeling of accomplishment. It was the same good feeling he always had when a job was well under way, and the time schedule was being properly respected. He parked the car in the hotel garage and took the elevator up to his floor; even the ancient lift seemed in better spirits, or at least to Kek’s ears the usual metallic complaints were less strident.
The Hochmann Miniatures Page 13