He knew him very well. He also knew that if Alex DuPaul was involved in the affair, then the fat man worked for DuPaul, and not the other way around. DuPaul was also in a position to finance a trick like this, as well as to have the brains to plan it. It was dubious if Thwaite could have done either. Although he’d have to have at least two thousand pounds plus expenses in cash the following day if he ever expected to get the painting in Madrid.
“And did you and Alex DuPaul come to a satisfactory arrangement between yourselves?” His voice was smooth, conversational.
“A thing between DuPaul and myself, don’t you think?”
“It rather depends,” Huuygens said. “Did you?”
“Look,” said the fat man. He put his thick hands on the table and leaned forward a bit. His voice hardened. “You wanted to know who worked with me on the deal, and I told you! The only thing you have to worry about, now, is being paid. And that’ll be when you deliver that painting to me in Madrid. DuPaul and I—” he shrugged. “Well, we’ll handle our own arrangements, thank you.”
“DuPaul is aware, of course, that you’re hiring me to take the painting into Spain?”
“Well—”
“And he was fully in accord with this, of course?”
“As a matter of fact—” The fat man floundered.
Huuygens took pity on him. It may have been the disconsolate appearance of the aging tweed, or it may have been that since he disliked the fat man so intensely, he felt obligated to greater charity.
“As you say, it’s your problem. I simply like to drive over the course a few times before the race, so to speak. To learn the dangers, the potholes, and curves. And who’s behind me, of course.”
His steady gray eyes assessed the man before him coolly for several moments, and then turned to consider the cobbled square. The tourists had disappeared, replaced by an old man wheeling a handbarrow piled high with furniture. Kek turned back.
“For example,” he went on, “the Grand’ Place—a bit obvious for a meeting under the circumstances, don’t you think? A trifle public? If I were trying to avoid an ex-partner …”
Thwaite looked into the sardonic eyes. With everyone’s motives so crystal clear, subterfuge at this point seemed not only a waste of time, but possibly even dangerous. He wet his thick lips.
“DuPaul is in Ghent today on personal business. His sister lives there. He won’t be back until sometime this evening.”
“At which time you’ll be well on your way to Madrid?”
“Yes,” the fat man said simply.
A falling out of thieves was no concern of Kek’s, but any facts affecting his performance were. He continued his questioning.
“The arrangements for the sale of the Hals were your responsibility?”
“One of my responsibilities,” Thwaite corrected.
“Does DuPaul know the name of your customer?”
“He knows the sale was intended for Madrid and nothing more.” His tone clearly indicated how much he wished Alex DuPaul didn’t even know that. He dug into one of the monstrous folds comprising the shape of the tweed, unearthing a crumpled piece of paper and a stunted pencil. “You’ll want my address in Madrid.” He wet the stub and brought it down, speaking between his biscuitlike lips. “It’s a bit out from the center, I’m afraid, but any taxi will get you there—”
“I have a friend who can drive me. If I reach him.”
“Possibly even better. In any event, it’s number 617 Estrada de las Mujeres. Not that there are any out there,” he added absently, and neatly folded the sheet.
Huuygens rewarded this care by tearing the paper to shreds, placing the bits in an ashtray on the marble surface, and lighting them with his lighter. He watched them burn.
“Number 617 Estrada de las Mujeres,” he repeated, shaking his head at the fat man’s extreme carelessness in committing things to writing. He came to his feet, this time decisively. “I’m at the Colonies Hotel—” He saw the sudden query in the other’s eyes and smiled. “No, I’m still in Willi’s apartment, but he needs it for a few days, so Lisa took the occasion to visit her mother in Maastricht. You will therefore please send the painting to me at the hotel.”
There was a second of shocked silence. “Send it?”
“By post,” Huuygens went on, in no way daunted by the other’s startled interruption. “I don’t want a private messenger delivering anything that size or shape with every policeman in town probably looking for the painting. And I think any further meeting between you and me—before Madrid, that is—could only increase your stomach problems.”
He pulled a cigarette loose from the packet in his pocket, lit it, drew on it deeply, and continued with his catechism.
“Regarding the Hals, I assume it is rolled, and undoubtedly in its smallest dimension, since one doesn’t carry a stolen painting out of a gallery holding it up like a pane of plate glass. I am also sure you are aware that paint can crack, and haven’t rolled it any tighter than necessary. You will stop, when you leave here, and purchase a large wall-calendar from any large stationery store. The calendar should be big enough to more or less duplicate the weight of the painting, although any calendar that size should do nicely …”
Thwaite sat up and stared at the other, listening, automatically recording his instructions. He was amazed at their precision. Apparently during their conversation Huuygens had formulated a plan and was well on his way to augmenting it. The standing man continued.
“You will inform the salesman that you intend to mail it as a gift at some later time, possibly with a personal note. The cardboard tube they furnish will be properly labeled with the name of the shop, giving it authenticity. You will merely replace the contents with the Hals in the secrecy of your boudoir, and drop it into the nearest sectional post office with sufficient postage.” He smiled at the other. “And you will send it fourth-class,” he added almost negligently. “Special handling.”
Thwaite was shocked to his core. Even his bilious tweed seemed to gather itself together in horror. “But—!”
“But what?”
“The fourth-class, that’s what!” The fat man came close to exploding. He made the words sound obscene. “The post office can open it!”
“Of course they can open it,” Huuygens said with gentle patience. “Which is precisely why they won’t. And the special handling will insure that it is delivered to me before the afternoon is out. If you manage to follow instructions and get it into the post office sometime relatively soon,” he added rather pointedly.
The fat man was still far from being either happy or convinced.
“But, a fourth-class package sent by special handling? Won’t it attract attention?”
“Not at all. It’s far more common than you think,” Huuygens assured him with complete confidence. “It’s quite normal for printed matter, especially for books. The cheapest of one service and the fastest of the other. And I shall be at the Colonies Hotel waiting for it. Even as you, I imagine and trust, will be at the Estrada de las Mujeres waiting for me tomorrow.” It wasn’t exactly a question; it merely sounded like one.
“I’ll be there every minute. Don’t worry.”
Thwaite’s mind was not on his words. He stared at the confident, handsome face above him a moment and swallowed convulsively. Now that he was actually face to face with the fearful fact of being parted from his treasure, even temporarily—and even into the hands of a man he knew would not abscond with it—a thousand fears raised their heads above the muck that constituted his mind.
“But—I mean—how will you ever manage to get it past the Spanish customs without them discovering it? They’re not children, you know. And as you said, it’s scarcely a postcard …”
Even as he spoke he knew he was committing a major gaffe in questioning Huuygens in what was, after all, his specialty, but the fat man found he could not hold back the words. Even discussing the matter seemed to keep the painting in his possession that many more minutes. He look
ed up imploringly.
“You certainly don’t intend to post it in a cardboard mailing tube?”
Huuygens smiled at him.
“You scarcely allow me time for that,” he said. “Not with the postal service from here to there. I only wish it were that simple.” He sounded genuinely sad that it was not. “Unfortunately, the customs of all countries—even Spain—examine very carefully packages that come through the mail.” He sighed deeply, but his eyes were twinkling as he considered the sheer audacity of the plan he had decided upon.
“No,” he said, “I’m afraid the precious Hals will have to be carried through the Spanish customs. In person …”
2
In those far-distant days of 1948 the public telephones in the Colonies Hotel were located at the foot of a long, straight flight of stairs leading from the main floor to the multipurpose basement of the ancient building. Kek Huuygens, coming through the revolving doors into the ornate lobby, paused at the top step of the descending flight, considering again the plan that had begun to form in his mind during his meeting with the fat man. Proper scheduling, he decided after a moment’s thought, would indicate that he should consult the concierge before making any telephone calls, either from his room or from the public instruments below. He therefore turned and moved past the bar, past the reception desk, past the cloak room, until he located the small cubbyhole housing the concierge. He leaned over the tiny counter; an even tinier man instantly popped to his feet.
“M’sieu?”
“The planes to Madrid,” Kek said pleasantly. “The schedule for those before morning, if any exist.”
“Ah!” The little man behind the counter flew at a stack of folders piled alpenwise on his cluttered desk, happy to be of assistance to this distinguished-looking guest. He managed to withdraw a leaflet from the mountain without disturbing its delicate balance and causing an avalanche, opened it with a flourish, began to run a manicured fingernail down a column, and then blushed furiously.
“M’sieu! Pardon!”
He searched himself frantically for his pince-nez, eventually located them dangling from a cord about his neck, and clamped them in place, returning to his task.
“Ah! Madrid … Yes, M’sieu, there is. A midnight flight leaving Melsbroek at exactly twelve o’clock. A Dakota. It stops only at Reims, Lyons, Marseilles, Barcelona, and then Barajas in Madrid.” He beamed. “A mere six hours.”
“That’s the only one? There are no others?”
The concierge drew himself to his full height of five feet, fully accepting his responsibility for this failure on the part of Sabena, the national airline, looking properly prepared to suffer the consequences.
“No, M’sieu. There are no others.”
Huuygens drew a cigarette from his pocket and lit it abstractly, tossing the match toward a sandbox nearby, considering his problem. The fast train from Brussels to Paris and the Gibraltar Express would make the trip in only five or six hours more than the flight—and in far greater comfort—but the fast train to Paris did not leave Brussels until seven thirty in the morning, and the Gibraltar Express did not leave the Gare Montparnasse for the south until quite late in the afternoon. Add to this the certainty of a delay at the border customs, and the schedule insisted on by Thwaite would be missed by a good twelve hours. He drew on his cigarette deeply, exhaling the smoke toward the floor at which he was staring, thinking. The plane seemed to be the only answer, but it, too, had disadvantages. He might well be recognized by any one of the passengers when he would prefer not to be.
It was a problem. But then a solution came to him, as solutions usually did. He looked up.
“They have an air-taxi service at the airport?”
“Oh, yes! The finest!” The concierge sounded as if he owned stock in it. A more likely answer, Kek thought, was that he received a goodly kickback on any fares he was clever enough to entice into the frightening things. “They fly only the best! American planes! Beechcrafts!” His pronunciation would have had him barred from American radio.
“And the time to Madrid? And the cost?”
This latter was added because it was the natural question and the concierge would think it odd if it were omitted. The cost itself was unimportant; it would be part of Thwaite’s worry when the painting was delivered. Kek hoped it would be ample.
“One moment …”
A telephone appeared in the tiny hand as if by magic; he gave a number to the operator and stared somberly past Kek across the lobby as he waited. From his cubbyhole his view was limited by four spreading rubber plants, set by the manager—he had long suspected—to keep him out of sight of the clientele.
“Hello? Hello?” He glared at the ceiling in an appeal for cooperation and shrugged his apologies for the delay to Kek. “Hello? Ah!” There followed a rapid-fire conversation in Flemish which Huuygens, even with his fluent Dutch, was unable to follow. The concierge cupped the receiver of the telephone, returning to French. “Four hours to Madrid by way of the Beechcraft, M’sieu, if the weather does not necessitate stopping to refuel. At a cost of eight thousand Belgian francs.”
“Good.” Huuygens extinguished the cigarette butt in the sandbox, making up his mind. The trip by private plane would undoubtedly be uncomfortable, but the thing would do much to enable his scheme to work, and “work” was the operative word in his business. “I should like to leave Melsbroek a bit after midnight, I think.”
In case of an emergency, he thought, I can always cancel the flight. Or, he added wryly to himself, in case of a serious emergency, I can always use it. And may have to. He became aware that the tiny concierge was addressing him.
“M’sieu has his passport in order?”
“M’sieu always has his passport in order,” Kek assured him.
“And visas?”
“And visas.”
“Ah! Then there can be no problem. It shall be arranged. Be assured!” the concierge said stoutly. “Your name, M’sieu? And your room?”
Kek gave the required information and turned away even as the little man was scribbling it down. He walked back through the lobby to the steps leading to the basement, trotted down them, and looked about. The public telephones were mounted in poorly soundproofed cubicles, waist-high, which backed on the paper-thin wall of the WC and which were subject to sudden, intermittent interruptions from gurgling pipes. Still, they were far more circumspect than the telephone in his room, which went through the hotel switchboard within earshot of the concierge.
He fumbled a coin free from his jacket pocket and dropped it into the slot, and then leaned on the small shelf before him, waiting. An operator finally came on the line to query him in a haughty tone, as if he were somehow breaking a house rule by using the instrument. He gave the number he wanted apologetically, and took what portion of his weight he could on his elbows, exhibiting patience.
As he waited he heard the sharp tap-tap of high heels descending the uncarpeted concrete steps and watched appreciatively as an exceptionally well-endowed young lady came down, gave him a brilliant if beery smile, and swayed through the curtained doorway. He tried to concentrate his thoughts on his lovely Lisa, choosing an earlier moment in the day than their scene at the taxi—actually, picturing her eating bonbons in bed for breakfast—and then was saved the embarrassing but fruitless pangs of conscience by the sound of a receiver being lifted at the other end. His thoughts instantly returned to the business at hand.
The voice he heard was being excessively cautious. “Hello?”
“Jacques?”
The moment’s hesitation nearly resulted in a denial, but then logic prevailed. “Yes. Who is this please?”
“Kek Huuygens.”
Relief instantly manifested itself in the other’s tone. He sounded as if he spent the better part of his life awaiting and receiving bad news, and was ill-prepared to accept any other. He also sounded as if life had trained him well for his attitude.
“Kek! It’s good to hear from you!” Despite his
pleasure at hearing from Huuygens, he could not completely subdue the ever-present suspicion, nurtured from childhood on mountainous breasts of disappointment. “You’re not in Brussels?”
With Jacques, how typical the negative! Huuygens thought with pity. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I’m at the Colonies Hotel.”
The absence of fear returned to the other, but poised as always on the thin edge of startled flight.
“Then maybe we can have dinner together tonight, eh? Talk over the old days in the Maquis. I’ll reserve a table at the Rotisserie Ardennes.” It was a boast, bragging of freedom of fear, from the police—at least temporarily.
“I’m sorry, Jacques,” Kek said sincerely, “but I hope to be leaving Brussels tonight. Late, but tonight.”
“But you called me,” the other objected, as if this somehow constituted an obligation.
“Yes,” Huuygens said simply. “I have a job for you.”
“Oh …” Jacques sounded as if he didn’t know whether to be disappointed or not. He decided not to be. “Fine!”
“Yes,” Huuygens said, and then continued in what appeared to be a complete non sequitur. “A man returning from a day’s journey to Ghent; he could come only by train, no?”
At the other end of the line Jacques stared at the telephone in his hand, puzzled, and then attempted to answer honestly. Those who took money from Kek Huuygens for services rendered usually did. Besides, he owed Kek many favors, one of them major.
“Unless, of course,” Jacques said, qualifyingly, “he had a car.”
In those days of 1948 nobody except officials of caliber and millionaires had automobiles, and Jacques correctly assumed that Kek had taken that fact into account and rejected the probability himself. Still, the possibility needed to be voiced.
“How about the omnibus?”
To Jacques, this was even less of a possibility.
“He would require kidneys of tempered steel and a backbone of mountain ash,” he said fervently. He sounded as if he had once made the error of attempting the trip and doubted if anyone more sane would do so. “Three years since the end of the war, and the roads haven’t been touched. Except by the weather. Nor have the miserable omnibuses,” Jacques suddenly added, wishing to distribute the responsibility squarely.
The Hochmann Miniatures Page 18