“So?”
“So, yes,” Jacques said, suddenly remembering the subject of their conversation. “Whoever you speak of would normally come by train.”
“Good! We’ll accept the percentages.” Kek lowered his voice, making it more emphatic. “You will therefore meet a man who comes by train from Ghent.”
It never occurred to Jacques to question the order as such. It was another matter entirely that made him hesitate and wet his lips before replying. He hoped Kek understood his problem.
“Kek. You know for you I would do almost anything. During the war you saved my life.” He hesitated again and then plunged on. “But it’s only been a matter of eight months that I’ve been out of tôle and my wife is pregnant again, and—”
“There’s nothing like that involved,” Kek said flatly. “Word of honor.”
The automatic wariness abated. Huuygens’ word of honor meant just that. “I’ll meet him then. His name?”
“Alex DuPaul. Do you know him?”
“No.”
“Possibly you’re lucky. Anyway, that’s the man.”
“And he comes by which train from Ghent?”
“I have no idea. I was told sometime this evening.”
Kek had expected some show of resentment at this broad latitude in train schedules, some possible argument, but instead, Jacques seemed rather pleased.
“There are only two,” he said authoritatively, and then added in explanation, “I come originally from Wetterson, which is also in East Flanders and on the same line, and I know the schedule backward. Not that there’s so much to know,” he admitted, and carried on. “There’s the six forty-five in the evening, and after that the one due at eight fifty, which gets in by ten at the latest. And then after that, only the one that collects the milk and the errant husbands, about four in the morning.”
He chuckled. He was obviously feeling more self-assured by the moment.
“Good,” Kek said. “We’ll assume he won’t come by the milk train.”
“And this man—what do I do with him?”
“In a moment. First, his description so you don’t lose him. He’s about five feet eleven inches tall, and approximately one hundred and ninety pounds, give or take a bit. His hair is bushy and light brown. He has a moustache that—”
“How many kilos is that many pounds?”
Kek shook his head in disgust with his own stupidity.
“Sorry. He’s about one meter sixty, and weighs between eighty-five and ninety kilos. He looks like a brigand; a long, straggly moustache that comes below his chin on both sides, normally light brown but heavily stained with tobacco. He smokes even more than I do, but cigars; small black cigars. He’ll undoubtedly be smoking one. He has thick hair, usually needs a cutting. He’s a man in his late thirties or early forties. He’s hard to miss. Green eyes, very sharp. Never wears a hat and seldom a tie or cravat; a scarf wound around his neck usually serves for him. A Bohemian type. But tough; very tough.”
“I have him.”
“He should be easy to spot leaving the train,” Huuygens went on. “Without the slightest doubt he’ll be the one walking the fastest on his way from the platform.”
“A very good point,” Jacques said approvingly, and returned to his original question. “And when I spot him, what do I do with him? Trail him? And call you?”
“You do not. Are you familiar with the train station?”
“From Ghent? It’s the Gare du Nord. I know it; I told you I was from Wetterson.”
Huuygens disregarded the touch of local pride if that’s what it was. “It has telephone booths?”
“Of course,” Jacques said, mystified, and then corrected the other’s statement. “Not booth booths, you know, but sort of little partitions. Made of pressed wood or something like that. There are two of them on a column near the news kiosk. Why?”
“Are there any others in the station?”
“Not public ones, no. Private ones in the offices, I imagine. Why?”
“Because,” Huuygens said slowly, pleased with the information, “before the first train arrives—the six forty-five—you will telephone the stationmaster and ask him to put an urgent message on the loudspeaker for the benefit of the incoming passengers from that train. The message will kindly request M’sieu Alex DuPaul to telephone a certain number immediately on arrival and will stress the urgency of his calling. Now, if DuPaul isn’t on the earlier train, you will simply repeat the entire performance for the later train. Is that clear?”
It was clear as far as the words went, but any meaning to the words remained quite unclear to Jacques. However, he made no attempt to question his instructions, merely to augment them to the best of his ability.
“And after he calls this number, then do I follow him?”
“You do not. For heaven’s sake!” Kek said shortly, “will you get this notion of trailing someone out of your head?”
“Sorry,” Jacques said contritely. “This number I am to tell him to call?”
“Invent one,” Huuygens said quietly. “Pick one out of the air. It is completely unimportant. Because”—he paused a moment—“On second thought, no.” He considered for several moments as a better plan replaced the one he had tentatively begun with. “Jacques—do you know a shop with a telephone, a shop that closes around six, let’s say?”
“Several,” Jacques said, more befuddled than ever. “Why?”
“Do you know any of the shopkeepers well enough to ask one of them to do you a favor—for a small pourboire, of course? Could you ask him to leave the telephone in his shop off the hook when he closes for the night? And then keep quiet about it afterward? I mean, if someone should ask, he will say that some late customer must have been careless and so forth and so forth?”
“I know one, yes,” Jacques said, and waited.
“Good. Then it is the number of this telephone you will give. He will be calling a busy number. And you will be in the booth next to him speaking to a dead telephone in a whisper that carries—and I mean carries! And you will be saying—”
“I’ll be whispering into a dead telephone?” Jacques frowned at the receiver in his hand. Who spoke to dead telephones?
“To a dead telephone,” Huuygens said impatiently. “Pay attention and stop interrupting, will you? The important thing is that this Alex DuPaul overhears what you are saying. Is that clear?”
“Ah!” Jacques said, understanding flooding him at long last. Why in the devil hadn’t Kek explained the thing properly in the first place? “This little one, you intend to spoon-feed him, is that it?”
“That is precisely it.” A possible snag in the plan occurred to Kek and he hurried to cover it. “Be sure and station yourself at one of the cubicles to see that it isn’t occupied when you need it. Call your girlfriend if you have to, just to hold it. And have plently of coins.”
“But why? If I’m only going to be talking to a dead phone?”
“Because you can have the hook up long enough to give our friend his message, but if you keep it up very long, the telephone company may well call the stationmaster and ask him to check. And I’d rather they didn’t.”
“Right,” Jacques said, not at all surprised that Kek had thought of something he hadn’t. A possible complication occurred to him. “But suppose the other cubicle is occupied when he comes up to phone? I can’t very well tie up the two of them.”
“Then all the better,” Kek said, and smiled. “He’ll have nothing else to do except listen to you.”
“True.” Jacques was beginning to relax. Even he couldn’t see any great danger in this assignment. “And what pap do we feed this little one, to sustain him and make him grow?”
“He’s not a little one, and you’d be smart to remember it,” Huuygens warned, and then gave Jacques the message to be passed on. At the other end of the line Jacques raised his thin shoulders in utter bafflement. It was certainly not the kind of message he would have left for anyone of DuPaul’s description. St
ill, Kek usually knew what he was about; besides, when one did a job for him one did not raise unnecessary questions. One got paid well and promptly, and if no risks were involved, one was so informed and could believe it. Therefore—
“That’s all you want said?”
“That’s it. And don’t embellish it.” Jacques sometimes had a tendency to try and help things along. “Say it word for word, and in that order.”
“Right.” Jacques paused. “And after he swallows the meal we prepare for him—what then? What for dessert?”
“For dessert you make sure you’re not it,” Huuygens said flatly. “This is no child. When you’re done, get out. And pray he takes the bait and not the fisherman.”
“That part doesn’t worry me,” Jacques said expansively. His conversation with Huuygens seemed to have done his nerves more good, possibly, than they merited. “In this town I can get away from anyone trying to follow me.”
“I know,” Kek said unkindly. “You come from Wetterson. Though it didn’t seem to help with the police the last time.”
Jacques hurriedly changed the subject. “There’s just one thing. What if he doesn’t come by train? By either, I mean?”
“Then you call me. As I said, I’m at the Colonies Hotel. If I’m not in my room—and it’s almost certain I won’t be—leave a message for me with the concierge.”
“Right. Anything else?”
“That’s it. Au revoir.”
“’voir.”
The two men hung up. Kek automatically checked the curtained doorway for some sign of the swaying girl, and then decided he couldn’t stay there all day waiting. The poor girl must have eaten something that disagreed with her, or even more likely, drunk it. Besides, with certainty she had an impatient boyfriend waiting for her in the bar. And he, Kek, had work to do. An unfortunate combination, but there was nothing for it!
He started up the long flight of stairs; the lift did not deign to serve as plebian—but necessary—an area as the basement. At the first floor he took a look at the fragile lift with its open grillwork housing, and its diaphanous cables, and once again took to the stairs. Here, at least, they were carpeted. At the second level he started along the narrow dun colored corridor in the direction of his room. Even as he approached he heard the muffled ringing of a telephone and knew with certainty that it was his own. He hurried the key into the lock and swung the door wide, striding to the instrument and bringing it to his ear.
“Yes?”
“M’sieu Huuygens? This is Marcel, the concierge. There is a package for you at my desk. Special delivery.” His voice dropped tragically, desolate to be the bearer of sad tidings. “But you must sign for it, M’sieu. The postman”—he sniffed, audibly putting that gentleman in his place—“claims he is forbidden to visit individual rooms.”
Kek grinned, wondering what event put that rule on the books.
“I’ll be right down.”
He looked a bit longingly at the bottle of Portuguese brandy—1920—on his dresser, shrugged at the vicissitudes of life that seemed to keep swaying women and excellent brandy forever out of his reach, and went back to the corridor. A few more times up and down these stairs, he thought, and I’ll be in shape for Joe Louis. I may even be in shape for Alex DuPaul, when and if I ever meet him again. Which I sincerely hope is no sooner than necessary.
At the recessed counter he pushed aside the frond of a rubber plant, discovered Marcel there with a uniformed employee of the postal department, and signed a slip handed to him. In return he received a long tube of cardboard, neatly labeled.
“A pity,” the small concierge was repeating, shaking his tiny head in reproach at the uniformed figure beating a hasty retreat. “All this trouble, all this bureaucracy, just for a calendar!”
“It’s the thought, not the gift,” Huuygens reminded him gently, and managed a straight face. He tucked the tube under his arm. “The plane is arranged?”
“But of course!” Kek might have accused him of forgetting his boutonniere. “Any time M’sieu wishes to leave after midnight. After one o’clock, of course”—he shrugged apologetically—“an extra charge, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Kek agreed. “It is only reasonable.” He hesitated, frowning in silence at the countertop, and then looked up. “And entertainment in Brussels? It’s only a bit before six now. If I have until midnight to kill …”
“Ah!” Marcel beamed. Here he was in his true element. “First, of course, a fine restaurant, of which Brussels has more than its share. Not”—he lowered his voice conspiratorially—“the hotel dining room, but rather, the Rotisserie Florentino in the Rue Pierre Charon. And then, a cabaret. The Maroc, I suggest. The girls there …” He kissed his fingers ecstatically, causing Huuygens to revise an earlier opinion. Marcel bent forward solicitously. “M’sieu wishes me to make the necessary arrangements?”
“If you would be so kind.” A bill exchanged hands. “And a car for the evening, to remain with me and eventually take me to the airport. To be here at seven or seven fifteen, I should think.”
It was very early for dinner in Brussels, but Marcel didn’t argue. “Of course, M’sieu Huuygens,” he said smoothly and turned away, tucking the bill into an invisible pocket with a motion any magician might well have envied.
“One last thing,” Kek said. “If there should be any messages?”
“Here at this desk, M’sieu, on your return. With a copy under your door, of course.”
“Fine,” Kek said, satisfied, and turned away to tackle the steps once again.
Back in his room he laid the cardboard tube almost reverently onto the bed, poured himself a stiff brandy and drank it, and returned to the tube. He carefully twisted the end-cap free and eased the rolled canvas out with the greatest of care. As he held the roll of stiffened cloth he felt excitement stir within him. The thought of actually having the Hals Innkeeper of Nijkerk in his hands, here in this nondescript room in this distant city of Brussels, with the police of half the world undoubtedly searching madly for it, thrilled him. And also, even the momentary possession of a work of such great art made his heart pound. Hals was one of his favorite painters. Kek had always preferred the Dutch school and had specialized in the study of it in his university days. It was the reason he had learned the language and had assumed a Dutch name when he was forced to flee his own country during the first days of the war. To actually have a Hals in one’s possession was almost unbelievable. He glanced at the bottle of brandy on the dresser a moment and then decided against another. Instead he unrolled the canvas, spreading the painting open on the bed.
The striking beauty was as he remembered; the rich full tones, the masterful use of light and shadow on the slightly clownish but also more than slightly dishonest face of the Innkeeper. It occurred to Huuygens for the first time that the relationship between artist and model for this particular painting could scarcely have been an amicable one. Even the brawny arms folded across the barrel chest beneath the sly face seemed to be promising punishment should one guilder of payment for the painful task of posing be withheld. For fully ten minutes Huuygens studied the picture, reveling in it, enjoying the inn sign which he could almost hear creaking in the rising wind, wondering if the maids serving the platters of cheese within were as pretty as their master without was not. Then with a reluctant sigh he returned to the present, to the dim room, coming to his feet and studying the picture not as work of art but as an object to be transported through a foreign customs shed without being caught.
He glanced at his wristwatch and realized he had to increase the tempo of his moves if the plan he had formed was to work. He walked over and pulled open the bottom drawer of the dresser, nodding at sight of its contents. The canvas was carefully rerolled and restored to its cardboard prison; the tube was then placed beneath the spare pillow and blanket that occupied the shallow space. He pulled a bit of fluff from the body of the blanket, wet it on his tongue, and twisted it into a tiny spill; this he carefully laid along t
he seam between the silken hem and the blanket proper, where it remained quite invisible. This accomplished, he carefully eased the drawer closed.
There was little chance that the night maid would bring out an extra blanket in the warm weather they were enjoying, but Huuygens could see no purpose in taking the slightest unnecessary chance. He walked to the door, placed the “Do Not Disturb” ticket on the outside knob, closed the door, and while security was still on his mind also closed the window behind the already-drawn drapes, and latched the rusty lock.
He poured himself another generous glass of 1920 and dropped to the bed, reviewing again his plan to get the painting past customs in Spain. It was easily the tenth time he had gone over the details in his mind, but he did not resent the time, nor did he allow himself to fall into the habit of crystallizing his thoughts merely because they ran along repetitious trails. Each time he considered the scheme he added alternate angles, checking them to either a conclusion or a dead end from which he could drop that portion of the plan without regret. This scheme was, as he well knew, a dangerous gamble. It was far bolder than the usual schemes that came to him, and far more daring than he would have preferred. Bravery, in the opinion of Kek Huuygens, was for those who were either foolish or who had no other choice; in his business it always seemed to be the brave who failed, and failure was the arch enemy. Still, he thought with a sigh, with so little time before delivery had to be made, he could see no alternative to the great chance he was taking.
He frowned and considered his next move, absent-mindedly pulling a cigarette from the inner pocket of his jacket, and lighting it. The next move, of course, was a vital call to Madrid, and he only hoped he had not left it until too late. If he could not reach Chico he could always arrange a substitute, but he much preferred one of the old gang he knew and trusted. He drained his glass, set his cigarette aside in an ashtray, and reached for the phone, clicking the lever until he had contacted the concierge. Marcel accepted the international call with his usual attitude of being willing to offer his life to serve, and gave Kek to understand that M’sieu would have ample time to dress for dinner while waiting for the wires to clear to Madrid. Kek was quite convinced of the truth of this; he snuffed out his cigarette and went in to take his bath.
The Hochmann Miniatures Page 19