He was dressed at last, facing himself in the mirror and knotting his tie, when the telephone rang. He pulled the knot into position, considered it critically, and nodded, satisfied at last. Even Lisa, he thought, could scarcely argue with a knot like that. The telephone rang again, petulant at the delay; he walked over and raised it.
“Your call to Madrid is coming through,” Marcel asserted stoutly. He made it sound as if he had not only personally erected the poles and strung the cable, but that he considered it a pleasure to have done so. “And your car is here.”
“Ah, fine.” Kek hesitated a moment. “It’s a personal call, you know.”
“But, of course!” The click in his ear was definitive.
Another voice came on the line. “Alô?” The voice was faint, but clear.
“Chico?”
“Who calls?”
Kek’s jaw tightened. “Is this Chico Perez? Francisco Perez?”
“It is.”
Kek felt a weight drop from him as he recognized the voice at last. Contacting Chico had been most important; he had been foolish to leave it until the last minute. Not that failure to reach Chico would have ruined the scheme, but it would have added another problem, and there were problems enough.
“Kek Huuygens here. Can you hear me?”
“Yes.” Chico was not one for long sentences.
“I have little time, so attention! I’m taking a private plane, an air-taxi, from Brussels to Madrid. I leave here a bit after midnight, tonight. I should get to Barajas Airport about four tomorrow morning. Do you hear?”
“I hear.” It seemed like a whisper.
“Good. You will meet me, please.”
“Of course.”
“With a car. A good one,” Kek thought. “But not a stolen one.”
“It is done.”
“And an igualidor.”
It was the gutter slang of the larger cities of Spain, as well as of the Spanish-speaking republics of the Americas, derived from the cultural advantages offered by the American cinema. It meant a handgun. Kek hoped that Chico Perez would understand, but that anyone else who might be on the line would not.
Chico definitely understood. “Un igualidor? Porqué?” The faint voice sounded shocked.
“For good reasons.”
“But—”
“Of my own. Hasta la vista.” Kek hung up abruptly and clicked the lever to attract Marcel’s attention. The concierge waited before answering, as if to prove his imperviousness to listening to private conversations.
“M’sieu?”
“One more call, practically local. To Maastricht …”
This time Kek waited, holding the telephone to his ear, listening to the jumbled cacophony that characterized the European telephone systems of the year 1948, and which has not improved to any marked extent since. In far less time than he had any right to expect—or had expected—he had his Lisa on the line.
“Darling! You did call!”
“Of course I called,” Kek said, affronted. “I said I would.”
“I know you said you would, darling. It’s exactly why I didn’t expect it. How’s the weather in Brussels?”
“Why don’t you look out of the window in an eastward direction and see, my sweet? I should judge it’s the same as it is in Maastricht. How’s your mother?”
Lisa pouted. “She’s very upset that you’re not here with me. I think she’s jealous of me.”
“I should hope so!” Kek said, and grinned.
“Then why don’t you come up here? You must have finished your business.”
“I finished it, sweet, but I have to make a trip. Because of it. I have to be in Madrid tomorrow.”
“Madrid? And I can’t come with you?” Disappointment filled the throaty voice.
“No, my sweet. But I should be only gone a day, if all is well. Just long enough to look at a—a painting.”
“When do you leave?”
“My plane leaves about midnight tonight.”
Lisa’s voice became sweet, friendly. It sounded like one role she had played as a jealous wife acting unjealous. Kek had to grin.
“And what do you plan to do from now until midnight, darling?”
Kek straightened the quirk in his lips and looked at the mirror, putting a virtuous expression on his face. It was his theory that facial contortions could affect the tone of one’s voice.
“I was thinking of a quiet dinner, my sweet, here at the hotel. And then, possibly, a nap.” He sighed, admiring his performance in the glass. “You know how difficult airplanes are to sleep in.”
“Yes, my darling. I also know you could sleep on the gallows, dangling. Enjoy the cabaret,” Lisa added, and there was a hint of taunting in her voice. “If you chose the Maroc, mention my name to the maître, Henri. He’ll see you get a good ringside seat.”
Kek laughed aloud. “Lisa, my sweet, you are truly marvelous!”
“We’re both marvelous, Kek, my darling,” Lisa said evenly. “Have a good trip. And hurry back.”
They kissed over the several hundreds of kilometers of wire and hung up. Kek came to his feet, smiling, and shrugged himself into his jacket. He was humming lightly to himself. Lisa was glorious and he was the most fortunate man in the world to have her. Would he still have her if she knew the true nature of his occupation? His smile faded somewhat as he considered the question, and then he put the idea away. Lisa was his wife, and they loved each other. Besides, there was no reason why she should ever know that he was not an art appraiser, but the world’s most famous smuggler. Kek grinned. Poor Lisa probably didn’t know the one from the other, so it really wasn’t anything to worry about.
He checked his appearance in the mirror, winked at his handsome image not from any exaggerated sense of self-importance but simply in exuberance at the sheer audacity of his scheme, picked up his topcoat from a chair, and went to the door. There was nothing more he could do now until Madrid, so why not enjoy himself? And may the girls at the Maroc be one-tenth as beautiful as my Lisa, he said to himself fervently, and let himself into the dim corridor.
From the scampi de Capri to the rum babá au San Marco, the Rotisserie Florentino was everything that Marcel’s enthusiasm had promised; and if any fault at all could be found with the Cabaret Maroc (with its Seven Sultry Sirens) it was that he was forced to leave in the middle of a most interesting dance performed with two capon feathers, in order to pack his bag and catch his plane. Lisa had been quite correct: Henri had done everything in his power to please the husband of the famous Mlle. Lisa Nieuport—but unfortunately, he couldn’t change the hour of the floorshow. The girls, he explained sadly to his client, had a syndicat, and it was pointless to argue.
His driver carried Kek, softly singing one of the hit tunes of the cabaret, back to the Colonies Hotel. He excused himself long enough to advise the Reception that he would be leaving for the night but intended to retain his room, and marched to the second-floor level to gather his belongings. Here he reduced his singing to a mere nonmelodic humming out of deference to those guests who were sleeping, or had failed to enjoy the wine of the Maroc.
As soon as he opened the door to his room, however, his relaxed manner disappeared. He closed the door behind him before flicking on the light switch, and glanced quickly but thoroughly about. A yellow slip of paper lay under his feet on the carpet; he bent swiftly and retrieved it. It was a standard message form with the name of the hotel on top.
“A gentleman telephoned for you. Would not leave name or message. Marcel.”
Kek crumpled the slip and tossed it into the wastebasket, his eyes narrowing in thought. It was certainly not an international call or Marcel would have mentioned the fact. This ruled out Thwaite, or even Chico calling back, although Chico didn’t even know the name of his hotel. And had it been Jacques, he certainly would have left his name. And not even Marcel could have mistaken Lisa for a gentleman. So who had called? And why? Could it be that the scheme was actually working?
&nb
sp; Kek shook his head and moved quickly to the dresser. He pulled open the bottom drawer and closely examined the hemmed blanket within. He nodded, pleased with the results of his inspection, and then withdrew the precious cardboard tube. One final check of its contents and he came to his feet, a wide smile on his face, resuming his soft humming.
The tube was stored diagonally in the lower half of his suitcase, brought from the closet. He placed the balance of his clothing neatly about the unusual ridge, balancing it. His soiled clothing he tossed into a dresser drawer to be dealt with on his return. He checked the room once again, and placed the bottle of Portuguese brandy, the valuable 1920, on the closet shelf in the extreme rear as being the best of all poor hiding places against the forays of thirsty room-maids. Certainly including the bottle in his luggage would be the poorest of politics. He anticipated enough difficulties with Spanish customs without antagonizing their nationalist feelings by bringing in Portuguese brandy. He smiled at the thought, gathered up his suitcase and topcoat, and went to the door, snapping out the light behind him.
Next stop—Madrid …
3
The glorious October weather that had warmed Brussels and glinted goldenly from its many copper spires was bitter cold on the high plateau of Madrid, and especially at a little after four in the morning. Trudging from the single-engined reverse-stagger Beechcraft, his bag in one hand, his breath steaming and his ears ringing from the shuddering scream of the wind and the vibrating howl of the engine, Kek kept his free hand buried deep in his coat pocket and wished he had thought to come more warmly dressed. He also wished that Lisa had been correct about his ability to sleep almost anywhere, including a gallows, dangling; possibly he could, but not when the dangling was done five thousand feet in the air amid sounds that would have caused alarm in a boiler factory.
The pilot walked beside him. Being more aware of international weather conditions, he was bundled to the ears, and Kek resented it. Still, he thought with a certain touch of satisfaction, the chances were excellent that both the pilot and his plane would be subjected to quite a search before the morning was out, and that would more than constitute sufficient punishment.
The two men separated at the building entrance, the pilot loosening his leather jacket and going off to file his return flight plan, and Kek to enter the immigration section. Once inside he set down his bag, lit a welcome cigarette, and fished out his passport. The heat in the small room was pleasant. He managed to locate a sleepy official; his passport was stamped desultorily and handed back with a yawn. Kek joined in the yawn and walked into the customs section, following a string of arrows printed on cheap paper. An inspector detached himself from a cleared desk where he had been dozing fitfully; he came to his feet, stretched like a cat, and moved forward, puzzled. A lone customer with no scheduled flights due was rare.
“The señor came by—?”
“A private plane,” Kek said pleasantly. He set his case on the low bench and unlatched the catches. He folded the two sides open, the soul of cooperation. “An air-taxi from Brussels.”
“Ah. Your passport, please, señor.”
The inspector’s voice clearly indicated that this business should not take overly long; people who could afford to cross international boundaries in privately hired air-taxis obviously rated respect. His servile attitude maintained until he bothered to glance casually at the name marked in the green booklet. His eyes widened; he checked the debonair picture in the passport with the face of the man patiently waiting across from him, and swallowed convulsively. His instruction book was filled with memoranda concerning this Kek Huuygens! They said this one was a devil; he took things through customs before one’s eyes! All previous sleepiness fled; he suddenly found himself wide awake.
“One moment, señor!”
“Is something the matter?” Kek asked politely.
“One moment!”
The inspector frowned; what had he intended to do? Oh, yes, of course! Find a superior and pass the responsibility along; what else? He turned and fled toward a series of offices in the rear of the room.
Kek waited patiently. He had long since come to expect treatment of this nature when passing through the customs of various countries, but he did feel it would occasionally be nice to run into an inspector either too lazy to have studied his instruction book or too sleepy to remember what it contained. Well, he thought, if I can’t find one too sleepy at four in the morning, I’m afraid I shall have to go through life constantly being searched.
He dropped his cigarette on the floor and crushed it out. Now that the warmth of the room had soaked into him he felt a pang of pity for the poor young pilot who had flown him to Madrid. The fellow didn’t know it yet—and probably would never quite understand it—but the chances were that the word was being passed along right now to search both his plane and his person; and the search would be thorough enough to possibly leave the Beechcraft unairworthy.
The inspector was returning, marching back accompanied by the night chief of his section. The night chief was a tall, very thin man who looked as if he suffered from dyspepsia and didn’t like to suffer alone. He also looked as if he had been wakened from a nap, which hadn’t added to his happiness. He stared at the open suitcase a moment and then bent down, closing and latching it. He picked it up and tilted his head imperiously in the direction of the room from which he and the inspector had emerged.
“Señor …”
It wasn’t a question; it was a demand, made curtly. His tone of voice, together with the rigidity of his back, promised that he, at least, would brook no nonsense. Huuygens correctly guessed the man’s background as army, his rank as sergeant, and was happy he had never had to serve under him. The night chief swung about, almost with cadence, and marched off.
Kek tagged along obediently. Inside the room the chief closed the door with an abrupt motion of his hand, still demonstrating his control of the situation and the elements involved. He set the suitcase on the floor within instant reach and seated himself on one corner of the bare table there. Seated, he found himself at too great a disadvantage in height, and he came to his feet again. He looked at Kek with cold, almost reptilian eyes.
“Señor Huuygens.” His pronunciation of the name was atrocious. “You are rapidly becoming a famous man. Especially among customs officials.” Huuygens tilted his head in honest appreciation for the compliment. The night chief’s jaw tightened dangerously at the gesture. “You believe it something to be proud of?”
“Frankly, Inspector,” Huuygens said in all honesty, “considering I’ve never been found with contraband in my life, I believe it something to be resentful of.”
“Ah, yes. You never have, have you? But word gets about, señor. And, of course, there is always the first time.”
“But, as far as these interrogations go,” Kek said plaintively, “there somehow doesn’t seem to be a last time …”
The night chief tired of the conversation; it seemed to be getting away from him. “Tell me, señor, what brings you to Spain?”
Huuygens considered the question carefully.
“Certainly not the climate,” he said frankly, and frowned, seeking an answer. “The hospitality, do you suppose?”
The chief was not amused. He stood for several moments, studying the other, almost in the manner of a combatant marking his opponent’s weaknesses and strengths, and then stepped smartly forward, his hand shooting out. He made it look like a military maneuver.
“Your overcoat first, please.”
It was an all-too-familiar routine, and one which Kek Huuygens had long since ceased to cavil at. The customs were well within their rights, as he knew. He watched his topcoat being expertly examined and then placed in a folded position on a chair.
“Your jacket next, please …”
“May I take a cigarette from it first?”
“Of course.” The inspector made it sound as if he could also bandage his eyes and stand against the wall, making everyone happy.
Kek lit a cigarette and stripped off the jacket, handing it over.
“You realize, of course, Inspector,” he said gently, “that while this room is heated to a relatively comfortable extent, there are limits to which one can undress in this climate if one wishes to avoid pneumonia.”
“Your trousers, please.”
“Yes, sir,” Kek said sadly, and unbuttoned them, stepping out of them. He thought for a moment of forcing a hollow cough, or at least a sneeze, but reconsidered. This inspector seemed to lack a sense of humor.
The personal search continued to the final bit of underclothing. It was only when Kek was tucking in his shirt, redressing, that the night chief of section finally turned his attention to the small suitcase. He raised it to the table and opened it, his entire attitude that of a man who has purposely saved the best for the last. Had he found anything incriminating on the person of Kek Huuygens, he seemed to indicate, he would have been sadly disappointed.
He carefully removed each article of clothing, pressing it down between his thin palms, and then examining it in greater detail, after which he piled the pieces to one side with a neatness Huuygens had not expected. He watched with interest from one side, as if scoring this chief inspector’s performance against that of other chief inspectors he had come to know throughout the world. And then—
“Ah!” The inspector was grinning from ear to ear in triumph; he seemed hard put not to crow.
“Yes?” Kek asked curiously.
The night chief held the cardboard tube aloft, almost like a baton. “What is this?”
The Hochmann Miniatures Page 20