Chico was better prepared for this one. “But this time you lied.” He sounded sad.
“I prefer to call it misdirection. It sounds better.”
For the first time DuPaul spoke. He tone was bitter, his voice harsh. He almost sounded as if speech might even be painful for him. His eyes remained staring straight ahead, refusing to even consider the man at his side.
“You can put your gun away.”
“I’d rather not,” Huuygens said. He sounded regretful.
“May I smoke?”
“Of course. I’ll get your cigars. What pocket are they in?”
“The outside of my trench coat.”
“Permit me …” The pistol was held steadily. Kek patted the other’s pockets first, although he was sure DuPaul would never have attempted to bring a firearm through Spanish customs. That was really asking for trouble. He located the packet of cigarillos, extracted one, placed it in the other’s mouth, and lit it. At no time did the bulge in his pocket waver. He thought how much he would enjoy a cigarette himself, but felt at the moment that abstinence might be the better part of intelligence. Lisa, he thought, you can be proud of me!
DuPaul took a deep draw on the small black cigar, bringing the acrid smoke deep within his lungs, and then slowly exhaling it. He took the small cigar from his mouth, brushed away the tiny bit of ash that had formed, and replaced it between his lips, speaking around it.
“You used me,” he said, still staring straight ahead.
“I’m afraid I did. I had little choice.”
“You won’t get away with this, Kek.”
“Of course I’ll get away with it,” Huuygens said. His tone was slightly disappointed in the other for having made such a ridiculous statement. “I’ll have my money—plus expenses—and be out of Spain before you can even get back to a main highway, if Chico knows this country like he says he does. Besides,” he added logically, “I fail to see your complaint. The painting was handed to me by Thwaite, and I contracted to deliver it to Spain. And you know how I feel about obligations to clients, Alex.”
“Even a client like Thwaite? A thief?”
Kek smiled gently. “I’m sure The Innkeeper of Nijkerk wasn’t a gift to you from the Clouet Gallery.”
“You know what I mean.” DuPaul’s voice became even more bitter. “Thwaite! That fat animal! By himself he couldn’t filch a carton of milk from a porch stoop at four in the morning!”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Kek said, and his smile faded, replaced by a look of sympathy. “Still, you must know what I mean. I’ve never failed an assignment yet, and I hope I never do. It’s a matter of pride. And you also know I never delve into the motives of those who hire me; it could lead to soul-searching, which I avoid like the plague.”
He considered the other man carefully.
“It’s a matter of honor, delivering what I contract to deliver. Tell me: exactly what do you find wrong with that attitude?”
DuPaul didn’t answer. He merely clamped his lips tighter on his cigarillo, puffing smoke furiously.
“And if it comes to that,” Kek Huuygens continued evenly, “you have no one to blame but yourself. You took the painting from my room and had it in your hands. All you had to do was keep it. Think of the enormous chance I was taking that you wouldn’t take off for Canada, or Sweden, or some far-off place like that …”
“And let that animal Thwaite get away with stealing from me?” The harsh voice was even harsher.
Kek nodded. “Exactly. And that was my gamble. You knew the customer for the painting was in Spain, and you knew that Thwaite was in Spain. I was sure you’d get here as quickly as possible. So you see, Alex, we both have pride. Yours let you down this time, that’s all.” He suddenly smiled widely. “By the way, I must say I was surprised to find you had actually replaced the painting with a real calendar; I didn’t think you had that much imagination. I had gone out and bought one to put in the tube after you took the painting. It cost me thirty-two francs and I had to throw it away.”
“A pity,” DuPaul said dryly.
“It really isn’t that bad,” Huuygens said, passing it off. “I shall merely add it to my expenses, of course.”
They had come to an intersection in the highway; only a break in the wooden fence along the road indicated the entrance of another route. Chico swung left, leaving the smooth pavement, bumping over the deep ruts. The winding trail ran on a fairly straight, level course for a short distance and then began to slowly climb into the foothills of the mountains, twisting and dipping as it cut its way around the smooth slopes of hills. Dawn was now fully on them, revealing stunted trees accompanying them at the roadside, and burnt grass stubble inching out of the rock. The air was even colder here in the upper reaches; Chico closed the small side window that had helped him to defrost the windshield, and increased the output of the small heater to its maximum. They came to a ridge and negotiated it; from their momentary vantage point the land below them sloped in small hummocks to a stand of trees in the distance. There was no sign of the highway they had left. Chico continued; another ridge, a curve, a dip, and he suddenly braked to a halt. He backed into a small clearing between the road and an opening in the brush that probably served for a cattle crossing, preparing to return in the direction from which they had come. He glanced over his shoulder proudly.
“How’s this?”
Kek studied the deserted landscape; they might have been on the moon. Above them the rocky hill swept up to join others mounting to a thick forest topping the mountain. Below them the fields stood cold and barren.
“How does one ever find a place like this in the first place?” Kek asked curiously.
“One knows farm girls in the neighborhood,” Chico said shortly.
“Oh. Of course.” He turned to Alex DuPaul, his voice truly apologetic. “I’m afraid this is the end of the line. All passengers out. You can follow this road back, or cut across the fields, which may be shorter—but I’m sure you’ll manage. Actually, you look the type who would enjoy a good ten-kilometer hike each day before breakfast.”
DuPaul stared at him with no expression. Huuygens continued.
“You can take your luggage with you, or if you prefer and do not wish to be encumbered with it on your stroll back to civilization, we can drop it off at the airport for you on our way back to the city.”
He saw the sudden puzzled expression cross the other’s face, instantly brought under control. Kek shook his head, smiling gently, disabusing him of the notion.
“No,” he said quietly. “I’ll have to keep your umbrella a while longer, I’m afraid. I thought you would probably try to bribe your way through customs—and I was fairly sure you’d succeed—but the umbrella was far better.” His smile returned; his tone was that of a parent pleased with his child’s performance in school. “Quite a good idea, really. Not original, of course, but quite good. Unfortunately, not one I could hope to get away with. You’d be amazed,” he went on earnestly, taking the other into his confidence, “at the searches I am forced to endure!”
If he was looking for sympathy, he was wasting his time. DuPaul, his hard jaw clamped tightly, climbed to the ground. He tossed the cigar away, opened the front door to retrieve his small bag, closed it again, and stood in the road, staring at Huuygens. Kek pressed down on the lock of the back door and ran the window down. The gun was withdrawn and held steadily in his hand now, while with his other hand he unsnapped the cloth band holding the umbrella rigidly folded. He slid a questing hand inside the silk, verifying his guess. It was quite accurate.
DuPaul leaned forward a bit, speaking in at the open window. His breath steamed in the sharp morning air. He seemed to have become more philosophical now that his loss was a fact.
“I don’t blame you, Kek,” he said, the harshness now gone from his voice. “It was clever. You got me to steal the picture and bring it in for you, but only because I was a fool. However, I’m not always quite this foolish.” He paused a moment
and then added quietly, “And when you see that fat cochon, Thwaite, tell him I’ll find him and strip him of his bacon. No matter where he tries to hide.”
“I’m sure you will,” Huuygens said, and his sympathy was genuine. “I personally think you’ve been treated shabbily, and if it makes you feel better, you may be assured I shall never do business with Thwaite again. I’m sure he deserves whatever coin you choose to pay him with. But,” he added quite calmly, “that is, after all, your affair and none of mine. Good-bye, Alex.”
The other did not reply but stood quietly in the road, as if waiting for the car to leave. Kek paused a moment, frowning in thought. He took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat, the revolver now dangling idly between his legs. Then he raised his voice for Chico to hear. It carried clearly through the open window to the stocky man in the trench coat, standing in the road.
“Number 617 Estrada de las Mujeres, Chico. And even though delivery to the customer doesn’t take place until midnight tonight, I suggest we hurry. I should like to deliver the merchandise and collect the money—and be on my way out of Spain—as quickly as possible.”
He turned and smiled once again out of the window.
“Good-bye, Alex …”
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About the Author
Robert L. Fish, the youngest of three children, was born on August 21, 1912, in Cleveland, Ohio. He attended the local schools in Cleveland and went to Case University (now Case Western Reserve), from which he graduated with a degree in mechanical engineering. He married Mamie Kates, also from Cleveland, and together they have two daughters. Fish worked as a civil engineer, traveling and moving throughout the United States. In 1953 he was asked to set up a plastics factory in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He and his family moved to Brazil, where they remained for nine years. He played golf and bridge in the little spare time he had. One rainy weekend in the late 1950s, when the weather prohibited him from playing golf, he sat down and wrote a short story that he submitted to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. When the story was accepted, Fish continued to write short stories. In 1962 he returned to the United States; he took one year to write full time and then returned to engineering and writing. His first novel, The Fugitive, won an Edgar Award for Best First Mystery. When his health prevented him from pursuing both careers, Fish retired from engineering and spent his time writing. His published works include more than forty books and countless short stories. Mute Witness was made into a movie starring Steve McQueen.
Fish died February 23, 1981, at his home in Connecticut. Each year at the annual Mystery Writers of America dinner, a memorial award is presented in his name for the best first short story. This is a fitting tribute, as Fish was always eager to assist young writers with their craft.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1966, 1967 by Robert L. Fish
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4804-7711-7
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