“You don’t seem to have much trouble keeping people in sight,” André said dryly. “Anyway, I can’t—”
“Besides,” Huuygens said evenly, interrupting, “I’m sure we can be useful to each other.”
André frowned and shook his head. “Kek, Kek! You should know me well enough to know I never took charity in my life, and I’m too old to start now. Besides—you need me on one of your jobs?” He snorted. “You’re known everywhere as the best smuggler in the world, and the smartest. Me? I didn’t even get away with bringing in a few lousy cases of cigarettes from Algiers right after the war! Miles from Marseilles and the police boat picks me out like I’d put out an SOS or something!” He shook his head decisively. “Thank you, but no. I’ll drink your liquor and have a meal on you from time to time, but no.” He looked up almost defiantly. “And I didn’t come to borrow money, either.”
“Are you all done?”
André raised a hand. “Don’t say it, because I’ll only repeat the whole thing.”
“And Anita says I’m stubborn! You listen to me—”
He was interrupted by the sudden sharp ringing of the telephone. All three swung around to face the unexpected sound. Kek’s eyes narrowed; it was an unlisted number, available only to those who were acquainted with the true nature of his vocation. Anita came to her feet, putting down her glass, moving to the telephone on the desk. There were times when Kek preferred not to be home to certain calls.
“Hello?”
The sound of a voice could be heard, muted, filtered through the receiver, audible to the two men in the quiet of the large room. Anita nodded, quite as if her caller could see her; she looked around.
“It’s a Señor Sanchez. He’d like to see you. He says he has an important job for you.”
“Ask him where he got my telephone number.”
Anita returned to the conversation on the telephone. A moment later she turned again; there was a slightly mischievous smile in her eys. She covered the receiver with her hand.
“He says he got it from a very reliable source.” She paused a moment for effect. “He says he got it from an old friend of yours. You may remember him—André Martins.”
“Me?” André sat erect in shock. “Never!” He crossed himself and then paused to think. “Sanchez? Luis Sanchez? From Barcelona?” Anita shrugged her lack of knowledge. “It has to be him; he’s the only one who would even know my name.”
Kek looked at him. “Who is he?”
“A sour apple,” André said and made a face. “A real loss to society.”
“A lot of my clients are,” Kek said, grinning. His grin faded. “You never gave my name? Or mentioned this number?”
“Never!” André raised his hand. “Not only not to Sanchez, but to nobody. However,” he added, bringing his hand down, “I know it’s available, and it certainly would be to anyone with Sanchez’s connections. As well as the fact that we know each other and that we’re old friends.”
“Well,” Kek said, thinking about it, “at least he doesn’t sound like police. And people who lie to me I find interesting.” He looked at Anita, patiently holding the telephone mouthpiece cupped. “When does he want to come over?”
“Now, he says. He’s in a bar just down the street.”
“Good enough.” Kek smiled. “Tell him to come along.”
Anita spoke into the telephone and hung up. Without being bidden, she came to the bar, placed the cognac bottle on the glass shelf back of the bar, and set the used glasses in the sink beneath the counter; Kek’s interviews with perspective clients were nondrinking affairs. She wiped the surface with a towel and hung it up neatly. Kek came from behind the bar, pulled a chair around to face the corridor, and then looked sideways at André.
“How well do you know this Sanchez?”
“Well, if he’s the one from Barcelona, and he must be, then I know him well enough,” André said. He didn’t sound particularly proud of the acquaintanceship.
Kek thought a moment, a frown on his face, and then dropped into the chair. He looked up. “Take a good look at him through the peephole when he rings. Annie will let him in. You stay out of sight until he’s left.”
“Why?”
Kek smiled at him. “Call it a hunch.”
“All right,” André said agreeably, seeing no reason to argue, especially against a hunch. He moved to his feet, following Anita toward the front door. The bell rang just as he came up to it. One look through the withdrawn peephole cover was enough; he put the cover back in place and nodded vigorously to Anita and then went on back to the end of the corridor, pushing through a swinging door. He found himself in the kitchen and let the door swing shut softly behind him.
It occurred to him that possibly Kek was right. Maybe they could be useful to each other. Because in André’s experience, anyone who dealt with Señor Luis Sanchez or his friends at times needed more than brains. Sometimes a little muscle came in handy.
He looked at the refrigerator door with a pang, remembering his last meal, a long time ago, and then forced himself to go and sit down at the table, staring through the curtained window at the parkland across the street. He also hadn’t come to visit an old friend just to raid an icebox.…
2
Señor Luis Anselmo Sanchez y Miranda was a tall, painfully thin man with a narrow face, cavernous cheeks, thin lips, and a large nose revealing flaring nostrils over a hairline mustache. His wedge-shaped forehead was split geometrically by a sharp widow’s peak that made him look slightly satanic; the black hair that flowed back on each side seemed polished, as if by wax. His eyes were hooded, his skin mottled, and his teeth could have stood both straightening and cleaning, but what his personal features lacked in beauty was at least partially compensated for by his clothing; he was impeccably dressed in a tight checkered suit favored by Spaniards of a certain type.
He glanced about the elegant room appreciatively, waited until Anita had excused herself—his black eyes following her with even greater appreciation than they had exhibited for the nudes on the walls—and then graciously accepted the seat offered him by a casual wave of his host’s hand. The bright light from the windows struck his eyes, but not so forcibly as to cause him to consider a change in seating; he appreciated the intelligent purpose that had led Huuygens to seat him there. And for what Señor Sanchez had in mind, an intelligent man was what he required. In fact, what he required was Kek Huuygens himself, and nobody else, and a little momentary discomfort was a small price to pay for obtaining those invaluable services.
There was a moment of silence, broken by Sanchez. “A lovely apartment.…”
“Thank you. We find it most comfortable.” The tone Kek used was sufficiently polite but clearly hinted that he was sure his visitor had not come for the sole purpose of complimenting the furnishings. He tented his fingers, watching his guest above them. “You say André Martins gave you my telephone number?”
“Yes.” Sanchez nodded easily, neither overanxious to prove his good credentials nor hesitantly, as if trying to avoid the matter. It was well done, and Kek gave him credit for it. “He claims to be an old friend of yours, m’sieu.” It was a statement but ended on a slightly rising inflection.
“He is. Although I haven’t seen him in years. He went to Portugal; I went to the States.…” One good lie deserves another, Kek thought, and leaned back, prepared to play the verbal chess game to conclusion. Move and countermove.…
“Ah!” Señor Sanchez folded his pencillike fingers into a bundle which he deposited in his lap; they lay there like sticks. He seemed to relax a bit. “Yes. Luckily I’ve been able to be of some help to poor André from time to time—small jobs, occasional loans. A fine fellow, André, and strong as a bull, of course.” His French, Huuygens was pleased to see, was excellent; it would have been more difficult to conduct the charade in Kek’s Spanish, but far from impossible. Languages were vital to his profession. The thin man’s rich voice became sad. “Not too successful, André, I’m
afraid—no businessman—but still, a fine fellow.…”
What an actor! Kek thought. He kept his voice noncommittal. “As I say, I haven’t heard from him in years. What’s old André doing in Lisbon these days?”
“Not Lisbon. Barcelona. He came to Spain a year ago, at least. As to what he’s doing—” Sanchez shrugged. “A little of this and a little of that. I try to see to it the poor fellow doesn’t starve. He can’t return to France, you know. Some trouble with the police, I hear. A pity. He talks about Paris quite often.”
“It must be difficult. Trouble with the police, I mean.” Kek suppressed a yawn. “Well, be sure and give him my regards when you see him.” His tone relegated poor André Martins and his problems back to the oblivion in which they apparently existed. He pressed his tented fingers together tightly and then released the pressure; it was as if he was preparing for business. “And just exactly what did Martins tell you about me, señor?”
The man across from him hesitated a moment and then leaned forward slightly. It was something like watching a carpenter’s rule unfold.
“He told me you could help me with a problem I have.”
“A problem?”
“Yes. To be exact, M’sieu Huuygens, I have a suitcase which I should like to have taken through customs—”
“So?” Kek stared at him curiously. “What did André say that made you think that should interest me?”
Sanchez smiled. “I understand your caution, m’sieu, but believe me, you have no need of it with me. I am in much the same business as you—among other businesses, of course. I am well aware of your reputation and your talent for—well, for such things.” He tried to make out the expression on the shadowed face across from him, but without success. “Let me put it another way, m’sieu. Let us take a hypothetical example.…”
“That might be better,” Kek agreed equably. “What example should we take?”
“Let’s take the case of a person who wished to bring a suitcase through customs without—well, shall we say without bothering the customs officials too much?”
Kek sighed gently. “If you wish to consider either the example or the suitcase hypothetical, fine; but let’s leave the rest of the language veritable, shall we? Semantics can get complicated at times.” He tapped his tented fingers together. “Now, let’s take the hypothetical case of a person wishing to smuggle a suitcase through customs.”
“Fair enough,” Sanchez said and grinned. “All right. Could such a thing be done?”
“I imagine so. Though I still fail to see why this should interest me.”
“With your permission, a little patience, m’sieu, I believe I can show you how it could interest you in a while. But first, you say it can be done?”
“I should say so. Taken from where to where?”
“From Buenos Aires to Barcelona.”
“And what would this hypothetical case contain?”
Señor Sanchez looked slightly disappointed at what he obviously considered a faux pas on the part of his host.
“Considering the fee I’m sure will be asked—a fee I’m equally sure will not be hypothetical—I should imagine the contents of the suitcase could remain secret.”
Kek shrugged. “Possibly by some, but certainly not by me. It appears, señor, that André did not tell you enough about me. Or possibly he didn’t know, since it’s been a long time. But let me say this: I can’t picture myself taking a hypothetical suitcase into Spain containing, say, narcotics, for example.”
“For no amount of money?”
“For no amount of money.”
“And if it didn’t contain narcotics?”
“Then it obviously would contain something else. Which would not have to be a secret.” He shook his head. “Let me suggest that I cannot imagine anyone, myself included, taking a suitcase through customs without knowing what he was carrying.”
There were several moments of prolonged silence, followed by a deep sigh. The hawklike profile pivoted, the hooded eyes studying the room without actually seeing any of the beauties it contained. The black, hooded eyes returned at last to Kek’s face as if calculating something.
“All right, m’sieu. My reticence is simply due to the fact that you will probably not believe what I am about to tell you—” He paused.
Kek nodded inwardly. You may be quite sure I won’t believe it, he silently assured the man across from him and waited. Sanchez seemed to find it hard to continue; his locked fingers writhed in his lap, like disturbed twigs. At last he looked up. “To tell you the truth, M’sieu Huuygens,” he said, “the suitcase will contain nothing more illegal than parchment.”
“Parchment?” It was a lovely lie, Kek was forced to admit.
“Parchment.” Having made the plunge, the words came easier for Señor Sanchez. He unlocked his fingers, placing his hands on his bony knees. “M’sieu Huuygens, I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but it is the truth. A good many of the land titles to the most important pieces of property in the city of Buenos Aires depend for their legal validity on nothing more than the fact that the original grants given by the Spanish crown to the original owners have disappeared—or had disappeared, that is, until quite recently. Then, in an—an old church in—but the name is unimportant; let us simply say in a section of the city that once was a small village but is now a suburb, a part of Greater Buenos Aires, some of these original land grants were discovered. They had been there for years, put away in a drawer. The man who discovered them did so by pure accident, but he was smart enough to realize their potential worth, and—” He hesitated, slightly embarrassed.
“Stole them?”
Sanchez seemed relieved to have the naughty words spoken by someone with less sensibility than himself. “I’m afraid that’s right.” He shrugged delicately. “Actually, you might more properly say restole them, because of course they were the true grants to the land, and I’m sure the original owners didn’t give up either the land or the grants all that easily. In any event, most of the descendants of the original families live in Spain, and many of them in Barcelona. They were approached recently by this—” Again the slight hesitation.
“Thief?” Huuygens suggested politely.
“—the man who had located the parchments. However, he did not have the actual documents with him of course; he was afraid to take them through customs. They would have taken quite a bit of explaining, as you can well imagine. So the families commissioned me to go to Argentina and view the documents.” He shrugged. “I was convinced of their authenticity. And their potential value.”
“You are an expert on documents?”
Sanchez grinned; on his thin face it looked like a rictus.
“M’sieu, I am an expert on making money.”
Which is probably the first true statement said in this room since your arrival, Kek thought. Still, there is no doubt the man has a wonderful imagination. His grandchildren must enjoy his stories.
“But why bring the documents to Spain at all?” Kek asked. “The land they refer to is, after all, in Argentina.”
The thin man shook his head decisively. “No, no, m’sieu! To attempt to present the parchments in an Argentinian court would be ridiculous. A good part of what is now the city of Buenos Aires is involved. The government there simply could not allow such a claim to be considered for a moment. The documents would be impounded, declared fraudulent, and destroyed. Even in Spain—” He sighed. “My principals are important people, but I’m sure that even in Spain we shall have problems. But the documents are Spanish in origin, and there, at least, it’s felt we might have a chance.”
Huuygens nodded, as if seeing the logic of the other’s position. It was an imaginative story, he had to admit; he wondered whether Sanchez had come prepared with it or had made it up on the spur of the moment. However, he decided to play along a bit more.
“How big a suitcase are we talking about?”
“A normal suitcase.” Sanchez held out his pencillike fingers. “Ab
out so wide. A few feet. Nothing extraordinary.” He smiled. “Still, a bit too big to carry through customs under one’s coat.”
“The only thing I ever carry through customs under my coat,” Kek said, “is me. And I usually have more trouble with that than I do with anything else.” He changed the subject. “What’s the weight of this suitcase?”
Sanchez considered. “Fifteen kilo, I’d say. A bit more than thirty pounds. Not heavy at all.”
Which, heavy or not, would make a lot of parchment, Kek thought, and pitied the number of sheep called upon to furnish it. “Why a suitcase, necessarily?” he asked. “I assume the parchment is rolled; at least it was customary in those days. Wouldn’t folding harm it? Why not a tube of some sort?”
Sanchez considered him evenly. “Because, m’sieu, you will have to transport the material somehow to get it to Spain, and a tube with a lock on it might arouse the curiosity of a porter, or an airline baggage handler, or a clerk—”
“Locked? This suitcase will be locked?”
“Extremely well locked, m’sieu.” Now that the subject had been broached, Sanchez sounded determined to settle the matter for all time. “The suitcase will be locked and will remain locked, m’sieu. That is a vital condition. The value of these documents might prove a temptation to anyone, even to someone with your reputation for dealing fairly with clients. We are not talking about a paltry painting now, m’sieu, or a valuable book. We are talking about most of the city of Buenos Aires.” He waited for some response; Huuygens remained silent, watching him over his tented fingers. Sanchez took this as a form of acceptance and continued. “Well, m’sieu, what do you think? It can be done?”
“Oh, yes. It can be done, all right.”
“May one ask how?”
Kek looked at him sardonically. “One may ask, of course, but one would not be answered. After all, señor, the suitcase is still hypothetical, but my means of making a living is not.”
The Tricks of the Trade Page 2