4
Although in general he preferred to drink in more refined settings, Antonio Duarte y Bertrand was not a stranger to the Villarino Bar. Business had taken him to the small café in the Plaza de Antonio Lopez more than once, being located, as it was, near the harbor and the various possibilities there of making money at the expense of shippers and receivers. It was also, he knew, a logical place to meet Martins; the big man would have been out of place, as Sanchez had suggested, at the Ritz. Duarte was a short, swarthy man with a barrellike figure in sharp contrast to the elegant emaciation of his temporary partner; his face was puffy and normally demonstrated a suspicious frown, his temper short, and his appetites exaggerated.
Señor Duarte was sipping a Don Carlos Primero brandy—the legitimate grandfather, one might say, of Fundador—and studying the busy square before him half angrily. He had put out the word that he wanted to see the giant André the day before, and he was properly irritated that to the moment there had been no response. True, the city was a large one, but the circle in which Duarte moved—and on the fringes of which André existed—was a relatively small and close-knit one. The little, chunky man sipped at his cognac without proper appreciation for its fineness, his mind preparing castigations for those in his organization he had assigned to locate André; one more hour was all he would give the big man to arrive and then he would tell Sanchez to forget his wild idea and get on with getting Huuygens—or someone—
He noticed the large figure far in the distance and paused in his thinking, unwilling to admit success. Yes, it was the big man. André was crossing the square diagonally in his direction, his cap pulled over his eyes almost challengingly. Duarte came to his feet, forcing a smile onto his normally dour features, greeting the big man as if they were old friends instead of meeting in person for the first time.
“Señor Martins. A pleasure. Sit down, sit down.” He himself sat and waved an imperious hand. “Waiter!”
André sat down, frowning. While the expression of friendship was obviously false, this approach equally obviously was not normal from one attempting to make a collection. Nor was it the usual approach one faced when being offered a job. Unless, of course, the job was on the order of murder—and while he had heard that Señor Duarte also accepted assignments of that nature for his boys, he was fairly sure that Duarte would not approach him in that regard, surely considering him an amateur by the fat man’s high standards. He waited while the waiter poured him a generous portion of the Don Carlos Primero; his eyebrows rose at sight of the prestigious brand. Whatever Duarte wanted to see him about, it had to be important. Don Carlos Primero cognac was not dispensed lightly.
“Your good health,” Duarte said woodenly and drank.
André nodded and drank with him, savoring the smooth, velvety touch of the brandy, a rare treat for his disenchanted palate. He set the glass down a bit reluctantly, but still determined to get the matter over in a hurry. He had a boat to catch.
“I hear you wanted to see me.”
“I did, yes.” Duarte was smiling at him, a calculating, humorless smile. He pushed his glass away, getting down to business. “Tell me—the name is André, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“Tell me, André—how would you like to make some money for practically no work at all?”
So it was a job after all! André’s face was hard put to find a suitable expression; he compromised by leaving it expressionless. “Nobody pays money for practically no work at all.”
“Except this time.” Duarte tapped his mottled nose with a thick forefinger and then raised it in the air for emphasis. “A telephone call is all. Scarcely what one could call work.”
“A phone call?” André frowned. Who paid money to have someone make a phone call for them? One possible explanation came to him, an explanation he didn’t like. “Setting up who? For what?”
Señor Antonio Duarte looked faintly amused at the suggestion. “My dear André,” he said with a touch of sardonicism, “I do not need your help in things for which you have no experience. No, this is a call that would be beneficial to everyone involved.” He leaned a bit closer, lowering his voice. “You know, or used to know, a Dutchman named Huuygens. Kek Huuygens. Didn’t you?”
His pronunciation of the name was atrocious, but that was the least of the effect of his words upon André. A feeling like a tiny electric shock ran across the big man’s nerves, but no sign of it appeared on his face; if anything, he managed to look more stonelike than ever. So this had to be the money-man, then! What a lovely pair of cutthroats—Sanchez and Duarte! He paused a moment before replying; when he spoke, he spoke slowly, as if to be clearly understood.
“I know a man named Huuygens—or I used to know him, that is, a long time ago in France. But he wasn’t Dutch. He was Polish, using a Dutch name. Actually, the man I’m referring to—I heard he took out American citizenship some time ago, but I could be wrong.” He shrugged and toyed with his brandy glass. “As I say, it’s been a long time.”
“And what does your Huuygens do for a living?”
André looked at him flatly. “What do you want to know for?”
Duarte’s face hardened; it occurred to André that even though small, Duarte had an organization that made him ten feet tall anytime he wanted to issue the order.
“I asked you a polite question,” Duarte said quietly. “I’m not from the police, as you well know. Now, let’s try it again: What does he do?”
André shrugged as if it were no skin off his nose. “He smuggles.” He pushed his battered cap back on his head, as if recognizing antagonism was no longer needed. “They tell me he’s the best there is.” There was an unaccountable touch of pride in his tone.
“That’s the one, then,” Duarte said evenly and leaned closer again. “How friendly were you with him?”
André raised his massive shoulders and let them drop. “We had our times together. Actually, I saved his life a few times. Why?”
“Saved his life?” Duarte was satisfied; his smile, while still cold, was sincere for the first time. “Then I assume he would trust you.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Of course,” André said, properly amazed at the words. “Why shouldn’t he trust me?”
Duarte paid no attention to the question, which in any event had been completely rhetorical. For once that monomaniac Sanchez had been right. His thick fingers drummed on his knee. He looked up.
“And you wouldn’t mind putting him in the way of a good thing?”
“What do you call a good thing?”
Duarte surveyed the big man from beneath half-closed eyes. He brought back his friendly smile. “I’ll be frank with you, André. We’ve made him a proposition to take a—an object—through customs for us. He says he wants time to think about it, undoubtedly to check on who we are, if he’ll get paid, how he’ll get paid—things like that. And that he won’t end up in jail on a police frame, I imagine. All reasonable precautions, but they take time, and we don’t have time. A phone call from you to him.…” The words trailed off, self-explanatory.
“What is in this”—André caught himself in time—“object you want him to smuggle?”
Duarte stared at him coldly. “What difference does it make? Especially to you? I want one thing from you, and just one—I want you to call him in Paris. I have his number. Just tell him he’s dealing with reputable people.”
André frowned, thinking about the proposition, and then apparently came to a decision. He raised his eyes to look into those of Señor Duarte and then slowly shook his head.
“No.”
Duarte’s eyes narrowed; he bit back his temper. “Why not? You’ll be paid for the call and paid well. Why not call? What difference does it make to you?”
“This difference,” André said softly. His brain was functioning on all cylinders, and about time! he thought. “Let us suppose this object of yours was—let’s say—a time bomb.…”
“A time bomb?” Duarte al
most laughed. The imagination one uncovered in peasants! “What the devil would I want to bring a time bomb into Spain for?”
“Possibly because you might have taken out a contract on my friend Huuygens,” André said calmly. “He does have enemies, you know, or at least I assume he has. And I hear that among your other activities, you and your boys also.…” He looked Duarte in the eye.
Duarte looked back at him. “I don’t take contracts outside of the country,” he said evenly. “I don’t know your friend, and I give you my word I have no desire to kill him. It isn’t a bomb or anything like a bomb. It’s a plain, ordinary suitcase.”
“Suitcases have been known to carry explosives,” André pointed out. He was beginning to enjoy himself. It just went to prove how little hard work really meant in this world. Sweat your brains out interrogating bartenders and whorehouse madames and nothing happened, but simply wait around bars and clues fairly flung themselves at you. This detective business was highly overrated as far as he was concerned.
“This suitcase—” Duarte stopped abruptly. For a horrible moment André wondered if his wild statement might have an actual basis in fact, that it might, indeed, carry dynamite. Duarte clenched his jaw and went on. He hated to discuss things with nobodies. “This suitcase happens to contain something this Huuygens has a mania against carrying. And it isn’t explosives.” He looked up calculatingly. “What do you have scruples against?”
“Poverty,” André said and grinned. “Poverty and bad brandy.”
“And that’s all?”
“That’s the works.”
“Good,” Duarte said evenly. “There’s no danger to your friend in this, if he knows his business, of course. And he’d pick up a big piece of change for doing it. And you’d be well paid for telephoning him. Fifty—” He saw the look on André’s face and amended his offer smoothly. “One hundred pesetas. Just to make a telephone call.”
André considered. “Where’s this suitcase now?”
The big man was getting out of hand! “What’s it to you?”
“Curiosity is all. Where is it?” He sounded stubborn.
Duarte promised himself that some of his boys would pay a visit to this André once this matter was settled and teach him manners. Give one of these little men on the edge of smuggling the slightest smell of a big deal and they suddenly put on airs. Still, for the time being the man could be useful, and the information was unimportant in any event.
“Argentina, if you must know.”
“And before Argentina?”
“There was no before Argentina! The stuff was made—” Duarte had had enough; he clamped off the words. “Yes or no,” he said after a brief pause.
André considered the smaller man whimsically. “You ought to import the stuff legally,” he suggested. “Call it dental supplies, or something of that nature.”
Duarte’s face whitened; his mouth became mean. Suddenly he was not a short fat man but Antonio Duarte y Bertrand, a big wheel and a very dangerous man, despite his size. André wondered if he had gone too far. Duarte’s voice was grating.
“Any more comments?”
“Who, me?” André shook his head. “Like you said, it’s none of my business. The only thing is, one hundred pesetas doesn’t go very far these days …” He considered the other innocently. “… five hundred?”
Duarte’s fist slammed on the table. What he should have done, of course, was have the boys take care of this monster and then let him make his call from a hospital bed.
“Do you make the call?” He looked on the verge of explosion. “For five hundred pesetas?”
“Of course,” André said. “I don’t guarantee Huuygens takes the job; all I guarantee is to give you a good recommendation. Understood?”
“Understood,” Duarte said tightly and came to his feet without wasting further time. He walked through the bar briskly with André at his side, not at all intimidated by the difference in their heights, and entered the manager’s office without knocking. The manager looked up from his desk, momentarily prepared to denounce the unexpected intruders; one look of recognition at his uninvited guest and he forced his expression to one of respect, if not admiration.
“Señor Duarte …”
“We want to use your telephone. A private call.”
The last was said with significance; the manager understood. He straightened some papers on his desk with a poor show of at least partial independence, got to his feet, and hastily left the room, closing the door behind him. Duarte picked up the telephone, clicked it impatiently for the operator’s attention, and gave her instructions in a drill-sergeant manner. André stood at ease, glancing about the room as the call was put through. Through the open, barred window the faint sounds of the harbor could be heard in the distance, although all that could be seen from the window was the faded red-brick wall of a warehouse across the narrow street, pockmarked with ant’s nests and sporting a few tattered posters aggrandizing a famous bullfighter, plus some scrawled graffiti taking exception to the torero’s talents. André had a tendency to agree with the graffiti.
The minutes dragged by; André was beginning to consider calling in a waiter—at his own expense, if necessary—when Duarte suddenly made an unintelligible sound and thrust the receiver in his direction. André took it and listened. A telephone bell was ringing in a well, it seemed. There was a sudden silence as the international operator cut the call momentarily; a few more seconds and she was back on the line.
“Here’s your party,” she said politely, and then Kek’s voice was in his ear. It was remarkably clear.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Kek? Kek Huuygens—?”
Duarte stood on tiptoe, trying to bring his ear in conjunction with the receiver; André obliged by bending lower and then went on without pause.
“This is a very old friend of yours you haven’t heard from in years—in many years. André Martins. Remember me? From the old days in the south of France? It’s been a long time, but you ought to remember me. André Martins? From Perpignan? The big man? I used to sing all the gypsy songs.…”
“André? André Martins?” Kek was delighted. “My God, it has been a long time. Still, to be honest, just hearing your voice it seems like it was only yesterday! Forget you? How could I forget the man who saved my life? How are you?”
“Fine. Kek—”
“But the operator said the call was from Barcelona; the last I heard, you were living in Lisbon.”
“I left Lisbon a year or so ago—”
“Oh? And what are you doing with yourself these days?”
“A little of this and a little of that,” André said vaguely and then got down to business. “Look, Kek, I have a message for you.”
“Oh? From whom?”
André glanced over his shoulder questioningly. The short, fat man shook his head emphatically, waggled a finger definitively, and then bent down again, pressing his ear to the back of the receiver. André returned his attention to his call.
“You wouldn’t know him by name.” There was a brief pause and he went on. “Kek, have you been thinking about a trip? A vacation trip? Say, from Argentina to Spain?”
There was a sudden silence at the Paris end of the line. When Huuygens spoke again his voice was cautious, though still friendly.
“I’m considering it. Do you know anything about it I should know?”
“I know somebody has been kind enough to offer to pay your way. Well, I’m calling to say I know these people personally, and they’re first rate. Plenty of money, too, so you don’t have to worry about the cost being a drain on them. Highly reputable—in their own line, naturally. I rate them A-one.”
“I see.” There was another pause; Huuygens seemed to be thinking. “You say you know these people personally. Have you seen them recently?”
“Extremely recently. I’ve known them for a long time, too. They can be trusted.”
“That’s good,” Kek said. “Still, I haven’t made up
my mind yet. I’m pretty busy these days, you know; or if you don’t know, I am. A vacation is fine, especially a free one, but I’ll have to think about it.”
“You do that,” André suggested. “And I hope you take it. You know me, Kek, and you know I wouldn’t steer you wrong—”
“I know that, André. I’d trust you with my life.” He laughed. “I have, several times.”
“Good, then think about it, eh, Kek? And if you get to Barcelona we can get together and see each other after all these years. Talk over old times.…” Or, he added to himself with an inner smile, maybe we can turn this sister act into a vaudeville skit if smuggling ever goes sour. Anita can play the banjo.
“I promise to think about it seriously. And if I should get there, how do I reach you?”
“There’s a place here called Manuela’s. Everybody knows it. It’s a—well, a sort of club. They always know where I am. I move a lot.”
“Well, maybe I’ll see you in Barcelona, yet. It’s been good talking to you, André. Take care.”
“I will, Kek. You take care, too. Ciao.” André depressed the telephone lever, putting the receiver back in its cradle. He turned to Duarte. “Good enough?”
Even Duarte had been impressed. “Excellent!” he said and dug an overstuffed wallet from his pocket. He counted out ten fifty-peseta notes and thrust them at André. For a moment he considered adding an extra hundred as a tip and then abandoned the idea. For a tip he would overlook the big man’s lip and not put his boys on him. He reached up and patted André on the shoulder. “We may be able to do business again sometime. No scruples, eh?”
“Don’t make it sound any better than it is,” André said and grinned. He stuffed the bills into his pocket, feeling them wedge against the wad already there. Money, money, money, money—it was either feast or famine. If this kept on, he’d have to buy himself a wallet, something he had not required for years. Ah, well, he thought with a smile, at least he had made expenses, and that was always pleasant.…
“Cocaine,” André said calmly into the telephone.
“Cocaine?”
“There isn’t the slightest doubt. It’s the only major drug that comes principally from South America, and since I called you this afternoon—”
The Tricks of the Trade Page 5