There was a click and the sound of the dial tone. Kek replaced the telephone in its cradle and stared at the carpet, his mind considering this new angle. André cleared his throat.
“What did Anita say?”
Kek frowned savagely. He had not been amused by the exchange with his lovely Anita. “She says she’s fine and maybe I ought to marry her, since married women seldom get kidnapped.”
“She’s probably right,” André said and feigned agreement. “I know I’ve never felt the urge to kidnap one.” He straightened his face, coming back to the more important subject. “What did Sanchez have to say for himself?”
“Sanchez said he wants the suitcase in Barcelona by Sunday. Which is no problem.” Kek resumed his pacing. “He also said he isn’t having me followed—as he put it, why should he? And why should he, indeed?” His eyes came up steadily. “And that, my friend, is a problem.”
André considered him a moment and then nodded in understanding. “You mean it looks as if your friend Schneller is overstepping his authority a bit, eh?”
“I’m afraid,” Kek said and went to stare out of the window.
“And,” André went on, warming to his theme, “if Schneller is having you followed, not for Sanchez, he must be doing it for himself. Right?”
“Right.”
“And if he knew where you were going, and when, he might just be able to arrange to have someone waiting for you along the line. And you would be left holding the bag. I mean, not holding the bag,” he amended in the interests of accuracy and sighed. “It’s getting harder and harder to find a crook you can trust these days.”
“Too true,” Kek said absently and continued staring into the street, his mind busy with the problem.
“It would also mean, of course, that your friend Schneller would have to do something to prevent your being around afterward,” André said, expounding his theory further. “Something like killing you. Because you’re the type to go crying to Sanchez and tell him the big, bad man from Buenos Aires slapped your wrist and took away all your candy.”
“That’s me,” Kek said and grinned without turning around. “Just a poor sport.”
“And Sanchez might just believe you. So Schneller can’t leave you around.” André became serious. “So what do we do about it? Take Schneller along and drop him into the ocean?”
“They still object to opening plane doors at thirty thousand feet. Besides,” Kek said, looking down, “if Schneller has any idea of taking the suitcase away from me, he’d probably hire somebody to do the job, much as he’d hate to—”
“Hate to?”
“About all that Sanchez told me about the man is that he hates to spend money. A maniac tightwad. But he’d pay to have someone take me; it would be worth it to him. After our little talk he knows I’ll have an eye out for him; and he’s like you in one respect—he’s hard to hide.” He frowned. “And the people he could hire just in Buenos Aires that I don’t know come to about six million. Not to mention a lot of others in other cities.”
André saw a hole in the argument. “Except,” he said, “if he takes the suitcase away from you before Spain, how will he get it through customs?”
“He doesn’t want it in Spain, for heaven’s sake! That’s the last place he wants it. He wants the bag and me to disappear together, all right, but anywhere else. They buy cocaine in lots of places these days.” The crowds he was staring at without seeing in the streets below seemed to suddenly give him an idea. “You know.…”
“What?”
Huuygens suddenly turned, smiling. “It would be better, wouldn’t it, if Herr Schneller took on the job of taking the suitcase away from me? Personally? Rather than some unknown thug he could hire that I wouldn’t know or recognize?”
“I suppose. But how do you get him to do it?”
“It might just be possible.…”
He held up a hand against interruption and began pacing the room. The people in the street had reminded him that it was easier to lose a man in a crowd than in an empty street. His idea had begun to take form. It was rough at that stage, which was natural, but that did not bother him; he knew instinctively it was a workable concept. He began to put some of the details in, staring at the girl leading the burro, but not seeing the picture at all. Suddenly it struck him that that was exactly what he was planning to do: lead a burro. The smile on the girl’s face was transformed to his own.
Insurance, Schneller had said, and Sanchez and he had both repeated the word. Well, this wasn’t exactly insurance, but it was a chance to get Schneller off his neck at least. He had always known how he was going to get the suitcase past the customs in Spain; the nice thing about this new plan was that it did not interfere with the original scheme at all. It did not, unfortunately, also include a means of teaching Señor Sanchez a lesson for sticking pins into girls, but that was a problem that would have to wait. One enemy at a time—today Schneller, tomorrow Sanchez. He let his thoughts go back to his new scheme, taking it from the beginning; now the little tumblers—unlike those spring-loaded ball bearings in Schneller’s suitcase—began to drop into place with almost audible clicks. Nor did any warning bell ring as the outlines of the plan began to solidify. He checked it over one final time and then turned to the patiently waiting André.
“André, we’ll need a bit of shopping—”
“For anything interesting?”
“Suitcase covers, two of them. You know, those canvas things.…”
André frowned. “I haven’t seen one of those in years.”
“They still have them in luggage stores. My suitcase is roughly the size of one. With covers on they’ll be pretty hard to tell apart from a distance.”
André’s eyes lit up. “The old shell game?”
“Something like it. Except you’ll be taking one of the walnut shells with you when you leave.”
“That’s cheating,” André said, scandalized, and swung himself from the bed. He pulled the unaccustomed necktie into place, straightened the jacket, and ran his fingers through his nearly-white gray hair. “Two suitcase covers coming up! I gather you want me to do the shopping? If you’re being followed? Down two flights by stairs and then the elevator,” he added sotto voce, as if repeating instructions, and then looked up, frowning, doing a double take. “Hold it! What do you mean, I’ll be taking one of the walnut shells with me. Aren’t we traveling together?”
“No. You leave tonight; I go tomorrow.”
André shook his large head stubbornly. “No, sir! Not with that storm-troop type after you! We didn’t come together because there was a reason; now there’s a reason we go back together, and we do!”
“We don’t!” Kek said definitely. “There’s also a reason. And I suppose it’s about time you found out what the plans are.”
“Well, thank you very much,” André said stiffly and sat down again on the bed. He got up to tug on his trousers, protecting the unusual crease, and then sat down again, waiting. Kek stopped his pacing and stood facing the big man, beginning to outline his plan. André listened with no expression on his face, although at one point he smiled and then immediately brought his face back to its immobility. When at last Kek finished there were several moments of silence. Then André sighed and came to his feet.
“It could work,” he said slowly. “I don’t mean the smuggling; that’s perfect. I mean the thing with Schneller. Still, in everything, there are a couple of things I’m not too fond of—”
Kek faced him, unsmiling. “Just a couple?”
“Mainly. First, I don’t like the fact that you still don’t know how to teach Sanchez a lesson and still plan on giving him that suitcase.…”
“And?”
“And suppose that Schneller doesn’t follow the bait? Suppose he doesn’t react the way you expect him to?”
Huuygens sighed and turned to look out of the window again out over the city, but not seeing it.
“Then,” he said, “we may be in trouble.…”
Through the closed door of his apartment, Schneller could hear the sound of the telephone ringing. He fumbled his key ring into his hand, singling out a key, and hurried it into the lock, turned it quickly, and then searched for the key to a second lock, for the first time sorry he had been so thorough in his home-protective installations. He managed the auxiliary at last, the soft incessancy of the sound through the paneling a goad to his fingers. He swung the door aside as an irksome barrier, hurried across the room, his key strap dangling, and snatched up the instrument.
“Hello?” His voice was wheezing badly. One of these days, he promised himself, he had to stop smoking—and instantly he reached to touch the security blanket of the tobacco sack in his pocket as one might touch an amulet.
“Herr Schneller? Max Gross, from the Gerhardt Agency—”
“One second.” Schneller crossed the room, tucking the monstrous key ring into his pocket; he closed and locked the door and returned to the telephone, catching his breath. He sat down on the desk chair, overflowing it, speaking with more control. “All right. Go ahead.”
“Yes, sir.” Max spoke in German. “The subject left the Plaza Hotel about half an hour ago—two o’clock, precisely. He proceeded—”
“Was he alone?”
“Alone, yes.” It seemed to Max to be a rather odd question; Huuygens had been alone since he had arrived at Ezeiza Airport early that morning and could scarcely have picked up a companion since then without having been seen. However, Herr Schneller was paying for the surveillance, and Max was a firm believer in rendering unto Caesar.
“Well? Go ahead!”
Max came out of his reverie. “Yes, sir. Anyway, the subject proceeded to the British United Airways office in the Calle Maipú between Paraguay and Córdoba. It’s not far from the hotel and he walked. I followed the subject, taking all precautions not to be observed. Since the subject obviously was unaware of the surveillance, I proceeded into the office behind him. There was only one girl on counter duty, so I was able to obtain a place in line behind the subject and remained there while he transacted his business. The subject picked up tickets—it must be assumed they had been ordered by telephone prior—I mean, previously. I was therefore able, because of my position, to hear all that transpired.” Max giggled, veering from the agency vernacular a moment. “I couldn’t have helped hearing him if I’d tried—”
“Get on with it!” Schneller said gratingly. Why in the devil did every agency moron refer to a person as “the subject” instead of by name? And the rest of that garbage they used to replace plain German! This Max What’s-his-name was a fool. What kind of detectives was he paying for, anyway?
“Yes, sir!” Max said hurriedly. “Anyway, the subject leaves Buenos Aires the day after tomorrow—”
“The day after tomorrow? What’s he hanging around for?”
Max had no idea, but he didn’t seem to feel it politic to say so. Herr Schneller appeared to be a bit on edge this morning.
“Possibly to sight-see, sir. He may be a stranger here, taking advantage of his—”
“Get on with it!”
“Yes, sir! The subject leaves the day after tomorrow, Thursday, at seventeen twenty-five—that’s five twenty-five in the afternoon, sir—from Ezeiza Airport on British United Airways for London, arriving there at fourteen fifteen Saturday. That’s two fifteen in the after—”
“I know! I know! Keep quiet a second.…”
London, eh? Schneller frowned at the desk blotter. Why would Huuygens pick an airport as large as either of the two major ports in London? He obviously would expect to be searched, since he always was; and they were far from fools in London. Besides, the chances of smuggling anything the size of a suitcase through customs in London had to be the devil’s own task. And when you were through, where were you? Still far from Spain, and on an island to boot. And even worse, of course—getting this Huuygens alone for the purpose of taking the suitcase from him in a busy place like London, with police all around, could also be a major problem.…
“What airport?”
“Gatwick,” Max said, proud that he—or rather, the counter girl—had overlooked no detail.
Well, Schneller thought, at least Gatwick isn’t quite as crowded as Heathrow, but it still is a very busy airport. Possibly there was another answer? After all, just because a man buys a ticket for a certain destination doesn’t necessarily mean he has to go there.
“Any stopovers?”
“Two. Rio de Janeiro and Las Palmas in the Canaries. But he’s not staying in London; he’s going on,” Max added hurriedly, suddenly realizing that Herr Schneller was misunderstanding his information.
“Well, for God’s sake! Don’t make me drag it out of you word by word!” Good Lord! What was this incompetent’s name? Max? Really, Gerhardt would hear of this!
“Yes, sir. The subject changes planes in London, same airfield, Gatwick, also to British United, for Gibraltar. He leaves Gatwick at twenty-one forty-five and gets into Gibraltar—North Front Airport—at twenty-three fifteen. That’s”—Max realized he was close to repeating an error—“fifteen minutes before midnight. No, forty-five,” he amended hastily and anticipated a further question. “No stopovers on that leg. And that’s as far as his ticket goes.”
This Huuygens is really laying a trail, Schneller thought, and was happy he had been wise enough to put Gerhardt and his men on the job, even though it was just pure luck that a mental cripple like this Max should have gotten so much of the finer details.
“Now, what about luggage? Was there any mention of it? For example, what about the transfer from one plane to the other at Gatwick?”
“They put it from one plane to the other in London—the company does, that is. The girl said so; she said he’d have no worry on that score. He puts his bags in at Ezeiza here and doesn’t get his hands on them until Gibraltar.”
There was a pause as Schneller considered this information. Gibraltar, of course, made a lot more sense than Gatwick. Actually, it made a lot of sense. It was small, minute when compared with London, with far less traffic and far, far less staff. The intermediate stops were well forgotten; if Huuygens bought that detailed a ticket just to get off at Rio de Janeiro to throw anyone off his trail, he’d still be almost as far from his ultimate destination and still face all the same problems. No, Gibraltar made real sense—although how the man planned to get it from Gibraltar into Spain would be interesting. Actually, it would be even more interesting to know how he planned to get it out of the airport in Gibraltar. Interesting but nonessential, since M’sieu Huuygens had his, Schneller’s, permission to get it past customs any way he, Huuygens, chose; he, Schneller, would see to it that he, Huuygens, would be relieved of the custody of the suitcase in short order. This bit of cerebral gymnastics completed, Schneller went on with his calculating.
Actually, Gibraltar was ideal from his own point of view; from the Rock it would be no great problem to get it onto a ferry to Spanish Morocco. A few pesetas bought a lot of closed eyes and turned heads in that part of the world. And in Morocco it should be simple to make a very lucrative deal for the stuff. He returned his attention to the telephone and the waiting Max.
“Where did Huuygens go when he left the airline office?”
“I don’t know. I imagine Willi took over and picked him up,” Max said. “I couldn’t walk out of the airline office behind the subject after standing in line so long; it would have looked suspicious. I had to stay and ask the girl a lot of stupid questions”—Schneller raised his eyes to the ceiling—“but Willi and Herr Gerhardt himself were right behind us, so I’m sure they picked the subject up. That was the arrangement. They should be calling you as soon as—”
“All right! All right!” Schneller brought his eyes down, glaring. God, what a talkative idiot! “Go back to the hotel and be prepared to help the others when they get back. If they need you.” He was paying good money for this donkey?
“Yes, sir.”
&
nbsp; “And good-bye!”
“Yes, sir,” Max said sadly and hung up, reluctant to stop talking. The reporting was the part of detective work he liked best.
The big blond man set the telephone back in its cradle and pulled his tobacco and papers from his pocket, beginning to roll a cigarette without conscious thought, forcing his mind from the irritation of Max Gross. So Huuygens would arrive at North Front in Gibraltar around midnight three days hence. Friday. The question of why the delay in Buenos Aires an extra day when he had a job to do was a bit irksome but really not essential. Probably his plan for getting through customs in Gibraltar required his arrival there on Friday, rather than earlier. That must be it. In any event, it was nothing to worry about.
Friday.… More than ample time to get someone from Germany down there. Or, better yet, to arrange for two men; one to join the flight at Gatwick in London and actually accompany Huuygens and the other to be waiting in Gibraltar. It would be pretty hard for even the clever M’sieu Huuygens to give the slip to the two of them—not the two men he intended to hire for the job. And they would hold him someplace privately until he could get there and handle the rest himself. It would be necessary to get rid of M’sieu Huuygens, but that would occasion no great sadness on his part; it would be, in fact, a job he would handle himself with great pleasure. He pictured the stocky man’s neck between his strong fingers, allowed four or five seconds in his mind for slowly increasing pressure—long enough to remind the man behind those bulging gray eyes that it did not pay to get cute with Hans Schneller—and then suddenly flexed his thick thumbs, completing the garroting. He could almost hear the neck snap.
He tugged at the knuckles of his fingers as if in relief after the strangling he had just imagined; then his smile faded. Imagination was one thing, but facts were another. Between the expenses involved in the hiring of the Gerhardt Detective Agency with half their men, plus the two from Berlin—who did not work cheaply—the cost of this hijacking would be considerable. Not that it wasn’t worth it—Worth it? Ten thousand times over—but, still, money didn’t grow on trees. True, he had had the suitcase in his hands after Sanchez had been and gone with the combination—and maybe he shouldn’t have given him the combination either, but that was water over the dam—and possibly he should have just gone off with it. But no; Sanchez or that partner of his would have had him followed for the rest of his life, which probably wouldn’t have been long, and who needed it when a simpler solution was at hand? This was much better—let the blame fall on Huuygens. In fact, make sure the blame falls on him. No suitcase, no Huuygens. He could even go to Barcelona and commiserate with the others on the loss.…
The Tricks of the Trade Page 12