His smile returned. He stretched his hand to place his call to Berlin; the telephone rang as his fingers touched the smooth plastic. He brought the receiver to his ear in the same easy motion.
“Yes?”
“Schneller? This is Gerhardt. What’s the matter with your telephone? I’ve been ringing every few minutes and it’s been busy.”
“You’ve got a talkative operative named Max Something on your payroll. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter. You wanted reports, didn’t you? You scream enough about how much they cost, so I thought you’d be interested in getting one, that’s all.”
Now that Huuygens’ itinerary was in his hands, it was far less important to have the man constantly followed; still, it certainly did no harm, and he had promised Gerhardt at least two days’ employment for at least four men. A pity, under the circumstances, but he could not back out now; Gerhardt was an old friend. Still, as Gerhardt said, they were costing him so he might as well get the reports. No sense in throwing away the money.
“All right,” Schneller said mildly. “So report.”
“All right,” Gerhardt said, still not completely mollified. “My man Willi picked up your man outside the British United Airways office on Maipú. Max was inside with him. He—”
“I know,” Schneller said and finally lit his cigarette. He coughed once and started to subside when another fit caught him. He managed to control it at last, speaking with effort. “He was picking up his tickets there—”
“His tickets?” At the other end of the line Gerhardt shook his head disgustedly at the phone. Why did every client try to second-guess the agency? “Tickets nothing. They must have been booked solid, because from British United he went around the corner on Córdoba to Air France—”
Schneller felt a cold hand grip his stomach and twist. The match in his fingers burned down to his hand; he woke up with a muffled curse and dropped it on the rug, stamping it out.
“—and Willi was right behind him. Your man bought a ticket for Paris—Orly Field. His flight leaves Ezeiza at eighteen hours on Thursday, day after tomorrow, and gets into Orly at fourteen fifty-five on Friday, their time.”
Schneller took a shuddering breath, coughed on his cigarette, and took it from his lip, crushing it out viciously. He felt as if he had been betrayed. Betrayed? He felt as if he had been clubbed on the back of his bull neck. Why in the devil would Huuygens—Or did that dumbhead Max make a mistake? But, no—his information had been too complete. Then, what in the name of—
One possibility suddenly occurred to him, the only one that made sense at the moment. The tickets had to be for different people. Of course! Huuygens had an accomplice, a confederate. And they would meet someplace, which is why he had booked flights leaving at approximately the same hour. And why he booked on Thursday; it was probably the only day both airlines had flights that stopped at the same place. Rio, possibly, or Las Palmas.… He began to feel better.
“What stopovers does it have?”
“Two,” Gerhardt said. “Brasília and Dakar.”
Schneller felt bad again. There was, of course, the possibility that Huuygens and his confederate planned to meet halfway from their destination—halfway between what? London and Paris? In the Channel? That way lay madness.… Then—? The shock had not worn off, it had merely been put aside temporarily. His mind was beginning to function again.
“And from Paris where is he booked?”
Gerhardt had always known that Schneller was clever with his hands, but he had never credited him with excessive imagination.
“From Paris to Perpignan,” he said with more respect. “A six-hour layover in Paris and then less than an hour’s flight to Perpignan. He’ll be getting there at twenty-one o-five.”
“Still from Orly?”
“Yes.”
“What about his luggage?”
“Willi said they put it on the plane at Orly for him—transfer it, that is. Checked in here, delivered in Perpignan.”
“And that’s the end of the line.” It was a statement.
“Yes. At least as far as the ticket he bought from Air France.”
The tight feeling began to leave Schneller; he had panicked for nothing. Obviously, Huuygens was no fool. He had simply taken the normal precaution of laying a false trail first in order to guarantee not being followed. He probably canceled his first ticket as soon as he got back to the hotel; in all probability he had paid by credit card—
“How did he pay?”
Gerhardt was ashamed not to know. “Willi didn’t say.”
“No matter.”
It was unimportant. There were no confederates; a smart man did not use them—unless they were essential, he amended hurriedly, thinking of Berlin. No. Huuygens was working alone and Perpignan was his true destination. It was fortunate he had arranged for Gerhardt to put enough men on the job so that he had not been led astray by that first booking. And equally fortunate that his call to Germany, according to the international operator, would not go through until six o’clock that evening, so that he had not as yet given definite instructions. He could now direct the men differently: one to Orly to join the flight with Huuygens, and the other to Perpignan to wait. Otherwise the scenario would be the same.
He frowned down at the desk blotter, his eyes narrowing. Or … just suppose Huuygens was being cute again—apparently a habit of his—and the second was the false trail, and not the first? In that case it would be better to have four men on the job: two for the Perpignan trip and two for the Gibraltar trip. He shook his head, his light-blue eyes murderous. This thing had damned well better work out, because the expenses were getting out of hand! Still, thirty pounds of pure cocaine—if everything worked out, that is. But what if it didn’t? He’d be the rest of his life paying off.… He put the terrible thought from him and returned to the telephone.
“All right,” he said. “Where is he now?”
“I have Gomez following him.”
“Gomez?” For a moment it didn’t register. Gerhardt had an Argentinian national on his payroll? He kicked himself for thinking of inconsequentials at a time like that. “All right. Stay with him. At least until your two days are up.” No sense in paying and not getting the work done.
“We will,” Gerhardt said briefly and hung up.
Schneller’s hand reached unconsciously for his tobacco and papers. Perpignan, eh? Really even a better spot for Huuygens to try to cross the Spanish border than Gibraltar. Not very far from the coast, and a small fishing boat on a dark night, and a brief run to Barcelona. Except that M’sieu Huuygens would never leave Perpignan alive.… Or Gibraltar—whichever.…
Kek Huuygens strolled in a relaxed manner down the Avenida Santa Fe. It was six in the evening, that most perfect hour in October in Buenos Aires, and he was pleased to be on that most perfect of streets. The windows of many fine shops beckoned, and Kek paused every now and then to savor their wares, wishing he could bring some of them back for Anita. And also to determine that the small, swarthy figure following him continued to be reflected in the various polished glasses. Satisfied that he had not lost his little shadow, he crossed the road at a leisurely pace and pushed his way cheerfully through the glass door into the Alitalia office.
A lovely girl detached herself from writing up a ticket and approached, smiling, pleased to have been interrupted in the boring task, and especially by this handsome stranger. Behind Huuygens Gomez was having trouble with the heavy door. Kek was about to turn and open it for him when a departing customer took care of the emergency. Gomez came to stand behind Kek; Huuygens leaned over the counter.
“Do you have space to Rome?”
The girl automatically looked at the wall clock and then shook her head sadly. She hated to disappoint this nice-looking man. “It’s too late for today, and I’m afraid we’re booked for tomorrow. A pity; we had a no-show—”
“I was thinking of Thursday,” Kek said and smiled.
“Oh,
we can get you out on Thursday,” the girl said; her tone indicated two things: that she would willingly put another passenger off to accommodate him, and that she was free until the plane left. She reached for her clipboard, wondering why more men in Buenos Aires did not have curly hair and gray eyes beneath jagged eyebrows. Behind Huuygens, Gomez stared about at the colorful posters on the cream walls, the perfect picture of a man waiting his turn in a queue. His swarthy face was emotionless, but inwardly he was exulting. The only Argentinian in the agency, and he would be the one who would have the information the big, blond client wanted; he, Gomez, would be the one who would report the wanted facts.…
When a little less than twenty minutes later he did exactly that, he was surprised—and not a little disappointed—at the reception his information received.
“What!”
“Yes, sir,” Gomez repeated earnestly. “To Rome the evening after tomorrow at eighteen fifteen hours. Via Freetown and Casablanca. A layover of five hours at Leonardo da Vinci Airport in Rome, and then another Alitalia flight nonstop to Marseilles.…”
He waited for the praise that, inexplicably, was not forthcoming.
“Tell Gerhardt to ring me as soon as he can,” Schneller said abruptly and slammed the telephone down.
His heavy features were twisted in frustration and anger; his big fist pounded the desk top softly. This Huuygens was playing with him! He was being cute again, knowing that Schneller abhorred cuteness! London, Paris, Rome! A joke, that’s what Huuygens was playing, a lousy, miserable, verdammt, unfunny joke! What was he trying to do? Make him, Schneller, hire half of Berlin as well as most of the Gerhardt Agency? Make him go broke following that damned suitcase? Whose suitcase was it in the first place? Who built it? Could Huuygens have built it? No! He admitted it himself! Well, then, him and his damned unfunny jokes! Well, he wouldn’t fall for it. Damn right he wouldn’t! He’d—He suddenly remembered the call to Berlin he had just completed; his hand shot out for the telephone, determined to cancel all instructions until he could see light in the puzzle, his mind composing curses for Huuygens and all of his relatives, past and future, but before he could raise the receiver, the instrument rang. He snatched it up. It was Gerhardt.
“Gomez just got in touch. He said you wanted to talk to me?”
“Yes! Take your men off Huuygens—your—your—your so-called operatives! Detectives! My good God!”
“What’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter, he says! He’s making idiots out of us, that’s what’s the matter! Your men must stand out like-like—” Schneller gave up on a proper comparison. “What are they wearing? Cowbells? That miserable Schweinhund will lead them from one airline to another like the pied piper all night long, or until they close! That bastard is just trying to—” Schneller suddenly clamped his jaws closed. He was talking too much; the details were no affair of Gerhardt’s. He also realized he was talking nonsense. “I’m sorry, Gerhardt. I’m upset. Forget what I said. Keep your men on him until he goes to the airport, but put on different men. He’s wise to everyone you’ve had on him so far. I’m sure.”
“You’re sure?”
“Very sure.” He paused, thinking. His burst of temper seemed to have acted as a catharsis; for the first time in a long time, it appeared to him, his mind was clear, his thoughts precise. “Gerhardt—”
“Yes?”
“They have a transportation desk in the hotel, don’t they?” Where had his mind been for the past twelve hours? It was so painfully obvious that Huuygens had merely used the phone in his room.
“Yes.…”
“Can you find out if Huuygens booked passage from there? Or can you arrange to hear if he books passage anytime tonight or tomorrow? And then let me know?”
Gerhardt nodded. It was obvious that Schneller suspected the other trips to be false; after the reports he had received, he concurred.
“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “If I can, it will cost money.”
“Forget the money,” Schneller said, even as his own words knifed deep into his heart. Gerhardt’s bill was going to be enough to get the country out of debt! “Can you do it?”
“I can try.”
“Then try. And let me know—do you hear? I’ll be right here.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Gerhardt said and hung up.
It was nearly midnight when the detective called back. Nearly a bottle of schnapps and a sack of tobacco had been consumed to make the wait endurable. Schneller snatched at the phone.
“Yes?”
“Gerhardt.” The detective’s voice was smug, filled with satisfaction. “I think this time we have what you want. Finally. I had to dig the clerk out of bed, since the office is closed, but I believe you’ll find it was worth it.”
He waited for some comment, but Schneller merely wheezed heavily into the receiver, waiting. Gerhardt took a breath and went on.
“He leaves for Lisbon tomorrow. One stop at Viracopos—that’s the airport for São Paulo—and nonstop from there. He—”
“Tomorrow? Not Thursday?”
“Not Thursday. That was as fake as his destinations. Tomorrow.”
“Which makes sense, a lot more sense,” Schneller said and nodded to himself. “Go ahead.”
“Tomorrow, seventeen twenty-five, by KLM. He changes planes in Lisbon to TWA to Madrid, has a stopover there, and then flies to Zaragoza by Iberia. He made the reservations by phone from his room as soon as he checked in; they were all confirmed by noon and the tickets issued and delivered long before he started that trip of his around to the airline offices.”
Cute. You’re a real cute one, M’sieu Huuygens, Schneller thought. And that bit of going right into Spain—of course! Why bother with the problems of going past a customs barrier at an airport and getting past the frontier both? Of course he would fly into Spain; it was the only thing that made sense. Why Zaragoza? Who cares! God, he must have been asleep when he let Huuygens pull all that garbage over on him! But he was awake now. Two can be cute, M’sieu Huuygens.…
“Very good,” Schneller said with deep satisfaction. This was the true data, and about time! “How long is he in Lisbon?”
“If schedules are met, five hours.”
“And in Madrid?”
“He has a stopover there with an open ticket from Madrid to Zaragoza. I have no idea how long he plans to stay. I can get you the Iberia timetables, if you want.”
“It’s not important,” Schneller said and smiled at the telephone. “Very good, Gerhardt.” The compliment would probably cost him extra, but it was worth it. One possible flaw occurred to him. “Is there any way Huuygens can find out we have this information?”
“None,” Gerhardt said with conviction. “He handled the ticket purchase from his room and the clerk delivered the tickets to him; when he did, Huuygens gave the clerk a large tip—a very large tip—with the instructions that his booking was to remain a complete secret.”
“Then, how—”
“I simply gave the clerk a larger tip,” Gerhardt said calmly. “A much, much larger tip. And pointed out that I am here in Buenos Aires, whereas M’sieu Huuygens would be leaving, and therefore it would be wise to treat my deal with him a bit more confidentially than he treated M’sieu Huuygens’ deal. No. He won’t say anything.”
“Good,” Schneller said and tried not to think about the much muchness of the bribe, trying to concentrate on the good news instead. “Gerhardt, could you bother that clerk again?”
“For what I gave him I could bother him fifty times. Why?”
“I’d like plane schedules. Not just from Buenos Aires,” Schneller said, his brain really racing at last. It felt as if it had been freed from a fog-ridden prison. “From anywhere nearby. Montevideo. Asunción. Rio. São Paulo.” He bent closer to the telephone, his thick fingers toying with the tobacco pouch in his pocket, his mind fitting his facts into their proper slots neatly and definitively. “I want to get to Lisbon before he does. I’m sure he’s
planning on getting out of Lisbon before anyone who might possibly be following him is aware he’s even left town. If I can get a quicker plane from Rio or São Paulo—Lufthansa, possibly, or Varig, or maybe even PAL—early this morning.…”
“And to get to any of these places to catch your plane? Would you take a private charter?”
Schneller sat back in his chair. He had not considered a private plane; they had to cost a fortune! Still—
“If you have to,” he said bravely. “But then try for Montevideo, or Asunción. Not someplace too far.…”
“I’ll be in touch,” Gerhardt said, not one to waste time, and hung up.
Schneller slowly lowered the receiver into place and leaned back, smiling, massaging the knuckles of one hand with the wide, calloused palm of the other, picturing his lethal fingers at work. Lisbon, eh? And then what was the man’s plan? Madrid and then where? Zaragoza? Whoever heard of it? Well, no matter. It was probably more of his smoke screen, in any event. Lisbon, yes, but after that nothing more for M’sieu Huuygens. He flexed his fingers and smiled more grimly. Oh, you’re a cute one, all right, M’sieu Huuygens. I’ll compliment you in person very quickly.
Nor will I need any help in the matter, he thought with satisfaction. No, M’sieu Huuygens, you will not get me to hire half of Berlin. I’ll do very well alone. Now that I know where you’ll be and when, I don’t need help. I’ll bet you are laughing right now, hein? Well, you thought I’d waste money on a young army, eh? You really figured I’d stay in a fog forever; you figured—
The Tricks of the Trade Page 13