Kek Huuygens, Smuggler

Merry-Go-Round

“One million dollars...”

The man facing me was Kek Huuygens, and he bit his lip as if he had said something slightly nasty; his eyes dropped to stare moodily into his empty glass. It had contained Unterberg and Coca-Cola, a sickening combination he had ordered with the disclaimer that it was good for his stomach. He looked as if some solid food would have been much better. Until I ran into him in the street a few minutes before, I hadn’t seen Huuygens for fourteen years — not since 1944 — but he hadn’t changed. And in the old days, Kek Huuygens had always been good for copy. So I merely forced a deprecating laugh.

“One thousand dollars?” I said it with just the proper amount of disbelief he would have expected. “I didn’t think that Kek Huuygens ever bothered with anything that small.”

“Not one thousand,” he said quietly. His eyes treated me with the scorn my subterfuge merited. “One million.” His finger tapped idly against the side of his glass with just the hint of apology; even in his present shabby state there was no doubt that the man was an artist.

I waved for the waiter. Huuygens acknowledged my hospitality with the faintest of nods.

The waiter came and replenished our glasses. Huuygens watched the pouring of his drink with almost clinical detachment, but once the waiter had turned his back, he drank deeply, eagerly, and then wiped his lips. He saw my look and smiled bitterly.

“Gaudy, but not neat, eh?” he said. “Not the man you used to know? Well, I’m not the man you used to know.”

I didn’t say a word. He studied me a moment in silence and then sighed. “I’m not even the man I used to know,” he said with soft regret, and added quietly, qualifyingly, “not within a million miles.”

I sipped my drink.

It all started in Brussels (Huuygens said after a pause, eyeing me with mild hatred for having placed him in my debt for the paltry sum of two drinks). The idea sprang into my head full-grown, out of nowhere. A brilliant, fantastic idea, and simple as all great ideas are simple. Ideas have been my ruin... In any event, I had come to Brussels on a sort of vacation. Elsa, my wife — and I’m sure you remember her — wanted to visit her mother in Maastricht and also do some shopping, and I had at that time a little money and no particular reason not to bring her.

This particular day, I was free of Elsa and having lunch with a friend of mine — or at least, he was a friend at the time. Friends are cheap when one can buy one’s own drinks... In any event, I was having lunch with this man and our conversation fell into the standard pattern of all luncheon conversations in those days. This was directly following the war, you understand, and restaurant talk in Europe followed the certain ritual of a tribal dance where each partner knows the steps of the other. We began by discussing the Belgian franc, moved almost with rhythm to the solidity of the Swiss currency — this coincided with the fish course — and came to the English pound-sterling with the trifle.

You must remember those days; you were with the Tribune in Paris then, as I recall. If you saw a man and a woman walking together, arms locked about one another’s waists, heads bent to touch in closest intimacy, you could be sure they were not talking about love. They were talking about foreign exchange, or documents, or passports, or permits, or — but I am getting away from my subject.

As I was saying, I was having lunch with this friend when suddenly he looked up, and then leaned across the table and said in a low voice: “Speaking of the tragedies connected with exchange” — we hadn’t been, but we would have been soon enough, with the brandy — “the perfect example just walked in. Don’t look now, but...” He hesitated a moment and then continued. “He’s the handsome, youngish-looking fellow the fat waitress is placing in that corner by the rubber plant.”

I looked over his shoulder into a faintly stained mirror in time to see a rather young, blond man being seated at the corner table. I turned my gaze back to my friend.

“And just what is his great tragedy?” I asked a bit lightly

“Five million dollars,” my friend answered seriously “Or at least, the equivalent of that sum in Belgian francs.’

Despite my normal equilibrium, I’m afraid my interest showed. Five million dollars in any currency was alway guaranteed to interest me. My friend smiled understandingly. “That’s Waldeck Klees, of Klees Imports. You’ve heard of him?”

Of course I had heard of him. I said as much, and then asked, “But I was given to understand that he had either sold or abandoned the company his father left him, and gone off to America.”

“He would love to,” my friend said with a faint smile. “He would adore to. But the Belgian Government won’t allow him to transfer any of his francs to dollars.”

I stared across the table in amazement. “But certainly...”

My friend shook his head as he read my thoughts. “No,” he replied. “I know the people in the black market who made the offer, and the most they would give him is twenty-five per cent. Nobody knows what can happen to currencies here, and there is growing danger in such transactions.”

My eyes went back to the mirror, studying the young man. A tragic figure. Waldeck Klees... of Klees Imports...

And that’s when the idea struck me. It came all at once, clear and complete. My face must have shown something, because my friend looked at me curiously, but I forced myself to smile, and finished our meal as quickly as possible.

When I got home that afternoon, Elsa was draped over a chaise longue reading a policier and eating bonbons. I have never been able to understand how she could practically live on bonbons and maintain that fabulous figure! But in any event, she was there and I sat down on the foot of the chaise longue and pushed her feet aside to make room.

“Chérie,” I said, “we are about to entertain at a cocktail party.”

“Why?” she asked with the little pout that never failed to intrigue most men, but which could irritate me beyond measure.

“Because I say so,” I told her bluntly. “The only thing is that it is absolutely essential that one particular man be there. And how you arrange this is completely in your hands.”

“Who?”

“Waldeck Klees. I’m sure you’ve heard the name.”

She thought a moment. Elsa could be quite smart at times, and she knew when not to argue. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve heard of him. I believe he’s a friend of the Fleurs.” She looked at me coolly. “When do you want the party and how many people do you want to invite?”

I smiled at her. “As soon as possible. And I should like it to be small — a friendly little group. I’m sure you know what I want.”

Well, I never even asked Elsa how she arranged it, but a week later, I found myself hosting a very delightful, intimate cocktail party. We were living then in the Boulevard Franklin Roosevelt, in one of those squatty little ultra-modern apartments that have sprung up like gold-plated sugar cubes along the park there. The flat, of course, was not mine. It belonged to a friend who was traveling, but there was no need for anyone to know that. And the servants, of course, had been hired for the evening.

I handled my duties as a host in a manner quite satisfactory, but still I managed to be alone when Elsa appeared with Klees, so that I was free to spend a few moments with him. I expressed my delight in meeting a person I had heard so much about, slipped my arm through his, stopped the butler to provide us with drinks, and led him off to an isolated corner. As we sat down, he glanced about.

“You have a very lovely establishment.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “We’ve been very happy here. However, we’ll be leaving for America in a few weeks. You see” — I smiled a bit apologetically — “I’ve finally managed to get my money out of Belgium in dollars.” I looked about the room. “It has really been a fine apartment, though. Tell me,” I went on, bringing my eyes back to him, “have you seen the Parisian Ballet? I understand that Marchand is wonderful.”

He denied having attended the ballet, accepted a replenishment of his drink, and leaned back thoughtfully.

“Legally?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The money,” he said quietly. “Were you able to get it out legally?”

“Of course.” I lifted my eyebrows at his implied suggestion. “I should scarcely have mentioned it otherwise. And of course, I couldn’t travel so freely if anything illegal were involved.”

“But just how...” he began, but I had already arisen and turned in the direction of some late guests who had entered.

“Some old friends,” I explained apologetically. “If you’ll excuse me...”

Somehow, I never managed to be alone with him the rest of the evening. Elsa passed some time talking to him, and I smiled vaguely at him several times from various small groups, but my duties as host prevented my getting together with him. When the party finally broke up, I shook hands with him and thanked him for having accepted our invitation. He nodded.

“We must have lunch together soon,” he said, holding my hand.

“I should be delighted,” I answered. “I’ll give you a ring.” He stared at me a moment and then went off to join the others at the lift.

Well, of course he called me about two days later, and after consulting a mythical appointment calendar, I arranged to see him a few days later at his club. His club was one that I knew by name and one which I had always dreamed of being invited to join although, of course, I never was. It was a small building located in one of those lovely winding streets running off the Grand’ Place, and boasted the finest cuisine in all Brussels — which is saying quite a bit.

In any event, we settled ourselves comfortably in the bar before the fire, and Klees wasted no time in getting down to business.

“I will tell you quite frankly why I wanted to meet you,” he said. “You claim you have a method for getting money out of Belgium in dollars — and legally. I should like to hear how you were able to accomplish it.”

I managed to look a bit upset, as if embarrassed by a host taking unfair advantage of a guest’s position. “I simply happened to mention it in passing.” I protested, “to explain our reason for leaving our apartment...”

He looked me right in the eye. “You mentioned it for no such reason,” he said with complete calm. “The apartment is not yours. The servants were hired for the evening. I have spent the last few days checking on you, my friend. You are a Pole by birth, passing yourself off as a Dutchman, and you have actually been an American citizen by naturalization for a year or so. Your wife is a Belgian, a former actress... And I am also convinced that the purpose of that obviously spurious cocktail party was simply to intrigue me with a suggestion for getting my money out in dollars.”

His face was suddenly split in that infernal boyish grin of his.

“Well — I’m intrigued. It was what you wanted, what you were aiming for. So please, let us waste no more time with these pointless dramatics.”

If I looked startled, believe me, it was not all acting. Still, I could not help but point out that had I approached him — at his home, say — I would have been thrown out by the butler.

His big hand waved this aside.

I became all business. “How much do you want to transfer?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Five million dollars’ worth of francs.”

I nodded. “It will take some time. Six or seven months, at least.”

He frowned. “You bring it out in dribs and drabs?”

“Oh, no,” I assured him. “When it comes, it comes at once, issued by the Belgian Government through one or more of its banks.” He stared at me. “But it will be expensive,” I added.

“Just how expensive?”

I matched his forthrightness. “It will cost you one million of those five million dollars,” I said evenly. “That will be my fee. Also...”

“One million dollars?”

“Much cheaper than the black market,” I pointed out. “And safe.” He merely stared at me, so I continued. “There will be certain expenses involved, as well. These would also fall to your account.”

“Naturally,” he said drily. He leaned against the cushion of his chair in deep thought. I passed the time in slowly sipping my martini. At last he nodded.

“Very well,” he said. “If you can demonstrate to me how this money can be legally transferred from Belgian francs to dollars within a reasonable period of time, you can consider me interested.”

I studied the face before me. This, of course, was the only flaw in the scheme — if you can call it a flaw: the fact that I would have to disclose the scheme without any guarantees. Still, it was obvious that the details would have to be divulged; and also, I thought I could trust the man.

I pushed my glass aside and leaned forward, speaking slowly. He nodded from time to time as if in appreciation of the brilliance of the idea. When at last I finished, he leaned back, pursing his lips as he considered every phase of my plan.

“Yes,” he said at last. “Yes. It is certainly possible. Very clever. Of course it places me a bit more in your hands than I like to be...”

“True,” I admitted, since, of course, it was perfectly true and we both knew it. “Still, there is no other way to do it. You can’t be in two places at the same time. And if I were to cheat you, I could end up in prison for stealing; whereas, if I don’t cheat you, I end up with a million dollars and no trouble.”

He nodded and pushed himself to his feet. “Well, we shall have to think about it,” he said, and turned in the direction of the dining room. “Shall we eat?”

I frankly admit that the next two days were nervous ones for me. By the evening of the second day, I had just about come to the conclusion that either Klees had decided not to go along with the idea, or was going to make the move with somone else. For the tenth time, I was on the verge of calling him, when he finally rang through on the telephone and asked me to meet him for lunch.

To make a long story short, Klees agreed with the scheme — although he still wasn’t happy about my cut — and three days later Elsa and I were on the Ile de France on our way to the States. Not first-class, but still...

(Huuygens paused and then quite blatantly waved an arm for the waiter. I waited while his drink was poured; he raised his glass in a mock salute and drank deeply. When he resumed speaking, I thought he was changing the subject, but as he continued, I soon saw the connection.)

You know (Huuygens continued), this America is the most amazing country! If one is too old for the draft, or has the type of job that does not require social security, he can easily pass his entire life without any official identification whatsoever. And if this lack disturbs one, it is the easiest thing in the world to arrange whatever documentation one’s ego prefers. There are Diner’s Club Cards, Hotel Credit Cards, Gasoline Credit Cards — well, I could go on half the night.

It is really too simple for words. The only thing you require to start is an address, and this is easily arranged by renting a postal box using any address you invent. The post office never checks; if you pay your rental on time and do not allow mail to accumulate, you are completely safe. And once you have established post-box addresses, you are free to open bank accounts. And with bank accounts, of course, all doors open. The thing works like a merry-go-round, beautifully endless and completely mad...

Within two weeks of my return, I had established respectable cash balances in six different New York banks in the names of six different companies. I represented myself as the treasurer of each of these companies, with the only authorized signature for deposits and withdrawals. I did not rent safe-deposit boxes; instead, I purchased the largest home safe that would go through the door of our apartment, and had it installed. I had a momentary fear that the workmen might think it odd, but New Yorkers are the most blasé people in the world.

The money for the bank deposits, of course, I had to borrow from certain old — and I admit, disreputable — acquaintances, but Klees had expressed himself as preferring the payment of high interest to allowing me to get my hands on the few dollars he did have. It was all the same to me, since the interest fell to the expense of the operation. And we were ready to go.

I’m rather proud of the names of the companies I selected. I won’t bore you with a complete list, but they included names like The International Farm Equipment Company and the United States Agricultural Equipment Company — names designed to sound substantial. And heavy, if you know what I mean. Our stationery reflected our respectability. And the catalogues! Each company had its own masterpiece — four-color offset work with authentic pictures cut from actual catalogues, and descriptions printed in four languages. They were works of art, those catalogues, and to study the six of them was to find the answer to any agricultural problem in the world.

Those were busy days, for in addition to arranging the printing of the stationery and the catalogues, I maintained a constant flow of money between the accounts, from one company to another, from one bank to another, so that at least once a week each account demonstrated an extremely large cash balance. It took time and it was wearing, but I must admit it was fun. I came to be greeted quite politely by bank officials, and besides, I love to handle money. I should have been a banker. Or possibly not.

Once the stationery was in our hands, we began the necéssary correspondence with Klees Imports. Air-mail letters flowed from our apartment with a regularity that must have pleased the Post Office Department. Elsa complained of the work involved, but I was in no mood for mutiny in the ranks, and let her know it in no uncertain terms. I was too busy with the banks and the catalogue printers to sit home typing, and I certainly didn’t want an outside secretary involved! And as the correspondence grew, I also found it necessary to spend time at the Public Library reading up on the technical aspects of agricultural equipment, since Klees was now asking for details, and of course, they had to sound authentic.

Klees, of course, was also getting quotations from competitors in all parts of the world, but since most of the factories manufacturing equipment of this nature were already swamped with orders, none of them could meet our truly miraculous delivery dates. And our prices were good, being ten per cent lower than the lowest I could find. And so our correspondence continued, growing in volume, moving from the vague to the specific, until at last we got down to the hard facts of price for quantity, delivery, contract terms, export boxing, and all those thousands of niggling details so beloved of business people.

The agricultural problems of Europe at that time, as I’m sure you are aware, were extremely pressing, and import licenses for the type of equipment we were discussing were the easiest of all types to obtain. Particularly from the United States — which would eventually pay for it anyway, in one manner or another. I shall always remember the day we mailed out the final contracts. It was just under four months since we had put the scheme into operation — and they had been four busy months, believe me! Elsa was now free, so I gave her money for another trip to her mother. Besides, I wanted her to keep an eye on Klees and make sure that nothing went wrong at this point.

The purchase contracts we mailed were standard in every way, as were our terms; irrevocable letters of credit in the amount of twenty per cent of the order, deposited in escrow in a reliable New York bank selected by the seller, the balance to be paid by a further letter of credit upon delivery of the merchandise to the buyer’s agent on the dock in New York.

The cancellation clauses were also standard; forfeiture of the deposit should the purchaser refuse shipment or fail to deposit his final letters of credit before a certain date...

I see a gleam in your eye; you are beginning to comprehend. Yes, we had sold to Klees Imports a total of twenty-five million dollars’ worth of equipment between our impressive companies, and twenty per cent was five million dollars.

Well, during those days when we were waiting for the initial letters of credit to be issued by the Banque National de Bruxelles, there were, of course, some anxious hours. The orders might be denied; political consideration might lead the Banque to prefer that the orders be placed in France or Italy, although this possibility was slim. Oddly enough, I had no fear that the Banque would investigate our companies; the responsibility always lies with the importer who, after all, is the one whose money is at stake.

But the letters of credit were issued quite routinely. Within three weeks, I found in my postal boxes the first of the bank notices advising me that the escrow deposit had been made, and the other five soon followed. Now it was simply a matter of waiting until our forfeiture date rolled around. Elsa returned from her visit and advised me that Klees would further ease the problem by furnishing us with letters regretting the withdrawal of his principals, and stating that the balance could not be deposited — and indeed, these letters arrived a few days after her return. Three weeks later, the forfeiture date rolled around.

I admit I was nervous as I entered the first bank that morning, but I need not have been. The necessary papers were prepared and signed in far less time than I had anticipated, and I walked out with our bank balance enlarged by some nine hundred thousand dollars. The transactions at the other banks proved equally uncomplicated.

Even today, it seems hard to believe. One dreams up a scheme and puts it into operation; obviously, one avoids all pitfalls one can imagine, but at the moment of fruition, it is still difficult to accept success. But there it was: the scheme had actually worked! All that remained was to drain the accounts, and that was simply a matter of exercise. Klees was taking a boat over; that gave me a week to gather the money and lock it in our safe.

He docked at six in the morning and called me directly from the steamer. His voice, believe me, was nervous. He actually sounded surprised when I answered. I told him everything was all right, and suggested that he check into a hotel, and then begin to arrange safety-deposit boxes for his share. I could almost hear the indecision of his thoughts over the telephone; whether to follow my advice or to come up immediately before I could skip. And even while I was waiting for him to answer, he hung up and — I imagine — dashed from the booth.

He arrived at one in the afternoon, holding the largest brief case I have ever seen, and we opened the safe.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen five million dollars in cash, but if you have, you can imagine Klees’ reaction. He turned pale. At first, I thought he was going to faint. In all fairness, I must admit that I had had the advantage of having become more or less used to it.

In any event, once he had at least partially recovered, we spread the money out on the floor and began dividing it. I laid aside the borrowed amount plus the interest, made a second pile covering the expenses (with the substantiating receipts), counted my share into a third pile, and pushed the balance over to him. He immediately began counting it, although he would pause every now and then to stare fixedly at my share. Looking at him over that huge pile of money, and seeing the expression in his eyes, I was suddenly happy that I wouldn’t have to have any more dealings with him. And when he finally went off, believe me, I was happy to lock the door behind him.

(Huuygens paused; I began to lift my arm for the waiter, but he shook his head sadly. The telling of the story seemed to have drained something from him. And then a touch of the old Kek Huuygens appeared; a sardonic smile touched the edges of his eyes.)

I note your poor attempt (he said) to avoid staring at my frayed cuffs, and I thank you. Do not worry; I shall satisfy your curiosity.

Well, I repaid the loan and the interest, and Elsa and I settled into a comfortable routine. One evening, about a week later, we were at home studying a series of travel folders when the doorbell suddenly rang. My eyebrows raised. In my circle, it was customary to telephone before calling. But I answered it, and there was Klees. I led him in, Elsa got him a drink, and he sat down heavily opposite us.

“What’s the trouble?” I asked.

He hesitated a moment, frowning. “I’ve been thinking,” he said in a worried tone. “Some of the hidden dangers in what we did are just now beginning to register.”

I stared at him in irritation. “What dangers?” I asked. “You are completely in the clear. Everything you did was legal. Even the Banque National can’t touch you unless they can prove collusion, and” — I could not help adding — “they won’t be able to do that if you keep away from here.”

“I’m not thinking of myself,” he said significantly. “I’m thinking of you. However minor the infractions of inventing names or addresses, the fact is that you are liable for income tax on the forfeited funds, and I understand that the United States Government follows those things like a bloodhound.”

“It’s very nice of you to worry,” I said, “but really, the problem is mine.”

“Not quite,” he said. He frowned at me over tented fingers. “I doubt if you would keep quiet if you saw the fruits of your scheme going up the chimney while I remained free and in good shape. To be blunt, in such a case, I can foresee the possibility of blackmail applied to me for your silence. I am not happy about it.”

I stared at him. In all honesty, the idea had not occurred to me, but I could see his point. From his standpoint, it was a legitimate concern, and one which I am sure I would have thought of had the shoe been on the other foot.

I nodded. “What do you suggest?”

“I have no suggestions. I only have worries.” He shrugged. “I thought it only proper to advise you of them. Possibly you can find a solution.”

Well, after he left, I sat in deep thought. Elsa wanted to know what it was all about, but I shipped her off to bed and remained sitting and staring at the safe, picturing my money inside. The point raised by Klees was completely justifiable; I attempted to think of some means to protect us both against any contingency.

Safe-deposit boxes? But there were court orders. False names? I shook my head. There were too many false names as it was, and it would be no protection, in any event. Swiss banks? Not half as easy as people believe. And how would I transfer the funds? I certainly couldn’t picture myself taking a boat there with a million dollars in a paper bag. Brazil? Running away would degrade the beauty of the scheme; I might as well have held up a man with a gun and robbed him.

I slept very poorly that night and came to breakfast in a bitter and hopeless mood. But my mood changed as I sat down and stared at the remains of the morning paper which Elsa, as always, had spread across my breakfast plate in a manner to prevent eating. She had the habit of eviscerating those sections that interested me, but this day I was pleased. I poured myself some coffee and studied the glaring scandal headline, the idea forming in my mind. Like the first scheme, it appeared in all its glory, practically complete. I looked across at Elsa.

“Chérie,” I said, “how would you like a divorce?”

She looked up a bit crossly; morning is not Elsa’s best hour. “Please do not say such things, even in joking,” she said.

“I am not joking,” I said.

Her eyes clouded; she looked at me in amazement. “But why? What have I done? Why would you want a divorce? Are you not happy living with me?”

“Extremely,” I said. “And I expect to continue to be happy living with you. But not as man and wife.”

She stared at me as if I had lost my mind. “But why?” she wailed.

I pulled up a chair and sat beside her, the details of the scheme falling into place with almost audible clicks. “You can even retain your married name,” I said. “We will continue exactly as we are, except that we will no longer be married.”

“But why?” she asked again, this time with a touch of exasperation. So I told her. It took awhile, but in the end, as always, Elsa went along. And that very morning she went to visit a lawyer.

His call came to me a little before noon, and naturally did not surprise me. He informed me that my wife had retained him to represent her in a divorce action and asked the name of my attorney. I told him I had none and did not feel the need for one. He hemmed and hawed and finally asked if I could drop down to see him. I said I could.

He was a rather nice man, not overly bright, and obviously embarassed.

“This is extremely unusual,” he told me. “I’m not even sure it isn’t unethical. It is customary to discuss the matter with the other’s attorney.”

“But why?” I asked. “My wife wishes a divorce; I have no intention of contesting it. So why would I possibly require the services of a lawyer?”

“You do not understand,” he said, and went into a struggle with himself while I waited patiently. When he finally realized that the bad news could not be kept from me indefinitely, he said apologetically. “Your wife intends to ask for a settlement of a million dollars.” He raised a hand hurriedly. “I attempted to point out to her that such a demand was madness, especially for a childless woman, and that no jury—”

I looked at him quite calmly. “Is that all she wants?” I asked. “Then what seems to be the problem?” I thought he was going to faint. “I assume you have a corresponding firm in Reno who can handle the details at that end. I don’t mind the money,” I said, “but I refuse to allow my good name to be damaged by undertaking a divorce in this state.”

He nodded in a dazed fashion.

“Fine,” I said. “I assume, if there is no disagreement between my wife and myself in this matter, you can handle the affair for both of us?”

It took him awhile to understand what I was saying, but eventually it came through to him and he reached shakily for the folder he had begun on my wife’s case. When I left a bit later, everything was in hand.

Elsa left the next morning for Reno. I put her on the train — she hates airplanes — tucked her in her compartment with a dozen novels and sufficient bonbons, and fondly kissed her good-bye. She was quite tearful, certain that I would either starve or get run over by a taxi without her to protect me, but I finally managed to tear myself loose before the train left. She was gone a total of eight weeks, wrote regularly three times a week asking if I were eating properly, called twice a week to confirm my answer, and returned looking wonderful. We completed our transaction with the lawyer in the safety-deposit vault of a New York bank and walked out arm in arm.

And the next day, while I thought she was out shopping, Elsa went down to City Hall and married Waldeck Klees.

I sat and stared at him. He stared back, an odd look in his eyes.

“It’s the merry-go-round, don’t you see?” He spoke almost plaintively. “Beautifully endless, and completely mad.”