Kek Huuygens, Smuggler

A Matter of Honor

“Two thousand,” the fat man said, drumming his pudgy fingers lightly on the veined marble tabletop. His voice was soft, slightly lisping, but not in the least feminine. His face was round and white and soft and doughy; looking into his eyes one’s first impression was there were raisins embedded there. “Two thousand,” he repeated quietly.

“Pounds, of course,” Kek Huuygens said genially.

“No. Not pounds of course; dollars of course,” said the fat man sounding faintly amused. His name was Thwaite and he was English and dressed in a bilious tweed too heavy for the day and too ancient for the style.

It was the year 1948, in those difficult days following the Second World War, and there were few men who could afford to argue the conditions of offered employment, especially in Europe and particularly those who — like Kek Huuygens — lived on the outskirts of the urbanity known as the law. But Kek Huuygens had long since set a high value upon his rather unique services and was determined not to scab, or at least not upon himself.

“Then I’m afraid you have the wrong man,” he said with what sounded like true regret. He was an athletic young man in his late twenties, with shoulders of a bulk that seemed to negate his height of six feet. His neat double-breased suit pointed up the basic error of the tweed. He had an unruly mop of brown hair set above a strong, handsome face and widespread intelligent gray eyes. At the moment these eyes shared the other’s amusement. “Inflation, you know,” he added apologetically. “The curse of the Continent.”

The fat man’s shrug indicated that rising prices also affected him. “Two thousand dollars, American,” he said, attempting to sound inflexible, and then made a concession. “Plus expenses, of course.”

“Two thousand pounds sterling,” Huuygens said, equally cooperative. “Naturally, plus expenses.”

“Fifteen hundred pounds,” the fat man said sullenly.

“Two thousand.”

“But no expenses.” A white finger was raised for emphasis.

“Plus all expenses. Naturally.”

The fat man sighed in defeat. “Payment on delivery, of course.”

“Of course.” Huuygens beckoned a waiter. The two men were sitting in the Grand’ Place in Brussels, the warm late-morning autumn sun was glinting from the rococo steeples across from them, and their filtres were empty and pushed to one side. “Have a drink,” Huuygens said sympathetically. “On me.”

The fat man waggled a puffed finger in reluctant self-denial, tapping his overflowing stomach for explanation. Huuygens raised a hand, stopping the approaching waiter in his tracks. The aproned figure, unperturbed, returned to flicking invisible motes from spotless tables.

“All right,” Huuygens said quietly. “What is it this time?”

“A Hals,” Thwaite said, almost proudly. He didn’t hesitate. Who hired Huuygens hired reliability above all else. One paid well, but one received service. He had lowered his voice to little more than a whisper, but he was practiced enough in the art not to lean forward in compensation. Nor did Huuygens strive to hear. The raisin eyes studied the younger man from above a ridge of yeasty flesh. “The Innkeeper of Nijkerk.”

Huuygens’ eyebrows raised the merest fraction of an inch.

“The Innkeeper of Nijkerk,” he said quietly, and nodded. “Sothebys made over fifty thousand pounds just handling the auction, as I recall. And I also seem to recall that the picture was loaned by the Frick museum in New York for the Hals exhibit at the Clouet Gallery here next week.” He paused a moment and then smiled widely. “Did I charge too little?”

“I don’t rate Sotheby’s prices,” Thwaite said coldly.

“True,” Huuygens granted with a smile of apology. His smile faded; his tone became practical. “I’ve seen The Innkeeper many times at the Frick. I’d say it’s roughly two feet by four feet. I don’t recall the exact catalogue dimensions. Scarcely a post card!” He frowned into space, considering the problem while Thwaite waited patiently. The gray eyes came back to earth. “One question — is the Clouet aware that come the opening day of their exhibit there will be an unfortunate hiatus in their presentation? A certain pristine virginity on one deprived wall or another?”

The fat man frowned at this lightness of tone; he seemed to consider it in poor taste, especially in discussing an object of the value of the Hals. “They know it’s gone, if that’s what you’re trying to ask. They should have known since yesterday evening. Why?”

Huuygens made no attempt to answer. “And they’re keeping it a secret between themselves and the Sûreté with the hope the painting will be recovered before they are forced to make a most embarrassing confession to the Frick. And, of course, the insurance people.” His eyes came up. “Do they also know how the picture was taken?”

“They do not. Nor,” Thwaite added coldly, “is it any of your concern. Your job is to see that the canvas is delivered in Madrid—”

“Madrid?”

“Yes. Any objection?”

“None. I was merely asking. I’m quite fond of Madrid, actually.”

“Well, as I was saying, you are to deliver the canvas in Madrid to the address I will give you. Before ten o’clock tomorrow night—”

“Tomorrow?” Huuygens stared and then shook his head. “Impossible.”

“Ten o’clock tomorrow night,” the fat man corrected gently. “And since when is anything impossible for the great Kek Huuygens? Where a sum like two thousand pounds is involved?”

Huuygens disregarded the sarcasm. “Why the rush?”

“Because my customer insists upon delivery at midnight tomorrow.”

Kek’s fingers drummed a tattoo on the table as he considered this added problem. One thing was certain, it would not be easy. Another thing was equally certain; somehow he would manage it. A second thought suddenly struck him. Certainly no previously arranged customer would expect delivery within a day or two, which meant only one thing: Thwaite undoubtedly wanted the picture out of Brussels that quickly for an entirely different reason. Kek looked up.

“Who worked with you on this job?”

“I beg your pardon?” The fat man was shocked by what he considered a breach of professional etiquette. “What possible business is that of yours?”

“My dear Thwaite,” Huuygens said flatly, “we both know your reasons for wanting the painting in Madrid so quickly has nothing to do with your customer’s impatience. And I happen to dislike running into unforeseen complications in the middle of a job — like irate partners-in-borrowing, to coin a phrase. They might have a tendency to take their frustrations out on me. I like to know who’s behind me.” His voice didn’t harden, but it seemed to. “All right, now. Who worked with you on the job?”

Thwaite frowned across the table for several moments, the raisins almost buried in the rolled piecrust of his brows. Huuygens was completely trustworthy, at least as far as a client was concerned. He was not a thief, although his profession often caused him to deal with thieves. In the three years since the war, the athletic gray-eyed man had built up quite a reputation as a person remarkably capable of doing the customs service in the eye. And always without betraying customer or confidence. The reputation extended to both sides of the Atlantic and were he not completely trustworthy he would have come to a watery grave long since, somewhere in between.

“All right,” Thwaite said. “If you must know, a local man. His name is Alex DuPaul. Maybe you know him, or know of him.”

No muscle twitched on Huuygens’ smooth cheeks, but his mind registered the information as approximately five and a half on the Richter scale. “I know him,” he said expressionlessly. He also knew if Alex DuPaul were involved, then the fat man had worked for DuPaul, and not the other way around. DuPaul was in a position to finance a trick like this and also had the brains; Thwaite had neither. Huuygens kept his voice conversational. “Did you and DuPaul come to a satisfactory arrangement about the Hals?”

“Our business, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think. However—” Huuygens took pity on him. It may have been the disconsolate appearance of the sagging tweed, or it may have been that since he disliked the other so intensely he felt obligated to greater charity. “As you say, it’s your problem. However, if I were in your spot, I doubt if I’d be sitting around the Grand’ Place. A trifle public, no?”

Thwaite looked into the steady gray eyes. Subterfuge at this point would be pointless. “DuPaul is in Ghent today. He won’t be back until sometime this evening.”

“At which time you’ll be well on your way to Madrid?”

Thwaite looked at him and nodded. “Yes.”

“Does DuPaul know your customer?”

“He knows the sale is intended for Madrid; nothing more.” The fat man’s tone clearly indicated how much he wished DuPaul didn’t even know that. He dug into a pocket, bringing out a crumpled pad and a pencil. “You’ll want the address in Madrid.” He wet the stub and brought it down. “It’s out a bit from the center. No. 617 Estrada de las Mujeres. Not that there are any out there,” he added absently and neatly folded the sheet.

Huuygens rewarded this care by tearing the paper to shreds, placing the bits in an ashtray, and lighting them. He watched them burn.

“Six seventeen Estrada de las Mujeres,” he repeated, shaking his head at the other’s carelessness. He came to his feet. “I’ve checked into the Colonies Hotel. You will please send the painting to me there.”

There was a moment of shocked silence. “Send it?”

“By post,” Huuygens continued smoothly. “I don’t want it delivered by private messenger, and I think any further meetings between us — before Madrid — would only increase your stomach tension. Regarding the Hals, I assume it is rolled and in its smallest dimensions. When you leave here, stop and purchase a large wall calendar from any well-known stationery shop. You will inform the salesman that you intend to mail it as a gift, at some future time. The cardboard tube they will furnish will be properly labeled with the name of the shop. You will merely replace the contents and drop it into the nearest post office with sufficient postage.” He smiled at the other. “And you will send it fourth class,” he added, almost negligently. “Special handling.”

Thwaite was shocked to the core; even the tweed seemed to draw up. “But—”

“But what?” Kek asked curiously.

“The fourth class, that’s what!” The fat man seemed on the verge of exploding. “The post office can open it!”

“Of course they can open it,” Huuygens said gently. “Which is precisely why they won’t. And the special handling will insure its delivery to me before the afternoon is out. If you get it mailed relatively soon,” he added rather pointedly.

“But a fourth-class package sent special handling?”

“Far more common than you think,” Huuygens assured him. “Especially for printed matter. The cheapest of one service and the fastest of the other.” He glanced at his watch. “I really must go. There are things to be done if we’re going to meet your schedule.”

“But — how will you manage it through Spanish Customs?” Even as he spoke he knew he was committing a gaffe in asking, but he could not hold back the words. Even discussing the matter seemed to keep the precious painting in his possession that many more minutes. “Certainly not by posting it in a mailing tube?”

Huuygens smiled at him. “You don’t give me time for that. And unfortunately all customs, even Spanish, examine packages that come in the mail very carefully.” He sighed deeply, but his eyes were twinkling as he considered the sheer audacity of the plan he had decided upon. “No,” he said, “I’m afraid the precious Hals will have to be carried through customs. In person...”

In those far-distant days of 1948, the public telephones at the Colonies Hotel were located at the foot of a long flight of steps leading from the ground floor to the basement. Kek, pausing at the top step and considering his plan, decided that proper scheduling indicated he should see the concierge before doing any phoning. He therefore turned and moved past the entrance to the bar, past the reception desk, until he located the small cubby-hole. He leaned over the tiny counter; an even tinier man popped up.

“M’sieu?”

“The planes to Madrid. Before morning—”

“Ah!” The little man behind the counter flew at a stack of schedules on the cluttered desk, happy to be of assistance to this distinguished-looking guest. He managed to withdraw a folder without disturbing the delicate balance of the pile, opened it with a flourish, and ran his finger down a column. “Ah! Madrid! Yes, M’sieu, a midnight flight. A Dakota. It stops only at Riems, Lyon, Marseilles, Barcelona, and then Madrid.” He beamed. “A mere six hours.”

Huuygens considered. The fast train to Paris and then the Gibraltar Express would make the trip in only a few hours more than the flight, and in far greater comfort, but the fast train to Paris did not leave Brussels until seven in the morning, and the Gibraltar Express did not leave the Gare d’Austerlitz for the south until late in the afternoon. It would have to be a plane. But if he were to take the plane it might cause complications. A solution came to him. “Do they have an air-taxi service at the airport?”

“Oh, yes! One of the finest! They fly American planes only.”

“And the time to Madrid? And the cost?”

“One moment—” The telephone appeared as if by magic in the tiny hand; a number was given and the concierge stared somberly across the lobby as he waited. “Hello?” There followed a rapid-fire conversation in Flemish; the concierge cupped the receiver. “Four hours by Beechcraft, M’sieu. Eight thousand Belgian francs.”

“Good. I’d like to leave a bit after midnight.”

“M’sieu has his travel documents in order?”

“M’sieu always has his travel documents in order,” Kek assured him dryly.

“In that case I shall arrange everything. Your room and name, M’sieu?”

Kek gave the required information and went back to the steps leading to the basement. The call he wanted to make would best be made from a public phone. He trotted down the steps, located a cubicle, and dropped in a coin. An operator came on the line; he gave a number and waited patiently; eventually there was the sound of ringing and almost immediately the receiver at the other end was lifted. The voice that came on was cautious.

“Hello?”

“Jacques?”

“Who is this, please?”

“This is Kek Huuygens.”

Relief instantly manifested itself in the other’s tone. “Kek, it’s good to hear you! You’re in Brussels?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe we can have dinner together tonight. I can reserve a table at the Rotisserie Ardennes.” It was a boast, bragging of freedom from fear of the police, at least at the moment.

“I’m sorry,” Kek said, “but I hope to be leaving Brussels tonight. But I have a job for you.” Huuygens paused a moment and then continued in what appeared to be a complete non sequitur. “A man returning from a day’s journey to Ghent; he could come only by train, no?”

“Unless he had an automobile, of course.” In those days nobody had an automobile and Jacques’ voice rejected the possibility.

“The omnibus?”

“He’d need kidneys of steel and a backbone of ash. Three years since the war,” Jacques said fervently, “and the roads still haven’t been touched. Nor have the omnibuses,” he added, wanting to distribute the responsibility squarely. “No, the normal thing to do would be to come by train.”

“Good. I want you to meet a man who will be coming by train from Ghent.”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “Kek, you know for you I would do almost anything. But it’s only eight months since I’m out of jail, and—”

“There’s nothing like that involved.”

Relief returned. “All right, then. His name?”

“Alex DuPaul, but his name is unimportant.”

“And he comes by which train from Ghent?”

“I have no idea. Sometime this evening is all I know.” Kek had expected some argument at this latitude, but instead Jacques seemed pleased.

“There are only two,” he said. “Six forty-five and eight fifty. After that, only the one that collects the milk, about four in the morning.”

“Good. We’ll assume he won’t come on that.”

“And this man — what do I do with him?”

“In a minute. First, his description. About five feet eleven in height; between a hundred eighty-five and a hundred ninety-five pounds. He—”

“How many kilo is that?”

Kek shook his head at his own stupidity. “Sorry. About one meter eighty; between eighty-five and ninety kilo. He looks like a brigand; a long mustache coming below his chin on the sides, normally light brown but fairly stained with tobacco. Thick hair, usually needing cutting. A man in his early forties. He’s hard to miss. Never wears a hat and seldom a cravat; a scarf usually serves for him. A Bohemian. But tough.”

“I have him. Now, what do I do with him?”

“In a moment. Are you familiar with the train station?”

“From Ghent? It’s the Gare du Nord. I know it.”

“It has telephone booths?”

“Of course,” Jacques said, mystified, and then corrected himself. “Not booths, but little partitions. There are two of them on a column near the news kiosk. Why?”

“Because,” Huuygens said, pleased with the information, “before the six forty-five arrives, you will telephone the trainmaster and arrange for a message to be put on the loudspeaker for the benefit of the incoming passengers. This message will urgently request M’sieu Alex DuPaul to telephone a certain number. If he does not appear on the earlier train, you will repeat the entire performance for the later train.”

“And what number is he to call?”

“Invent one; it’s unimportant. Because the plan is for you to be in the next cubicle — which you’d better hold before the train comes in — speaking to a dead telephone.”

“Ah!” Jacques said, understanding. “You wish to spoon-feed him, eh?”

“That is precisely it.”

“What little bit of information do we give him?”

Huuygens told him. At the other end of the line Jacques raised his shoulders in bafflement. It was certainly not a message he would have left anyone of DuPaul’s description. Still, when one did a job for Kek Huuygens, one obeyed orders.

“And after he swallows what we feed him, what then?”

“Then go home and pray he takes the bait and doesn’t go for the fisherman. Let me know if he doesn’t show at all.”

He hung up, Jacques’ “correct” in his ear, and started up the long flight of stairs; the lift did not deign to serve the basement. At the first floor he took one look at the rickety elevator and once again took to the stairs. At the second floor he started along a narrow corridor; even as he approached his room he heard a telephone ringing and somehow knew with certainty it was his own. He hurried the key into the lock and swung the door wide striding to the instrument, bringing it to his ear.

“Yes?”

“M’sieu Huuygens? Marcel, the concierge, here. There is a package for you. Special delivery. Shall I have it sent up?”

“If you will. And Marcel—” A thought had come to Kek. “My plane is arranged?”

“But of course. Any time after midnight.”

“Good.” He hesitated significantly. “And entertainment in Brussels? It’s quite early, and I have until midnight—”

“Ah!” Marcel beamed. “First, of course, a good restaurant. Not,” and he dropped his voice, “not the hotel dining room, but the Rotisserie Florentino on the rue Pierre Charon. And then a cabaret, the Maroc, I would suggest. M’sieu wishes me to make the arrangements?”

“If you would be so kind. And a car here at seven, I should think.”

“Of course.” Marcel hesitated a moment. “I shall bring you your package personally, M’sieu.”

It was only moments before a knock announced Marcel. A bill exchanged hands, tucked away into an invisible pocket with a movement any magician could have envied. Marcel bowed himself out and Kek held the cardboard tube in his hand almost reverently. He walked to the dresser, poured himself a stiff brandy and drank it, and then returned to the tube.

The thought of actually having the Hals The Innkeeper of Nijkerk in his hands, here in this nondescript hotel room in this distant city of Brussels, with half the police in the world undoubtedly searching for it, was thrilling. He twisted the end cap free and eased the rolled canvas out with great care, spreading it open upon the bed, reveling as always in the beauty, the rich full tones, the delicate but strong brushwork. For fully five minutes he studied the famous painting, and then sighed, reluctantly rerolled the picture, and restored it to its cardboard prison. A pity it wasn’t his, but it wasn’t!

He glanced at his wrist watch and increased the tempo of his moves. The bottom drawer of the dresser was opened and the tube laid carefully beneath the spare pillow and blanket stored there. There was little chance the night maid would bring out a blanket in this weather, but there was no sense in taking chances. He walked to the door, placed the “Do Not Disturb” ticket on the outside knob, and, while security was still on his mind, closed the window behind the already drawn drapes and latched the rusty lock.

He dropped to the bed reviewing his plan for getting the painting into Spain. It was a dangerous gamble, far bolder than his usual schemes and more daring than he would have preferred, but with so little time before the deadline for delivery, he could see no alternative. He paused to consider his next move. The next move, of course, was a necessary call to Madrid, and he hoped he hadn’t left it until too late. He contacted Marcel, placed the call, and went in to take a bath while waiting for it to go through.

He was facing himself in the mirror, knotting his tie, when the telephone rang. He raised it to find Madrid on the line. “Hello? Chico?”

The voice at the other end was faint, but clear.

“Who calls?”

Kek felt a weight drop from him at the familiar voice. Contacting Chico had been most important. “Chico, this is Kek Huuygens. I have little time, so attention. I’m taking a private air-taxi from Brussels to Madrid. I will arrive there about four in the morning. Do you hear?”

“I hear.” It was like a whisper.

“Good. You will meet me, please. With a car.”

“It is done.”

“And an igualidor.” It was the gutter-slang of Madrid, overinfluenced by American cinema; it meant a handgun. Kek hoped that Chico understood and that anyone else who might be listening would not.

Chico understood. He was shocked. “Igualidor? Porqué?”

“For my reasons. Until later.” Kek hung up, clicked the lever several times for Marcel, and advised him to tell the driver he would be right down. He came to his feet and shrugged himself into his jacket, picked up his topcoat, and went out to face the evening.

The Rotisserie Florentino and the Cabaret Maroc were everything that Marcel had suggested; at eleven o’clock, softly singing one of the hit tunes of the cabaret, his driver drove him back to his hotel. He excused himself long enough to collect his belongings and marched to the second floor, his singing now reduced to a nonmelodic humming in deference to the sleeping guests.

His laxity disappeared as soon as he opened the door. He went swiftly to the dresser, withdrew the cardboard tube, and checked the contents. Satisfied, he resumed his soft humming. His suitcase was brought from the closet, the tube stored in it diagonally beneath his shirts, and the balance of his clothing neatly folded and distributed about the unusual ridge, balancing it. He snapped the case shut, gathered his topcoat once again, and went to the door. One final inspection of the room and he closed the door softly behind him, starting for the steps.

The October that had been sunny and warm in Brussels was bitter cold on the high plateau of Madrid, and especially just after four in the morning. Tramping from the airplane, his breath steaming and his ears still ringing from the shuddering scream of wind and the vibrating howl of the engine, Kek kept his one free hand buried deep in his topcoat pocket and wished he had thought to come more warmly dressed.

He came into the immigration shed, located a sleepy official, had his passport examined desultorily, stamped with a yawn, and handed back. He walked into the customs sections, following arrows. An inspector detached himself from his desk and moved forward, frowning.

“The señor came—?”

“By private plane.” Kek placed his case on the table. “From Brussels.”

“Your passport, please.” The inspector’s voice indicated the height of cooperation; people who could afford to cross national borders in privately hired planes obviously rated respect. His attitude maintained until he noted the name across from the smiling picture. His eyes widened; his instruction book was filled with notes about this one! “One moment, señor!”

“Is something wrong?”

“One moment!” The inspector fled to find a superior.

Kek waited with a patience born of long experience with stubborn customs officials, although he did feel it would be nice once in a while to run across one too sleepy to notice his name on his passport. And if one couldn’t find a sleepy inspector at four in the morning, when could one? He looked up. The inspector was returning, this time accompanied by the night chief of the section. The chief picked up the suitcase, tilting his head.

“Señor...?” His tone was curt; he was off before he had finished the word.

Kek tagged along obediently. Inside a room at one end of the hall the chief closed the door firmly, set the case on the floor within instant reach, and seated himself on one corner of the lone, bare table there. He looked at Kek with cold eyes.

“Señor Huuygens.” His pronunciation was atrocious. “What brings you to Spain?”

Kek considered the man carefully. “My desire to be here. My papers are in order. What seems to be the problem?”

The chief inspector studied him a moment and then sighed. “Your overcoat first, please.” He came to his feet, holding out his hand.

It was an all too familiar routine. Only when the personal search had revealed nothing incriminating did the inspector turn his attention to the suitcase. He did it with the air of one saving the best for last, bringing it to the table and opening it. Each article of clothing was carefully removed, examined, patted, and then piled neatly to one side. Kek watched with interest, as if scoring the performance against others he had known. Then—

“Ah!” said the inspector, triumphantly. He held aloft the tube.

“Yes?” Kek asked curiously.

“What is this?”

“Isn’t it marked on the outside? It’s a wall calendar.”

“Oh?” The inspector smiled at him. “And how interesting that you should have boarded a private plane in Brussels, and how even more interesting that we should have been requested by the Belgian Sûreté to be on the watch for a package almost the size of your — ah, your calendar. Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say, señor?”

“Most amazing,” Kek agreed.

“I’m forced to agree,” the inspector said with a sardonic smile. He removed the end cap of the tube, placed several fingers inside, and slowly twisted the contents free. He slowly unrolled it and bent over it. His black eyes came up, furious. “This is not—” He bit the word back. His instructions for secrecy were implicit.

“Not what?” Huuygens asked innocently. “Not a calendar? Of course it’s a calendar. I told you it was.”

The inspector said nothing. For several moments he held the calendar in his hands and then he carefully rerolled it and placed it back in the tube. His movements were those of an automaton. He studied the empty suitcase a moment and then shrugged.

“You may go.” His voice was expressionless.

Huuygens nodded his thanks, carefully repacked his clothing, and left the room. Behind him he could hear a fist slamming the table and a moment later the sound of a chair being kicked.

Outside, a thin, icy mist hovered before the tall street lamps. Kek looked about; there was a beep of a horn from the almost deserted parking lot across the roadway and he walked over, bending down to check. Satisfied, he climbed in beside the driver, tossing his suitcase in the rear.

“Chico. How are you?”

“Frozen!” The voice became querulous. “Even when you come in alone in a private plane, it takes you an hour to clear customs!”

“Yes,” Kek said simply, because it was the truth. “Do you have the gun?”

“In the glove compartment. I don’t like guns.”

“Nor do I.” Kek removed the gun, checked it, and slipped it into his topcoat pocket.

Chico turned the ignition key; the engine sprang to life. “Where to?”

“No place, yet. We wait here.” His hand went out to prevent Chico from switching off the engine. “Let it run and keep the car warm.”

“All right. How long do we wait?”

“Until the regular flight from Brussels.” He glanced at his watch. Chico had been right; he had spent well over an hour with the customs. “It should arrive in about forty-five minutes. Wake me then. All right?”

“Right,” Chico said. Kek put his head back and almost instantly fell asleep. It seemed that no more than seconds had passed before Chico was shaking him. “The plane. It’s landed.”

Kek yawned. “Thanks.” He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d better wake up.” He climbed out of the car and walked up and down the parking lot several times, swinging his arms, breathing deeply. Awake at last he returned to the car, climbed into the rear seat and put his case in front with Chico. “The passengers will be out soon. Pull the car in front of the terminal, ahead a bit, just behind the taxi rank. And keep your motor running.”

Chico said nothing. He shifted gears and edged forward, following the curved driveway to the point Kek had indicated. The two men waited. Passengers began to emerge from the terminal at last, moving toward the parking lot, or the one taxi braving the night at the rank beyond. Their shadows jumped from light pole to light pole; they, at least, were impervious to the cold. A bareheaded man in a heavy trench coat, sporting a thick mustache and carrying an overnight bag in one hand and an umbrella hooked over the other arm, came down the airport steps. He paused momentarily and then started walking rapidly in the direction of the sole taxi. Kek smiled in pleased satifaction and slipped from the car, turning to face the man at the last moment. To any onlooker it would have appeared that they had bumped by pure accident.

“Perhaps I can offer you transportation, Alex?”

The gun was held easily in his pocket, pressing against the other’s stomach. DuPaul’s black eyes widened in surprised recognition and then hardened. The tableau held for several seconds; then the mustached man shrugged.

“Good,” Huuygens said approvingly. “Your bag in the front seat and you in the back.” He tipped his head politely. “After you.”

The door was slammed; the car instantly began to move. Chico brightened the lights and half-turned his head. “Where to?”

“I want a place where we can drop our friend when we finish talking to him. Some place that will give him an hour or so of brisk walking to reach civilization in the form of taxis or telephones. Some place,” he added with a smile, “that we can reach by car, ourselves.”

“Easy,” Chico said and swung from the airport road into the two-lane highway leading away from the city toward the distant mountains.

“Good,” Huuygens said and turned back to DuPaul, sitting with a frozen expression at his side. “I’m happy you got my message.”

Chico negotiated a curve. “Your message?” he asked mystified.

“I was speaking to my friend, here,” Huuygens explained. “In Brussels I arranged for him to learn that a certain object of great value — which he thought was safely his — was, instead, in my possession in my hotel room. The man he overheard was planning on taking it away from me on the Paris Express, because he knew I was taking it into Spain for some Englishman, and he knew I hated to fly—”

For the first time DuPaul spoke. His voice was bitter. “You used me.”

“Of course,” Kek said, and added, honestly, “I had to.”

“You won’t get away with this, Kek.”

“Of course I’ll get away with it,” Huuygens said, surprised at the other’s innocence. “I’ll have my money and in all likelihood be out of Spain before you even get back to the highway. Besides,” he added logically, “the painting was given to me to deliver, you know. It’s a matter of honor.”

DuPaul didn’t answer. He sighed and leaned back in his seat, staring ahead. They had left the main road and were bumping over a rutted dirt trail, twisting higher, rising into the foothills of the mountain. The air was getting colder; Chico closed the small side window and increased the output of the tiny heater to its maximum. They came to one ridge and negotiated it; one more and Chico stopped, backed into an opening between the road and a fence, preparing to return as they had come.

“This should do it,” he said calmly.

“Good.” Huuygens turned to DuPaul, truly apologetic. “I’m sorry, Alex. You can follow the road back or cut across the fields; I’ll be gone before you can even get to a phone. You can take your bag if you want—” He saw the sudden light in the other’s eyes and swiftly disabused him of the notion. “No,” he said quietly. “Not the umbrella.” He smiled. “I thought you might bribe your way through customs, but the umbrella was a much better idea. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hope to get away with it.”

DuPaul, his jaw clenched tightly, climbed out of the car. Chico handed him the overnight bag and slammed the door. Huuygens held the gun steady over the edge of the window, now rolled down; with his free hand he slid his fingers inside the silk of the umbrella, verifying his guess.

DuPaul, his breath steaming in the cold air, bent forward.

“I don’t blame you,” he said quietly. “You got me to bring the painting in for you, and I don’t blame you. I had it in my hands in Brussels — in my hands! — and by now I could have been far away with it. But you knew I wouldn’t let the fat man get away with robbing me. You knew it.” He straightened up. “But when you see Thwaite, tell him I’ll find him. I swear I’ll find him.”

“I’m sure you will,” Huuygens said, and his sympathy was genuine. “I think you’ve been treated very badly, and I’m sure Thwaite deserves payment in whatever coin you choose.” He sighed. “But that is, after all, none of my concern. I had to deliver. I contracted to.”

He paused a moment, frowning in thought. Then he took a deep breath and leaned back, the revolver dangling between his legs. He raised his voice for Chico to hear. It carried clearly through the open window to the man in the road.

“No. 617 Estrada de las Mujeres, Chico. And I should judge we have approximately an hour or so to fulfill our commitment...”