Kek Huuygens, Smuggler

The Hochmann Miniatures

I suppose, in the four years since my newspaper reassigned me to the Paris office, I have been instructed no less than a dozen times to investigate a rumor that Wilhelm Gruber had been seen in one place or another somewhere on the continent of Europe. Off I have dashed with my overnight bag, my raincoat and the new Super Speed Graphic 45 I finally managed to get the office to buy to replace the ancient monster of a camera I had found on my arrival. My instructions — coming by cable, and cables costing money — never bothered to give me the slightest indication of where the rumor about Gruber started or who started it, so I usually found myself wasting both time and money, and taking a few pictures of the locale and filing enough “allegeds” and “mysteriouses” to sufficiently satisfy our New York telegraph desk, if not myself. However, the exotic place names from which my cables were sent helped give them some degree of authenticity and romance, so, from a reader-interest standpoint, I suppose my editor was more or less justified in sending me on these pointless assignments.

This time, the Nazi war criminal was purported to have been seen in Lisbon, but the results of my time there were no more sucessful than on previous occasions. The Portuguese police assured me blandly that it was impossible for Herr Gruber to be in Lisbon, since war criminals were not allowed in the country, and the local newspapers were, if possible, even less co-operative. The one man I knew who might have helped — a correspondent for a London weekly — was off somewhere covering an explosion in some industrial section, and his office had no idea when he might return. The day was therefore completely unproductive, and I caught a cab to the airport, trying to find some consolation in the fact that at least Paris was only a short journey away by jet, and I would be home with my wife and children that evening.

The wide, tiled concourse of the airport terminal was fairly crowded as I made my way toward the Air-France counter, and I skirted the noisy groups, my mind busily composing a cable that would combine the best of my old dispatches while still appearing sufficiently original to avoid a nasty cable from my editor in return. In my preoccupation, it was surprising that I even noticed the stocky figure wearing dark glasses that sat hunched over a magazine on the bench nearest the broad windows. In truth, I had passed the man by before I suddenly realized that I knew him. I turned back, shifting the Speed Graphic case to join my overnight bag in my left hand while I thrust out my right.

“Kek!” I said in honest delight. “Kek Huuygens!”

I have known Huuygens for many years — since shortly after the war, in fact — and he is a fascinating character. He is a Pole by birth, and he affects a Dutch background, although he has actually been a naturalized American citizen for many years. He lives by his wits, and since these are exceptional in every respect and further fortified by an amazing knowledge in many fields, he usually lives very well. And since, besides being a man of great charm, his exploits have more than once provided me with valuable copy, he is one of my favorite people.

But this time, to my astonishment, my reception was anything but friendly. The humorous banter that normally marked our unexpected encounters in strange places at odd times was pointedly missing; my extended hand was disregarded. The eyes that were raised to mine were obscured by the dark glasses, but the hard set of the jaw and lips clearly marked disapproval. He came to his feet, folding his magazine and tucking it into a pocket.

“I’m afraid you have made a mistake, monsieur,” he said stiffly in French, and walked away.

I stared after him in amazement. Any doubts I might have entertained had instantly been removed by that familiar vibrant voice, and no one who knew the man could fail to recognize that half-marching stride or the set of the shoulders. I watched him come to the wide stairway and mount it in the direction of the second-floor restaurant. One hand moved up at regular intervals to grasp the polished handrail and then release it, as if, for some mysterious reason, he were measuring it. He paused at the top for several seconds, glancing down at me, and then turned to disappear through the heavy doors. I hesitated in indecision for a moment, then followed him.

He was sitting on the sun deck when I arrived, alone at one of the wrought-iron tables that were scattered about the balcony. He watched me calmly as I approached. This time, to my surprise, he made no attempt either to retreat further or to avoid my recognition. I tossed my gear onto one of the empty chairs at the table and sat down in another.

“What’s this all about, Kek? Why all the cloak-and-dagger secrecy?”

His eyes came back to me from their contemplation of the doorway over my shoulder, and he studied me in contemplative silence for several moments. Then he nodded, as if he had come to a conclusion after considerable thought.

“You can do me a favor,” he said slowly.

“Of course.”

The dark glasses watched me carefully. “I have a reservation on Air-France back to Paris.” His voice was emotionless. “I doubt that anyone will be watching the ticket counter to see if I pick it up, but I should prefer not to take the slightest chance of being observed. By the wrong people. So, if you could pick it up for me...”

There was no doubt that he was deadly serious. My eyes narrowed at the implication of some intrigue that could well prove interesting to me as a newspaperman. I nodded. “All right. Is it in your name?”

For a moment the lips quirked in the old Huuygens manner, but they immediately straightened out. “Of course,” he said drily, but there was none of his usual good humor in his voice. “I have enough problems with the people at French Customs without trying to get past them with a false passport.”

I came to my feet and stared down at him. “All right,” I said quietly. “Watch my things and I’ll go get your ticket. And my own. Which,” I added significantly, “are going to be together. On the same flight. Because once we are on that plane, I expect you to repay me by explaining what this is all about.”

He nodded somberly. “Once we are on the plane...”

I started to turn away and then paused as another thought came to me. “What about your luggage?”

“It’s still at my hotel. I didn’t have time to stop by for it.” He shrugged. “It’s of no consequence. I’ll send them money from Paris, and they’ll forward my things.” His tone indicated that they could also keep them, for all he cared.

One last condition occurred to me. “And while I’m gone, you can order the drinks.” I smiled. “And pay for them.”

I expected a smile in return, but his handsome face remained wooden. All he said was, “If you wish,” in a voice that indicated complete indifference. As I left, he was raising one hand languidly to attract the attention of the waiter.

You have always been a curious man (Huuygens said. Our plane had lifted itself to cruising altitude, our seat belts were lying relaxed in our laps, two glasses of Madiera Five-Star reposed on the trays before us and our cigarettes were burning steadily.) I suppose, it’s a mark of your trade (he went on). In the past, I have often been willing to satisfy that curiosity of yours, because the affairs I have described to you have remained confidential whenever I made that a prior condition. And also, to be honest, because in general the matters we discussed were never really of a particularly serious nature. This time, I’m afraid, the matter is quite serious. However, you did me a far bigger favor than you know by picking up my ticket, and you shall have the story you were promised. I shall leave it to your intelligence to decide how much of it you will reveal, and when.

In any event, let me begin at the beginning. As I’m sure you know, I have a growing reputation as a man who manages on occasion to — shall we say, supersede? — some of the regulations which the customs services of most countries impose on items that cross their borders. As a result, in the past few years, people have called on me with increasing frequency for my help, and where nothing more than the morality of a regulation was concerned, I have been inclined to accept the commission. And, of course, been adequately paid for it.

To make a long story intelligible, about a week ago in Paris, I was approached by somebody through channels we need not discuss, other than to say that they were sufficiently involved. I was told that a certain Spanish gentleman, named Enrique Echavarria, living at present in Lisbon, had a collection of art treasures which he found himself forced to dispose of, and since the market in Portugal was not the best-paying, he wanted to get them to France where he could realize a greater income from their sale. Fortunately, unlike yourself, I am not of a curious nature, and I therefore did not bother to ask why, if these art treasures were legally held, their owner felt it necessary to employ the services of a man named Kek Huuygens and pay him what even I would not call a modest fee. However, once I was assured that narcotics were not involved, I accepted the commission. I packed a bag, flew to Lisbon, registered at my hotel and then presented myself at the address which had been given to me.

It was a small house at the end of a long avenue, set well back in the seclusion of extensive gardens and thick stands of trees, and protected by a high stone wall topped by barbed wire in a manner rarely seen in these new days of universal brotherhood and trust. The short driveway extending from the side of the house contained an automobile of rather ancient vintage, and ended in a large wrought-iron gate which, when I arrived, I found locked. I dismissed my taxi, found an old-fashioned bell pull set in a tangle of ivy on one post and rang it.

There was a movement at one of the windows, the hint of a curtain being drawn aside and then replaced, and a few moments later, a heavy-set man, dressed in the leather jacket and apron of the Portuguese manservant, came from the house. I gave him my name. He nodded and unlocked the gate, waited until I had entered, and then locked the gate once again behind me and followed me into the hallway of the house. I turned to present him with my hat and found myself facing a revolver.

“What is that for?” I asked a trifle testily.

He was not in the least perturbed by either my question or my tone. “You must forgive me,” he said in guttural and Teutonic-sounding French, “but I must ask you to submit to a search.”

“A search?” I was honestly surprised. “For what?”

“For weapons,” he said evenly. “Senhor Echavarria has a very valuable collection of paintings which he would not like to have stolen. I know who you are, of course, and also that you are expected. But still” — he did not sound in the least apologetic — “it is the rule.”

I shrugged. I never carry weapons, and in the course of my lifetime, I have been subjected to far greater inconveniences than mere searches. And I am far from unfamiliar with those. So I raised my arms and allowed him to make sure that I was unarmed. I might add that he did it with considerable skill. When at last he had assured himself of my complete innocuousness, he pocketed his gun and led me into the library. He took my hat, announced me to the man inside and quietly withdrew, closing the door.

The person seated at the desk at the far end of the long room rose. In the shadows caused by the trees hugging the windows behind him, it was difficult to see his face.

“M’sieu Huuygens!” he said in a pleased tone of voice. “I am very glad to meet you! I have heard much of you and of — ah, your exceptional abilities!”

There was something oddly familiar about the voice. Even the terrible French accent seemed to strike a chord. It was like the faintly remembered taste of some strange dish dredged up from the fleeting memory of some childhood feast. He came around the desk and walked up to me, his hand outstretched, setting himself beneath the more revealing light at my end of the room. I think I can feel justly proud that in no way did I allow my sudden recognition to color either my visible emotions or my actions, for the monster with whom I was shaking hands so cordially was none other than Wilhelm Gruber!

Huuygens paused in his tale and eyed me curiously. He had removed his dark glasses, and his deep-set gray eyes contained a light of speculation.

“You jumped when I mentioned that name,” he said slowly, thoughtfully. “You positively jumped!”

I refused to be led from the main stream of a story I suddenly realized could be extremely important. I cleared my throat and spoke, trying to sound noncommittal. “Go on with what you were saying.”

He studied me a moment and then grinned in sudden conviction. It was like the old Huuygens again. Ever since the plane had lifted from the runway, he had been more relaxed, and now he appeared almost carefree.

“Ah!” His grin widened. “I think I understand! As I recall, chasing the elusive Herr Gruber was one of your obsessions — or, at least, the obsession of your editor. And was probably — no, I should say certainly — the reason you were in Lisbon.” He continued to regard me with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, bear with me. Who knows? Possibly some part of the story I am telling you will enable you to file a cable to New York with fewer of your usual evasions.”

He seemed suddenly to realize that our glasses were empty. He rang for the steward, waited until we had again been served and then leaned back, twisting the stem of his glass idly between his fingers, putting his interrupted thoughts in order.

You may wonder (Huuygens continued at last, and his smile had disappeared as if it had never been, and his voice had returned to its somber inflection) how I was able to recognize Wilhelm Gruber so instantly, when he obviously had no conception that we have ever seen each other before. Or that I probably hated him as much or more than I have ever hated a man. Certainly, he had grown older; after all, more than twenty years had passed since Poland. And he had also changed his appearance. The Hitler mustache I remembered had been shaven off, and some surgeon at one time or another had used his instruments for the purpose of making that Aryan face less suspect. It would almost make one laugh, if it did not make one want to cry, because now he sported quite a Hebraic nose, almost the image of the nose he had once held up as the only proof necessary to merit extinction.

But, in any event, I recognized him. Instantly. When one sees, from hiding, his entire family — father, mother and younger sister — dragged from their house and slaughtered in the street on the orders of one man; when one later watches, through strands of barbed wire, that same man daily strutting up and down, demonstrating the unspoken threat of his authority by the savage, rhythmic beating of his whip against the polish of his high boots; when one has lived daily with that arrogant voice proclaiming the wave of the future in terms of hatred and torture, in a tone holding more joy than intimidation — well, one does not forget that man. Believe me. Nor have I ever forgotten Wilhelm Gruber!

But still, there I was, holding his damp palm and pumping it enthusiastically, attempting wildly to recover my equilibrium. Fortunately, he wearied of the exercise and released me. Turning away, he began to stride up and down before me as he formulated his thoughts into words he felt would be most enticing to a man of my profession. At last, he paused, facing me.

“M’sieu Huuygens,” he began, “I shall not waste your time. I have checked on you quite thoroughly, and I am convinced that you are the man I need for — ah, for the solution to my problem. You see, some years ago I... well, I was fortunate enough to inherit certain paintings which, until now, I have been able to keep simply for my pleasure.” He spread his fat hands. “Now, unfortunately, conditions have changed and I am forced to sell them.”

How he ever expected anyone to believe the ridiculous fiction of his being Spanish with that guttural accent, Heaven alone knew! But I listened quietly enough, even though my mind was whirling along at breakneck speed. He looked at me with the air of a man about to tell a stranger a naughty story, but uncertain of its reception. Then he continued.

“However, m’sieu, my problem is that in this country, it is most difficult to find a proper customer. But in France, I have certain old friends who could lead me to certain dealers willing to pay a decent price. My particular problem...”

“Your problem is to get them to France,” I said evenly, although I was feeling anything but calm, “without being disturbed by customs. And my specialty is arranging just such accommodations.”

He smiled widely. “Exactly!”

“Then,” I said, “let me see these paintings. To judge their size, and from that, the size of the problem.”

He nodded profoundly, as if I had confirmed his first estimate of my brilliance, and led me to a small door set in the side wall of the room, across from the windows. It required a combination of two keys to open. He flicked on the light, stepped aside, and I entered.

What the room had been before, I do not know — possibly a serving pantry of some sort — but now it was a vault. The walls had been lined with steel, as well as the ceiling. I was sure that under the carpet on which I was standing, the floor was also steel. One small vent, located at the juncture of one wall and the ceiling, provided fresh air, from where I do not know. And hung on almost every square inch of the walls were framed paintings.

“You are the first man other than Hans and myself ever to see this room,” Gruber said almost proudly. “We did the work here ourselves.”

He followed me as I walked from painting to painting. There was plenty of space in which to study the collection — except my mind was elsewhere, seething. I do not believe I have ever been so confused in my life. It was not until he had spoken to me again — several times, probably (and what he said I still don’t know) that I forced myself to bring my thoughts to bear on the paintings themselves. And once again, it was only by the greatest effort that I prevented myself from betraying my feelings. Had the same situation developed with any other client, my first reaction would have been to laugh, because even the most cursory perusal demonstrated that nine-tenths of the paintings were poor copies made by obviously second-rate students, and the other tenth, while possibly original, were the work of artists — if that is not too flattering a word — who would have been better advised to restrain their efforts to the exterior of houses.

But although the pitiful daubs I faced were a sure indication of Gruber’s complete ignorance, I could not see how this fact could be of any use to me, and it was therefore with a completely unemotional face that I withdrew a collapsing rule, measured the largest of the monstrosities, closed my eyes a moment to remember the measurements and then turned to face him once again.

“These are all?”

“No,” he said, and turned to a table that was centered in the room. He slid open a drawer and brought out a small envelope. “There are also these.”

He spread the contents of the envelope before me. From where I stood, they appeared at first like postal cards. It was not until I came closer that I realized their full import. And when I did, I’m afraid that, despite my intentions, my mouth fell open. Fortunately, Gruber was also studying the small pictures and did not notice. I bent over them again, but there was no doubt at all in my mind. For the first time in over twenty years, I was looking at the famous Hochmann Collection of miniatures.

I do not know if you are familiar with this precious collection. It had been the pride of the Warsaw Art Museum in those happier days before the war. As a student, I had gone there to admire it many times, and I knew it well. The Hochmann family had collected these, and in 1922, when the last Count Hochmann went to make whatever excuses he thought God would accept, his will directed that the collection be left to the Warsaw Art Museum and exhibited there under his family name. Two weeks after Poland capitulated to the Nazis, the collection disappeared and, despite the offer of a huge reward, had never been seen since. Until now...

This collection of miniature paintings was unique. Many artists of history at one time or another delighted in demonstrating their extreme control of their media by producing miniatures — paintings complete in all detail, with all color and warmth, all richness and depth, yet on a scale so small that in many cases the full beauty of the work could not be realized without the aid of a glass. Miniature painting goes back as far as the time of the Romans and was highly developed in the Orient at an early date. Before the sixteenth century, Persian, Indian and Turkish artists were producing delicate, stylized miniatures; in fact, many artists bred cats, since only the throat hairs of two-month-old kittens were considered fine enough for their brushes.

Hans Holbein the Younger was probably the first important representative of the art in Europe, and he was shortly followed by Clouet in France, and then by Hilliard and Isaac in England, and eventually even by artists in the then new United States of America — people such as Watson and Peale, and of course, Malbone, who was quite exceptional. Actually, it was an art form that continued up until the time of Ross, who had the extreme misfortune of seeing his ability superseded by the advent of photography. Ah, well, progress! Why must we always suffer from it?

But you must forgive me for having gone off on a tangent; you have to see miniatures to truly appreciate the effect they can have on you. However, as I was saying, the Hochmann Collection was most unusual. To begin with, miniatures were generally portraits, but the Hochmann Collection was limited to landscapes, which were rarely painted in miniature form in those days. Second, although the standard surface for miniatures at that time varied from ivory to metal to — although I cannot imagine how they did it — stretched chicken-skin, the Hochmann examples were limited to parchment. And finally, while the Persians even called a painting as large as a book page a miniature, the Hochmann Collection had no painting larger than two by four inches. There are, of course, many fine collections of these paintings in the world today — in New York and London, and, of course, in the Louvre — but I have still always favored the Hochmann Collection... But I have really digressed again, and I apologize. In any event, there I was, staring at it almost unbelievingly.

I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to keep a straight face. Gruber was watching me.

“Well?” he asked a bit impatiently. “What do you think?”

“I’m afraid I’m not an art expert, m’sieu,” I said at last, raising my shoulders. “Their value...”

“I don’t mean that,” he said with more than a touch of irritability, obviously caused by anxiety. “I realize that art is not your field. I mean, now that you’ve seen what I wish transported to France, can you handle the assignment?

I looked at him with dignity. “I’m sure you do not wish to insult me, m’sieu,” I said. “Of course, I can handle it. It will require several days of preparation, but I can see no insurmountable problem.”

“Good,” he said, and smiled in a faintly malicious manner. “One thing, however. In making your plans, I should suggest that you take one further fact into account: you must arrange the details so that at no time are the paintings out of my sight.”

I stared at him. “But...

“No excuses, please.” His voice was suddenly hard; he should have had the surgeon change his vocal chords as well as his nose. “That is an absolutely essential condition. I will not say that I distrust you, but there is far too much at stake here for me to take the slightest chance.”

I nodded, as if I could see his point, and then raised my head. “You realize, of course, m’sieu, that you are making the problem more complicated and difficult?”

He smiled sardonically. “But not impossible, I’m sure. Certainly not for the famous Kek Huuygens, and certainly not for the extremely large fee he will be paid.”

“No,” I admitted after a dignified pause.

“Fine! I was positive you could manage it.” And he led me from the room.

In the hallway, Gruber held out his hand. “And when shall I see you again?”

I thought. “In two or three days,” I finally said. “I shall have to study the problem and then make the necessary arrangements.”

“Until two or three days, then,” he said, and disappeared back into the library.

His servant showed me to the gate, unlocked it and waited until my taxi came.

Well, back at the hotel, I fell into a chair, closed my eyes and gave the matter the full power of my concentration. To merely report Gruber or turn him in — and to the Portuguese authorities, at that — was patently ridiculous. In the first place, with the political philosophy that obtains in the charming land we have just left, or at least with many of their officials, it is doubtful that Gruber would remain uninformed long enough to face extradition. And at least, now I knew where he was. And even if, by some miracle, he was arrested and returned to Germany for trial, what sentence would he face? Five years? Out in three years with good behavior? Twelve months each for my father, my mother and my sister? I shook my head and concentrated harder.

Ideas, as you know, come to me with considerable ease, but this time I was far more exigent with their content. I threw out at least the first ten that occurred to me, and when at long last one finally came along that offered some feasibility, I did not, as I usually do, smile brightly at my own genius, but went over it again and again, scowling, checking every little detail in my mind for some flaw, changing this minute move and adding that one, trying to remember small things about the house and the driveway — like whether the big gate swung inward or outward; like the distance from the gate to the nearest side-road that cut away from the street.

All these points I reviewed and checked again and again until the tiniest detail was clear in my mind. It sounds both easy and fast as I recount it now, but I actually spent the balance of the day on it, had no alcohol with my dinner in order to maintain the clarity of my mind and worked on the plan far into the night. It was not until I knew each piece was locked securely in place that I finally went to bed.

The following day was a busy one. To begin with, I stopped at a stationer’s shop and bought a pad of large, red-edged gummed labels, all blank, and a small bottle of marking ink and a fine brush. I took the labels to a small job-printing house in the neighborhood and had them printed to my direction. And then, almost as an afterthought, I asked the man to print me some business cards. The legend I produced for him to copy indicated that I was a man named Enrique Echavarria and that I enjoyed the position of Director General of a large bank in Madrid. (I think I called the bank Banco Internacional Econòmica; if there isn’t a bank with that name, there should be.) The printer, a young man with far more important matters on his mind, gave no particular thought to the request, but hand-set the type and went to work.

My next stop was at an automobile rental agency. The business cards I had just had printed worked their magic — and I like to think my distinguished appearance did no harm — and I left the required deposit and drove away in a carefully selected sedan of demonstrated power and with a trunk of the size I calculated I would need for my scheme. Once away from the agency, I pulled to the curb, opened the trunk and measured it exactly. It would have excited unnecessary curiosity had I done it at the agency. Fortunately, it was sufficiently large for my needs.

There were still many things to do, and I got right to them. A hardware store nearby furnished me with a hammer, a small packet of nails and one of those plastic airplane bags in which to convey all of my other purchases. I also bought a large square pad of tissue paper. My last chore of the morning was to locate a small carpentry shop and order a packing case of the dimensions I carried in my head. I made a rapid calculation and indicated the depth I wanted, plus the fact that one side would eventually act as a cover and that I would nail it shut once it had been packed. We hovered over sketches until I was sure the man knew what I wanted. He calculated a cost, promised delivery for the following afternoon, and I left a deposit and went on my way.

By this time, it was well past the luncheon hour, even by Lisbon’s rather liberal standards, but I had no appetite for food. So I got in the car and started looking up some old friends of mine from the days I spent in the Resistance. Fortunately, I have made a point of maintaining old contacts — which explains why you and I are still friends — and now it really paid dividends. This part of the scheme, in which I had anticipated the greatest difficulty, actually presented no problem at all. Of course, you must remember the type of people these friends were. They were not, let us say, the types you would invite to help you count your cash, but for my purpose, they were ideal. So, as I say, this part of the scheme presented no problem — except that after furnishing me with my requirements, they all insisted on having a drink with me. By this time, I did not mind. With the majority of the steps in the plan accomplished, I felt I could relax.

I came back to the hotel that night feeling in an almost gay mood. There was a note in my box requesting me to call a certain number, so I took the creaky elevator to my floor, went to my room and did so. A moment after I had introduced myself to Gruber’s servant, the voice of the monster himself came on the line. He sounded a bit nervous.

“Well? How are your plans going?”

“Excellently,” I replied with complete honesty.

“And you will be here when?”

“The day after tomorrow,” I said. “About ten in the morning. I’ll bring all the necessary packing materials with me to box the — ah, the merchandise. And it shouldn’t take more than an hour or so. You should be packed,” I added, “for a sea voyage. We’re due on board at noon.”

“And which dock do we sail from?”

“I’ll give you the details at the proper time,” I said a bit curtly.

“Fair enough,” he said in an infinitely more satisfied tone, and rang off. I grinned at the telephone for a moment and then went downstairs to have dinner.

The following morning, I began what was probably the most important part of the entire scheme. This consisted of driving slowly about the city’s suburbs, staring down one alley after another. I particularly avoided the center of the city since the concentration of police there was greater, and I certainly didn’t want any involvement with them. And also because the place I was looking for had to be a reasonable distance from Gruber’s house, but still had to fulfill the conditions of being a dead-end street with a walled garden, either at the end or near the end. Or if not a walled garden, something very similar. A street, in short, where I could abandon the car once I was done with it.

When, by lunch-time, I still had not found a suitable location, I began to get a bit worried, and — because the entire success of the scheme depended on this — I once again did without food in order to continue my search.

It was less than an hour later that I came upon the perfect place, and purely by accident. I almost passed it at first, for the sign, FOR SALE OR LEASE, did not register on my mind at once, but the half-glimpse I caught through the entrance made me immediately reverse the car and back up for further study. I stared down the cobbled driveway, nodded in approval, then drove in.

The entrance I had taken led past two empty two-storied stone houses that had apparently once served as twin guardians of the gate. It delivered me to an old abandoned factory. Wooden loading docks in poor repair formed three sides of a huge quadrangle about the roughly cobbled yard area. I set the car brake, descended and walked about the place.

The factory had obviously not been in use for many, many years. The high walls that loomed over me were worn brick, with occasional ants’ nests testifying to their age. The window frames had flaked their paint to yellow wood and their glass was either broken or completely missing. The doors that sagged into the darkened interior hung pathetically on their rusted hinges. I mounted the loading dock and dragged one of the doors open even further, peering within. The interior was empty, except for layers of dust and the debris that somehow seems to accumulate almost by itself in such places. I walked across the creaking floor to a door leaning half-drunkenly open at the far side of the room and found myself staring at a thoroughfare beyond, led to by a series of grooved steps. The entire place smelled of age and urine. It was ideal.

With supreme satisfaction, I returned to the car and brought out the scale map of the city I had acquired. I checked the place at which I found myself, as well as the location of Gruber’s house, and found them to be about three miles apart. The distance was not exactly what I would have preferred — I had wanted a longer run — but so perfect was the abandoned factory for my use that I never for a moment considered any change in my already revised plans. I pored over the map, memorizing the maze of streets that led from one place to the other. Then, putting the car into gear, I began traversing them.

I spent the balance of the afternoon going back and forth between the two places and even remembered to get gasoline. Then, I drove over to the carpentry shop.

The packing case was ready, and the owner of the shop helped me load it into the trunk of the car. For some reason, he seemed a bit dismayed that its size did not permit it to be engulfed completely by the trunk, but I assured him that this fact had been anticipated and that the proper size of a case was to accommodate its contents, not to fit into any special space.

A cord tied between the handle of the trunk and the bumper prevented any rattling, and I drove back to the hotel garage and parked my car for the night.

I slept like a log, although I had anticipated tossing and turning — not because the plan was in any danger, but precisely because it was not, if you know what I mean. I have always been a trifle suspicious of success... But I slept wonderfully.

The following morning, I actually found myself singing in the shower, but I soon stopped that. There was still much to be done, and success — viewed in the cold light of morning — was far from assured. But even if everything worked out as I hoped, I somehow felt that singing wasn’t quite appropriate. So I stopped it. But the fact is that I really still felt like singing.

Once I was dressed, I got to work on the material my friends from the Resistance had provided for me, and about a half-hour later, I had it all neatly stowed in a toolbox. I carried it down to the hotel garage, placed it in the trunk of the car and slid the packing case in again. I pulled the trunk lid in place and tied it down. This done, I drove out to Gruber’s place and backed the car up against the gate.

As usual, the scrolled gate was locked, but apparently they had been watching for me, because even before I could pull the bell, the servant had appeared from the house and was opening the gate and swinging one leaf back. I dragged the empty packing case from the car and closed the trunk. He took the case from me and carried it into the house while I followed with my airplane bag and the folder of tissue paper tucked under my arm. I stood in bored fashion while he patted my sides and looked carefully into the small plastic bag. Then, I walked into the already opened vault while he carried the empty wooden case, placing it upon the table.

Gruber had appeared from somewhere, watching this procession narrowly. I decided that any suspicions he might have could best be alleviated by assignment, and turned to him curtly.

“The small paintings first,” I said. “Then the larger ones on the wall.”

He nodded and unlocked the drawer of the table, placing the small envelope before me. I checked its contents and then carefully wrapped it in tissue paper. He watched me carefully as I placed strips of transparent tape across the folds. I finished and stared at him in return.

“You had best get ready,” I said. “The ship won’t wait for us. And there’s little enough room in here to work, as it is.”

He nodded and turned to his servant.

“Hans, you stay here and... ah, assist...”

Of course, he meant that Hans would keep an eye on me. But I had not only anticipated it; I had hoped for it. After all, there were quite a number of canvases that had to be removed from their stretchers, and it involves as much work for a worthless daub as for a masterpiece. I nodded equably and waited until Gruber had left.

“All right,” I said brusquely to Hans. “Help me with these, will you?” We brought down the largest picture first, turned it on its face and bent back the four nails holding the stretcher frame in place. I withdrew the raw wood rectangle holding the canvas and then bent to search through the Pandora’s box of my airplane bag — without success. I looked up, frowning.

“I don’t seem to have a pair of pliers. Do you have some? Or even a small screwdriver, I suppose...”

He stared at me a moment — his mind, I am positive, never worked too rapidly at the best of times — then hurried from the room. When he returned with the tool, I nodded at him in congratulation.

“All right,” I said. “You will pull the tacks that hold the canvas to the stretcher frame. Remove them from the canvas, or we may puncture one of these priceless works of art. And I will pack the pictures into the case. Is that clear?”

He nodded, pleased that his instructions were so succinct, and we got to work. One by one, each canvas was laid tenderly into the packing case and covered with two sheets of tissue paper. The work went faster than I had anticipated. Whoever had stretched these canvases apparently realized the type of artist to whom they would be sold, and wasted no excessive amount of either pains or nails on the job. The case filled with works of art, while the corner of the room piled ever higher with discarded frames and stretchers. I was setting the last picture into place, when Gruber appeared once again.

“How are things going?” he asked.

“Fine!” I said. “Just about finished, thanks to Hans’ assistance.” I picked up the wrapped packet of miniatures and laid it on top, folding sheets of tissue about it to fill the space. “There!” I said. “That’s the lot.” And I laid the balance of my tissue on top of everything, set the cover in place and reached for my airplane bag.

Gruber watched me closely as I took the packet of nails from my bag and nailed the cover down securely. “We can strap it with steel banding aboard ship,” I said, almost as if to myself, and bringing out my pot of marking ink and my brush, I began printing an address neatly on the outside cover of the case.

“You certainly think of everything,” Gruber said almost grudgingly.

“Naturally,” I answered shortly, hoping that Hans would not recall that I had not thought to bring pliers. I continued to ply my brush, painting in the letters of the address. The case was being sent to a ficticious camera shop in Lyon, and when I had completed the final letter, I reached into my bag and brought out the gummed labels I had had printed. I wet them with my tongue and placed them about the top and sides of the case in conspicuous locations; they all read: PHOTOGRAPHIC PAPER — DO NOT OPEN IN DAYLIGHT. I must say they gave the whole package an extremely authentic appearance.

The scarred face broke into a smile of appreciation. “Very clever.”

“Only because the shipping documents and bill of lading are quite genuine. Except, of course, for the address of the consignee.”

He frowned at me. “And how were you able to arrange that?”

I stared at him coldly. “I’m afraid an exposition of my methods is not included in my fee,” I said.

I picked up the awkward case, refusing help, and carried it from the room, through the hallway and down to the car. As you can well imagine, both Gruber and his servant hurried to accompany me. I waited while Hans pulled the gate leaf to one side, then slid the large box into the trunk of the car. With my back to the two men, I hooked a wire there about the case and, with several turns, fastened it securely to the handle of the toolbox within. I brought the lid of the trunk down to rest against the case, and then bound the bumper and the trunk handle together with my cord. I straightened up, turning to the servant.

“All ready. If you would bring my hat and Senhor Echavarria’s valise, I think we had best be leaving. And my small airplane bag, too, if you please.”

The timing at this point was, of course, extremely critical, and I do not pretend that I was not nervous. But the servant merely nodded and returned to the house.

As the servant entered the doorway, I turned to Gruber and smiled. He smiled in return, a relaxed smile, and I placed my hand on his chest and shoved him with all my might, hooking his heel with my foot. He went over backwards, too startled for the moment even to cry out. In that moment, I had the gate pulled shut and had sprung for the driver’s seat of my car. Behind me, I heard his outraged screams and then the answering cry from his servant as he clattered from the house.

Then I had the motor going and was roaring off down the street.

I did not think they would chance shooting when the paintings might suffer damage as a result, but it had been a chance I had recognized and one I had been prepared to take. In any event, they did not waste the time. In the rear-view mirror, as I shot down the shaded avenue, I saw the gate being dragged open and even as I swung wildly about the first corner, Gruber’s car tore from the driveway, not even pausing to take the servant aboard.

The route I had selected had been chosen not only for its isolation, but also because it provided long, straight runs, and I had not turned from the road I was on when the hood of the pursuing car had come into view about the corner and was roaring down toward me. I put on a burst of speed, braked slightly to maneuver the next corner with my tires squealing and once again tramped on the gas. Gruber, in the car behind, took more of a chance; for an instant, as I glanced up into my rear-view mirror, I thought he was going to skid into a lamppost, but his car finally managed to straighten from its sway and came on. It seemed to be gaining, and I tramped on the accelerator until the distance between us had widened again.

Three more corners were taken in this desperate fashion, and three more roads raced down, before the factory entrance came into view, and it was just as I slammed on my brakes and swung into it that he made it into the street. For one brief moment, I thought he had missed me, but the sound of his brakes, screeching as he slowed for the sharp turn, came to me. I swung the wheel desperately and came to a shuddering stop with my fender almost against the pillar of the loading platform. I was trapped.

He also instantly braked his car. I opened the door of mine, took a deep breath and dove for the loading platform and the protection of the sagging door — none too soon. A bullet passed over my head, thudding into the brick and showering down small shards and dust. And then I was through to the darkened interior, my heart pounding. But I was sure that Gruber’s interest in his property would be greater than his desire for revenge, and I was right. I paused long enough to peer back through the half-opened door, and sure enough, he was tearing at the rope that held the trunk lid in place. I started across the room and had barely made the doorway on the other side, when the explosion came.

Huuygens paused in his tale; I stared at him with growing intelligence in my eyes. Undoubtedly, that must have been the explosion my correspondent friend from London had gone to investigate!

“You booby-trapped him!”

He opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment the steward appeared at our side, indicating the lighted panel over our heads. Huuygens crushed out his cigarette, and we both tightened our seat belts. I shook my head wonderingly. “You booby-trapped him!”

“Yes,” he said quite simply.

“You led him on until he didn’t even stop to think before he tore open that trunk lid. And started to wrestle those pictures out...” I suddenly frowned, remembering. “And those precious miniatures went up in the explosion as well.”

For a long moment he stared into my eyes. The plane was dropping and the sound of the landing-gear being lowered and locked into place was clearly audible.

“I shall tell you about that later,” he said. “Wait for me at the cab rank, and I’ll drive into town with you.”

“Wait for you? You’ll have to wait for me. You have no luggage.”

He smiled bitterly. “I told you the advantages of my reputation. Well, there are also disadvantages. One is that the customs officials have my name in a little book, and they tend to examine me rather thoroughly. Whether I have luggage or not...”

He was right, of course. As we came through Immigration, and Huuygens presented his passport, I saw a small conference begin, and even as I advanced with the other passengers into Customs, I saw him being taken politely but firmly aside and ushered into a small room.

Needless to say, I waited at the cab rank with growing impatience. When he finally appeared, Huuygens crawled in the cab beside me and smiled. I gave my address to the driver, then turned to him. “Well?”

“Well, they gave me an extremely efficient search. I was forced to undress and allow them to go through my clothing, piece by piece.” He spoke in English and in a low tone to protect our privacy from the driver. “Not pleasant, but unfortunately, there is very little one can do about it.”

“I don’t mean that,” I said with a touch of annoyance. “You were going to tell me about the miniatures.”

“Oh, those?” He smiled at me. “Well, of course, much as I wanted to destroy Gruber, I certainly never had the slightest intention of destroying that fabulous collection of miniatures. After all, they are extremely unique and their loss would be irreparable. And also, of course, I’m sure that the offer of a reward still exists. So, in my hotel room that morning...” He paused suddenly, then stared at me in wonder. “Good heavens! Do you realize it was only this morning? It seems like days ago!”

“Go on with the story,” I said brusquely.

He leaned back again. “Amazing! Yes, the story. Well, this morning, then, I carefully prepared a package the size and shape that the miniatures would occupy when I later wrapped them. The contents were nothing more than stationery from the hotel. I carried it in my inside jacket pocket, between the lining and my passport with the package of tissue paper held tightly against it when Hans made his search. In any event, he wasn’t interested in the feel of papers under his hand; he was looking for metal. Then, when I later packed the miniatures, I made sure that even the transparent sticking tape I used was placed in the same position as on the false package in my pocket.”

I nodded as the pieces fell into place. “And when you sent the servant out for the pair of pliers, you simply exchanged the two packages and slipped the miniatures into your pocket.”

He nodded, pleased by my intelligence.

I frowned. “But then, what did you do with them? The miniatures, I mean. After all, the customs search and everything...”

His smile broadened. “I told you before that you did me a far greater favor than you knew when you picked up my ticket for me at the Lisbon Airport. And, of course, I had to lure you to the sun deck where I would be alone when you so kindly returned to the lower level for the tickets.” He reached across my body and picked up my Speed Graphic. His smile became slightly rueful. “I’m afraid your film pack had to be dropped in a rubbish bin; it would have been difficult to explain at Customs. I hope it contained nothing more interesting than the pictures you usually take.”

I stared at him as he took the camera from its case and retrieved a small packet from the film-pack throat. He tapped it reflectively with a fingernail and finally slipped it into his pocket. Then, he returned the camera to its case.

“Do you mean,” I said slowly, “that you planned this whole thing so carefully, and then simply had the good fortune to run into me at the airport to get your miniatures out of Lisbon? What would you have done if I had not appeared?”

He looked slightly hurt, like a child unfairly accused. “Naturally, I had a plan. Not as good, I’ll admit, as the one that occurred to me the instant I saw you come marching across the airport concourse with your lovely camera and your lovely honest face. But still, not such a bad plan, either. I intended...” He paused, and the hurt look disappeared to be replaced by a grin that slowly widened. He shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I shall not tell you. To begin with, you’ve had enough story for one day, and — more important — the more I think about it, the better I like the plan. I may some day want to use it.”