The Hochmann Miniatures

1

The year was 1954, the month was September, and the weather was hot.

Claude Devereaux, one of the large and overworked staff of customs inspectors at the incoming-passenger section of Orly airport, tilted his stiff-brimmed cap back from his sweating forehead, leaned over to scrawl an indecipherable chalkmark on the suitcase before him, and then straightened up, wondering what imbecile had designed the uniform he wore, and if the idiot had ever suffered its heavy weight on a hot day. He nodded absently to the murmured thank you of the released passenger and turned to his next customer, automatically accepting the passport thrust at him, wondering if there might still be time after his shift to stop for a bière before going home. Probably not, he thought with a sigh, and brought his attention back to business.

He noted the name in the green booklet idly, and was about to ask for declaration forms, when he suddenly stiffened, the oppressive heat — and even the beer — instantly forgotten. The bulletins on the particular name he was staring at filled a large portion of his special-instruction book. His eyes slid across the page to the smiling, rather carefree photograph pasted beside the neat signature, and then raised slowly and wonderingly to study the person across the counter.

He saw a man he judged to be in his early or middle thirties, a bit above medium height, well dressed in the latest and most expensive fashion of the boulevardier, with broad shoulders that seemed just a trifle out of proportion with his otherwise slim and athletic body. The thick, curly hair, a bit tousled by a rather bumpy ride over the Alps, was already lightly touched with gray; it gave a certain romantic air to the strong, clean-shaven face below. Mercurial eyebrows slanted abruptly over gray eyes that, the official was sure, undoubtedly proved very attractive to women. He came to himself with a start; at the moment those gray eyes were beginning to dissipate their patience under the other’s blatant inspection. Claude Devereaux suspected — quite rightly — that those soft eyes could become quite cold and hard if the circumstances warranted. He bent forward with a diffident smile, lowering his voice.

“M’sieu Huuygens...”

The man before him nodded gravely. “Yes?”

“I am afraid...”

“Afraid of what?” Kek Huuygens asked curiously.

The official raised his shoulders, smiling in a slightly embarrassed manner, although the glint in his eyes was anything but disconcerted.

“Afraid that I must ask you to step into the chief inspector’s office,” he said smoothly, and immediately raised his palms, negating any personal responsibility. “Those are our instructions, m’sieu.”

“Merde! A nuisance!” The gray eyes studied the official thoughtfully a moment, as if attempting to judge the potential venality of the other. “I don’t suppose there is any other solution?”

“M’sieu?”

“No, I suppose not.” The notion was dismissed with an impatient shake of the head. “Each and every time I come through French customs! Ridiculous!” He shrugged. “Well, I suppose if one must, one must.”

“Exactly,” Devereaux agreed politely. What a story to tell his wife! No less a scoundrel than the famous Kek Huuygens himself had come through his station in customs, and had actually tried to bribe him! Well, not exactly to bribe him, but there had been an expression in those gray eyes for a moment that clearly indicated... The inspector dismissed the thought instantly. If his wife thought for one minute that he had turned down a bribe, she would never let him hear the end of it. Better just tell her... He paused. Better say nothing at all, he thought sourly, feeling somehow deprived of something, and then became aware that he was being addressed. He came to attention at once. “M’sieu?”

“The chief inspector’s office? If you recall?”

“Ah, yes! If m’sieu will just follow me...”

“And about my luggage?”

“Your luggage?” Claude Devereaux looked along the now vacant wooden counter, instantly brought from his dream, immediately on the alert. The bulletins had been most definite about this one! Watch him! Watch him constantly! Watch his every move! His eyes returned to the man before him suspiciously.

“You mean your briefcase? Or is there more?”

“It’s all I have, but it’s still my luggage.” Kek suddenly smiled at the other confidingly, willing to let bygones be bygones, accepting the fact that the inspector was merely doing his job. “I prefer to travel light, you know. A toothbrush, a clean pair of socks, a fresh shirt...” He looked about easily, as if searching out a safe spot where no careless porter might inadvertently pick up the briefcase and deposit it unbidden at the taxi-rank, or where someone with less honest intent might not steal it. “If I might leave it someplace out of the way...”

The official glanced at the high-vaulted ceiling with small attempt to hide his amusement, and then looked down again. Really, there had to be some way he could tell this story to his wife, or at least to his girl friend! It was just too delicious! He shook his head pityingly.

“I’m afraid, m’sieu, that your briefcase must go with you to the chief inspector’s office.” He brightened falsely. “In fact, I’ll even carry it for you.”

“You’re very kind,” Huuygens murmured, and followed along.

Charles Dumas, chief inspector of the Orly section, looked up from his cluttered desk at the entrance of the two men, leaned back in his chair with resignation, and audibly sighed. Today, obviously, he should have stayed home, or, better yet, gone to the club. The small office was baking in the unusual heat of the morning; the small fan droning in one corner was doing so without either enthusiasm or effectiveness; he was beginning to get a headache from the tiny print which somehow seemed to be the only font size available to the printing office, and now this! He accepted the proffered passport in silence, indicated with the merest motion of his head where he wished the briefcase deposited, and dismissed Inspector Devereaux with the tiniest lifting of his eyebrows. Even these efforts seemed to exhaust him; he waited until the disappointed inspector had reluctantly closed the door behind him, and then riffled through the pages of the passport. He paused at the fresh immigration stamp and then looked up with a faint grimace.

“M’sieu Huuygens...”

Kek seated himself on the one wooden chair the small office offered its guests, wriggled it a bit to make sure it was secure, and then looked up, studying the other’s face. He leaned back, crossing his legs, and shook his head.

“Really, Inspector,” he said a bit plaintively, “I fail to understand the expression on your face. It appears to me if anyone has reason to be aggrieved, it’s me. This business of a personal interview each time I come through customs...”

“Please.” A pudgy hand came up wearily, interrupting. The chief inspector sighed and studied the passport almost as if he had never seen one before. “So you’ve been traveling again?”

“Obviously.”

“To Switzerland this time, I see.” The dark eyes came up from the booklet, inscrutable. “A rather short trip, was it not?”

Kek tilted his chair back against the wall, crossing his arms, resigning himself to the inevitable catechism. “Just a weekend.”

“On business?”

“To avoid the heat of Paris for a few days, if you must know.”

“I see...” The chief inspector sighed again. “And I also see that you have nothing to declare. But, then, you seldom do.”

The chair eased down softly. Huuygens considered the inspector quietly for several seconds, and then nodded as if seeing the logic of the other’s position.

“All right,” he said agreeably. “If you people are sincerely interested in a soiled shirt and an old pair of socks, I’ll be happy to declare them. What’s the duty on a used toothbrush?” He suddenly grinned. “Not used as often as the advertisements suggest, but used.”

“I’m quite sure you are as familiar with the duty schedule as anyone in my department,” Inspector Dumas said quietly, and reached for the briefcase, drawing it closer. “May I?”

Without awaiting a reply he undid the straps, pressed the latch, and began drawing the contents out upon the table. He pushed the soiled clothing to one side, opened the shaving kit and studied it a moment, placed it at his elbow, and then reached further into the depths of the briefcase.

“Ah?” His voice was the essence of politeness itself. “And just what might this be?”

“Exactly what it looks like,” Kek said, in the tone one uses to explain an obvious verity to a child. “A box of chocolates.”

The chief inspector turned the package in his hands idly, admiring the patterned wrapping embossed in gold with the name of the shop, and the rather gaudy display of ribbon bent into an ornate bow. “A box of chocolates...” His eyebrows raised in exaggerated curiosity. “Which you somehow feel does not require declaring?”

Huuygens cast his eyes heavenward as if in secret amusement. “Good heavens, Inspector! A box of candy I faithfully promised as a gift to a lady, worth all of twenty Swiss francs!” He shrugged elaborately and came to his feet with a faint smile. “Well, all right. It’s silly, I assure you, but if you wish it declared, I’ll declare it. May I have my form back, please?”

The briefest of smiles crossed Inspector Dumas’s lips, and then was withdrawn as quickly as it had come. He waved a hand languidly. “Please be seated again, M’sieu Huuygens. I’m afraid it is far from being all that simple.”

Huuygens stared at him a moment and then sank back in his chair. “Are you trying to tell me something, Inspector?”

The inspector’s smile returned, broader this time, remaining. “I’m trying to tell you I believe I am beginning to become interested in these chocolates, m’sieu.” His hand remained on the box; his voice was suave. “If I’m not mistaken, m’sieu, while you were in Switzerland yesterday — to avoid the heat of Paris, as you say — you visited the offices of Ankli and Company. The diamond merchants. Did you not?”

Kek’s voice was more curious than perturbed. “And just how did you know that?”

The chief inspector shrugged. “All visitors to diamond merchants are reported, M’sieu Huuygens.” He sounded slightly disappointed. “I should have thought you would have known.”

Huuygens smiled at him. “To be honest, Inspector, it never even occurred to me. I simply went there because M’sieu Ankli is an old friend of mine. We share an interest in—” his smile broadened “—pretty things. In any event, it was purely a personal visit.”

“I’m sure. Probably,” the inspector suggested innocently, “since you were merely avoiding the heat of Paris, you found his offices to be air-conditioned, which undoubtedly helped you serve the purpose of your trip.” He picked the box up again, turning it over, studying it closer. “Suchard’s, I see. A very fine brand. And from the famous Bonbon Mart of Zurich, too. I know the place. Excellent.” His eyes came up, unfathomable. “Caramels?”

“Creams, if you must know,” Huuygens said, and sighed.

“Oh? I prefer caramels, myself. Both, of course, are equally fattening. I hope the lady realizes that,” the inspector added, and began to slip the ribbon over one corner of the box.

“Now, really!” Huuygens leaned forward, holding up a hand. “The lady in question has nothing to fear from fat, Inspector. Or from slimness, either. However, I rather think she would prefer to receive her chocolates with the minimum of fingerprints, if you don’t mind.”

“My personal opinion,” said Inspector Dumas, sounding honest for the first time, “is that she will never see these chocolates,” and he folded back the foil-lined wrapper and began to lift the cover of the box.

Kek frowned at him. “I still have the feeling you’re trying to tell me something.”

“I am,” said the inspector succinctly, and placed the cover to one side. He raised the protective bit of embossed tissue covering the contents, stared into the box, and then shook his head in mock horror. “My, my!”

“Now what’s the matter?”

“I’m rather surprised that a house as reputable as the Bonbon Mart would permit chocolates to leave their premises in this condition.” Dumas looked up. “You say your lady friend prefers her chocolates without fingerprints? I’m afraid you should have explained that to the clerk who put these up...”

Huuygens snorted. “With your permission, Inspector, now you are just being ridiculous! Those are chocolates, and nothing more. Creams!” he added, as if the exact designation might somehow return the other to sanity. “And exactly the way they left the store.” He studied the inspector’s face curiously. “How can I convince you?”

“I’m not the one who has to be convinced,” said the chief inspector. He continued to study the contents of the box a moment more, nodding to himself, and then with a sigh at the foibles of mankind, he replaced the tissue and the cover. “I’m afraid it’s our laboratory which requires conviction. And that’s where these chocolates are going.” His eyes came up, steady. “Together, I might add, with your shaving kit.”

“My shaving kit?”

“Tubes, you know,” said the inspector apologetically. “Jars and things...”

“You’re quite sure, of course,” Kek said with a touch of sarcasm, “that the shaving kit isn’t going to one of your sons? And the chocolates to your wife?”

Inspector Dumas grinned at him. “Those chocolates to my wife? I’d fear for her teeth. Which,” he added, his grin fading slightly, “have already cost me a fortune.”

Huuygens sighed. “I only have one question, Inspector. To whom do I send a bill for the value of a practically new shaving kit? Plus, of course, twenty Swiss francs?”

“If you honestly want my opinion,” said the inspector, appearing to have considered the question fairly, “I would suggest you charge it up to profit and loss. After all, once our laboratory is through with its investigation, the cost to m’sieu may be considerably higher.” His voice hardened perceptibly. “And may I add that it would be wise for you not to leave the city until our report is in.”

Huuygens shook his head hopelessly. “I don’t believe you appreciate the position you’re putting me in, Inspector. Extremely embarrassing. How do I prove to the lady that I did not forget her? That I actually did buy her a box of Swiss chocolates, only to lose them to — if you’ll pardon me — the muttonheaded bureaucracy of the French customs?” His voice became sarcastic. “What am I supposed to use for proof? The wrapper?”

“Now that’s not a bad idea,” said the chief inspector approvingly, and grinned at the other’s discomfiture. “It has the name of the shop on it, and if you wish, I’ll even stamp it with the date as further proof.” He checked the briefcase to make sure it was unlined, running his fingers along the seams at the bottom, and then folded the ornate wrapper, stuffing it into the empty space, and shoving the soiled laundry on top of it. He unfolded his stout five-foot-seven and came to his feet, his smile completely gone, his voice once more official. “And now, m’sieu, I’m afraid I must ask you to submit to a personal search.”

Huuygens rose with a hopeless shrug. He ran his hand through his already tousled hair and studied the inspector’s face. “I don’t suppose it would do much good to inform you that I consider a personal search an indignity?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the inspector. “And now, m’sieu...”

“And not only an indignity, but one which becomes boring when it is repeated each time I come through customs?”

“If I might offer a solution,” Inspector Dumas suggested, with a brief return to humor, “it would be for m’sieu to control his wanderlust. In this fashion, of course, the entire problem of customs would be eliminated.”

“We are not amused.” Huuygens shook his head. “Admit one thing, Inspector. Admit that this treatment is unfair in my case — you’ve never once found me in violation of the law. Nor has anyone else.”

“Not yet,” the chief inspector conceded softly. “But one day we shall.” His eyes went to the box of chocolates and then returned a bit smugly. “This — unfair treatment, as you put it — is the penalty one must pay for becoming famous among smugglers as a man who continually manages to outwit us poor crétins of customs inspectors. Or so, at least, we hear...”

His smile disappeared, wiped out as by a huge hand. He became quite businesslike, suddenly aware that time was passing, and of the further fact that — important as M’sieu Huuygens might be — other, lesser, smugglers might even now be requiring his attention.

“And now, m’sieu — your coat first, please. If I may?”

“Just don’t wrinkle it,” Huuygens requested, and began to remove his jacket.

2

Jimmy Lewis, by his own account the greatest roving reporter his New York newspaper maintained in Paris — a statement difficult to dispute, since he was the only one — leaned against one corner of a news kiosk in the main concourse of Orly airport, glancing through a magazine devoted in the main to pictures of bosomy girls and ads for Lonely Hearts clubs. He was a beanpole of a young man, with sandy hair and eyes that were surprisingly innocent considering some of the things he had looked upon in his life, including the magazine he had in his hand at the moment. He towered over the hurrying crowd that swept past him; the ever-present camera and raincoat slung over his shoulder were as much a uniform for him as the butcher jacket and cap were for the kiosk attendant who was eyeing him malevolently.

Jimmy finished studying the last of the revealing photographs of mammary exaggeration, and idly raised his eyes in time to see Kek Huuygens emerge from the escalator leading from the customs section below, moving purposefully in the direction of the taxi-rank. It was impossible not to recognize that stride; Huuygens always walked with his wide shoulders thrust forward, as if he were pushing his way through a blocking crowd. With an exclamation of surprised delight, Jimmy dropped the magazine on the rack and took a loping course calculated to intercept the other somewhere in the vicinity of the lower-level restaurant. The kiosk attendant retrieved the magazine, muttering something indubitably Gallic and undoubtedly impolite; he seemed to feel that people should either pay for magazines, or at least have the decency to return them to their proper stall.

Jimmy caught up with his quarry, shifted the load on his shoulder expertly, and grinned down genially.

“Hi, Kek. How’ve you been?”

Huuygens looked up; his preoccupied expression changed to a smile. “Hello, Jimmy. As a matter of fact, I’ve been better.” He noted the raincoat and camera. “Are you coming or going?”

“Coming,” Jimmy said, and tilted his head vaguely toward the concourse. “I was down at Marseilles on another wild-goose chase. Why my editor has such a thing for missing persons, I’ll never know. I could have been covering the tennis matches, or at least staying home with my feet on the windowsill. Or on my neighbor, a gorgeous dame, who looks like she’d make a great footrest.” He grinned. “Right now I’m waiting for them to either bring my luggage out or admit frankly they lost it.” A thought occurred to him. “How about a drink? I’ll drive you home afterward, if I ever find my stuff.”

Huuygens checked his watch and then nodded. “All right. I’d love one. I’ve got to make a phone call first, but I’ll meet you in the bar.”

“Fair enough. But let’s make it the bar upstairs. Too many women in this one.”

The mercurial eyebrows raised. “And what’s wrong with women?”

“They cadge drinks,” Jimmy informed him in solemn tones, and turned away, moving toward the staircase, grinning with pleasure. Huuygens was not only an old friend, he was also one of Jimmy Lewis’s favorite people. Their habit of running into each other at odd times and strange places intrigued them both; and in the past some of Kek’s exploits had furnished him with good copy, mainly because Huuygens trusted the other to keep information to himself when requested.

Jimmy mounted the steps two at a time, pushed through the door, and found an empty table that was protected from the vaulted concourse below by draped curtains that lined the windows of the room. He pushed aside the heavy cloth, staring down a moment, and then allowed the folds to fall back as a waiter approached.

By the time Huuygens joined him, two drinks were already waiting on the table. Kek dropped his briefcase onto a third chair already accommodating the camera and raincoat, and sank down, reaching for his glass. He raised it in the brief gesture of a toast and then drank deeply. There was a satisfied smile on his face as he replaced the glass on the table.

“Ah! That’s much better.”

Jimmy studied him with less sympathy than curiosity. “Have the big, bad men downstairs in customs been giving my little boy Kek a bad time again?”

Huuygens nodded solemnly, but his eyes were twinkling. “They have.”

“I see.” Jimmy twisted his glass idly, and then raised his eyes. “And would you like to tell Daddy all about it?”

“Not yet,” Kek said calmly, and raised his glass once again.

Jimmy was far from ready to concede defeat; he had had to wheedle stories from Huuygens before. “Do you mean not yet meaning never? Or not yet like the girl in The Young Man On The Flying Trapeze’?”

“The girl in the what?” Huuygens stared at him.

“I keep forgetting you weren’t born in America,” Jimmy said, shaking his head. “This girl I refer to was in a song. The exact line goes something like this: da-dum, tum-tum, dadum, something, something, and then ends up: ‘But, gee, folks, I loved her, I offered my name; I said I’d forgive and forget — She rustled her bustle and then without shame, she said, Maybe later, not yet.’”

Huuygens laughed. “A hussy.”

“Definitely,” Jimmy agreed equably. “Indubitably. Meaning without a shadow of doubt.” He studied his friend. “Well? Which not yet is it? Maybe later, or never?”

Huuygens appeared to think about it. “Maybe later, I think. When the proper time comes.”

“Good. Or anyway, better than never.” Jimmy finished his drink and dragged aside the thick curtain, peering down. His eyes lit up. “I do believe they’ve finally decided to give up the loot. There’s a blonde down there I saw on the plane, and the dear, sweet thing is laden with luggage. On the offhand chance that they aren’t just handing out suitcases to beautiful blondes, I think I ought to go down and get mine.” He set his glass aside. “Unless you’d like another?”

“No. I’ll continue my drinking at home. I’m expecting a guest who’s usually thirsty.”

“Ah. Tough luck. Well, in that case I’ll pick up my bag and meet you in the parking lot. You know my car.” Jimmy smiled brightly. “To show you I’m not angry, I’ll even let you pay for the drinks. You can call it taxi fare to your apartment on your income tax.”

“Thank you endlessly,” Kek said politely. He grinned at the other and raised his hand for the waiter.

In the parking lot Jimmy tossed his bag, camera, and raincoat into the rear seat of his battered Volkswagen, and somehow managed to squeeze himself behind the wheel while Kek got in the other side and pulled the door shut. Jimmy released the clutch with his normal exuberance and they roared from the drive, turning into the traffic heading for the city. Kek kept his heels pressed tightly against the floorboard; Jimmy had a tendency to brake at frequent and inexplicable times.

He swooped around a truck laden with lumber, passed between two motorcycles racing with each other, and turned to Kek, grinning cheerfully. “Hey? Did you see my new camera?”

Kek refused to take his eyes from the road. “I didn’t notice.”

“It’s a beauty. I finally got a decent Graphic Super Speed 45 from the skinflints in the New York office. It used to take two porters to carry the ancient monster I had.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. And a lovely camera it is, too.”

“Why? Did you get some good pictures in Marseilles?”

“Sure. Of the town in general plus a couple of good shots of the docks.” Jimmy grinned. “I get sent off on these idiotic assignments and I’m supposed to cable back something that sounds like I know what I’m doing. Which is usually difficult.”

“Why?”

“Because, my friend, assignment cables cost money, so my dear editor tries to economize. Net result: confusion. Half the time I have no clue of what they want me to do. However, by also cabling some decent pictures, and filing enough ‘alleged’s’ — and keeping my fingers crossed — I manage to keep the brass from adding me to the unemployed.”

Kek smiled. “You mean your editor is that easily satisfied?”

“Who? My editor?” Jimmy stared at his passenger as if he were mad; traffic zipped by as his attention was diverted. He looked back to the road just in time to neatly avoid a head-on collision with a three-wheeled camionette. “I said I managed to avoid being fired. My dear editor wouldn’t be satisfied with an exclusive scoop on the secret formula for Beaujolais de Texas.”

“Whatever that is.”

Jimmy grinned. “In the bars I patronize, it’s the name given to Coca-Cola.” He suddenly braked, swung into the Avenue de Neuilly, and jammed down on the accelerator, all, seemingly, in the same motion. “And in case you want to know the reason for this long dissertation, I’ll tell you. I need some news.”

Kek glanced at him. “Why tell me?”

“Because things happen to you, my friend. Or you make them happen.” He spun the wheel without slackening speed; they shot around the Porte Maillot, nearly hitting an old man on a bicycle. Jimmy selected the Allée des Fortifications and raced on. His eyes came around again. “How about breaking down and giving me something I can use?”

Huuygens smiled. “I’ll think about it.”

“I wish you would,” Jimmy said, and sighed. “I like Paris, and I’d hate to be transferred.” He thought a moment. “Or fired.” He swung into the Avenue du Maréchal Favolle, cut between a station wagon and a speeding car, and slammed on his brakes, slewing to a squealing halt before Kek’s apartment. “Voila, m’sieu.”

Kek climbed out and retrieved his briefcase, then leaned in at the window. “Jimmy,” he said thoughtfully, “have you ever thought of doing a piece on the dangerous driving here in Paris?”

Jimmy shook his head. “I know French drivers are the worst in the world,” he said sincerely, “but you’d never convince my editor. He lives in Jersey.” He raised a hand. “Well, ta-ta. And don’t forget I need some news.”

“I won’t,” Huuygens promised. He watched Jimmy shoot into traffic, narrowly missing an irate cabdriver, and then turned with a smile into his apartment building.

His smile disappeared as soon as he entered the cab of the elevator; the little old man who operated the lift opened his mouth to greet him, but one look at the rigid features and he closed it again. Kek left the elevator at his floor, unlocked his apartment door, and closed it behind him. He dropped his briefcase on a chair and crossed the dim room to the balcony, throwing open the doors there, stepping out.

The view overlooking the Bois de Boulogne was lovely, with the stained tile roofs and their multiple searching fingers of chimney pots lost in the shimmering haze of distance beyond the green cover of the forest. The scented breeze brought with it the sharp, impatient blare of automobile horns, mixed with the delighted screams of playing children, and the admonishing cries of their exasperated nursemaids. He looked down. Below the balcony in the shadow of the tall apartment building, a small sidewalk cafe served as an oasis for the weary stroller; the colorful umbrellas, seen from above, gave it the appearance of a fanciful garden planted with careless geometry beside the river of asphalt that flowed past.

Paris! he thought, leaning on the filigree railing. A sardonic grin crossed his lips. Where else in the world could I enjoy noisy automobile horns or screaming children? Or rides with drivers like Jimmy Lewis? Or the personal attention of every customs inspector in town? The thought made him grimace; he glanced at his watch and straightened up. Anita was due in a very few minutes, and she was almost never late.

He came back into the apartment, closing the balcony doors behind him softly, as if reluctant to separate himself from the pleasant and uncomplicated life below, and then crossed to the bar in one corner of the elegant room. Two glasses were taken down from a shelf, inspected, and then meticulously wiped: his day-maid — poor, pretty soul — didn’t consider cleanliness to be a part of housekeeping. He bent and removed an ice tray from the refrigerator hidden beneath the bar sink, placed the cubes in a small silver bucket for readiness, and then took down a bottle of Argentinian brandy for himself and English gin for the lady. And wouldn’t his friends be shocked to see him drink Argentinian brandy in France! Oh, well — they just didn’t know. They also didn’t know the advantages of having friends in the import trade, he thought with a grin, and was just reaching for the Seltzer bottle when the doorbell rang. He wiped his hands on a towel, hung it back in place, and walked to the door, swinging it wide in welcome.

“Hello, Anita.”

“Kek! Darling!” The young lady facing him was smiling in unalloyed delight. “How have you been?”

She came up on tiptoe to meet his height, presenting her lips half-parted, her blonde hair a delicate swirl that hid her beautiful face, her wonderful figure outstretched. Kek embraced her warmly, holding her tightly, feeling her full curves cushion against him, smelling the rich fragrance of her perfume, and enjoying the titillation of his senses fully. Behind them, in the foyer, there was a romantic sigh from the elderly elevator operator peering through a crack in the lift door, a sharp click as the doors were finally and reluctantly closed, and then the grinding whine of cable against drum as the elevator cab began to descend. Kek pulled away from the embrace, grinning broadly.

“Very good, Anita.”

Anita made the motion of a curtsy. “Thank you, sir.” She walked quite matter-of-factly into the apartment, fanning herself with one hand. “What a day! I’m dying of thirst!” Her blonde head tipped toward the door in curiosity. “I love these greetings, Kek — and I wish you loved them half as much — but, really! When you called me today, I couldn’t imagine why you wanted me to put on such a show just for the benefit of the elevator operator.”

“Because he’s new,” Kek said.

“You mean, you want to break him in properly?”

Kek laughed. “No. Because I’m sure he’s being paid by the police to keep an eye on me.” He moved back of the bar, busying himself with their drinks.

Anita seated herself on a barstool with a swirl of skirt that momentarily displayed long and beautiful legs, set her purse on another, and then reached for the cigarette box. She took one and lit it with a tiny lighter, blowing smoke, and then proceeded to remove tobacco from her tongue with the tip of her fingernail. This normal ritual attended to, she looked at him archly.

“And if he is being paid by the police, what of it? And why the necessity of a mad love scene in front of him? What are they after you for? Celibacy?”

Kek laughed again and handed her her drink. They clicked glasses, smiled at each other in true affection, and then tasted their drinks. Kek nodded in appreciation of the heady body of the brandy, and shook his head.

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s simply that they’re expecting me to have a visit from a lovely lady today, and you’re that lady.”

“Wonderful! I like being your lovely lady. Only—” Anita took a sip of her drink and set it down “—it would be nice if you didn’t have to be pressured by the police into asking to kiss me.”

Kek grinned. “They only think they pressured me. Actually, they don’t even think that.”

“Whatever that means,” Anita said, and looked at him pensively as a further thought struck her. “And just why did the police expect you to have a visit from a lovely lady today?”

“Because I told the customs that I had brought her some chocolates from Switzerland, and naturally...”

Anita shook her head disconsolately. “You make less and less sense as you go on, but I suppose I should be used to it by now. And anyway, I’d forgive you almost anything for chocolates. What kind are they?”

“They aren’t, I’m afraid,” Kek said ruefully. “Or if they still are, by this time they’ve been so mauled, pinched, poked at, X-rayed, and generally examined with the fabled efficiency of the police laboratory, that I doubt if anyone would want to eat them.” He grinned and raised his eyes heavenward. “And may Allah give them sticky fingers for their nasty suspicions!”

“Amen,” Anita said devoutly, and set her glass down firmly. “And speaking of nasty suspicions, who were you bringing those chocolates back for? Which lovely lady? Because I’m sure it wasn’t me.”

Huuygens’s eyes twinkled. “Jealous?”

“Very.” Her violet eyes stared into his seriously.

“Well,” Kek said slowly, his big hand twisting his glass on the bar to form a series of damp circles, “in this case you needn’t be. Because while I didn’t realize it at the time, it seems I was actually bringing them back for a certain Inspector Dumas. Who, believe me, is certainly no lovely lady.”

“And why were you bringing them back for this Inspector Dumas?”

“Because he searched me so nicely,” Kek explained gravely. “Today he was even more careful than usual. Not one single tickle.”

“Kek Huuygens, you are impossible!” Anita shook her head in exasperation and then immediately brought a hand up to check her coiffure. She saw the expression in Kek’s eyes her gesture had triggered, and suddenly grinned. It was a gamin grin that made her look even younger than her twenty-five years. “Well, at least highly improbable. Are you going to tell me what this is all about, or aren’t you?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you,” Kek said with exaggerated patience. “You simply refuse to understand. I returned from Switzerland today, as you know, and the customs searched me, became suspicious of my chocolates — which I had brought as a gift for a lovely lady — and took them away.”

“And I’m the lovely lady you brought them for.”

“Right.”

“I see.” Anita nodded. “And you therefore immediately called me up and asked me to come over and kiss you publicly for the benefit of the elevator operator, just so I could be told that my chocolates were taken in customs. Is that it?”

“To a large extent—”

“But not entirely.” Anita crushed out her cigarette, finished her drink, and set down her glass, eyeing him carefully. “What else did you want this lovely lady to do? Because I’m sure it’s more than that.”

“It is.” Kek finished his drink and set it aside with an air of finality. “I want you to make a delivery for me.”

“A delivery? From your trip today?” He nodded; she frowned at him uncertainly. “But you said they searched you.”

“Oh, they did that, all right.”

“And even took away your chocolates — or rather, my chocolates.”

“They did that, too.”

“Then I don’t understand—”

“What they didn’t take away,” Kek said quietly, “was the wrapper of the box. And that’s what I want you to deliver.”

“The wrapper?”

“That’s right. That’s what I wanted, and they were kind enough to allow me to bring it in. Actually,” Kek added, remembering, “the chief inspector practically forced it on me. Probably doesn’t like his office any more littered than it already is.”

He winked at her, walked over to his desk, and unlatched his briefcase. The soiled clothing went onto a chair; the foil-lined paper from the candy box was carefully extracted and gently smoothed on the desktop. Anita came down from her barstool and crossed the room, looking down.

“What is it?”

Kek smiled proudly. “That, my darling Anita, is the last known page of a particular Bach Cantata, original, in the hand of the master himself. And worth a great deal of money.” As always when he spoke of art objects, there was an undercurrent of excitement in his deep voice; Anita loved to listen to him at such moments. Kek reached for a pen. “I should like you to deliver it to this address...”

He carefully printed a name and street address on a small slip of paper, placed it with the wrapper, and cautiously rolled it into a tube, fastening it with a bit of gummed tape. “Tell this man that the foil and paper peel away quite easily with a slight amount of heat. Not too much, no more temperature than the bare hand can stand. He’ll know. Oh, and tell him the adhesives were very carefully selected. They’ll do the manuscript itself no harm.”

Anita raised her eyes from the small tube on the desk and shook her head in wonder. “You’re fantastic! What would have happened if the customs had kept the wrapping? Or simply thrown it into the wastebasket? I suppose then you’d have had to go out and rob a garbage truck.”

Kek grinned at her. “Not exactly rob one — I’ve become quite friendly lately with the driver who hauls away the trash. Not exactly by accident. A greater tragedy, of course, would have been my disappointment at having wasted one of my better performances.”

“Instead of which you save them for me.” She picked up the tube, placed it in her large purse, and then looked at him, her eyes wide and questioning. “I suppose your man wants his manuscript right away?” Kek nodded. “And will I see you later?”

He shook his head, smiling regretfully. “Not tonight. I have a lot of work to do. But possibly the theater tomorrow night? And then supper?”

“If you wish.” She moved to the door and then paused, turning to study him gravely. “Kek — why do I do these things for you?”

“I don’t know,” Kek said, and smiled. “But I’m glad you do.”

“You know very well why I do them,” Anita said quietly. “I do them because I’m in love with you.”

Kek’s smile disappeared; one hand came up to tug at his earlobe. His eyes were serious and slightly sad. “My dear Anita, I’m honestly sorry to hear you say that. We’ve had fun together, and I had hoped we could keep on having fun. I’m truly fond of you. But love?” He ran a hand through his thick hair and then shrugged. “Why would you want to love me? It certainly has no future.”

“It could have,” she said softly, and stared down at her fingers clasped tightly about her purse. “It could have if you wanted it to.” Her large eyes came up, searching his face intently. “I think I’d be good for you.”

“You’re good for me now,” Kek said, and walked over to her. “Too good for me.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, looking down into her violet eyes, and then bent and gently kissed her forehead. He drew back a bit, studying her face a moment, coming to a decision.

“Anita, let me have that manuscript back. I’ll deliver it myself. I’ve been wrong to involve you in these things as much as I have.”

She tried to smile, but behind the veil of her lashes the pain showed. “You know, Kek, I think that’s the closest you’ve ever come to saying anything truly affectionate to me. No; I’ll deliver it. And I’ll see you tomorrow...” She turned abruptly, opened the door, and closed it quickly behind her. Kek stared at the door panel a moment, and then walked pensively back to the bar.

Married to Anita? He shook his head slowly while he poured another large dose of brandy into his glass. Admittedly, she was everything a man ought to look for in a wife — beautiful, intelligent, passionate; even punctual — but married to anyone? No. Not again. He had tried it once, with Lisa in Brussels, and that had certainly been no solution! The time for a lasting marriage for him had been spoiled forever by the war and the changes it had wrought in places and people; and the woman had been quite another. Too many years had passed since then. And, even more important, his life was not the kind to ask a woman to share. Anita might remain silent about his mode of living, but she would not be happy with it. And why invite anyone to unhappiness, even if they thought they wanted it?

He put the thought of women and marriage from him, added ice to his glass, and was just reaching for the Seltzer bottle when the telephone rang sharply. With an apologetic grimace to his drink for the interruption, he replaced the bottle, walked across the room to his desk, leaned over, and picked up the instrument.

“Yes?”

“M’sieu Huuygens?”

It was a woman’s voice, low and musical, unfamiliar, and made all the more enticing for that. Kek automatically brightened, and then shook his head at himself. No, he thought with a rueful smile, when you react this way you are definitely not ready for marriage. But on that basis, is any man ever ready for marriage?

“Speaking.”

The voice assumed a slightly chilly tone, as if its owner had somehow subtly read his thoughts. “This is long distance, m’sieu. Lisbon is on the wire. One moment please.”

He shrugged philosophically, glancing over at the bar and its nearly prepared drink with regret for not having brought it with him, then moved around the desk to drop into the upholstered chair there, pulling sufficient telephone cord with him. He propped one knee lazily against the edge of the desktop and leaned back, waiting. Lisbon? Who did he know in Lisbon? Nobody in particular that he remembered at the moment, but that meant very little. His acquaintances had a tendency to move from place to place with little or no notice, even as he did himself. Besides, of late, with his burgeoning reputation, his commissions had been coming from many strange cities, and often from people who were even more exotic. And the means by which his clients managed to contact him were sometimes quite involved.

He waited patiently while the telephone indulged itself in a series of weird sounds; they finally faded to be dominated by another feminine voice. This one, however, was neither low nor musical; it also sounded aggrieved at the trouble to which it had been put.

“Lisboa aquí. Senhor Huuygens? Kek Huuygens?” Her pronunciation of his name was atrocious, and her entire tone breathed suspicion. Nobody, she seemed to be saying, could truly have such a name.

Kek shrugged, wondering if this one were married, and if so, how she had ever managed it. “Yes, this is he.”

“One moment, then. Here’s your party, senhor...”

The high, nasal tone was replaced by a man’s voice, so opposite to the other in both depth and clarity that it took a moment for the waiting man to adjust to it. His caller spoke in French, and sounded a bit anxious.

“M’sieu Huuygens? Kek Huuygens?”

One thing is certain, Huuygens thought with growing irritation; nobody receiving a long-distance call should ever forget his own name! “Speaking. Who is this?”

“This?” The deep voice paused a moment, as if assessing the chances of being believed, took a deep and audible breath, and then plunged bravely ahead. “This, M’sieu Huuygens, is a man to whom you owe the sum of one million francs...”

The slightly satanic eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch; the lips quirked in appreciation both of the approach and the amount. “One million francs?”

“We have a good telephone connection, which is not always the case here in Lisbon.” His caller seemed pleasantly surprised, as if his luck with the telephone service might augur well for his mission. The satisfaction disappeared from his tone, instantly replaced by a return to business. “Yes, m’sieu. One million francs. Which I should like to collect as soon as possible.”

“I’m sure.” The gray eyes narrowed slightly; his hand came up to tug at his earlobe. A new means of introduction from someone recommended to him? A bit of cuteness on the part of the police? A fishing excursion? Or just a nut? Still, Huuygens thought, even the insane usually hesitate before paying international telephone rates. And besides, his telephone number was not in the directory.

His voice remained even, conversational. “May one be permitted to enquire just how a debt of this size was incurred?”

The deep voice became accusing, outraged at this evident evasion. “You promised it, m’sieu.”

A slight frown crossed Huuygens’s face. There was something in the vibrant timbre of that heavy voice that teased his memory. Where in the devil had he heard that deep voice before? He shook his head, putting the thought aside for the moment, returning to the matter at hand.

“I did? Then one might think that I would recall the incident. I do not mean to boast, m’sieu, but I am normally quite conscientious about debts, even to grocers, tailors, and bars, and a million francs is a lot of money. I am also quite conscientious about promises, although in general I try to contain them to fairly reasonable amounts.” He shook his head, smiling faintly. “No, m’sieu, I’m afraid you must be mistaken. Or possibly you have the wrong person.”

The voice hardened threateningly. “Don’t try to deny it, Huuygens! It was you, and you did promise it!”

The man at the desk refused to lose his equanimity; the call was beginning to be entertaining. He tugged at his earlobe a moment. “I hesitate to doubt your word, m’sieu, but possibly it might help if you were kind enough to refresh my failing memory. Just when did I promise this amazing sum? And, of course, why did I promise it? And—” his finger dropped from his earlobe to trail lazily along the telephone cord, his voice remained suave “—it would, quite naturally, help to know to whom I promised it.”

There was another deep, audible breath at the other end of the line. “You promised it to me, m’sieu. To be completely factual, you promised it to any one of several of us, but I’m the one that’s claiming it. As to when—” for the first time the voice exhibited hesitancy, as if wondering whether the evidence it was about to offer would be believed “—well, I’ll admit it was a long time ago...”

“Just how long ago?” Kek asked pleasantly.

“Well, almost twelve years ago, as a matter of fact—”

“Twelve years?” The faint, slightly sardonic smile on the face of the man at the desk faded, to be replaced by a frown. He dropped his knee from the edge of the desk and leaned forward, his manner more alert. Where had he been twelve years ago? And where in the devil had he heard that voice before?

“Where did all this take place?”

“Well,” said the deep voice reflectively, “to be exact, it was in the Auvergnes, in the foothills back of Allanche, leading up to Mont Du. And it took place on a rainy, terrible, uncomfortable day; and we were all trying to squeeze ourselves into a cave — if one could not be accused of gross exaggeration in calling that miserable, muddy depression a cave — and you were messing about with the radio...”

Huuygens leaned forward, his gray eyes wide now in excitement, his strong hand gripping the receiver almost fiercely. Of course that deep voice had sounded familiar! Even after all these years, how could he have ever forgotten that voice! My God, was it possible?

“André! André! It’s you!”

“Kek, Kek!” The deep voice was now laughing. “I was afraid there for a moment that your memory of old friends might be as poor as your memory of old promises. However...” In his mind’s eye Huuygens could see the huge man at the other end of the line raising his wide shoulders in a humorous shrug, could see one mammoth hand come up to stroke the thick mustache in delight. “However, if you don’t want to pay your million-franc debt, I don’t suppose there’s much I can do about it.” The voice paused as if considering possible alternatives. “I’ll tell you what — would you consider settling for a drink instead? If I make it something inexpensive?”

“André, you fool! You clown! You actor!” Kek grinned at the telephone in pure enjoyment. “What a performance! I told you years ago you were wasting your talents! How have you been? And where in the devil have you been? And what are you doing in Lisbon?”

“Trying to make a living,” André explained easily. “Unfortunately, a lot of other people here have the same ambition, although I can’t imagine why. I’ve been here for years. Doing what? Well, a little of this and a little of that. And even less of succeeding,” he added, as if wishing to be honest about it. “This is a lovely town, Kek, and the weather and women are incomparable. I can see why ex-kings and dictators come here to retire. But I don’t recommend it for anyone who wants to work up to eating regularly.”

Huuygens leaned on his elbow, shaking his head in wonder, marveling at hearing from André after all these years. One hand pushed through his thick hair and then pressed against his scalp, trying to force the marvel of it through his head.

“My God, it’s good to hear your voice again! How many years has it been? Twelve, you say? Yes, I suppose it actually was. 1942... Time doesn’t fly, it disappears! The last time I saw you — yes, I guess it was that night in the cave. I tried to find all of you later, but they had me chasing around with that damned radio all over the Midi. Or another radio equally damned, all over some other place. Whatever happened to the others? To Georges? And Michel?”

“Michel is here in Lisbon — a big wheel in the police department, yet! Can you imagine it? Michel? But he is... He’s assistant to the chief of detectives, if you can believe it. In fact, he’s become a Portuguese citizen. After what happened to his wife, he didn’t want to stay in France, and one has to live somewhere. He—”

Kek frowned. “What happened to his wife?”

“You didn’t hear? No, I guess not. I heard you went to America right after the war. Well, what happened was that after the war they shaved her head, and I guess she didn’t like it.” The deep voice was even, conversational. “Anyway, that night she went into the bathroom and cut her throat. Not her wrists, mind you, but her throat...”

“My God!”

“Yes,” André said quietly. “It isn’t easy to cut your throat. Not and do a decent job. Yet I understand this was an excellent job. Almost professional. However—” he took a deep breath and continued “—anyway, as I was saying, after that Michel came to Lisbon. And has done very well. In fact, he was invited to this party, and he’s the one — but I’ll tell you about that later.” The heavy voice paused and then continued soberly. “And Georges? He died. Yes. Back there in the Auvergnes. I thought you must have known.”

Huuygens stared at the instrument in his hand with clouded eyes. He hadn’t known, but he shouldn’t have been surprised. That night in the damp cave had left Georges feverish, wandering in his thoughts, a very sick man. Now that he recalled, they had been forced to abandon Georges the following morning or none of them would have lived. And he, of course, had his instructions to deliver the radio to the group at Mauriac, over the summit of Mont Du. And had never seen the others after that night. So Georges had died...!

“Of pneumonia?”

“Of bullets. The Boches saw him crawling on the trail and they shot him. Maybe they thought he was a rabbit. A rabbit carrying a rifle.” André’s voice was flat, cold. “As you say, it was a long time ago. I think we should not have left him, though.”

“We had no choice.”

“I also agree with that. We had no choice. And it was his decision, he was the group leader. However!” The deep voice dropped the subject with the one word, coming back to the present, becoming lighter, relegating the bitter, frustrating memory of Georges dead on the trail to the dim past where it belonged. “You know, Kek, I had no idea I’d actually be able to get in touch with you, but I thought it worth a try.”

“And I’m glad you did. My God, I’m glad you did! You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice again, after all these years. When are you coming to Paris?”

“Paris?” There was a sharp bark of sardonic laughter. “I’m afraid I’m not as subtle as you in this business of outwitting the customs guards. They still have a warrant out for me in Paris. Some matter of smuggling cigarettes, back in the days when smuggling cigarettes was still a profitable affair — which will give you some idea of how long ago it was. And how long the miserable flics can hold a grudge.” The voice became pensive, thoughtful. “Today, of course, tobacco companies spend a fortune in advertising just to get people to take the unhealthy things off the shelves.” The voice changed again, becoming philosophical. “Ah, well, that’s the way it goes. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time — with the wrong product.”

Huuygens grinned affectionately. André hadn’t changed a bit. “Well, we’ll just have to get together someplace else, then. By the way, how did you manage to get in touch with me? Where did you get my unlisted telephone number?”

“Kek, Kek! You’re famous, my boy! Or infamous, if you prefer. In my circles you are not only well known, but also highly considered, and — to be honest — exceedingly envied. Any man who has been able to...” The deep voice suddenly paused — when it spoke again all lightness and frivolity had disappeared. “By the way, Kek — are you sure your apartment isn’t bugged?”

“Bugged?”

“That’s an American expression which is taking its rightful place in the languages of the world,” André said, but without any attempt at humor. “I mean, is your telephone tapped?”

Huuygens laughed aloud. “This is still France and not America, André. You’ve been away so long you’ve forgotten. The flics will follow you on the street, they will burst in on you at the most embarrassing moments, they will drag you in for an interrogation at the drop of a hat and question you with a baton, but tap your telephone? Never! It would be a denial of personal liberty.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Why?”

“All right, then. I was explaining about the telephone number, and I was about to say that in my circles you are quite well known. Any man who has been able to constantly tweak the noses of the douanes is a hero to the people I associate with. And me? Well, I’m just in the lower echelon of the business — the labor end, you might say, instead of the executive — but at least I’ve managed enough connections to get your telephone number when I need it.”

“Need it?” Huuygens leaned forward, concerned, his smile disappearing. “Is anything wrong? Are you in trouble? Is there anything I can do? Because if there is, you only have to ask. You know that. I owe you that and much more.”

“Good!” André’s voice returned to its former heartiness. “Then you mean I won’t have to just settle for a bottle of beer? You mean you actually intend to keep your promise and pay off the million francs?”

Huuygens laughed aloud. “André, you character! Back to acting again, eh? You’ve pulled me in twice, and that’s bad for my reputation as a man who’s hard to fool. Just what is this business of a million francs you keep harping about?”

“You honestly don’t remember?” The deep voice was suspicious. “Or are you still trying to weasel out of your word?” He gave the other the benefit of the doubt. “Well, let me revive your memory — and I might mention that Michel was also a witness. And since, as I said, he is now connected with the police, his word carries weight. I mention this in case...”

Huuygens grinned. “Will you get on with it!”

“All right.” André’s voice lost its banter; when he continued there was a certain hesitancy in his voice, as if — having come this far — he was now doubtful of the wisdom of pressing the subject. “In the cave that night, while the rest of us were trying to keep from freezing to death — and trying even harder to keep you from blasting that damned radio until we all got caught and shot, you insisted on listening to it. And, believe me, the racket was beginning to make me nervous.” The voice paused. “Do you remember, yet?”

Kek’s grin had faded. There was something in André’s tone, some fear of revelation coupled with some need to reveal, that was completely foreign to the lightness of their previous conversation. “I remember something. But I don’t remember what it was...”

“Then we go on.” André drew a deep breath. “There was a lot of static, and we were just about to rip the thing out of your hands, when a news broadcast came on, and an announcement was made. And then, suddenly, you weren’t the young boy you had been up till then; suddenly you were a man. And you said — and I think I’m pretty close, considering how long it’s been — you said: ‘I’ll kill the animal! I’ll kill him!’ And then you said—” Andre paused “—you said: ‘I’d give a million francs to have his skinny neck between my hands right now!’”

There was a moment of silence, and then André went on, soft and a bit fearful. “Do you remember now, Kek?”

A shock as of electricity passed through the man sitting at the desk. Despite a rigid control practiced successfully over years, his jaw clenched so tightly he could feel a shard of pain edging up his cheekbone, pressing against his temple. The gray eyes closed a moment; when they reopened they were chips of flint, set in a stone face, staring unseeingly across the darkening room.

“Kek? Kek? Are you still there?” The deep voice cursed itself angrily. “I’m an idiot to tell you in this manner. A fool! I should be hung! Me and my damned sense of the dramatic! Kek? Kek?”

Huuygens seemed to hear the words as if from a distance — lost in a blinding red haze of hate, a hate he thought he had conquered years before. Conquered? No, not that. But certainly controlled. He forced away the bitter rancor, attempting to bring himself under restraint, to speak naturally.

“I’m here.” He took a deep breath, expelled it, and then took another. Slowly his jaw unlocked; his hand eased its crushing bite on the receiver. He stared at the desk with eyes as hard as obsidian. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, André? Not about this?”

“I’m sorry, Kek. Honestly sorry. I’m a fool. Michel didn’t even want me to let you know at all, but I insisted. He finally agreed, but he told me to just say he’d seen the man, and leave the rest to you. But me, with my big mouth, and my damned sense of humor...!”

Huuygens waved this aside almost wearily; his head was bent, his hand pressed over his eyes. “He’s in Lisbon?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Or at least Michel is positive, and he was a witness at Nuremberg, remember. And while your friend was smart enough not to get caught and hung, Michel saw pictures of him there together with Bormann and the rest. Michel says it’s him, all right. Oh, I guess he’s had a bit of plastic surgery somewhere, sometime, but Michel says there isn’t any doubt.”

“You haven’t seen him yourself?”

“No.”

“He’s living there? In Lisbon?”

“That’s right. And apparently has been for years. Maybe ever since he left Poland, for all I know. He disappeared before the others, you remember.”

“What name is he using?” The initial shock was now well under control; the sharp brain was beginning to function normally again.

“Echavarria. Enrique Echavarria.” The deep voice chuckled, attempting to introduce a touch of levity into the conversation, to somehow ease the shock he knew he had caused. “What a joke! What a plaisanterie! The man apparently claims to be from Madrid, but Michel says his Spanish is awful. Atrocious. He says it sounds like it’s being filtered through a strudel.”

At the other end of the line Huuygens recorded the important information in his brain, discarding the attempt at humor. “And how did Michel happen to see him?”

“Your Boche friend threw a party at his villa for some of the top police officers here — and their wives, those that had them — and Michel’s superior in the department brought him along. Michel is coming along very nicely here, I tell you. I shouldn’t be surprised—”

“A party?” Huuygens frowned at the telephone almost suspiciously. “That was rather stupid, wasn’t it? And dangerous? The man is supposed to be in hiding, and he throws a party?”

“I’m quite sure he knew who he was inviting,” André said dryly. “After all, he was sentenced to hang over eight years ago, and he’s still around. He isn’t a complete fool, you know. You have to remember that a lot of people in Portugal sympathized with the Boches, and particularly most of the police. And I’m sure most of the people he invited — if not all of them — have collected plenty from him at one time or another, for one favor or another. After all, the testimony at Nuremberg indicated that he left Poland with money — not his, but still — and he’s undoubtedly paid to insure his safety and new identity more than once. And I’m sure the major portion of it went to the police.”

“But, still — a party?”

“Well,” André said slowly, reflectively, “I suppose a man can’t live alone in a big house year after year without seeing anyone. He might just as well be in Spandau prison.”

Huuygens’s eyes narrowed even further; he paused a moment and then took a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “You say he lives alone?”

There was a moment’s hesitation at the other end of the line. “I meant that figuratively, Kek. In Portugal nobody lives alone. He has a servant, of course, and...” The deep voice trailed off.

“And?”

“And his wife...”

Huuygens fought against the sick hurt he thought had been wiped out years before. Control yourself! he instructed himself sternly. You are Kek Huuygens now, a man respected in the toughest of circles, a man whose nerve has been proven in many a tight spot, a man whose brain has outwitted his opponents repeatedly. Don’t start acting like a lovesick student now!

“Kek? Kek? Are you still there?”

“I’m still here.”

“What do you plan to do?”

He stared at the smooth surface of the desk without seeing it.

“I don’t know.” He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut, pressing the lids tightly with the fingers of his free hand, trying desperately to concentrate. It was useless. He opened them again, examining the broad space of the room carefully, seeing in the growing shadows a host of ghostly figures. They froze in expectancy as his eyes tracked them down, as if breathlessly awaiting his decision. He stared them down, forcing them back into the frieze of the wallpaper, into the still folds of the draperies.

“André. Do you have a telephone where I can reach you?”

“Yes. Moncada 917.” Again André attempted lightness. “Also untapped, or at least Michel tells me. Although in my case it’s only that I’m not that important.”

Huuygens reached for his pen, marking down the number. “And when is the best time to reach you?”

“Tell me when you’ll call. I’ll be here.”

The strong fingers holding the pen scrawled a wavering line across the sheet of paper, returned to underscore the number several times fiercely, as if each stroke were a knife thrust across his enemy’s throat, and then tossed the pen aside, almost wearily. “Before morning. Will you be there? I have to think this thing out.”

“I’ll be here until I hear from you. I’ll go out and get something to eat, and then I’ll come right back.” There was a moment’s hesitation. “Will you be wanting to speak with Michel?”

“I don’t know. I have to think.”

“And, Kek?”

“Yes?”

There was a deep chuckle from the other, a remembered sound from the days of the Resistance, the revengeful sound of a man with an enemy firmly in his gunsight, and this time no chance of error from wind or distance. “We’ll be having that drink together soon, eh?”

“Very soon,” Huuygens said quietly. “And in Lisbon.”

“Good! I’ll be hearing from you, then.”

“Before morning. And thank you very much, André.”

He placed the receiver almost exactingly on its hook, stared at it a moment, and then slowly came to his feet. He walked to the bar, picked up his drink and studied it a moment, and then methodically poured it down the drain. Tonight he had a lot of thinking to do — thinking and planning. And while careful planning was the basis of his success in his profession, tonight his plan had to be even more exacting of his brain, for tonight he would be facing a personal element never present before. He was smart enough to realize the dangers such involvement might offer to his thinking. No — tonight the plan had to be perfect in every detail. The slightest error could not be tolerated; the tiniest loophole had to be firmly caulked. Nor could there be any recklessness, nor any dashing chance-taking; the stakes this time were far too high. And liquor and thinking did not mix.

He moved to an easy chair in one corner and sank into it, leaning back, trying to force himself to relax and his mind to begin its analysis. The sun had dipped below the edge of the Bois, and the room was shadowed, but he preferred it that way. He tented his fingers, pressing them together with all his force, and then suddenly released them; the exercise was repeated several times. It was a means he often used to command his body and mind to obedience, to relax his tensions; his hands came down to the arms of the chair, resting, while his mind began to consider the problem.

But where to begin? Which step to take first, and from the essential and irrevocable first step, which move to follow? And how could he even begin to plan that first step when, despite everything, memories continued to fight for possession of his attention, flooding his mind completely with a mad jumble of people and events and attitudes and places and — worst of all — bitter emotions? Under such circumstances, concentration was impossible!

He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head angrily at himself, and then suddenly relaxed. Of course! Simply stop fighting yourself, he said to himself, let the memories come. Let them emerge from that locked vault where they had been forcibly thrust and held so many years ago. But let them come in decent order, honestly and accurately, and then let them depart, leaving your mind purged, freed of the slavery of bitterness, coldly ready to go to work.

Where to begin? In the mud and cold of that miserable cave back of Allanche? No. That would come later. If the purposes of this self-flagellation were to be satisfied, it had to be done properly and completely. Go back to that day in the library of the Hochmann mansion, when you were waiting for Stefan, with the sound of the bombers over Warsaw echoing in the huge paneled room, and Jadzia had come in upon you...

3

It had not been difficult to enter the large house undetected; ever since he and Stefan had met four years earlier as entering students in the Art College of the university, the Hochmann house had been a second home to him. He therefore used a little-known and long-abandoned door that led from an old icehouse to the small pantry adjoining the huge kitchens. The Germans were on the roads as well as in the air, and he had no intention of being detained and questioned before his mission had even started. A radio blasting from a light pole in the square in Targówek as he had come through, walking warily, approaching the bridge, had announced the passage of enemy troops through Molotov and Kielce, and said the Germans were closing in on the city. Even the government spokesman, quoted blandly by the radio, doubted if the line on the east shore of the Wisla, running erratically from Praga to Brod, could be maintained in face of the merciless bombardment.

He paused, listening carefully. The kitchens were silent, except for the humming of the new electric refrigerator; those servants who had not already fled were probably in the upper reaches of the house, hastily packing for evacuation, or watching the tiny antics of the planes in the sky to the north from the foolish vantage point of the undereave dormers. A quick cautious step and he was at the angle of the main hallway, looking down past the large dining room and the library toward the two wide drawing rooms in the front, facing the Jez Czerniakowskie. The passage was deserted. Feeling a bit safer here in the cool dimness of the friendly corridor, and with the familiar spring of the thick carpet beneath his feet, he moved guardedly toward the front of the house, intent upon finding Stefan.

The sound of voices coming from the front drawing room made him pause uncertainly; the person speaking, of course, was Stefan, but the high, slightly stuttering pitch that usually made him smile a bit in pity now sounded rather imperious. Poor Stefan! Still, he was Jadzia’s brother, and that counted for something. In fact, he realized, it counted for everything. He started forward and then stopped again, suddenly this time. There had been a response in German, authoritative but not argumentative. His eyes narrowed as he moved automatically to the wall as if for protection; he scanned the empty hallway once again, quickly, intently, and then stepped into the library, closing the door silently behind him. Whatever the reason for a German-speaking visitor, his own presence must remain undisclosed until the other had left and he could see Stefan alone. The hastily formed student committee needed money to fight the enemy, and his assignment had been to contact Stefan. Since the death of the old Count and Countess Hochmann the year before, Stefan was a very rich young man. And despite some of his rather wild notions and his tremendous inferiority complex, he was still his friend, still his future brother-in-law, and more important at the moment, he was still a Pole.

The library was sunny, with the drapes pulled wide, giving out onto a lovely view of the formal gardens beyond, running down to the edge of the lake. He moved to the windows and began tugging the drapes shut; one of them refused to close and he abandoned it, stepping back, instead, from its view. It was odd how, in the quiet of the huge book-lined room, the steady drone of the planes above seemed almost peaceful; they might have been a local flying club out for an afternoon’s sport, or a particularly large swarm of bees investigating the roses. Even the dull booming coming from the center of the city to the north did not appear threatening, but more like a fireworks at a festival fair.

It was all too appallingly sudden, he thought desperately. We have not been permitted the time to appreciate its true horror or its terrifying reality. To us, in our shock, it is still playacting, simply because it cannot and must not be what it really is. In the evening, when the warm September sun has set, it will prove to have been for our entertainment, rather than our destruction; and the characters will wipe the grisly greasepaint from their furrowed faces and then go home; and the ruins will cease to smoke and will spring back up, possibly even refurbished; and the dead will climb smilingly to their feet and return, perhaps even a bit reluctantly, to the weary business of their everyday lives.

He turned from the somnolent and falsely peaceful view offered by the recalcitrant drape, and began making the rounds of the room restlessly. The murmur of voices from the drawing room beyond could still be heard faintly. The door of the library opened suddenly, unexpectedly, frighteningly, but before he could react to the shock of panic and try to seek some sort of shelter, he saw with relief that it was unnecessary. Jadzia had come into the room and was moving with that purposeful, boyish stride of hers toward the desk before the fireplace, lightly humming a tune; it struck him as odd in view of the tragedy of the day. She paused, the tune fading, surprised at finding the drapes closed, and then swung about. He saw her blanch at sight of him, catch her breath, and then hastily return to close the door and bolt it. He frowned curiously as he walked toward her.

“Darling; what’s the matter?”

“Mietek! You fool! What are you doing here?” His arms went out to her but she stepped back, her green eyes furious. “Keep your hands off me! You have to get out of here at once! Mietek! Are you listening to me?”

Mietek. Mietek Janeczek. After fifteen years it was even difficult to remember one’s own name. Certainly, today it was extremely doubtful if he would look up at hearing it called out in a restaurant or on the street, or pay particular attention at hearing it mentioned on the radio. Still, there was no denying it had been the name he had been born with, had grown up with. Mietek Janeczek — even the name sounded strange, but no more strange than the picture of that young, innocent, foolish boy who carried it...

Despite the rebuff and the tenseness of the moment, he could not help but feel a tendency to smile. He had seen Jadzia in her furies before, although never one directed at himself. It always struck him as comical to see a beautiful girl in her late teens so angry as to stamp her tiny foot. She looks like a small child deprived of a favorite toy, he thought; or a sleek cat of its dinner.

Jadzia gripped his arm with a strength he had never witnessed nor suspected before. “Stop your idiotic grinning! Mietek, listen to me! You have to leave here at once, do you hear?”

His smile faded; he shook his head as much in bafflement at her attitude as in denial of her demand. “You don’t understand, my darling. I came here to see Stefan, but he’s busy. The students have formed a defense committee, and we need money for arms. We—”

“You are a fool!” She stared at him as if amazed he could be so youthfully naïve. “You come to a Hochmann for help? Do you know who is in the drawing room with Stefan? Wilhelm Gruber!”

Wilhelm Gruber... Now that he recalled, it was the first time he had heard the name, but certainly not the last. Gruber, the monster; Gruber, the unspeakable; Gruber, the animal; Gruber, the vicious, murdering...! Not now, the man in the chair instructed himself harshly; this is no time to indulge yourself in the luxury of hate.

He locked his big fingers and squeezed with all his strength, bringing pain, and then released his grip, forcing himself to relax. Go on with the memories and get them over with. Unless André is mistaken — and I doubt it — I think I know at long last where Wilhelm Gruber is...

His eyebrows rose. “And who the devil is Wilhelm Gruber?”

“He’s been appointed S.S. Oberfuehrer for this district, and he’s going to use this house as his headquarters. He’s a very big man in the Party. And handsome, too, if you want to know. His staff will be arriving at any minute. If you’re found here—” her voice hardened “—everyone will suffer...”

“Suffer?”

“Mietek, don’t be a stubborn fool! The soldiers are looking for you. I heard them talking about it just now.”

His surprise deepened into a queer sense of unreality. “Why should the soldiers be looking for me?”

“Don’t pretend!” Jadzia was beginning to get seriously angry. “A German sergeant was shot and killed in Kielce this morning, by a civilian. Stefan heard the description of the killer; several other soldiers saw it happen. Stefan told Colonel Gruber it sounded very much like you.”

“I don’t believe you!” The air of unreality thickened; he seemed to see her pretty face through a haze. He reached out, locking his big fingers cruelly on her shoulder, glaring down into her large eyes, amazed at his anger at her, made all the fiercer because of her very desirability. “You’re lying! You’re lying! Stefan would never say anything like that about me!”

“You’re hurting me,” she said, almost curtly. Despite his anger his grip relaxed. She pulled herself away. “And keep your voice down! Did you kill that soldier?”

“Of course not! I wasn’t in Kielce; and you know how I feel about weapons! But what if I had? They’re the enemy, they invaded our country!” He ran his hand through his thick hair almost in desperation. “Why would Stefan say anything like that? Why?”

“You forget our name, Mietek.” Her voice was cold, but a touch of pride had entered it. “Hochmann is a German name, you know. And we are proud of it. Why shouldn’t he say so if you were guilty?”

He shook his head in bewilderment. “But you’re Poles!”

“Labels mean little today. The future means everything — and that lies with the Nazi Party.”

He stared at her, amazed at the adult tone, at the change in her. “I can’t believe it!”

“Whether you believe it or not, you have to leave. For everyone’s sake.” There was a peremptory tone to her voice, not the demanding request he might have expected from an imperious young girl, but the authoritative instruction of a much older person. Jadzia even looked different — older, sterner, triumphant somehow. What had happened to her in the short week since he had seen her last? What had happened to everything? The world had gone mad! He wet his lips.

“When will I see you again?”

Her eyes held his evenly. “I don’t know. Possibly never. Or possibly when this is all over. The Germans are going to win this war, and win it quickly. Only the fools in London think differently. In a month or less it will be over. We’re — they’re too strong; too prepared. They’ve been denied too long. Willi — Colonel Gruber says—” She caught her words, as if realizing she was wasting valuable time. “You have to leave. Now!”

He stared at her blindly. “But you say the soldiers are looking for me. For killing somebody...”

“If you didn’t kill him, there’s nothing to worry about. They’ll find the one who did. Colonel Gruber’s not an unfair person, he’s simply doing a job that has to be done.” Her hand went to his arm, urging him toward the door. “Now you have to go. I’ll keep them occupied in the drawing room while you get out.”

“Wait!” He pulled back, his voice bitter. “If you feel the way you do, why not turn me in to them?”

“Because Colonel Gruber might think we’re protesting too much.” Her voice was quite matter-of-fact. “He’s still not convinced of our beliefs. He might think we were using you as a smoke screen. No; it would be better for everyone if you just disappeared.” She studied the shocked look on his face quite impersonally. “Well, you wanted to know... Now you’d better be going.”

He stood numbly while she went to the door and turned the key. Her eyes came up briefly for one last enigmatic look at him. “Goodby, Mietek...” And then she was gone.

“Goodby Mietek...” Today, fifteen years later, the hurt of that last meeting, the confusion of it, the bewilderment of it, had faded, although it had never completely disappeared. What had not faded, but instead had grown in intensity with each return of memory, was his consuming, passionate hatred of Wilhelm Gruber. And why didn’t he hate Jadzia equally? Or did he? Huuygens stirred restlessly in his chair, his jaw clenched tightly.

Where had he been when he had heard the news of his family? In Volócz, actually; he had just crossed the border into Hungary, traveling on false Dutch papers the student committee had managed to arrange. Dutch, he recalled, because he spoke the language, having studied it to further his interest in the Dutch painters, and because Holland was not in the war as yet; and also because the rarity of such a passport in Poland at that time made critical examination less likely. It had proven to be a good selection.

In any event, he had gotten as far as Volócz and was in the small café attached to the ramshackle railroad station, waiting for a train to take him to Budapest, and the radio was blaring martial music...

The coffee was terrible, tasting of chicory and moldy wheat; the curdled milk skimmed the grayish surface in weird and obscene swirls. The cake was stale and looked as if the mice had been at it and had rejected it. Still, one had to eat, and he preferred not to be seen unnecessarily pushing his way through the corridors of the train, or seated across from an unknown companion in the dining car, attempting to make — or avoid — conversation.

He managed as much of the distasteful combination as he could, and came to his feet, reaching into his pocket for some change. Over the babble of voices in the smoke-filled room, he noted that the martial music had stopped, that the announcer was now speaking in Polish.

“This is Radio Warszawa...”

The words were barely distinguishable above the chatter of the diners in the room and the drinkers at the bar; he heard them without conscious volition. He studied the coins in his hand, picked out the exact amount of his bill to conserve his limited funds, placed it on the counter, and was just turning toward the door when the words coming from the small box in one corner made him pause. It was a news broadcast, as most of them were, lately, and he suddenly felt homesick at hearing his native tongue spoken amid the strange jargon about him. At the moment it satisfied his needs even more than the facts from the front. In any event, as he had already bitterly learned, the news these days was so colored either by direct Nazi broadcasts, or by more-than-willing collaborators, as to be almost meaningless.

“...in Radom. In Praga, the destruction of the oil-storage facilities, two miles from the center of this suburb of Warszawa, continues under constant dive-bombing attacks by Stukas. Fortunately, due to the extreme accuracy of the trained pilots, civilian casualties are practically nonexistent... In Warszawa itself, the family of terrorist Mietek Janeczek, the student who murdered a sergeant of the 88th Tank Regiment in cold blood in Kielce last week, has been seized by the authorities and shot on orders of Colonel Wilhelm Gruber, S.S. Oberfuehrer of the Warszawa district, as an example to all other assassins and saboteurs that acts of terrorism will not be tolerated by the government.

“Colonel Gruber made it clear that this announcement is being made as a warning to all subversives, and that he is certain that all right-thinking Poles, aware of the dangers of communism and its ally, International Judaism, will recognize the justice of the act...

“In Poznan, the pacification of the city continues. German troops have opened their field kitchens and hospitals to women and children, and plans are under way to establish temporary housing for innocent victims of the Polish aggression... In Berlin...”

He remained, half-bent to retrieve his suitcase by the door, frozen in shock and disbelief. A waiter, passing, paused to frown at the wide eyes and twisted face, and then shrugged and went on about his business; drunks were becoming more frequent with every passing day, and younger, too. Mietek forced himself to come erect, his suitcase locked in a grip of iron, and stumbled through the doorway.

The brisk, fall breeze blowing across the railroad platform did nothing to revive him. A choking sensation and a dangerous buzzing in his ears made him realize he was near to fainting; he let his suitcase slip from his hand and slumped upon it, bending his head in his hands, locking his fingers in his thick hair. They could not be dead! It was impossible! The man on the radio was lying — it was a trap to bring him back to Warsaw! Dead? His father? Impossible! And even more impossible, his mother and younger sister.

It was all a mistake; he had misunderstood; he had heard the radio incorrectly. Who would possibly want to harm any of them? Riesek Janeczek, gentle scholar, retired from his medical practice to dabble in his laboratory, always sitting as far back as possible in his easy chair, looking at the foibles of the world with a faint smile on his face as he calmly puffed his pipe... Frania Janeczek, nee Lochner, mother, teacher, confidante; always bustling about on one friendly errand or another, always cheerful, so proud of her family, and pretty in a way he had never realized until this moment... Little Marysia — little? Almost fifteen... He groaned and swallowed the bile in his throat, and then raised his head to stare blindly along the deserted tracks.

Return? Even as the thought flared up in him of getting back to Warsaw somehow, some way, to strike down the vicious criminals who had done this monstrous thing, he rejected it coldly and firmly. Those few moments on that railroad platform had transformed him from an adventurous boy into a dedicated man; a man prepared to play the murderous game by the rules established by the enemy. Revenge? There would be revenge! But it would be on his terms, and not those of Colonel Wilhelm Gruber, S.S. Qberfuehrer of Warsaw. And at a time and place of his choosing.

His jaw locked painfully as he thought of his parents and sister. Exactly where had they been killed? In that large, airy apartment he had always loved so much? Immediately after the sharp rap on the door? In the street below, with the neighbors watching in horror, a few minutes later? In a prison, lined up against a wall, blindfolded, handcuffed? Had his father kept his calm smile throughout, taking it as only one more frailty of a world sick with madness? Had any of them begged for a life taken without any justification? Had Marysia cried for all the lost things she would never see, never know, never experience? And when they had fallen, had anyone taken a revolver and walked over, thrusting it down, brutally pressing the trigger? First on one, and then the second, and then the last? He turned swiftly and vomited violently over the edge of the platform and then leaned back, his face ghastly, wiping his lips convulsively, shuddering, trying to erase the gruesome image from his mind.

Of what great crime had they been guilty? Of gentleness, perhaps; of goodness — illicit qualities in this new world dominated by murder and destruction. Of innocence, certainly; a far greater and more dangerous crime. As innocent as Jadzia, who saw in the war only the possible aggrandizement of Germany and the Nazis. What would be her reaction now? She had always been so fond of his parents, even as they loved her and had looked forward with eagerness to her becoming their daughter-in-law. How would she justify this murderous crime? Or would it make her open her eyes to the monster headquartered in her home?

In the distance a train wailed; the rusting rails before him began to hum. He came to his feet slowly, numbly, automatically dragging his battered suitcase to a safer margin from the platform’s edge, and then stood mute and drugged among the chattering cluster of passengers and well-wishers as the hissing engine crept into the station spitting steam. He waited until only the stragglers had not been accommodated, managed his way into an overloaded compartment, slid his suitcase into the overhead luggage rack on top of somebody’s poorly tied bundle of clothing, and then edged to the comparative freedom of the narrow corridor. The train had finally ingested its human cargo and was straining to be off; one last exhortation by the uniformed guards to the couples locked in a final embrace across the compartment sills, and the engine started up asthmatically, tugging at itself with groans and clanks.

Mietek stared out of the dusty window, his rigid face a mask. Beneath his feet the worn linoleum of the corridor began to throb with accelerating clatter from the uneven rails. Gru-ber! they said angrily; Gru-ber, Gru-ber, Wil-helm Gruber, Wil-helm Gru-ber, Wilhelm Gruber, Wilhelm Gruber, Wilhelmgruber, Wilhelmgruber, wilhelmgruber, wilhelmgruber, wilhelmgruberwilhelmgruberwilhelmgruberwilhelmgruber... The engine in front responded with a hoarse scream.

Huuygens stirred restlessly in his chair and shook his head as if to clear it. The room was now completely dark; the moonlight filtering in between the curtain and the sill was lost before it reached the rug. He sighed. What memory next? The wasted eight months in Paris before the capitulation of Vichy? Wasted because they had been spent in vainly trying to contact Jadzia — or rather, in waiting for an answer? Certainly one of the letters he had managed to smuggle into Poland should have been delivered!

A pointless consideration, then as now, he thought with wry bitterness. Forget it. Go on to that night in the cave. There’s still work to be done when we’re finished...

Georges was in the lead, as always; slim, intense Georges Claremont, slogging along in the thick mud, his rumpled beret pulled low, his tattered sweater buttoned to his chin, now coughing almost constantly, and suffering even greater spasms from attempting to stifle the racking sounds. November in the Auvergnes was no place to be: the upper slopes threatened snow, and the Boches were thick in the vicinity. Behind Georges came André Martins, the giant from Perpignan, his own rifle slung over his back, that of Georges in one hand, and his ever-present suitcase in the other. Both bandoliers were slung about his corded neck like grotesque necklaces. He carried the load effortlessly, swinging along easily behind Georges, softly humming a flamenco tune from one of the border gypsy tribes. Third in line he came, Kek Huuygens now, one year in the underground, attached with fierce pride to the men he worked with, even as he was attached to the killing. He cradled their precious battery radio wrapped in a bit of oil-silk recovered from an abandoned parachute; his rifle was hung carelessly from his shoulder like an afterthought. And finally, in the rear, Michel Morell, quiet, watchful Michel, a lashed pack on his back which contained their worldly possessions: two spare pair of socks per man, far too little ammunition, and even less food.

The trail they followed lay beneath sodden trees, dripping from the late autumn storm which had passed but now threatened to return, possibly carrying sleet or snow from the summit above. Georges suddenly halted, caught in a paroxysm of coughing, doubling over, fighting uselessly against the violent attack. André moved forward at once, laying aside his burden, reaching out to support the smaller man, almost raising him with his enormous hands. Georges bit his lip and then exploded in another coughing fit. André turned to the others, worried.

“We’ll have to find someplace to spend the night...”

They looked about silently, their breath steaming in the cold dampness. The gray hills, mounting ever higher, were losing their outline in the growing mist and darkness. The trees, black against the gray, stood like sentries, watching. Georges fought to bring himself under control; he pulled back, straightening up, loosening André’s grip from his sweater, panting.

“We can still make another hour tonight. Kek has to be in Mauriac tomorrow with the radio. Without fail. And we’ll be getting our instructions on the eleven o’clock broadcast tonight.”

“So we’ll wait for our instructions,” André said harshly, and shrugged. “What difference does it make? Here or higher up? Where it’s even colder and nastier?”

Georges shook his head stubbornly. “I’m sure we’re going to be told to meet the others in the neighborhood of Saignes. Soon, sometime in the next day or two. And the more we make tonight, the less we’ll have to do tomorrow. And the higher we go, the less chance of running into the Boches...” The coughing fit returned, interrupting him. He bit down on it, struggling to catch his breath.

Michel eyed him a moment and then leaned forward. “There’s a cave near here we can stay in,” he volunteered with his usual quiet levelness of tone. “I used to come up here for walks on Saturdays...” The others regarded him with surprise; Michel had never mentioned being from this district. But then he had mentioned very little of himself in the nearly eleven months they had been assigned together. “Yes,” he added quietly, and nodded. “I used to teach grammar school in Cantal. My home is there.”

André frowned. “Cantal? Your home is there?” He tipped his head toward Georges, lowering his voice. “Is there any chance...? He’s a lot sicker than he thinks, you know.”

“No.” Michel’s voice was completely emotionless. “My wife seems to prefer the Boches. It would be impossible.” He turned, staring up the mountain, studying the terrain. “The cave is less than a quarter of a mile from here. Up above. We’d better get there before the rain starts again.”

He moved to the front of the group, taking the lead. They swung from the trail behind him, moving silently through the gaunt stands of chestnut and pear trees, their legs soaked from the tall grass and thickets of sodden bushes. André slipped the second rifle across his shoulder; his free hand was used to support Georges. Kek slipped on a muddy patch and went down, but he held the radio high, protecting it, and then clambered back to his feet and followed.

The cave was a darker shadow on the gray hillside, ringed by a series of gorse clumps, offering small protection from weather or sight. Michel held up his hand; they paused, panting, while he crept forward alone to investigate. A moment later he was waving them forward.

Georges was placed as far to the rear of the shallow depression as was possible; the huge André stripped off his thick jacket and wrapped it about the other’s shoulders, refusing the weak protests. Michel dropped his pack near the entrance and took up his position there, squatting down and staring out into the dusk and the drizzle that was beginning again, his rifle nestled in readiness across his knees. Kek unwrapped the radio with almost loving care, placed it on the folded oil-silk for protection against the mud of the cave floor, and knelt beside it, turning it on, warming it up, and rubbing his hands for warmth as he did so. The small box came to life with a sharp squeal, instantly muffled by the boy’s hand. From the rear of the cave Georges began to say something and then was caught in a torrent of coughing. He forced it down, speaking harshly.

“Turn off the radio. My coughing makes enough noise without that.”

“I just want—”

“Turn it off! We’ll be listening to it at eleven. And we have to save the batteries.”

“There’s plenty of life in these,” Kek said stubbornly, and bent closer to the small, cloth-covered speaker, playing with the knobs. “Besides, they have more batteries in Mauriac.” Voices mixed with static hummed in the small enclosed space.

Turn it off!” André said shortly. “You can hear that damned thing for miles! The Boches aren’t deaf, you know.”

“On a night like tonight the Boches are all inside, sitting in front of a fire somewhere,” Kek said doggedly. “I just want to get the news.” He twisted the knobs with the delicate care of a safe-cracker dialing a particularly tricky combination. Suddenly a voice in French came on, clear and loud; the boy instantly turned the volume down, bending closer, adjusting the fine tuning.

“Damn it...!” André began hotly, but Kek held up his hand, commanding silence. In the small space the disembodied voice from the box seemed to whisper. Despite themselves, the men in the cave bent toward the sound, listening intently. Somewhere beyond the cold and discomfort of the tiny cave, beyond the constant fear of the hunted, men actually lived in warm rooms, were well dressed and well fed, walked the streets openly, instead of skulking from tree to tree; and more important, were able to communicate.

“... the Pacific, the Japanese continue to punish the Americans, pushing them back. Three battleships and two destroyers were reported sunk in air raids conducted from Japanese bases, with considerable loss of life. There are no reports of Japanese losses in the action... On the eastern front, the drive for Moscow is now in full swing, and it is expected that the troops of the Reich will celebrate the New Year in what — until now — has been known as Red Square...

“In Paris, the big news is not of war but of a more pleasant subject. Tomorrow, high German officials will attend the wedding at Notre Dame cathedral of General Wilhelm Wolfgang Gruber and the Fräulein Jadzia Hochmann. Fräulein Hochmann is the sister of the well-known Polish patriot Stefan Hochmann. There is speculation whether the Fuehrer himself may be present...

“In Berlin...”

André reached over with a huge, hairy hand and twisted the radio knob, switching it off. He snorted in disgust.

“Social notes, yet! For this we waste our batteries! For garbage like this we take a chance of being heard and caught. And shot!” He paused, uncertainly, staring through the growing darkness of the recessed cavity. “Kek. Kek! What’s the matter?”

Huuygens was sitting with his young, shaggy head bent, as if under a guillotine; even as André watched him in amazement, the boy’s large fists clenched tightly and then began to pound the mud floor of the cave with a slow rhythm that was terrifying in its approach to insanity. André frowned at him, astounded.

“What in the devil...?”

The gray eyes of the youth came up, chips of black granite burned deep into the ashen, streaked face. He looked through André without seeing him and drew back his lips like an animal attacked. His voice was more the voice of age than that of youth, almost hypnotic in the intensity of its hatred.

“I’ll kill him. I’ll kill the monster...”

“What the devil...?”

The boy’s fingers became talons; he held them poised a moment and then plunged them into the earth floor of the cave, ripping, tearing, ravishing the rock beneath the mud, shredding his fingernails in a bloody passion of fury. “I’d give a million francs to have that vicious bastard’s neck between my hands for one minute...!”

“Stop it! And keep your voice down!” It was an unfair criticism; Huuygens’s growlings were the low animal-sounds of a beast suffering its pain without the release of noise. André clamped a large hand on the boy’s arm. His eyes narrowed as comprehension slowly came to him. “Gruber... He’s the one you’ve told us about.”

Kek’s head remained bent as his passion spent itself. He shuddered as he brought himself under control and then came to his feet slowly, rubbing his muddy, bloody fingers on his trousers. He stepped over the now-silent radio, moving as if in a trance to the entrance of the cave. “I’m going to Paris,” he said in a harsh voice that defied opposition. “Someone else can take the radio to Mauriac.” His tone indicated that they could leave it behind, or even drop it in the Loire, for all he cared.

From the rear of the cave Georges spoke in a rasping whisper. “No. You’re going to Mauriac. That’s an order...”

“No,” Kek said quietly, simply, and turned to find himself facing Michel, who had risen and was standing with his rifle held horizontally, barring the narrow entrance.

“You’re going to Mauriac,” Michel said evenly. He might have been back teaching school, explaining the reason for a poor grade to a student. He might also have been a man standing, barring passage to freedom, with a gun “Paris can wait. And will. So will your Wilhelm Gruber and your Jadzia Hochmann.” He raised one hand, forestalling interruption; the other remained quite firm with its rifle poised. “Yes, you’ve told us about them both, many times. They can wait. But Mauriac can’t. They need that radio urgently.”

“You don’t understand.” There was a tremor in the strong young voice of the boy, a tremor he thought he had outgrown in the past few moments, if not in the past year. “You don’t understand...”

Michel’s teeth momentarily flashed white in the deepening shadows.

“I don’t?” he asked softly, and then tilted his head. “Just over these mountains — an hour’s stroll on a clear day; no more, I assure you — is Cantal and my home. And my wife, whom I love very much. And sharing her bed every night of the week is a Boche lieutenant.” His voice remained emotionless. “And tomorrow I will go to Saignes — or wherever we are sent — and not to Cantal. And tomorrow you will go to Mauriac with the radio, and not to Paris.” He paused a moment, and then continued gently. “Because, my young friend, that’s the quickest way to where you really want to go.”

Kek stared at him wordlessly. The thin face before him was a blur blocking his exit; the hands holding the rifle were now relaxed and far from threatening. With a muttered exclamation he turned and stumbled back inside the cave, slumping down beside the radio, unmindful of the damp cold of the cave floor, or the growing pain from his torn fingers.

“You shouldn’t go around offering million-francs like that,” André said dryly. “Somebody might take you up on it some day.” He studied the expressionless face of the boy a moment longer and then looked up. “Hey! Michel! How about digging down in that pack of yours and seeing what you’ve got to eat? Preferably pressed duck...”

“With truffles?”

André shook his head in disdain. “You can’t drink truffles. See that you find a bottle of nice, dry champagne in there. Something from the year 1920, preferably...”

4

Kek Huuygens took a deep breath and lay back in his chair, relaxed and oddly at peace with himself. Yes, that was how it had gone. Those were the memories, the shadows that remained in the hidden recesses of his mind throughout the years. So far they had refused to disappear completely of their own volition, or to age to decent death and be properly buried. Still, they were there, and what action would finally exorcize them? He came to his feet slowly, easily, and walked to the small bar, taking a glass of cold water, sipping it, and then placed the glass on the counter and crossed the room to the balcony doors. He opened them and stepped out into the moonlight.

The Bois had misted over; the dark green cover reflected myriad sparkles of moonlight, the streetlamps below outlined the twisting boulevards with soft halos. In the distance the occasional clatter of heels on the sidewalk could be heard, and the faint roar of an automobile, accelerating, taking advantage of the lack of traffic at that hour of the morning. He leaned on the railing, his large hands relaxed, looking out into the beauty of the night, his mind calmly and carefully considering the problem he faced.

To begin with, did he really want to do anything about the matter after all these years? He was comfortable, his life was interesting and enjoyable, and he had long since trained himself not to expand his energies on unprofitable pastimes. Was not his first reaction to the news that Gruber was in Lisbon, available after all these years, only an automatic response, triggered to a large extent by a guilt he felt at the death of his parents and sister, and the loss of Jadzia? Was it not, in truth, what he felt he should sense, rather than the feeling he actually did experience?

He was not surprised to find himself smiling a bit grimly at the thought. No, my friend, he said softly to himself; you will not escape that easily! No scientific gimmickry, no pseudopsychological loopholes for you! Nor could you find release from your private demons in merely denouncing Gruber to the authorities. To begin with, considering his many connections among the officials in Lisbon, it is doubtful that he would remain uninformed long enough to be available for extradition — and at least now I know where he is. And even if, by some miracle, he was actually detained and returned to Germany for trial, what sentence would he get? Five years? Out in three with good behavior? Twelve months each for my father, my mother, and my sister? That certainly isn’t the answer!

And as for the argument that your personal feelings for Jadzia might warp your judgment or cause you to lose objectivity; well, that would be a poor compensation to show for fifteen years’ experience. On the other hand, don’t make the mistake of thinking those personal feelings will have no effect. Merely recognize the facts and include them in your calculations; be more cautious in your estimates and more careful in your planning.

He stared out into the darkness. Grayish wisps of fog still eddied in faint patches over the Bois; the deserted pavement below glistened damply. He nodded, satisfied. Step One had been accomplished; the acceptance of the job. That was often the most difficult of all decisions to be made; tonight it had been quite easy. Had it been too easy? Dangerously easy? He shook his head in impatience. Step One was finished; forget it and move on to Step Two.

He tried to picture Gruber in Lisbon, tried to visualize how he had arrived, when he had arrived. Almost without volition a glimmer of an idea formed in his mind. Somewhere he had seen a newspaper article that might be useful... He studied the idea and began to expand upon it, but not — as he usually did at such moments — with a grin of appreciation for his own brilliance. Instead a frown crossed his face; his hand went up automatically to tug at his earlobe. For several minutes he allowed his imagination scope and then reined it in, shaking his head. Until more facts were available, it was impossible to formulate a complete and foolproof scheme; at the proper moment a suitable plan would come. Step Two, therefore, should content itself with getting him to Lisbon on a logical basis, and nothing more.

There were, of course, several ways this could be accomplished, but the newspaper article seemed the best approach. If his surmise was correct, it could very well work. He went back to that portion of the plan and restudied it, rejecting this point, adding that, consolidating, checking, unconscious of time. It was not until he was completely satisfied with each step that he straightened up, alert and confident as always once an operation was under way, and walked quickly back into the living room.

The lamp above the desk was flicked on; under the cone of light the black plastic of the telephone gleamed invitingly. He winked at it reassuringly, seated himself comfortably in the swivel chair, and raised the receiver, dialing the operator.

“Hello? I should like to place an international long-distance call, please. To Lisbon... What? Lisbon, in Portugal, of course. What? There are others? That many, eh? All in America...? Amazing... No, this is to Portugal...”

He shrugged lightly. The operator’s voice sounded acerbic, probably at being troubled at that early hour. This one is definitely married, he thought with a grin; only long practice at putting a husband in his place could develop that accusatory tone.

“Yes, operator. Moncada 917. That’s right. How long? I see... Could you call me back?” He nodded, gave his number politely to the instrument, and smiled as he heard it correctly repeated. “Thank you...”

He hung up and leaned back, tenting his fingers. Now, where had he seen that newspaper article? It had been here at home, within the past few days. If it wasn’t in the pile in the kitchen, waiting for the maid to eventually get rid of them, he would simply have to go to the newspaper office, dig it out, and get a copy. As he recalled, the article had been sufficiently indecisive to serve the purpose perfectly. He could, of course, always go to one of those silly shops in Pigalle that catered to tourists, and have something fictitious printed in one of those comic newspapers, but it would be taking a chance. And on this job, no chances would be taken that could possibly be avoided.

He came to his feet, walked through the dining room to the small kitchen, and turned on the light. As he had suspected, the maid had postponed the disposal of the papers — probably, he thought with a smile, in the vague hope that they would somehow disappear by themselves. Bless all lazy maids, he said to himself, and began leafing through the stack.

He found the article almost immediately, carefully ripped out the page containing it, and returned to his desk. He folded the sheet to bring the column he wanted on top, placed it beneath the lamp, reseated himself, and read it once again. This time his attention was far greater than when he had first noted it. He shrugged; it was not exactly what he might have wished, but still, it should do very well. Or at least, well enough. He started to lean back again when the telephone suddenly rang. He bent forward at once, picking it up.

“Hello?”

“Ready with your call to Lisbon...”

A strange voice replaced that of the operator. “Yes? Hello?”

Kek frowned; the voice was not that of André. “Is this Moncada 917?”

“Yes. Kek? This is Michel Morell.” Kek smiled; after two words he had recognized that controlled tone. The dry, pedantic voice continued. “André is here. I’ll call him in a minute, but I wanted to speak with you first. André told me about his conversation with you, and I came over here to wait for your call.”

Kek grinned. “Michel! How have you been? André told me about you and your job there. In the police, eh? Very good. As for André, you don’t have to call him; as a matter of fact, I was calling to get your telephone number. I wanted to talk to you.”

Michel’s voice became almost cold, highly official. “And I wanted to talk to you. Forget the entire matter, Kek. Put it out of your mind. As soon as I had told André, I was instantly sorry. It was a bad mistake on my part.”

“A mistake?”

“You know what I mean.” Michel paused a moment and then continued, his tone less official now, friendlier. “Kek, I know all about you. I suppose every police officer on the continent does. You’ve done pretty well. I don’t pretend to know all the details of how you’ve done it, but you have. And you’ve come out of it with just about everything you want — certainly everything you need. So why jeopardize it all for the momentary, childish satisfaction of trying to get even? Especially about something that happened so long ago?”

Huuygens smiled at the telephone gently. “What makes you think I intend to jeopardize anything?”

“Because I know you. Because—”

“Then, if you know me so well, why do you try to talk me out of something you’re sure my mind is made up about? By your own theory, you wouldn’t succeed.”

“Kek, Kek! Don’t be a fool!” Michel sounded impatient. “To begin with, do you honestly imagine the man is just sitting there with his eyes closed and his fingers in his ears? Or that you’re the only enemy he’s ever made? The only one in fifteen years who has wanted him dead? But he’s alive, I tell you! And not by accident!” Michel took a deep breath. “Secondly, I should hate to be on the other side from any of our old group. But I take my job seriously, Kek. I’d be lying to you if I allowed you to get any other idea. And third...”

“Yes? What else?”

Michel’s voice dropped in pitch, becoming somber. “Third, my friend, remember this: revenge is an empty thing. Here in Portugal we say: ‘Revenge is a cold supper from an empty plate...’”

Huuygens frowned at the telephone. “That’s a rather strange proverb, coming from you.”

“There’s nothing strange about it,” Morell said quietly. “It couldn’t come from a more authentic source. Take my friendliest advice, Kek, forget the entire matter.”

Huuygens’s voice was equally quiet, and equally firm. “I can’t.”

There was a brief pause; when Morell spoke again he sounded genuinely sad. “If you can’t, you can’t. But I’m very sorry to hear it. I think you’re making a mistake.”

“It won’t be my first.”

“But possibly your last. Well, I’ve warned you. Now — what did you want to talk to me about?”

Despite himself, Kek grinned. “I don’t believe it matters much, now. I was going to ask a favor of you.”

“In connection with this affair? I’m sorry. Ask me a favor that will keep you out of Portugal, and I’ll be more than happy to accommodate you. But...”

There was the sound of a muffled explosion of a deep voice in the background, and a moment later André was on the line.

“Kek? This is André.” The giant made no attempt to hide either his impatience or his disgust. “I heard enough of that idiotic conversation to get a fair idea of what you were discussing. And the direction it was taking. As I understand it, you plan on a visit to our fair country, and Michel does not approve. Is that it?”

Huuygens smiled ruefully. “That’s putting it mildly, but accurately.”

“And I also gather that you wanted some favor of Michel. What is it?”

“Why?” Huuygens shrugged. His mind was already discarding his initial plan, searching out alternate routes to his goal. “Michel refuses to have anything to do with it. Or with me. And I can’t exactly force him.”

“Chansons! What stupidity! On both your parts!” The big man snorted. “He’ll do it for you, or he’ll do it for me. Either way, it’ll be done. Just tell me what you want.”

Kek grinned at the other’s tone of derring-do; it brought to mind the many times that same attitude had saved them in the grim days of the Resistance. His grin slowly faded as he stared into the vague darkness beyond the perimeter of light cast by the lamp. Possibly Michel was right in warning him off; certainly he had done it in all sincerity. But that discussion was pointless; Step One was finished — done. The decision had been made. The question now was whether it was smart to involve Michel at all, especially with his attitude. Still, there was no doubt that Morell was the man to handle it, and if André said it would be done, it doubtless would be done. An interesting decision...

“Kek?”

“I’m still here. I’m thinking.”

“There’s a time for thinking, and a time for talking. Just tell me what you wanted.”

For several additional seconds Huuygens stared at the receiver, weighing, considering. At last he sighed, conceding. “All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell you what I had in mind. Then you can tell me if it’s possible, knowing Michel.”

He closed his eyes, better to review the various steps of the scheme, and then began speaking, slowly, evenly, his mind ticking off each detail one by one as he voiced them, like an auditor going down an inventory, checking off items. At the other end of the line André listened carefully, marking each word. When Huuygens finally finished speaking, the big man chuckled softly in appreciation.

“I begin to see why I’m still in the lower brackets of this racket. It’s a lovely scheme. There’s no absolute guarantee, of course, but if it’s handled right, it should work. And Michel — he’s sitting here making faces at me, but don’t worry — he’s the one who can handle it right. He’s got just the right degree of honesty and larceny nicely mixed to do it. It’s the basis of police work, I suppose.” There was a brief pause. “What paper did you say had the article?”

“France-Soir,” Huuygens said, and opened his eyes, suddenly realizing that André was quite serious, that Michel would cooperate. “It was in last Friday’s edition. I’d mail you a copy, but you should be able to pick one up there. It would be much better. The less correspondence between us, the better.”

“France-Soir? There’s no need. Michel gets it in the mail. It doesn’t always get here regularly, but if he doesn’t have last Friday’s copy yet, it ought to be arriving soon. Or we can even get one at the library. All right, then; I’ve got the picture.” The chuckle was suddenly repeated. “Wonderful! You’ll be hearing from us soon. Or, anyway, from me.”

“I’ll be waiting to hear from anyone,” Huuygens said quietly. “And say goodby to Michel for me.”

“I’ll do it. Take care.”

There was a soft click as the telephone was disconnected. Huuygens placed the receiver back in its cradle and leaned back, tenting his fingers, pressing them together. André seemed sure that Michel would cooperate, and maybe he would. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. He shrugged. The worst that could happen was that he would receive another telephone call, and would have to make a change in plans. It wouldn’t be the first time, but still, time would be wasted, which would be a pity.

He closed his eyes again, reviewing his long conversation with Lisbon, word for word. What had Michel said, early in their talk? Revenge is a cold supper from an empty plate...

He grinned sardonically and opened his eyes, staring across the silent room with an almost savage glint in his gray eyes. Maybe we can warm it up a bit, he thought. Maybe we can add a little salt and pepper to make it more palatable. Because, warm or cold, we’re going to sit down to that meal...