The Hochmann Miniatures

5

At one of the spindly wire-legged tables that effectively blocked pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk before Celotto’s café in the Rua da Prata, in Lisbon, Michel Morell reviewed his latest copy of France-Soir while he idly stirred his thick coffee and awaited the arrival of his superior, Orlando Braz Camargo. Their offices were in one of the ancient stone buildings that lined the Praça do Comércio, part way between Celotto’s and the docks of the Rio Tejo, and the usual fine autumn weather of the Portuguese capital made having breakfast in the open air an enjoyable and customary way to start the day, just as the leisurely stroll to work following their café de manhã paved the way to a more pleasant approach to police tasks that, at best, were seldom pleasant.

Morell had changed little since the days of the Resistance. The nine years since the end of the war had treated him kindly as far as personal appearance was concerned, although an acute observer who had known him in the old days would have noted the more rigid line of the jaw, the thinner outline of the compressed lips, and the fact that the compact body had a certain triggerlike tautness to it. He looked as if each year that passed tightened up a bit on some inner ratchet, drawing up on some hidden spring, threatening him with eventually reaching a breaking point and flying apart. His sunken cheeks glistened with a fine sheen of sweat, for he had never become fully accustomed to the perpetual heat of the country. His eyes, however, remained the same; unfathomable black marbles in an expressionless, pallid face, seemingly looking through the person to whom he spoke, as if searching for something beyond, something he might possibly find in the background. Something, possibly, as evasive as the truth...

He carefully folded his three-day-old newspaper to the page he wanted, placed it on the checkered cloth of the table, and was just bending forward to read the article again, when a shadow fell across the journal. He looked up, smiling in his usual enigmatic and slightly watchful fashion, as Camargo drew up a chair and seated himself across from him. The newcomer shifted himself a bit to fit into the tiny fabricated contraption, and snapped his fingers loudly for a waiter. As was normal, the two men postponed conversation until Camargo’s order had been taken, and then nodded to each other quite formally, almost as if they were meeting for the first time.

“A lovely day,” Camargo commented; as the superior of the two in officialdom, it was his responsibility. He lit a cigarette with an elaborate gesture, blowing the smoke ferociously in the direction of the street. His greeting was a standard gambit, also used when the weather was inclement and they were forced to take their refreshment indoors, although at such times it was customary to tinge the tone with sarcasm.

He folded his own paper, the Correio de Manhã, and slouched a bit lower in his chair, as if to bring himself to the level of the journal. He was a large man in his middle forties, with a deep tan and spiky brown hair that appeared to be mowed rather than cut. His heavy, fleshy face might have been carved from darkly stained wood, for other than the expressions that occasionally appeared in his small eyes, he seldom permitted himself the luxury of emotional demonstration. There was something in his build that also hinted of wood; of wooden blocks stacked one upon the other. He wore his clothes as if they had been forced over his muscular body almost against his will, jutting out at corners, failing to disguise the bulk beneath.

Their croissants came, hot and flaky, and also more coffee. The waiter was nodded away, their attention was put to filling their cups with sugar, Portuguese-style, and then soaking it with the heavy brew. They sipped, almost in unison, and then returned to their newspapers. There were several moments of contented silence, broken suddenly by a low bark of amusement from Michel. Camargo had laid aside his newspaper in favor of eating; he continued to spread butter thickly over a bun and then paused, holding it poised before his mouth. A large garnet ring on one finger winked impatiently.

“Yes? What is it?”

“An article in the paper,” Michel said easily, and smiled with a grim tightening of his jaws. He raised the paper from the table, looked at the article again, and then glanced over the top at Camargo, shaking his head. “Just the sort of thing that is very apt to bring someone like Mister Kek Huuygens among us.”

The croissant disappeared in a brief flash of white, block-like teeth. Camargo reached for another, his cufflinks shooting beyond the tight fit of his jacket, pinning together the brilliant whiteness of his shirt. “Kek Huuygens?”

“Yes.” Michel contemplated the other a bit curiously. “Kek Huuygens. You’ve heard of the man, of course?”

“You mean this fellow who is supposed to be able to set the customs people on their ears?” Camargo snorted, popped the next croissant into his mouth, chewed briefly, and swallowed. He reached for his coffee, his tiny eyes bright with disdain. “I’ve heard of him. I’ve read some of the bulletins they’ve put out on him. But I don’t believe half the things I’ve heard or read.” He reached up to brush a crumb from his cheek. “If that much.”

“Ah,” Michel said quietly, as if proving a point. “But, you see, I do. I know of several affairs he was mixed up with. Unbelievable!”

“Precisely my feeling,” Camargo said, and permitted himself a brief smile, pleased with his own wit. “Unbelievable.”

“No, no!” The smaller man shook his head in impatience at his superior’s obtuseness. “I’m serious. The man is incredible in being able to mislead very intelligent people. I could give you example after example...” He chattered on brightly, while Camargo finished eating and lit a cigarette, listening with a polite incredulity that slowly changed to quiet interest. When Michel paused at last, Camargo leaned back in his chair, staring at the other thoughtfully through a cloud of smoke. He crushed out his cigarette and then allowed his large hand to lay on the table, fingers curled, like a huge spider preparing to spring.

“And now, my friend,” he said softly, “suppose you explain to me why you have been telling me all about this Senhor Kek Huuygens. Because I’m quite sure it wasn’t by accident.”

“I beg your pardon?” Michel stared at him in hurt surprise. “Really! I don’t know what you mean. I just happened to see this article, and it brought to mind...”

“Please.” Camargo raised his hand and let it fall to the table. The empty coffee cups bounced in response. “We’ve worked together a long time. I know you well, Morell, and idle conversation isn’t one of your talents. Or one of your faults, if you prefer.”

Michel shook his head obstinately. “I still don’t know what you mean. I simply saw this article, and it made me think that...”

“Article?” Amusement at the poor evasion tinged the larger man’s voice. “What article?”

“Here, in France-Soir.” Michel leaned forward, twisting the folded newspaper, sliding it across the table. He suddenly seemed to realize that his companion was not blessed with knowledge of French, and took the paper back with an apologetic air. “I’m sorry. I’ll translate it for you.” He studied the article a moment, his lips moving in silent reading, and then shrugged.

“Well, the exact wording isn’t important, but the general idea is that the United Nations commission for locating stolen art objects — stolen during the war by the Nazis, that is, from museums, private collections, and so forth — now considers its work in France completed, and expects to continue its investigations in certain neighboring countries.” His eyes came up innocently. “That’s what it says.”

“I see. And they mention Portugal? In particular?”

“No, not in particular. But...”

“I understand.” Camargo’s voice was heavy. “But you still think this commission might come here. Why?”

Michel raised his thin shoulders. “Why not? After all, Portugal is a neighboring country...”

“France is fortunate in enjoying a host of neighboring countries...” Camargo’s tone was harsh, but it was a harshness he himself deplored; he took a deep breath, forcing himself to return to the casual tone he felt more appropriate for a man of his control. “... To be accurate, however, Portugal isn’t one of them.”

“Well, I don’t think they—”

“So I repeat: why do you think this commission will be coming here?”

“For no definite reason. It’s just...” Michel paused, seemingly attempting to be completely candid in his reply. “Well, you must admit that one might consider your friend Senhor Echavarria could well be interested.”

Camargo pounced. “Senhor Echavarria? Why?”

“Because,” Michel said slowly, his black eyes fixed without expression on the other man’s narrowed glare, “he seemed to me the type who would appreciate advance notice of any — well, any danger...”

There were several moments of charged silence; then Orlando Braz Camargo folded his newspaper and set it aside in the manner of one stripping down in preparation for struggle. He seemed to be relieved to be joined at last in a battle he had not only anticipated, but the inevitability of which he had known for several minutes. He leaned over the table, tapping the checkered cloth with a thick finger for emphasis, speaking with deadly purpose.

“Morell, let me tell you something. And I want you to listen carefully and understand me completely. Senhor Echavarria is a friend — not only of mine, but of several very big people in our government. And we do not bother our friends. Is that clear?”

“Nor even warn them?” Michel’s voice was amusedly disbelieving. “Then whom do you usually warn of danger? Your enemies?”

Camargo studied the thin, sardonic face before him a moment, trying to read the true purpose behind the enigmatic, mocking eyes, although he was sure he already knew the answer. “Warn him? Of what dangers?”

“Of the dangers of an investigation, of course.”

Camargo nodded slowly, convinced his suspicions had been correct. His tiny eyes drilled into the other. “I don’t think you understood me before, Morell. Not only do we not bother our friends, but we also do not threaten them.” His voice grew even heavier. “Nor blackmail them.”

“Threaten? Blackmail?” Michel stared at him, shocked. “You haven’t understood me, apparently, but if that’s the way you feel, forget the entire matter! I thought I was doing you a favor, because you seemed to be friendly with the man, and because you were kind enough to present me to him.” His voice was coldly disapproving, resentful of the other’s implications. “If you mean, do I intend to call the commission’s attention to him, I do not. You may believe me or not, but that is the truth. It is simply that I don’t believe you appreciate the thoroughness of this commission. If any article of artistic worth has been sold, or even discussed in art circles, by dealers, or collectors, or anyone — if anything on their long list is even suspected to be in the area, well, that area will be investigated. Thoroughly, and by trained people. And this commission comes with more authority than you might think.” He shook his head forcefully; his black eyes were almost hypnotic. “When I say danger, I mean danger. And, believe me, it has nothing to do with me. I know what happened in other countries.”

Orlando Camargo was still far from convinced of the purity of the other’s motives. “And just what form of gratitude were you expecting for your — ah — your friendly warning?”

“Apparently it makes no difference since you choose to disregard it,” Michel said stiffly. He glanced across the street to a clock set in a tower there, verified his findings with his pocketwatch, and then came to his feet. Every inch of his small body proclaimed his just resentment at the innuendos he had suffered. He stared down at the tablecloth a moment, thinking, and then heaved a deep sigh, raising his eyes, forcing a smile. “Ah, well, there’s no point in making it a big issue among ourselves. There’s no purpose in arguing, you and I. It’s getting late. Shall we go to work?”

Camargo brought himself erect ponderously. He tossed some coins on the table and then paused.

“You go ahead,” he said slowly. “I have some errands to do first.”

Michel nodded. His black eyes once again noted the time across the street. “I’ll see you at the office later, then,” he said, and for some reason Camargo had the feeling that the stern mien Morell was presenting hid some secret amusement. “Até logo.”

“Até logo,” Camargo said slowly, and watched the smaller man saunter off down the street, his thin body skirting with almost balletic skill the boxes of debris set out each morning for the rubbish collectors. The large man stared down at the table and the copy of France-Soir that Michel had left behind, almost as a calculated testament to his honesty. For a moment Camargo considered calling after the other to remind him of the forgotten paper; then he leaned over and picked it up, folding it, tucking it into a pocket of his tight jacket. His tiny eyes came up, thoughtfully considering the foreshortened figure now moving almost jauntily down the sunny street, approaching the nearest corner.

Damn that Morell! he thought bitterly. How many more people will Gruber pay before he decides it’s just too much? I should never have taken Michel to that dinner party in the first place; I should have known he’d eventually get bright ideas and try to be cute! Anyone who professes honesty and dedication to the law the way he does is the last one on earth to be trusted. Especially with his history. His wife a suicide? What a joke! Damn him, damn him anyway! I wonder how high his price will be to keep his mouth shut? And will Gruber pay? Or will it have to come out of my pocket...?

6

The house which Senhor Enrique Echavarria — ex-General Wilhelm Wolfgang Gruber — had chosen for his exile was located at the end of a slightly curving, long avenue in the Bairro da Boa Vista, at the northern edge of the Parque Florestal de Monsanto, one of the more exclusive — and therefore safer — sections of Lisbon. The house itself was neither exceptionally spacious nor particularly grand, but it was a well-built home of weathered stone and proven shingled roof, and it did offer the seclusion of extensive gardens and thick stands of trees. It was further protected by a high stone wall that ran around three sides of the rectangular property and was topped by several strands of barbed wire, discreetly hidden in the ivy. While such added security was rarely seen in this new days of universal brotherhood and trust, it was still quite satisfactory to his neighbors, since they, too, preferred privacy. In all honesty it was a quite adequate abode in a carefully selected neighborhood, chosen well before the actual need for it had arisen, and Gruber never failed to congratulate himself on his foresight in having arranged it.

A short driveway ran from the side of the house, ending in a large wrought-iron gate which, Camargo knew, was always kept locked. He noted the automobile of ancient vintage pulled to one side, and the absence of the small sports car that usually shared the driveway; so the Senhora was out, but the person he wished to see was available.

He parked his car, descended, searched for and found the old-fashioned bellpull set in a tangle of vines on one post, and tugged at it impatiently. There was a movement at one of the windows, the hint of a curtain being drawn aside and then replaced, and a few moments later a heavyset man dressed in the leather jacket and apron of the Portuguese man-servant came from the house. He recognized his visitor and unlatched the gate, stood aside almost at military attention while the other entered, locked the gate once again, and then led the way into the house without a word.

In the hallway the servant paused long enough to tilt his head abruptly in the direction of the library, and then disappeared toward the kitchen in the rear. Camargo moved down the carpeted hallway and turned into the library. He paused a moment to adjust his eyesight; despite the bright morning sunlight outside, the room was shadowed by a stand of leafy trees that hugged the windows, bending low as if attempting to peer within. A man arose from a desk at the far end of the room and moved forward.

He was a tall, thin man who walked with a stiff military stride that no amount of practice had been able either to overcome or disguise. His sharp features still exhibited traces of their once-youthful handsomeness, although tiny scars at the nose and mouth proclaimed to the trained eye the passage at some time of the surgeon’s knife. The result would have made many of his past victims laugh — if it had not made them want to cry — for Gruber now sported a nose that more than hinted at being Hebraic in origin. It was very nearly the nose he himself had once held up as the only proof necessary to merit extinction in the ovens. His thin wedge-shaped face was topped by thinning hair, dyed an impossible black, and the Hitler mustache he had once worn proudly was now trimmed to the hairline favored by the Iberians.

He moved down the length of the room, coming into the stronger light near the doorway, and brought one hand up jerkily like a toy soldier performing a movement, thrusting it out.

“Orlando. You’re well, I hope.” It was not a question. The cold politeness of the slightly harsh voice made no more attempt to disguise its underlying concern at the unexpected visit than it did to sound even faintly interested in the other’s well-being. For a moment Camargo felt a touch of resentment, then he forced it away.

“I’m fine.” He shook the outstretched hand and felt it withdrawn almost at once; he allowed himself to be led to a divan against one wall and seated. Gruber sank down in an armchair opposite him, staring at him with eyes that Camargo suddenly noted as being green. Odd, he thought; I would have sworn they were blue. He caught himself, remembering his manners. “And you? And your Senhora?”

Gruber waved a languid hand in disinterest. “Out shopping. One of these days Hans will simply have to learn to drive.” He dismissed the question, calmly studying the tense face before him. “And just what brings you here?”

“I...” Camargo hesitated.

“Would you like a drink?”

“No. I...”

Gruber’s voice became slightly impatient, the voice of a staff officer speaking to an enlisted man about some minor request. “Come, man! What’s the trouble?”

Camargo took a deep breath. “Do you remember a man called Morell? Michel Morell? My assistant, actually...”

Gruber nodded, his blue-green eyes narrowing slightly, becoming even greener. “I remember him quite well. You brought him to our last dinner party.” His tone seemed to indicate that if anything unfortunate came of that encounter, the one who would suffer for it would be Camargo. “Why?”

“Well...” Camargo looked about the room, searching for inspiration, finding none. The figures in the tapestry on the wall across from him stared back with impersonal disinterest. They seemed to be saying that in their time they had looked down on more authentic martyrs. His eyes came back to his host unhappily.

“Well, we were having breakfast today — we usually meet at Celotto’s in the morning — and he began this long-winded conversation about this man Huuygens, and then—”

Gruber frowned. “Who?”

“Kek Huuygens. He’s a man who — well, never mind. He has nothing to do with it in any event. He was just Morell’s way of leading up to the subject. The point is...” Camargo hesitated once again.

One of Gruber’s well-kept hands came up.

“Start at the beginning and tell me the whole story,” he said evenly, his eyes fixed on the other’s face. “Word for word. Everything Morell said, everything you said. Apparently something he said upset you, and even more apparently, it seems to involve me. So I want it all. Complete and in sequence.”

The stocky Camargo seemed relieved to be able to tell the story from the beginning, almost as if it somehow removed him from any complicity in the event, making him merely a spectator rather than a participant. Several times during the detailed account Gruber closed his eyes to concentrate better, and then opened them at once, preferring to watch the heavy face of the man across from him during the recital. In general, Camargo thought, relieved, he’s taking the threat to his well-being rather better than I thought.

He came to the end of his account and hesitated a moment. He had been leaning forward, speaking in the steady, clipped tones of one accustomed to making detailed verbal reports; now he shifted himself back in his chair, seeming to feel that a personal observation was needed to complete the story and balance it off.

“I’m sure that Morell simply wants some money,” he said, and was surprised to find Gruber smiling at him in a curious fashion. He frowned. “He must want money. Why else...?”

“Why else, indeed?” Gruber asked a bit absently, and his smile widened. “I think I should like to meet this Morell once again. In fact, under the circumstances, I think I should like to meet him as soon as possible. You will arrange it?”

“Of course, but—”

“Actually,” Gruber continued smoothly, “I would suggest you telephone him now, asking him to come out here. Immediately.” He raised a hand. “You need not be here when he arrives. You might find it to be... ah... embarrassing...”

The expression on Camargo’s face indicated his doubts as to the wisdom of the idea, but he came to his feet dutifully, moving to the desk in the corner. He raised the instrument, dialed, waited a few moments, and then spoke into it quietly. When he had finished he replaced the receiver and returned.

“He’ll be here in a few minutes — as soon as his driver comes back from an errand.”

“Thank you,” Gruber said, and came to his feet, his abruptness indicating the end of the interview. Camargo frowned down at the floor, dubious about leaving without all the finer details arranged.

“I shouldn’t give him too much money,” he said. “I can bring some pressure on him, if necessary. And also, despite his talk, I don’t believe he would actually say...”

“Actually say anything to harm me?” Gruber’s faint smile turned cruel. “I hope not. I should hate to think that any person you brought to my home would treat my hospitality so poorly.” His hand came up rigidly, held out. “Goodby. Thank you for coming.”

There was the sound of the door in the front hallway being opened and then closed. A moment later a woman passed down the hallway and then paused at the library entrance, glancing in. Gruber smiled.

“Come in, my dear. You remember Captain Braz Camargo, I’m sure. He stopped by for a moment, but he’s just leaving.”

The woman stepped forward, holding out one hand. Camargo bent over it; it seemed odd to him that the small hand was so cold, considering the heat of the day. He straightened up, feeling as always a touch of envy that an automation like Gruber should be the possessor of anyone this young, this beautiful, and obviously so much more blessed with finer sensibilities.

“Senhora,” he said politely, and stepped away.

Jadzia nodded, her eyes studying his face for the purpose behind his visit. “Senhor,” she said, equally polite, and waited until he had turned to shake hands one last time with Gruber. “Hans will show you out,” she said, and turned. Hans was standing silently at the doorway, his face a mask; Camargo would have sworn that nobody had called the servant. “And Hans,” the woman added coolly, “there are some things in the car...”

Their visitor followed the servant down the shadowed hallway. Jadzia moved further into the room and sank down gracefully on the divan. She studied the enigmatic smile on her husband’s face a moment and then frowned slightly.

“And why,” she asked, her musical voice curiously muted, “should Captain Camargo be visiting us? Without being invited?”

She had spoken in German. Gruber dropped into a chair opposite her, and leaned forward. He grinned; it split his thin face wolfishly. “To bring us good news, although he doesn’t know it. He’s somewhat of a fool, Camargo...” His grin disappeared as suddenly as it had come. His green eyes fixed themselves on his wife’s face, reveling as always in her cool beauty, the fine features, and the fire he knew too well lay beneath. “Just how long have you hated living in Lisbon, Jadzia?”

“How long?” She studied him evenly, and then shrugged lightly. “How long has it been that we’ve lived here? Virtual prisoners?” She thought a moment and then nodded, satisfied that her answer had been accurate. “That’s how long—”

“Prisoners, yes,” Gruber admitted. “But you far less than me. At least you’ve been able to get about with the car in the daytime; I’ve had to stay inside this house except for a few excursions at night...” He bit back the rest of his complaint, realizing the uselessness of such discussion, and returned to the point, watching his wife’s face with a touch of triumph. “We may be able to leave Portugal, possibly...”

The girl sat up; for the first time a touch of animation came to the lovely face. “Do you mean it? Do you really mean it? And go to Brazil? In Brazil, I could—” the animation suddenly disappeared, replaced by suspicion — “Is this another one of your grand illusions, Willi? Because if it is...”

“Grand illusion?” He shrugged, but his green eyes continued to glitter with excitement. “Maybe. But at least it’s a chance.” He clasped his thin fingers together, staring at her across the ridges. “There’s going to be a man here soon; you may remember him from our last party. His name is Morell, a Frenchman — without a country, like so many others we could name. But, unfortunately, no more sympathetic for that. In any event, he started to work on Camargo this morning; to try to get some money from me—”

“He recognized you? At the party?”

Gruber’s shoulders came up. “I don’t know, and I don’t think it’s too important. Obviously, he knows I’m not Spanish but German. Living here under a false name. Whether he recognized me as a person isn’t the point. What he did recognize was a chance to make some money.”

Jadzia stared at the floor. “Those parties were a mistake...”

“I’m not so sure.” To her surprise, Gruber was smiling broadly. “But let me go on. This Morell had a wild story of trying to help me, but — forgetting all his protestations — what he was actually doing was threatening me. Threatening to report me to the United Nations commission looking for art objects lost — or stolen — during the war—”

“What?” Her face had turned white.

He held up a hand and shook his head. “No, my dear. Don’t worry. I’m quite sure the man had no real intention of doing anything of the sort. What would it gain him? No, he simply wants money. Like all the others. He’ll be here in a few minutes, and he’ll be handled easily enough. That isn’t the point.”

“Then, what...?”

Gruber’s smile remained; he leaned forward even more. “The point is far more delicate. When this Morell was talking to Camargo this morning, leading up to his blackmail attempt — because that’s what it was — he mentioned a man named Huuygens—”

Jadzia frowned uncertainly. “Huuygens?”

“That’s the way it sounded to me. Kek Huuygens, or something very like it.”

“And who is he?”

“I think he’s a man we can use,” Gruber said, and rubbed his hands together. “Camargo isn’t the brightest man on earth — and I doubt that this Morell is, considering the heavy-handed way he handled this matter — but still, bless them both, they gave me an idea. Morell merely mentioned this Huuygens as a means of leading up to his main purpose, but still—”

“And just who is this Huuygens?”

“Well,” Gruber said, “he’s apparently well known in the underworld as a man who makes his living taking things through customs. Things which customs normally wouldn’t allow...”

Jadzia studied his face a moment, and then shook her head. “I know what you mean, Willi, but I don’t like it. A man like that could never be trusted.”

“Possibly not. On the other hand, possibly yes. His reputation seems to be that he can. For a price, of course, but it’s a price I’d be prepared to pay if it meant getting out of Portugal.” He came to his feet, beginning to pace the library, his thin hands clasped behind his back. He swung about and came back to the divan, frowning down at the woman seated there.

“Unless we can take our things with us, of course, we can’t leave at all. We’re getting to the point, financially, where we will soon have to start selling things, and whether Camargo knows it or not, this Morell was telling the truth about this commission. I don’t mean they’re heading for Lisbon on the next plane, but it’s really only a matter of time. To sell anything, particularly at this time, would be extremely dangerous.” He thought a moment. “Also, of course, Lisbon today is probably the worst market in the world.”

“I realize all these things,” Jadzia said patiently, “but I still think it would be very dangerous trusting something to a complete stranger, and a stranger who, by his profession, is patently a thief.”

“Not a thief, my dear,” Gruber corrected gently. “An agent.” He paused and then smiled; the smile broadened as a further thought came to him. “As a matter of fact, I think I know how I can take steps to guarantee his honesty. At least in our case.”

“And how would you do that?”

Gruber shook his head. “Don’t worry, it can be done.” He rubbed his hands together as he considered the idea that had struck him; the more he thought about it, the better he liked it.

Jadzia shrugged. “And how would you get in touch with this man?”

“Ah,” Gruber said, as if pleased that the question had been asked. “That is where our friend Morell comes in. This Huuygens — if he isn’t a figment of somebody’s imagination, and Camargo assures me he’s real enough — has to be able to be contacted somewhere, by someone. He could scarcely operate if nobody in the world could get in touch with him. And I’m sure that our wise Frenchman-without-a-country can manage it, if anyone can.”

“Again for a price?”

“Again for a price, yes. But...” He shrugged. “He was expecting to be paid, and he will be. It will be a different service he performs, that’s all. I doubt that a man like Morell cares why he gets paid, as long as he does.” He took a deep breath, his eyes gleaming. “Once we get to Brazil, it will be worth it. Werner is there, and Egglehof, and — well, many of our old friends. Who know their way about.” He shook his head. “Imagine! To be able to walk the streets, even if it’s only a small village in the interior, to have friends who aren’t vultures like Morell and Camargo. Oh, yes; it will be worth it!”

There was a faint tinkle from somewhere in the dim recesses of the house, like the muffled sound of a music box buried beneath pillows for the illicit enjoyment of some child. It was oddly pleasant in the musty room, and a moment later the shadow of Hans moved silently past the library door, a wraith destroying without intent the almost gay mood of the bell. Gruber swung about, his posture military, his green eyes alert.

“That will be Morell now, I should think.” He smiled down at the woman, a triumphant smile, revealing even, white teeth. “I think it would be best if I spoke to him alone...”

7

Anita, her long blonde hair falling over her pretty face, brought her attention from the gay prints on the wall of Kek’s apartment back to her drink on the bar. She stared into its depths, wondering what there was about the placid gin and tonic that somehow failed to harmonize with her mood, and then suddenly reached out with a tinted fingernail to submerge one of the ice cubes. The drink responded by releasing hundreds of tiny bubbles. Satisfied, she swung about on her stool, looking at her companion with one of those bursts of inspiration that made her such an interesting and unpredictable girl.

“Kek! I have a wonderful idea!” She brought her drink up and sipped it impatiently, anxious to be done with it and return to her thesis. A frown crossed her face; she set her drink down and hurried on, anxious to correct any misinterpretation. “I don’t mean getting married...”

Huuygens, sprawled comfortably in an easy chair and nursing a brandy, grinned at her. “Well, at least that’s a step in the right direction.”

“Yes.” Anita’s head bobbed. “This idea is much better. Why don’t I move in with you?” Kek’s eyes widened in shock that was only partially pretense; Anita hurried on, determined to get in all her ammunition before a cease-fire was unfairly declared.

“It’s a beautiful idea, Kek. Look.” She swung her hand about, encompassing the apartment. “Your maid has no idea of how to keep a house clean. If there were a woman here, she wouldn’t dare leave the kitchen the way she does or the bathroom. And I’m sure she hasn’t dusted properly in weeks.” She shook her head. “And your answering service? I’ll bet they make lots of mistakes, but if—”

Kek pretended to be stung. “My answering service is infallible.”

“Well—” Anita was reluctant to abandon any weapon. “—Maybe...” She instantly attacked on another flank. “There’s something else: your maid doesn’t get here until ten in the morning—”

“Nine.”

“It’s still too late to make you breakfast. You have to make your own. And that’s—”

“I eat at the café downstairs.”

“But that’s just the point,” Anita said triumphantly, as if pleased that Kek was being so cooperative. “You shouldn’t. Restaurant food is — is — boring. Especially in the morning.” She took a quick sip of her drink and returned to the fray, refreshed. “Just think how nice it would be to have a hot breakfast waiting for you when you got up in the morning...”

Kek shuddered. “All I can tolerate in the morning is coffee. Black.”

She shook her head with almost maternal pity. “It’s the very worst thing you could do. You should have something solid.”

He grinned. “Like you?”

Anita smiled, an enigmatic smile, like a cat dreaming of some hidden cache of mice. “That, too. And just think, you wouldn’t have to take me home at some ungodly hour of the morning, and then try and find a cab when it’s raining, halfway across the city—”

“You live exactly two blocks from here,” Kek pointed out.

“Well — I might move someday...” She returned to her drink for comfort, pouting at it. “I still think it’s a wonderful idea. I could see that your laundry went out on time, and that you always had enough liquor in the house, and you know I’m a good cook, and if you were working on anything, I’d be as quiet as a mouse...”

The gray eyes of the man in the chair twinkled. “You’re making me think I should hire you instead of my maid.”

Anita swung about, her pout instantly disappearing, replaced by a brilliant smile. “Kek! That’s a marvelous idea!” She considered it a moment, and then added thoughtfully, “We could keep Marie on, of course, to help me, and I could live in. It’s perfect.”

Kek shook his head in wonder. “Anita, you’re incorrigible.”

“Well,” Anita said, her tone accepting the logic of it, “if a woman is living with a man, I shouldn’t think he’d want her to be corrigible. At least not all the time.” She gave him her gamin grin, but there was more than a hint of seriousness behind it. “When would you like me to start?”

“I’d have to think about it, of course,” Kek said slowly. “One doesn’t change maids lightly. Not these days.”

“Not change,” Anita said firmly. “Supplement.”

“Even supplementing maids takes thought.”

“But you’ll think about it?”

“Definitely,” Kek said solemnly.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Anita swung about on the upholstered stool several times, like a child at a soda fountain, her ankles neatly crossed, propelling herself with one hand on the bar. She brought herself to a stop and then folded her hands in her lap, looking at him almost demurely.

“Now, if I were living here, I could also be a sort of secretary for you. I don’t take shorthand, and I don’t type, but I could always learn. And even before I learned, I could be useful to you. I could remind you of things...”

Kek grinned at her. “Such as my letting you know my decision?”

“Exactly.” Anita looked pleased at his complete grasp of the full potential of her suggested employment.

Kek shook his head slowly, and then raised his glass in a toast to her convoluted logic.

“You know, Anita,” he said with admiration, “I’m sure you’d get along fine in my business. No...” He raised a hand quickly. “Don’t suggest a partnership. I have a feeling I’d end up being the junior partner.”

The telephone rang sharply before Anita could protest the unfairness of this statement; he drank the last of his brandy and leaned toward the desk at his side, exchanging the empty glass for the instrument. He brought it to his ear.

“Hello? Who? Yes, this is he...” He cupped the receiver with one hand, looking at her over the rim. “Long distance.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

He shook his head. “And travel those two blocks halfway across the city to your apartment, alone and late at night? No. Besides, all good secretaries are confidential, if they’re anything at all. Instead of leaving, you can practice being a good maid. By getting me another drink, please...”

She came down from her stool immediately, retrieved his glass, and returned to the bar. The instrument in Kek’s hand became alive, exchanging foreign languages in a bored fashion. The smile disappeared from his face at once, making it appear leaner, and somehow more predatory. He pulled himself erect in his chair.

“Hello? Yes, I’m still here. And I’m still M’sieu Huuygens.” There was a brief pause. “Hello?”

Anita poured a generous amount of brandy into the glass and brought it back, balancing it carefully, determined to deliver a glass of brandy as no other maid in the world could hope to deliver it. She placed it within reach on the desktop and stood back, watching him gravely. The complete change from the easygoing, laughing man who had been relaxing in the chair to the hard person bending almost fiercely over the telephone somehow made her feel happy. It was as if just being present at the metamorphosis bound them closer together. It was a feeling she could not have explained, even to herself, but she knew she reveled in it.

Huuygens took a deep breath, and expelled it abruptly as a voice came on. “Hello? André? What? I’m fine.” He brushed aside the other’s opening words impatiently. “Everyone’s fine, and I’m sure you are, too. Now — what else is new?”

At the other end of the connection, André debated whether to be cute or not, and finally settled on a line somewhere in between. He managed to sound curious. “Kek? Tell me something — how does one go about getting in touch with you? To offer you a job?”

There was a moment of silence, and then Huuygens closed his eyes, masking the sudden gleam of excited triumph that had appeared in them. He opened them almost at once, as if afraid he might miss some of the beauty of the situation. Anita, watching him, felt a wave of tenderness at the thought that the man she loved could be so mercurial, so changeable. Huuygens chuckled softly.

“So it worked, eh?”

“Like chopped corn before a sow,” André said proudly. “Like a double dose of huile de ricin. Like a charm,” he added hastily, not wanting to be misunderstood. He grinned down at the instrument nestled in his massive hand. “Now, my friend, the problem is this — how does Michel manage to contact you?”

Kek’s chuckle grew to a laugh; he reached over with his free hand, retrieving his brandy and sipping it, savoring it. Anita stood patiently at one side, waiting until she could again prove useful. Kek returned the brandy glass to the desk, and then paid attention to the question, nodding.

“Well, now — certainly Michel would never disclose his methods of contacting a person. He’s far too experienced for that. I’d suggest he get in touch with me through devious channels and by employing mysterious means. If he thinks it will help, he can also use persons unknown.” He grinned. “Knowing Michel, I’m sure he’ll manage.”

“Good enough,” André said, satisfied. “I’ll tell him. He still isn’t too happy about this whole affair, you know, but he’s doing fine.”

“I never did believe he had completely forgotten that Boche lieutenant,” Huuygens said shrewdly. “What else?”

“Oh, yes. How long does it take these mysterious means and devious channels to get in touch with you? To locate you, that is? And also, of course, to interest you in a proposition?”

Huuygens pursed his lips, thinking. His gray eyes narrowed as he studied the question and came to a decision.

“Five days, I should say. Earlier than that, and it might appear that I was at the beck and call of any voleur — practically in the classified section of the telephone book, you might say. Later than five days, and the man might get the idea that I was too exclusive for his tastes, or that I didn’t exist at all. He might get impatient and look for another solution to his problem.” He paused a moment, thinking. “As to making the proposition interesting to me, I’m afraid that will have to wait. I don’t know what his problem is, so I can’t say how much it will cost to solve it. I’d suggest that Michel merely tell him that the fee will have to be discussed when I get there. I’d also suggest he could mention that, in any event, it won’t be cheap.”

“I’m sure,” André said, and grinned. “Punishment never is. One last thing: assuming it takes five days to get in touch with you, how much longer will it take for you to get here?”

“That depends. Not too long, I shouldn’t think. Two more days, probably, depending upon how far I have to travel, and what accommodations I’m able to make. If Michel were unfortunate enough to locate me in, say, Canada, or the Orient, it might be even longer.” His grin had returned; he was enjoying himself. “However, if he were lucky enough to find me closer — say in Paris — then I might be able to make it in as little as a day.”

“Let’s hope he’s lucky, then,” André said optimistically, and grinned. “Now let me try to translate that timetable. What you’re saying is that we’ll see you in about a week?”

“Right. I’ll call you when I’ve checked into a hotel. And thanks for the message.”

“De nada. Our service runs twenty-four hours a day.” André chuckled and hung up.

Kek placed the receiver back in its cradle and leaned forward, clasping his hands together, squeezing them tightly. He allowed them to relax and they sprang apart, almost by themselves. He came to his feet, beginning to stride up and down restlessly, as if resenting the necessity of delaying the start of action as much as six or seven days, even though he knew his decision to postpone his arrival in Lisbon that long had been the correct one. He suddenly paused, staring at the rug without seeing it. In six days, then, he would see Jadzia... What would be her reaction? More important, what would be his own? He put the thought away, forcing it out of his mind. There would be time enough to think about that in the next week.

He swung about and found himself facing Anita; a chill came over the girl as she saw the way his eyes had unconsciously widened, as if he had completely forgotten her presence. She tried to smile bravely, although she was trembling inside.

“Kek? You’re going away?”

Huuygens nodded. “In about a week.”

“Where?”

“To Lisbon.”

“And will you be gone long?”

He shrugged and took a deep breath, his eyes suddenly gleaming. “A week, probably, if all goes well.” The gleam faded. “Or less, if it doesn’t...”

Anita studied his face with worry. “But I thought — I mean, you said that the customs — I mean, will they let you go?”

Kek suddenly grinned. “You mean the business of the chocolates? Oh, yes! I even received a formal apology from them, although I’m afraid it was given a bit grudgingly. But it was given, which is what counts.” He looked at her a moment as if seeing her for the first time, and then snapped his fingers. “How would you like to go out dancing? It’s not too late.”

“If you wish,” she said in a tiny voice.

“I wish,” he said, and placed a finger under her chin, raising her head, staring into her troubled eyes. “As a matter of fact, I wish very much. And when I come back from Lisbon, I’ll bring you—”

“Don’t bring me chocolates. Don’t bring me anything.” Her eyes looked deep into his. “Just bring me back yourself.”

Kek laughed. “All right,” he said, equably, and raised his shoulders. “Although, to be honest, I have as much trouble getting that through customs as anything else...”