The Hochmann Miniatures

8

From the safe height of the Air France Viscount, Kek Huuygens stared thoughtfully out of the window; a brandy — his third in the short time since leaving Paris — stood on the small tray before him, and a cigarette burned steadily in his fingers. In the distance the hazy horizon seemed marked by a gentle curve; he smiled to himself a bit grimly. There was an old proverb: The world turns, but it also returns. In a few hours a world he had thought dead and buried would return, if only for a few days. And just how would he utilize that remarkable resurrection? He crushed out his cigarette, finished his brandy, and watched the well-formed stewardess remove the glass and tray. Don’t think about what is coming up, he said to himself; don’t waste the time. Take it step by step. When the proper hour comes, you’ll know what to do.

He relaxed and stared down, content to admire the beauty of the scene. The shallow sandbars north of Lisbon had turned the blue ocean into a series of white-capped waves reeling drunkenly toward the shore; they looked, from the air, like a lace-edged skirt flapping in the breeze from some huge, cosmic clothesline. Beyond the wide beach the white apartments and hotels of Estoril stood in even, geometric rows, glistening in the early morning sun.

The plane banked steeply, dropping lower, and the broad Tejo itself was beneath them. The Tower of Belém slid past, foreshortened, and then the tiny docks harboring toy ships; a second sharp bank and the city, sheltered in its irregular amphitheater of hills, drifted below. Through the leafy cover of trees the boulevards could be seen, and then the growing height of the apartments along the Avenida Gago Coutinho. The plane whined in protest as its wheels descended, grunted as they locked in place, and then spread its flaps philosophically, checking its headlong rush. The stained concrete runway of Portela airport hastily rose to meet it. Kek unbuckled his seatbelt and stared through the window as the plane wheeled to a stop before the administration building. Lisbon. Step Three...

The apron baked in the bright sun. The passengers descended the metal steps cautiously, blinking at the dazzling glare, and then moved gratefully to the welcome shade of the building, herded by a young girl in uniform. Huuygens undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie a trifle, taking his place in the ragged queue that had formed before the first desk. He brought his passport from an inner pocket, holding it in his hand for presentation. The line shuffled forward; passports were examined, stamped, and returned. He found himself at the desk and handed the green booklet over; the official before him exhibited neither curiosity nor delay. The stamp rose and fell; the cold eye of the official passed on to the next passenger. The uniformed man might have been a machine stamping labels on bottles as they moved evenly down a conveyor.

Kek shrugged. He allowed the police to add their stamp to the growing collection with an equal lack of interest, and then tucked the booklet into his pocket for easy access and followed the others into the customs section. The passengers here, released from the restrictions of the queue, were scattered along the barrier, searching out their luggage, waving at friends beyond the guarded doorway, attempting to attract the attention of any one of the inspectors, all of whom were grouped about a desk in the center of the room, seemingly shuffling declaration forms as a means of postponing release of the prisoners as long as possible. Huuygens noted his lone piece of luggage at the very end of the low counter, set apart from the others. He smiled slightly with an awareness of history, and moved up to it; an inspector detached himself from the group at the desk and came over immediately, accepting the proffered passport. The briefest of glances and it was immediately returned; even before Huuygens could unfasten the latch of the bag, a chalkmark had been scribbled on the leather, and the inspector had retired without looking back, almost as if he were being chased. Kek’s eyebrows rose; he smiled in appreciation. In this untidy world in which we live, he thought, it is truly pleasant to encounter good organization once in a while. Pleasant, but also thought-provoking.

He stopped in the main lobby of the airport long enough to exchange some francs for escudos, using the opportunity to scan the faces about him, but they all exhibited the normal blank self-concern of any group of strangers preoccupied with their own affairs. He surrendered his bag to a porter and followed him to the taxi-rank.

The ride to the hotel was extremely pleasant. The driver maneuvered his cab carefully and slowly, as if wishing the foreigner to have the opportunity of appreciating the lovely city, nor did he attempt to act as combination guide and philosopher, but kept his eyes forward and his mouth closed. A man like this could make a fortune in New York City, Kek thought with a smile, and leaned back, relaxed, to take full advantage of the rare trip.

Their route took them down the Avenida do Brasil to the landscaped Campo Grande, past sidewalk cafés mottled by the swaying shadows of overhanging trees, along streets where traffic moved calmly and evenly under the watchful and slightly threatening eye of military-clad police, and the strollers seemed to adjust their leisurely pace as if to better savor the rich flavor of the city. In the distance the Castelo de São Jorge watched their progress with calm detachment from its rugged and safe height. The cab paused at a traffic circle and then eased itself into the Avenida da República; it turned off the wide avenue halfway along its length and began winding through a series of narrow streets. The driver was aware that it was not the quickest way, but he recognized that his passenger was simpático to his beloved Lisbon, and he wished to show him the full heritage of beauty stored behind the barriers of the wide avenues. Other cities, he seemed to be saying by his action, hide their decay in their back streets; Lisbon merely stores the overflow of its richness there.

They swung from the last of the travesías, pulling into the Rua Sidónia Pais. The hotel to which Huuygens had cabled for reservations was the Ouro Vermelho; it was a narrow six-story building that faced the park, and from the outside seemed to bear out the description given by the friend in Paris who had recommended it on the basis of its “beautiful privacy.” Kek paid off the cab with a generous tip and carried his bag into the lobby; the “beautiful privacy” was partially maintained, it appeared, by the lack of a doorman. He noted that the registration desk was set in an alcove that did not permit vision of the self-service elevator, nor of the stairway that ran discreetly beside it. Here one could come and go without undue notice.

He approached the desk and leaned against it; a card was instantly slid in his direction by a young clerk whose smile seemed tattooed on his plump and pimpled face. Huuygens filled it out, referring to his passport for the myriad details required of foreigners, and then looked up to discover the clerk’s smile had vanished and had been replaced, for no apparent reason, by a look of acute embarrassment. The young man picked up the completed registration card and clutched it tightly, as if to be sure it would not be taken from him.

“Senhor...”

Huuygens’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes?”

The embarrassment deepened. “I’m afraid, senhor, that we have no bellmen. One of them is out sick today, and the other...” He shrugged elaborately, as if this gesture might somehow explain the other’s absence, or at least excuse it. “I should be happy to carry your bag myself, but...” He glanced about the cluttered desk, his eyes enumerating the many reasons why he could not leave.

Kek smiled in understanding. “It’s of no consequence. I can manage quite well.”

“Ah!” The clerk was happy again. He handed over a key and then bent as far over the desk as his ample stomach permitted, waving one hand. “The lift is just around the corner. Your room is Sala 607. On the third floor...”

Kek had traveled in Europe too extensively to be surprised by the system — or lack of it — used in numbering hotel rooms. He nodded pleasantly, picked up his bag, and found the elevator, closing the door behind him. The ancient beast of burden awoke from its catatonic slumber with a jerk and rose grumpily through the open grillwork of the shaft, petulantly enumerating its numerous infirmities by a series of groans and clanks. At the third floor Huuygens tugged the door open and closed it again, respecting the age of the lift, and the fact that he might have to use it again. He walked down the carpeted hallway, located his room, slid the key in the lock, and swung the door back. And then froze, his jaw tight, his eyes immediately on the alert.

Two men, glasses in hand, were facing him from either side of a small table near the windows; a bottle and a third glass on the table completed the tableau. For a second Kek stood tense, frowning at his unexpected visitors, and then visibly relaxed. He came into the room with a broad grin, closing the door behind him.

“Ah! A welcoming committee!”

André cocked his grizzled, giant head to one side, considering the newcomer critically a moment, and then turned to Michel. “He’s grown a bit in the past twelve years. But then, I suppose it was only to be expected.”

Michel nodded morosely and reached for the bottle. His little black eyes looked through and beyond Huuygens a moment, and then returned to see that he did not cheat himself in replenishing his drink. “Physically, anyway. If not mentally.”

Huuygens laughed. He dropped his bag on the bed and came to stand between the two. “So this is the greeting after twelve long years? This is the extent of the warmth?”

“They don’t permit firecrackers in the hotel,” André said dryly, and raised his glass in a silent toast, after which he drank it and winked congenially at Huuygens over the top of the glass. His huge hand almost engulfed the small bit of crystal. “Yes. You’ve grown quite a bit in the last twelve years.”

“I’ve been eating better than I did in the Midi,” Huuygens said lightly, and then frowned. “By the way, how did you know I had a reservation here? I didn’t know myself until the day before yesterday.”

Michel shrugged to indicate the answer was too obvious to require voicing. He sipped his drink a moment and suddenly remembered his manners. “Would you like a drink?”

“Very much.” Kek came forward, poured some brandy into a glass, and then paused. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“You look very well,” Michel said, and then cocked his head. “You find Lisbon to be as beautiful and charming as you have heard?”

Kek abandoned the question; he dropped on the bed and sipped his drink. “Lisbon seems lovely, so far. I had a good cabdriver from the airport...” He paused, looking at his drink. “You know? This brandy isn’t bad.”

“Bad?” André was stung. “This is excellent. I selected it from the bar list myself. Charged to your room, of course.”

“What about your cabdriver from the airport?” Michel said idly.

“Oh. Only that he was unusual. He showed me the city without a lot of chatter. Quite rare.”

Michel smiled. “Who? Archimedes? No chatter? Normally you can’t shut his mouth with a truck-jack.” He shrugged. “I’m glad he’s finally learning to obey instructions.”

Kek’s pleasant manner disappeared. He leaned over, placing his glass carefully on the table, and then raised his gray eyes ominously, studying the smaller man. There were several moments of silence; when Huuygens spoke, his voice was steely.

“All right. I think we’ve had enough reunion. Maybe it’s about time we clarified certain things. I know you aren’t in favor of my being in Lisbon, but the fact is that I am here, and mostly with your help.” His eyes bored into the other’s. “And I don’t think I care to be spied on every minute I’m here.”

Michel’s expression did not alter in the least; his fixed smile merely became slightly derisive. “My dear Kek, my old friend, you still suffer from impetuosity. It was your trouble years ago, but I had assumed that age and experience would have cured you.” He shrugged. “Yes, Archimedes is a police driver — assigned to me, as a matter of fact. And yes, I had asked certain hotels to advise me when you cabled for reservations, this being one of them. I felt you wouldn’t want to stay at the Ritz, or the Tivoli, but rather at a smaller and more — select, shall we say? — hotel.” His eyes remained sardonic. “But what you failed to take into account was why I did it.”

Kek’s jaw remained hard. “And why did you do it?”

“Merely to be sure others were not doing the same. I spied on you, as you put it, to be sure nobody else was spying on you. Does that make sense to you?”

Kek felt his irritation drain away, replaced by his old affection and respect. He grinned a bit ruefully. “You still have the ability to put me in my place, eh? And? Was anyone else interested in me?”

“No. And I’m sure I would know. I think the word is out to leave you alone, not to hamper you.” His voice was noncommittal. “Merely because it’s assumed you’re going to be helpful.” His eyes came up. “Once you give any indication that you are going to be anything else — well, then things are going to change.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“You’re welcome.” Michel glanced at his watch. “Well, I’d like to stay and relive the old days with you two, but I’ve got to be going. And I suppose you should call your friend, he’s expecting you sometime this morning.” He set his glass aside and reached into a pocket, bringing out a card already prepared. “Here’s the good Senhor Echavarria’s address and telephone number.” His black eyes came up, fathomless, staring through Huuygens. “Just one last word at the risk of being repetitious. Since you won’t forget this foolishness, just be careful. Believe me, this man is protected.”

“I’ll remember.”

“And don’t look to me for any more help. Because you won’t get it.”

“I’ll remember that, too.”

“Good,” Michel said in a matter-of-fact voice, and came to his feet.

André followed, pulling his huge body erect with ease. “I’ll go along, too, and let you get on with it, Kek. But how about dinner tonight? Unless, of course, you’re already across the border by then, with Michel, here, on your tail...”

Kek smiled. “I doubt if anything is going to happen that fast. Dinner’s fine, but let’s make it tomorrow night instead. Meet me here at six and we can eat somewhere around here.”

“Six? In Lisbon? I’ll be here at eight tomorrow, and we can drink until the restaurants open. At ten.” His grin faded; he placed a large hand on Huuygens’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “And take good care of yourself, Kek. I should hate to think I was the cause of any trouble for you.”

Michel was at the door, holding it open. “A little late to think of that,” he said ironically. He waited until André had preceded him into the hallway, nodded to Huuygens almost formally, and softly closed the door after him.

Kek frowned at the closed panel a moment and then slowly walked to the window, staring out over the city. Well, here he was. And in a short time he would be face to face with Gruber. The vital thing, of course, was that — much as he wished to see Jadzia — she must not be present when he first met her husband. Three, he thought to himself with a grin that was almost savage, would really be a crowd at this point.

He sat on the edge of the bed, dragging the telephone closer, asking the clerk for a line and then dialing. There was a brief ring, and then the telephone was answered; it was almost as if the other party had been waiting.

“Hello?”

“Hello. I should like to speak with Senhor Echavarria.”

“Who wishes to speak with him?”

“My name is Huuygens...”

“Ah! One moment, please...”

The thickly accented voice was quickly replaced by another equally accented, but much more suave. “Ah! M’sieu Huuygens! So you are here in Lisbon! And we shall see you when?”

“Soon,” Huuygens said, and paused for a few seconds. “But alone, I think.”

“Alone? You mean Hans? But he is my servant; he is always here.”

“I do not mean Hans, m’sieu. I understand you are married and — well, I do not care to discuss business in the presence of women...”

There was a sharp chuckle from the other. “It is easy to see that you do not know my wife, m’sieu. I know she wants to meet you, and I’m sure she eventually will. However, I agree that until we come to some arrangement, it might be best if we discussed the details privately.”

“I believe so,” Kek said.

“Which makes it even more convenient, since she is gone for the morning and will not be back until after lunch. So...?”

“So I shall be there shortly,” Kek said, bobbed his head at the telephone, and then winked at it for good measure. “Until later, then, m’sieu...”

He hung up, glanced at his watch, and then at his bag lying on the bed. Time to unpack before he left? He smiled grimly. No, my friend, he said to himself; no excuses for further postponement. Besides, Jadzia — being a woman and unpredictable — might return early. Let’s get on with the job. He grimaced at the leather bag and walked quickly to the door.

9

The cabdriver who drove Kek from the Ouro Vermelho to the house in the Bairro da Boa Vista was a far cry from Archimedes, and, Kek thought with a wry smile, “cry” was certainly the proper word for it. He leaned back against the worn cushions, trying to deafen himself to a long list of complaints, and finally paid off the cab with a feeling of relief. It was not until he was standing alone before the wrought-iron gate that he appreciated how much the garrulous driver had helped him to relax during the trip.

As he located and pulled the bell cord on the post, his gray eyes automatically studied the house and its surroundings, noting the old but well-kept car drawn to one side of the driveway, and the high wall with its barbed wire. He was not surprised to find himself cool and completely dispassionate; it was the development of that ability that accounted for his success.

A man dressed in the garb of a servant was descending the steps. He came to the gate, accepted Kek’s name politely enough, unlocked the gate, and then locked it again once his visitor had entered. There seemed to be an ominous ring to the metal as it latched; a certain finality, a statement from the gate that beyond that point mistakes would not be tolerated. He took a deep breath and followed the stocky servant into the house, waiting once more as the outer door was closed and locked. In the dimness of the hall he stared about, his senses straining for some hint of Jadzia’s presence; other than the faint odor of some forgotten perfume, he could not note it.

There was the sound of a throat being cleared behind him; he turned and found himself facing a revolver held like a rock in the servant’s hand. For an instant a chill swept through his rigid composure. Betrayal? But there was nothing in the calm mien of the servant to indicate anything but duty being performed in a routine manner. The chill passed as quickly as it had come. Huuygens’s jaw tightened; his voice indicated his disapproval.

“And just what is that thing supposed to be for?”

Hans was not in the least perturbed either by the question or the tone of growing anger; nor did the revolver waver for an instant. “You will pardon me,” he said in very guttural and Teutonic-sounding French, “but I’m afraid I must ask you to submit to a search.”

“A search?” The mercurial eyebrows rose in honest surprise. “What on earth for?”

“For weapons.” The servant’s voice was even, reciting a litany, obviously not for the first time. They must have some interesting gatherings here, Kek thought. Check your guns at the door. “Senhor Echavarria has many valuable things in the house. I have been told who you are, and also that you are expected, but still...” Hans made no attempt to sound apologetic, or even greatly interested. “It is the rule.”

Kek shrugged and raised his arms; his attitude seemed to say that he never carried weapons, and any fool with half an eye should be able to recognize the fact. The servant studied the athletic figure a moment, and then changed the routine.

“If you would just lean against the wall, please. With your feet back just a bit. Lean with both hands, please...”

It must take a long time to get guests to the table if they go through this all the time, Kek thought, but nonetheless followed his instructions. In his lifetime he had been subjected to greater inconveniences than mere searches, and he was far from unfamiliar with those. A weird thought crossed his mind: if Jadzia were to enter at that moment, would she find the scene comical? Or merely normal, like the delivery of the milk?

Hans completed his inspection and stepped back, pocketing the revolver in the same movement. Huuygens shrugged his jacket back into place, tugged his shirt-sleeves to a more comfortable position, and studied the stocky servant a bit sardonically.

“If you are quite finished...”

“Sorry, sir.” Hans turned smartly and led the way to the library, quite as if there had been no interlude in the hallway at all. He announced Huuygens to the man within and then withdrew, the perfect servant, closing the door firmly behind him. Which makes three closed doors, two of them locked, Kek thought, and smiled grimly to himself. Well, we never did figure on getting out of here à la Douglas Fairbanks, anyway; we always intended to use brains rather than brawn. Let’s not forget it.

The man coming toward him was dressed in a velvet smoking jacket and had his hand outstretched, almost as if it were a sword being held up to run him through. Kek tried to view him dispassionately, and found it quite easy. He’s only a client, he said to himself. He’s not Gruber at all. Gruber doesn’t exist. Net yet...

“My dear M’sieu Huuygens,” the thin man said in a pleased tone of voice. “I am most happy to meet you. Most happy indeed!” Huuygens found his hand being pumped enthusiastically, and then released; the hand transferred itself to his elbow, guiding him cordially to a wide divan against one wall. “Please be seated. Would you like a drink?”

How the man ever expects anyone to believe the ridiculous fiction of his being Spanish, with that guttural accent, heaven alone knows, Huuygens thought, and smiled faintly. At least the monster is polite; he offered me a drink, and he was kind enough not to refer to his servant’s habit of holding guns on people.

“Yes, I would. Thank you,” he said, and sank down on the comfortable cushions.

“Whiskey or cognac?”

“Cognac, please,” Huuygens said cordially, and watched the tall, thin man march to a cabinet in one corner, open it, and pour two measured doses into glasses. The care with which the amounts were calculated indicated quite clearly to the seated man that Gruber wished to be certain his hospitality was sufficiently generous, without taking any chance that heads would not be clear once their discussion began. Teutonic thoroughness, Kek thought, and studied the figure of the man he had hated so many years. No, now that he’s actually before me, he doesn’t disturb me at all. Possibly because he has ceased to be a person. Now he’s just a symbol, a thing to be punished.

Gruber returned, handed him his glass, and sank down in a chair to one side. He raised his glass. “Salud.”

“Salud.”

They sipped, and then Gruber leaned back, his green eyes bright as he studied the calm figure before him. “You have quite a reputation, M’sieu Huuygens.”

Huuygens acknowledged the implied compliment with a polite tip of his head. “Thank you.”

“And yet you seem younger than I would have thought.”

Huuygens shrugged lightly. “Youth, m’sieu, is a relative thing.” Whatever that means, he thought to himself, and grinned inwardly. An idiotic statement, to be sure, but no more idiotic than his. He drank a bit of his cognac and waited.

“Yes,” Gruber said absently, and set aside his glass, leaning forward. “M’sieu Huuygens, I have checked on you thoroughly — or, to be perfectly honest — as thoroughly as I could. I don’t want to waste any more of your time than is necessary, I’m sure you are a busy man. Still...” He hesitated.

“Yes?”

The green eyes came up. “Well, I’m just not sure that you are the man I need.” He paused a moment and then went on. “May I ask you a question that you may think impertinent?”

Huuygens waved a hand. “My feelings, m’sieu, are rather calloused.”

“Good. I mean—” Gruber let it pass in favor of more important things “—M’sieu Huuygens, what is the largest thing you have been able to bring through customs undetected?” He hurried on, as if anxious not to be misunderstood. “I’m not attempting to query you on your methods, but I’m sure it is fairly easy to bring in — in — well, small things. Concealed. I’ve read...”

Huuygens shook his head sadly. “M’sieu. If you wish something taken from Lisbon concealed on my person, I suggest we are wasting time. And that my trip has been an unfortunate error. Each time I pass through a customs gate, they search me completely. Completely!” He set aside his glass and came to his feet with dignity. “It would be much simpler for you to carry the item yourself. I thought—”

Gruber stared up at him and shook his head. “M’sieu Huuygens, please be seated.”

“I thought—” Huuygens continued, as if he had not been interrupted, “—that you wished something substantial handled.”

“But I do!” Gruber contained himself with an effort. “Which is precisely why I asked you—”

“What the largest thing was that I ever brought through customs?” Huuygens smiled faintly in remembrance, studied his client’s face a moment, and then slowly reseated himself, picking up his glass of cognac. “Actually — although I trust m’sieu not to mention it widely — it was an elephant.”

“An elephant!” From the tightening of the lips and the cold look that appeared in Gruber’s eyes, it was evident he thought he was being made a fool of. “M’sieu, I am being serious!”

“And so am I,” Huuygens said equably, and smiled gently. “You see, M’sieu Echavarria, there are many ways to bring things through customs. One is, as you suggested, to hide it on one’s person.” His tone clearly indicated that he did not think much of this method. “Another, of course, is through the use of misdirection of one type or another. For example, to hide one object in a larger object, and in this way to...”

Gruber stared at him. “But what’s larger than an elephant?”

“A circus,” Huuygens said simply, and drained his glass. He placed it on the table next to him with an air of finality, tenting his fingers, watching his host.

Gruber seemed to be studying the answer, and then he smiled. He raised his glass, tossed off his drink, and also put his glass aside.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe we can do business.” He paused, as if to formulate his thoughts in words that would be least incriminating, took a deep breath, and then plunged directly to the heart of the matter. “Some years ago, m’sieu, I... well, I was fortunate enough to inherit certain paintings which, until now, I have been able to keep simply for my own pleasure.” He spread his hands in a gesture calculated to inspire sympathy and smiled sadly. “Now, unfortunately, conditions have changed, and I find myself forced to sell them...”

For a moment Huuygens experienced a sudden sense of unreality. The statement had been so exactly the one he had projected when he first thought of how to be invited to Lisbon, that he had the momentary feeling of living the moment a second time. He thrust the thought aside, forcing his mind to concentrate on Gruber’s words.

“Ah?”

“Yes. I—” Gruber paused, studied his guest’s face, and found only a look of polite interest “—yes. However, m’sieu, my problem is a bit complicated. To begin with, in Portugal at present, it is most difficult to find a proper customer. It’s a small country, and money is rather tight. However, in South America I have certain old friends who, I am convinced, could lead me to dealers or even wealthy collectors who would be willing to pay a decent price. My particular problem...” His voice trailed off; he watched Huuygens encouragingly.

Huuygens nodded. “Your particular problem,” he said evenly, “is to get these paintings into South America without being disturbed by customs.” His eyes were steady on Gruber’s face. “And my specialty, of course, is arranging just such accommodations. May I ask what country in South America you were considering?”

For a moment the tall, thin man hesitated; then he shrugged. It was obvious that the destination had to be revealed sooner or later. He took a deep breath. “Brazil.”

Huuygens nodded, as if pleased. “Good.”

“Why good?”

“Because Brazil is blessed with at least six ports of call other than the major ones of Rio and Santos.” His tone clearly indicated that he was revealing no secrets. “For anything as bulky as paintings, I would not care to use planes. They can fall down, or — even worse — arrive and be searched. Ships are much better, especially in a small port.” His voice was almost pedantic. “Venezuela is much more limited in ports, as are Uruguay and even Argentina...” He paused and looked at his host with curiosity a moment before continuing.

“However, Brazil is also blessed — if that is the proper word — with a customs service that is often venal. Bribable. So why...?” He spread his hands.

Gruber understood. “So why have I gone to the trouble of contacting M’sieu Huuygens?”

“Exactly.”

The thin German studied the strong face before him. This Huuygens was no fool, that was evident. But there was no reason why he should be taken into confidence on all things, or why he should be told that the bribing of customs officials had led to two cases of blackmail that he knew of, and to one case of arrest and extradition. And while he would have to be told that he, Gruber, expected to leave the country also, there was no reason for him to know the departure was one he intended to accomplish without the knowledge of his friends in the police or the government. Too many of those friends might resent the sudden loss of their extra income, might even get nasty about it.

“Because,” Gruber said smoothly, “I prefer it that way. In any event, I’m prepared to pay to have it done that way. Say I’m opposed to bribery on principal...” He smiled coldly. “The question is, are you interested in helping me solve my problem?”

Huuygens shrugged delicately. “M’sieu, for a price, one is always interested.”

“Ah! And the price would be?”

Kek looked at him evenly. “I would have to see the paintings first.”

Gruber shook his head. “I’m afraid that would not be possible, m’sieu. Once we have a deal, fine. Until then, no.”

Huuygens nodded slowly, as if recognizing the merit of the statement. His eyes came up. “In that case, m’sieu, my price will be ten thousand dollars.”

Gruber sat more erect. “Ten thousand—”

“Dollars, m’sieu. Not escudos, nor francs. United States dollars. Payable one half in advance, and the balance when the goods are delivered at destination.”

Gruber shook his head in grudging admiration. “You don’t work cheaply, do you?” He came to his feet, striding up and down the dim room, his hands clasped behind his back. He came back and stared down at the man on the divan. “Ten thousand when the paintings have been sold,” he said, and then conceded a point. “If you insist, one thousand as an advance now, and the balance when the paintings have been sold.”

Huuygens shook his head, but inside he was grinning almost ferociously. My dear Gruber, he said to himself, don’t be so worried. We’ll come to terms, but allow me to bargain first. It’s what you obviously expect. You would undoubtedly become suspicious if I accepted your ridiculous offer.

“M’sieu Echavarria, I know nothing of the value of your paintings, or — if you will pardon me — whether you can find a market for them once they are inside Brazil.” He shrugged. “You can scarcely expect me to take a chance that I might not be paid.”

“On the other hand,” Gruber pointed out, “I know nothing of your ability even to get the paintings out of Portugal.” He imitated Kek’s shrug exactly. “You can hardly hope for an advance that large without my seeing any evidence that you can succeed.”

Huuygens appeared to be giving some thought to the possible justice of Gruber’s point of view. His strong fingers drummed on the arms of the divan as he considered the problem, frowning. At last he looked up.

“Well, then, m’sieu, suppose we overlook the advance. Five thousand dollars when the paintings are safely out of Portugal, and the balance when they are safely inside Brazil.” He raised a finger. “But not dependent on their sale, merely their delivery.”

For several seconds Gruber considered him; there was something in the other’s attitude that seemed to say that bargaining was over. He nodded suddenly, and thrust out his hand.

“Fair enough.” One brief up-and-down motion and Gruber smiled. It was rather a malicious smile. “One more thing, M’sieu Huuygens. My wife was rather worried about trusting you, and I told her I thought I knew how to guarantee it, at least in our case.” His smile remained rigid. “In making your plans, there is one further fact you must take into account. I wish the details arranged in such a manner that at no time are the paintings physically out of my sight. That is an essential condition.”

Huuygens stared at him; the mercurial eyebrows went up. “I beg your pardon?”

“No excuses, please.” Gruber’s voice had suddenly become hard. “That is an absolute essential. It isn’t that I distrust you, or the means you plan to employ, but there is far too much at stake here for me to take the slightest chance.”

“You plan, then, on traveling on the same ship?”

“Yes.”

Huuygens frowned. “As a general rule, my efforts are expended in getting things through customs. Not people.” His frown changed into a sudden smile as a thought struck him. “Other than myself, of course.”

Gruber was not amused. “Well?”

“Do you have your passport? Because I’m afraid I’m not a forger.”

“I have my passport.”

“And a valid visa for Brazil?”

Gruber nodded. “Yes. We both have.”

“Both? Ah, yes — your wife. She travels with you, then?”

“Yes. If we come to an agreement, you will have an opportunity to meet her.”

But not in your presence, Huuygens thought. Because the shock of that meeting for Jadzia could lead to anything from denouncement on the spot to inadvertent betrayal. Well, where and when he would meet Jadzia was something that would have to be worked out. He looked up.

“And Hans? Your servant?”

“No. He stays here.” Gruber was becoming a trifle impatient. “Well, m’sieu?”

Huuygens refused to be rushed. “You realize that you’re making the problem much more complicated?”

The thin man smiled sardonically. “But not impossible, I’m sure. Not for the famous M’sieu Huuygens. And certainly not for the extremely large fee he is demanding.”

“Plus expenses,” Huuygens added, almost idly.

“Expenses?”

“I hadn’t planned on an ocean trip.” Kek smiled apologetically. “As you said, m’sieu, it isn’t a question of mistrust, but only one of sound business practice. The time involved is an unfortunate loss, but...” He shrugged lightly. “The rest will do me good. And I haven’t been to Brazil for years.”

Gruber studied him. “We’re agreed, then?”

“We’re agreed.”

“Good.” The thin man smiled, pleased. “I was certain we would make an arrangement. And now that that’s settled, if you would care to see the... ah, the merchandise?”

Huuygens rose to his feet with that hesitancy of one waiting to be shown something. Gruber walked across the room with his military strut and drew aside the tapestry that hung on the opposite wall; its absence revealed a small door set in the side of the room. A combination of two keys was required to open the two locks; the thin man flicked on a light and stepped aside, allowing Kek to enter. The gray eyes surveyed the room carefully; it had apparently been a serving pantry of some sort when Gruber had first obtained the house, but now it was a vault. The walls had been lined with steel, as well as the ceiling, and Huuygens was sure that under the soft carpet on which he was standing the floor had been similarly equipped. He glanced up. One small vent located at the juncture of a wall and the ceiling provided fresh air from some outside source; from the rising whine of a concealed motor, he suspected the fan was activated when the door was opened.

“Well?” Gruber was looking about in evident pride.

Kek stepped forward. Hung on every available square inch of wall space were framed pictures. There was a small wooden table set in the center of the room, but there was still ample space to study the collection properly.

Gruber chuckled in self-congratulation.

“You should feel honored. You’re the first person ever to see this room — other than my wife, of course. Hans and I did all the work ourselves.”

Huuygens nodded politely, stepped to the first painting, and then felt a tingle at the base of his scalp. Could it be, despite the cordiality of their entente, that Gruber had only been playing with him? He moved to the second, and then to the third, his nerves becoming more tense with each picture. Certainly it was possible; because the paintings he was studying were a series of poor copies produced by obviously second-rate students. His eyes narrowed slightly. Could the German honestly believe he had a fortune in his hands, if only these pictures could be sold, or was he standing behind him now, waiting with that cruel smile of his for Huuygens to betray himself?

He turned slowly, every nerve on edge, and knew at once that it had been no trap. The tall, thin man was staring at the mounted pictures with such pride, such rapture, such avarice, that Huuygens felt his alarm disappear, to be replaced with a stab of contempt. You poor animal! he thought. Is this what you have guarded all these years? Is this trash the legacy you brought from your career of murdering and torturing? Is this the future you have been dreaming of? Living on the proceeds of what these miserable daubs will bring?

A wild desire to chortle almost overwhelmed him; he forced it down, willing himself to composure, walking slowly from picture to picture, pretending to study them, to admire them. A second thought came without volition: poor Jadzia! She should have spent more time listening to the discussions on art between Stefan and himself and less in worrying about her most recent gown! He completed his tour of the small room to find Gruber watching him closely.

“Well? What do you think?”

Huuygens shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m no art expert. Their value—”

“I don’t mean that,” Gruber said impatiently. “I realize that art isn’t your field. I mean, now that you’ve seen what I want brought into Brazil, can you handle it?”

“Are these all?”

“Yes. No!” Gruber turned to the table in the center of the room. He slid open a drawer, reached within, and brought out a small envelope. “There are also these.”

He opened the envelope and tossed the contents out onto the table top. For a moment the desire to laugh came back to Huuygens; from his position they appeared at first like an assemblage of postcards. In addition to the garbage on the wall, he thought, what else do you want smuggled into Brazil? French postcards? He came forward, bent over the desk, and then froze in almost uncontrollable shock. Despite his iron control he felt a tremor of excitement shoot through him, felt his mouth grow tight with tension.

What he was observing was a series of small rectangles of vellum, bright with color. For the first time since he had left Poland, he was looking at the famous Hochmann collection of miniatures! It was not possible; they had been destroyed! He closed his eyes a moment and then opened them avidly, staring down. The most famous, the most valuable collection of miniature paintings in the world, here! Locked in a drawer in a small room that housed the world’s worst copies! He clenched his jaw, tried to breathe deeply without being noticeable, but his eyes were still slightly dazed as he looked around. Gruber, fortunately, was paying him no attention. Instead, he was smiling down at the tiny rectangles much as one will smile at children playing in the park.

“Rather pretty, aren’t they?” He turned around. By this time Huuygens had managed an expression of polite interest. “I thought of taking them with me in my luggage, but since you’re handling the rest, you might as well include these.”

Kek tipped his head. “If you wish.”

“Good. Can you handle the... the affair?”

“I should think so. Yes.”

“Fine! And just how long do you think it will take to make your arrangements?”

Huuygens considered the question. “It’s rather difficult to say. I shall have to arrange a tourist’s visa to Brazil, of course...” His eyes went to the pictures on the wall again; he stepped forward, measured the largest against the length of his outstretched arm, and then nodded as he mentally recorded the dimension. He turned, adjusting his cuff. “There are several ways it can be done, of course, our job is to find the best. And most foolproof.”

Gruber was watching him with interest. “And that will be?”

Huuygens smiled faintly. “The one that will best assure success,” he said dryly.

Gruber grinned; his teeth gleamed. He seemed to like the answer. “Good enough. And where are you staying?”

“At the Ouro Vermelho. It’s a hotel on a small park, in the Rua Sidónia Pais.”

“I know where it is.” Gruber nodded and led the way from the room. He flicked off the light, locked the room carefully, and then arranged the tapestry to cover the door. He walked Huuygens to the door of the library, holding him lightly by the arm. “A pleasure, M’sieu Huuygens. Hans will get you a taxi. I suggest we keep in touch by telephone from now on — you have the number.” He smiled knowingly. “The fewer visits you make here, the better.”

Huuygens nodded his agreement, and then paused. “Your telephone — is it tapped?”

“No. Or at least I don’t think so.” Gruber seemed to think about it. “No. I’m quite sure it isn’t.” He shrugged. “Still, I suggest that m’sieu be circumspect.”

Huuygens nodded; the thin hand emerged from the smoking-jacket sleeve, shook his with the same pump-handle motion, and then withdrew. He was not surprised to see Hans waiting politely and patiently beyond the threshold in the hallway.

“Your taxi will be here in a moment, m’sieu.”

“Thank you.” Obviously, this was no place in which to voice any hidden secrets; only a most efficient microphone system could assure such unusual rapport between master and servant. He turned to bid his host adieu, but the library door was already closing. For a moment his eyes went the length of the hall, searching for some hint that Jadzia also lived in the dim house, but the walls of the corridor retained their impersonal rigidity.

“M’sieu?” Hans still sounded polite, but slightly less patient.

“Coming, dear,” Kek said in English, smiled pleasantly at the puzzled look on Hans’s face, and followed him casually down the hall. Step Three? No, not quite. But, at least, Step Two-and-a-half...

10

From the depths of the easy chair, feet comfortably sprawled before him, a thoughtful Kek Huuygens stared with slitted eyes through a cloud of cigarette smoke across the park that faced his hotel, not seeing the wooded hills in the distance, but rather the high glass case in the library of the Hochmann mansion, and the famous collection of miniatures that it protected.

When had he first seen that fantastic collection? He had, of course, glimpsed it when he had come home with Stefan that first time, although the important thing that remained with him from that first visit had been his meeting with Jadzia. He had not seen the collection to appreciate it truly until possibly a year later, when his second-year art class had obtained permission for a special trip to the estate, and their elderly professor had stood in silent admiration for several seconds before turning and delivering them a lecture on miniature paintings in general, and the exquisite Hochmann collection in particular.

He could still hear the dry, pedantic voice with its poorly concealed undertone of excitement. “Miniature paintings, gentlemen—” there had been a slight pause “—and ladies...”

Stefan’s sister, Jadzia, had come into the room and was standing quietly to one side, her large green eyes fixed upon him. He grinned at her and winked, feeling that warm, happy feeling of young love. My God, but his Jadzia was beautiful! She made a slight moue and tipped her head pertly, a signal that she would meet him as soon as he was free, in the summerhouse overlooking the lake. There was the slightest pursing of her lips in an indication of a kiss, and then she had left the room as silently as she had entered. He stared after her, marveling at his great fortune in being loved in return by anyone as wonderful as she, and then suddenly became aware that a dead silence had fallen in the room, broken at that moment by the professor speaking his name.

“With the kind permission of Mr. Janeczek,” the dry voice was saying with a sarcasm remembered all too well from the classroom, “possibly we might continue...”

He remembered turning red, trying to smother a cough, and then forcing himself to concentrate on the lecture. The professor had smiled, a surprisingly human smile for that terror of the classroom, and had then turned his attention back to the collection.

“Yes, gentlemen, this collection is quite unique, and therefore quite priceless. To begin with, many — if not most — of the great artists of history have, at one time or another, delighted in demonstrating their extreme control of their media by producing miniatures — paintings complete in all detail, with all color and warmth, all richness and depth, yet on a scale so small that in many cases the full beauty of the work cannot be seen without the aid of a magnifying glass. Miniature painting dates back as far as the Romans, and was a highly developed art form in the Orient at an early date. Before the sixteenth century, Persian, Indian, and Turkish artists were producing delicate, stylized miniatures. In fact, many of these artists bred cats, since only the throat hairs of two-month-old kittens were considered fine enough for their brushes...”

He remembered shifting from one foot to another. Jadzia at this moment was undoubtedly scolding the steward to be sure the wine was at the proper temperature, seeing to it that the arrangements for their meeting were handled to her satisfaction. What a wife she’ll make! he thought. And then, later, in the summerhouse, when the maid had taken away the demitasse cups, Jadzia’s deep green eyes would be serious with love, probing his, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her other hand carrying his to the warm curve of her breast... He shut the scene from him, forcing himself to concentrate on the lecture.

“Hans Holbein the Younger was probably the first important representative of the art in Europe, and he was shortly followed by Clouet in France, and then by Hilliard and Isaac in England. And others, many others. Still, gentlemen, despite the fact that the art was widely practiced, this collection is absolutely unique...”

He remembered how the professor had paused, his eyes gleaming, before continuing:

“And why is it so unusual, gentlemen? And therefore so valuable? Because, to begin with, miniatures were generally portraits, while, as you can see, the pictures you are now viewing are all landscapes, which were rarely painted in miniature form. Secondly, although the surfaces used for miniatures in those days varied from ivory to metal to — yes, gentlemen — even stretched chicken-skin, the examples you are privileged to see are all limited to one material — parchment. And lastly, while the Persians and others even called a painting as large as a book page a miniature, you will note that none of the paintings here is greater in size than two by four inches...”

The professor had paused, triumphant, almost as if he personally were somehow responsible for the existence of the collection simply because he had brought it to their attention.

That was the Hochmann collection — and what had happened to it? He crushed out his cigarette and lit another immediately. In Paris he had heard that the Hochmann mansion had been bombed, destroyed. The Oberfuehrer had escaped death, and the Hochmann family had also been spared; they had been away from the house. At the time his relief in knowing that Jadzia had not been harmed had overshadowed all else. He had assumed, in common with others, that the collection had gone up in smoke, together with the thousands of books and the valuable china and the hand-carved furniture and all else, including the new refrigerator...

And now the miniatures were here in Lisbon, part of a package Gruber intended him to take through the customs of both Portugal and Brazil. Where Gruber had managed to get that other assortment of framed garbage, God alone knew! Certainly not from the walls of the Hochmann mansion; the old count would not have given the best of them storage space in the coal cellar. And Gruber, obviously, had no notion of their worthlessness.

This thought led to another. It was possible, therefore, that Gruber also had no idea of the true value of the miniatures; certainly he had treated them casually enough. Though Jadzia surely should know; she was raised with them. Ah, well, he thought, a minor mystery and not of great importance.

He frowned slightly. Ten thousand dollars to get the paintings out of one country and into another... With canvases that numerous and that large, it posed an interesting problem. He crushed out his cigarette and leaned back, closing his eyes, one hand coming up to tug at his earlobe. It was a pretty puzzle, and the solution this time had to satisfy more than the requirements of a client. It had also to satisfy him.

The telephone beside him buzzed quietly. His eyes came open; he frowned as he reached for the instrument. Who could be calling? André? Michel?

“Yes? Hello?”

“M’sieu Huuygens?”

He felt a sudden tightening of his nerves; an almost visceral chill. His large hand clenched the smooth plastic more tightly. How could he ever have thought he had forgotten that throaty, intriguing voice? Or that he would ever be impervious to it?

“Yes, this is M’sieu Huuygens.”

“M’sieu Huuygens, this is Senhora Echavarria. I have spoken with my husband, and he has told me of your conversation, and your — your arrangement. I...” There was a momentary pause, but it was not one of embarrassment; her tone still retained the old note of command. Even her accent is the same, he thought; it had never changed from those ancient days when she was studying her academy French in Warsaw.

“Yes?”

She continued evenly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you met my husband. I feel I should like to meet you personally before you — before you consider the arrangements final.”

Kek tried to analyze his reactions dispassionately. You knew this was going to happen when you started this business, he said to himself; be honest. You not only knew it; you wanted it. You hoped for it. Well, here it is. Admit that it was as much to see Jadzia as it was to punish Gruber that you came here in the first place. He took a deep breath.

“I quite understand, Senhora. At your convenience.”

“I’m in the lobby of the hotel. If I might come up?”

“Of course.”

There was a click as the telephone was disconnected; he hung up slowly and came to his feet. His jacket was lying on the bed; he slipped into it and unconsciously passed his hand over his thick hair and then brought it down to straighten his necktie. He walked to the window and stared down. A small beige sports convertible stood at the curb before the hotel — where none had stood when he had returned; he was suddenly sure it belonged to Jadzia. It was just the type of car she would want: fast, exaggeratedly modern without being openly ostentatious, and undoubtedly quite expensive. He grinned impetuously and felt a certain relief from his tenseness because of it. Let’s not be ungentlemanly, he said to himself; it’s also the type of car you prefer yourself.

There was a rap at the door; he swung about, his back to the light of the window, his voice raised slightly, but noncommittal in a manner he was far from feeling. “Come in.”

The knob turned; the door swung back. He tried to study the woman in the opening dispassionately, but despite the effort he felt his pulse begin to beat faster. She looks so much the same! he thought. The wind had ruffled her black hair a bit; it made her look as she had when she was coming in from a brisk canter, wheeling her horse to a stop before the stables back in Poland. She was dressed in a light sports suit, with an open jacket over a low-cut blouse; the curve of the breast represented complete fulfillment of that early promise. Her stomach was flat, her legs long and beautiful. Yes, Jadzia, he said to himself, I knew you would only change to improve. The fact, somehow, seemed to please him.

“M’sieu Huuygens?”

“Yes, Senhora.”

She closed the door behind her and moved forward; even in that short space he could see the boyish stride of old had been replaced by the natural grace of a mature woman. She paused before him, opened her mouth to speak, and then slowly closed it. Her air of polite indifference disappeared, followed first by a questioning look of bewilderment, and then almost instantly by shock, and then by fear. It was the fear of an animal caught in a trap, a trap unfairly placed. Her eyes widened; one hand rose swiftly to her throat, as if for protection.

“Mietek!”

“Hello, Jadzia.” His voice, to his own surprise, was even and gentle.

She stared at him a moment longer, as a bird stares at a snake that both fascinates and repels it, and then turned, her eyes searching the room desperately. They came back to him, attempting to understand the reason for his presence here, trying to recover from the shock of seeing him.

“Where is M’sieu Huuygens?”

“I’m Kek Huuygens.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“It’s the truth, Jadzia.” His voice remained gentle, convincing. “I’ve been Kek Huuygens since the war. Since I left Warsaw, as a matter of fact.”

“You’ve been Kek...”

He reached out, taking her hand; it was cold. She allowed it to lay impassively in his for a moment, and then suddenly her fingers tightened convulsively and without volition. Her eyes widened and then closed as a spasm of pain crossed her face. Kek could almost see her mind racing. Had she, by coming here, unwittingly betrayed the fact that Echavarria was Gruber? Would he, Huuygens, have known otherwise? Had she, by inserting herself into the affair, threatened the entire scheme with disaster? Her eyes finally opened, deep, dark green pools of fright, staring into his, trying to calculate the damage she had done, attempting to assess her own guilt.

“Sit down, Jadzia.”

She sank to the bed obediently; he seated himself across from her in a chair, bending forward, still holding her hand. Her eyes continued to search his face, seeking relief from her thoughts.

Her voice was low. “You knew, didn’t you? You recognized him.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I recognized him.”

“You would,” she said, and there was grudging admiration in her voice. “You’ve never seen him in your life, but you would. I think I always knew you would.” She closed her eyes and then opened them at once, as if she would be too vulnerable without his face before her. There were several moments of silence before she spoke again. “What are you going to do?”

He studied her white face. “What do you want me to do?”

Her eyes clouded with fear of a trap again, and all the terrors such a trap would mean. She bit her lip, fighting desperately to retain her normal position of attack, searching for cogent arguments. One came; it was weak, but all she could summon at the moment.

“I could tell him who you are,” she said. “You would never get back into that house again. We could be gone before you could get back in...” She wished he would exhibit some trace of emotion, some indication of his intentions. “He has many friends here; in the police, in the government. He could make trouble for you. More than trouble — he could see that real harm came to you...”

He nodded in quiet agreement. “Yes. If you told him, he could do that.”

She stared at him in confusion. Where was the boy who once had this same face, only younger; the boy she could mold to her slightest whim? Could it possibly be the same strong man she was facing now? She shook her head slowly. “You’ve changed, Mietek.”

“Kek,” he corrected her quietly. “Kek Huuygens. There is no Mietek Janeczek. He died in Warsaw. Together with his parents. And his sister.”

She stared at him. “And with me?”

“I don’t know,” he said evenly, emotionlessly. “I honestly don’t know.”

Her fear slowly receded; under that rigid façade, he was still Mietek Janeczek, and she was still Jadzia Hochmann. She could still mold him. Her voice became soft. “What happened to us, Mietek?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and stared down at her soft hand. “I often wondered how I would feel if we ever met. And I often thought that if we did, I’d ask you what happened to us.”

“You wanted to ask me why I did what I did. Why I married Willi...” It was odd, but even now, under these circumstances, she could still manage to sound faintly accusing, as if it were somehow at least partially his fault. “Isn’t that what you wanted to ask?”

“No.” It was a lie and it sounded like one. He tried to shrug, bringing his eyes up, studying the perfect symmetry of her oval face, the full lips, the lovely curve of her throat. “It was a long time ago, Jadzia. We were children then.”

She shook her head stubbornly, unwilling to let the answer pass, subconsciously aware that only the full truth — or at least the semblance of full truth — could gain her her ends.

“We weren’t that much of children. I’ll tell you why I did what I did. I thought the war was going to be over in a matter of months. I thought Germany was going to win. And I thought—” her eyes were studying him, trying to gauge his reactions “—I thought, after your parents... I thought I’d never see you again.” She shook her head slowly. “I also thought that if I married Willi, possibly things would be better, easier, for Stefan...”

“For Stefan?”

“Yes. He wanted an officer’s commission. He wanted recognition for everything we — he, that is — had done for them.” She shrugged. “He was a fool. He should have known better. Once anyone has what they want from you, they throw you out. He’s dead, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“He died a long time ago. The underground killed him.” She didn’t even sound interested. “If they ever find me, they’ll kill me too. They still have my name on the list, even after all these years. That’s why...” She stopped.

“Why you’re still with Gruber?”

She seemed to like the question. “Yes. Here in Lisbon. Trapped here in Lisbon—”

“Trapped? Do you mean by me?”

A bitter smile crossed her face. She pulled her hand from his and unconsciously smoothed her skirt. “By everything. By not being able to leave this country without—” the thought automatically led to another; she looked at him curiously, almost calculatingly “—Kek Huuygens... so you really are Kek Huuygens... I read the reports the police gave Willi on you. Did you really do all the things they say you did?”

He smiled faintly. “I don’t know what they say I did.”

“They say you have no nerves. They say you can...” She paused a moment, and then plunged directly to the heart of her problem; it was as if she could not help herself. “The paintings; you saw them this morning. They’re all we — I, have, Mietek. If they can’t be brought safely out of Portugal into Brazil—”

“What about the miniatures?”

“The miniatures?” She looked confused by the change in subject. “Do you mean the miniatures we had at home? Papa’s collection?” She shook her head. “Those were destroyed. Years ago, early in the war. The whole house was destroyed.”

She’s telling the truth as she sees it, Kek suddenly thought. She doesn’t know. Did Gruber keep them a secret from her purposely? Or does he actually think they aren’t that important?

She was looking at him curiously. “What made you ask about them?”

He shrugged. “Only that they were valuable.”

She nodded. “I know. Willi says the other paintings are valuable, too. He got them in various places; he was always bringing one or two back from places he visited. He says that in Brazil...” She stopped suddenly, and then stared at Kek. “You hate him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“But it was the war, don’t you see? It was the war. In a war people kill other people, it doesn’t mean...” She saw the look in his eyes and suddenly remembered his parents. She stopped and took a deep breath. “May I have a brandy, please?”

He looked at her in surprise. “Of course.”

“And a cigarette, please.”

He reached around, poured a drink, and handed it to her, then held a match as she drew on the cigarette. She drained the drink quickly, as if it were medicine, and then puffed nervously on the cigarette a few moments before crushing it out in an ashtray. She kept her head averted as she asked her next question. Her voice was low.

“You hate me, too. Don’t you?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I’ve never hated you.”

“I’m glad.”

There was a brief light in her eyes that disappeared as quickly as it had come. She stared down at the rug a moment and then raised her eyes, intent on his understanding the importance of her plight.

“Mietek, I have to get out of Portugal. I can’t stand it any more. Those paintings — what they represent — are my only hope. If there’s any trouble, if you do anything foolish now, and the police are involved in any way, it would ruin everything.” She waited for him to speak, and then went on with a touch of bitterness.

“You don’t know what it is to be in a place you hate, a place you hate because it’s like a dungeon you can’t leave. Oh, yes, I have a car, and I leave the house — I have to or I’d go mad — but do you know how far I’ve been from the house since I’ve been here? Not even to Estoril! I go out shopping, or I drive around the park sometimes, but that’s all. This is the second time in over eight years I’ve ever been in the center of the city.” She shrugged. “Even Willi goes out sometimes in his car — he’s afraid that mine would draw unwelcome attention to him. At night, he drives around the park, looking down on the city, and then comes home to hide.”

Her eyes were brooding; she leaned forward, staring at him. “And the people we see; we talk to? We occasionally eat with? Only people who are safe. Policemen that don’t dare say a word, or they’ll lose what Willi gives them to keep quiet. Government officials who pretend they’re in sympathy, but really laugh at us, I think, while they take all they can get. And their fat wives—”

“And Hans.”

“And Hans. He was a sergeant major, would you know it?” She shook her head. “And even Hans only stays because the cars will be his to sell, once we leave. His name is on the list, too...”

She reached for his hand again; the brandy seemed to have warmed her, to have brought some life back into her. She gripped his hand strongly, the fingers of one hand stroking the back of his; she bent toward him, her perfume suddenly heady.

“Mietek — you’ve got to help me. You’re the only one that can. Those paintings are my only hope, they’ve got to get into Brazil safely. Do you understand?” She watched him carefully, and then continued, speaking slowly. “Willi isn’t the only one who knows the people in Brazil who will buy them. I also know who they are and where they are. I also know how to contact them...”

He studied her almost clinically. “Do I understand you? You mean, get them into Brazil, with or without Willi?”

“Yes.” Her voice was emotionless; only the brightness of her eyes betrayed her tenseness. “Yes. With or without Willi...”

He leaned back, his gray eyes half closed. “I see.”

“I knew you would...” She bent forward suddenly, drawing him toward her, pressing her lips on his mouth lightly at first, but then with mounting pressure. Her lips opened; her sharp teeth bit down softly on his lip, and then she pushed him away, coming to her feet quickly, purposefully. She stripped her jacket from her, and then her blouse, dropping them to the floor; her eyes were bright with excitement, fixed almost hypnotically on his. She seated herself on the bed and then allowed herself to fall back; her green eyes were almost black with emotion. Her hair spread out across the white bedspread like an opened fan, framing her lovely face.

“Mietek, come here...”

He knelt by the bed, almost unconscious of his actions, his mind blank to everything but her presence there. She drew his head to her full breasts, arching her back convulsively as his lips touched her, and then reached for his hand, pulling it with urgency to her thigh, pressing it tightly with her tense fingers.

“Touch me, Mietek; touch me, touch me...” There was a thickness in her voice, an almost drunken abandon, but there was also an underlying thread of triumph. “Oh, Mietek, Mietek, oh, my darling Mietek...”

The plan came to him in the night, almost complete in detail.

He had half wakened and turned on his side, unconsciously reaching for the warm body that had locked with his in such frenzied passion that afternoon. His hand encountered only the bare sheet; the perfume Jadzia had worn still clung sweetly to the pillow as witness that it had not been just a dream.

He rolled over, clasping his arms behind his head, staring up at a ceiling only faintly visible in the moonlight that glanced in the open window. Other than the pure animal pleasure of satiated completion that he felt, his mind was deliciously empty. And that nature which abhors a vacuum filled it at once with a plan.

It did not greatly surprise him. Ideas came to him with considerable ease, and often at unpredictable times, and he never argued with the quirk in his mental processes that made it possible. Nor did he ever explore too deeply which particular circumstance actually triggered the flow of ideas.

He knew, of course, that with this scheme he would have to be more exigent; but he also knew, almost instinctively, that the basic idea was a good one. There were obviously many details to be worked out carefully and intelligently; facts to be remembered and others to be obtained — such as the direction in which the ornate wrought-iron gate swung, and to what extent he could depend upon André. Or Michel, who might be called upon, almost certainly without his own knowledge. There was a great deal to do, but bedtime was not the time to do it, nor bed the proper place in which to do it. Especially not this bed, with its host of contradictory memories.

With or without Willi, eh? Sweet girl...

Tomorrow morning would do to start work. He nodded to himself, pleased that at last he had a working basis for the operation, and then rolled over, closing his eyes. A faint smile touched his lips as a final thought came before sleep claimed him again.

With or without Willi, eh? Hardly a choice...

11

By noon the ashtray had been filled and emptied several times into the wastebasket beneath the desk, but the brandy bottle had not been touched. The remains of several pots of coffee and three sandwiches accounted for both his breakfast and his lunch. Twice, the comely camarera had been sent away when she came to straighten out the room, and even now was petulantly sorting linens in the tiny closet at the end of the hall, wondering unhappily just what there was about her to cause the handsome gentleman in 607 to remain a gentleman.

Kek crushed out his cigarette and leaned over, studying the final list on his desk, the result of hours of untiring thought. He lit another cigarette automatically and came to his feet, moving to the window, staring down unseeingly. His mind checked each of the many steps of the plan, going over them for the tenth time or more, reviewing the timetable he had established, trying to find some fault, some chink in the unassailable and inevitable logic of the scheme. He could find none. There were always, he knew, unknown factors that cropped up unexpectedly; these would have to be dealt with at the moment, as best they could. The mark of success was nearly always the ability to handle such unknown factors smoothly and without panic. But far more important was to arrange things so that something that should have been foreseen and calculated did not suddenly appear as a surprise.

He turned back to his desk, dropping into the chair there, frowning at the list once again, and then nodded decisively. It was a good plan, with every opportunity of success, and he had studied it long enough. It was now time to put it into practice. With the feeling of relief that always came at this stage of a job, he crumpled the paper and applied a match to it, placing it in the ashtray to burn itself out, and then mixing the still-warm ashes with the matchstick.

The telephone rang; he tossed the matchstick on top of the other debris in the ashtray and reached over to pick up the receiver.

“Hello? Yes?”

“M’sieu Huuygens?” The question was obviously rhetorical, or the caller would not have continued. “This is Senhor Echavarria...” The guttural voice was without emotion. “Do you have any news?”

“News?”

“How are your plans going?”

Kek smiled faintly, staring at the still-smoking ashes. He reached out and retrieved the matchstick, stirring them a bit more. “Very well.”

“Good! And do you have any idea yet as to how long it will be until...” The voice trailed off significantly.

Huuygens closed his eyes, pictured the timetable a moment, and then reopened them. “At the moment it’s a bit difficult to say, exactly. It depends to a large degree on what I am able to accomplish today. My visa will be ready tomorrow, but there’s also the question of selecting the right — transportation...”

“Of course.”

“Still, I hope we may be able to finalize our business on Friday.”

“In four days? So soon?” The guttural voice sounded surprised.

Kek assumed a cold tone. “Time is money, m’sieu. As it is, I shall have to spend a week in travel that I had not originally calculated.”

Gruber hurried to clarify his position. “I’m not objecting to the time, I was merely rather amazed. For me, the sooner the better. Would you suggest I call you on Thursday, then? In the evening?”

“That would be fine. By then I should be able to give you the exact time.”

“Good. And now that that’s out of the way,” Gruber continued smoothly, “I might mention that my wife informs me that she met you yesterday. And seemed quite convinced that you are the ideal man for the — ah, the assignment.”

“Oh?” Kek sounded noncommittal, but he frowned, wondering what the other was leading up to.

“Yes. She also appeared to be quite attracted to you,” Gruber went on, and suddenly chuckled. The chuckle disappeared as if swallowed, replaced by the original suave tone. “Quite enthusiastic. You would have to know my wife better to realize how rare that is with her. Unfortunately...” His voice trailed off apologetically.

Kek waited a moment and then spoke. “Unfortunately what, m’sieu?”

Gruber appeared to change the subject. “From your conversation of yesterday, m’sieu, it occurs to me you are undoubtedly planning on transporting the — ah, the merchandise — on a carrier that might not have proper accommodations for a lady.” He coughed diffidently. “Also, of course, Friday is a bit sooner than we had originally thought. I’m afraid my wife will not be able to... to—”

“You mean, will not be able to accompany us?”

“Exactly! She could join me — us, that is — later. There are many things she could find to do around the house.” A further thought struck Gruber, an argument possibly even more convincing. “I also imagine it might ease your problem somewhat if fewer people were involved in your travel arrangements—”

“Changing my plans every five minutes scarcely eases my problem!” Kek made no attempt to hide his irritation. He waited a few seconds and then went on, making a concession. “However, I haven’t gotten along so far that it seriously upsets anything. If that is the way you prefer it—”

“Fine! I appreciate your cooperation, m’sieu. I honestly think it would be much better this way. For all of us. I’ll call you on Thursday, then. Until then, m’sieu...” The telephone was disconnected with a soft click.

Huuygens hung up slowly. He could almost see the other man leaning back in his chair in the dim library, a wolfish grin of satisfaction on his lips. The thought brought a similar smile to his own; the smile grew to a laugh. In his mind he mentally crossed off the first item on the list he had just burned. Thanks to Gruber, it would not be necessary for him to devise some argument to prevent Jadzia from accompanying them. That had been part of the scheme, a necessary part to clear his conscience, and Gruber — dear, jealous, stupid Gruber — had been kind enough to do it for him. He came to his feet and reached for his jacket, winking at himself grimly in the mirror as he pulled it on and walked to the door with a smile.

If our friends cooperate with me as well as our enemies, he thought, and if I handle my part of the scheme properly, this thing may work out very well indeed...

The afternoon, as he had anticipated, was a busy one. To begin with, he stopped at a stationer’s shop and bought a large pad of red-edged gummed labels, all blank, a roll of transparent tape, a metal rule, and also a small bottle of marking ink, a fine brush, several packages of tissue paper, and a plastic bag of the type used for airplane travel in which to carry the other items. After the stationer’s shop, he next visited a small job-printing house in the neighborhood, where he had the gummed labels printed to his direction. Then, almost as an afterthought, he asked the man to print him some business cards.

The legend that Kek produced for the printer to copy indicated that his name was Sr. Enrique Echavarria, and that he enjoyed the position of managing director of the Banco Internacional Económica of Madrid. The printer, a young man with far more important matters on his mind, gave no particular thought to the routine request, but set the type and went to work. Huuygens, waiting at a window and watching the traffic go by, considered with pride the name of the bank he had chosen. If there isn’t a bank with that name, he thought with an inner smile, there certainly should be; it sounds so beautifully substantial!

His next stop was at an automobile rental agency in the Avenida da Republica. The business cards he had just had printed — together with his distinguished appearance — worked their magic, and in a short while the necessary papers had been signed, a suitable deposit given, and he drove from the agency in a carefully selected sedan of demonstrated power. It was not, he realized, as flashy a car as Jadzia’s, but he was sure it would probably excite far less notice.

His next move was postponed until he was well away from the agency; had he made it there it might well have aroused curiosity. He drove into the park across from the hotel, selected a rather deserted drive, drew to the curb, and descended. He walked to the rear of the car, opened the trunk, and measured it carefully; to any passing driver he appeared to be merely a man checking his spare tire. Huuygens knew he could always exchange the car on one pretext or another if the measurements were not to his liking, but fortunately there was no need. The trunk was of a size that would serve perfectly.

There were still many things to do that day, and he got right to them. A hardware store nearby furnished him with a hammer, a box of nails, a screwdriver, and a pair of pliers. The owner of the store would have been amazed had he watched his customer once he was back in the car, because the first thing Kek did was to use the hammer and screwdriver as levers to twist the pliers until they were useless. He tried the jaws several times, failed to close them, and grinned as he tossed the tools into the plastic bag together with his stationer’s supplies.

His last chore for the day was to locate a small carpentry shop and order a packing case made to the dimensions he carried in his head. The cover, he explained to the owner, was to be made separately, and he would nail it shut once the box had been packed. The two hovered over sketches until Kek was sure the man knew exactly what he wanted; a price was established, a deposit given, and Kek left the shop with the assurance that the box would be ready by the next afternoon.

It was past six o’clock by the time he left the carpentry shop, and he drove back to the hotel with a feeling of accomplishment. It was the same good feeling he always had when a job was well under way, and the time schedule was being properly respected. He parked the car in the hotel garage and took the elevator up to his floor; even the ancient lift seemed in better spirits, or at least to Kek’s ears the usual metallic complaints were less strident.

In his room he tossed the plastic bag onto the bed, slipped out of his jacket, loosened his tie, and walked to the table before the windows. He had done a good day’s work and deserved a drink; he poured himself a stiff brandy and sank down in the easy chair, sipping it, and then glanced at his watch. Still a good hour and a half before André showed up for dinner — plenty of time to make his call to Anita.

He reached for the telephone and placed the call, leaning back idly, drawing his glass beneath his nose, appreciating the aroma. He could hear the exchange of operator-talk, and then at long last the ringing of a telephone at the other end. He frowned as the telephone continued unanswered, waited for several more rings, and then slowly depressed the lever, thinking. It was essential that he contact Anita as soon as possible, but he couldn’t leave the call in, since he had no idea where he and André would be dining. The best thing, he decided at last, would be to contact his answering service and have them keep trying Anita’s number. And have them leave a message with her to call him at midnight at the hotel.

He released the lever and placed another call for his own number in Paris. There was the usual delay; he finished his brandy and leaned back comfortably, waiting. At last he heard the number ring; the telephone was immediately picked up. His frown deepened; his answering service never responded until the fifth ring. He spoke cautiously.

“Hello?”

“M’sieu Huuygens’s residence. Who is this, please?”

Kek sat up straight in the chair. “Anita! What are you doing in my apartment?”

“Kek! It’s lovely of you to call.” She sounded delighted. “How have you been? How are things in...”

“Anita! Answer me — what are you doing in my apartment?”

“Well...” Anita paused as if arranging things in her mind so as to be perfectly accurate. “This morning I moved your desk over to the other wall — the one nearest the door, and — You know, Kek, I don’t believe that elevator man is from the police. He was very sweet. He helped me move the desk. I gave him five francs. And do you know?” Her tone became severe. “I’m sure Marie never moved that desk since you’ve been in this apartment. The dust under it!”

“Anita!”

“And I think the bar should be moved, too. I’m sure it’s absolutely filthy beneath. And it would really look better near the balcony doors. But I understand there are pipes and things to the sink...”

Kek glowered at the instrument. “Will you leave my apartment alone? I liked the desk where it was!”

“You haven’t seen it where it is now.” Anita’s tone expressed surprise at his unadventurous spirit as far as furniture location was concerned. “It looks much better. Of course, we’ll have to change some of the pictures around, but that shouldn’t be too much of a problem. I’ll try to get to that tomorrow. I’m sure that sweet old man will help me.”

Huuygens was gritting his teeth. “You keep that sweet old man out of my apartment!”

“Why, Kek! Certainly you can’t be jealous of an old man? He was a perfect gentleman today— Oh!” Anita suddenly understood. “You don’t have to worry; I was with him every minute he was here. Although I’m sure he’s not from the police. The police wouldn’t give me the keys to your apartment, would they? Besides, if he had the keys, and he was from the police, he could be in here whenever he wanted...”

Kek knew there was nothing incriminating in the apartment; there never was. “That’s not the point...”

“But,” Anita went on, the soul of cooperation, “if you wish, I can have the locks changed tomorrow.”

“Great,” Kek said in disgust. “And just how do I get in when I get back home? Because, my sweet, you are leaving there at once!”

“I can’t, Kek. I’ve already sublet my apartment to some Americans. For an absolutely marvelous price! Especially considering the stove doesn’t work too well, but I don’t suppose that will bother them. They didn’t look the type to eat in very often. I just hope they don’t use my good china, but then, if they don’t cook, they won’t really need china, will they?” She went on with scarcely a pause. “Kek, when you called, you expected your answering service to answer, didn’t you? Was there anything you wanted that I could do for you? There weren’t any messages, because I checked.”

Kek had completely forgotten the original purpose of his call. He stared at the telephone a moment and raised his shoulders. The problem of the apartment and Anita’s tenancy would have to wait.

“Yes,” he said. “As a matter of fact I was going to ask them to get in touch with you and have you call me.”

“Oh, good! Then you did think of me!”

“Yes,” he said, and smiled wryly. “I wanted you to do me a favor.”

“But of course, darling.”

He stared at the telephone in silence a moment, and then shrugged. “I have a friend, a newspaper man named Jimmy Lewis. Mark down his number.” He gave it, waited a moment, and then continued. “Do you have it? Good. Now; I promised him a story if I came across one, and I have. So I want you to call him and tell him you have a very big tip, but that you won’t be able to give it to him until tomorrow night. Is that clear?”

“Do I tell him the tip is coming from you?”

“You do not. Don’t give him any names. Just sound mysterious.” He thought a moment and grinned. “And sexy. That’ll hold Jimmy. Then tomorrow night you call him and give him the tip. Which is...”

“Why don’t I wait and do it all tomorrow?”

“Because I want to be sure he’s there tomorrow. I don’t want him to take off for parts unknown; I want him available. Incidentally, if he is out of town now, or you can’t get in touch with him, call me back and let me know. I’m at the Ouro Vermelho here in Lisbon. If I don’t hear from you I’ll assume you got in touch with him. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

It occurred to Kek that Anita would probably make a very good secretary at that. “All right. Now, I want you to check on all the flights to Lisbon from Paris — all airlines, even small ones — and tomorrow night after the last one has left — or at least after it’s too late for him to catch the last one, I want you to call Jimmy again. If I know him, he’ll be waiting for the call.”

“I understand. You don’t want him there until Thursday morning. And what do I say to him?”

Kek smiled faintly. “You simply say to him: Wilhelm Gruber is in Lisbon...”

“Wilhelm Gruber? Isn’t he the...?”

“Never mind who he is or isn’t. Jimmy knows who he is. Just do it exactly as I’ve said.”

“Of course.” Anita sounded faintly hurt that Kek could think she wouldn’t. “That’s all I say? That Wilhelm Gruber is in Lisbon?”

“Not quite,” Kek said softly. “You will also say to him: ‘The man to see for all details is the assistant chief of detectives for Lisbon; a man named Michel Morell...’”

André and Kek dined that night at a small restaurant perched at the end of a dock near the northern boundary of the city. Soft lights reflected colorfully from the ripples of the river; a guitarist in one corner bent far over his instrument, softly playing a fada. The occasional whisper of a huge prow cutting through the darkness in midstream gave sibilant counterpart to the music, and made the lights dance wildly in the backwash.

The food was delicious. André finished wiping his plate with a piece of bread, popped it into his mouth, and leaned back, chewing. He swallowed, drew his napkin from his collar, and wiped his face. There was a pleased grin on his face.

“Not bad, eh?” He lit a cigarette from the pack on the table and reached for his glass of cognac. “There are considerations to not living in France. The food here in Portugal is as good or better, and far cheaper. And the cognac?” He kissed the fingers of his free hand. “No comparison...”

“A far cry from the old days of the Resistance, eh?” Kek also took a cigarette and lit it, leaning back comfortably, puffing on it with enjoyment.

“I should hope so!” André grinned. “And every now and then, as an added attraction, a friend from the outside world.” His grin faded. “You leave Friday, eh?”

“Thursday,” Kek corrected him gently.

“The day after tomorrow? But I thought you said...”

“I told Gruber we were leaving Friday.” His gray eyes twinkled. “You see, André, everything in this business is either misdirection, or timing. Or both.” He shrugged. “Senhor Enrique Echavarria will simply have to be ready with one day’s less notice. It’ll give him less time to worry and fret.”

“I suppose you know best, but I hate to see you go so soon. When shall we see each other again?”

“I don’t know,” Kek said honestly, regretfully. “Someplace; sometime...”

“I doubt it,” André said, and shook his huge head ruefully. His eyes came up. “Still, it was good to see you this time. You said before that this life is a far cry from the days of the Resistance. It is — in both ways. At least in those days I was a bit more of a man than I am today. Seeing you again makes me realize it.”

“We were all more men then than we are today. There was more reason to be...”

“Yes.” André sighed and then suddenly grinned. “We had some times together, though, didn’t we? I’ll never forget you and that damned radio you dragged all over the place...”

Kek also grinned. “And you. I remember one time in particular — the time we knocked out that police station at Vic-le-Comte. Georges, dragging that squealing schoolgirl out of the way at the last minute — by her pigtails. And you, running like mad down the street with that rifle of yours in one hand and that suitcase in the other. You looked like a commuter trying to catch the five-fifteen.” His smile faded. “Which reminds me...”

André drank his cognac and reached for the bottle again. “Which reminds you of what?”

“That suitcase of yours reminds me I need one. I came away from Paris unprepared for some of the contingencies I’ve run into, timewise and otherwise. All I brought with me was a small overnight bag.” He pushed his glass forward. “Would it be possible to borrow a suitcase? Something like you used to drag around with you?”

“I suppose so.” André poured himself a drink and then filled Kek’s glass. “I’ll drop it off at your hotel tomorrow.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to luck.”

Huuygens smiled and shook his head. “There’s no such thing as luck.” He raised his glass as well. “Here’s to planning, friends, misdirection, and timing.”

“And luck,” André finished. He grinned and drank his brandy.

12

A leisurely breakfast in his room on Wednesday morning, and a refreshed Kek Huuygens braved the terrors of the Ouro Vermelho’s elevator, located his rented car in the cavernous bowels of the building, and drove from the garage into the Rua Sidonia Pais with a soft whistle on his lips. The affair had gone extremely well to this point, but what he considered the most important part of the scheme still had to be resolved, and that was what the schedule called for that morning.

With a detailed map of the city spread out on the seat beside him for easy reference, he managed to get through the complex, twisting roads of the Parque Florestal de Monsanto to the Bairro da Boa Vista, and drew to the curb a block away from the street on which Gruber lived. With the motor pulsing quietly, he bent over the map, studying a tentative route that consisted in the main of secondary avenues, leading in the direction of the Tejo and the docks. Satisfied at last, he straightened up and began driving.

His course took him along the northern edge of the huge park, and then plunged him into a network of narrow streets graced with small, clean houses with precisely trimmed gardens. A frown formed on his face as street after street exhibited a pristine similarity with the one before it. Lisbon, it seemed to him, must be the most immaculate city in the world, but that scarcely resolved his problem. With a muttered exclamation of annoyance, he pulled to the curb and consulted the map once again, the car motor patiently throbbing beneath him.

As a result of this further study, he shifted gears and started off again, cutting further to the north this time, continuing his search as he approached the Avenida do Brasil and saw the airport in the distance. To anyone who happened to notice the handsome man taking his ease behind the wheel, Kek would have appeared to be a motorist out to enjoy the fine autumn weather, and nothing more. A more acute observer, noting the extreme care with which he scrutinized each side street he passed, and almost unconsciously slowed down to stare down each small alley, might well have come to the conclusion that he was a potential buyer checking the neighborhood before committing himself to the purchase of a house for his family. Or — considering the expensive car he drove — more probably a house for his mistress.

Actually, his purpose was quite another. He had avoided a route that would take him near the center of the city, because the concentration of police was sure to be greater there, and he certainly wanted no part of them. Also, his requirements were scarcely to be found in the center of town. What he was looking for could only be found in the residential sections; a side street, preferably with a dead end, but one that contained at least one house with a walled garden. Not, however, walled in the manner of the Gruber home, but one that could easily be scaled.

When, by lunchtime, he still had not found anything to his liking, he forewent lunch and continued his search, the frown on his lean face deepening. He knew, of course, that if he were unsuccessful in finding his exact requirements, he could always investigate the edge of the city and somewhere there find a path that ended in a wooded area, but he preferred a place in town, closer to the Gruber home. Every additional mile only added to the risks.

And then, moments later, he came upon the perfect location, purely by accident. He almost passed it at first, for, to begin with, he was driving through an industrial neighborhood and had no thought of finding what he wanted here, and secondly, because the sign FOR SALE OR LEASE did not register on his mind at once. The half-glimpse he caught through the entrance, however, immediately struck him; he reversed the car and backed up for further examination. The frown disappeared as he stared down the cobblestone driveway a moment; he nodded in satisfaction and then swung the wheel, driving in.

The entrance he had taken led past two empty two-storied stone houses that had apparently once served as twin guardians of the gate; it delivered him to an old, abandoned factory. Wooden loading docks in complete disrepair formed three sides of a large rectangle containing the roughly paved yard area. Kek set the car brake, turned off the ignition, climbed down, and walked about the place. The factory had obviously not been in use for many, many years; the high walls that loomed over him were of worn and chipped brick, with a host of ants’ nests testifying to their age. The crooked window frames had flaked their paint to yellowed wood, and their grimed panes were either broken or missing completely. The doors that sagged into the darkened interior hung pathetically on their rusted and broken hinges.

Kek mounted the gap-toothed steps to the loading dock and tugged one of the doors open further; it came with a reluctant squeal, as if resenting interference after all those years. He peered in; the interior was empty, except for layers of dust and the debris that always seems to accumulate somehow in such places. He stepped inside, studying the overhead beams hung with cobwebs, listened to the eerie silence a moment, and then crossed the creaking wooden floor to a door leaning half-drunkenly open at the far side of the wide room. He glanced about the corner of the door and found himself staring at a thoroughfare beyond, reached by a series of grooved stone steps. He turned around; the entire place smelled of age, abandonment, and urine. He smiled to himself. It was ideal.

With extreme satisfaction he returned to the car and spread the map out on the seat, studying it carefully. He located the spot at which he found himself, and then the house in the Bairro da Boa Vista. According to the map, the distance between the two places was roughly three miles. Even the distance was more or less what Kek had hoped for, making the deserted factory even more ideal for his purpose. He pored over the map, studying the maze of streets separating the two points, and then folded the map, got behind the wheel, and drove from the enclosed yard with a faint smile on his lips.

A sandwich at a nearby sidewalk café served him for lunch, eaten with the map propped up against a ketchup bottle while he carefully planned the best route between the two places and memorized the names of the streets through which he would have to pass. Satisfied at last that he had it well in mind, he returned to his car and then began traversing the memorized route. Twice, certain details not noted on the map caused him to seek nearby alternate streets, but once he had made the trip to his satisfaction he settled down to driving back and forth over it until he was positive he would not hesitate at any corner, or fail to note those intersections that could prove dangerous or delaying. It was not until he had made the trip six times in each direction that he was certain it was indelibly impressed on his mind.

He stopped at a pôsto and filled the car with gasoline, checked the oil and tires, and then set out on his last errand. He turned the car about and drove to the carpentry shop.

The packing case was ready, and the owner of the shop helped him load it into the trunk. He seemed a bit dismayed that its size did not permit it to be completed engulfed by the trunk, fearing for the chrome of the bumper, but Kek assured him that this fact had been known, and that — after all — the proper reason for the size of a case was to accommodate its contents, and not necessarily to fit into any previously prescribed space. It is doubtful if the owner agreed with him, or even understood him, but he accepted his payment, and Kek left with a slight grin. A cord tied between the handle of the trunk and the bumper prevented any undue rattling, and Kek drove back to the hotel garage and parked his car for the night.

At the desk, he picked up the suitcase André had left for him, and went up to his room. He set the suitcase aside, took off his jacket, lit a cigarette, and wandered to the window, staring out over the city, considering each step he had taken so far in the scheme. Each item on the list checked off; as far as he knew, everything had been dealt with, the time schedule beautifully satisfied. Still, he felt a twinge of restlessness, and he knew it was different from the disquiet he often felt when the final stages of a complex scheme were about to be launched. There was a certain foreboding in it; an unusual sensation for him. He turned to crush out his cigarette when the telephone rang. He reached over, picking it up.

“Yes?”

“Mietek?” Jadzia sounded a bit breathless. “I only have a minute. I left the house on the pretext of getting cigarettes.” She paused a moment, and then went on. “Willi says that you and he are leaving Friday. Is that true?”

“I’m not sure of the exact time; it isn’t settled yet.” Even as he spoke, Kek wondered at his own circumspection, and the hollow feeling he had inside him. “It’ll be soon, though.”

“And what are your plans? What do you plan to do?”

He stared at the rug, his face a mask. “I can’t tell you yet, Jadzia. You’ll have to trust me.”

“Trust you?” Despite herself, her voice rose sharply. She brought herself under control, speaking more quietly. “Of course I trust you, Mietek. You gave me a promise.”

He closed his eyes momentarily. Jadzia, Jadzia! You gave me a promise many years ago, and then promptly forgot it. I’ll be more honorable than that...

“Mietek? Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything you want me to do?”

“No.” He took a deep breath. “Whatever happens, stay out of it.” He thought a moment, and then smiled a bit bitterly. “Do whatever Willi tells you to do.”

She didn’t seem to think the instruction odd. “All right, darling. If you say so.” She paused another moment. “I’ve got to go, now. Good luck, dear...” The telephone was softly disconnected.

He stared at the silent receiver in his hand a moment, and then slowly placed it back on the hook. The brandy bottle beside the instrument gleamed invitingly in the lamplight. He took a deep breath and reached for it, drawing the cork...

13

By eight o’clock the following morning his borrowed suitcase had been packed and taken down to the car to be arranged in the trunk beneath the packing case. He stopped for a pot of coffee in the small restaurant attached to the lobby, took a few minutes to check out of the hotel and pay his bill, and then moved to the public telephone in one corner. He shut the door behind him, dropped a coin in the slot and dialed a number, staring out of the glass panel as he waited. His feelings were now completely under control, his mind checking off, one by one, the few steps still to be taken.

Hans eventually answered the ring at the other end; the request to speak with his master brought no comment either on the unusual hour or the unexpected call, but only a silence that was broken a few moments later by Gruber coming on the line. Huuygens suspected that his call had wakened the other, but aside from a nervousness that was normal under the circumstances, Gruber’s voice was controlled.

“Yes? What is it? Is anything wrong?”

“No.” In the booth Kek smiled faintly and then straightened his face, as if Gruber might have been able to see him. “It’s simply that there’s been a slight change in plans. Everything is ready now. We have to leave today.”

“Today?” Gruber paused a moment, as if to gather together arguments; the best he could do was weak. “But you said Friday — tomorrow...”

“I don’t arrange sailing schedules, m’sieu.” Kek’s voice was cold. “The ship we take sails at noon; I only received notice myself a few minutes ago. We have to be at the dock at eleven.” He paused. “I hope you have your passport with you.”

“Of course I have. But a few hours? It doesn’t give me...”

“I’m sorry,” Kek said brusquely. “We’re wasting time we honestly don’t have. I’ll see you in about fifteen minutes.”

He hung up, pulled back the door of the booth, and quickly trotted down the steps leading to the garage. He slid into the car, revved up the motor and listened in satisfaction to its purring protestation of power, then drove to the street, turning from the ramp in the direction of the park and his destination. The early morning sun was low, blinding, and he pulled down the visor to protect his vision, smiling as he realized that after leaving Gruber’s house, at least, the sun would be at his back. A bit of luck, that; he hadn’t even considered the position of the sun. His smile faded. Let’s hope there aren’t many other things you forgot to consider, he said to himself sternly, and concentrated on the winding avenue he was following.

At the Bairro da Boa Vista he slowed down, drove through the swank neighborhood to the street he was seeking, and turned down it. At the end of the winding avenue he stopped, swung about to turn around, and then backed the car so that the trunk was almost touching the wrought-iron gate. Beyond the gate he could see both Gruber’s ancient car and the beige convertible, parked side by side. He switched off the ignition and stepped down, leaving the keys in the ignition.

Hans had apparently been waiting for him; he appeared on the top step even as Kek was untying the cord that held the trunk lid in position. The taciturn servant trotted down the steps and pulled open the gate; he accepted the empty crate and carried it into the house while Huuygens closed the trunk and followed along at a leisurely pace with the small plastic traveling bag.

In the hallway, Huuygens stood in bored fashion while Hans patted his sides, ran his hands impersonally down his legs, and checked the innocence of the contents of the small bag. This routine accounted for to his satisfaction, the stocky servant picked up the case again and led the way to the library.

Gruber was waiting at the already opened vault; there was no sign of Jadzia. The tall thin man was in a dressing gown, his hands plunged deep in the pockets, extending them. He stood aside as the two men entered; Kek nodded to him impersonally and indicated to Hans where he wanted the packing case set on the floor. The servant placed it down and then straightened up, awaiting further instruction. Gruber frowned at Huuygens.

“Just how is this thing going to work? What are you going to do?”

“You’ll see,” Kek said curtly, and looked about the room. His eyes returned from the gallery spread on the walls, contemplating the table thoughtfully. He nodded as he made up his mind. “Those small sketches first, I think. We’ll get them out of the way, and then tackle the larger ones on the wall.”

Gruber hesitated a moment; Kek waited with exaggerated patience. The tall German finally shrugged and unlocked the drawer, taking out the envelope and placing it on the table. Huuygens checked the tiny squares of vellum within, nodded, and then opened his small plastic bag, rummaging through the contents to finally unearth the tissue paper and the transparent tape; he looked like a surgeon preparing to operate. Gruber watched him curiously as he wrapped the entire envelope with tissue and then placed strips of tape carefully across the folds.

“Good. Now for the larger ones. We’ll...” He frowned at Gruber, remembering. “Pardon, m’sieu, but you’d better go up and get dressed and packed. The ship won’t wait for us, you know.” He glanced about the room and then raised his shoulders. “And there’s little enough room to work in here as it is.”

Gruber seemed reluctant to leave. “What ship are we taking?”

“The Alcántara. Brazilian. Tonnage, ten thousand. With stops at Funchal, São Luis, Rosário, and so forth.” Huuygens made no attempt to disguise the sarcasm. “Which they will make whether we’re on board or not.”

Gruber stared at him a moment and then nodded. “All right.” He turned to his servant. “Hans. You will stay here and... ah... assist M’sieu Huuygens in any manner possible...” He watched for some sign of disappointment from Huuygens, but only encountered polite disinterest combined with a bit of impatience at the time that was passing; with a slight bob of his head he left the room.

Kek sighed and turned to the silent Hans. “All right. Finally! Let’s get to work. Help me down with this one, will you, please?”

They brought down the largest picture first, turned it face downward on the table, and bent back the four nails holding the stretcher frame in place. Kek lifted the raw wood rectangle with the canvas free of the frame, and nodded his head.

“Good. You pile the frames over there in the corner. And then get a pair of pliers from my bag.” He looked into the opaque eyes of the servant. “Here’s what we’ll do: you will pull the tacks that hold the canvas to the stretcher frames — and do it carefully, do you understand? Be sure every tack is removed, or we may inadvertently puncture one of these priceless works of art — and I’ll pack them in the case. Is that clear?”

Hans nodded, pleased his instructions were so succinct. He dug deep in the small bag and came up with the pliers, straightened up, and then paused. He flexed the tool several times and then shook his head, bringing them close to his eyes to examine them. “Japanese,” he said with disgust, and walked quickly from the room. Moments later he had returned with another pair. “German,” he said, and held them up. “We’ll use these.”

“Use what you want. Use your teeth, if they’ll do the job.” Kek held up a finger. “Just be careful.”

The two got to work. One by one the canvases were freed from their imprisoning frames, untacked from the stretchers, laid tenderly in the packing case, and covered with tissue paper. The job went quite fast; whoever stretched these canvases, Kek thought, apparently must have realized the type of artist to whom they would be sold, and wasted no excessive time on either pride of workmanship, or pains. Or nails. The case filled up with works of art, while the corner of the room piled ever higher with discarded frames and stretchers. Huuygens was settling the last canvas in place when Gruber appeared once again. He was dressed for travel; one pocket sagged a bit from the obvious presence of something heavy like a revolver. Kek was careful not to note it.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.” The green eyes encompassed the case, and the pile of frames. “How are things going?”

“Fine. We’re just about finished.” Kek studied the case a moment, picked up the wrapped packet of miniatures and laid it on top of the canvases, and then folded the balance of his tissue paper and packed it about to fill the remaining space. “There. That’s the lot.” He reached for his airplane bag once again.

Gruber watched with interest as the cover was nailed into place. Huuygens nodded in satisfaction at the professional appearance of the job, and then brought out his marking ink and brush. With his arm supported by his other wrist, he carefully began to print an address neatly on the cover of the box.

“You certainly think of everything.” Gruber’s tone was of grudging admiration.

“That’s why I get the fees I do.” Kek didn’t bother to look up, but continued to ply the brush, painting in the letters of the address. Ostensibly, the case was being sent to the Ótica Maranhão in the Rua Paulo Freitas in Rosário, Brazil. When the final letter had been painted, Huuygens reached into his bag again, bringing out the gummed labels he had had printed. He wet them on his tongue and placed them about the top and sides of the case in conspicuous locations. They all read: PHOTOGRAPHIC PAPER — DO NOT OPEN IN DAYLIGHT.

For the first time the tall man smiled in true appreciation, his eyes congratulatory. “Very clever!”

“Only because the shipping documents and the bill of lading are quite genuine.” Huuygens was returning his materials to his bag. His voice was quite even. “Except, of course, for the address of the consignee...”

Gruber frowned at him. “And how were you able to arrange those?”

Huuygens zipped the bag shut and smiled coldly. “I’m afraid a complete exposition of my methods is not included in my fee, nor does it affect the end results.” He looked about. “And now, I think, we’re about finished, and still with ample time. If you will allow me...”

He began to pick up the awkward packing case; Hans hurried to help him. Between the two of them, they carried it through the dim hallway and down to the car, with Gruber following closely behind. Hans pulled the wrought-iron gate leaf back with one hand and then waited while Huuygens rested his end to unlock the trunk. The two men slid the packing case on top of the suitcase; Hans stood back while Huuygens slid the cord about the case, through the handles of the suitcase for further security, and then brought it out and looped it between the trunk lid and the bumper, knotting it tightly. He pushed down and felt the tautness of the rope; it would ride. He straightened up, glancing at his wristwatch.

“We’d better be going. If you would get your luggage...”

Gruber smiled gently. “Hans will bring my bags. I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind...”

“Not at all,” Huuygens said genially, and watched the servant return to the house. He glanced up; in the open doorway, standing back in the shadows, was Jadzia. She was staring at him with a rigidity that suggested an attempt to get across a message. He looked away, turning back to Gruber, forcing himself to remain calm, to concentrate on his plan.

“A lovely day,” he said, and smiled.

Gruber smiled in return, a relaxed smile; and Huuygens placed his hand on the thin man’s chest and shoved with all his tremendous strength, hooking the other’s heel with his foot. The German went over backward, too startled for the moment even to cry out, and in that moment Huuygens had the gate pulled shut and had sprung for the driver’s seat of his car. Behind him he heard the outraged screams of his victim, and then two answering cries from both Hans and Jadzia, and then he had the motor going and was roaring off down the street.

He did not think that Gruber would chance shooting when the paintings might suffer damage as a result, but that had been a chance he had recognized and been prepared to take. In any event, Gruber did not waste the time. In the rearview mirror as he shot down the shaded avenue he saw the gate being dragged open, and even as he swung wildly about the first corner of his studied route, Gruber’s car came tearing from the driveway, not even pausing for Hans to be taken aboard. Huuygens smiled grimly and settled into his driving.

The route he had chosen had been selected both for its isolation and for the fact that the long, straight runs would favor the more adaptable speed of his newer and more powerful car. He charged down the road he was on, glancing every second or two in the rearview mirror. The hood of the pursuing car had come into view around the corner and was roaring on. Huuygens tramped on the accelerator; Gruber’s ancient car was far faster than he had thought.

The next corner required a momentary braking; he took it with tires squealing in protest, and once more tramped on the gas. Gruber, in the car behind, took more of a chance; for a moment it appeared to the man glancing constantly in the rearview mirror that the other was going to carom into a lamppost, but the car straightened itself out, swaying erratically, and came on. It seemed to be gaining, and Huuygens pressed down on the accelerator once again, leaning far over the wheel as if to coax more speed from the straining engine.

The two raced through the quiet neighborhood, flashing past cross-streets, whipping about parked cars, unaware of startled spectators, of anything but the chase itself; taking incredible chances, each intent only on the vibrating wheel in his hands and the growling motor beneath his feet. A major thoroughfare marked the day before by Huuygens was approaching; it was unfortunate, but there was no way to avoid traversing it. He locked his hands on the wheel, barely touched the brake to give the car more control if he required it, and then tramped on the gas, shooting through the stop sign. There was a sharp squeal of brakes as a truck swerved abruptly from his path, bumping against a curb; the faint echo of a shouted curse, and then he was through, bearing down on the accelerator once again. His eye flashed to the rearview mirror; Gruber had taken the crossing without even bothering with his brakes, and was holding his own behind him. Huuygens returned his attention to the road, marking his next turning.

He swung about it more recklessly than ever, gripping the wheel with all his force, recovered from the wild lurch, and then cut hard into the next street, speeding up. Behind him Gruber miraculously managed to follow. The next three corners were taken in even more desperate fashion, and then in the distance the factory entrance came into view. Huuygens bent low, coaxing speed from the car, and then slammed on his brakes, swinging sharply between the two stone houses. For one brief second he thought the following car had missed him, and then he heard the screeching of brakes in the road outside as Gruber also slowed for the turn. He slewed his car across the cobblestones of the yard, spinning the wheel violently, and came to a shuddering stop with his fender almost against a pillar of the loading platform.

The other car was already in the yard, braking hard, skidding to a halt. Huuygens bent low, opening the door of his car; he took a deep breath and dove for the protection of the sagging door, none too soon. A bullet passed over his head, thudding into the brick, showering down shards and dust, and then he was through into the darkened interior, his heart pounding. But he was sure that Gruber’s interest in his property would be greater than his desire for revenge, and he was right. He paused long enough to peer about the corner of the partially opened door; he knew the danger such delay might mean, but something forced him to wait. And then his jaw locked rigidly.

The beige convertible, with Jadzia at the wheel, was shooting through the gateway. He seemed to see the scene as a tableau — the girl, face hard, running from her car toward Gruber; the tall, thin man tearing wildly at the ropes that held the trunk lid in place. Despite himself he opened his mouth to scream, but it was too late. The sound was lost, swallowed up in the tremendous explosion that rocked the cobbled enclosure...