The Tricks of the Trade

10

Seen from the upper floor of the Plaza Hotel, the chimney pots of Buenos Aires stretched out like a field of tree stumps in a curiously stepped clearing. With its blotches of green marking scattered squares and parks, it was reminiscent of Paris, especially with the incessant honking of horns from the crowded streets below orchestrating the scene. From his height Kek could see the Calle Florida, made into a flowered mall since his last visit; he turned in the other direction and enjoyed the unchanged sight of the Plaza Britannica, with its line of red buses waiting patiently at the curb to take tourists in the mornings up the river to Tigre and its interwoven maze of waterways or at night down to La Boca for the local flavor of the cantinas and the native bars.

The arched roof of the Retiro railroad station loomed beyond the formalized gardens of the plazas, resembling Waterloo or King’s Cross in London; and past the station and the parks he could see the passenger docking slips with the River Plate over their shoulder, reddish-brown and endless, a silt-laden sea. From the height of his room the shore of Uruguay could be seen as a faint shadow on the horizon; a tiny ship trailed wavering smoke as it traversed the channel from Montevideo. Kek looked down again at the crowds jamming Florida and Charcas and smiled; as always it struck him how different the Argentinian was from other South Americans. A Brazilian, for example, looked as if he was browsing when he was shopping; the Argentinian, in contrast, usually looked as if he was shopping when he was merely browsing. The city was called by its inhabitants the Paris of South America, but its people seemed more like Berliners. This Hans Schneller who was supposed to deliver the suitcase to him would, he was sure, fit in well here.

The telephone rang as he consulted his wristwatch, wondering at the delay. He walked over to the desk and raised the receiver, pleased that things were starting.

“Hello?”

“Señor Huuygens?” The voice was Teutonic in accent, heavy and wheezing.

“Speaking.” Kek assayed French and was relieved to be answered in the same language. He could have conducted the conversation in German but preferred not to. His experience in general had led him to believe that there was an advantage in using a language less familiar to an opponent, although he had to admit this had not seemed to work with Señor Sanchez.

“This is Señor Schneller,” the thick voice said. “I am in the hotel lobby. You — you changed your room, I see. I called the one I had reserved for you, but some child answered, and then the child’s mother, so I checked with the reception.” The wheezing voice tried to hide its querulousness and failed signally. “You did not like the room I reserved for you?”

“It was simply that I prefer being on an upper floor,” Kek said and made his voice apologetic. It was true, of course, that had Herr Schneller reserved the tower suite of the hotel, Kek Huuygens would then have said that he preferred a room on a lower floor. It had been a long time since Huuygens had accepted a room reserved for him by a client or anyone connected with a client; adjoining rooms could also be rented and all sorts of naughty surveillance equipment installed. It was a sad commentary on the people he found it necessary to associate with in his business, but a true one. If adjoining rooms had to be rented, Kek Huuygens preferred to rent them himself and usually did.

As Herr Schneller should know, Kek thought with a disapproving glance at the telephone and wondered why it should make any difference to the man.

“As you wish,” Schneller said stiffly and finally managed to mask his disappointment.

“Yes,” Kek said and dismissed the subject of housing. “Will you be coming up?”

“Of course,” Schneller said, amazed at the question, and hurriedly hung up.

Kek moved back to the window as he waited, using the time to consider where he would dine that evening; there was no point in speculating on Schneller or the suitcase when they would both be in his room in minutes. Restaurants, he thought — one thing was certain, nobody could complain about the restaurants in Buenos Aires. They had to serve the best food in the world. He was in the process of making his ultimate selection between the grillroom of the hotel itself, La Cabaña, or the Little White Horse, when the doorbell of his suite rang. It was a sharp, brief, no-nonsense ring. Typical, he thought with an inner smile and walked over and opened it.

Señor Schneller filled the opening. He was so much like the image Kek had created in his mind from hearing the voice that for a moment he had the feeling they must have met before — a touch of déjà vu that passed as quickly as it had come. One never could truly forget people like Schneller. He was a large man, larger than Kek had anticipated, but Huuygens was sure that what appeared to be fat beneath the vest and jacket was solid muscle. His clothes appeared to have been forced over his bulky frame, possibly against his will; he seemed in constant danger of splitting the seams. His broad, flattish face was pale and shaved so closely that it glistened, the tiny veins etched darkly on the ivory skin. His eyes were a watery, washed-out blue, almost colorless, and his hair was cut in a brush, standing up like a used broom. He stood at military attention for a moment and then brought his heels together, clicking them lightly, making a short half-bow from the waist.

“M’sieu Huuygens.”

“Herr Schneller.”

Kek waved his guest in. The big man entered and for the first time the suitcase he held behind his back came into view. He turned and locked the door behind him, walked over to the desk, and seated himself on the small hard-backed chair there. It was not a comfortable chair, but its position beside the tall window afforded him the light he required. He brought the suitcase into his lap and with his other hand reached for his belt, producing a monstrous key ring on a thin leather strap. One key was laboriously selected, and for the first time Kek noticed the chain that passed through the suitcase handle and was fastened to a thin steel band that went around the thick wrist. Properly careful, Kek thought and watched in silence. The chain was released and removed from the handle; another key was found which unlocked the steel cuff. Schneller set the suitcase down and unhooked both keys from the ring, wheezing all the while. The two keys, the cuff, and the chain were all placed on the desk. Schneller turned, looking up.

“Delivered,” he said in a flat tone and reached for his pocket again. This time he came up with a packet of yellow cigarette papers and a sack of tobacco. He tapped grains into a slip of paper, puffing as he did so, and rolled the cigarette expertly with one hand. It was raised to the tongue, licked, and finished in a gesture so quick as to be almost invisible. Kek watched with interest. He had not seen anyone roll a cigarette for many years; he had to admit Schneller did it well. As he did most things well, Kek thought, and turned his attention to the suitcase.

“That’s it, eh?”

“That’s it.” For one brief moment the hard face relaxed a bit, even displaying the semblance of a smile. It was something like watching wax melt and then re-form. “It’s a problem carrying a suitcase through the lobby of a hotel; every bellboy wants to earn a tip by helping. And hiding a chain under a jacket sleeve doesn’t help, I assure you.” He tipped his head backward, even as he fumbled in a pocket for a match. “You might want to use the chain.”

“I might.” Kek sounded as if the question of whether he might use the chain or not was strictly his own affair. He walked closer, looking down on the suitcase he had contracted to carry through Spanish customs. Across from him Schneller finally located a pad of matches on the desk; he applied fire to the cigarette and puffed pungent smoke deep into his lungs, for which he was rewarded with a coughing spell which he finally managed to control. He sat wheezing a bit; when his breathing was better he leaned backward and placed the spent match with almost geometrical precision in the center of the ashtray and then looked up at Kek’s face with a faint smile, trying to judge the other man’s reactions.

The suitcase, Kek saw, was about two feet long, a foot and a half high, and possibly seven or eight inches in depth — what the Americans called a one-suiter, if his memory served. It had a rigid frame and body and was covered in a brown plastic embossed in a simulated leather grain. Unlike normal suitcases, however, he noticed the latches on either side were not furnished with key locks but instead were smooth; the security of the case depended entirely on a combination lock provided beneath the handle. This was partially concealed — but with no attempt to hide — by a genuine leather identification tab which snapped in place to cover it. With the exception of the locking mechanism, the small suitcase was similar to thousands, if not millions, to be found in use in any country in the world.

Kek hid the smile of triumph that automatically came to his lips. He hadn’t really even needed André for this one; combination locks of that size could be opened without even drilling. Or the hinge pins could be removed and replaced without a sign.

The man who had delivered the case lounged as easily as he could in the hard chair, puffing steadily on the cigarette pasted in one corner of his mouth. He watched Kek’s study of the suitcase almost with amusement. When he spoke the butt, stuck to his lower lip, bobbed in cadence with his speech, smoke jetting out to surround each word. His voice was husky, on the constant verge of coughing.

“I imagine Sanchez explained about the suitcase?”

Kek looked slightly surprised. “Explained?” He shrugged. “No, nothing beyond the fact that I’m to deliver it in Barcelona.”

Schneller smiled, a swift twisting of his thick lips wiped away as quickly as it had come. He picked the cigarette butt from his lower lip, turned to wipe ash from it, and then turned back quickly, as if something might possibly have happened to his beloved suitcase in the momentary absence of his attention.

“That’s all? Rather odd,” he said and carefully replaced the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “However, since I have a slight personal interest in the suitcase not being tampered with — slight, but in this case rather substantial — I’d better explain certain things. For example—” He paused for one last gargantuan puff on the flimsy cigarette; it rose in near-flame and he quickly crushed it out, relapsing in a coughing fit. When he had his breath he wiped his eyes and began again. “For example,” he repeated, “I built the case myself — built it from scratch, not adapted it — so perhaps I’d best tell you of some of its — what’s the word? Qualities? Advantages? Features?” He nodded, satisfied he was not being egotistical. “Features.”

There was a note of pride in his voice. A cold feeling began to form in Kek’s stomach. The big man reached into his pocket again for his tobacco and cigarette papers. A second cigarette was formed and lit, a second coughing fit indulged in; at last Schneller was ready to continue, smoke spewing with the words.

“The case,” he said, “is a work of genius, and I am not bragging. A masterpiece. Under the plastic cover the sides are made of fiber-glass and polyester resin, hand-formed to shape, much like the new boats one finds today. It is extremely strong and impossible to penetrate without—” He coughed, apologetically this time, as if the possibility of getting into the case was a subject best not to mention. “Within the case, between the body and the decorative lining, is a fine copper wire mesh. As I’m sure you know, copper is an excellent conductor of electricity. This mesh is connected to a series of long-life batteries, arranged so that should one of them fail for any reason at all, the others would — will, I should say — continue to function.”

He took the cigarette from his lip and turned to remove ash. His tone had been that of a professor conducting a lecture; a blackboard pointer, Kek thought, would have seemed more appropriate in his heavy hand than the dwindling cigarette. The small butt was carefully replaced and Schneller went on.

“When the case is closed and locked, as it is now, an electrical circuit is opened. Conversely, when the suitcase is opened — or if the case should be forced, of course, or the sides punctured, or the hinges or latches tampered with in any way — then the electrical circuit is closed. And the circuit—”

He paused to take a final puff on his cigarette, began to cough, and bent over, fighting for breath. He managed to crush the cigarette out and sat erect, drawing in great gobs of air. When his voice was once more under control, he went back to his theme. Whether he was bragging or warning, his audience was listening intently.

“—the circuit,” he repeated, “will detonate four sticks of dynamite which are contained in a separate sealed compartment inside. This compartment, also containing the detonator, is completely cast in acrylic. This is to prevent anyone from trying to insert an inert gas into the case, in the hopes that the gas might prevent sparking and, hence, explosion.”

His almost colorless eyes mocked Huuygens, as if the stocky, gray-eyed man watching him so expressionlessly might actually have considered trying to circumvent his genius with some such childish means.

“Do you understand?” he asked gently.

Huuygens considered the man. It occurred to him that possibly, for one time in his career, he had bit off more than he could chew. His face continued to reflect nothing but polite interest, however, as he answered.

“I understand what you’re saying,” he said. “I don’t quite understand why you think this should interest me.”

Schneller smiled wolfishly. “Curiosity,” he said, “killed a cat. We wish to be sure it does no harm to a courier.”

Kek smiled with him. “I share your concern.” He looked down at the case, his voice mildly curious. “There is, of course, a means of disarming the mechanism? I assume the parchment is not intended to remain inside forever?”

“Parchment?” Schneller frowned in nonunderstanding.

“The contents,” Kek reminded him gently and wondered at the stupidity of Sanchez in not properly briefing his crew. Still, it was nothing as compared to his own stupidity in taking on the job in the first place. “I mean, I gather someone will eventually wish to open it? In Barcelona?”

“Oh. Oh, yes. Of course there is a means of disarming it. It is in the combination lock.” The pale-blue eyes laughed at Kek, unafraid to give the answer — anxious, in fact, to give the answer. He sat a bit more erect, watching Kek as if to make sure his words were being followed with the attention they deserved. “The lock has four numbers for completion. You—” he smiled, “I don’t mean you, personally, m’sieu, but you can fool around with it as much as you like without danger; you can hit the first number of the combination by accident or even, for the first number, of course, by design. You might even hit both the first and the second number by accident, although the chances are rare. If by the ten thousand-to-one chance you should happen to hit them and then fail to hit the third number exactly before you reverse for the final time, you are getting close to trouble. However, you still have a chance to live, assuming you are not deaf...”

“Deaf?”

“Yes,” Schneller said proudly. “There is a warning. A bell.” He leaned over, stretching, and drew the suitcase to him. He took it in his lap, bending over it, and then looked up. “With your permission, m’sieu. If you would just turn your head a moment?”

Kek turned his head obediently, staring at a picture on the wall. It was an Ada Peacock original, a bright watercolor of a Peruvian girl striding barefoot down a mountain road, her shoes dangling from her neck, leading a burro on which her derbied bridegroom sat holding the baby. Despite the chill he had received listening to the exposition on the suitcase and its invulnerability, Kek was forced to smile at the warm colors and the happy look of fulfillment on the girl’s face. It did not take a suitcase full of cocaine to make everyone in the world happy, he thought, and then had his thoughts interrupted by the sudden sharp ring of a bell. He turned back.

“You see?” Schneller was quite pleased by the cleverness of his invention. He spun the combination; the sound ceased at once. “Separate batteries,” he said in proud explanation. “Otherwise one could let the bell ring until the main batteries were dead and could not spark the detonator.” He set the suitcase down and pushed it away from him with one foot and then leaned back smiling genially. His pale eyes dared Huuygens to find something he had overlooked. “So, as I say, care should be taken in playing with my suitcase. Because should anyone be so foolish as to disregard the warning of the bell, and should this person continue on to the final number—”

He winked jovially, as if he were in the midst of a risqué story coming to the final punch line, and then suddenly flung his hands up in the air dramatically. His twinkling little eyes widened in comic exaggeration.

“Blooey!” he said and settled down. His smile became gentle, almost childlike. “You understand?” he asked quietly.

Kek understood all too well. His voice was even. “I understand.”

“You are not surprised?”

I should not have been, Kek thought, but I am. “No,” he said.

“I expect not.” Schneller sighed, a gargantuan sigh, like a magician whose best trick has failed to impress. “I imagine it’s the sort of thing you would think of yourself if you needed to ensure privacy to the contents of a case...”

There was a slight touch of disappointment in the accented voice; the full lips were turned down a bit at the corners. Kek felt there was no harm in reassuring the man; somebody should feel reassured, he thought, and he certainly didn’t.

“Except I should not have been able to build it.”

Schneller took heart from the statement.

“It is unusual,” he said, and now he was speaking honestly, not trying to impress but to explain. “Since the first combination lock in the early sixteen hundreds they have used bar tumblers and pin tumblers. A child could open them. My case has steel ball bearings under springs. To open it the ball bearings must each be in its proper socket, like those aggravating toys where one must roll little tiny balls into tiny depressions without dislodging the others. Only mine can’t be dislodged. And all four must be put into place in proper order, or first the bell rings and then—” He sighed. “Someday I shall patent it...”

“Quite successfully, I’m sure,” Kek said politely. He wished the big man would go so he could start thinking. He glanced at his watch and looked up. “That’s all then?”

“Yes.” The large German seemed reluctant to leave, or possibly it was reluctance to part with his suitcase. He reached into his pocket for tobacco and paper, beginning to roll another of his thin cigarettes. “Tell me, m’sieu...” He paused, watching his thick fingers at work.

“Yes?”

Schneller seemed to be making up his mind about something. He licked the cigarette and smoothed it and then considered Kek strangely.

“Tell me, m’sieu. You had trouble entering Argentina?”

“Trouble?” Kek seemed more amused than disturbed by the question. “Nothing more than usual. What makes you ask?”

“There was a search?”

“There’s always a search,” Kek said easily and wondered what the other had on his mind. “But, as I said, nothing more than usual. Why?”

Again there was that hesitation. Schneller looked down at the small yellowish tube in his fingers as if surprised to discover it and then shoved it in the corner of his mouth, but he did not light it.

“What I’m getting at is this: M’sieu Huuygens, you have a reputation for being the most adept smuggler in the world. I know you are searched wherever you go, and I know you use your own passport and refuse to consider using a false name. I am sure a Telex has gone out to all major airports everywhere saying you are here in Argentina, and they will all be wondering why you are here — and, of course, what you plan to smuggle in from Argentina...” He ended his statement on a rising inflection, making it a partial question.

“Unless, of course,” Kek said easily, “they think I was bringing something into this country.”

“No.” The large man shook his head decisively. “You were searched, were you not? And nothing was discovered?”

Kek laughed. “I am always searched. And nothing is ever discovered.” His laugh faded, replaced with a frown. “Just what are you getting at, Herr Schneller?”

Schneller finally selected the right words. “M’sieu Huuygens, as I’m sure you know, that suitcase is very valuable. Should you fail to deliver it in Barcelona for any reason at all, whether it was your fault or not, I doubt if either Señor Sanchez or Duarte would be very forgiving.”

“I’m sure they would both be very nasty,” Kek agreed pleasantly, but his sharp gray eyes were studying the big man closely. “However, since I have no intention of failing...” He shrugged, his meaning clear.

“Still,” Schneller said stubbornly, it never does any harm to have some form of insurance. For example, you obviously have some plan for getting into Spain. You probably feel it best to do so alone. However, it’s my opinion you would be much better off with a companion—”

Kek’s eyebrows went up. “You mean a woman?” His eyes were joking.

“No, no! I mean—”

“You mean a bodyguard.” Kek shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I can’t work that way.”

“Then at least let us know your plans. You’ve been assured of payment; I understand it’s in an escrow account merely requiring Sanchez’s signature. So it seems to me the need for secrecy is past. I feel we have a right to know how you plan to get it into Spain—”

Kek looked at him. “We?”

“We. All of us with a stake in the matter.”

“I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

“Then at least let us have people at the various places you will be passing through. For protection...”

“Against what?” Kek asked curiously. “The danger is from customs, and how do you propose to protect against that?”

“No, no,” Schneller said and removed the unlit cigarette from his lip. He looked at it a moment and laid it aside, bringing his attention back to the stocky man. “The question is how you propose to protect against that.” He leaned forward, oozing respectability and good intent. “Believe me, m’sieu, the time for secrecy is past. You have the suitcase; you are guaranteed payment. There is no need for secrecy at this point.”

“You honestly believe that?”

“Quite,” Schneller said as convincingly as he could. His eyes had narrowed. Despite his best efforts, his fingers showed the strain; they curled slightly along the crease of his trousers.

“Fair enough,” Kek said lightly. “You start the no-secrecy bit. Give me the combination of the lock — and stay here while we open the case — and I’ll be happy to tell you my whole story.”

The look of anticipation on Schneller’s face disappeared as if wiped away by a huge hand, replaced by a cold glare of fury. The pale eyes considered the other man for several moments. He came to his feet slowly and moved toward the door.

“Very cute, M’sieu Huuygens,” he said. His face was expressionless other than his eyes; they were alive with malevolence. “I wish you luck in getting your suitcase through customs.”

“Thank you,” Kek said in the same tone. He held up a hand. “One thing, Herr Schneller. You say you have an interest in the suitcase getting to Barcelona; you can help by seeing to it that I am not constantly followed. I have trouble enough getting myself and my luggage through customs without having to explain a watchdog to the officials.”

There was a moment of silence.

“We all have troubles,” Schneller said at last. His tone was wooden. He twisted the lock and pulled the door open. “Good-bye, m’sieu.” He nodded abruptly, his face stiff, and walked heavily down the hallway, not bothering to close the door.

Kek walked to the door. He watched the large, bulky man punch the elevator button viciously and then closed the door softly. He locked it and walked over to tap on the door of the adjoining room. It opened and André appeared. He was grinning widely.

“It’s a pity Anita wasn’t here. If ever I heard a demonstration aimed at curing the smoking habit! However...” He looked down at the suitcase. “So that’s it, eh? And our friend wanted to know how you intended to get it past Spanish customs, eh?” He shook his head in mock sadness. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a nosey guy.”

Kek looked at him without smiling. “You heard?”

“Of course I heard,” André said disdainfully. “I’ve got ears like a beagle and your friend didn’t exactly whisper. Besides, you wanted me to hear.” André’s grin faded. “He asked a good question, though. Just how do you expect to get it in?”

Kek looked at him solemnly. “If you were listening,” he said seriously, “you know that’s by far the least of the problems. The proper question is, how do we open the damn suitcase?”

11

In the oversized hands of the man from Perpignan the suitcase took on the proportions of an attaché case. It came to Kek Huuygens that in all the years he had known André he had never before seen him properly dressed and with his hair properly trimmed; the Parisian tailor who had outfitted him had done a good job, and with the suitcase in his hand he looked like a prosperous businessman ready for the office, blown up from life-size. Like a businessman on a billboard, Kek thought and watched.

André began by shaking the case sideways, his ear pressed against it. As far as Kek could tell, there was no sound from the interior. André nodded and came to his feet. He carried the suitcase to the bed where he could examine it in greater comfort, sat down, and took it in his lap. He studied the latches carefully and turned it over to consider the pin hinges at the bottom. To his eye they all appeared normal, although the workmanship was far better than the normal manufacturer provided. He put the case aside momentarily, came to his feet, and went into his own room to return with a magnifying glass and a stethoscope. First he repeated his examination of the outside of the case, using the lens to restudy the hinges, latches, and lock. This done, he picked up the stethoscope, plugged it into his ears, and held the listening mouthpiece against the combination lock.

“Turn the dial,” he said. “Slowly.” He smiled into the gray eyes watching him intently. “Very slowly, my friend. And let us hope he’s either a liar or as good a locksmith as he claims.”

“There’s a bell—”

“I know. I heard it.” André closed his eyes to concentrate better. “I prefer those at Notre Dame.”

He pressed the stethoscope tightly against the combination lock as Kek turned the dial slowly. André’s eyes opened for a brief second at something, then closed again; his forehead wrinkled in concentration. Kek continued to inch the dial around steadily; he completed one turn and started on another. There was a frown on André’s rugged face, difficult to interpret. He opened his eyes, noted the position of the dial, and shook his head.

“Other way now.” He closed his eyes again, his huge hand dwarfing both the mouthpiece of the stethoscope and the lock, pressing the two together with surprising gentleness.

Kek reversed directions. André suddenly opened his eyes.

“Go back again...”

Kek went back slowly, watching André. André listened some more, watching the dial, and then shook his head in disgust. “I’m hearing things. Keep going.”

Kek went on until the dial pointed to zero again. André sighed, removed the stethoscope, and slid it into his jacket pocket. He added the magnifying glass and stared at the suitcase somberly.

“Either he’s bluffing or it’s a lovely job. Actually,” he added, a touch of professional envy in his voice, “it’s a lovely job whether he’s got it rigged to blow up or not. You can’t hear a thing.”

“If it’s any use,” Kek said, “when he spun the dial to shut off the bell, he turned it counterclockwise.”

André shrugged. “His story was that the case blows up if anyone hits the right number after the bell. Which means the last number is reached going clockwise.” He looked up. “All that gives us is the original direction to start. In a four-number combination you’d start by going counterclockwise.”

“Isn’t that some help?”

“Well,” André said, “if you want to look on the bright side, it brings the chances of finding the right combination by accident — or trial and error, as far as that goes — from about two million to one down to about one million to one.” He sighed and stared at the case. “A really lovely job. If the lock is built with ball bearings under springs, they’d just roll up into their proper socket in turn and there’d be no sound at all. And with the springs, you couldn’t shake them out of place or sequence or into any particular socket. Beautiful...”

“If you call that beautiful.”

“Well,” André said, “there’s always the chance your friend Schneller just rigged a bell and no dynamite at all.”

Kek shook his head. “He wasn’t bluffing. You just heard him; you didn’t see him.”

“I don’t think he was bluffing either. Why should he?” André put the suitcase on the floor. He leaned back against the pillows, dwarfing them, his feet sprawled out half on the bed, half on the floor. “Anyone capable of building that neat a job could rig a booby trap in it easily enough. And for that much cocaine?” He turned his head, staring down at the suitcase almost with admiration. “No. I’d say the thing is one large, economy-sized grenade.”

“And you can’t open it.” It was a flat statement, not a question.

“Not without blowing up the hotel,” André said and smiled ruefully. “And considering what they charge for rooms in this place, you can imagine the cost of wrecking fifteen or twenty of them.”

“Not to mention us,” Kek said. It was a poor attempt at humor to lighten his disappointment.

“True.” André shifted position, settling down. “So where do we go from here? Wait until we’re somewhere over the ocean and gently drop it in?”

Kek shook his head. “No. I deliver it, contents and all...”

André’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He hitched himself up on his elbows. “After all you’ve said about never handling narcotics? And after Sanchez tried to make a pincushion out of Anita?”

“One thing has nothing to do with the other,” Kek said and frowned. “I thought I’d deliver him a slightly different cargo than he shipped, and let him and Schneller argue about where the original went, but I never considered not delivering at all. It’s my own fault for taking on the job, but I did and I’ve never failed to deliver yet.” He smiled faintly, an unhumorous smile. “Anyway, airlines frown on people opening doors at thirty thousand feet up.”

“There is that,” André admitted.

“More important at the moment, since it seems the suitcase will remain unopened, is our friend Schneller...”

“Schneller? You mean the delivery boy? What’s he look like? I heard him, but I missed his face.”

“You missed little. A big blond man, as big as you. And as strong, probably. And nastier, I should judge. A storm-troop type.”

“Who smokes too much.”

“Who smokes too much,” Kek agreed.

“What about him?”

Kek frowned at the man on the bed. “Do you remember how curious he was about how I planned to get the case into Spain and how helpful he’d like to be?”

“Well,” André said, his tone asking Kek merely to be reasonable. “You can hardly blame him. Knowing how to get it into Spain could be useful. For taking other suitcases into other countries in the future.” He smiled. “As I said, I wouldn’t mind having the secret myself.”

Huuygens shook his head decisively. He began to pace the room.

“No, that wasn’t his reason. He was after my itinerary.” He paused to look at André. “Think a moment. If you were paying someone to carry a suitcase worth millions of dollars from one place to another, what would you do?”

“You mean, other than putting in a little package of dynamite to prevent undue curiosity?”

“Of course,” Kek said a trifle impatiently. “The dynamite itself may be a threat, but actually it’s ridiculous. How would it help you if your messenger got himself blown to pieces? You’d still lose your suitcase and everything else.” He shook his head. “No. You’d take out better insurance than that.”

“I would?”

“You would. You’d have him followed.”

André nodded, smiling. “You’re probably right. I’m a very untrusting guy.” He quirked a curious eyebrow at Kek. “So you expect to be followed?”

“I don’t expect to be,” Kek said evenly. “I have been. Ever since I got off the plane this morning.” He saw the look on André’s face. “I wasn’t too surprised. I expected it.” He paused in his pacing. “Look, this Schneller comes into a strange hotel room and hands over a suitcase supposedly worth a fortune to a complete stranger. He doesn’t ask for identification; he doesn’t take any precautions at all. Why?”

“Because it’s not the right suitcase?”

“I think it’s the right suitcase. Why make two cases that complicated? And why hand over any suitcase to a stranger? No, it’s because he knows I’m Kek Huuygens. And how does he know? Because I’ve probably been followed since I left Paris by one of Sanchez’s people. Or, if not, because Schneller’s people picked me up when I got here — which I think is the case, because I didn’t feel followed before, if you know what I mean, and I expected to be.” He resumed his pacing, still talking. “Schneller’s people saw me go through customs today, and someone in customs identified me to him. And he was doing it, of course, for Señor Sanchez.”

André frowned. “So why ask you to take along a bodyguard if he has a shadow on you?”

“Because you can shadow a man fairly easily in a city, if you have enough men to do it, but on a trip it would help a lot if one had a definite itinerary—”

The telephone rang sharply. Kek looked at his watch as if surprised that time had passed so quickly and walked over to the desk, lifting the instrument.

“Sanchez,” he said to André, even before listening, and then paid attention to the call. “Yes? Yes, this is M’sieu Huuygens. Ah, hello, Señor Sanchez. How’s the weather in Barcelona? High winds and rain, you say? What a pity! It’s much better here — medium cirrus clouds and intermittent sunshine...”

André was staring at him. Kek cupped the receiver and grinned at the man on the bed.

“Sanchez likes codes; or maybe he’s brushing up on a bit of his French he doesn’t use very often. In any event, that bit of nonsense means it’s really me talking to him, and that I’ve taken delivery of the suitcase from Schneller.” He turned his attention to the telephone again. “I beg your pardon? I’m sorry, the line wasn’t too good there for a moment.”

“I said, there’s someone here who would like to speak with you.” Sanchez’s voice was suave; the cold, superior smile on his skeletal face could almost be seen over the miles of cable. Kek’s smile was wiped away instantly; his jaw tightened as he waited. There was only one person it could possibly be!

There was the briefest of pauses and Anita was on the line.

“Kek? Hello, Kek?”

Huuygens glared at André, his face hard. “They’ve got Anita!”

“Again?”

“Again!”

“That girl’s kidnap prone—”

“She certainly is!” Kek spoke into the phone harshly, his eyes narrowed. “What happened?”

“They brought me here in a car, in a trunk through the border guards, I suppose. I don’t know; I was asleep. That’s the second time I was stuck with a needle!” Anita sounded irked by the repetition. “I hope these people know how to properly sterilize needles—”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m all right now. I had a sore — it was sore for a while from the needle, and I had a headache at first again, but not so bad this time” — Anita sounded as if she were developing an immunity to needles — “but they’re treating me fine now. The woman who’s watching me — not the one you know — is teaching me needlepoint... That’s appropriate, isn’t it?”

“Anita! Forget the needlepoint! How are you?”

“I said I was fine. The thing is, I’d wanted to have the living room repapered as a surprise while you were gone, but now I won’t get a chance to—”

“Anita! Will you forget the living room! How are you?”

“I’m fine, dear. I told you that.” Anita suddenly seemed to realize her predicament and its effect on Kek. “I’m sorry, Kek. I know how upset this must make you—”

“Upset!”

“If you’d marry me,” Anita said reasonably, “these things probably wouldn’t happen. People almost never kidnap married women. I suppose because they figure the chances are too great nobody would pay the ransom.”

“Anita!” Kek’s tone brooked no nonsense. “Get off the line and let me talk to Sanchez!”

“All right, dear,” Anita said soothingly. “But you really mustn’t worry about me. I’m fine. Honestly I am. And I’m doing an antimacassar for your big chair, purple and green. It will match the wallpaper if I ever get a chance to—”

“Anita!”

“All right, dear,” Anita said. “Have a good time in Buenos Aires. And hurry home.”

There was a brief pause and then Sanchez was on the line.

“Ah, M’sieu Huuygens—”

“Listen, Sanchez! Why the necessity of holding Anita when you’ve got the suitcase foolproof?”

“Ah, m’sieu — insurance...” If Kek felt any surprise at hearing his own word come back to him he made no immediate comment. Sanchez continued. “True, you cannot open the suitcase, but you might well fail to deliver it. I am aware of your reputation for treating clients honestly, but there’s too much at stake here for us to depend just on your good word. As for madame, you have my word she will be treated well—”

“If you so much as touch her, I will kill you,” Kek said in a conversational tone.

“I am well aware of your regard,” Sanchez said with a touch of amusement. “There would be little point in bothering her otherwise. As long as you complete your mission, of course. I want the suitcase in Barcelona by next Sunday at the latest. Do you hear?”

Kek took a deep breath. There was obviously nothing he could do at this distance in the matter of Anita. He could, however, clear up a suspicion he had been forming since hearing Anita’s voice.

“How much insurance do you need, Sanchez? If you’re so anxious for my success, you should know that having me followed will only lead to trouble. And failure. And if it does...”

“Followed?” Sanchez chuckled deprecatingly. “Why should I have you followed? Especially since I have your young woman here? No, no, Huuygens, don’t imagine little people back of bushes. Nor would I suggest you search for excuses. I’m rather disappointed...” The voice hardened. “Concentrate, instead, on getting the suitcase here. By Sunday!”

There was a click and the sound of the dial tone. Kek replaced the telephone in its cradle and stared at the carpet, his mind considering this new angle. André cleared his throat.

“What did Anita say?”

Kek frowned savagely. He had not been amused by the exchange with his lovely Anita. “She says she’s fine and maybe I ought to marry her, since married women seldom get kidnapped.”

“She’s probably right,” André said and feigned agreement. “I know I’ve never felt the urge to kidnap one.” He straightened his face, coming back to the more important subject. “What did Sanchez have to say for himself?”

“Sanchez said he wants the suitcase in Barcelona by Sunday. Which is no problem.” Kek resumed his pacing. “He also said he isn’t having me followed — as he put it, why should he? And why should he, indeed?” His eyes came up steadily. “And that, my friend, is a problem.”

André considered him a moment and then nodded in understanding. “You mean it looks as if your friend Schneller is overstepping his authority a bit, eh?”

“I’m afraid,” Kek said and went to stare out of the window.

“And,” André went on, warming to his theme, “if Schneller is having you followed, not for Sanchez, he must be doing it for himself. Right?”

“Right.”

“And if he knew where you were going, and when, he might just be able to arrange to have someone waiting for you along the line. And you would be left holding the bag. I mean, not holding the bag,” he amended in the interests of accuracy and sighed. “It’s getting harder and harder to find a crook you can trust these days.”

“Too true,” Kek said absently and continued staring into the street, his mind busy with the problem.

“It would also mean, of course, that your friend Schneller would have to do something to prevent your being around afterward,” André said, expounding his theory further. “Something like killing you. Because you’re the type to go crying to Sanchez and tell him the big, bad man from Buenos Aires slapped your wrist and took away all your candy.”

“That’s me,” Kek said and grinned without turning around. “Just a poor sport.”

“And Sanchez might just believe you. So Schneller can’t leave you around.” André became serious. “So what do we do about it? Take Schneller along and drop him into the ocean?”

“They still object to opening plane doors at thirty thousand feet. Besides,” Kek said, looking down, “if Schneller has any idea of taking the suitcase away from me, he’d probably hire somebody to do the job, much as he’d hate to—”

“Hate to?”

“About all that Sanchez told me about the man is that he hates to spend money. A maniac tightwad. But he’d pay to have someone take me; it would be worth it to him. After our little talk he knows I’ll have an eye out for him; and he’s like you in one respect — he’s hard to hide.” He frowned. “And the people he could hire just in Buenos Aires that I don’t know come to about six million. Not to mention a lot of others in other cities.”

André saw a hole in the argument. “Except,” he said, “if he takes the suitcase away from you before Spain, how will he get it through customs?”

“He doesn’t want it in Spain, for heaven’s sake! That’s the last place he wants it. He wants the bag and me to disappear together, all right, but anywhere else. They buy cocaine in lots of places these days.” The crowds he was staring at without seeing in the streets below seemed to suddenly give him an idea. “You know...”

“What?”

Huuygens suddenly turned, smiling. “It would be better, wouldn’t it, if Herr Schneller took on the job of taking the suitcase away from me? Personally? Rather than some unknown thug he could hire that I wouldn’t know or recognize?”

“I suppose. But how do you get him to do it?”

“It might just be possible...”

He held up a hand against interruption and began pacing the room. The people in the street had reminded him that it was easier to lose a man in a crowd than in an empty street. His idea had begun to take form. It was rough at that stage, which was natural, but that did not bother him; he knew instinctively it was a workable concept. He began to put some of the details in, staring at the girl leading the burro, but not seeing the picture at all. Suddenly it struck him that that was exactly what he was planning to do: lead a burro. The smile on the girl’s face was transformed to his own.

Insurance, Schneller had said, and Sanchez and he had both repeated the word. Well, this wasn’t exactly insurance, but it was a chance to get Schneller off his neck at least. He had always known how he was going to get the suitcase past the customs in Spain; the nice thing about this new plan was that it did not interfere with the original scheme at all. It did not, unfortunately, also include a means of teaching Señor Sanchez a lesson for sticking pins into girls, but that was a problem that would have to wait. One enemy at a time — today Schneller, tomorrow Sanchez. He let his thoughts go back to his new scheme, taking it from the beginning; now the little tumblers — unlike those spring-loaded ball bearings in Schneller’s suitcase — began to drop into place with almost audible clicks. Nor did any warning bell ring as the outlines of the plan began to solidify. He checked it over one final time and then turned to the patiently waiting André.

“André, we’ll need a bit of shopping—”

“For anything interesting?”

“Suitcase covers, two of them. You know, those canvas things...”

André frowned. “I haven’t seen one of those in years.”

“They still have them in luggage stores. My suitcase is roughly the size of one. With covers on they’ll be pretty hard to tell apart from a distance.”

André’s eyes lit up. “The old shell game?”

“Something like it. Except you’ll be taking one of the walnut shells with you when you leave.”

“That’s cheating,” André said, scandalized, and swung himself from the bed. He pulled the unaccustomed necktie into place, straightened the jacket, and ran his fingers through his nearly-white gray hair. “Two suitcase covers coming up! I gather you want me to do the shopping? If you’re being followed? Down two flights by stairs and then the elevator,” he added sotto voce, as if repeating instructions, and then looked up, frowning, doing a double take. “Hold it! What do you mean, I’ll be taking one of the walnut shells with me. Aren’t we traveling together?”

“No. You leave tonight; I go tomorrow.”

André shook his large head stubbornly. “No, sir! Not with that storm-troop type after you! We didn’t come together because there was a reason; now there’s a reason we go back together, and we do!”

“We don’t!” Kek said definitely. “There’s also a reason. And I suppose it’s about time you found out what the plans are.”

“Well, thank you very much,” André said stiffly and sat down again on the bed. He got up to tug on his trousers, protecting the unusual crease, and then sat down again, waiting. Kek stopped his pacing and stood facing the big man, beginning to outline his plan. André listened with no expression on his face, although at one point he smiled and then immediately brought his face back to its immobility. When at last Kek finished there were several moments of silence. Then André sighed and came to his feet.

“It could work,” he said slowly. “I don’t mean the smuggling; that’s perfect. I mean the thing with Schneller. Still, in everything, there are a couple of things I’m not too fond of—”

Kek faced him, unsmiling. “Just a couple?”

“Mainly. First, I don’t like the fact that you still don’t know how to teach Sanchez a lesson and still plan on giving him that suitcase...”

“And?”

“And suppose that Schneller doesn’t follow the bait? Suppose he doesn’t react the way you expect him to?”

Huuygens sighed and turned to look out of the window again out over the city, but not seeing it.

“Then,” he said, “we may be in trouble...”

12

Through the closed door of his apartment, Schneller could hear the sound of the telephone ringing. He fumbled his key ring into his hand, singling out a key, and hurried it into the lock, turned it quickly, and then searched for the key to a second lock, for the first time sorry he had been so thorough in his home-protective installations. He managed the auxiliary at last, the soft incessancy of the sound through the paneling a goad to his fingers. He swung the door aside as an irksome barrier, hurried across the room, his key strap dangling, and snatched up the instrument.

“Hello?” His voice was wheezing badly. One of these days, he promised himself, he had to stop smoking — and instantly he reached to touch the security blanket of the tobacco sack in his pocket as one might touch an amulet.

“Herr Schneller? Max Gross, from the Gerhardt Agency—”

“One second.” Schneller crossed the room, tucking the monstrous key ring into his pocket; he closed and locked the door and returned to the telephone, catching his breath. He sat down on the desk chair, overflowing it, speaking with more control. “All right. Go ahead.”

“Yes, sir.” Max spoke in German. “The subject left the Plaza Hotel about half an hour ago — two o’clock, precisely. He proceeded—”

“Was he alone?”

“Alone, yes.” It seemed to Max to be a rather odd question; Huuygens had been alone since he had arrived at Ezeiza Airport early that morning and could scarcely have picked up a companion since then without having been seen. However, Herr Schneller was paying for the surveillance, and Max was a firm believer in rendering unto Caesar.

“Well? Go ahead!”

Max came out of his reverie. “Yes, sir. Anyway, the subject proceeded to the British United Airways office in the Calle Maipú between Paraguay and Córdoba. It’s not far from the hotel and he walked. I followed the subject, taking all precautions not to be observed. Since the subject obviously was unaware of the surveillance, I proceeded into the office behind him. There was only one girl on counter duty, so I was able to obtain a place in line behind the subject and remained there while he transacted his business. The subject picked up tickets — it must be assumed they had been ordered by telephone prior — I mean, previously. I was therefore able, because of my position, to hear all that transpired.” Max giggled, veering from the agency vernacular a moment. “I couldn’t have helped hearing him if I’d tried—”

“Get on with it!” Schneller said gratingly. Why in the devil did every agency moron refer to a person as “the subject” instead of by name? And the rest of that garbage they used to replace plain German! This Max What’s-his-name was a fool. What kind of detectives was he paying for, anyway?

“Yes, sir!” Max said hurriedly. “Anyway, the subject leaves Buenos Aires the day after tomorrow—”

“The day after tomorrow? What’s he hanging around for?”

Max had no idea, but he didn’t seem to feel it politic to say so. Herr Schneller appeared to be a bit on edge this morning.

“Possibly to sight-see, sir. He may be a stranger here, taking advantage of his—”

“Get on with it!”

“Yes, sir! The subject leaves the day after tomorrow, Thursday, at seventeen twenty-five — that’s five twenty-five in the afternoon, sir — from Ezeiza Airport on British United Airways for London, arriving there at fourteen fifteen Saturday. That’s two fifteen in the after—”

“I know! I know! Keep quiet a second...”

London, eh? Schneller frowned at the desk blotter. Why would Huuygens pick an airport as large as either of the two major ports in London? He obviously would expect to be searched, since he always was; and they were far from fools in London. Besides, the chances of smuggling anything the size of a suitcase through customs in London had to be the devil’s own task. And when you were through, where were you? Still far from Spain, and on an island to boot. And even worse, of course — getting this Huuygens alone for the purpose of taking the suitcase from him in a busy place like London, with police all around, could also be a major problem...

“What airport?”

“Gatwick,” Max said, proud that he — or rather, the counter girl — had overlooked no detail.

Well, Schneller thought, at least Gatwick isn’t quite as crowded as Heathrow, but it still is a very busy airport. Possibly there was another answer? After all, just because a man buys a ticket for a certain destination doesn’t necessarily mean he has to go there.

“Any stopovers?”

“Two. Rio de Janeiro and Las Palmas in the Canaries. But he’s not staying in London; he’s going on,” Max added hurriedly, suddenly realizing that Herr Schneller was misunderstanding his information.

“Well, for God’s sake! Don’t make me drag it out of you word by word!” Good Lord! What was this incompetent’s name? Max? Really, Gerhardt would hear of this!

“Yes, sir. The subject changes planes in London, same airfield, Gatwick, also to British United, for Gibraltar. He leaves Gatwick at twenty-one forty-five and gets into Gibraltar — North Front Airport — at twenty-three fifteen. That’s” — Max realized he was close to repeating an error — “fifteen minutes before midnight. No, forty-five,” he amended hastily and anticipated a further question. “No stopovers on that leg. And that’s as far as his ticket goes.”

This Huuygens is really laying a trail, Schneller thought, and was happy he had been wise enough to put Gerhardt and his men on the job, even though it was just pure luck that a mental cripple like this Max should have gotten so much of the finer details.

“Now, what about luggage? Was there any mention of it? For example, what about the transfer from one plane to the other at Gatwick?”

“They put it from one plane to the other in London — the company does, that is. The girl said so; she said he’d have no worry on that score. He puts his bags in at Ezeiza here and doesn’t get his hands on them until Gibraltar.”

There was a pause as Schneller considered this information. Gibraltar, of course, made a lot more sense than Gatwick. Actually, it made a lot of sense. It was small, minute when compared with London, with far less traffic and far, far less staff. The intermediate stops were well forgotten; if Huuygens bought that detailed a ticket just to get off at Rio de Janeiro to throw anyone off his trail, he’d still be almost as far from his ultimate destination and still face all the same problems. No, Gibraltar made real sense — although how the man planned to get it from Gibraltar into Spain would be interesting. Actually, it would be even more interesting to know how he planned to get it out of the airport in Gibraltar. Interesting but nonessential, since M’sieu Huuygens had his, Schneller’s, permission to get it past customs any way he, Huuygens, chose; he, Schneller, would see to it that he, Huuygens, would be relieved of the custody of the suitcase in short order. This bit of cerebral gymnastics completed, Schneller went on with his calculating.

Actually, Gibraltar was ideal from his own point of view; from the Rock it would be no great problem to get it onto a ferry to Spanish Morocco. A few pesetas bought a lot of closed eyes and turned heads in that part of the world. And in Morocco it should be simple to make a very lucrative deal for the stuff. He returned his attention to the telephone and the waiting Max.

“Where did Huuygens go when he left the airline office?”

“I don’t know. I imagine Willi took over and picked him up,” Max said. “I couldn’t walk out of the airline office behind the subject after standing in line so long; it would have looked suspicious. I had to stay and ask the girl a lot of stupid questions” — Schneller raised his eyes to the ceiling — “but Willi and Herr Gerhardt himself were right behind us, so I’m sure they picked the subject up. That was the arrangement. They should be calling you as soon as—”

“All right! All right!” Schneller brought his eyes down, glaring. God, what a talkative idiot! “Go back to the hotel and be prepared to help the others when they get back. If they need you.” He was paying good money for this donkey?

“Yes, sir.”

“And good-bye!”

“Yes, sir,” Max said sadly and hung up, reluctant to stop talking. The reporting was the part of detective work he liked best.

The big blond man set the telephone back in its cradle and pulled his tobacco and papers from his pocket, beginning to roll a cigarette without conscious thought, forcing his mind from the irritation of Max Gross. So Huuygens would arrive at North Front in Gibraltar around midnight three days hence. Friday. The question of why the delay in Buenos Aires an extra day when he had a job to do was a bit irksome but really not essential. Probably his plan for getting through customs in Gibraltar required his arrival there on Friday, rather than earlier. That must be it. In any event, it was nothing to worry about.

Friday... More than ample time to get someone from Germany down there. Or, better yet, to arrange for two men; one to join the flight at Gatwick in London and actually accompany Huuygens and the other to be waiting in Gibraltar. It would be pretty hard for even the clever M’sieu Huuygens to give the slip to the two of them — not the two men he intended to hire for the job. And they would hold him someplace privately until he could get there and handle the rest himself. It would be necessary to get rid of M’sieu Huuygens, but that would occasion no great sadness on his part; it would be, in fact, a job he would handle himself with great pleasure. He pictured the stocky man’s neck between his strong fingers, allowed four or five seconds in his mind for slowly increasing pressure — long enough to remind the man behind those bulging gray eyes that it did not pay to get cute with Hans Schneller — and then suddenly flexed his thick thumbs, completing the garroting. He could almost hear the neck snap.

He tugged at the knuckles of his fingers as if in relief after the strangling he had just imagined; then his smile faded. Imagination was one thing, but facts were another. Between the expenses involved in the hiring of the Gerhardt Detective Agency with half their men, plus the two from Berlin — who did not work cheaply — the cost of this hijacking would be considerable. Not that it wasn’t worth it— Worth it? Ten thousand times over — but, still, money didn’t grow on trees. True, he had had the suitcase in his hands after Sanchez had been and gone with the combination — and maybe he shouldn’t have given him the combination either, but that was water over the dam — and possibly he should have just gone off with it. But no; Sanchez or that partner of his would have had him followed for the rest of his life, which probably wouldn’t have been long, and who needed it when a simpler solution was at hand? This was much better — let the blame fall on Huuygens. In fact, make sure the blame falls on him. No suitcase, no Huuygens. He could even go to Barcelona and commiserate with the others on the loss...

His smile returned. He stretched his hand to place his call to Berlin; the telephone rang as his fingers touched the smooth plastic. He brought the receiver to his ear in the same easy motion.

“Yes?”

“Schneller? This is Gerhardt. What’s the matter with your telephone? I’ve been ringing every few minutes and it’s been busy.”

“You’ve got a talkative operative named Max Something on your payroll. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter. You wanted reports, didn’t you? You scream enough about how much they cost, so I thought you’d be interested in getting one, that’s all.”

Now that Huuygens’ itinerary was in his hands, it was far less important to have the man constantly followed; still, it certainly did no harm, and he had promised Gerhardt at least two days’ employment for at least four men. A pity, under the circumstances, but he could not back out now; Gerhardt was an old friend. Still, as Gerhardt said, they were costing him so he might as well get the reports. No sense in throwing away the money.

“All right,” Schneller said mildly. “So report.”

“All right,” Gerhardt said, still not completely mollified. “My man Willi picked up your man outside the British United Airways office on Maipú. Max was inside with him. He—”

“I know,” Schneller said and finally lit his cigarette. He coughed once and started to subside when another fit caught him. He managed to control it at last, speaking with effort. “He was picking up his tickets there—”

“His tickets?” At the other end of the line Gerhardt shook his head disgustedly at the phone. Why did every client try to second-guess the agency? “Tickets nothing. They must have been booked solid, because from British United he went around the corner on Córdoba to Air France—”

Schneller felt a cold hand grip his stomach and twist. The match in his fingers burned down to his hand; he woke up with a muffled curse and dropped it on the rug, stamping it out.

“—and Willi was right behind him. Your man bought a ticket for Paris — Orly Field. His flight leaves Ezeiza at eighteen hours on Thursday, day after tomorrow, and gets into Orly at fourteen fifty-five on Friday, their time.”

Schneller took a shuddering breath, coughed on his cigarette, and took it from his lip, crushing it out viciously. He felt as if he had been betrayed. Betrayed? He felt as if he had been clubbed on the back of his bull neck. Why in the devil would Huuygens — Or did that dumbhead Max make a mistake? But, no — his information had been too complete. Then, what in the name of—

One possibility suddenly occurred to him, the only one that made sense at the moment. The tickets had to be for different people. Of course! Huuygens had an accomplice, a confederate. And they would meet someplace, which is why he had booked flights leaving at approximately the same hour. And why he booked on Thursday; it was probably the only day both airlines had flights that stopped at the same place. Rio, possibly, or Las Palmas... He began to feel better.

“What stopovers does it have?”

“Two,” Gerhardt said. “Brasília and Dakar.”

Schneller felt bad again. There was, of course, the possibility that Huuygens and his confederate planned to meet halfway from their destination — halfway between what? London and Paris? In the Channel? That way lay madness... Then—? The shock had not worn off, it had merely been put aside temporarily. His mind was beginning to function again.

“And from Paris where is he booked?”

Gerhardt had always known that Schneller was clever with his hands, but he had never credited him with excessive imagination.

“From Paris to Perpignan,” he said with more respect. “A six-hour layover in Paris and then less than an hour’s flight to Perpignan. He’ll be getting there at twenty-one o-five.”

“Still from Orly?”

“Yes.”

“What about his luggage?”

“Willi said they put it on the plane at Orly for him — transfer it, that is. Checked in here, delivered in Perpignan.”

“And that’s the end of the line.” It was a statement.

“Yes. At least as far as the ticket he bought from Air France.”

The tight feeling began to leave Schneller; he had panicked for nothing. Obviously, Huuygens was no fool. He had simply taken the normal precaution of laying a false trail first in order to guarantee not being followed. He probably canceled his first ticket as soon as he got back to the hotel; in all probability he had paid by credit card—

“How did he pay?”

Gerhardt was ashamed not to know. “Willi didn’t say.”

“No matter.”

It was unimportant. There were no confederates; a smart man did not use them — unless they were essential, he amended hurriedly, thinking of Berlin. No. Huuygens was working alone and Perpignan was his true destination. It was fortunate he had arranged for Gerhardt to put enough men on the job so that he had not been led astray by that first booking. And equally fortunate that his call to Germany, according to the international operator, would not go through until six o’clock that evening, so that he had not as yet given definite instructions. He could now direct the men differently: one to Orly to join the flight with Huuygens, and the other to Perpignan to wait. Otherwise the scenario would be the same.

He frowned down at the desk blotter, his eyes narrowing. Or... just suppose Huuygens was being cute again — apparently a habit of his — and the second was the false trail, and not the first? In that case it would be better to have four men on the job: two for the Perpignan trip and two for the Gibraltar trip. He shook his head, his light-blue eyes murderous. This thing had damned well better work out, because the expenses were getting out of hand! Still, thirty pounds of pure cocaine — if everything worked out, that is. But what if it didn’t? He’d be the rest of his life paying off... He put the terrible thought from him and returned to the telephone.

“All right,” he said. “Where is he now?”

“I have Gomez following him.”

“Gomez?” For a moment it didn’t register. Gerhardt had an Argentinian national on his payroll? He kicked himself for thinking of inconsequentials at a time like that. “All right. Stay with him. At least until your two days are up.” No sense in paying and not getting the work done.

“We will,” Gerhardt said briefly and hung up.

Schneller’s hand reached unconsciously for his tobacco and papers. Perpignan, eh? Really even a better spot for Huuygens to try to cross the Spanish border than Gibraltar. Not very far from the coast, and a small fishing boat on a dark night, and a brief run to Barcelona. Except that M’sieu Huuygens would never leave Perpignan alive... Or Gibraltar — whichever...

Kek Huuygens strolled in a relaxed manner down the Avenida Santa Fe. It was six in the evening, that most perfect hour in October in Buenos Aires, and he was pleased to be on that most perfect of streets. The windows of many fine shops beckoned, and Kek paused every now and then to savor their wares, wishing he could bring some of them back for Anita. And also to determine that the small, swarthy figure following him continued to be reflected in the various polished glasses. Satisfied that he had not lost his little shadow, he crossed the road at a leisurely pace and pushed his way cheerfully through the glass door into the Alitalia office.

A lovely girl detached herself from writing up a ticket and approached, smiling, pleased to have been interrupted in the boring task, and especially by this handsome stranger. Behind Huuygens Gomez was having trouble with the heavy door. Kek was about to turn and open it for him when a departing customer took care of the emergency. Gomez came to stand behind Kek; Huuygens leaned over the counter.

“Do you have space to Rome?”

The girl automatically looked at the wall clock and then shook her head sadly. She hated to disappoint this nice-looking man. “It’s too late for today, and I’m afraid we’re booked for tomorrow. A pity; we had a no-show—”

“I was thinking of Thursday,” Kek said and smiled.

“Oh, we can get you out on Thursday,” the girl said; her tone indicated two things: that she would willingly put another passenger off to accommodate him, and that she was free until the plane left. She reached for her clipboard, wondering why more men in Buenos Aires did not have curly hair and gray eyes beneath jagged eyebrows. Behind Huuygens, Gomez stared about at the colorful posters on the cream walls, the perfect picture of a man waiting his turn in a queue. His swarthy face was emotionless, but inwardly he was exulting. The only Argentinian in the agency, and he would be the one who would have the information the big, blond client wanted; he, Gomez, would be the one who would report the wanted facts...

When a little less than twenty minutes later he did exactly that, he was surprised — and not a little disappointed — at the reception his information received.

“What!”

“Yes, sir,” Gomez repeated earnestly. “To Rome the evening after tomorrow at eighteen fifteen hours. Via Freetown and Casablanca. A layover of five hours at Leonardo da Vinci Airport in Rome, and then another Alitalia flight nonstop to Marseilles...”

He waited for the praise that, inexplicably, was not forthcoming.

“Tell Gerhardt to ring me as soon as he can,” Schneller said abruptly and slammed the telephone down.

His heavy features were twisted in frustration and anger; his big fist pounded the desk top softly. This Huuygens was playing with him! He was being cute again, knowing that Schneller abhorred cuteness! London, Paris, Rome! A joke, that’s what Huuygens was playing, a lousy, miserable, verdammt, unfunny joke! What was he trying to do? Make him, Schneller, hire half of Berlin as well as most of the Gerhardt Agency? Make him go broke following that damned suitcase? Whose suitcase was it in the first place? Who built it? Could Huuygens have built it? No! He admitted it himself! Well, then, him and his damned unfunny jokes! Well, he wouldn’t fall for it. Damn right he wouldn’t! He’d — He suddenly remembered the call to Berlin he had just completed; his hand shot out for the telephone, determined to cancel all instructions until he could see light in the puzzle, his mind composing curses for Huuygens and all of his relatives, past and future, but before he could raise the receiver, the instrument rang. He snatched it up. It was Gerhardt.

“Gomez just got in touch. He said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes! Take your men off Huuygens — your — your — your so-called operatives! Detectives! My good God!”

“What’s the matter?”

“What’s the matter, he says! He’s making idiots out of us, that’s what’s the matter! Your men must stand out like-like—” Schneller gave up on a proper comparison. “What are they wearing? Cowbells? That miserable Schweinhund will lead them from one airline to another like the pied piper all night long, or until they close! That bastard is just trying to—” Schneller suddenly clamped his jaws closed. He was talking too much; the details were no affair of Gerhardt’s. He also realized he was talking nonsense. “I’m sorry, Gerhardt. I’m upset. Forget what I said. Keep your men on him until he goes to the airport, but put on different men. He’s wise to everyone you’ve had on him so far. I’m sure.”

“You’re sure?”

“Very sure.” He paused, thinking. His burst of temper seemed to have acted as a catharsis; for the first time in a long time, it appeared to him, his mind was clear, his thoughts precise. “Gerhardt—”

“Yes?”

“They have a transportation desk in the hotel, don’t they?” Where had his mind been for the past twelve hours? It was so painfully obvious that Huuygens had merely used the phone in his room.

“Yes...”

“Can you find out if Huuygens booked passage from there? Or can you arrange to hear if he books passage anytime tonight or tomorrow? And then let me know?”

Gerhardt nodded. It was obvious that Schneller suspected the other trips to be false; after the reports he had received, he concurred.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “If I can, it will cost money.”

“Forget the money,” Schneller said, even as his own words knifed deep into his heart. Gerhardt’s bill was going to be enough to get the country out of debt! “Can you do it?”

“I can try.”

“Then try. And let me know — do you hear? I’ll be right here.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Gerhardt said and hung up.

It was nearly midnight when the detective called back. Nearly a bottle of schnapps and a sack of tobacco had been consumed to make the wait endurable. Schneller snatched at the phone.

“Yes?”

“Gerhardt.” The detective’s voice was smug, filled with satisfaction. “I think this time we have what you want. Finally. I had to dig the clerk out of bed, since the office is closed, but I believe you’ll find it was worth it.”

He waited for some comment, but Schneller merely wheezed heavily into the receiver, waiting. Gerhardt took a breath and went on.

“He leaves for Lisbon tomorrow. One stop at Viracopos — that’s the airport for São Paulo — and nonstop from there. He—”

“Tomorrow? Not Thursday?”

“Not Thursday. That was as fake as his destinations. Tomorrow.”

“Which makes sense, a lot more sense,” Schneller said and nodded to himself. “Go ahead.”

“Tomorrow, seventeen twenty-five, by KLM. He changes planes in Lisbon to TWA to Madrid, has a stopover there, and then flies to Zaragoza by Iberia. He made the reservations by phone from his room as soon as he checked in; they were all confirmed by noon and the tickets issued and delivered long before he started that trip of his around to the airline offices.”

Cute. You’re a real cute one, M’sieu Huuygens, Schneller thought. And that bit of going right into Spain — of course! Why bother with the problems of going past a customs barrier at an airport and getting past the frontier both? Of course he would fly into Spain; it was the only thing that made sense. Why Zaragoza? Who cares! God, he must have been asleep when he let Huuygens pull all that garbage over on him! But he was awake now. Two can be cute, M’sieu Huuygens...

“Very good,” Schneller said with deep satisfaction. This was the true data, and about time! “How long is he in Lisbon?”

“If schedules are met, five hours.”

“And in Madrid?”

“He has a stopover there with an open ticket from Madrid to Zaragoza. I have no idea how long he plans to stay. I can get you the Iberia timetables, if you want.”

“It’s not important,” Schneller said and smiled at the telephone. “Very good, Gerhardt.” The compliment would probably cost him extra, but it was worth it. One possible flaw occurred to him. “Is there any way Huuygens can find out we have this information?”

“None,” Gerhardt said with conviction. “He handled the ticket purchase from his room and the clerk delivered the tickets to him; when he did, Huuygens gave the clerk a large tip — a very large tip — with the instructions that his booking was to remain a complete secret.”

“Then, how—”

“I simply gave the clerk a larger tip,” Gerhardt said calmly. “A much, much larger tip. And pointed out that I am here in Buenos Aires, whereas M’sieu Huuygens would be leaving, and therefore it would be wise to treat my deal with him a bit more confidentially than he treated M’sieu Huuygens’ deal. No. He won’t say anything.”

“Good,” Schneller said and tried not to think about the much muchness of the bribe, trying to concentrate on the good news instead. “Gerhardt, could you bother that clerk again?”

“For what I gave him I could bother him fifty times. Why?”

“I’d like plane schedules. Not just from Buenos Aires,” Schneller said, his brain really racing at last. It felt as if it had been freed from a fog-ridden prison. “From anywhere nearby. Montevideo. Asunción. Rio. São Paulo.” He bent closer to the telephone, his thick fingers toying with the tobacco pouch in his pocket, his mind fitting his facts into their proper slots neatly and definitively. “I want to get to Lisbon before he does. I’m sure he’s planning on getting out of Lisbon before anyone who might possibly be following him is aware he’s even left town. If I can get a quicker plane from Rio or São Paulo — Lufthansa, possibly, or Varig, or maybe even PAL — early this morning...”

“And to get to any of these places to catch your plane? Would you take a private charter?”

Schneller sat back in his chair. He had not considered a private plane; they had to cost a fortune! Still—

“If you have to,” he said bravely. “But then try for Montevideo, or Asunción. Not someplace too far...”

“I’ll be in touch,” Gerhardt said, not one to waste time, and hung up.

Schneller slowly lowered the receiver into place and leaned back, smiling, massaging the knuckles of one hand with the wide, calloused palm of the other, picturing his lethal fingers at work. Lisbon, eh? And then what was the man’s plan? Madrid and then where? Zaragoza? Whoever heard of it? Well, no matter. It was probably more of his smoke screen, in any event. Lisbon, yes, but after that nothing more for M’sieu Huuygens. He flexed his fingers and smiled more grimly. Oh, you’re a cute one, all right, M’sieu Huuygens. I’ll compliment you in person very quickly.

Nor will I need any help in the matter, he thought with satisfaction. No, M’sieu Huuygens, you will not get me to hire half of Berlin. I’ll do very well alone. Now that I know where you’ll be and when, I don’t need help. I’ll bet you are laughing right now, hein? Well, you thought I’d waste money on a young army, eh? You really figured I’d stay in a fog forever; you figured—

Good God! He had completely forgotten he still had not called Berlin back! Was it too late! Damn! Two men, one to Orly and another to Perpignan — and two more, one to London and the other to Gibraltar! Could they have already left? Four men and their expenses, and all needless! Damn that miserable Huuygens! This was all his fault; one more thing to pay for!

His hand shot out for the telephone, even his cigarettes forgotten for once.

13

It was a beautiful spring afternoon, warm and sunny, and the hired car hummed along smoothly, eating the miles of the wide parkway. The concrete sang beneath the tires, the open windows brought in the rich scent of newly mown grass. The city lay far behind, invisible even on that endless plain; here in the outskirts the bustle of the center seemed to belong to a different era as well as a different area. Little private housing developments, each styled quaintly, came and went like turreted villages of the past, their walled boundaries marching alongside the speeding car and then falling away to be replaced by another. On the distant horizon low clouds gave a simulation of hills, the only break in the monotony of the plain.

Kek Huuygens leaned back comfortably in the rear seat, his mind on the steps still to be taken to assure his success. His plan as far as Schneller was concerned was, he knew, a chancy one, but it had possibilities; even had it been more foolproof, though, it still would have required the supplemental help of a bit of luck, and he had to hope this would be around when needed. True, he always did his best to encourage luck to aid him, and this time had been no exception.

For example: Certainly by now even as stupid a person as Herr Schneller should have come to consider the possibility that the myriad destinations to which M’sieu Huuygens had purchased passage were all smoke screens. Certainly by now Herr Schneller should have come to consider the probability that M’sieu Huuygens had used the transportation desk in the hotel. And certainly by now Herr Schneller should have been able to rout out the clerk and bribe him enough to discover the ticket issued to Lisbon. Do not disappoint me, Schneller, Kek thought; do not be too bright, but do not be any more stupid than necessary, either. I have left you ample time to get to Lisbon ahead of me; be there when I get there so I can get you out of my hair once and for all. I have a suitcase to deliver, and you are promising to become a nuisance...

He glanced through the rear window of the hired car, wondering as he did so what purpose the check served. There was no indication that any of the many cars traveling in the same direction on the parkway behind him were necessarily interested in him. Or not interested in him, as far as that goes, he thought; it was a public highway, open to private detectives as well as virtuous smugglers. And it made little difference. In an hour he would be on his way, and if Schneller was not waiting for him in Lisbon, he’d have to worry about everyone around him from then on. Be stupid, Schneller, but not too stupid...

He turned back, facing the front, and then had to reach quickly for the strap as his driver swerved sharply through the wide gate and then straightened out into a lesser curve to bring the car to a stop before the main entrance of the airport. He descended and waited on the curb as his bag was hauled out from the driver’s seat. He paid the man and looked about. As he had known from his inspection of the premises on his arrival the previous day, a porter appeared almost instantly, his combination luggage truck and ticket stand filled with baggage checks for all airlines. Kek handed over the suitcase most willingly.

“KLM.”

“Yes, sir!” The porter picked up the suitcase, satisfied himself that its weight did not require verification, and reached for a KLM baggage ticket. “And your destination, sir?”

“Lisbon,” Kek said cheerfully.

“Yes, sir. Lisbon,” said the porter and drew a ticket properly marked LIS. He looped it around the handle of the covered suitcase, ripped off the stub in the same gesture, and handed it over, his palm out. Kek slipped it into his pocket, fumbled some change loose, and then stopped. His face was bright with embarrassment. The porter had a cold feeling something was going to cost him his tip.

“Sir?”

“I’m sorry,” Kek said and looked it. “I’m afraid my mind was wandering. Did I say Lisbon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m terribly sorry. I must have been thinking of something else. I meant Amsterdam.”

The porter smiled, relieved. “No trouble at all, sir.” He ripped the baggage tag from the handle, replaced it with one properly stamped AMS, and handed Kek the stub. Kek put it in his pocket and then remembered the old stub. He brought it out, tore it up, and dropped the pieces into a receptacle.

“Sorry,” he said, smiling self-deprecatingly, and tipped most generously.

“No trouble at all,” the porter assured him, pleased with the outcome of the matter, and wheeled the bag away.

Step one... Kek took a deep breath and walked into the large terminal, crossing the main lobby, his footsteps echoing hollowly on the polished terrazzo, his eyes routinely checking the faces of those he passed. There was none familiar, but then he realized he was being foolish. If Schneller had hired thugs to stay with him, he wouldn’t spot them in a one-second check. Forget it and hope he saw Schneller in person in Lisbon...

He walked over to the check-in desk of KLM and handed over his ticket envelope. A flaxen-haired lovely with perfect teeth and a well-filled blouse beneath her uniform jacket accepted the envelope; she took some of the contents and left some in the share-and-share alike of airlines throughout the world, punched, stamped, and stapled the remainder, clipped a seat assignment to the tattered remnants, and handed it back. Kek accepted it and wandered away, pitying the poor accountants who had to make sense from the paper chase that had to result from such a system.

A raucous screech from a wall-mounted loudspeaker was apparently being repeated; Kek managed to interpret it as the first call for his flight and made his way to a queue forming before a KLM standard. He relinquished his ticket; it was returned to him more mutilated than ever and he moved on. A uniformed policeman was diligently going through hand luggage on a small bench in the aisleway; Kek, empty-handed, passed on to be politely but thoroughly patted in a search for firearms by a second policeman. Behind him as he continued toward the plane the precautions against potential hijackers continued. Now that would really be smuggling, he thought with a smile, and entered the plane. I wonder how I’d go about smuggling a plane from one place to another without using the threat of a gun? Guns took all the skill out of it. A nice problem, and one with which to while away some of the long hours of the flight, except that he had a more important problem that required solution in the very near future. Could he hand over that suitcase to Sanchez without in some way punishing him for his impolite promotional methods in getting him to take the job? Honor demanded it...

He found his seat and sank into it. Too early to begin to worry about the problem of Sanchez and his just retribution; time now for step one-and-a-half. Step one-and-a-half was never written down or even memorized in the course of a Huuygens scheme; when practical it came between steps one and two. Step one-and-a-half involved getting outside of a few solid drinks once step one had been safely accomplished. The sad thing, of course, was that he would have to wait until takeoff before he could prevail on one of the stewardesses to fulfill the requirements. A pity, he thought, and leaned back, staring from the window of the plane at the terminal building and the file of people waiting to enter the cabin. Maybe he shouldn’t wait for step one-and-a-half to begin thinking of Sanchez’s payment; time was running out...

The night had come and passed; morning had been heralded by breakfast trays, with the inevitable tangle of serving stewardesses and passengers fighting for rest-room priority, toothbrushes in hand; this had been followed almost immediately, it seemed, by the confusion of cocktails and lunch. Now at long last the aisles were cleared, the last infant settled, the magazines retrieved, and the stewardesses now sat back in the galley, exhausted, tucking wisps of hair back under their caps and projecting their thoughts ahead to Schiphol and home.

The seat-belt warning was flashed on; as if in response, the 707 shuddered slightly as its landing gear was lowered. It locked in place with a thump that, as always, reminded passengers that after all airplanes were only machines and like all machines subject to sudden and unaccountable failure. The flaps came down, motors whining piteously; the plane’s speed was checked. Weary travelers scratched bearded cheeks and leaned to look through the windows, seeking communion with solid earth, watching the city of Lisbon reveal itself slowly beyond the frothy edge of the huge ocean they had just traversed. It had been a boring flight — the best kind to the minds of both passengers and crew — and most of them were thinking of clearing immigration and customs and then going somewhere for a hot bath and a better rest than the convoluted position demanded by aircraft seating permitted.

Most, but not all. Kek Huuygens’ thoughts were on neither. To begin with, he knew it would be a good ten hours more until a hot bath or rest would be possible; as for immigration and customs, he gave them no thought. His plans would work out or not; if not, alternate plans would be called for. His thoughts, therefore, were free of such mundane paths and were concentrated instead on perfecting the idea that had come to him in the long night. The Encyclopaedia Britannica, which had proven such a complication once upon a time when Kek had been attempting to aid a certain M’sieu Vries Waldeck get five million dollars into the United States, had more than repaid him. How lucky that Anita’s snoring — well, restlessness, say — had gotten him as far as “Elephants”! Now, assuming the prestigious encyclopedia was not in error — an unconscionable thought — he was fairly sure he knew how to teach Señor Sanchez a lesson. And one with a moral he could consider for some time.

It was a practical possibility, Kek was sure, although he would be pleased to have André’s advice and consent. It would scarcely do to blow themselves up in putting his scheme into practice; no matter how meritorious the idea, it was bound to be considered a failure in that circumstance.

He smiled happily to himself and stared down. The stained concrete of the Portela Airport in Lisbon was swirling upward to meet them; they touched down with a jar. The huge reactors instantly reversed themselves, jamming passengers back into their seats, and then released them as if by magic. The plane rolled gently down the runway, proud it had made it, and settled down, preening, before the terminal building. Seat belts were unfastened; people came to their feet in a daze, groping for belongings, amazed to be alive. There was a muffled clatter as the door was attacked from without, sunlight streamed into the cabin, and the huge bird began dropping passengers.

Kek followed the straggling line of loaded-down people into the terminal, squinting his eyes against the glare of sunlight reflected from the white building. In the distance the even blocks of apartment buildings along the Avenida Gago Coutinho stood etched against the horizon. Kek passed inside, waited his turn in immigration, presented his passport to have it stamped, and continued on past the bustling luggage racks to the customs area. An inspector detached himself from a group at the main desk and walked over, shaking his head.

“The senhor will need to get his luggage first—”

“I have no luggage.”

“No luggage?” It was quite unusual but not completely unknown. The inspector shrugged; it was not his province to see that passengers were properly accoutered. “Then, your passport, please? And your declaration form?”

Kek handed them over. The inspector frowned at the name, checked the face against the photograph in the booklet, and then nodded. He did not seem to be as surprised as most customs inspectors to find the famous — or infamous — Kek Huuygens at his station in the Lisbon customs. He nodded again and tipped his head, retaining possession of the passport. His voice was politeness itself.

“M’sieu Huuygens?”

“Yes?”

“If you could come with me, please?”

Kek stared. “May I ask why? Since I have no luggage?”

“Please...”

Kek shrugged hopelessly and followed along. They went through the gate, along a narrow aisle, and paused before a door. The inspector tapped on it with diffidence. A brusque voice from within bade them enter. The inspector opened the door and stood aside for Huuygens to go in first. Kek walked in. The inspector handed him his passport, backed out, and closed the door behind him. Kek turned. His eyes widened in surprise. Then he smiled in honest delight.

“Michel!” Michel Morell, assistant police chief of Lisbon and an old, old friend, sat behind a battered desk in the small room. It was stuffy in the room; a fan stood on a bracketed shelf in one corner, but it was not operating, nor did it appear to be in shape to operate. The assistant chief of police was looking at Kek steadily.

“Hello, Kek.”

Kek grinned. “Is that all the enthusiasm you can build up after all these years? How have you been? You’re looking well.” He looked about the shabby office as if noticing it for the first time. His face fell. “What happened, Michel? A reduction in rank?” He went on without awaiting an answer. “Imagine seeing you! Somewhat of a coincidence — I ran into André the other day—”

“I know,” Morell said quietly, interrupting. He picked up a pencil, beginning to twiddle it, watching it rather than Kek. “And it’s no coincidence. And there’s been no reduction in rank. I’m still with the police, not with customs, but in Portugal we have a bit more authority than in many other countries. Over many things.”

Kek swung his hand to indicate the office. “Then—”

“This isn’t my office. I came here to see you—”

Kek smiled. “That was nice!”

“—I heard you were passing through our city” — Morell looked up from the pencil; he smiled briefly, unhumorously — “and I thought it would be nice to make sure you did just that. Pass through, I mean.”

Kek frowned. “You heard I was passing through?”

“Yes.” Morell tossed the pencil aside. “I also saw André. Yesterday, in fact. He dropped into my office downtown for several reasons, one of which was to talk over old times. He mentioned he’d run into you on the street in Buenos Aires and that you’d be coming through Lisbon today on KLM—”

“André said that?” Huuygens sounded disappointed.

“Don’t blame him,” Morell said and shrugged. “He thought it would be a good idea if the three of us got together for old time’s sake.” He shook his head a bit sadly. “Old André isn’t too smart — he never was — but he meant well.”

“I suppose so,” Kek said and sighed. “However, I prefer my comings and goings to be treated with the same confidence with which I give them to people. Well, it makes no difference. However,” he went on, his face brightening at the thought, “we are all here together, so why not have that reunion?”

“For many reasons,” Morell said. He sounded almost bored with the conversation. “The main one being that you have a plane to catch.”

“I’ll postpone it!”

“You’ll take it,” Morell said evenly.

Kek looked at him, hurt and puzzled. “But why? I thought we were friends.”

“We were. And we are, anyplace except Lisbon.” Despite his. vaunted composure, Morell could not keep a touch of bitterness from his tone. “The last time you were here, friend, you very nearly got me fired. Worse, you came close to getting me imprisoned. And all for what I later heard were only a packet of miniature paintings—”

“Only!” Kek drew himself up. “They happened to be worth a fortune!”

“And that was worth putting me on the spot?”

“It had nothing to do with the miniatures, and you know it. It... it was necessary to... to get your help. The miniatures had nothing to do with it. And I knew you’d fall on your feet. You always have.”

“Thank you,” Morell said dryly. “In any event, do me a favor. Your plane to Madrid leaves in five hours, I am told. Be on it.”

“I have every intention of being on it,” Kek said stiffly.

“Good.” Morell’s black eyes studied the man before him. “No luggage?”

“None.”

“Which will save it being either searched or impounded,” Morell said and came to his feet. He hesitated a moment and then shrugged, a small dapper man with a frozen face and an erect, soldierly stance. “Sorry, Kek. I know the miniatures had nothing to do with it. As for my actions today, I hope there are no hard feelings.”

“I suppose everyone has to do his job as he sees fit,” Huuygens said sententiously and opened the door for Morell. “Well, we still have five hours. Let’s go downtown and have a drink.”

“I suggest you do your drinking alone,” Morell said with no expression, “and in the terminal.” He motioned Kek to precede him from the small office and closed the door behind them. He led the way past the customs gate to the main lobby of the terminal, Kek keeping pace with him. Morell paused in the center of the large room. For the first time he appeared a bit unhappy at his actions. “Good-bye, Kek.”

“Good-bye.” Kek put out his hand; Morell shook it hard. Huuygens put out a hand, claiming the other’s attention for a few more moments. “By the way, Michel, you said André dropped in to see you for several reasons. What were the other ones?”

“Just one other one. He was robbed,” Morell said. He sounded impatient with André.

“Robbed?”

“Yes. Can you imagine?” Morell shook his head. “I tell you, old André isn’t the man we used to know, believe me. In town five minutes, not even out of the airport proper, and somebody takes his suitcase away like candy from a baby! He says his back was turned for a second and the man — or woman, or whatever — must have picked it up and ran. He didn’t see a soul, but he still expects us to catch whoever did it and get his things back. André robbed like a child! Can you imagine?”

“Hardly...”

“Well, we all get old, I suppose.” Morell sighed, thought a moment, and then came from his reverie. He raised a hand. “Well, take care, Kek.”

“I shall. And you too,” Huuygens said softly and watched the military carriage of the dapper policeman as Morell walked out to his car. So André had been robbed of his suitcase, eh? My, my... He heard a small voice at about the level of his hip pocket and turned.

“Senhor?” A small boy was pushing an envelope in his direction.

“Yes?”

“A man said to give this to you. He said—” The boy swallowed; it seemed hard to believe now. “He said you’d give me” — the sum was really too much! — “fifty escudo...”

“He did, did he?”

Kek bit back a smile. If he was being watched, as he sincerely hoped he was, amusement was not indicated at this point. He took the envelope from the boy and handed him a fifty-escudo note; the lad scampered away before minds could be changed. Kek slit the envelope, removed a key, and pointedly searched the empty cover for a note he knew would not be there. He frowned at the number on the key and started toward one side of the large room. A loudspeaker suddenly exploded, announcing the final call for the continuation of his flight to Amsterdam. Kek paused to listen, his face expressionless, and then continued on toward the lockers, his senses keyed.

From his vantage point on the narrow balcony overlooking the main chamber of the airport terminal, Hans Schneller had seen Kek emerge from the customs in company with a small, dark man; he had seen them exchange a few words, shake hands, and part. He did not understand the role of the small, dark man in the nature of things, but he didn’t care. Huuygens was here before him, and that was all that was important, because where Huuygens was, the suitcase was sure to be. He continued to watch, peering about the edge of his opened newspaper; the revolver he had carried in the false bottom of his overnight bag was now in his jacket pocket ready for use, lost in the mountainous folds; its pressure against his heavy thigh was reassuring.

He saw the boy approach Kek with the envelope and saw Kek tip the boy and tear the envelope open. Schneller frowned. What was this? He saw Huuygens study the key as if surprised to see it; Schneller suddenly smiled. What an actor! Even at that distance he no longer had any doubts as to what he was seeing; he didn’t know how in the devil Huuygens had managed the legerdemain, but there was no doubt in his mind that the key was for one of the luggage lockers lining the walls of the chamber. Nor was there the slightest doubt as to what the locker contained. How the devil had Huuygens done it? No matter... He came to his feet, prepared to move swiftly down the flight of steps to the main floor. Huuygens was striding purposefully toward a stand of lockers almost directly beneath him. The newspaper was laid aside. It was time to act.

He came down the steps with surprising lightness in a man his size, walking up behind Huuygens. His hand was in his pocket, smothering the gun. Huuygens was fitting the key into the door of the locker. The stocky man paused in the act of opening the door and then spoke over his shoulder.

“You should stop smoking, Schneller. That wheeze of yours can be heard a block away.”

Schneller smiled grimly. His voice was little more than a whisper and he kept his lips rigid, prison-style, but it carried clearly to the other. “There’s a gun on you, Huuygens.”

Huuygens turned around slowly. His face was expressionless. He saw the bulge made by Schneller’s hand dug into the pocket. His eyes came up, curious.

“Why?”

“You know damn well why! Playing games still, eh? Still being cute, eh?” The smile seemed engraved on the large, flat face. “I saw the boy give you the key. Well, use it. Open the locker.”

Huuygens shrugged, a shrug of defeat. “If that’s what you want...”

“It’s what I want.”

Huuygens turned back. He twisted the key in the lock and pulled the door open. From behind him Schneller chuckled.

“A suitcase cover! I didn’t know they made them in these days of plastics. Not exactly the best disguise in the world, but I suppose my combination lock did attract attention.” His voice sobered. “All right. Take it down. That’s right... Now, set it on the floor. That’s right... No suspicious moves. Now turn and face me. That’s right... We’re just old acquaintances having a word with each other. Can’t you smile every now and then? Well, maybe not... All right, that’s enough conversation. Now we say good-bye. You will walk ahead of me; I will pick up the case and be a few paces behind. And no tricks. If you try to make a run for it, I’ll shoot you here and now...”

The proprietor of the newsstand had been watching the two but with no undue interest; now he turned to service a customer. Kek had the suitcase down and had straightened up.

“Very good,” Schneller said approvingly. “When you get outside you will turn left. I have a car in the parking lot. I’ll point it out to you outside. You will drive, I’ll be in the backseat. I’ll give you the keys when we’re in the car...”

Kek looked toward the door. A policeman there yawned and turned to stare into the driveway leading to the building. Did Morell leave word that he was to be stopped and turned back if he tried to leave the terminal building? Let us hope not, Kek prayed; it could ruin a fine plan.

“Let’s go...”

They were moving across the terminal now, Schneller carrying the suitcase easily in one hand. Kek walked ahead of him leisurely, approaching an exit. Time, he thought, and almost glanced at his wristwatch, though the actual hour had nothing to do with it. Come, come, André; let’s not cut it too fine! He need not have worried, for at that moment there was the sound of a scuffle behind him. He swung around and was not too greatly surprised to see André, with one huge hand gripping the suitcase handle. André’s face was indignant.

“Hey! My suitcase!”

Schneller was almost taken off guard; he managed to maintain his grip and tugged angrily. “Who the devil — Get your damned hands off my suitcase!”

“Get my hands off? Get my hands off?” André stared at the big blond man in amazement. “That’s my bag, you crook!” He turned, still holding the handle, his eyes sweeping the room. “Ah! Hey, police! Police!”

“Let go, you fool!” Schneller’s temper exploded. He swung around, his huge fist aimed at André; only the fact that his other hand was gripping the handle kept it from being a lethal blow. It struck André on the side of the head, knocking him to his knees, but the big man from Perpignan kept his grip on the suitcase. He struggled to his feet, murder in his eyes.

“Let go!” Schneller screamed. He was beginning to panic. Just when he had his hands on both Huuygens and the suitcase! And how did this ox withstand that blow? A policeman was hurrying over in response to the clamor. Schneller’s jaw tightened. He dragged out the pistol, shoving it in André’s face. “Let go, damn it!”

André’s face seemed to solidify to solid rock. He let go of the handle of the suitcase and in the same motion brought his huge fist up, crashing it against Schneller’s jaw. The blond giant was stunned momentarily; before he could recover his wits, a pile-driver blow to his stomach doubled him over. The coup de grâce was administered by another hamlike fist smashing at the back of the exposed neck. Under that battering the huge Schneller collapsed to the floor with a thud, his breath driven from him; the revolver stretched before him, useless. A policeman pushed through the crowd that had gathered, unbuttoning his holster.

“What’s the trouble here?”

“Hit me when I wasn’t looking!” André said furiously and then came back to the proper matter. “Bastard had my suitcase!” His voice had changed to indignation. “Swiped it yesterday! Must have ducked it into a locker and figured he could walk out with it today, just like that!” He rubbed a bruised knuckle.

The policeman studied him a moment and then looked down. He bent over and picked up the gun, examined it, and slid it into his pocket. The look on his face promised trouble for the man on the floor; guns in Portugal are less approved by the police than in most countries. He rebuttoned his holster and looked up at André.

“You can identify the contents of the suitcase?”

“Of course.”

“And you reported the theft?”

“Naturally.” André looked hurt at this suggestion of dereliction. “At headquarters. Actually, to Senhor Morell himself. An old friend of mine, I might add,” he said significantly.

The policeman looked at him without expression.

“Well,” he said, “let’s all go downtown and see what this is all about.” He was not loath; airport duty consisted mainly of returning lost children to frantic parents or being mistaken for a porter. He squatted beside the unconscious man, put handcuffs on him first as a precaution, and then began to slowly slap his face, trying to bring him out of his coma. André waited patiently.

It was nearly three hours later, and André had returned from headquarters. He and Kek were sitting on the outside terrace beyond the balcony of the terminal, having a long cool drink at one of the wire tables. André chuckled.

“Our friend Schneller isn’t too bright. Trying to tackle the entire police department, can you imagine? He’d be well advised to stop smoking if he wants to take on some of the thugs on Michel’s payroll two or three at a time. He’ll be lucky if he gets away with just attempted theft; the way Michel was talking, I have a hunch they’ll lock him up and make him eat the key. Striking a policeman!” He sounded shocked at the very idea.

“You should have explained to him,” Kek said with a smile and glanced at his watch. The KLM flight to Amsterdam should have arrived by now; time to get on with the job. And André had a plane to catch, as well. He drank up and motioned to André to follow suit.

“Lots of time,” André said. “Ten minutes before my flight, at least.” He drank up nonetheless and set his glass down. “Did Michel come up to your expectations?”

Kek laughed. “Dear Michel! He never disappoints. I knew he’d elect himself a one-man greeting committee.”

“I still don’t understand why you wanted him to be—”

Kek looked at him humorously. “Because, my friend, any regular customs inspector would have taken one look at my name and put me through a complete physical search. Such a thing would be repugnant to Michel, even if it occurred to him, and especially with a friend. And I had something on me I didn’t care to explain. This.” A baggage check stub appeared in his fingers as if by magic. He slid it back into his pocket and came to his feet, smiling. “Well, time to get to work.”

André also rose. “And I’ve my plane to catch.” He picked up the suitcase he had fought so hard to take from Schneller. “I’ll meet you in Zaragoza. When does your plane get there?”

“About eight or nine, depending on Iberia. Get us some decent rooms, and rent a car—”

“I know.”

“And stop in a hardware store and get me a big screwdriver and a roll of copper wire. And some batteries — large flashlight batteries will do, although batteries with terminals would be easier—”

André paused in moving off. He stared at the other man in alarm.

“A screwdriver and wire? Look, Kek — if you’re planning on trying to jump that circuit and then pry the suitcase open, do me a favor. Wait until I’m far away. Schneller may not be overbright, but he’s a damn good mechanic. You’ll blow yourself and the case all over the province!”

“Oh ye of little faith...”

“And why batteries? They have electric lights in Zaragoza! Unless you don’t want to see what you’re doing.”

Kek smiled at him gently. “Don’t worry about it. Just be sure to buy the stuff.” He looked at his wristwatch as the loudspeaker blared. “And there’s your plane. I’ll see you tonight.”

“All right,” André said, but he sounded dubious. He hefted the suitcase easily and walked off with a frown on his face. The batteries were beyond explanation completely, but the screwdriver and the wire? It sounded like asking for trouble...

Kek watched him go, waited a proper interval, and then followed the big man back into the terminal. He trotted down the steps to the main floor, paying no attention to André, marching toward an airline gate a bit ahead of him. Steps two and three — Morell and Schneller — had been taken care of. Now for step four — getting the suitcase into Spain without disturbing the even lives of the Customs Inspection Service. And then for step five, and the most important one at the moment: Sanchez...

He turned at the bottom of the steps, moving toward the KLM desk, wiping the easy expression from his face, replacing it with a scowl. It was a pity he was going to make a clerk there suffer, but — to coin a phrase — one could not make an omelet without breaking heads. It was sad that spirits also had to be broken at times...

14

The dapper young man behind the KLM desk looked up politely. His expression changed to one of concern as he noted the look on the face of the man glaring at him over the counter. Whatever had annoyed the gentleman, it must have been something serious, and the young clerk sincerely hoped it did not involve either himself or the airline he represented. This husky, gray-eyed man with the tough jaw looked as if he could be unpleasant when he wanted to, and this seemed to be one of the times he wanted to.

The young man came to his feet quickly, advancing to the counter.

“Sir?”

“Would you mind telling me what kind of an airline you people are supposed to be running?” Kek asked truculently and mentally apologized to Royal Dutch Airlines, one of his favorites.

“Sir?”

Kek glared. “In addition to all other annoyances, does KLM also hire clerks who are deaf?”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but if you have any complaint, I’ll be only too happy to do what I can...”

“Then I suggest you try magic,” Kek said sourly. He dug into a pocket and brought out a ticket stub. “This, in case you’ve never seen one before, is a receipt for baggage. I arrived on your flight eight thirty-two from Buenos Aires three hours ago and I’ve spent that time looking for my suitcase! Three hours! I’ve had porters looking for it, I’ve spoken to the people who bring the luggage from the plane to the terminal, but do you think they ever bother to look at what they’re doing? Never! Irresponsible, that’s what it is! I went to the baggage master—”

“I’m sorry—”

“Sorry! Who cares if you’re sorry or not? I’d scarcely expect you to be happy! But that doesn’t get me my bag, does it? Is that the way you people handle baggage?”

“Oh, no, sir,” the young man said fervently and wished he had either taken the day off or chosen another line of endeavor completely. “We seldom lose luggage, but accidents do occur, you know—” He reached under the counter for a form and slid it hesitantly across the counter, anticipating an explosion. “If you’d care to fill this out...” He swallowed. “Our liability is limited to—”

“The devil with what you think your liability is limited to! Do you think I’m intimidated by a flock of small print on the back of a airplane ticket? Don’t be silly! And I don’t fill out forms, for your information, without my lawyer’s approval!” He looked at his wristwatch, his handsome face dark with righteous anger. “Three hours! That flight’s in Amsterdam by now! It takes less time to get from Lisbon to Amsterdam than it does to find a suitcase, for God’s sake!” He glared and muttered. “Amsterdam!”

A thought came to the young clerk, out of thin air.

“Sir — maybe your bag was mis-ticketed...”

“How the devil could it have been mis-ticketed? I have a stub right here that says Lisbon, doesn’t it? You may be deaf but you can read, can’t you? How could even the most misguided employee of yours manage to put a tag on a suitcase for Amsterdam and then give me a stub for Lisbon? Even at your company?” He snorted.

“Sometimes tags come off in transit, sir, or get mutilated. And sometimes, if it happens at the departing airport, the baggage handling people try to remember—”

“Try to remember? Who gave them which for where? A guessing game? Good God! What a way to handle luggage!”

“I mean, sir — we usually take any unidentified luggage to the home airport, sir. In this case, Schiphol...”

Kek shook his head at this new evidence of mismanagement.

“My God!” he said and then gave in grudgingly. “Well, I suppose it’s a possibility, even if a small one.” He waited a second and then looked up, glaring at the red-faced young man. “Well, what are you waiting for? You’ve got a teletype to Amsterdam from here, don’t you?”

The young man snapped erect. “Oh, yes, sir, we do. We do!” He disappeared into a back room only to appear again almost instantly. “A description, sir—?”

“Why?” Kek asked tartly. “Do you expect to find a dozen extra suitcases that have been mis-ticketed in Amsterdam? I wouldn’t be surprised! Well, it’s a one-suiter, brown plastic; it’s in a plaid-design canvas suitcase cover.”

“And your name, sir?”

“You’ll be wanting my fingerprints next, I expect! The name is Huuygens, Kek Huuygens. The bag has an identification tag under the handle — if one of your people hasn’t torn it off by now—”

“Yes, sir!”

The boy hurried back into the rear room; the sound of the teletype starting up could be heard, stammering electrically. Kek bit back a rather shamefaced smile; acting the part of the heavy did not particularly please him, but in this case it was essential. He wanted reactions to be automatic, not reasoned. He only hoped the boy was adding a bit of description about his recalcitrant customer. When it was all over, he promised, he would manage to apologize in some fashion — write them it was part of Candid Camera, or something. There was a pause in the rattling noise, a sharp ring, and then the stuttering returned. Kek waited, giving every indication of impatience. At long last the young man emerged from the back room. He was weak with relief.

“We’ve located your suitcase, sir. It was ticketed for Amsterdam. How, we don’t know, but they have it at Schiphol, sir.”

If he expected this news to transform the terrible-tempered client across the counter from him, he was doomed to disappointment.

“And what am I supposed to do? Run up to Schiphol and claim it?”

“Oh, no, sir!” The young man was shocked at the very idea. “We’ll fly it back on the first plane—”

“And I’m supposed to wait for it here? My dear young man, I have a plane to Barcelona that leaves in less than two hours. TWA flight one eighty-six. Can you fly my bag back here before I embark?”

The young man’s face fell. And everything had been going along so well, too! “I’m afraid not, sir.” Suddenly he brightened, coming up with the suggestion seconds before Kek would have led him to it. “But we could fly it to Barcelona from Schiphol, sir. You could pick it up there.”

Huuygens considered this possibility. His face clearly indicated that he wasn’t overjoyed at the prospect of continuing on without his bag, but there seemed to be no other solution.

“Well, all right,” he said at last with poor grace. “But do me a favor; put on that teletype the fact that I fully intend to carry this matter farther! It’s pretty bad when a paying customer has to go chasing all over an airport to get his bag, simply because of the errors of someone else someplace else!”

“You won’t have to chase around, sir. We’ll have a representative bring it to you in the international division, sir. It’s where you arrive when you get into Barcelona from Lisbon. Between immigration and customs, sir. You’ll be paged, sir.”

“I know where it is! This isn’t the first trip I’ve ever made, you know!” Kek said testily. “Well, if that’s the best you can do... Get back to your teletype and tell them to send it to Barcelona, or they’ll have it in Beirut, or someplace equally outlandish! And you can definitely inform your management that they haven’t heard the last of this matter, believe me!”

He turned away abruptly without a word of thanks for the young man who had located his suitcase. The clerk sighed, shook his head, and went back to his teletype to beg the folks in Amsterdam to please for God’s sake get the maniac’s bag on the first plane to Barcelona. Then he put through the call letters for Barcelona to give instructions and commiseration to the poor devil there who had to deliver the suitcase to this unreasonable customer.

Kek climbed the steps to the balcony and walked out onto the terrace. He still had over an hour for his plane, and a drink would taste good and take the savor of his play-acting away. He sat down at a table and waved for a waiter.

So far, so good. His widely traveled suitcase was about to be shipped off to Barcelona while he would shortly take off for Madrid. He shook his head sadly, but his eyes twinkled. What a way to run an airline!

Trans World Airlines flight number 186 banked sharply in the high, cold air, moving into its landing pattern for Barajas Airport in Madrid. Above the tilted wing Kek could see the mountains, snow-capped and formidable, looming to the north. The plane straightened for its final leg; the city of Madrid tipped straight in the distance. Madrid, seen from the air, gave the appearance of a walled encampment; the apartment buildings marched to the end of the wide avenues and then stopped abruptly. There appeared to be no suburbs as other cities had, no gradual dwindling of structure or tone of neighborhood, no increase in vegetation. Madrid, Kek always thought, looked as if it had been made by some gigantic chef in the form of a huge brick-colored five-layer cake, with the chef, his creation finished and neatly trimmed, wiping away the excess dough.

The plane touched down on the high plateau, rolling to a stop before the terminal. Kek awaited his turn to leave the plane, not overly surprised at the sharp chill in the air. October in Madrid was vastly different in temperature from October in Lisbon; here winter came early and stayed long. He wished he had brought along a topcoat but then reflected it would merely have been one more piece of clothing for the Madrid customs people to maul and wrinkle. Anita complained enough as it was about the condition of his clothes when he returned from a trip.

He descended the steep aluminum steps and followed the straggling line of passengers into the terminal building, grateful for the heat provided even this early in the cold season. With the others he stood patiently in line at immigration and received, eventually, the usual stamp to add to the already large collection in his passport. With a sigh at the inevitability of the search he knew would be forthcoming, he walked into customs and handed his passport to the first inspector he saw, prepared for the worst.

He was not disappointed. The inspector he had selected, he suspected, had been passed over once for advancement and was determined not to have it happen again, if dedication to his job could prevent it. He went about his task of searching Kek with a thoroughness and eagerness equal to anything Huuygens had encountered anywhere before. Still, he was sure that with any other inspector the result would have been the same; it was an occupational hazard with him. By the time the enthusiastic inspector reluctantly gave up and allowed Kek to leave the little private office, the other passengers had all cleared customs and left the depressing area deserted, the luggage counters twisted and littered with tags and papers. Kek walked into the terminal lobby, straightening his jacket and consulting his wristwatch.

Six in the evening, Madrid time. Almost twenty hours since he had left Ezeiza in Buenos Aires, and still more time to be spent and work to be done. The thought of a hot shower, followed by a good meal both preceded and accompanied by Don Carlos Primero, was pleasant to contemplate, but unfortunately the schedule did not permit. Ah, well, he said to himself, nobody forced you to take up smuggling as a career... He sighed and walked over to the KLM counter, prepared to carry on his charade. A young man moved over to take care of Kek and his problem; he might have been a brother to the one in Lisbon. Kek felt sorry for the whole family.

“Sir?”

“A suitcase,” Kek said with a weariness not all simulated. “The name is Huuygens.”

The clerk frowned uncertainly. “I beg your pardon?”

“A suitcase,” Kek repeated, his voice a trifle sharper. “A brown suitcase in a plaid canvas cover. With an identification tag under the handle. Clearly marked with my name, which happens to be Huuygens.”

“I’m sorry. Do you mean you left it here with someone? I don’t believe I’ve seen any suitcase—”

“No!” Kek shook his head impatiently. “Listen carefully,” he said, speaking distinctly and spacing his words in a manner used with the hard-of-hearing or the mentally deficient. “I flew from Buenos Aires to Lisbon by KLM, flight number eight thirty-two. I arrived in Lisbon around noon or a little before. My suitcase did not. I complained to the KLM people in Lisbon. They checked by teletype and verified that some idiot somewhere along the line had apparently mis-tagged my bag and that it had gone on to Amsterdam. They said they would fly it to Madrid so that it would be here when I arrived. I have now arrived. I am asking for my bag.” He studied the young man carefully, as if to make sure his masterful and cogent exposition had not been wasted. “Do you have the faintest idea of what I’m talking about?” he asked curiously.

The young man shook his head. “They were going to send your suitcase here to Madrid? We’ve heard nothing about it.” A thought occurred to him. “It would have been held between immigration and customs—”

“I just came through there,” Kek said.

“Yes, sir. I would have known, anyway...” The young man shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir.”

Kek visibly forced down his anger, sighing in frustration instead. He ran his hand through his thick, curly hair, pounded it softly on the counter, and looked about the lobby as if seeking some reason to control himself. It was too much! This massive demonstration of absolute, complete disorganization was not to be tolerated! He brought his eyes back to the pale youth waiting on the other side of the counter.

“Tell me,” Kek said quietly, the totality of his irritation now plainly beyond a mere exhibition of temper, “what does it take to get one’s luggage from your company? Dynamite? Blackmail? A personal acquaintanceship with a director? Don’t be afraid — tell me and I’ll try to arrange it.”

The young man’s face was red. “They always let us know about luggage that has gone astray and is being sent to us, sir,” he said. “We have to see it’s picked up from the stewardess and held at the customs barrier. And we’ve had no—”

“—word about a suitcase for me,” Kek finished. “And there’s been more than ample time for it to have arrived.” He nodded and leaned forward confidentially, his voice quiet. “Tell me something: Do you suppose your people in Amsterdam would be greatly disturbed if we broke an apparent rule and teletyped them to ask WHAT IN HELL THEY’VE DONE WITH MY SUITCASE?”

The young man jumped back from the blast, his face white.

“No, sir,” he said hurriedly. “I’m sorry. I’ll get right on the teletype to them and find out what’s happened.”

“Thank you,” Kek said courteously. “And tell them that I’m a patient man but my patience is fraying. As are the cuffs of my shirt, and if I get some rare skin ailment from wearing it endlessly, I shall sue them for my doctor bills. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell them...”

“Thank you,” Kek said politely and watched the young man escape into the rear room of the airline section. He was sorry to be so brusque, but there was nothing else for it. He stopped worrying about it and wandered over to buy a Paris-Match to pass the time. He came back and leaned on the counter top, reading the inevitable article in that magazine on mountain climbing; he had come to the usual statistics on comparative avalanche damage, when the young man sidled up on the other side of the counter and cleared his throat. He was bearing a strip of yellow paper torn from the teletype machine and he looked as if he were on his way to the dentist.

“Sir...”

Kek looked up from the magazine article; this year Chamonix had managed to outdo Kandersteg in both damage and deaths. French pride was assuaged. “Yes?”

“There’s apparently been some—” The young man faltered on the word “mistake.” Still, “error” would be no better, and he was sure that a reprise of “mis-tagged” would bring down the vaulted ceiling. He swallowed painfully. “Your bag is just coming into Barcelona on a plane now, sir...”

Kek stared at him, utterly stunned. The magazine lay forgotten.

“May I ask what it’s doing in Barcelona? You did say Barcelona, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t know, sir. I mean, they sent it there.”

“They sent it there. To Barcelona. Where it’s coming in to land. And where it will wait.” Kek’s voice was conversational. “Tell me, since I have neither immediate nor long-range plans for visiting Barcelona, how long do you think my bag will wait for me before it decides it’s tired of waiting and just goes off?”

The sarcasm did not further unnerve the young clerk; he was beyond that. His voice had a tone of quiet desperation, as if he were merely waiting for his shift to end so he could go somewhere and get drunk.

“I’m sorry about the difficulty, sir, but it’s only an hour’s flight from Barcelona to Madrid, sir. We don’t fly that leg, but Iberia has frequent flights, almost every hour. I’m sure I can arrange to have your bag here in Madrid in three or four hours at the most.”

Kek smiled grimly. His gray eyes narrowed but did not leave the other’s face.

“My entire life is being directed for me by one small suitcase and one large group of incompetents!” He straightened up, tapping the folded Paris-Match dangerously in one palm for emphasis. “I have an important appointment in Aragon — in Zaragoza, to be exact — and my flight leaves in exactly thirty minutes. As you know, Iberia does not have flights to Zaragoza every hour; this is the last flight today. To miss this flight would mean—”

“Could I ask where you go from Zaragoza, sir?”

Kek stared at him in astonishment.

“Are you suggesting I give up my business and take on the profession of chasing my suitcase? Or that I spend the rest of my life in this shirt as a penance for traveling on your airline? Or that... that—” He gave up, shaking his head in amazement at the implied suggestion. “This is truly unbelievable!”

There was a moment’s silence; then the young man cleared his throat.

“Possibly we could get your suitcase to you in Zaragoza, sir. Iberia flies there from Barcelona—”

“They do?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do they have any more flights today?”

“One moment, sir...” An official airline guide was unearthed and leafed through. The boy’s moving finger slid down a column and paused. He looked up in obvious relief. “They only have one flight, sir, but it’s an evening one. They could still make it today...”

Kek looked at him. “Well! Do you suppose your company can manage to get my suitcase to Iberia for its flight without shipping it to Zanzibar or Chicago this time?” The young man stood silent, watching the man across from him as if paralyzed. Kek broke up the coma. “Does your teletype run itself? Or would your expertise be of any help?”

“Yes, sir,” the young man mumbled and staggered away.

Kek returned to his Paris-Match. He finished the article on mountain disasters, the one on the latest fashions (pant-suit bikinis for winter wear), and was starting on the normal explanation of France’s failure in World Cup football when the young man returned. He seemed to be sleepwalking.

“Your bag is just coming off our Amsterdam-Barcelona flight now, sir. They’ll be able to catch the Iberia flight to Zaragoza, sir. It will be waiting for you when you arrive, I’m sure,” he said in a dazed fashion.

“Thank you,” Kek said politely and nodded abruptly. He marched off, carrying the folded Paris-Match like a colorful baton, moving toward the doorway leading to the bar.

Still half an hour to go, and it might as well be spent usefully. And he really had to write a letter to KLM one of these days apologizing for his conduct, he thought with a smile, and pushed into the dimness of the cocktail lounge while visions of cognac danced in his head.

Kek hadn’t known that DC-3’s were still flying, and he was inordinately pleased a little less than an hour after leaving Madrid to know that the same number were as had been when he left the capital. Happy and slightly surprised, he climbed from the small plane, deafened and shaken but all in one piece, and made for the small building that served Zaragoza as terminal, weather station, taxi stand, and sightseeing object for local residents. It was many years since Kek had found himself at a small airport, but if his scheme actually worked, as it had every indication of doing, he promised himself that small airports would see him frequently. Until the word got out that Kek Huuygens was traveling to small airports, of course, at which time a new ploy would be required. He had no doubt that at that time a new ploy would be invented.

He followed the other three passengers into the building, basking in the warmth of the evening, now that the high plateau of Madrid had been left. A small counter in one corner advertised Iberia Airlines, and he made his way to it. It was deserted. He rapped on it a bit sharply. A wizened old man came from behind the coffee counter and walked over, drying his hands on an apron. His face was dark with distaste. This time Kek was politeness itself.

“I beg your pardon, but the Iberia clerk—”

“That’s me. What d’you want?”

“A suitcase was supposed to be delivered here for me? By Iberia, from Barcelona?” And wouldn’t it be too bad if KLM really made a mistake this time and his suitcase was on its way to Madagascar or someplace?

“Your name Huuygens?”

Kek did not allow the sweep of relief to show on his face. “Yes.”

“Boys who delivered it said you’ve been giving the kids from KLM a pretty rough time along the line,” the old man said. He didn’t look pleased with the man facing him; it was true that as Iberia’s agent in Zaragoza he did not hold as glamorous a position as agents in bigger cities, but he felt a kinship with the others. “Not their fault a suitcase gets lost, you know...”

Kek smiled at him. The perfect answer occurred to him.

“Tell the boys to pass the word back along the line that I’m an inspector with KLM. I was merely checking the politeness and efficiency of the boys. They all passed with flying colors,” he added, the smile still on his face. “My suitcase?”

The old man was far from mollified with the explanation. To his mind inspectors were as bad as complaining customers — worse, in fact. Stool pigeons, the lot of them.

“My suitcase,” Kek repeated. The smile was becoming strained.

“Well, all right...” The old man bent down behind the counter, tugging. The case came up; he set it on the counter, his hand still on it as if for protection.

“Thank you,” Kek said evenly and picked it from the old man’s hands. He nodded once in thanks and walked outside.

And that was that. It had been just as simple as he had envisioned. Merely have his suitcase chase him from airport to airport until it caught up with him at a local airport without customs service...

15

A car’s lights flashed on from the parking lot; there was the sound of a motor catching, an engine revving up. The car’s lights backed out and turned, swinging about the lot, illuminating it, and then drawing closer. The car pulled up before the entrance and André leaned over, opening the door. Kek slid in, placed the suitcase on the backseat next to its mate, and slammed the door. André grinned at him and gunned the car down the driveway, heading for their inn.

“Any trouble?”

“None,” Kek said wearily. “It went just about as scheduled.” He sighed. “I’d better not travel on KLM for a while, though. I have a feeling I’m not in their best graces.” He looked across the car. “Did you get us rooms?”

“Best in town,” André said expansively. His face fell a bit. “It’s still not the Ritz, you understand.”

“And the screwdriver and the batteries? And the wire?”

André paused at a crossroad, checked traffic, and then turned into it. He glanced at Kek sideways. He didn’t sound happy.

“I got them, but I think we’re asking for trouble trying to force that case. We both agreed it couldn’t be opened without blowing the two of us to kingdom come. And even if we don’t scatter ourselves all over Zaragoza, if there are any signs of tampering... Well, don’t forget that Sanchez still has Anita.”

Kek looked at him. “Do you think I’m forgetting that?”

“No,” André said. He looked uncomfortable. “But you know what I mean—”

“Look,” Kek said quietly. “We brought the suitcase into Spain despite Herr Schneller and customs both. Now we’re going to teach Señor Luis Sanchez not to be impolite to young ladies. And not to get M’sieu Kek Huuygens to bring narcotics to him across national boundaries!”

“Except that killing ourselves doesn’t sound like much of a lesson to Luis Sanchez—”

“We’re not going to kill ourselves. I hope. Anyway, we’ll discuss it in the morning,” Kek said and yawned deeply. His eyes suddenly opened wide as he thought of something else. “I hope you have some decent cognac in your room.”

“Plenty. But about the suitcase—”

“Forget it until tomorrow. Trust me.”

“I trust you,” André said, “and I know you know a lot, but you don’t know too much about locks—”

“I said, trust me,” Kek repeated and grinned in the darkness. “Or, rather, trust me and the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Between us we know just about everything...”

A good night’s sleep and a typically Aragonian breakfast did much to bring Kek Huuygens back to his normal spirits; forgotten was the long, tiresome plane trip, the irritation of the personal search suffered in Madrid, and even the mental discomfort of playing the part of the boorish airline passenger with the lost suitcase. Even Hans Schneller, now undoubtedly wishing he had not pitted himself against Kek Huuygens — not to mention André and the entire Lisbon police department — played no part in his thoughts. His concentration was dedicated entirely to Señor Luis Sanchez and the punishment he merited. When he thought of his plans he was forced to grin.

They paused outside the breakfast room of the inn. The morning sun coming over the hills to the east touched the sill of a low window, sending their shadows grotesquely down the long corridor. Kek looked up at his large companion.

“André, those things you bought yesterday—”

André nodded. The mystery was to be revealed at last, and about time. “They’re in the car. I’ll get them.”

“No,” Kek said. “Just bring the car around. I’ll pay the bill and get the bags. This isn’t the place to—” He broke off.

“To do what?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I think we should be doing about it,” André said. “Nothing.”

“The car,” Kek said and started climbing the steps to their rooms. André went outside, shaking his head. The suitcase was dynamite — real dynamite — and only fools played with it. Fools or very stubborn people like someone he knew...

The car was parked in the rear of the inn, outside of an old barn. André walked around the car as if to make sure it hadn’t been stolen in the night, then made a second tour, this time for the time-honored purpose of kicking the tires. Their excellent condition was testified to by the fact that they did not collapse under the monstrous boot. Whistling, he climbed back of the wheel and drove around to the front of the inn. Kek was standing there with the two suitcases; he set them in the back and got in.

“You know your way?”

“Me?” André looked hurt. “I hitchhiked to Barcelona from Lisbon a year ago and got myself stuck in these parts for three days. Know it? Like a native.” He turned onto the main highway and speeded up. “If I’d been here another two days, I could have voted.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Kek said. “Once we get out of town, find us a small road off to one side — going to a farm or something. I want a place that’s deserted.”

“Deserted places are what they have around here in abundance, but why?” He brought his attention back to the road in time to miss an elderly bicyclist pedaling along on the edge of the road. André pulled past and brought his attention back to Huuygens. “I’d hoped you had given up your notion of messing around with the suitcase.”

“Just one small mess around,” Kek said, but there was no humor in his voice. His eyes were somber as he studied the countryside. Suddenly he pointed. “How about that road there?”

André sighed. This Kek was a stubborn, stubborn man! Hard-headed. But not to be denied. The big man touched the brake, slowed down, and turned the wheel; they bumped from the smooth asphalt to a rutted dirt road that wound off into the rolling hills, quickly taking them from sight of the highway. André’s hands were loose on the steering wheel; they swayed and bounced with the dips and rises. They had gone on for about five minutes when Kek put his hand on the other’s arm.

“This should do it...”

André obediently pulled the car from the road to the grassy shoulder and brought it to a stop. Kek climbed down, pulled the suitcase from the backseat, and then looked up at the big man.

“The stuff—”

“Look, Kek—”

“Yes?”

André paused at the tone the other man used; there was danger in it. He sighed helplessly and opened the glove compartment. The items were dug out and handed over.

“Fine,” Kek said. “Now, you drive on about five hundred yards and wait until I wave to you. The book didn’t say anything about blowing oneself up doing this, but there’s no sense in taking any more chances than necessary.”

“You better let me handle any blowing up,” André said evenly. “That used to be my profession, in case you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget,” Kek said and flashed a brief, sudden smile. “The only thing is I read the encyclopedia, and you didn’t.” The smile disappeared.

André looked at him a moment and shrugged. There was no arguing with the man. He put the car into gear and bumped along the shoulder rather than attempting to dip back to the road at that point. It seemed clear that Kek was planning to blow the suitcase up from a distance, something quite obviously impossible at the inn. That would explain the spool of wire and the batteries, but why the screwdriver? To make contact with something? As an old dynamiter, André was hard put to understand the means Kek planned.

Nor why he had gone through all the trouble of smuggling the suitcase successfully into Spain just to dispose of it. It could have been destroyed as easily in Argentina; they sold wire and screwdrivers and batteries down there as well. A further thought made the whole thing even more inexplicable — without the suitcase, what did Kek plan to say to Luis Sanchez? After all, the skinny man from Barcelona still held Anita...

The whole thing didn’t make sense. He awoke from his reverie to find himself much more than five hundred yards away and, in addition, around a bend in the road. He also found himself hunched over the wheel, as if in anticipation of the explosion’s roar. He dipped back into the road, managed to turn around in an old cart path, and rocked back over the ruts in the direction he had come from. He negotiated the curve and began to brake as soon as he saw Huuygens; Kek was waving him on. André stepped on the accelerator and instantly braked again. It would benefit nobody to break a crankshaft or axle!

He drew up before Huuygens, frowning. Kek climbed into the car, dragging the suitcase after him. He placed it in the rear, tossed the other items into the glove compartment, and looked at André.

“Let’s go.”

André frowned. “What happened?” He put the car in gear; they bounced along the rough road. “Change your mind?”

Kek laughed. He seemed much more relaxed.

“No, I didn’t change my mind. It’s just that the Encyclopaedia Britannica and I work fast.” He leaned back. “I think I’ll take a nap. We still have a big day ahead. I’ll spell you driving when we leave Barcelona. Try to pick out the soft spots in the road.” He closed his eyes and then opened them. “By the way, I called Sanchez this morning before breakfast. We’re to meet him at noon at a place called Villarino Bar. In the manager’s office. Do you know it?”

“Know it?” André said. He sounded insulted. “I called you from there. That’s where I finally ran Duarte to ground.”

“Fine!” Kek’s eyes were twinkling. “Sanchez was quite pleased we were ahead of schedule. May he stay pleased for a long time! Poor Schneller...”

Poor Schneller? André frowned. Where did Schneller come into the picture? Of course there were many reasons for saying “Poor Schneller,” but none of them seemed appropriate in the circumstance. André glanced at the man beside him.

“Poor Schneller?”

“He’ll have a lot of explaining to do for a long time to come,” Kek said cryptically and closed his eyes a second time.

The high-crowned asphalt highway leading east from Zaragoza winds alongside the twisting Ebro River through the rolling hills of Los Monegros; at Mequinenza one is given a choice of routes to get to Barcelona. It was early; André decided on the longer but more scenic way, through Ascó and Reus, dipping down to the Mediterranean at Tarragona and taking the road along the bluffs above the sea, coming upon Barcelona from the south. The day was brilliant with sunshine and tiny, puffy white clouds against a sky as blue as the sea that accompanied them.

André handled the car with ease; at his side Kek slept peacefully. It was the bumping over cobblestones and the increased sounds of traffic that finally brought him from his nap. They were well within the city. He yawned and sat up, looking around.

“Where are we?”

“Barcelona,” André said, a bit proudly.

“So soon?” Kek yawned and looked at his watch. “No — right on time. How far to the Villarino?”

“About three blocks,” André said. “It’s in the Plaza de Antonio Lopez.” He slowed down and stopped for a policeman directing traffic.

Kek frowned in thought. “Take a turn around the plaza when you get there; point the place out to me. Then stop around the first corner and let me out. And wait for me there.” He anticipated the argument and answered it. “Muscle wouldn’t help if there’s trouble; I’m sure Sanchez is prepared for any contingency along those lines. And there’s going to be no trouble.” He smiled. “Not for us...”

“Well, all right,” André said. He didn’t sound as sure as his companion, but he was prepared to go along with him for the time being at least. “But if you aren’t out of there in fifteen minutes—”

“Just don’t call the police,” Kek said and laughed.

André was not amused. He turned into the square, passing a large truck, and made a turn around it, jerking his head toward the bar. It wasn’t really necessary; the Villarino was well advertised by a huge sign that covered the width of the building. André pulled around the next corner and stopped; Kek got down and dragged the suitcase free.

“This shouldn’t take too long—”

“It better not,” André said ominously. “You sure you don’t want help?”

“I want you right here with the car, ready to go.”

He winked at the big man behind the wheel and walked around the corner and back toward the bar. If the Encyclopaedia Britannica was worth the price, the adventure of the suitcase should end on a note that would not only repay his time and trouble, but also repay Sanchez for his poor manners with women. He threaded his way through the marble-topped tables, deserted at that hour of siesta, and came into the cool dimness of the bar. Two men leaning on the long counter considered him carefully. One studied the suitcase a moment and straightened up.

“Huuygens?”

“That’s right.”

“You alone?”

Kek looked at him. The man looked a bit confused and then tipped his head. “This way.”

He led the way to the back of the long room, turned into a corridor, and tapped on a door at its end. Without waiting for a response, he swung the door open and jerked his head in command for Kek to enter. Kek smiled at him genially and walked into the room.

The first thing his eyes sought and found was Anita. She was sitting quite calmly near the window, smoking. She smiled at him and nodded but did not speak. Kek turned. Sanchez was sitting at the manager’s desk, his thin fingers tapping the blotter restlessly. A short, fat man sat beside him — Duarte, Kek decided. Four men, tough-looking and obviously armed, completed the complement, standing at various places along the wall, making the room appear smaller than it was. Kek brought his attention back to Anita, speaking over Sanchez’s head.

“How are you, honey? Did they treat you well?”

“Fine, dear. I’m a bit tired, though...”

“We’ll be leaving soon, sweet.” He smiled at her and turned to Sanchez, the smile still on his face. “Here’s your suitcase, señor. A paper to sign and I believe we can complete our business.”

“In a moment...” Sanchez reached out and took the suitcase from him. He fished a monocle from a pocket, screwed it in place, and studied the combination lock. Whatever markings had been put there to determine authenticity apparently he found. He smiled, looked at Duarte as if to say I told you so, and nodded at Kek.

“You have the escrow paper?” Kek reached into his pocket and handed it over. Sanchez studied it a moment, signed it with a flourish, and handed it back. “There we are. A pleasure to do business with you, m’sieu.” His head turned to look at Anita. “Mademoiselle, your company was a pleasure.”

Anita looked at Kek, surprised it had been that easy.

“We can go?”

“I’d just like to wait and see the suitcase open, if I could. After all—”

“You can go, m’sieu.” It was Duarte, and both his voice and his face were hard. “You did your job and you’ve been well paid for it. I suggest you and your — your girl — go quickly and quietly.”

Anita came to her feet eagerly. Kek shrugged.

“If you put it like that, of course... Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He paused at the door, his arm around Anita’s shoulder. “By the way, in the future I suggest you get someone else to run your errands. I don’t care for your methods.”

“Don’t worry,” Duarte said flatly.

“Thank you,” Kek said, as if in gratitude, and ushered Anita out.

He led the way through the empty bar at a reasonable pace, but once in the street he took her arm and hurried her toward the car. She followed along willingly. André had the car door open for them as soon as he saw them come around the corner. They crowded into the front seat with him; the big man stepped on the accelerator, wheeling away from the curb, turning toward the avenue leading from the square to the west. Kek put his hand out.

“No— Wait. You know that little street that goes past the manager’s window in the back? There was a window—”

“I know it.” André frowned. “What about it?”

“Pull in there a minute.”

André stared at him a second and then shrugged. He obediently swung the car around. Kek was grinning. They passed the bar, turned a corner. André braked slightly and swung hard. They bounced into a narrow alley. The open window of the manager’s office could be seen a bit farther along. Kek dropped his voice.

“Don’t pass it. Stop here.”

André brought the car to a halt; the engine pulsed quietly. He looked at Kek, frowning. Kek had his hand up in anticipation; there was a look of glee on his face. Suddenly André’s attention swung to the window. There was the sharp sound of ringing, instantly cut off. Both André and Anita stared at Kek. He still held his hand up, commanding them to wait, his face hard put to contain his laughter. The sound of the strident bell came again and again was instantly cut off. Kek winked at André.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

André backed the car from the alley; he swung the wheel and headed them for the river avenue and the road north to Mataró and eventually the border.

“All right,” he said. “What was that all about?”

Kek was laughing. “Bless that encyclopedia! And bless Anita’s snoring—”

“I do not snore!”

“—and bless Schneller’s use of steel balls in his soundproof lock...” Kek saw the questioning look on the other two faces and relented. “‘Electromagnetism,’” he said softly. “Not too far from ‘Elephants.’ A bit of wire wound around — preferably soft iron, but a steel bar like a screwdriver will also work — hooked to a battery, and you have a magnet. With a lot of power. More than enough to scramble Herr Schneller’s little steel balls in their little sockets...”

Anita stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

André understood. “You mean the suitcase can never be opened?”

“Not without blowing up.” Kek grinned. “Think of the beauty of that as a lesson to Señor Sanchez! To have millions of dollars in cocaine in his hands and not be able to get to it!”

“He’ll get hold of Schneller—”

“Good! They can sit there together, trying the numbers, and listening to that beautiful bell ring. And Schneller will explain that something must have gone wrong, but nothing could have gone wrong, and they’ll be sure Schneller removed the cocaine and changed the combination, and he’ll be hard put to explain, and they’ll all just sit there and try and try again and again—” His face sobered. “Eventually, of course, the batteries for the bell will wear out, and then—”

André glanced at him. “In Schneller’s words: Blooey?”

“No,” Kek said. “They’re not that insane. I think they’ll just sit and stare at it and visualize the contents...”

“You’re nasty,” André said and grinned.

“Yes,” Kek said and dropped the subject. He pulled Anita to him and kissed her tenderly. He touched her cheek softly with a finger, tracing it along the firm line of her jaw, looking up at André. “I know I said I’d take over the driving after Barcelona, but right now I’m occupied...”

“Be my guest,” André said politely.

“Thank you.”

“When we stop for anything,” Anita said, “we really should get in the back seat.” She grinned at Kek. “I never did get to practice those wiles on you.”

“I think the car needs water,” André said gallantly and pulled from the highway...