The Wager

2

Kek stared across the table curiously. “You’re Victor Girard.”

“Exactly, M’sieu.” Girard seemed more amused than pleased to finally be recognized. “Victor Eugène Armand Jean-Claude Girard, to be exact.” The fact that he had added most of the names himself once he had risen to fame — and that in all probability Huuygens was aware of the fact — did not bother him in the least. “It took you awhile.”

“It has been some time since M’sieu has been — well, in the news.”

“A year.” Girard waved it away.

“And to see you here in New York... I thought—”

“That I was still in Europe? That I was persona non grata with your State Department? That little misunderstanding was cleared up almost two weeks ago.” Girard repeated his hand motion, airily brushing smoke away together with any unnecessary questions as to his presence in the country. “As a matter of fact I’ve taken an apartment here in New York. I may well remain here.”

“I see,” Kek said. “And could I ask how you came to know my name? And where to find me?” He did not ask the obvious question as to why Girard had wanted to locate him, but the question remained, even if unspoken.

“But, of course!” Girard sounded surprised at himself for not having mentioned it sooner. “You see, M’sieu,” he said, dropping his voice confidentially, although the two of them, other than the bodyguards, were the only ones anywhere in the vicinity. “In... well, in getting safely to Europe — and even when I was there — I had need of certain...” His hands moved delicately. They reminded Kek of the motion of a snake charming a bird. “Well, call them ‘special services.’ And some of those special services brought me in touch with what might be called ‘the Underworld.’”

The man’s tone capitalized the words; there was a twinkle in his eye. Huuygens managed not to snort. For Victor Girard to speak of the underworld in that manner was almost ludicrous; his special police would have made the roughest of Europe’s underworld look like choir boys. When he attempted lightness, Kek decided, he was even more repulsive than when he was honestly happy. Girard grinned at him and went on.

“A shame to find oneself in degraded company, but there it is. One does what one must. However, to get to you. Naturally, when I needed the services of — if you’ll pardon me, M’sieu — an expert in avoiding the distasteful attentions of your Customs Service, I made inquiries. And I found a universality of opinion as to not only who was the best man, but the only man for the job, that was quite remarkable.”

He smiled brightly across the table.

“You should feel flattered, M’sieu. Your reputation is formidable.”

There was no doubt that the man was, indeed, Victor Give-Or-Take-A-Name Girard, but why a man of Girard’s background should require Kek’s particular talents was a most interesting question. Rumor, backed by facts, had it that when M’sieu Girard left Ile Rocheux he had taken about everything with him except the dock from which he had escaped by speedboat. Still, the best way to find out what the man wanted was to let him wade through his interminable introduction. The brandy would have helped pass the time, but unfortunately Huuygens never mixed liquor and business. And this definitely looked like business. He sighed and pushed his nearly full glass away from him.

Girard recognized the gesture for what it was and seemed pleased by it. He emptied his own glass down his throat with one gulp, put out his cigarette after one final drag, and got down to business.

“I’m interested in making you a simple business proposition,” he said evenly. “I should like to offer you—”

He stopped so abruptly that for a moment Huuygens wondered if perhaps the man had suddenly changed his mind, or if they were about to be interrupted by a newcomer unseen behind his back. But neither was the case. Instead a beatific smile spread across the swarthy pockmarked face, the teeth flashed, and Girard began again.

“Let me rephrase that,” he said, his tiny reptilian eyes coming as close to twinkling as was possible. “An offer of mere money to a man who so easily managed to win ten thousand dollars before my eyes so short a time ago, is scarcely proper. What I meant to say is that I should like to make a wager with you. A wager I am sure would be most interesting to a gambler such as yourself.” He paused, studying Huuygens. “You are a gambling man, are you not, M’sieu?”

“At times,” Kek said quietly, and waited.

“I admire caution, but this time there is small need of it. A simple wager, except I think you’ll will find the odds a bit unusual. But interesting. You see,” Girard said, quite obviously pleased with the brilliance of his newer approach, “I should like to wager fifty thousand dollars of my money, against” — he paused dramatically for effect, watching Huuygens closely — “against five dollars of your money...”

He paused again, but if he expected a reaction from his companion, he was disappointed. Kek merely waited quietly. Girard smiled tightly, not to be denied the dramatics of his proposition.

“—that you will not bring a certain object from Ile Rocheux into New York City through United States Customs, and deliver it to me!”

He leaned back triumphantly. There was a moment’s silence as Huuygens considered the other’s words. He was forced to admire the quaintness of the approach, but that scarcely answered the many questions the other’s offer had engendered. He nodded thoughtfully, considering the depths of the brandy before him, and then looked up. Girard’s eyes were bright upon him.

“As you say,” Huuygens said evenly, quite as if he faced ten-thousand-to-one odds every day, and occasionally even accepted them, “the odds are interesting. One might even call them generous. However, I assume in your investigation of my bona fides someone may have mentioned that there are certain items which I prefer do not elude Customs Service?”

Girard waved his hand impatiently.

“No, no, no! You mean narcotics! Of course they mentioned your scruples against touching them. Personally, that is your business. I have no interest in narcotics. No, no!” He leaned forward again, dropping his voice further; the excitement in his voice increased. There was an honesty, a dropping of pretense, to the man for the first time. “It is a carving—”

Kek’s eyebrows raised. “A carving?”

“Yes. But what a carving! In ivory. A Chang Tzu T’sien dating back more than eight centuries before the birth of the Christ. It isn’t very large — I imagine it would even fit into your coat pocket, although admittedly it would be bulky. It depicts a village scene in Hunan at that time — but I understand you are somewhat of an art connoisseur, yourself. You may even have heard of it. In translation its name means ‘The Village Dance.’” Girard paused, studying the frown that had appeared on Huuygens’ face. “You’ve heard of it? You know it?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“No,” Kek said slowly. “I’ve never seen it, but I’ve read the catalog data on it. The carving received quite a bit of publicity when Ile Rocheux bought it for their National Gallery. It was felt — if you’ll pardon me — that the money could possibly have been used better elsewhere, especially in a country where the per-capita income is about fifty dollars American a year...”

Girard’s eyes were suddenly hard; his smile had disappeared.

“I hope we are not going to allow our little discussion to wander off into sociology, M’sieu.”

“We are not,” Huuygens said amiably. “It was merely a comment in passing, to explain why and how I happen to be familiar with the work. I also wish to explain why I have certain questions about the entire matter.” His eyes came up. “Do you mind?”

Girard spread open his palms invitingly.

“First, then,” Huuygens said easily, “let me ask you to indulge my curiosity — because basically, I suppose, it’s hardly my business and could scarcely affect our — ah, wager. Still, the question remains and needs answering.” His eyes caught those of Girard and held them. “As I recall, M’sieu, when the Ile Rocheux museum bought the carving at auction at Sotheby’s in London, the price they paid was much less than the fifty thousand dollars you are now willing to — well, bet — to get it into this country. Am I guilty of error?”

The hooded eyes did not waver. “No, you are quite correct.”

“In fact,” Huuygens said, “the price that was paid was a bit over thirty thousand dollars, was it not?”

“Your memory is remarkable. The price was in pounds, but at the exchange rate of the day it came to thirty-one thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars, within a dollar or so.”

“Now,” Kek said, “even that value could only be realized at a legitimate sale or auction, which would be rather difficult, it seems to me, under any circumstance involving illegal ownership. Possibly some time in the future — actually, centuries in the future, considering the carving’s evaluation rate to date — it may well be priceless. But today, frankly, it is not. So—” Huuygens shrugged. “Naturally, one wonders.”

Girard’s expression had been undergoing a change as Huuygens spoke. Now the disappointment he had mastered when watching the blackjack game returned compounded. He shook his small head slowly.

“You do not understand, M’sieu,” he said, and there was a genuine touch of sadness in the husky voice at Huuygens’ incogitancy. “You do not begin to understand. If you know anything at all about me, if you believe even one-tenth of the things the newspapers have printed about me, then you should know several things. First, I am not stingy. Second, I do not lack for funds. Good God! I am not interested in the monetary value of the Chang carving. I have no intention of selling it, or trying to sell it. The thought is obscene! I simply wish to own it.”

He stared at Huuygens with a look Kek had seen many times before when dealing with collectors. It was the look of a zealot, a fanatic — in short, a Collector with a capital C. Girard shook his head.

“You cannot possibly understand, M’sieu,” he said quietly. “Even the world doesn’t understand, or the Chang would be priced beyond the silly daubings that Sotheby’s auctions for fortunes every day of the week. But price means nothing. It is simply the most incredibly beautiful piece of work I have ever seen, and I want it. But you are incapable of understanding...”

He was, of course, quite wrong. Huuygens understood perfectly; he had dealt with collectors before. For a moment he found himself almost liking the repulsive little man across from him, but only for the moment. Victor Girard’s record was only too well known. Girard put aside the mental picture of the carving that had been with him when he had last spoken, and got down to business again.

“You wonder why my offer was so high — I mean, the terms of my wager. I can tell you quite openly that until you made that final bet at blackjack a while back, I had no intention of offering you more than a fraction of that amount. But then I knew, to begin with, that you were not a man to haggle with. And I also knew I had to make a large enough bid — I mean, bet — to interest a man of your caliber.”

He sighed and shook his head.

“So I went high. Purposely high. Possibly it was a mistake. Possibly I was wrong in my judgment of you. Perhaps I should have remained with a smaller offer. Then you would have been convinced I was merely a petty crook out for a small profit and let it go at that.” He looked across the table into the gray eyes and then shook his head. “No, you would not have thought any such thing.” He sighed at the unforeseen problems involved in hiring a man: it had been simpler in the days when he could just order things done. “In any event, are there any more questions?”

“Several,” Kek said, not at all worried about the other’s problems. He stared into his nearly full brandy glass a moment, formulating his thoughts. Then he looked up. “For example: if you wanted the carving so much, why not simply go to any reputable dealer — Sotheby’s itself, for that matter — and simply commission them to buy it for you? If money is no object, it shouldn’t present any great problem. I’m sure the treasury of Ile Rocheux could use the cash,” he added dryly, pleased to see the look of irritation cross his companion’s face, “especially if I am to believe one-tenth the things the newspapers said, as you have suggested. And I’m sure that, commission and all, it would have cost you less than fifty thousand dollars.”

“So suspicious,” Girard said softly. “And so uninformed!” The faint smile had reappeared on the pockmarked face, forgiving the other his rude comment. He shook his head. “M’sieu, nothing in the National Gallery may be sold. At any price. Ever. Everything there belongs to the People.” Again his sneering tone capitalized the word; his opinion of the People was being thrust in Kek’s face, as if in challenge. Kek chose to disregard it.

“I believe you,” he said. “And I also agree that a sociological discussion at this point would serve no purpose. Now, let’s talk of the carving. I assume you were the one who suggested to the museum that they acquire it?”

“I suggested they do most of the things they did,” Girard said with irony. “And not just the National Gallery.”

“I imagine that’s true,” Kek said, and continued without pause. “I also imagine that when you felt the time to depart was approaching, and while you were still persona grata in your own country, you were wise enough to replace the original carving with a cheap copy. Or maybe you did it when the carving first arrived—”

Girard was staring at him. Huuygens nodded.

“Cast vinyl, I imagine? Some of these imitations are remarkable. Well, where is the original? The genuine Chang? With a friend?”

Girard shook his head in disbelief. “Replaced what? With a copy? I only wish I had the chance!” He shook his head again. “The original — and only — carving is in the museum where it’s always been. On display in its little glass box — case, if you will — as always.” He sighed, just thinking about it.

There were several moments of silence as Huuygens digested this information. Girard frowned at him, as if wondering what was preoccupying the other man. At last Huuygens sighed with regret and placed his hands on the table as if prepared to rise.

“A pity,” he said with true disappointment. “And such lovely odds, too! Fifty thousand for five! You know,” he went on, “I think I would have enjoyed bringing the carving in, too. I’ve always thought there must be some fairly simple means of doing so, especially from the Caribbean...”

Girard frowned. “But what’s the trouble?”

“The trouble, M’sieu,” Huuygens said quietly, “is that I’m not a thief.”

Girard relaxed. He smiled a bit derisively.

“M’sieu,” he said quietly, “everyone has the privilege of putting a name to his own vices as he sees fit. You say you are not a thief. If you mean you are not a common thief, I should certainly have to agree. If you mean you are not a professional thief, I would be forced to concur even more heartily.” He waggled a finger. “My dear sir, I never thought of having you try to remove the carving from the museum; it is not your milieu, not your — how do the Americans say? — not your racket.”

“Then how do you expect to have it removed?”

“It will be removed by a person who is not as particular as yourself as to titles,” Girard said dryly. “By a professional thief. His name—”

“Hold it!” Huuygens raised a hand quickly. “I don’t want to know his name. And I don’t want him to know mine. There is no need.”

“Fair enough,” Girard said equably. “Our relationship — yours and mine — need only deal with the problem of getting the carving through Customs. It will take a clever man to bring it in and hand it over to me.” He suddenly grinned, his teeth looking like sugar cubes. “I am wagering those generous odds that that clever man is not you.” He nodded, his small eyes shrewd. “And I am beginning to suspect that you are interested. Am I correct?”

“At those odds? Yes, you are correct.”

“Then we have a deal? I mean, a wager?”

“That’s right,” Kek said, and reached his hand across the table. Girard took it, gave it a quick up-and-down shake, and released it.

“Done!” Girard’s manner changed abruptly. Now that Huuygens was committed, the man’s false air of friendship disappeared; for all practical purposes he was now dealing with an employee, albeit an expensive one. “Now, how do you plan on doing it?”

A faint smile touched Huuygens’ lips. “That will be my problem.”

“I’m not asking for any of your secrets,” Girard said shortly, “but I will need to know enough of your schedule so that I can have that nasty man, the professional thief, bring the carving to the proper place at the proper time.” He ended on a slightly sarcastic note.

“True,” Huuygens said. “Where is he now?”

“Paris. But I’ll have him in Ile Rocheux in ample time, not that a man of his caliber needs it.”

Huuygens thought a moment, his fingers drumming the table. At last he looked up, one hand unconsciously reaching up to tug at his earlobe, a sign he was beginning to think of the actual problem.

“At the moment I have only the sketchiest of ideas. I’ll have to think about it. But I should have a definite plan worked out sometime tomorrow. Where can I reach you?”

“Here.” The smaller man delved into a pocket, producing a card. “At this number. If I’m not there, leave a number and time when I can call you back. Is that satisfactory?”

“I’ll call and arrange a place where we can meet and discuss it,” Huuygens said. He smiled. “Telephones weren’t built for secrecy.”

“Fair enough. How long do you think it will take?” Girard seemed to realize this was a foolish question and cut it off. “As soon as possible, let us hope,” he said abruptly, and brought out his Gauloises. He lit one, inhaled deeply, and waved for the waiter. “Now that our business is finished,” he said, “you can finish your drink.” He stared across the table thoughtfully. “Three decks, eh? And a man who knows when to drink and when not to drink. A clever man...” Kek might not have been there from the tone of Girard’s voice. “A clever man...”

“A careful man,” Kek said, and raised his glass. True, he had to develop a means of bringing the Chang Tzu T’sien carving through Customs without being detected and that required thought and thinking and drinking did not mix, but the thinking could wait until tomorrow. The Quinleven Club brandy was excellent, and he had earned the drink, if only for putting up with Girard for this long. Still, if things worked out as they should work out, he would only have to see the man twice more. Which was enough.

A profitable evening; first the blackjack game and now being on the correct end of ten-thousand-to-one odds. He started to raise his glass and noticed the hard set to Girard’s face. Could it have been too profitable an evening? Well, Kek thought, I said I was a careful man rather than a clever one. Let’s try to be both in this caper. It could not only be profitable, but healthy, as well.

He downed his brandy and allowed the waiter to pour him a second.