2

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

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

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

“Hi, Kek. How’ve you been?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah! That’s much better.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huuygens laughed. “A hussy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

“Whatever that is.”

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

Kek glanced at him. “Why tell me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, Anita.”

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

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

“Very good, Anita.”

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

“Because he’s new,” Kek said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huuygens’s eyes twinkled. “Jealous?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right.”

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

“To a large extent——”

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

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

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

“Oh, they did that, all right.”

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

“They did that, too.”

“Then I don’t understand——”

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

“The wrapper?”

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

“M’sieu Huuygens?”

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

“Speaking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“M’sieu Huuygens? Kek Huuygens?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just how long ago?” Kek asked pleasantly.

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

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

“Where did all this take place?”

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

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

“André! André! It’s you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kek frowned. “What happened to his wife?”

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

“My God!”

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

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

“Of pneumonia?”

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

“We had no choice.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Bugged?”

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

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

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s right.”

“You’re sure?”

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

“You haven’t seen him yourself?”

“No.”

“He’s living there? In Lisbon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But, still—a party?”

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

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

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

“And?”

“And his wife.…”

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

“Kek? Kek? Are you still there?”

“I’m still here.”

“What do you plan to do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know. I have to think.”

“And, Kek?”

“Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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