5

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes? What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, not in particular. But.…”

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

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

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

“Well, I don’t think they——”

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

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

Camargo pounced. “Senhor Echavarria? Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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