12

It was one week after Lisa’s return from Nevada, a beautiful day in late July; one of those days, moderate in both temperature and humidity and bound together with a lively breeze, that New York demonstrates every so often just to confound its critics. Kek Huuygens, strolling idly in Central Park and unconsciously doing his best to avoid collision with dauntless scooter-operators or intrepid tricyclists, suddenly thought he heard his name being called. He paused, frowning in surprise, and slowly turned. Sprawled on a park bench, his legs spread out comfortably before him and his moustache wafting faintly in the wind, was Alex DuPaul. He came to his feet, negotiating the raucous children adroitly, grasped Kek’s arm and led him to the safety of the bench, beaming at him.

“Well! Kek! I’ve been trying to get in touch with you just to say hello.” He shrugged lightly, his eyes bright with his pleasure at meeting his old friend. “You forgot to leave a forwarding address, however. Anyway, it’s good to see you. How have you been? You certainly look well.”

“I feel well,” Kek said, feeling a sudden flood of warmth to see a friendly face and hear a friendly voice after the barren months of having to avoid personal contact with people.

“And how’s Lisa?”

“Fine.” Kek gestured toward the bench. “Let’s sit down.”

“Let’s find a bar instead. You’re a native here; where could we go where they’ll give you a drink dressed as we are? I mean, as I am?”

“Follow me,” Kek said, and took the other’s arm, steering him in the direction of the nearest exit, and hence, oasis.

“One thing I’ve discovered in my short stay here,” DuPaul said, marching along at Huuygens’ side, “is that the beer is drinkable. Nothing like Dutch beer, but drinkable. Certainly, when you compare it with the English beer it rates all those Gold Medals they all seem to have won. Probably at local bars.”

Huuygens dropped the subject of beer. “And how’ve you been?”

“Great. The reason I’ve become such an expert on English beer—and such an enemy—is that I’ve been spending quite a bit of time in London. You probably don’t know it, but I’m now on the payroll of Lloyd’s—on a retainer basis only, of course.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” DuPaul said, enjoying the telling of his tale. “Whenever a famous painting is stolen, they call me in to try and locate the culprits, and if I should be lucky enough to manage to get in touch with them, its my job to dicker with them over the price for the painting’s return. When I actually complete a transaction, I get a commission above my retainer fee based on the amount of the insurance, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Kek said dryly.

“It’s frighteningly legitimate, you know, and actually at times quite interesting.”

“I should imagine,” Kek commented. “But are there enough expensive paintings being stolen to keep you busy?”

“Odd as it may appear, it seems there are just enough being stolen—no more, no less. I imagine I’m just a fortunate fellow,” DuPaul said, and chuckled.

They had come along the path to the exit at Central Park South and Sixth Avenue; Kek grasped his companion firmly by the arm and hustled him across the street with the green light, dodging the taxicabs curving into the park, narrowly escaping destruction under the benevolent eye of a traffic policeman standing on the corner. DuPaul wiped the perspiration from his brow and then eyed the luxurious hotels and apartments that formed a phalanx along the south side of the avenue. He shook his head.

“I’m afraid I’m not dressed for any fancy places. I didn’t know I was going to run into you …”

“Worry not,” Kek said, and laughed. He led the way toward Fifty-sixth Street and turned toward Seventh Avenue. “Remember, the doormen, elevator operators, and bellmen at these fancy places also have to have sustenance, you know. Ah, here we are …”

He pushed into an interior so dark after the brilliance of the sun outside that for a moment they were temporarily blinded and had to pause in their tracks until their eyesight adjusted. The sharp, yeasty odor of beer, however, reassured them that they had not stumbled into an avant-garde movie theater by mistake. They fumbled their way to a corner booth and sank into it. A waitress appeared instantly.

“You do the ordering,” DuPaul suggested. “My English still isn’t up to it.”

“Two double brandies. Martel,” Kek said. “With water on the side.” He turned back to DuPaul, who had lit one of his little cigars and was adding its aroma to the alcohol odor.

“You still smoke those things?”

“Of course.” DuPaul watched Kek light a cigarette and then leaned back, luxuriating in the pleasant cool breeze generated by a floor fan in one corner, enjoying the cigar and the heady scent of beer. “By the way,” he said casually, “I heard that our mutual friend Vries Waldeck sold out the business and now lives in the States. Recalling our last conversation, I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?” He saw the look on the other’s face and chuckled. “I promise not to publish it.”

“I’m sorry.” Kek smiled. “Yes, I’m afraid I had quite a bit to do with it.”

“Then tell me about it. I’ve plenty of time. Until three, anyway; then I have to get cleaned up and see a client.” DuPaul peered at his watch, managing to distinguish the numerals. “It’s only a few minutes until two. Plenty of time to unburden yourself.”

“If you’re really interested,” Kek said. He paused while their drinks were placed on the table. The waitress hesitated a moment, since the house rules demanded that the clientele pay after each round. She knew that had the moustached gentleman been alone, the rule would have been enforced, but one look at the handsome, gray-eyed athletic man opposite, and she was sure she could let them run up a bill.

Kek waited until she had left, raised his glass in a silent toast, tapped it against DuPaul’s extended glass, and drank. He set the half-filled glass down, patted his lips with a handkerchief, and then leaned back in the booth.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I got his money out. From francs to dollars. And legally, or at least with enough semblance of legality that we’re both walking the streets today as free men.”

“For a decent fee, I hope.”

“Twenty percent,” Kek said. “A bit better than the black market.”

“I should say! How did you ever do it?”

“Very simply,” Kek said. He paused to crush out his cigarette and immediately lit another, took a sip of his drink, and began his story. He started at the beginning, at the luncheon with DuPaul where he had first heard of the problem, took him through the cocktail party, the agreement, the ship’s voyage, the months of work and worry, and finally through to the success of the scheme. He then explained Waldeck’s concern over blackmail, and his divorce from Lisa as a solution. Across from him DuPaul listened closely, lost in admiration for the other’s intelligence, nerve, and—he felt—his touch of luck.

“And that’s the way it was,” Huuygens said, completing his story. He raised his glass—it was their third round—finished his drink accompanied by DuPaul, and rapped on the table in the best Fairbanks’ manner. “Lisa’s divorce became final a week ago, we settled our business at the bank, had lunch and went home.”

“Fantastic,” DuPaul said in an awed tone of voice. He glanced at his wristwatch and sat up straight. “My Lord! It’s later than I thought! I’ll have to pass up that last drink; I have to run.” He smiled across the table warmly. “Well, I said in Brussels that if I met you in New York and if you pulled it off, I’d let you buy me dinner, but I’m afraid I’ll have to just settle for the drinks. I’m off to Chicago tonight.”

Kek’s arm stretched across the table, detaining him. When he spoke he sounded slightly apologetic.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to pay for the drinks …”

DuPaul frowned at him. He sank back onto the hard bench.

“Yes,” Huuygens said conversationally. “You see—one frets and frets that something might go awry—but one always seems to worry about the wrong things.”

“But you said everything worked fine!”

“Oh, yes. Excellent.” Kek nodded, a faint smile on his lips. “And three days after Lisa got back from Nevada and we settled the affair at the bank, she went down to City Hall and married Vries Waldeck …”

Alex DuPaul merely stared at him.

“She left me a note, though,” Huuygens added softly. He sounded reminiscent, and also a bit amused. “She was very sorry for the whole thing, but she honestly didn’t think a rich woman and a poor man had much of a chance of happiness. She was sincere; it was the practical Walloon in her speaking. And poor Vries Waldeck did need a guardian. Especially, I imagine—though she didn’t say so—to care for his money. She knew I would understand and forgive her—and also make no trouble.” He sighed deeply, staring into his empty glass. “She knew me better than I did, myself …”

DuPaul looked around, noted the waitress not appearing, and rapped sharply on the table for further service. Kek’s eyes came up to the other’s grave face gratefully.

“It’s what we were discussing aboard ship, Lisa and I,” he said softly. “Remember that I told you? It’s a carrousel—a whirligig. Beautifully endless and completely mad …”