2

Señor Luis Anselmo Sanchez y Miranda was a tall, painfully thin man with a narrow face, cavernous cheeks, thin lips, and a large nose revealing flaring nostrils over a hairline mustache. His wedge-shaped forehead was split geometrically by a sharp widow’s peak that made him look slightly satanic; the black hair that flowed back on each side seemed polished, as if by wax. His eyes were hooded, his skin mottled, and his teeth could have stood both straightening and cleaning, but what his personal features lacked in beauty was at least partially compensated for by his clothing; he was impeccably dressed in a tight checkered suit favored by Spaniards of a certain type.

He glanced about the elegant room appreciatively, waited until Anita had excused herself—his black eyes following her with even greater appreciation than they had exhibited for the nudes on the walls—and then graciously accepted the seat offered him by a casual wave of his host’s hand. The bright light from the windows struck his eyes, but not so forcibly as to cause him to consider a change in seating; he appreciated the intelligent purpose that had led Huuygens to seat him there. And for what Señor Sanchez had in mind, an intelligent man was what he required. In fact, what he required was Kek Huuygens himself, and nobody else, and a little momentary discomfort was a small price to pay for obtaining those invaluable services.

There was a moment of silence, broken by Sanchez. “A lovely apartment.…”

“Thank you. We find it most comfortable.” The tone Kek used was sufficiently polite but clearly hinted that he was sure his visitor had not come for the sole purpose of complimenting the furnishings. He tented his fingers, watching his guest above them. “You say André Martins gave you my telephone number?”

“Yes.” Sanchez nodded easily, neither overanxious to prove his good credentials nor hesitantly, as if trying to avoid the matter. It was well done, and Kek gave him credit for it. “He claims to be an old friend of yours, m’sieu.” It was a statement but ended on a slightly rising inflection.

“He is. Although I haven’t seen him in years. He went to Portugal; I went to the States.…” One good lie deserves another, Kek thought, and leaned back, prepared to play the verbal chess game to conclusion. Move and countermove.…

“Ah!” Señor Sanchez folded his pencillike fingers into a bundle which he deposited in his lap; they lay there like sticks. He seemed to relax a bit. “Yes. Luckily I’ve been able to be of some help to poor André from time to time—small jobs, occasional loans. A fine fellow, André, and strong as a bull, of course.” His French, Huuygens was pleased to see, was excellent; it would have been more difficult to conduct the charade in Kek’s Spanish, but far from impossible. Languages were vital to his profession. The thin man’s rich voice became sad. “Not too successful, André, I’m afraid—no businessman—but still, a fine fellow.…”

What an actor! Kek thought. He kept his voice noncommittal. “As I say, I haven’t heard from him in years. What’s old André doing in Lisbon these days?”

“Not Lisbon. Barcelona. He came to Spain a year ago, at least. As to what he’s doing—” Sanchez shrugged. “A little of this and a little of that. I try to see to it the poor fellow doesn’t starve. He can’t return to France, you know. Some trouble with the police, I hear. A pity. He talks about Paris quite often.”

“It must be difficult. Trouble with the police, I mean.” Kek suppressed a yawn. “Well, be sure and give him my regards when you see him.” His tone relegated poor André Martins and his problems back to the oblivion in which they apparently existed. He pressed his tented fingers together tightly and then released the pressure; it was as if he was preparing for business. “And just exactly what did Martins tell you about me, señor?”

The man across from him hesitated a moment and then leaned forward slightly. It was something like watching a carpenter’s rule unfold.

“He told me you could help me with a problem I have.”

“A problem?”

“Yes. To be exact, M’sieu Huuygens, I have a suitcase which I should like to have taken through customs—”

“So?” Kek stared at him curiously. “What did André say that made you think that should interest me?”

Sanchez smiled. “I understand your caution, m’sieu, but believe me, you have no need of it with me. I am in much the same business as you—among other businesses, of course. I am well aware of your reputation and your talent for—well, for such things.” He tried to make out the expression on the shadowed face across from him, but without success. “Let me put it another way, m’sieu. Let us take a hypothetical example.…”

“That might be better,” Kek agreed equably. “What example should we take?”

“Let’s take the case of a person who wished to bring a suitcase through customs without—well, shall we say without bothering the customs officials too much?”

Kek sighed gently. “If you wish to consider either the example or the suitcase hypothetical, fine; but let’s leave the rest of the language veritable, shall we? Semantics can get complicated at times.” He tapped his tented fingers together. “Now, let’s take the hypothetical case of a person wishing to smuggle a suitcase through customs.”

“Fair enough,” Sanchez said and grinned. “All right. Could such a thing be done?”

“I imagine so. Though I still fail to see why this should interest me.”

“With your permission, a little patience, m’sieu, I believe I can show you how it could interest you in a while. But first, you say it can be done?”

“I should say so. Taken from where to where?”

“From Buenos Aires to Barcelona.”

“And what would this hypothetical case contain?”

Señor Sanchez looked slightly disappointed at what he obviously considered a faux pas on the part of his host.

“Considering the fee I’m sure will be asked—a fee I’m equally sure will not be hypothetical—I should imagine the contents of the suitcase could remain secret.”

Kek shrugged. “Possibly by some, but certainly not by me. It appears, señor, that André did not tell you enough about me. Or possibly he didn’t know, since it’s been a long time. But let me say this: I can’t picture myself taking a hypothetical suitcase into Spain containing, say, narcotics, for example.”

“For no amount of money?”

“For no amount of money.”

“And if it didn’t contain narcotics?”

“Then it obviously would contain something else. Which would not have to be a secret.” He shook his head. “Let me suggest that I cannot imagine anyone, myself included, taking a suitcase through customs without knowing what he was carrying.”

There were several moments of prolonged silence, followed by a deep sigh. The hawklike profile pivoted, the hooded eyes studying the room without actually seeing any of the beauties it contained. The black, hooded eyes returned at last to Kek’s face as if calculating something.

“All right, m’sieu. My reticence is simply due to the fact that you will probably not believe what I am about to tell you—” He paused.

Kek nodded inwardly. You may be quite sure I won’t believe it, he silently assured the man across from him and waited. Sanchez seemed to find it hard to continue; his locked fingers writhed in his lap, like disturbed twigs. At last he looked up. “To tell you the truth, M’sieu Huuygens,” he said, “the suitcase will contain nothing more illegal than parchment.”

“Parchment?” It was a lovely lie, Kek was forced to admit.

“Parchment.” Having made the plunge, the words came easier for Señor Sanchez. He unlocked his fingers, placing his hands on his bony knees. “M’sieu Huuygens, I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but it is the truth. A good many of the land titles to the most important pieces of property in the city of Buenos Aires depend for their legal validity on nothing more than the fact that the original grants given by the Spanish crown to the original owners have disappeared—or had disappeared, that is, until quite recently. Then, in an—an old church in—but the name is unimportant; let us simply say in a section of the city that once was a small village but is now a suburb, a part of Greater Buenos Aires, some of these original land grants were discovered. They had been there for years, put away in a drawer. The man who discovered them did so by pure accident, but he was smart enough to realize their potential worth, and—” He hesitated, slightly embarrassed.

“Stole them?”

Sanchez seemed relieved to have the naughty words spoken by someone with less sensibility than himself. “I’m afraid that’s right.” He shrugged delicately. “Actually, you might more properly say restole them, because of course they were the true grants to the land, and I’m sure the original owners didn’t give up either the land or the grants all that easily. In any event, most of the descendants of the original families live in Spain, and many of them in Barcelona. They were approached recently by this—” Again the slight hesitation.

“Thief?” Huuygens suggested politely.

“—the man who had located the parchments. However, he did not have the actual documents with him of course; he was afraid to take them through customs. They would have taken quite a bit of explaining, as you can well imagine. So the families commissioned me to go to Argentina and view the documents.” He shrugged. “I was convinced of their authenticity. And their potential value.”

“You are an expert on documents?”

Sanchez grinned; on his thin face it looked like a rictus.

“M’sieu, I am an expert on making money.”

Which is probably the first true statement said in this room since your arrival, Kek thought. Still, there is no doubt the man has a wonderful imagination. His grandchildren must enjoy his stories.

“But why bring the documents to Spain at all?” Kek asked. “The land they refer to is, after all, in Argentina.”

The thin man shook his head decisively. “No, no, m’sieu! To attempt to present the parchments in an Argentinian court would be ridiculous. A good part of what is now the city of Buenos Aires is involved. The government there simply could not allow such a claim to be considered for a moment. The documents would be impounded, declared fraudulent, and destroyed. Even in Spain—” He sighed. “My principals are important people, but I’m sure that even in Spain we shall have problems. But the documents are Spanish in origin, and there, at least, it’s felt we might have a chance.”

Huuygens nodded, as if seeing the logic of the other’s position. It was an imaginative story, he had to admit; he wondered whether Sanchez had come prepared with it or had made it up on the spur of the moment. However, he decided to play along a bit more.

“How big a suitcase are we talking about?”

“A normal suitcase.” Sanchez held out his pencillike fingers. “About so wide. A few feet. Nothing extraordinary.” He smiled. “Still, a bit too big to carry through customs under one’s coat.”

“The only thing I ever carry through customs under my coat,” Kek said, “is me. And I usually have more trouble with that than I do with anything else.” He changed the subject. “What’s the weight of this suitcase?”

Sanchez considered. “Fifteen kilo, I’d say. A bit more than thirty pounds. Not heavy at all.”

Which, heavy or not, would make a lot of parchment, Kek thought, and pitied the number of sheep called upon to furnish it. “Why a suitcase, necessarily?” he asked. “I assume the parchment is rolled; at least it was customary in those days. Wouldn’t folding harm it? Why not a tube of some sort?”

Sanchez considered him evenly. “Because, m’sieu, you will have to transport the material somehow to get it to Spain, and a tube with a lock on it might arouse the curiosity of a porter, or an airline baggage handler, or a clerk—”

“Locked? This suitcase will be locked?”

“Extremely well locked, m’sieu.” Now that the subject had been broached, Sanchez sounded determined to settle the matter for all time. “The suitcase will be locked and will remain locked, m’sieu. That is a vital condition. The value of these documents might prove a temptation to anyone, even to someone with your reputation for dealing fairly with clients. We are not talking about a paltry painting now, m’sieu, or a valuable book. We are talking about most of the city of Buenos Aires.” He waited for some response; Huuygens remained silent, watching him over his tented fingers. Sanchez took this as a form of acceptance and continued. “Well, m’sieu, what do you think? It can be done?”

“Oh, yes. It can be done, all right.”

“May one ask how?”

Kek looked at him sardonically. “One may ask, of course, but one would not be answered. After all, señor, the suitcase is still hypothetical, but my means of making a living is not.”

Sanchez smiled, accepting the answer. It was one he would have given himself. His smile faded. “And the charge would be? The cost to us?”

“Ah, that’s the problem, you see.” Kek frowned at the carpet and then brought his eyes up. “I’m not sure I want the job. A locked suitcase.…” He smiled apologetically; even in the shadows Sanchez could see the boyish lift of the lips and the gleam of the white teeth. “Without intending any disrespect, señor, I don’t know you; that is a second thing. I would need to check your credentials. Say, with someone like André.…” He waited for a reaction from the man across from him and gave him high marks for retaining his composure. “If I could find him after all these years, of course. But if not, with someone else. I have other contacts in Barcelona.”

Sanchez released a shuddering breath. Huuygens, at least, was interested! “Would ten thousand, American, plus any expenses involved induce you to take the job without wasting time?” He waved a hand impatiently. “Not that I worry about your checking on me, M’sieu Huuygens. I’m not of the police, and that’s all that should interest you. I’m well known in Barcelona, and that fact can easily be established by a simple telephone call.”

“I’m afraid I would want more than a simple telephone call to convince me, señor.” Kek came to his feet in an easy motion, indicating the interview was over, at least for the moment. “I shall have to let you know, Señor Sanchez. Where can I reach you?”

“How long before you can give me your decision, m’sieu?”

“Three or four days, I should think. A week at the very most.”

Sanchez unfolded himself, coming to his feet reluctantly. He seemed ill-disposed to leave the matter where it stood; he looked as if he blamed himself for not having been more successful in his mission.

“You are sure you would not care to decide right now?”

“Quite sure.”

Sanchez sighed. “Then as soon as possible, please, m’sieu. There is a lot of money involved, and other people. And we can’t even begin to prepare our case without the documentation.”

“It won’t be long, I promise. And your hotel?”

“No hotel,” Sanchez said and smiled. “I also value privacy. But the number is 35-24-471.”

Kek marked it down. “You’ll hear from me.” He set the pencil back on the desk and led the man by the arm down the corridor to the front door.

Señor Sanchez glanced about as if in the hope of seeing the lovely lady again, as if sight of her might at least partially compensate for the failure to leave with Huuygens firmly committed, but the soft lighting of the hallway merely illuminated the paintings and nothing more and the doors leading from it were all firmly closed. He paused a moment at the outer door, waited while Kek unlatched and opened it, and then wet his thin lips with the tip of his tongue. He looked as if he were hoping a few extra words—possibly one more argument—might change the other’s mind and close the deal on the spot; but he also seemed to realize it was not possible. He drew a deep breath.

“Until later, m’sieu,” he said, and his sadness seemed genuine.

“Until later,” Kek said pleasantly, and closed the door behind him. The man in the hallway heard the lock snap shut; he sighed again and turned toward the elevator.

The cognac was back on the bar, the glasses refilled. Anita sat on a bar stool watching the men, one long, well-formed leg tucked beneath her, the smoke from her cigarette curling about her face, causing her to half close her eyes. André reached over for his glass and snorted indelicately.

“Luis Sanchez giving me a helping hand! What a story!”

“He didn’t want you to starve,” Kek explained and grinned.

“Let him worry about his grandmother starving,” André said flatly and dropped the subject. “Ten thousand American and all expenses, eh? You see how it goes? If I got an offer of a job like that, it would be for ten francs and bus fare. Still,” he added, thinking about it, “they’d probably be getting gypped, because I wouldn’t have a clue as to how to go about it.” His eyes came up. “How in hell do you smuggle a whole suitcase through customs without having them open it?”

“Easily.” Huuygens waved the matter aside. “That’s the least of the problems.” He frowned across the bar. “André, what do you really know about this Sanchez character?”

“You mean, other than the fact that he practically supports me?” André smiled sourly. “Well, I know this much—you name it, and if it’s illegal, he’s involved in it. Black market, prostitution, fencing—”

“Narcotics?”

“He’s in everything. Narcotics included.”

“He said the suitcase wouldn’t hold narcotics. He swore it.”

André almost choked on his drink. He set his glass down on the bar and stared at Huuygens in astonishment.

“Have you been listening to me? Or to that ten thousand dollars? He swore it didn’t hold narcotics? That almost convinces me it must. My friend, you can trust Luis Sanchez about as far as you can kick the Arc de Triomphe.” He considered his words and amended them. “Uphill, that is. Barefoot.” He thought about it some more and added, “Against the wind.” He returned to his drink, sipped, and then put the glass down, a smile forming on his face. “Still,” he went on slowly, his eyes glistening in good humor, “there’s no good reason why the suitcase couldn’t be opened and checked. Even if it’s locked.” He rubbed the tips of his fingers on his jacket lapel suggestively and winked across the bar. “I don’t want to brag, but I used to be pretty good at that sort of thing in my early days. I can’t have forgotten all of it.”

Kek smiled at him. “The thought also occurred to me, but what happens when we open it and find it’s not what he claims it is? Tell the man we caught him fibbing? That’s a pretty serious insult to a Spaniard, you know.”

“I know,” André said sympathetically and smiled.

“Besides, by that time I would have agreed to take the case through customs; and I hate to go back on my word. It would be a very unpleasant situation.” He changed the subject. “Who does this Sanchez work for?”

“Sanchez?” André shook his head. “Nobody. He works for himself.”

“Not in this deal,” Kek said. “I’m sure he’s not the top man. He made me his offer of ten thousand dollars, and that was that. You could almost hear the wheels going around in his head when I walked him to the door. He would have given his arm to have upped the ante and closed the deal then and there. But since he didn’t”—he raised his shoulders expressively—“it seems obvious he wasn’t authorized to.”

“Well,” André said slowly, “if Sanchez is just a junior partner in the deal, then it has to be a very big deal, indeed. Luis Sanchez doesn’t usually play second fiddle to anyone.” He looked at Kek. “So he says the suitcase doesn’t hold narcotics. What story did he make up? Gold?”

“He wouldn’t have said that.” Anita entered into the conversation and the two men looked at her with interest as she leaned over, brushed ash from her cigarette, and then leaned back again. André was intrigued by her statement.

“Oh? Why not?”

“Because,” Anita told them calmly, “he said the suitcase weighed thirty pounds or a bit more. Take away the weight of the suitcase itself, no matter how light it is, and what do you have? With gold worth about five hundred dollars a pound?” She shrugged. “He’d be paying more than half just to get the stuff past customs. I don’t imagine he’s in business just to keep Kek in cognac.…”

Kek smiled at her proudly and winked at André.

“Not to mention,” he added, “that gold is as easily converted to currency in Argentina—if not more easily—than in Spain. And with currency you simply put it in your pocket and walk through almost every customs in the world. Even me.” He shook his head. “You two don’t understand. It isn’t that he didn’t tell me what was in the suitcase—he did. It’s just that I don’t believe him.”

Anita paused in the act of lighting another cigarette. “What did he say?”

Kek smiled. He stared into his glass as if seeking answers to Sanchez’s credibility in the amber depths of his drink, slowly swirling the liquid. The ice cubes clinked against the glass musically and then subsided, bobbing lightly on the surface. His eyes came up.

“He said the suitcase contained documents—old parchment land grants originally given by the Spanish crown for lands that constitute most of what is now the city of Buenos Aires. He went on to say they had been stolen long ago but that these parchments prove that his friends—his clients, I should say—legally own most of the town.” He smiled. “It isn’t such a bad story, when you think about it. It’s just crazy enough, just far-fetched enough, to be almost believable. And if he dreamed it up on the spur of the moment, the man is a genius.”

“Only you don’t believe him,” André said.

“No. For one thing, thirty pounds of parchment would cover quite a few grants, and considering that the entire part of Argentina that now includes Buenos Aires was included in one grant, it weakens his story, don’t you think?”

Anita grinned mischievously. “Maybe they wrote big.”

“Then, even assuming he has a thirty-pound piece of sheepskin, there’s the fact that until the end of the eighteenth century any land grant for what is now Buenos Aires would have been an insult to the receiver; that area was considered worthless. It wasn’t until 1776, the year of the American Revolution, that the final grant was given, the final legal grant, the one that had the real value; that was when Spain created a new viceroyalty from the overall viceroyalty of Peru and made Buenos Aires its capital. Which, in case you’re interested, was done to protect the districts along the River Plate from the Brazilians—”

Anita stared at him. “A historian! I learn something new about you every day!”

Kek shrugged modestly. “Not a historian—an insomniac. When you are asleep and snoring, my darling, preventing me from getting any rest—”

“Snoring? Me?”

“You, my sweet. Someday I shall take the tape recorder into the bedroom and gather proof. At any rate,” Kek said with a grin in her direction, “at those times I read the encyclopedia until I get drowsy enough to overcome the local disturbances, and I’m all the way up to Elephants. If he’d have said Finland instead of Argentina, I’d have had to wait until next week to catch him. We won’t even talk about Venezuela.”

“Which proves I can’t snore very much, if you’re only up as far as ‘Elephants’!”

“I’m a slow reader.” Kek’s light tone disappeared. “At any rate, there was that final land grant issued, but where our friend Sanchez made an even greater mistake was in forgetting one thing: He forgot that by that year they were well past the age of parchment. The final grants of the Spanish crown were written in quill and ink, on oil paper. If anyone found that grant recently—assuming it had ever been lost—all he would have to do would be simply to mail it to Barcelona, registered mail, and forget all about the expensive services of M’sieu Kek Huuygens.” He smiled. “That’s the end of the lesson, children.”

André frowned. “So what’s in the suitcase?”

“A good question,” Kek conceded. “If it were coming from the Middle East, I’d bet on drugs; or even if he wanted to get it into Spain from France. Marseilles has become the leading producer of heroin in the world. I mention this in case either of you native-born Frenchmen need facts to brag about your native land. But drugs from South America?” He frowned and then unconsciously tugged at an earlobe as he pondered the problem. When he spoke his tone was apologetic. “André—”

“Yes?”

“I’m afraid that offer of hospitality was a bit premature. I’d like you to go back to Barcelona. With your contacts, possibly you could find out what Sanchez is up to.”

André’s first reaction was to ask how, but he contained himself. It would be tantamount to admitting that his position in the smuggling elite of Barcelona was well on the outskirts, and that the André that Kek remembered from the old days—the André of decision and forceful will—no longer existed. Better to bluff, he said to himself, and he came to his feet, grinning at Huuygens.

“I wouldn’t be surprised but what I could dig something up.” His grin widened. “On expenses, I assume?”

“Definitely. And by plane, this time—first class.” Kek smiled. “To be charged to Señor Luis Sanchez and Company—if we take on the job, that is.”

André’s face fell. “And if you don’t take on the job?”

“In that case,” Kek suggested dryly, “try to hunch down when you buy your ticket. Otherwise the airline might charge you for two seats.…”