4

Kek Huuygens took a deep breath and lay back in his chair, relaxed and oddly at peace with himself. Yes, that was how it had gone. Those were the memories, the shadows that remained in the hidden recesses of his mind throughout the years. So far they had refused to disappear completely of their own volition, or to age to decent death and be properly buried. Still, they were there, and what action would finally exorcize them? He came to his feet slowly, easily, and walked to the small bar, taking a glass of cold water, sipping it, and then placed the glass on the counter and crossed the room to the balcony doors. He opened them and stepped out into the moonlight.

The Bois had misted over; the dark green cover reflected myriad sparkles of moonlight, the streetlamps below outlined the twisting boulevards with soft halos. In the distance the occasional clatter of heels on the sidewalk could be heard, and the faint roar of an automobile, accelerating, taking advantage of the lack of traffic at that hour of the morning. He leaned on the railing, his large hands relaxed, looking out into the beauty of the night, his mind calmly and carefully considering the problem he faced.

To begin with, did he really want to do anything about the matter after all these years? He was comfortable, his life was interesting and enjoyable, and he had long since trained himself not to expand his energies on unprofitable pastimes. Was not his first reaction to the news that Gruber was in Lisbon, available after all these years, only an automatic response, triggered to a large extent by a guilt he felt at the death of his parents and sister, and the loss of Jadzia? Was it not, in truth, what he felt he should sense, rather than the feeling he actually did experience?

He was not surprised to find himself smiling a bit grimly at the thought. No, my friend, he said softly to himself; you will not escape that easily! No scientific gimmickry, no pseudopsychological loopholes for you! Nor could you find release from your private demons in merely denouncing Gruber to the authorities. To begin with, considering his many connections among the officials in Lisbon, it is doubtful that he would remain uninformed long enough to be available for extradition—and at least now I know where he is. And even if, by some miracle, he was actually detained and returned to Germany for trial, what sentence would he get? Five years? Out in three with good behavior? Twelve months each for my father, my mother, and my sister? That certainly isn’t the answer!

And as for the argument that your personal feelings for Jadzia might warp your judgment or cause you to lose objectivity; well, that would be a poor compensation to show for fifteen years’ experience. On the other hand, don’t make the mistake of thinking those personal feelings will have no effect. Merely recognize the facts and include them in your calculations; be more cautious in your estimates and more careful in your planning.

He stared out into the darkness. Grayish wisps of fog still eddied in faint patches over the Bois; the deserted pavement below glistened damply. He nodded, satisfied. Step One had been accomplished; the acceptance of the job. That was often the most difficult of all decisions to be made; tonight it had been quite easy. Had it been too easy? Dangerously easy? He shook his head in impatience. Step One was finished; forget it and move on to Step Two.

He tried to picture Gruber in Lisbon, tried to visualize how he had arrived, when he had arrived. Almost without volition a glimmer of an idea formed in his mind. Somewhere he had seen a newspaper article that might be useful … He studied the idea and began to expand upon it, but not—as he usually did at such moments—with a grin of appreciation for his own brilliance. Instead a frown crossed his face; his hand went up automatically to tug at his earlobe. For several minutes he allowed his imagination scope and then reined it in, shaking his head. Until more facts were available, it was impossible to formulate a complete and foolproof scheme; at the proper moment a suitable plan would come. Step Two, therefore, should content itself with getting him to Lisbon on a logical basis, and nothing more.

There were, of course, several ways this could be accomplished, but the newspaper article seemed the best approach. If his surmise was correct, it could very well work. He went back to that portion of the plan and restudied it, rejecting this point, adding that, consolidating, checking, unconscious of time. It was not until he was completely satisfied with each step that he straightened up, alert and confident as always once an operation was under way, and walked quickly back into the living room.

The lamp above the desk was flicked on; under the cone of light the black plastic of the telephone gleamed invitingly. He winked at it reassuringly, seated himself comfortably in the swivel chair, and raised the receiver, dialing the operator.

“Hello? I should like to place an international long-distance call, please. To Lisbon … What? Lisbon, in Portugal, of course. What? There are others? That many, eh? All in America …? Amazing.… No, this is to Portugal.…”

He shrugged lightly. The operator’s voice sounded acerbic, probably at being troubled at that early hour. This one is definitely married, he thought with a grin; only long practice at putting a husband in his place could develop that accusatory tone.

“Yes, operator. Moncada 917. That’s right. How long? I see.… Could you call me back?” He nodded, gave his number politely to the instrument, and smiled as he heard it correctly repeated. “Thank you.…”

He hung up and leaned back, tenting his fingers. Now, where had he seen that newspaper article? It had been here at home, within the past few days. If it wasn’t in the pile in the kitchen, waiting for the maid to eventually get rid of them, he would simply have to go to the newspaper office, dig it out, and get a copy. As he recalled, the article had been sufficiently indecisive to serve the purpose perfectly. He could, of course, always go to one of those silly shops in Pigalle that catered to tourists, and have something fictitious printed in one of those comic newspapers, but it would be taking a chance. And on this job, no chances would be taken that could possibly be avoided.

He came to his feet, walked through the dining room to the small kitchen, and turned on the light. As he had suspected, the maid had postponed the disposal of the papers—probably, he thought with a smile, in the vague hope that they would somehow disappear by themselves. Bless all lazy maids, he said to himself, and began leafing through the stack.

He found the article almost immediately, carefully ripped out the page containing it, and returned to his desk. He folded the sheet to bring the column he wanted on top, placed it beneath the lamp, reseated himself, and read it once again. This time his attention was far greater than when he had first noted it. He shrugged; it was not exactly what he might have wished, but still, it should do very well. Or at least, well enough. He started to lean back again when the telephone suddenly rang. He bent forward at once, picking it up.

“Hello?”

“Ready with your call to Lisbon.…”

A strange voice replaced that of the operator. “Yes? Hello?”

Kek frowned; the voice was not that of André. “Is this Moncada 917?”

“Yes. Kek? This is Michel Morell.” Kek smiled; after two words he had recognized that controlled tone. The dry, pedantic voice continued. “André is here. I’ll call him in a minute, but I wanted to speak with you first. André told me about his conversation with you, and I came over here to wait for your call.”

Kek grinned. “Michel! How have you been? André told me about you and your job there. In the police, eh? Very good. As for André, you don’t have to call him; as a matter of fact, I was calling to get your telephone number. I wanted to talk to you.”

Michel’s voice became almost cold, highly official. “And I wanted to talk to you. Forget the entire matter, Kek. Put it out of your mind. As soon as I had told André, I was instantly sorry. It was a bad mistake on my part.”

“A mistake?”

“You know what I mean.” Michel paused a moment and then continued, his tone less official now, friendlier. “Kek, I know all about you. I suppose every police officer on the continent does. You’ve done pretty well. I don’t pretend to know all the details of how you’ve done it, but you have. And you’ve come out of it with just about everything you want—certainly everything you need. So why jeopardize it all for the momentary, childish satisfaction of trying to get even? Especially about something that happened so long ago?”

Huuygens smiled at the telephone gently. “What makes you think I intend to jeopardize anything?”

“Because I know you. Because——”

“Then, if you know me so well, why do you try to talk me out of something you’re sure my mind is made up about? By your own theory, you wouldn’t succeed.”

“Kek, Kek! Don’t be a fool!” Michel sounded impatient. “To begin with, do you honestly imagine the man is just sitting there with his eyes closed and his fingers in his ears? Or that you’re the only enemy he’s ever made? The only one in fifteen years who has wanted him dead? But he’s alive, I tell you! And not by accident!” Michel took a deep breath. “Secondly, I should hate to be on the other side from any of our old group. But I take my job seriously, Kek. I’d be lying to you if I allowed you to get any other idea. And third.…”

“Yes? What else?”

Michel’s voice dropped in pitch, becoming somber. “Third, my friend, remember this: revenge is an empty thing. Here in Portugal we say: ‘Revenge is a cold supper from an empty plate.…’”

Huuygens frowned at the telephone. “That’s a rather strange proverb, coming from you.”

“There’s nothing strange about it,” Morell said quietly. “It couldn’t come from a more authentic source. Take my friendliest advice, Kek, forget the entire matter.”

Huuygens’s voice was equally quiet, and equally firm. “I can’t.”

There was a brief pause; when Morell spoke again he sounded genuinely sad. “If you can’t, you can’t. But I’m very sorry to hear it. I think you’re making a mistake.”

“It won’t be my first.”

“But possibly your last. Well, I’ve warned you. Now—what did you want to talk to me about?”

Despite himself, Kek grinned. “I don’t believe it matters much, now. I was going to ask a favor of you.”

“In connection with this affair? I’m sorry. Ask me a favor that will keep you out of Portugal, and I’ll be more than happy to accommodate you. But …”

There was the sound of a muffled explosion of a deep voice in the background, and a moment later André was on the line.

“Kek? This is André.” The giant made no attempt to hide either his impatience or his disgust. “I heard enough of that idiotic conversation to get a fair idea of what you were discussing. And the direction it was taking. As I understand it, you plan on a visit to our fair country, and Michel does not approve. Is that it?”

Huuygens smiled ruefully. “That’s putting it mildly, but accurately.”

“And I also gather that you wanted some favor of Michel. What is it?”

“Why?” Huuygens shrugged. His mind was already discarding his initial plan, searching out alternate routes to his goal. “Michel refuses to have anything to do with it. Or with me. And I can’t exactly force him.”

“Chansons! What stupidity! On both your parts!” The big man snorted. “He’ll do it for you, or he’ll do it for me. Either way, it’ll be done. Just tell me what you want.”

Kek grinned at the other’s tone of derring-do; it brought to mind the many times that same attitude had saved them in the grim days of the Resistance. His grin slowly faded as he stared into the vague darkness beyond the perimeter of light cast by the lamp. Possibly Michel was right in warning him off; certainly he had done it in all sincerity. But that discussion was pointless; Step One was finished—done. The decision had been made. The question now was whether it was smart to involve Michel at all, especially with his attitude. Still, there was no doubt that Morell was the man to handle it, and if André said it would be done, it doubtless would be done. An interesting decision.…

“Kek?”

“I’m still here. I’m thinking.”

“There’s a time for thinking, and a time for talking. Just tell me what you wanted.”

For several additional seconds Huuygens stared at the receiver, weighing, considering. At last he sighed, conceding. “All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell you what I had in mind. Then you can tell me if it’s possible, knowing Michel.”

He closed his eyes, better to review the various steps of the scheme, and then began speaking, slowly, evenly, his mind ticking off each detail one by one as he voiced them, like an auditor going down an inventory, checking off items. At the other end of the line André listened carefully, marking each word. When Huuygens finally finished speaking, the big man chuckled softly in appreciation.

“I begin to see why I’m still in the lower brackets of this racket. It’s a lovely scheme. There’s no absolute guarantee, of course, but if it’s handled right, it should work. And Michel—he’s sitting here making faces at me, but don’t worry—he’s the one who can handle it right. He’s got just the right degree of honesty and larceny nicely mixed to do it. It’s the basis of police work, I suppose.” There was a brief pause. “What paper did you say had the article?”

“France-Soir,” Huuygens said, and opened his eyes, suddenly realizing that André was quite serious, that Michel would cooperate. “It was in last Friday’s edition. I’d mail you a copy, but you should be able to pick one up there. It would be much better. The less correspondence between us, the better.”

“France-Soir? There’s no need. Michel gets it in the mail. It doesn’t always get here regularly, but if he doesn’t have last Friday’s copy yet, it ought to be arriving soon. Or we can even get one at the library. All right, then; I’ve got the picture.” The chuckle was suddenly repeated. “Wonderful! You’ll be hearing from us soon. Or, anyway, from me.”

“I’ll be waiting to hear from anyone,” Huuygens said quietly. “And say goodby to Michel for me.”

“I’ll do it. Take care.”

There was a soft click as the telephone was disconnected. Huuygens placed the receiver back in its cradle and leaned back, tenting his fingers, pressing them together. André seemed sure that Michel would cooperate, and maybe he would. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. He shrugged. The worst that could happen was that he would receive another telephone call, and would have to make a change in plans. It wouldn’t be the first time, but still, time would be wasted, which would be a pity.

He closed his eyes again, reviewing his long conversation with Lisbon, word for word. What had Michel said, early in their talk? Revenge is a cold supper from an empty plate.…

He grinned sardonically and opened his eyes, staring across the silent room with an almost savage glint in his gray eyes. Maybe we can warm it up a bit, he thought. Maybe we can add a little salt and pepper to make it more palatable. Because, warm or cold, we’re going to sit down to that meal.…