9

The cabdriver who drove Kek from the Ouro Vermelho to the house in the Bairro da Boa Vista was a far cry from Archimedes, and, Kek thought with a wry smile, “cry” was certainly the proper word for it. He leaned back against the worn cushions, trying to deafen himself to a long list of complaints, and finally paid off the cab with a feeling of relief. It was not until he was standing alone before the wrought-iron gate that he appreciated how much the garrulous driver had helped him to relax during the trip.

As he located and pulled the bell cord on the post, his gray eyes automatically studied the house and its surroundings, noting the old but well-kept car drawn to one side of the driveway, and the high wall with its barbed wire. He was not surprised to find himself cool and completely dispassionate; it was the development of that ability that accounted for his success.

A man dressed in the garb of a servant was descending the steps. He came to the gate, accepted Kek’s name politely enough, unlocked the gate, and then locked it again once his visitor had entered. There seemed to be an ominous ring to the metal as it latched; a certain finality, a statement from the gate that beyond that point mistakes would not be tolerated. He took a deep breath and followed the stocky servant into the house, waiting once more as the outer door was closed and locked. In the dimness of the hall he stared about, his senses straining for some hint of Jadzia’s presence; other than the faint odor of some forgotten perfume, he could not note it.

There was the sound of a throat being cleared behind him; he turned and found himself facing a revolver held like a rock in the servant’s hand. For an instant a chill swept through his rigid composure. Betrayal? But there was nothing in the calm mien of the servant to indicate anything but duty being performed in a routine manner. The chill passed as quickly as it had come. Huuygens’s jaw tightened; his voice indicated his disapproval.

“And just what is that thing supposed to be for?”

Hans was not in the least perturbed either by the question or the tone of growing anger; nor did the revolver waver for an instant. “You will pardon me,” he said in very guttural and Teutonic-sounding French, “but I’m afraid I must ask you to submit to a search.”

“A search?” The mercurial eyebrows rose in honest surprise. “What on earth for?”

“For weapons.” The servant’s voice was even, reciting a litany, obviously not for the first time. They must have some interesting gatherings here, Kek thought. Check your guns at the door. “Senhor Echavarria has many valuable things in the house. I have been told who you are, and also that you are expected, but still.…” Hans made no attempt to sound apologetic, or even greatly interested. “It is the rule.”

Kek shrugged and raised his arms; his attitude seemed to say that he never carried weapons, and any fool with half an eye should be able to recognize the fact. The servant studied the athletic figure a moment, and then changed the routine.

“If you would just lean against the wall, please. With your feet back just a bit. Lean with both hands, please.…”

It must take a long time to get guests to the table if they go through this all the time, Kek thought, but nonetheless followed his instructions. In his lifetime he had been subjected to greater inconveniences than mere searches, and he was far from unfamiliar with those. A weird thought crossed his mind: if Jadzia were to enter at that moment, would she find the scene comical? Or merely normal, like the delivery of the milk?

Hans completed his inspection and stepped back, pocketing the revolver in the same movement. Huuygens shrugged his jacket back into place, tugged his shirt-sleeves to a more comfortable position, and studied the stocky servant a bit sardonically.

“If you are quite finished.…”

“Sorry, sir.” Hans turned smartly and led the way to the library, quite as if there had been no interlude in the hallway at all. He announced Huuygens to the man within and then withdrew, the perfect servant, closing the door firmly behind him. Which makes three closed doors, two of them locked, Kek thought, and smiled grimly to himself. Well, we never did figure on getting out of here à la Douglas Fairbanks, anyway; we always intended to use brains rather than brawn. Let’s not forget it.

The man coming toward him was dressed in a velvet smoking jacket and had his hand outstretched, almost as if it were a sword being held up to run him through. Kek tried to view him dispassionately, and found it quite easy. He’s only a client, he said to himself. He’s not Gruber at all. Gruber doesn’t exist. Net yet.…

“My dear M’sieu Huuygens,” the thin man said in a pleased tone of voice. “I am most happy to meet you. Most happy indeed!” Huuygens found his hand being pumped enthusiastically, and then released; the hand transferred itself to his elbow, guiding him cordially to a wide divan against one wall. “Please be seated. Would you like a drink?”

How the man ever expects anyone to believe the ridiculous fiction of his being Spanish, with that guttural accent, heaven alone knows, Huuygens thought, and smiled faintly. At least the monster is polite; he offered me a drink, and he was kind enough not to refer to his servant’s habit of holding guns on people.

“Yes, I would. Thank you,” he said, and sank down on the comfortable cushions.

“Whiskey or cognac?”

“Cognac, please,” Huuygens said cordially, and watched the tall, thin man march to a cabinet in one corner, open it, and pour two measured doses into glasses. The care with which the amounts were calculated indicated quite clearly to the seated man that Gruber wished to be certain his hospitality was sufficiently generous, without taking any chance that heads would not be clear once their discussion began. Teutonic thoroughness, Kek thought, and studied the figure of the man he had hated so many years. No, now that he’s actually before me, he doesn’t disturb me at all. Possibly because he has ceased to be a person. Now he’s just a symbol, a thing to be punished.

Gruber returned, handed him his glass, and sank down in a chair to one side. He raised his glass. “Salud.”

“Salud.”

They sipped, and then Gruber leaned back, his green eyes bright as he studied the calm figure before him. “You have quite a reputation, M’sieu Huuygens.”

Huuygens acknowledged the implied compliment with a polite tip of his head. “Thank you.”

“And yet you seem younger than I would have thought.”

Huuygens shrugged lightly. “Youth, m’sieu, is a relative thing.” Whatever that means, he thought to himself, and grinned inwardly. An idiotic statement, to be sure, but no more idiotic than his. He drank a bit of his cognac and waited.

“Yes,” Gruber said absently, and set aside his glass, leaning forward. “M’sieu Huuygens, I have checked on you thoroughly—or, to be perfectly honest—as thoroughly as I could. I don’t want to waste any more of your time than is necessary, I’m sure you are a busy man. Still.…” He hesitated.

“Yes?”

The green eyes came up. “Well, I’m just not sure that you are the man I need.” He paused a moment and then went on. “May I ask you a question that you may think impertinent?”

Huuygens waved a hand. “My feelings, m’sieu, are rather calloused.”

“Good. I mean—” Gruber let it pass in favor of more important things “—M’sieu Huuygens, what is the largest thing you have been able to bring through customs undetected?” He hurried on, as if anxious not to be misunderstood. “I’m not attempting to query you on your methods, but I’m sure it is fairly easy to bring in—in—well, small things. Concealed. I’ve read.…”

Huuygens shook his head sadly. “M’sieu. If you wish something taken from Lisbon concealed on my person, I suggest we are wasting time. And that my trip has been an unfortunate error. Each time I pass through a customs gate, they search me completely. Completely!” He set aside his glass and came to his feet with dignity. “It would be much simpler for you to carry the item yourself. I thought——”

Gruber stared up at him and shook his head. “M’sieu Huuygens, please be seated.”

“I thought—” Huuygens continued, as if he had not been interrupted, “—that you wished something substantial handled.”

“But I do!” Gruber contained himself with an effort. “Which is precisely why I asked you——”

“What the largest thing was that I ever brought through customs?” Huuygens smiled faintly in remembrance, studied his client’s face a moment, and then slowly reseated himself, picking up his glass of cognac. “Actually—although I trust m’sieu not to mention it widely—it was an elephant.”

“An elephant!” From the tightening of the lips and the cold look that appeared in Gruber’s eyes, it was evident he thought he was being made a fool of. “M’sieu, I am being serious!”

“And so am I,” Huuygens said equably, and smiled gently. “You see, M’sieu Echavarria, there are many ways to bring things through customs. One is, as you suggested, to hide it on one’s person.” His tone clearly indicated that he did not think much of this method. “Another, of course, is through the use of misdirection of one type or another. For example, to hide one object in a larger object, and in this way to.…”

Gruber stared at him. “But what’s larger than an elephant?”

“A circus,” Huuygens said simply, and drained his glass. He placed it on the table next to him with an air of finality, tenting his fingers, watching his host.

Gruber seemed to be studying the answer, and then he smiled. He raised his glass, tossed off his drink, and also put his glass aside.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe we can do business.” He paused, as if to formulate his thoughts in words that would be least incriminating, took a deep breath, and then plunged directly to the heart of the matter. “Some years ago, m’sieu, I—well, I was fortunate enough to inherit certain paintings which, until now, I have been able to keep simply for my own pleasure.” He spread his hands in a gesture calculated to inspire sympathy and smiled sadly. “Now, unfortunately, conditions have changed, and I find myself forced to sell them.…”

For a moment Huuygens experienced a sudden sense of unreality. The statement had been so exactly the one he had projected when he first thought of how to be invited to Lisbon, that he had the momentary feeling of living the moment a second time. He thrust the thought aside, forcing his mind to concentrate on Gruber’s words.

“Ah?”

“Yes. I—” Gruber paused, studied his guest’s face, and found only a look of polite interest “—yes. However, m’sieu, my problem is a bit complicated. To begin with, in Portugal at present, it is most difficult to find a proper customer. It’s a small country, and money is rather tight. However, in South America I have certain old friends who, I am convinced, could lead me to dealers or even wealthy collectors who would be willing to pay a decent price. My particular problem.…” His voice trailed off; he watched Huuygens encouragingly.

Huuygens nodded. “Your particular problem,” he said evenly, “is to get these paintings into South America without being disturbed by customs.” His eyes were steady on Gruber’s face. “And my specialty, of course, is arranging just such accommodations. May I ask what country in South America you were considering?”

For a moment the tall, thin man hesitated; then he shrugged. It was obvious that the destination had to be revealed sooner or later. He took a deep breath. “Brazil.”

Huuygens nodded, as if pleased. “Good.”

“Why good?”

“Because Brazil is blessed with at least six ports of call other than the major ones of Rio and Santos.” His tone clearly indicated that he was revealing no secrets. “For anything as bulky as paintings, I would not care to use planes. They can fall down, or—even worse—arrive and be searched. Ships are much better, especially in a small port.” His voice was almost pedantic. “Venezuela is much more limited in ports, as are Uruguay and even Argentina.…” He paused and looked at his host with curiosity a moment before continuing.

“However, Brazil is also blessed—if that is the proper word—with a customs service that is often venal. Bribable. So why …?” He spread his hands.

Gruber understood. “So why have I gone to the trouble of contacting M’sieu Huuygens?”

“Exactly.”

The thin German studied the strong face before him. This Huuygens was no fool, that was evident. But there was no reason why he should be taken into confidence on all things, or why he should be told that the bribing of customs officials had led to two cases of blackmail that he knew of, and to one case of arrest and extradition. And while he would have to be told that he, Gruber, expected to leave the country also, there was no reason for him to know the departure was one he intended to accomplish without the knowledge of his friends in the police or the government. Too many of those friends might resent the sudden loss of their extra income, might even get nasty about it.

“Because,” Gruber said smoothly, “I prefer it that way. In any event, I’m prepared to pay to have it done that way. Say I’m opposed to bribery on principal.…” He smiled coldly. “The question is, are you interested in helping me solve my problem?”

Huuygens shrugged delicately. “M’sieu, for a price, one is always interested.”

“Ah! And the price would be?”

Kek looked at him evenly. “I would have to see the paintings first.”

Gruber shook his head. “I’m afraid that would not be possible, m’sieu. Once we have a deal, fine. Until then, no.”

Huuygens nodded slowly, as if recognizing the merit of the statement. His eyes came up. “In that case, m’sieu, my price will be ten thousand dollars.”

Gruber sat more erect. “Ten thousand——”

“Dollars, m’sieu. Not escudos, nor francs. United States dollars. Payable one half in advance, and the balance when the goods are delivered at destination.”

Gruber shook his head in grudging admiration. “You don’t work cheaply, do you?” He came to his feet, striding up and down the dim room, his hands clasped behind his back. He came back and stared down at the man on the divan. “Ten thousand when the paintings have been sold,” he said, and then conceded a point. “If you insist, one thousand as an advance now, and the balance when the paintings have been sold.”

Huuygens shook his head, but inside he was grinning almost ferociously. My dear Gruber, he said to himself, don’t be so worried. We’ll come to terms, but allow me to bargain first. It’s what you obviously expect. You would undoubtedly become suspicious if I accepted your ridiculous offer.

“M’sieu Echavarria, I know nothing of the value of your paintings, or—if you will pardon me—whether you can find a market for them once they are inside Brazil.” He shrugged. “You can scarcely expect me to take a chance that I might not be paid.”

“On the other hand,” Gruber pointed out, “I know nothing of your ability even to get the paintings out of Portugal.” He imitated Kek’s shrug exactly. “You can hardly hope for an advance that large without my seeing any evidence that you can succeed.”

Huuygens appeared to be giving some thought to the possible justice of Gruber’s point of view. His strong fingers drummed on the arms of the divan as he considered the problem, frowning. At last he looked up.

“Well, then, m’sieu, suppose we overlook the advance. Five thousand dollars when the paintings are safely out of Portugal, and the balance when they are safely inside Brazil.” He raised a finger. “But not dependent on their sale, merely their delivery.”

For several seconds Gruber considered him; there was something in the other’s attitude that seemed to say that bargaining was over. He nodded suddenly, and thrust out his hand.

“Fair enough.” One brief up-and-down motion and Gruber smiled. It was rather a malicious smile. “One more thing, M’sieu Huuygens. My wife was rather worried about trusting you, and I told her I thought I knew how to guarantee it, at least in our case.” His smile remained rigid. “In making your plans, there is one further fact you must take into account. I wish the details arranged in such a manner that at no time are the paintings physically out of my sight. That is an essential condition.”

Huuygens stared at him; the mercurial eyebrows went up. “I beg your pardon?”

“No excuses, please.” Gruber’s voice had suddenly become hard. “That is an absolute essential. It isn’t that I distrust you, or the means you plan to employ, but there is far too much at stake here for me to take the slightest chance.”

“You plan, then, on traveling on the same ship?”

“Yes.”

Huuygens frowned. “As a general rule, my efforts are expended in getting things through customs. Not people.” His frown changed into a sudden smile as a thought struck him. “Other than myself, of course.”

Gruber was not amused. “Well?”

“Do you have your passport? Because I’m afraid I’m not a forger.”

“I have my passport.”

“And a valid visa for Brazil?”

Gruber nodded. “Yes. We both have.”

“Both? Ah, yes—your wife. She travels with you, then?”

“Yes. If we come to an agreement, you will have an opportunity to meet her.”

But not in your presence, Huuygens thought. Because the shock of that meeting for Jadzia could lead to anything from denouncement on the spot to inadvertent betrayal. Well, where and when he would meet Jadzia was something that would have to be worked out. He looked up.

“And Hans? Your servant?”

“No. He stays here.” Gruber was becoming a trifle impatient. “Well, m’sieu?”

Huuygens refused to be rushed. “You realize that you’re making the problem much more complicated?”

The thin man smiled sardonically. “But not impossible, I’m sure. Not for the famous M’sieu Huuygens. And certainly not for the extremely large fee he is demanding.”

“Plus expenses,” Huuygens added, almost idly.

“Expenses?”

“I hadn’t planned on an ocean trip.” Kek smiled apologetically. “As you said, m’sieu, it isn’t a question of mistrust, but only one of sound business practice. The time involved is an unfortunate loss, but.…” He shrugged lightly. “The rest will do me good. And I haven’t been to Brazil for years.”

Gruber studied him. “We’re agreed, then?”

“We’re agreed.”

“Good.” The thin man smiled, pleased. “I was certain we would make an arrangement. And now that that’s settled, if you would care to see the—ah, the merchandise?”

Huuygens rose to his feet with that hesitancy of one waiting to be shown something. Gruber walked across the room with his military strut and drew aside the tapestry that hung on the opposite wall; its absence revealed a small door set in the side of the room. A combination of two keys was required to open the two locks; the thin man flicked on a light and stepped aside, allowing Kek to enter. The gray eyes surveyed the room carefully; it had apparently been a serving pantry of some sort when Gruber had first obtained the house, but now it was a vault. The walls had been lined with steel, as well as the ceiling, and Huuygens was sure that under the soft carpet on which he was standing the floor had been similarly equipped. He glanced up. One small vent located at the juncture of a wall and the ceiling provided fresh air from some outside source; from the rising whine of a concealed motor, he suspected the fan was activated when the door was opened.

“Well?” Gruber was looking about in evident pride.

Kek stepped forward. Hung on every available square inch of wall space were framed pictures. There was a small wooden table set in the center of the room, but there was still ample space to study the collection properly.

Gruber chuckled in self-congratulation.

“You should feel honored. You’re the first person ever to see this room—other than my wife, of course. Hans and I did all the work ourselves.”

Huuygens nodded politely, stepped to the first painting, and then felt a tingle at the base of his scalp. Could it be, despite the cordiality of their entente, that Gruber had only been playing with him? He moved to the second, and then to the third, his nerves becoming more tense with each picture. Certainly it was possible; because the paintings he was studying were a series of poor copies produced by obviously second-rate students. His eyes narrowed slightly. Could the German honestly believe he had a fortune in his hands, if only these pictures could be sold, or was he standing behind him now, waiting with that cruel smile of his for Huuygens to betray himself?

He turned slowly, every nerve on edge, and knew at once that it had been no trap. The tall, thin man was staring at the mounted pictures with such pride, such rapture, such avarice, that Huuygens felt his alarm disappear, to be replaced with a stab of contempt. You poor animal! he thought. Is this what you have guarded all these years? Is this trash the legacy you brought from your career of murdering and torturing? Is this the future you have been dreaming of? Living on the proceeds of what these miserable daubs will bring?

A wild desire to chortle almost overwhelmed him; he forced it down, willing himself to composure, walking slowly from picture to picture, pretending to study them, to admire them. A second thought came without volition: poor Jadzia! She should have spent more time listening to the discussions on art between Stefan and himself and less in worrying about her most recent gown! He completed his tour of the small room to find Gruber watching him closely.

“Well? What do you think?”

Huuygens shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m no art expert. Their value——”

“I don’t mean that,” Gruber said impatiently. “I realize that art isn’t your field. I mean, now that you’ve seen what I want brought into Brazil, can you handle it?”

“Are these all?”

“Yes. No!” Gruber turned to the table in the center of the room. He slid open a drawer, reached within, and brought out a small envelope. “There are also these.”

He opened the envelope and tossed the contents out onto the table top. For a moment the desire to laugh came back to Huuygens; from his position they appeared at first like an assemblage of postcards. In addition to the garbage on the wall, he thought, what else do you want smuggled into Brazil? French postcards? He came forward, bent over the desk, and then froze in almost uncontrollable shock. Despite his iron control he felt a tremor of excitement shoot through him, felt his mouth grow tight with tension.

What he was observing was a series of small rectangles of vellum, bright with color. For the first time since he had left Poland, he was looking at the famous Hochmann collection of miniatures! It was not possible; they had been destroyed! He closed his eyes a moment and then opened them avidly, staring down. The most famous, the most valuable collection of miniature paintings in the world, here! Locked in a drawer in a small room that housed the world’s worst copies! He clenched his jaw, tried to breathe deeply without being noticeable, but his eyes were still slightly dazed as he looked around. Gruber, fortunately, was paying him no attention. Instead, he was smiling down at the tiny rectangles much as one will smile at children playing in the park.

“Rather pretty, aren’t they?” He turned around. By this time Huuygens had managed an expression of polite interest. “I thought of taking them with me in my luggage, but since you’re handling the rest, you might as well include these.”

Kek tipped his head. “If you wish.”

“Good. Can you handle the—the affair?”

“I should think so. Yes.”

“Fine! And just how long do you think it will take to make your arrangements?”

Huuygens considered the question. “It’s rather difficult to say. I shall have to arrange a tourist’s visa to Brazil, of course.…” His eyes went to the pictures on the wall again; he stepped forward, measured the largest against the length of his outstretched arm, and then nodded as he mentally recorded the dimension. He turned, adjusting his cuff. “There are several ways it can be done, of course, our job is to find the best. And most foolproof.”

Gruber was watching him with interest. “And that will be?”

Huuygens smiled faintly. “The one that will best assure success,” he said dryly.

Gruber grinned; his teeth gleamed. He seemed to like the answer. “Good enough. And where are you staying?”

“At the Ouro Vermelho. It’s a hotel on a small park, in the Rua Sidónia Pais.”

“I know where it is.” Gruber nodded and led the way from the room. He flicked off the light, locked the room carefully, and then arranged the tapestry to cover the door. He walked Huuygens to the door of the library, holding him lightly by the arm. “A pleasure, M’sieu Huuygens. Hans will get you a taxi. I suggest we keep in touch by telephone from now on—you have the number.” He smiled knowingly. “The fewer visits you make here, the better.”

Huuygens nodded his agreement, and then paused. “Your telephone—is it tapped?”

“No. Or at least I don’t think so.” Gruber seemed to think about it. “No. I’m quite sure it isn’t.” He shrugged. “Still, I suggest that m’sieu be circumspect.”

Huuygens nodded; the thin hand emerged from the smoking-jacket sleeve, shook his with the same pump-handle motion, and then withdrew. He was not surprised to see Hans waiting politely and patiently beyond the threshold in the hallway.

“Your taxi will be here in a moment, m’sieu.”

“Thank you.” Obviously, this was no place in which to voice any hidden secrets; only a most efficient microphone system could assure such unusual rapport between master and servant. He turned to bid his host adieu, but the library door was already closing. For a moment his eyes went the length of the hall, searching for some hint that Jadzia also lived in the dim house, but the walls of the corridor retained their impersonal rigidity.

“M’sieu?” Hans still sounded polite, but slightly less patient.

“Coming, dear,” Kek said in English, smiled pleasantly at the puzzled look on Hans’s face, and followed him casually down the hall. Step Three? No, not quite. But, at least, Step Two-and-a-half.…