2

In those far-distant days of 1948 the public telephones in the Colonies Hotel were located at the foot of a long, straight flight of stairs leading from the main floor to the multipurpose basement of the ancient building. Kek Huuygens, coming through the revolving doors into the ornate lobby, paused at the top step of the descending flight, considering again the plan that had begun to form in his mind during his meeting with the fat man. Proper scheduling, he decided after a moment’s thought, would indicate that he should consult the concierge before making any telephone calls, either from his room or from the public instruments below. He therefore turned and moved past the bar, past the reception desk, past the cloak room, until he located the small cubbyhole housing the concierge. He leaned over the tiny counter; an even tinier man instantly popped to his feet.

“M’sieu?”

“The planes to Madrid,” Kek said pleasantly. “The schedule for those before morning, if any exist.”

“Ah!” The little man behind the counter flew at a stack of folders piled alpenwise on his cluttered desk, happy to be of assistance to this distinguished-looking guest. He managed to withdraw a leaflet from the mountain without disturbing its delicate balance and causing an avalanche, opened it with a flourish, began to run a manicured fingernail down a column, and then blushed furiously.

“M’sieu! Pardon!”

He searched himself frantically for his pince-nez, eventually located them dangling from a cord about his neck, and clamped them in place, returning to his task.

“Ah! Madrid … Yes, M’sieu, there is. A midnight flight leaving Melsbroek at exactly twelve o’clock. A Dakota. It stops only at Reims, Lyons, Marseilles, Barcelona, and then Barajas in Madrid.” He beamed. “A mere six hours.”

“That’s the only one? There are no others?”

The concierge drew himself to his full height of five feet, fully accepting his responsibility for this failure on the part of Sabena, the national airline, looking properly prepared to suffer the consequences.

“No, M’sieu. There are no others.”

Huuygens drew a cigarette from his pocket and lit it abstractly, tossing the match toward a sandbox nearby, considering his problem. The fast train from Brussels to Paris and the Gibraltar Express would make the trip in only five or six hours more than the flight—and in far greater comfort—but the fast train to Paris did not leave Brussels until seven thirty in the morning, and the Gibraltar Express did not leave the Gare Montparnasse for the south until quite late in the afternoon. Add to this the certainty of a delay at the border customs, and the schedule insisted on by Thwaite would be missed by a good twelve hours. He drew on his cigarette deeply, exhaling the smoke toward the floor at which he was staring, thinking. The plane seemed to be the only answer, but it, too, had disadvantages. He might well be recognized by any one of the passengers when he would prefer not to be.

It was a problem. But then a solution came to him, as solutions usually did. He looked up.

“They have an air-taxi service at the airport?”

“Oh, yes! The finest!” The concierge sounded as if he owned stock in it. A more likely answer, Kek thought, was that he received a goodly kickback on any fares he was clever enough to entice into the frightening things. “They fly only the best! American planes! Beechcrafts!” His pronunciation would have had him barred from American radio.

“And the time to Madrid? And the cost?”

This latter was added because it was the natural question and the concierge would think it odd if it were omitted. The cost itself was unimportant; it would be part of Thwaite’s worry when the painting was delivered. Kek hoped it would be ample.

“One moment …”

A telephone appeared in the tiny hand as if by magic; he gave a number to the operator and stared somberly past Kek across the lobby as he waited. From his cubbyhole his view was limited by four spreading rubber plants, set by the manager—he had long suspected—to keep him out of sight of the clientele.

“Hello? Hello?” He glared at the ceiling in an appeal for cooperation and shrugged his apologies for the delay to Kek. “Hello? Ah!” There followed a rapid-fire conversation in Flemish which Huuygens, even with his fluent Dutch, was unable to follow. The concierge cupped the receiver of the telephone, returning to French. “Four hours to Madrid by way of the Beechcraft, M’sieu, if the weather does not necessitate stopping to refuel. At a cost of eight thousand Belgian francs.”

“Good.” Huuygens extinguished the cigarette butt in the sandbox, making up his mind. The trip by private plane would undoubtedly be uncomfortable, but the thing would do much to enable his scheme to work, and “work” was the operative word in his business. “I should like to leave Melsbroek a bit after midnight, I think.”

In case of an emergency, he thought, I can always cancel the flight. Or, he added wryly to himself, in case of a serious emergency, I can always use it. And may have to. He became aware that the tiny concierge was addressing him.

“M’sieu has his passport in order?”

“M’sieu always has his passport in order,” Kek assured him.

“And visas?”

“And visas.”

“Ah! Then there can be no problem. It shall be arranged. Be assured!” the concierge said stoutly. “Your name, M’sieu? And your room?”

Kek gave the required information and turned away even as the little man was scribbling it down. He walked back through the lobby to the steps leading to the basement, trotted down them, and looked about. The public telephones were mounted in poorly soundproofed cubicles, waist-high, which backed on the paper-thin wall of the WC and which were subject to sudden, intermittent interruptions from gurgling pipes. Still, they were far more circumspect than the telephone in his room, which went through the hotel switchboard within earshot of the concierge.

He fumbled a coin free from his jacket pocket and dropped it into the slot, and then leaned on the small shelf before him, waiting. An operator finally came on the line to query him in a haughty tone, as if he were somehow breaking a house rule by using the instrument. He gave the number he wanted apologetically, and took what portion of his weight he could on his elbows, exhibiting patience.

As he waited he heard the sharp tap-tap of high heels descending the uncarpeted concrete steps and watched appreciatively as an exceptionally well-endowed young lady came down, gave him a brilliant if beery smile, and swayed through the curtained doorway. He tried to concentrate his thoughts on his lovely Lisa, choosing an earlier moment in the day than their scene at the taxi—actually, picturing her eating bonbons in bed for breakfast—and then was saved the embarrassing but fruitless pangs of conscience by the sound of a receiver being lifted at the other end. His thoughts instantly returned to the business at hand.

The voice he heard was being excessively cautious. “Hello?”

“Jacques?”

The moment’s hesitation nearly resulted in a denial, but then logic prevailed. “Yes. Who is this please?”

“Kek Huuygens.”

Relief instantly manifested itself in the other’s tone. He sounded as if he spent the better part of his life awaiting and receiving bad news, and was ill-prepared to accept any other. He also sounded as if life had trained him well for his attitude.

“Kek! It’s good to hear from you!” Despite his pleasure at hearing from Huuygens, he could not completely subdue the ever-present suspicion, nurtured from childhood on mountainous breasts of disappointment. “You’re not in Brussels?”

With Jacques, how typical the negative! Huuygens thought with pity. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I’m at the Colonies Hotel.”

The absence of fear returned to the other, but poised as always on the thin edge of startled flight.

“Then maybe we can have dinner together tonight, eh? Talk over the old days in the Maquis. I’ll reserve a table at the Rotisserie Ardennes.” It was a boast, bragging of freedom of fear, from the police—at least temporarily.

“I’m sorry, Jacques,” Kek said sincerely, “but I hope to be leaving Brussels tonight. Late, but tonight.”

“But you called me,” the other objected, as if this somehow constituted an obligation.

“Yes,” Huuygens said simply. “I have a job for you.”

“Oh …” Jacques sounded as if he didn’t know whether to be disappointed or not. He decided not to be. “Fine!”

“Yes,” Huuygens said, and then continued in what appeared to be a complete non sequitur. “A man returning from a day’s journey to Ghent; he could come only by train, no?”

At the other end of the line Jacques stared at the telephone in his hand, puzzled, and then attempted to answer honestly. Those who took money from Kek Huuygens for services rendered usually did. Besides, he owed Kek many favors, one of them major.

“Unless, of course,” Jacques said, qualifyingly, “he had a car.”

In those days of 1948 nobody except officials of caliber and millionaires had automobiles, and Jacques correctly assumed that Kek had taken that fact into account and rejected the probability himself. Still, the possibility needed to be voiced.

“How about the omnibus?”

To Jacques, this was even less of a possibility.

“He would require kidneys of tempered steel and a backbone of mountain ash,” he said fervently. He sounded as if he had once made the error of attempting the trip and doubted if anyone more sane would do so. “Three years since the end of the war, and the roads haven’t been touched. Except by the weather. Nor have the miserable omnibuses,” Jacques suddenly added, wishing to distribute the responsibility squarely.

“So?”

“So, yes,” Jacques said, suddenly remembering the subject of their conversation. “Whoever you speak of would normally come by train.”

“Good! We’ll accept the percentages.” Kek lowered his voice, making it more emphatic. “You will therefore meet a man who comes by train from Ghent.”

It never occurred to Jacques to question the order as such. It was another matter entirely that made him hesitate and wet his lips before replying. He hoped Kek understood his problem.

“Kek. You know for you I would do almost anything. During the war you saved my life.” He hesitated again and then plunged on. “But it’s only been a matter of eight months that I’ve been out of tôle and my wife is pregnant again, and—”

“There’s nothing like that involved,” Kek said flatly. “Word of honor.”

The automatic wariness abated. Huuygens’ word of honor meant just that. “I’ll meet him then. His name?”

“Alex DuPaul. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Possibly you’re lucky. Anyway, that’s the man.”

“And he comes by which train from Ghent?”

“I have no idea. I was told sometime this evening.”

Kek had expected some show of resentment at this broad latitude in train schedules, some possible argument, but instead, Jacques seemed rather pleased.

“There are only two,” he said authoritatively, and then added in explanation, “I come originally from Wetterson, which is also in East Flanders and on the same line, and I know the schedule backward. Not that there’s so much to know,” he admitted, and carried on. “There’s the six forty-five in the evening, and after that the one due at eight fifty, which gets in by ten at the latest. And then after that, only the one that collects the milk and the errant husbands, about four in the morning.”

He chuckled. He was obviously feeling more self-assured by the moment.

“Good,” Kek said. “We’ll assume he won’t come by the milk train.”

“And this man—what do I do with him?”

“In a moment. First, his description so you don’t lose him. He’s about five feet eleven inches tall, and approximately one hundred and ninety pounds, give or take a bit. His hair is bushy and light brown. He has a moustache that—”

“How many kilos is that many pounds?”

Kek shook his head in disgust with his own stupidity.

“Sorry. He’s about one meter sixty, and weighs between eighty-five and ninety kilos. He looks like a brigand; a long, straggly moustache that comes below his chin on both sides, normally light brown but heavily stained with tobacco. He smokes even more than I do, but cigars; small black cigars. He’ll undoubtedly be smoking one. He has thick hair, usually needs a cutting. He’s a man in his late thirties or early forties. He’s hard to miss. Green eyes, very sharp. Never wears a hat and seldom a tie or cravat; a scarf wound around his neck usually serves for him. A Bohemian type. But tough; very tough.”

“I have him.”

“He should be easy to spot leaving the train,” Huuygens went on. “Without the slightest doubt he’ll be the one walking the fastest on his way from the platform.”

“A very good point,” Jacques said approvingly, and returned to his original question. “And when I spot him, what do I do with him? Trail him? And call you?”

“You do not. Are you familiar with the train station?”

“From Ghent? It’s the Gare du Nord. I know it; I told you I was from Wetterson.”

Huuygens disregarded the touch of local pride if that’s what it was. “It has telephone booths?”

“Of course,” Jacques said, mystified, and then corrected the other’s statement. “Not booth booths, you know, but sort of little partitions. Made of pressed wood or something like that. There are two of them on a column near the news kiosk. Why?”

“Are there any others in the station?”

“Not public ones, no. Private ones in the offices, I imagine. Why?”

“Because,” Huuygens said slowly, pleased with the information, “before the first train arrives—the six forty-five—you will telephone the stationmaster and ask him to put an urgent message on the loudspeaker for the benefit of the incoming passengers from that train. The message will kindly request M’sieu Alex DuPaul to telephone a certain number immediately on arrival and will stress the urgency of his calling. Now, if DuPaul isn’t on the earlier train, you will simply repeat the entire performance for the later train. Is that clear?”

It was clear as far as the words went, but any meaning to the words remained quite unclear to Jacques. However, he made no attempt to question his instructions, merely to augment them to the best of his ability.

“And after he calls this number, then do I follow him?”

“You do not. For heaven’s sake!” Kek said shortly, “will you get this notion of trailing someone out of your head?”

“Sorry,” Jacques said contritely. “This number I am to tell him to call?”

“Invent one,” Huuygens said quietly. “Pick one out of the air. It is completely unimportant. Because”—he paused a moment—“On second thought, no.” He considered for several moments as a better plan replaced the one he had tentatively begun with. “Jacques—do you know a shop with a telephone, a shop that closes around six, let’s say?”

“Several,” Jacques said, more befuddled than ever. “Why?”

“Do you know any of the shopkeepers well enough to ask one of them to do you a favor—for a small pourboire, of course? Could you ask him to leave the telephone in his shop off the hook when he closes for the night? And then keep quiet about it afterward? I mean, if someone should ask, he will say that some late customer must have been careless and so forth and so forth?”

“I know one, yes,” Jacques said, and waited.

“Good. Then it is the number of this telephone you will give. He will be calling a busy number. And you will be in the booth next to him speaking to a dead telephone in a whisper that carries—and I mean carries! And you will be saying—”

“I’ll be whispering into a dead telephone?” Jacques frowned at the receiver in his hand. Who spoke to dead telephones?

“To a dead telephone,” Huuygens said impatiently. “Pay attention and stop interrupting, will you? The important thing is that this Alex DuPaul overhears what you are saying. Is that clear?”

“Ah!” Jacques said, understanding flooding him at long last. Why in the devil hadn’t Kek explained the thing properly in the first place? “This little one, you intend to spoon-feed him, is that it?”

“That is precisely it.” A possible snag in the plan occurred to Kek and he hurried to cover it. “Be sure and station yourself at one of the cubicles to see that it isn’t occupied when you need it. Call your girlfriend if you have to, just to hold it. And have plently of coins.”

“But why? If I’m only going to be talking to a dead phone?”

“Because you can have the hook up long enough to give our friend his message, but if you keep it up very long, the telephone company may well call the stationmaster and ask him to check. And I’d rather they didn’t.”

“Right,” Jacques said, not at all surprised that Kek had thought of something he hadn’t. A possible complication occurred to him. “But suppose the other cubicle is occupied when he comes up to phone? I can’t very well tie up the two of them.”

“Then all the better,” Kek said, and smiled. “He’ll have nothing else to do except listen to you.”

“True.” Jacques was beginning to relax. Even he couldn’t see any great danger in this assignment. “And what pap do we feed this little one, to sustain him and make him grow?”

“He’s not a little one, and you’d be smart to remember it,” Huuygens warned, and then gave Jacques the message to be passed on. At the other end of the line Jacques raised his thin shoulders in utter bafflement. It was certainly not the kind of message he would have left for anyone of DuPaul’s description. Still, Kek usually knew what he was about; besides, when one did a job for him one did not raise unnecessary questions. One got paid well and promptly, and if no risks were involved, one was so informed and could believe it. Therefore—

“That’s all you want said?”

“That’s it. And don’t embellish it.” Jacques sometimes had a tendency to try and help things along. “Say it word for word, and in that order.”

“Right.” Jacques paused. “And after he swallows the meal we prepare for him—what then? What for dessert?”

“For dessert you make sure you’re not it,” Huuygens said flatly. “This is no child. When you’re done, get out. And pray he takes the bait and not the fisherman.”

“That part doesn’t worry me,” Jacques said expansively. His conversation with Huuygens seemed to have done his nerves more good, possibly, than they merited. “In this town I can get away from anyone trying to follow me.”

“I know,” Kek said unkindly. “You come from Wetterson. Though it didn’t seem to help with the police the last time.”

Jacques hurriedly changed the subject. “There’s just one thing. What if he doesn’t come by train? By either, I mean?”

“Then you call me. As I said, I’m at the Colonies Hotel. If I’m not in my room—and it’s almost certain I won’t be—leave a message for me with the concierge.”

“Right. Anything else?”

“That’s it. Au revoir.”

“’voir.”

The two men hung up. Kek automatically checked the curtained doorway for some sign of the swaying girl, and then decided he couldn’t stay there all day waiting. The poor girl must have eaten something that disagreed with her, or even more likely, drunk it. Besides, with certainty she had an impatient boyfriend waiting for her in the bar. And he, Kek, had work to do. An unfortunate combination, but there was nothing for it!

He started up the long flight of stairs; the lift did not deign to serve as plebian—but necessary—an area as the basement. At the first floor he took a look at the fragile lift with its open grillwork housing, and its diaphanous cables, and once again took to the stairs. Here, at least, they were carpeted. At the second level he started along the narrow dun colored corridor in the direction of his room. Even as he approached he heard the muffled ringing of a telephone and knew with certainty that it was his own. He hurried the key into the lock and swung the door wide, striding to the instrument and bringing it to his ear.

“Yes?”

“M’sieu Huuygens? This is Marcel, the concierge. There is a package for you at my desk. Special delivery.” His voice dropped tragically, desolate to be the bearer of sad tidings. “But you must sign for it, M’sieu. The postman”—he sniffed, audibly putting that gentleman in his place—“claims he is forbidden to visit individual rooms.”

Kek grinned, wondering what event put that rule on the books.

“I’ll be right down.”

He looked a bit longingly at the bottle of Portuguese brandy—1920—on his dresser, shrugged at the vicissitudes of life that seemed to keep swaying women and excellent brandy forever out of his reach, and went back to the corridor. A few more times up and down these stairs, he thought, and I’ll be in shape for Joe Louis. I may even be in shape for Alex DuPaul, when and if I ever meet him again. Which I sincerely hope is no sooner than necessary.

At the recessed counter he pushed aside the frond of a rubber plant, discovered Marcel there with a uniformed employee of the postal department, and signed a slip handed to him. In return he received a long tube of cardboard, neatly labeled.

“A pity,” the small concierge was repeating, shaking his tiny head in reproach at the uniformed figure beating a hasty retreat. “All this trouble, all this bureaucracy, just for a calendar!”

“It’s the thought, not the gift,” Huuygens reminded him gently, and managed a straight face. He tucked the tube under his arm. “The plane is arranged?”

“But of course!” Kek might have accused him of forgetting his boutonniere. “Any time M’sieu wishes to leave after midnight. After one o’clock, of course”—he shrugged apologetically—“an extra charge, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Kek agreed. “It is only reasonable.” He hesitated, frowning in silence at the countertop, and then looked up. “And entertainment in Brussels? It’s only a bit before six now. If I have until midnight to kill …”

“Ah!” Marcel beamed. Here he was in his true element. “First, of course, a fine restaurant, of which Brussels has more than its share. Not”—he lowered his voice conspiratorially—“the hotel dining room, but rather, the Rotisserie Florentino in the Rue Pierre Charon. And then, a cabaret. The Maroc, I suggest. The girls there …” He kissed his fingers ecstatically, causing Huuygens to revise an earlier opinion. Marcel bent forward solicitously. “M’sieu wishes me to make the necessary arrangements?”

“If you would be so kind.” A bill exchanged hands. “And a car for the evening, to remain with me and eventually take me to the airport. To be here at seven or seven fifteen, I should think.”

It was very early for dinner in Brussels, but Marcel didn’t argue. “Of course, M’sieu Huuygens,” he said smoothly and turned away, tucking the bill into an invisible pocket with a motion any magician might well have envied.

“One last thing,” Kek said. “If there should be any messages?”

“Here at this desk, M’sieu, on your return. With a copy under your door, of course.”

“Fine,” Kek said, satisfied, and turned away to tackle the steps once again.

Back in his room he laid the cardboard tube almost reverently onto the bed, poured himself a stiff brandy and drank it, and returned to the tube. He carefully twisted the end-cap free and eased the rolled canvas out with the greatest of care. As he held the roll of stiffened cloth he felt excitement stir within him. The thought of actually having the Hals Innkeeper of Nijkerk in his hands, here in this nondescript room in this distant city of Brussels, with the police of half the world undoubtedly searching madly for it, thrilled him. And also, even the momentary possession of a work of such great art made his heart pound. Hals was one of his favorite painters. Kek had always preferred the Dutch school and had specialized in the study of it in his university days. It was the reason he had learned the language and had assumed a Dutch name when he was forced to flee his own country during the first days of the war. To actually have a Hals in one’s possession was almost unbelievable. He glanced at the bottle of brandy on the dresser a moment and then decided against another. Instead he unrolled the canvas, spreading the painting open on the bed.

The striking beauty was as he remembered; the rich full tones, the masterful use of light and shadow on the slightly clownish but also more than slightly dishonest face of the Innkeeper. It occurred to Huuygens for the first time that the relationship between artist and model for this particular painting could scarcely have been an amicable one. Even the brawny arms folded across the barrel chest beneath the sly face seemed to be promising punishment should one guilder of payment for the painful task of posing be withheld. For fully ten minutes Huuygens studied the picture, reveling in it, enjoying the inn sign which he could almost hear creaking in the rising wind, wondering if the maids serving the platters of cheese within were as pretty as their master without was not. Then with a reluctant sigh he returned to the present, to the dim room, coming to his feet and studying the picture not as work of art but as an object to be transported through a foreign customs shed without being caught.

He glanced at his wristwatch and realized he had to increase the tempo of his moves if the plan he had formed was to work. He walked over and pulled open the bottom drawer of the dresser, nodding at sight of its contents. The canvas was carefully rerolled and restored to its cardboard prison; the tube was then placed beneath the spare pillow and blanket that occupied the shallow space. He pulled a bit of fluff from the body of the blanket, wet it on his tongue, and twisted it into a tiny spill; this he carefully laid along the seam between the silken hem and the blanket proper, where it remained quite invisible. This accomplished, he carefully eased the drawer closed.

There was little chance that the night maid would bring out an extra blanket in the warm weather they were enjoying, but Huuygens could see no purpose in taking the slightest unnecessary chance. He walked to the door, placed the “Do Not Disturb” ticket on the outside knob, closed the door, and while security was still on his mind also closed the window behind the already-drawn drapes, and latched the rusty lock.

He poured himself another generous glass of 1920 and dropped to the bed, reviewing again his plan to get the painting past customs in Spain. It was easily the tenth time he had gone over the details in his mind, but he did not resent the time, nor did he allow himself to fall into the habit of crystallizing his thoughts merely because they ran along repetitious trails. Each time he considered the scheme he added alternate angles, checking them to either a conclusion or a dead end from which he could drop that portion of the plan without regret. This scheme was, as he well knew, a dangerous gamble. It was far bolder than the usual schemes that came to him, and far more daring than he would have preferred. Bravery, in the opinion of Kek Huuygens, was for those who were either foolish or who had no other choice; in his business it always seemed to be the brave who failed, and failure was the arch enemy. Still, he thought with a sigh, with so little time before delivery had to be made, he could see no alternative to the great chance he was taking.

He frowned and considered his next move, absent-mindedly pulling a cigarette from the inner pocket of his jacket, and lighting it. The next move, of course, was a vital call to Madrid, and he only hoped he had not left it until too late. If he could not reach Chico he could always arrange a substitute, but he much preferred one of the old gang he knew and trusted. He drained his glass, set his cigarette aside in an ashtray, and reached for the phone, clicking the lever until he had contacted the concierge. Marcel accepted the international call with his usual attitude of being willing to offer his life to serve, and gave Kek to understand that M’sieu would have ample time to dress for dinner while waiting for the wires to clear to Madrid. Kek was quite convinced of the truth of this; he snuffed out his cigarette and went in to take his bath.

He was dressed at last, facing himself in the mirror and knotting his tie, when the telephone rang. He pulled the knot into position, considered it critically, and nodded, satisfied at last. Even Lisa, he thought, could scarcely argue with a knot like that. The telephone rang again, petulant at the delay; he walked over and raised it.

“Your call to Madrid is coming through,” Marcel asserted stoutly. He made it sound as if he had not only personally erected the poles and strung the cable, but that he considered it a pleasure to have done so. “And your car is here.”

“Ah, fine.” Kek hesitated a moment. “It’s a personal call, you know.”

“But, of course!” The click in his ear was definitive.

Another voice came on the line. “Alô?” The voice was faint, but clear.

“Chico?”

“Who calls?”

Kek’s jaw tightened. “Is this Chico Perez? Francisco Perez?”

“It is.”

Kek felt a weight drop from him as he recognized the voice at last. Contacting Chico had been most important; he had been foolish to leave it until the last minute. Not that failure to reach Chico would have ruined the scheme, but it would have added another problem, and there were problems enough.

“Kek Huuygens here. Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” Chico was not one for long sentences.

“I have little time, so attention! I’m taking a private plane, an air-taxi, from Brussels to Madrid. I leave here a bit after midnight, tonight. I should get to Barajas Airport about four tomorrow morning. Do you hear?”

“I hear.” It seemed like a whisper.

“Good. You will meet me, please.”

“Of course.”

“With a car. A good one,” Kek thought. “But not a stolen one.”

“It is done.”

“And an igualidor.”

It was the gutter slang of the larger cities of Spain, as well as of the Spanish-speaking republics of the Americas, derived from the cultural advantages offered by the American cinema. It meant a handgun. Kek hoped that Chico Perez would understand, but that anyone else who might be on the line would not.

Chico definitely understood. “Un igualidor? Porqué?” The faint voice sounded shocked.

“For good reasons.”

“But—”

“Of my own. Hasta la vista.” Kek hung up abruptly and clicked the lever to attract Marcel’s attention. The concierge waited before answering, as if to prove his imperviousness to listening to private conversations.

“M’sieu?”

“One more call, practically local. To Maastricht …”

This time Kek waited, holding the telephone to his ear, listening to the jumbled cacophony that characterized the European telephone systems of the year 1948, and which has not improved to any marked extent since. In far less time than he had any right to expect—or had expected—he had his Lisa on the line.

“Darling! You did call!”

“Of course I called,” Kek said, affronted. “I said I would.”

“I know you said you would, darling. It’s exactly why I didn’t expect it. How’s the weather in Brussels?”

“Why don’t you look out of the window in an eastward direction and see, my sweet? I should judge it’s the same as it is in Maastricht. How’s your mother?”

Lisa pouted. “She’s very upset that you’re not here with me. I think she’s jealous of me.”

“I should hope so!” Kek said, and grinned.

“Then why don’t you come up here? You must have finished your business.”

“I finished it, sweet, but I have to make a trip. Because of it. I have to be in Madrid tomorrow.”

“Madrid? And I can’t come with you?” Disappointment filled the throaty voice.

“No, my sweet. But I should be only gone a day, if all is well. Just long enough to look at a—a painting.”

“When do you leave?”

“My plane leaves about midnight tonight.”

Lisa’s voice became sweet, friendly. It sounded like one role she had played as a jealous wife acting unjealous. Kek had to grin.

“And what do you plan to do from now until midnight, darling?”

Kek straightened the quirk in his lips and looked at the mirror, putting a virtuous expression on his face. It was his theory that facial contortions could affect the tone of one’s voice.

“I was thinking of a quiet dinner, my sweet, here at the hotel. And then, possibly, a nap.” He sighed, admiring his performance in the glass. “You know how difficult airplanes are to sleep in.”

“Yes, my darling. I also know you could sleep on the gallows, dangling. Enjoy the cabaret,” Lisa added, and there was a hint of taunting in her voice. “If you chose the Maroc, mention my name to the maître, Henri. He’ll see you get a good ringside seat.”

Kek laughed aloud. “Lisa, my sweet, you are truly marvelous!”

“We’re both marvelous, Kek, my darling,” Lisa said evenly. “Have a good trip. And hurry back.”

They kissed over the several hundreds of kilometers of wire and hung up. Kek came to his feet, smiling, and shrugged himself into his jacket. He was humming lightly to himself. Lisa was glorious and he was the most fortunate man in the world to have her. Would he still have her if she knew the true nature of his occupation? His smile faded somewhat as he considered the question, and then he put the idea away. Lisa was his wife, and they loved each other. Besides, there was no reason why she should ever know that he was not an art appraiser, but the world’s most famous smuggler. Kek grinned. Poor Lisa probably didn’t know the one from the other, so it really wasn’t anything to worry about.

He checked his appearance in the mirror, winked at his handsome image not from any exaggerated sense of self-importance but simply in exuberance at the sheer audacity of his scheme, picked up his topcoat from a chair, and went to the door. There was nothing more he could do now until Madrid, so why not enjoy himself? And may the girls at the Maroc be one-tenth as beautiful as my Lisa, he said to himself fervently, and let himself into the dim corridor.

From the scampi de Capri to the rum babá au San Marco, the Rotisserie Florentino was everything that Marcel’s enthusiasm had promised; and if any fault at all could be found with the Cabaret Maroc (with its Seven Sultry Sirens) it was that he was forced to leave in the middle of a most interesting dance performed with two capon feathers, in order to pack his bag and catch his plane. Lisa had been quite correct: Henri had done everything in his power to please the husband of the famous Mlle. Lisa Nieuport—but unfortunately, he couldn’t change the hour of the floorshow. The girls, he explained sadly to his client, had a syndicat, and it was pointless to argue.

His driver carried Kek, softly singing one of the hit tunes of the cabaret, back to the Colonies Hotel. He excused himself long enough to advise the Reception that he would be leaving for the night but intended to retain his room, and marched to the second-floor level to gather his belongings. Here he reduced his singing to a mere nonmelodic humming out of deference to those guests who were sleeping, or had failed to enjoy the wine of the Maroc.

As soon as he opened the door to his room, however, his relaxed manner disappeared. He closed the door behind him before flicking on the light switch, and glanced quickly but thoroughly about. A yellow slip of paper lay under his feet on the carpet; he bent swiftly and retrieved it. It was a standard message form with the name of the hotel on top.

“A gentleman telephoned for you. Would not leave name or message. Marcel.”

Kek crumpled the slip and tossed it into the wastebasket, his eyes narrowing in thought. It was certainly not an international call or Marcel would have mentioned the fact. This ruled out Thwaite, or even Chico calling back, although Chico didn’t even know the name of his hotel. And had it been Jacques, he certainly would have left his name. And not even Marcel could have mistaken Lisa for a gentleman. So who had called? And why? Could it be that the scheme was actually working?

Kek shook his head and moved quickly to the dresser. He pulled open the bottom drawer and closely examined the hemmed blanket within. He nodded, pleased with the results of his inspection, and then withdrew the precious cardboard tube. One final check of its contents and he came to his feet, a wide smile on his face, resuming his soft humming.

The tube was stored diagonally in the lower half of his suitcase, brought from the closet. He placed the balance of his clothing neatly about the unusual ridge, balancing it. His soiled clothing he tossed into a dresser drawer to be dealt with on his return. He checked the room once again, and placed the bottle of Portuguese brandy, the valuable 1920, on the closet shelf in the extreme rear as being the best of all poor hiding places against the forays of thirsty room-maids. Certainly including the bottle in his luggage would be the poorest of politics. He anticipated enough difficulties with Spanish customs without antagonizing their nationalist feelings by bringing in Portuguese brandy. He smiled at the thought, gathered up his suitcase and topcoat, and went to the door, snapping out the light behind him.

Next stop—Madrid …