“Oh, yes! One of the finest! They fly American planes only.”
“And the time to Madrid? And the cost?”
“One moment—” The telephone appeared as if by magic in the tiny hand; a number was given and the concierge stared somberly across the lobby as he waited. “Hello?” There followed a rapid-fire conversation in Flemish; the concierge cupped the receiver. “Four hours by Beechcraft, M’sieu. Eight thousand Belgian francs.”
“Good. I’d like to leave a bit after midnight.”
“M’sieu has his travel documents in order?”
“M’sieu always has his travel documents in order,” Kek assured him dryly.
“In that case I shall arrange everything. Your room and name, M’sieu?”
Kek gave the required information and went back to the steps leading to the basement. The call he wanted to make would best be made from a public phone. He trotted down the steps, located a cubicle, and dropped in a coin. An operator came on the line; he gave a number and waited patiently; eventually there was the sound of ringing and almost immediately the receiver at the other end was lifted. The voice that came on was cautious.
“Hello?”
“Jacques?”
“Who is this, please?”
“This is Kek Huuygens.”
Relief instantly manifested itself in the other’s tone. “Kek, it’s good to hear you! You’re in Brussels?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe we can have dinner together tonight. I can reserve a table at the Rotisserie Ardennes.” It was a boast, bragging of freedom from fear of the police, at least at the moment.
“I’m sorry,” Kek said, “but I hope to be leaving Brussels tonight. But I have a job for you.” Huuygens paused a moment 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?”
“Unless he had an automobile, of course.” In those days nobody had an automobile and Jacques’ voice rejected the possibility.
“The omnibus?”
“He’d need kidneys of steel and a backbone of ash. Three years since the war,” Jacques said fervently, “and the roads still haven’t been touched. Nor have the omnibuses,” he added, wanting to distribute the responsibility squarely. “No, the normal thing to do would be to come by train.”
“Good. I want you to meet a man who will be coming by train from Ghent.”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “Kek, you know for you I would do almost anything. But it’s only eight months since I’m out of jail, and—”
“There’s nothing like that involved.”
Relief returned. “All right, then. His name?”
“Alex DuPaul, but his name is unimportant.”
“And he comes by which train from Ghent?”
“I have no idea. Sometime this evening is all I know.” Kek had expected some argument at this latitude, but instead Jacques seemed pleased.
“There are only two,” he said. “Six forty-five and eight fifty. After that, only the one that collects the milk, about four in the morning.”
“Good. We’ll assume he won’t come on that.”
“And this man — what do I do with him?”
“In a minute. First, his description. About five feet eleven in height; between a hundred eighty-five and a hundred ninety-five pounds. He—”
“How many kilo is that?”
Kek shook his head at his own stupidity. “Sorry. About one meter eighty; between eighty-five and ninety kilo. He looks like a brigand; a long mustache coming below his chin on the sides, normally light brown but fairly stained with tobacco. Thick hair, usually needing cutting. A man in his early forties. He’s hard to miss. Never wears a hat and seldom a cravat; a scarf usually serves for him. A Bohemian. But tough.”
“I have him. Now, what do I do with him?”
“In a moment. Are you familiar with the train station?”
“From Ghent? It’s the Gare du Nord. I know it.”
“It has telephone booths?”
“Of course,” Jacques said, mystified, and then corrected himself. “Not booths, but little partitions. There are two of them on a column near the news kiosk. Why?”
“Because,” Huuygens said, pleased with the information, “before the six forty-five arrives, you will telephone the trainmaster and arrange for a message to be put on the loudspeaker for the benefit of the incoming passengers. This message will urgently request M’sieu Alex DuPaul to telephone a certain number. If he does not appear on the earlier train, you will repeat the entire performance for the later train.”
“And what number is he to call?”
“Invent one; it’s unimportant. Because the plan is for you to be in the next cubicle — which you’d better hold before the train comes in — speaking to a dead telephone.”
“Ah!” Jacques said, understanding. “You wish to spoon-feed him, eh?”
“That is precisely it.”
“What little bit of information do we give him?”
Huuygens told him. At the other end of the line Jacques raised his shoulders in bafflement. It was certainly not a message he would have left anyone of DuPaul’s description. Still, when one did a job for Kek Huuygens, one obeyed orders.
“And after he swallows what we feed him, what then?”
“Then go home and pray he takes the bait and doesn’t go for the fisherman. Let me know if he doesn’t show at all.”
He hung up, Jacques’ “correct” in his ear, and started up the long flight of stairs; the lift did not deign to serve the basement. At the first floor he took one look at the rickety elevator and once again took to the stairs. At the second floor he started along a narrow corridor; even as he approached his room he heard a telephone ringing and somehow knew with certainty it was his own. He hurried the key into the lock and swung the door wide striding to the instrument, bringing it to his ear.
“Yes?”
“M’sieu Huuygens? Marcel, the concierge, here. There is a package for you. Special delivery. Shall I have it sent up?”
“If you will. And Marcel—” A thought had come to Kek. “My plane is arranged?”
“But of course. Any time after midnight.”
“Good.” He hesitated significantly. “And entertainment in Brussels? It’s quite early, and I have until midnight—”
“Ah!” Marcel beamed. “First, of course, a good restaurant. Not,” and he dropped his voice, “not the hotel dining room, but the Rotisserie Florentino on the rue Pierre Charon. And then a cabaret, the Maroc, I would suggest. M’sieu wishes me to make the arrangements?”
“If you would be so kind. And a car here at seven, I should think.”
“Of course.” Marcel hesitated a moment. “I shall bring you your package personally, M’sieu.”
It was only moments before a knock announced Marcel. A bill exchanged hands, tucked away into an invisible pocket with a movement any magician could have envied. Marcel bowed himself out and Kek held the cardboard tube in his hand almost reverently. He walked to the dresser, poured himself a stiff brandy and drank it, and then returned to the tube.
The thought of actually having the Hals The Innkeeper of Nijkerk in his hands, here in this nondescript hotel room in this distant city of Brussels, with half the police in the world undoubtedly searching for it, was thrilling. He twisted the end cap free and eased the rolled canvas out with great care, spreading it open upon the bed, reveling as always in the beauty, the rich full tones, the delicate but strong brushwork. For fully five minutes he studied the famous painting, and then sighed, reluctantly rerolled the picture, and restored it to its cardboard prison. A pity it wasn’t his, but it wasn’t!
He glanced at his wrist watch and increased the tempo of his moves. The bottom drawer of the dresser was opened and the tube laid carefully beneath the spare pillow and blanket stored there. There was little chance the night maid would bring out a blanket in this weather, but there was no sense in taking chances. He walked to the door, placed the “Do Not Disturb” ticket on the outside knob, and, while security was still on his mind, closed the window behind the already drawn drapes and latched the rusty lock.