He dropped to the bed reviewing his plan for getting the painting into Spain. It was a dangerous gamble, far bolder than his usual schemes and more daring than he would have preferred, but with so little time before the deadline for delivery, he could see no alternative. He paused to consider his next move. The next move, of course, was a necessary call to Madrid, and he hoped he hadn’t left it until too late. He contacted Marcel, placed the call, and went in to take a bath while waiting for it to go through.
He was facing himself in the mirror, knotting his tie, when the telephone rang. He raised it to find Madrid on the line. “Hello? Chico?”
The voice at the other end was faint, but clear.
“Who calls?”
Kek felt a weight drop from him at the familiar voice. Contacting Chico had been most important. “Chico, this is Kek Huuygens. I have little time, so attention. I’m taking a private air-taxi from Brussels to Madrid. I will arrive there about four in the morning. Do you hear?”
“I hear.” It was like a whisper.
“Good. You will meet me, please. With a car.”
“It is done.”
“And an igualidor.” It was the gutter-slang of Madrid, overinfluenced by American cinema; it meant a handgun. Kek hoped that Chico understood and that anyone else who might be listening would not.
Chico understood. He was shocked. “Igualidor? Porqué?”
“For my reasons. Until later.” Kek hung up, clicked the lever several times for Marcel, and advised him to tell the driver he would be right down. He came to his feet and shrugged himself into his jacket, picked up his topcoat, and went out to face the evening.
The Rotisserie Florentino and the Cabaret Maroc were everything that Marcel had suggested; at eleven o’clock, softly singing one of the hit tunes of the cabaret, his driver drove him back to his hotel. He excused himself long enough to collect his belongings and marched to the second floor, his singing now reduced to a nonmelodic humming in deference to the sleeping guests.
His laxity disappeared as soon as he opened the door. He went swiftly to the dresser, withdrew the cardboard tube, and checked the contents. Satisfied, he resumed his soft humming. His suitcase was brought from the closet, the tube stored in it diagonally beneath his shirts, and the balance of his clothing neatly folded and distributed about the unusual ridge, balancing it. He snapped the case shut, gathered his topcoat once again, and went to the door. One final inspection of the room and he closed the door softly behind him, starting for the steps.
The October that had been sunny and warm in Brussels was bitter cold on the high plateau of Madrid, and especially just after four in the morning. Tramping from the airplane, his breath steaming and his ears still ringing from the shuddering scream of wind and the vibrating howl of the engine, Kek kept his one free hand buried deep in his topcoat pocket and wished he had thought to come more warmly dressed.
He came into the immigration shed, located a sleepy official, had his passport examined desultorily, stamped with a yawn, and handed back. He walked into the customs sections, following arrows. An inspector detached himself from his desk and moved forward, frowning.
“The señor came—?”
“By private plane.” Kek placed his case on the table. “From Brussels.”
“Your passport, please.” The inspector’s voice indicated the height of cooperation; people who could afford to cross national borders in privately hired planes obviously rated respect. His attitude maintained until he noted the name across from the smiling picture. His eyes widened; his instruction book was filled with notes about this one! “One moment, señor!”
“Is something wrong?”
“One moment!” The inspector fled to find a superior.
Kek waited with a patience born of long experience with stubborn customs officials, although he did feel it would be nice once in a while to run across one too sleepy to notice his name on his passport. And if one couldn’t find a sleepy inspector at four in the morning, when could one? He looked up. The inspector was returning, this time accompanied by the night chief of the section. The chief picked up the suitcase, tilting his head.
“Señor...?” His tone was curt; he was off before he had finished the word.
Kek tagged along obediently. Inside a room at one end of the hall the chief closed the door firmly, set the case on the floor within instant reach, and seated himself on one corner of the lone, bare table there. He looked at Kek with cold eyes.
“Señor Huuygens.” His pronunciation was atrocious. “What brings you to Spain?”
Kek considered the man carefully. “My desire to be here. My papers are in order. What seems to be the problem?”
The chief inspector studied him a moment and then sighed. “Your overcoat first, please.” He came to his feet, holding out his hand.
It was an all too familiar routine. Only when the personal search had revealed nothing incriminating did the inspector turn his attention to the suitcase. He did it with the air of one saving the best for last, bringing it to the table and opening it. Each article of clothing was carefully removed, examined, patted, and then piled neatly to one side. Kek watched with interest, as if scoring the performance against others he had known. Then—
“Ah!” said the inspector, triumphantly. He held aloft the tube.
“Yes?” Kek asked curiously.
“What is this?”
“Isn’t it marked on the outside? It’s a wall calendar.”
“Oh?” The inspector smiled at him. “And how interesting that you should have boarded a private plane in Brussels, and how even more interesting that we should have been requested by the Belgian Sûreté to be on the watch for a package almost the size of your — ah, your calendar. Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say, señor?”
“Most amazing,” Kek agreed.
“I’m forced to agree,” the inspector said with a sardonic smile. He removed the end cap of the tube, placed several fingers inside, and slowly twisted the contents free. He slowly unrolled it and bent over it. His black eyes came up, furious. “This is not—” He bit the word back. His instructions for secrecy were implicit.
“Not what?” Huuygens asked innocently. “Not a calendar? Of course it’s a calendar. I told you it was.”
The inspector said nothing. For several moments he held the calendar in his hands and then he carefully rerolled it and placed it back in the tube. His movements were those of an automaton. He studied the empty suitcase a moment and then shrugged.
“You may go.” His voice was expressionless.
Huuygens nodded his thanks, carefully repacked his clothing, and left the room. Behind him he could hear a fist slamming the table and a moment later the sound of a chair being kicked.
Outside, a thin, icy mist hovered before the tall street lamps. Kek looked about; there was a beep of a horn from the almost deserted parking lot across the roadway and he walked over, bending down to check. Satisfied, he climbed in beside the driver, tossing his suitcase in the rear.
“Chico. How are you?”
“Frozen!” The voice became querulous. “Even when you come in alone in a private plane, it takes you an hour to clear customs!”
“Yes,” Kek said simply, because it was the truth. “Do you have the gun?”
“In the glove compartment. I don’t like guns.”