He studied me a long moment. When next he spoke his eyes were narrowed and his voice was now almost casual. “And I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you might just happen to know the name of someone who is skilled in the art of making these paste replicas?”
“By the most curious of coincidences, I do,” I said and laid a card on the table. White looked at me for several moments in a contemplative fashion and then reached out, picked up the card, and tucked it carefully into a pocket.
“I’ve heard of you, Huuygens,” he said slowly, “and I know that blackmail is not your business. Nor thievery.”
I tried to look modest, because, of course, he was perfectly right.
“However,” he went on, “I understand you have other talents. I don’t suppose, when Vera and I get home and face the distinct possibility of encountering problems getting those diamonds through customs, that you might be willing to help? For a slight fee, naturally?” He sounded almost respectful. “You know, Huuygens,” he said, “you’re quite a rogue.”
I considered him coldly. “I don’t believe you understand,” I said evenly. “To begin with, regardless of what you may or may not have heard of my talents, I do not have the slightest intention of taking your diamonds through customs into the United States or anywhere else. I’m far too busy here in Monte Carlo at the moment to think of leaving.”
He considered me without expression.
“It’s simply what I tried to tell you at the beginning,” I went on patiently. “I’m interested in getting a contribution for this charity, and if in the course of getting that contribution I have to be a rogue, so be it.”
And we left it at that.
Huuygens finished his drink with a slight gesture and tapped on the table for a refill.
“And what happened?” I asked.
“What happened? It worked,” Kek said, a bit wonderingly that I should even doubt it. “Vera White had the replicas made, she rented the safety-deposit in the name of Blanco, they threw their cocktail party — to which, I might mention, I refused an invitation — and a good time was had by all. Until, of course, the local gendarmes arrived. As I say, it worked completely to plan.”
I studied him speculatively a moment. “This worthwhile charity you collect for — I assume that is yourself?”
Kek sounded surprised at the question. “Of course,” he said.
“And one final question. Exactly how much did Ralph White finally contribute to your — ah, favorite charity?”
“Ralph White?” he said. “Not a dime.” He saw my startled look and shrugged. “But then, I suppose he was hardly to blame. He could scarcely afford it.”
I stared at him. The waiter appeared with our drinks, put them down and departed. Kek Huuygens suddenly smiled at me broadly across the table, his eye twinkling.
“But the insurance company could and did,” he said. “Twenty percent of the recovered value.” He reached for his glass and then winked at me. “As usual...”
Sweet Music
The month was September, the place was Paris, and the weather was hot.
Claude Devereaux, one of the large and overworked staff of customs inspectors at the incoming-passenger section of Orly airport, tilted his stiff-brimmed cap back from his sweating forehead, leaned over to scrawl an indecipherable chalkmark on the suitcase before him, and then straightened up, wondering what imbecile had designed the uniform he wore, and if the idiot had ever suffered its heavy weight on a hot day. He nodded absently to the murmured thank you of the released passenger and turned to his next customer, automatically accepting the passport thrust at him, wondering if there might still be time after his shift to stop for a bière before going home. Probably not, he thought with a sigh, and brought his attention back to business.
He noted the name in the green booklet idly, and was about to ask for declaration forms, when he suddenly stiffened, the oppressive heat — and even the beer — instantly forgotten. The bulletins on the particular name he was staring at filled a large portion of his special-instruction book. His eyes slid across the page to the smiling, rather carefree photograph pasted beside the neat signature, and then raised slowly and wonderingly to study the person across the counter.
He saw a man he judged to be in his early or middle thirties, a bit above medium height, well dressed in the latest and most expensive fashion of the boulevardier, with broad shoulders that seemed just a trifle out of proportion with his otherwise slim and athletic body. The thick, curly hair, a bit tousled by a rather bumpy ride over the Alps, was already lightly touched with gray; it gave a certain romantic air to the strong, clean-shaven face below. Mercurial eyebrows slanted abruptly over gray eyes that, the official was sure, undoubtedly proved very attractive to women. He came to himself with a start; at the moment those gray eyes were beginning to dissipate their patience under the other’s blatant inspection. Claude Devereaux suspected — quite rightly — that those soft eyes could become quite cold and hard if the circumstances warranted. He bent forward with a diffident smile, lowering his voice.
“M’sieu Huuygens...”
The man before him nodded gravely. “Yes?”
“I am afraid...”
“Afraid of what?” Kek Huuygens asked curiously.
The official raised his shoulders, smiling in a slightly embarassed manner, although the glint in his eyes was anything but disconcerted.
“Afraid that I must ask you to step into the chief inspector’s office,” he said smoothly, and immediately raised his palms, negating any personal responsibility. “Those are our instructions, m’sieu.”
“Merde! A nuisance!” The gray eyes studied the official thoughtfully a moment, as if attempting to judge the potential venality of the other. “I don’t suppose there is any other solution?”
“M’sieu?”
“No, I suppose not.” The notion was dismissed with an impatient shake of the head. “Each and every time I come through French customs! Ridiculous!” He shrugged. “Well, I suppose if one must, one must.”
“Exactly,” Devereaux agreed politely. What a story to tell his wife! No less a scoundrel than the famous Kek Huuygens himself had come through his station in customs, and had actually tried to bribe him! Well, not exactly to bribe him, but there had been an expression in those gray eyes for a moment that clearly indicated... The inspector dismissed the thought instantly. If his wife thought for one minute that he had turned down a bribe, she would never let him hear the end of it. Better just tell her... He paused. Better say nothing at all, he thought sourly, feeling somehow deprived of something, and then became aware that he was being addressed. He came to attention at once. “M’sieu?”
“The chief inspector’s office? If you recall?”
“Ah, yes! If m’sieu will just follow me...”
“And about my luggage?”
“Your luggage?” Claude Devereaux looked along the now vacant wooden counter, instantly brought from his dream, immediately on the alert. The bulletins had been most definite about this one! Watch him! Watch him constantly! Watch his every move! His eyes returned to the man before him suspiciously.
“You mean your briefcase? Or is there more?”
“It’s all I have, but it’s still my luggage.” Kek suddenly smiled at the other confidingly, willing to let bygones be bygones, accepting the fact that the inspector was merely doing his job. “I prefer to travel light, you know. A toothbrush, a clean pair of socks, a fresh shirt...” He looked about easily, as if searching out a safe spot where no careless porter might inadvertently pick up the briefcase and deposit it unbidden at the taxi-rank, or where someone with less honest intent might not steal it. “If I might leave it someplace out of the way...”