The official glanced at the high-vaulted ceiling with small attempt to hide his amusement, and then looked down again. Really, there had to be some way he could tell this story to his wife, or at least to his girl friend! It was just too delicious! He shook his head pityingly.
“I’m afraid, m’sieu, that your briefcase must go with you to the chief inspector’s office.” He brightened falsely. “In fact, I’ll even carry it for you.”
“You’re very kind,” Huuygens murmured, and followed along.
Charles Dumas, chief inspector of the Orly section, looked up from his cluttered desk at the entrance of the two men, leaned back in his chair with resignation, and audibly sighed. Today, obviously, he should have stayed home, or, better yet, gone to the club. The small office was baking in the unusual heat of the morning; the small fan droning in one corner was doing so without either enthusiasm or effectiveness; he was beginning to get a headache from the tiny print which somehow seemed to be the only font size available to the printing office, and now this! He accepted the proffered passport in silence, indicated with the merest motion of his head where he wished the briefcase deposited, and dismissed Inspector Devereaux with the tiniest lifting of his eyebrows. Even these efforts seemed to exhaust him; he waited until the disappointed inspector had reluctantly closed the door behind him, and then riffled through the pages of the passport. He paused at the fresh immigration stamp and then looked up with a faint grimace.
“M’sieu Huuygens...”
Kek seated himself on the one wooden chair the small office offered its guests, wriggled it a bit to make sure it was secure, and then looked up, studying the other’s face. He leaned back, crossing his legs, and shook his head.
“Really, Inspector,” he said a bit plaintively, “I fail to understand the expression on your face. It appears to me if anyone has reason to be aggrieved, it’s me. This business of a personal interview each time I come through customs...”
“Please.” A pudgy hand came up wearily, interrupting. The chief inspector sighed and studied the passport almost as if he had never seen one before. “So you’ve been traveling again?”
“Obviously.”
“To Switzerland this time, I see.” The dark eyes came up from the booklet, inscrutable. “A rather short trip, was it not?”
Kek tilted his chair back against the wall, crossing his arms, resigning himself to the inevitable catechism. “Just a weekend.”
“On business?”
“To avoid the heat of Paris for a few days, if you must know.”
“I see...” The chief inspector sighed again. “And I also see that you have nothing to declare. But, then, you seldom do.”
The chair eased down softly. Huuygens considered the inspector quietly for several seconds, and then nodded as if seeing the logic of the other’s position.
“All right,” he said agreeably. “If you people are sincerely interested in a soiled shirt and an old pair of socks, I’ll be happy to declare them. What’s the duty on a used toothbrush?” He suddenly grinned. “Not used as often as the advertisements suggest, but used.”
“I’m quite sure you are as familiar with the duty schedule as anyone in my department,” Inspector Dumas said quietly, and reached for the briefcase, drawing it closer. “May I?”
Without awaiting a reply he undid the straps, pressed the latch, and began drawing the contents out upon the table. He pushed the soiled clothing to one side, opened the shaving kit and studied it a moment, placed it at his elbow, and then reached further into the depths of the briefcase.
“Ah?” His voice was the essence of politeness itself. “And just what might this be?”
“Exactly what it looks like,” Kek said, in the tone one uses to explain an obvious verity to a child. “A box of chocolates.”
The chief inspector turned the package in his hands idly, admiring the patterned wrapping embossed in gold with the name of the shop, and the rather gaudy display of ribbon bent into an ornate bow. “A box of chocolates...” His eyebrows raised in exaggerated curiosity. “Which you somehow feel does not require declaring?”
Huuygens cast his eyes heavenward as if in secret amusement. “Good heavens, Inspector! A box of candy I faithfully promised as a gift to a lady, worth all of twenty Swiss francs!” He shrugged elaborately and came to his feet with a faint smile. “Well, all right. It’s silly, I assure you, but if you wish it declared, I’ll declare it. May I have my form back, please?”
The briefest of smiles crossed Inspector Dumas’s lips, and then was withdrawn as quickly as it had come. He waved a hand languidly. “Please be seated again, M’sieu Huuygens. I’m afraid it is far from being all that simple.”
Huuygens stared at him a moment and then sank back in his chair. “Are you trying to tell me something, Inspector?”
The inspector’s smile returned, broader this time, remaining. “I’m trying to tell you I believe I am beginning to become interested in these chocolates, m’sieu.” His hand remained on the box; his voice was suave. “If I’m not mistaken, m’sieu, while you were in Switzerland yesterday — to avoid the heat of Paris, as you say — you visted the offices of Ankli and Company. The diamond merchants. Did you not?”
Kek’s voice was more curious than perturbed. “And just how did you know that?”
The chief inspector shrugged. “All visitors to diamond merchants are reported, M’sieu Huuygens.” He sounded slightly disappointed. “I should have thought you would have known.”
Huuygens smiled at him. “To be honest, Inspector, it never even occurred to me. I simply went there because M’sieu Ankli is an old friend of mine. We share an interest in—” his smile broadened “—pretty things. In any event, it was purely a personal visit.”
“I’m sure. Probably,” the inspector suggested innocently, “since you were merely avoiding the heat of Paris, you found his offices to be air-conditioned, which undoubtedly helped you serve the purpose of your trip.” He picked the box up again, turning it over, studying it closer. “Suchard’s, I see. A very fine brand. And from the famous Bonbon Mart of Zurich, too. I know the place. Excellent.” His eyes came up, unfathomable. “Caramels?”
“Creams, if you must know,” Huuygens said, and sighed.
“Oh? I prefer caramels, myself. Both, of course, are equally fattening. I hope the lady realizes that,” the inspector added, and began to slip the ribbon over one corner of the box.
“Now, really!” Huuygens leaned forward, holding up a hand. “The lady in question has nothing to fear from fat, Inspector. Or from slimness, either. However, I rather think she would prefer to receive her chocolates with the minimum of fingerprints, if you don’t mind.”
“My personal opinion,” said Inspector Dumas, sounding honest for the first time, “is that she will never see these chocolates,” and he folded back the foil-lined wrapper and began to lift the cover of the box.
Kek frowned at him. “I still have the feeling you’re trying to tell me something.”
“I am,” said the inspector succinctly, and placed the cover to one side. He raised the protective bit of embossed tissue covering the contents, stared into the box, and then shook his head in mock horror. “My, my!”
“Now what’s the matter?”
“I’m rather surprised that a house as reputable as the Bonbon Mart would permit chocolates to leave their premises in this condition.” Dumas looked up. “You say your lady friend prefers her chocolates without fingerprints? I’m afraid you should have explained that to the clerk who put these up...”
Huuygens snorted. “With your permission, Inspector, now you are just being ridiculous! Those are chocolates, and nothing more. Creams!” he added, as if the exact designation might somehow return the other to sanity. “And exactly the way they left the store.” He studied the inspector’s face curiously. “How can I convince you?”