Which, of course, is what I did...
The flight to New York was slightly anticlimactic, and I called M’sieu Duvivier as soon as I landed at Kennedy. He was most pleasantly surprised, since less than a month had actually elapsed, and said he would expect me as fast as I could get there by cab.
The ex-president of St. Michel lived in a lovely apartment on Central Park South, and as I rode up in the elevator, I thought of how pleasant it must be to have endless amounts of money at one’s disposal; but before I had a chance to dwell on that thought too much, we had arrived and I found myself pushing what I still think was a lapis-lazuli doorbell set in a solid-gold frame. It made one want to weep. At any rate, Duvivier himself answered the door, as anxious as any man I have ever seen. He didn’t even wait to ask me in or inquire as to my taste in aperitifs.
“You have it?” he asked, staring at my coat pocket.
“Before we go any further,” I said, “I should like you to repeat the exact terms of our wager. The exact terms, if you please.”
He looked at me in irritation, as if I were being needlessly obstructive.
“All right,” he said shortly. “I wagered you twenty thousand dollars of my money against two dollars of yours that you would not bring me a small carving from Barbados through United States Customs and deliver it to me in New York. Is that correct?”
I sighed. “Perfectly correct,” I said and reached into my pocket. “You are a lucky man. You won.” And I handed him his two dollars...
I stared across the table at Huuygens. I’m afraid my jaw had gone slack. He shook his head at me, a bit sad at my lack of comprehension.
“You can’t possibly understand,” he said, almost petulantly. “It is so incredibly lovely...
A Matter of Honor
“Two thousand,” the fat man said, drumming his pudgy fingers lightly on the veined marble tabletop. His voice was soft, slightly lisping, but not in the least feminine. His face was round and white and soft and doughy; looking into his eyes one’s first impression was there were raisins embedded there. “Two thousand,” he repeated quietly.
“Pounds, of course,” Kek Huuygens said genially.
“No. Not pounds of course; dollars of course,” said the fat man sounding faintly amused. His name was Thwaite and he was English and dressed in a bilious tweed too heavy for the day and too ancient for the style.
It was the year 1948, in those difficult days following the Second World War, and there were few men who could afford to argue the conditions of offered employment, especially in Europe and particularly those who — like Kek Huuygens — lived on the outskirts of the urbanity known as the law. But Kek Huuygens had long since set a high value upon his rather unique services and was determined not to scab, or at least not upon himself.
“Then I’m afraid you have the wrong man,” he said with what sounded like true regret. He was an athletic young man in his late twenties, with shoulders of a bulk that seemed to negate his height of six feet. His neat double-breased suit pointed up the basic error of the tweed. He had an unruly mop of brown hair set above a strong, handsome face and widespread intelligent gray eyes. At the moment these eyes shared the other’s amusement. “Inflation, you know,” he added apologetically. “The curse of the Continent.”
The fat man’s shrug indicated that rising prices also affected him. “Two thousand dollars, American,” he said, attempting to sound inflexible, and then made a concession. “Plus expenses, of course.”
“Two thousand pounds sterling,” Huuygens said, equally cooperative. “Naturally, plus expenses.”
“Fifteen hundred pounds,” the fat man said sullenly.
“Two thousand.”
“But no expenses.” A white finger was raised for emphasis.
“Plus all expenses. Naturally.”
The fat man sighed in defeat. “Payment on delivery, of course.”
“Of course.” Huuygens beckoned a waiter. The two men were sitting in the Grand’ Place in Brussels, the warm late-morning autumn sun was glinting from the rococo steeples across from them, and their filtres were empty and pushed to one side. “Have a drink,” Huuygens said sympathetically. “On me.”
The fat man waggled a puffed finger in reluctant self-denial, tapping his overflowing stomach for explanation. Huuygens raised a hand, stopping the approaching waiter in his tracks. The aproned figure, unperturbed, returned to flicking invisible motes from spotless tables.
“All right,” Huuygens said quietly. “What is it this time?”
“A Hals,” Thwaite said, almost proudly. He didn’t hesitate. Who hired Huuygens hired reliability above all else. One paid well, but one received service. He had lowered his voice to little more than a whisper, but he was practiced enough in the art not to lean forward in compensation. Nor did Huuygens strive to hear. The raisin eyes studied the younger man from above a ridge of yeasty flesh. “The Innkeeper of Nijkerk.”
Huuygens’ eyebrows raised the merest fraction of an inch.
“The Innkeeper of Nijkerk,” he said quietly, and nodded. “Sothebys made over fifty thousand pounds just handling the auction, as I recall. And I also seem to recall that the picture was loaned by the Frick museum in New York for the Hals exhibit at the Clouet Gallery here next week.” He paused a moment and then smiled widely. “Did I charge too little?”
“I don’t rate Sotheby’s prices,” Thwaite said coldly.
“True,” Huuygens granted with a smile of apology. His smile faded; his tone became practical. “I’ve seen The Innkeeper many times at the Frick. I’d say it’s roughly two feet by four feet. I don’t recall the exact catalogue dimensions. Scarcely a post card!” He frowned into space, considering the problem while Thwaite waited patiently. The gray eyes came back to earth. “One question — is the Clouet aware that come the opening day of their exhibit there will be an unfortunate hiatus in their presentation? A certain pristine virginity on one deprived wall or another?”
The fat man frowned at this lightness of tone; he seemed to consider it in poor taste, especially in discussing an object of the value of the Hals. “They know it’s gone, if that’s what you’re trying to ask. They should have known since yesterday evening. Why?”
Huuygens made no attempt to answer. “And they’re keeping it a secret between themselves and the Sûreté with the hope the painting will be recovered before they are forced to make a most embarrassing confession to the Frick. And, of course, the insurance people.” His eyes came up. “Do they also know how the picture was taken?”
“They do not. Nor,” Thwaite added coldly, “is it any of your concern. Your job is to see that the canvas is delivered in Madrid—”
“Madrid?”
“Yes. Any objection?”
“None. I was merely asking. I’m quite fond of Madrid, actually.”
“Well, as I was saying, you are to deliver the canvas in Madrid to the address I will give you. Before ten o’clock tomorrow night—”
“Tomorrow?” Huuygens stared and then shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Ten o’clock tomorrow night,” the fat man corrected gently. “And since when is anything impossible for the great Kek Huuygens? Where a sum like two thousand pounds is involved?”
Huuygens disregarded the sarcasm. “Why the rush?”