“Because my customer insists upon delivery at midnight tomorrow.”
Kek’s fingers drummed a tattoo on the table as he considered this added problem. One thing was certain, it would not be easy. Another thing was equally certain; somehow he would manage it. A second thought suddenly struck him. Certainly no previously arranged customer would expect delivery within a day or two, which meant only one thing: Thwaite undoubtedly wanted the picture out of Brussels that quickly for an entirely different reason. Kek looked up.
“Who worked with you on this job?”
“I beg your pardon?” The fat man was shocked by what he considered a breach of professional etiquette. “What possible business is that of yours?”
“My dear Thwaite,” Huuygens said flatly, “we both know your reasons for wanting the painting in Madrid so quickly has nothing to do with your customer’s impatience. And I happen to dislike running into unforeseen complications in the middle of a job — like irate partners-in-borrowing, to coin a phrase. They might have a tendency to take their frustrations out on me. I like to know who’s behind me.” His voice didn’t harden, but it seemed to. “All right, now. Who worked with you on the job?”
Thwaite frowned across the table for several moments, the raisins almost buried in the rolled piecrust of his brows. Huuygens was completely trustworthy, at least as far as a client was concerned. He was not a thief, although his profession often caused him to deal with thieves. In the three years since the war, the athletic gray-eyed man had built up quite a reputation as a person remarkably capable of doing the customs service in the eye. And always without betraying customer or confidence. The reputation extended to both sides of the Atlantic and were he not completely trustworthy he would have come to a watery grave long since, somewhere in between.
“All right,” Thwaite said. “If you must know, a local man. His name is Alex DuPaul. Maybe you know him, or know of him.”
No muscle twitched on Huuygens’ smooth cheeks, but his mind registered the information as approximately five and a half on the Richter scale. “I know him,” he said expressionlessly. He also knew if Alex DuPaul were involved, then the fat man had worked for DuPaul, and not the other way around. DuPaul was in a position to finance a trick like this and also had the brains; Thwaite had neither. Huuygens kept his voice conversational. “Did you and DuPaul come to a satisfactory arrangement about the Hals?”
“Our business, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think. However—” Huuygens took pity on him. It may have been the disconsolate appearance of the sagging tweed, or it may have been that since he disliked the other so intensely he felt obligated to greater charity. “As you say, it’s your problem. However, if I were in your spot, I doubt if I’d be sitting around the Grand’ Place. A trifle public, no?”
Thwaite looked into the steady gray eyes. Subterfuge at this point would be pointless. “DuPaul is in Ghent today. He won’t be back until sometime this evening.”
“At which time you’ll be well on your way to Madrid?”
Thwaite looked at him and nodded. “Yes.”
“Does DuPaul know your customer?”
“He knows the sale is intended for Madrid; nothing more.” The fat man’s tone clearly indicated how much he wished DuPaul didn’t even know that. He dug into a pocket, bringing out a crumpled pad and a pencil. “You’ll want the address in Madrid.” He wet the stub and brought it down. “It’s out a bit from the center. No. 617 Estrada de las Mujeres. Not that there are any out there,” he added absently and neatly folded the sheet.
Huuygens rewarded this care by tearing the paper to shreds, placing the bits in an ashtray, and lighting them. He watched them burn.
“Six seventeen Estrada de las Mujeres,” he repeated, shaking his head at the other’s carelessness. He came to his feet. “I’ve checked into the Colonies Hotel. You will please send the painting to me there.”
There was a moment of shocked silence. “Send it?”
“By post,” Huuygens continued smoothly. “I don’t want it delivered by private messenger, and I think any further meetings between us — before Madrid — would only increase your stomach tension. Regarding the Hals, I assume it is rolled and in its smallest dimensions. When you leave here, stop and purchase a large wall calendar from any well-known stationery shop. You will inform the salesman that you intend to mail it as a gift, at some future time. The cardboard tube they will furnish will be properly labeled with the name of the shop. You will merely replace the contents and drop it into the nearest post office with sufficient postage.” He smiled at the other. “And you will send it fourth class,” he added, almost negligently. “Special handling.”
Thwaite was shocked to the core; even the tweed seemed to draw up. “But—”
“But what?” Kek asked curiously.
“The fourth class, that’s what!” The fat man seemed on the verge of exploding. “The post office can open it!”
“Of course they can open it,” Huuygens said gently. “Which is precisely why they won’t. And the special handling will insure its delivery to me before the afternoon is out. If you get it mailed relatively soon,” he added rather pointedly.
“But a fourth-class package sent special handling?”
“Far more common than you think,” Huuygens assured him. “Especially for printed matter. The cheapest of one service and the fastest of the other.” He glanced at his watch. “I really must go. There are things to be done if we’re going to meet your schedule.”
“But — how will you manage it through Spanish Customs?” Even as he spoke he knew he was committing a gaffe in asking, but he could not hold back the words. Even discussing the matter seemed to keep the precious painting in his possession that many more minutes. “Certainly not by posting it in a mailing tube?”
Huuygens smiled at him. “You don’t give me time for that. And unfortunately all customs, even Spanish, examine packages that come in the mail very carefully.” He sighed deeply, but his eyes were twinkling as he considered the sheer audacity of the plan he had decided upon. “No,” he said, “I’m afraid the precious Hals will have to be carried through customs. In person...”
In those far-distant days of 1948, the public telephones at the Colonies Hotel were located at the foot of a long flight of steps leading from the ground floor to the basement. Kek, pausing at the top step and considering his plan, decided that proper scheduling indicated he should see the concierge before doing any phoning. He therefore turned and moved past the entrance to the bar, past the reception desk, until he located the small cubby-hole. He leaned over the tiny counter; an even tinier man popped up.
“M’sieu?”
“The planes to Madrid. Before morning—”
“Ah!” The little man behind the counter flew at a stack of schedules on the cluttered desk, happy to be of assistance to this distinguished-looking guest. He managed to withdraw a folder without disturbing the delicate balance of the pile, opened it with a flourish, and ran his finger down a column. “Ah! Madrid! Yes, M’sieu, a midnight flight. A Dakota. It stops only at Riems, Lyon, Marseilles, Barcelona, and then Madrid.” He beamed. “A mere six hours.”
Huuygens considered. The fast train to Paris and then the Gibraltar Express would make the trip in only a few hours more than the flight, and in far greater comfort, but the fast train to Paris did not leave Brussels until seven in the morning, and the Gibraltar Express did not leave the Gare d’Austerlitz for the south until late in the afternoon. It would have to be a plane. But if he were to take the plane it might cause complications. A solution came to him. “Do they have an air-taxi service at the airport?”