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“It could have,” she said softly, and stared down at her fingers clasped tightly about her purse. “It could have if you wanted it to.” Her large eyes came up, searching his face intently. “I think I’d be good for you.”

“You’re good for me now,” Kek said, and walked over to her. “Too good for me.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, looking down into her violet eyes, and then bent and gently kissed her forehead. He drew back a bit, studying her face a moment, coming to a decision.

“Anita, let me have that manuscript back. I’ll deliver it myself. I’ve been wrong to involve you in these things as much as I have.”

She tried to smile, but behind the veil of her lashes the pain showed. “You know, Kek, I think that’s the closest you’ve ever come to saying anything truly affectionate to me. No; I’ll deliver it. And I’ll see you tomorrow...” She turned abruptly, opened the door, and closed it quickly behind her. Kek stared at the door panel a moment, and then walked pensively back to the bar.

Married to Anita? He shook his head slowly while he poured another large dose of brandy into his glass. Admittedly, she was everything a man ought to look for in a wife — beautiful, intelligent, passionate; even punctual — but married to anyone? No. Not again. He had tried it once, with Lisa in Brussels, and that had certainly been no solution! The time for a lasting marriage for him had been spoiled forever by the war and the changes it had wrought in places and people; and the woman had been quite another. Too many years had passed since then. And, even more important, his life was not the kind to ask a woman to share. Anita might remain silent about his mode of living, but she would not be happy with it. And why invite anyone to unhappiness, even if they thought they wanted it?

He put the thought of women and marriage from him, added ice to his glass, and was just reaching for the Seltzer bottle when the telephone rang sharply. With an apologetic grimace to his drink for the interruption, he replaced the bottle, walked across the room to his desk, leaned over, and picked up the instrument.

“Yes?”

“M’sieu Huuygens?”

It was a woman’s voice, low and musical, unfamiliar, and made all the more enticing for that. Kek automatically brightened, and then shook his head at himself. No, he thought with a rueful smile, when you react this way you are definitely not ready for marriage. But on that basis, is any man ever ready for marriage?

“Speaking.”

The voice assumed a slightly chilly tone, as if its owner had somehow subtly read his thoughts. “This is long distance, m’sieu. Lisbon is on the wire. One moment please.”

He shrugged philosophically, glancing over at the bar and its nearly prepared drink with regret for not having brought it with him, then moved around the desk to drop into the upholstered chair there, pulling sufficient telephone cord with him. He propped one knee lazily against the edge of the desktop and leaned back, waiting. Lisbon? Who did he know in Lisbon? Nobody in particular that he remembered at the moment, but that meant very little. His acquaintances had a tendency to move from place to place with little or no notice, even as he did himself. Besides, of late, with his burgeoning reputation, his commissions had been coming from many strange cities, and often from people who were even more exotic. And the means by which his clients managed to contact him were sometimes quite involved.

He waited patiently while the telephone indulged itself in a series of weird sounds; they finally faded to be dominated by another feminine voice. This one, however, was neither low nor musical; it also sounded aggrieved at the trouble to which it had been put.

Lisboa aquí. Senhor Huuygens? Kek Huuygens?” Her pronunciation of his name was atrocious, and her entire tone breathed suspicion. Nobody, she seemed to be saying, could truly have such a name.

Kek shrugged, wondering if this one were married, and if so, how she had ever managed it. “Yes, this is he.”

“One moment, then. Here’s your party, senhor...”

The high, nasal tone was replaced by a man’s voice, so opposite to the other in both depth and clarity that it took a moment for the waiting man to adjust to it. His caller spoke in French, and sounded a bit anxious.

“M’sieu Huuygens? Kek Huuygens?”

One thing is certain, Huuygens thought with growing irritation; nobody receiving a long-distance call should ever forget his own name! “Speaking. Who is this?”

“This?” The deep voice paused a moment, as if assessing the chances of being believed, took a deep and audible breath, and then plunged bravely ahead. “This, M’sieu Huuygens, is a man to whom you owe the sum of one million francs...”

The slightly satanic eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch; the lips quirked in appreciation both of the approach and the amount. “One million francs?”

“We have a good telephone connection, which is not always the case here in Lisbon.” His caller seemed pleasantly surprised, as if his luck with the telephone service might augur well for his mission. The satisfaction disappeared from his tone, instantly replaced by a return to business. “Yes, m’sieu. One million francs. Which I should like to collect as soon as possible.”

“I’m sure.” The gray eyes narrowed slightly; his hand came up to tug at his earlobe. A new means of introduction from someone recommended to him? A bit of cuteness on the part of the police? A fishing excursion? Or just a nut? Still, Huuygens thought, even the insane usually hesitate before paying international telephone rates. And besides, his telephone number was not in the directory.

His voice remained even, conversational. “May one be permitted to enquire just how a debt of this size was incurred?”

The deep voice became accusing, outraged at this evident evasion. “You promised it, m’sieu.”

A slight frown crossed Huuygens’s face. There was something in the vibrant timbre of that heavy voice that teased his memory. Where in the devil had he heard that deep voice before? He shook his head, putting the thought aside for the moment, returning to the matter at hand.

“I did? Then one might think that I would recall the incident. I do not mean to boast, m’sieu, but I am normally quite conscientious about debts, even to grocers, tailors, and bars, and a million francs is a lot of money. I am also quite conscientious about promises, although in general I try to contain them to fairly reasonable amounts.” He shook his head, smiling faintly. “No, m’sieu, I’m afraid you must be mistaken. Or possibly you have the wrong person.”

The voice hardened threateningly. “Don’t try to deny it, Huuygens! It was you, and you did promise it!”

The man at the desk refused to lose his equanimity; the call was beginning to be entertaining. He tugged at his earlobe a moment. “I hesitate to doubt your word, m’sieu, but possibly it might help if you were kind enough to refresh my failing memory. Just when did I promise this amazing sum? And, of course, why did I promise it? And—” his finger dropped from his earlobe to trail lazily along the telephone cord, his voice remained suave “—it would, quite naturally, help to know to whom I promised it.”

There was another deep, audible breath at the other end of the line. “You promised it to me, m’sieu. To be completely factual, you promised it to any one of several of us, but I’m the one that’s claiming it. As to when—” for the first time the voice exhibited hesitancy, as if wondering whether the evidence it was about to offer would be believed “—well, I’ll admit it was a long time ago...”

“Just how long ago?” Kek asked pleasantly.