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“Well, almost twelve years ago, as a matter of fact—”

“Twelve years?” The faint, slightly sardonic smile on the face of the man at the desk faded, to be replaced by a frown. He dropped his knee from the edge of the desk and leaned forward, his manner more alert. Where had he been twelve years ago? And where in the devil had he heard that voice before?

“Where did all this take place?”

“Well,” said the deep voice reflectively, “to be exact, it was in the Auvergnes, in the foothills back of Allanche, leading up to Mont Du. And it took place on a rainy, terrible, uncomfortable day; and we were all trying to squeeze ourselves into a cave — if one could not be accused of gross exaggeration in calling that miserable, muddy depression a cave — and you were messing about with the radio...”

Huuygens leaned forward, his gray eyes wide now in excitement, his strong hand gripping the receiver almost fiercely. Of course that deep voice had sounded familiar! Even after all these years, how could he have ever forgotten that voice! My God, was it possible?

“André! André! It’s you!”

“Kek, Kek!” The deep voice was now laughing. “I was afraid there for a moment that your memory of old friends might be as poor as your memory of old promises. However...” In his mind’s eye Huuygens could see the huge man at the other end of the line raising his wide shoulders in a humorous shrug, could see one mammoth hand come up to stroke the thick mustache in delight. “However, if you don’t want to pay your million-franc debt, I don’t suppose there’s much I can do about it.” The voice paused as if considering possible alternatives. “I’ll tell you what — would you consider settling for a drink instead? If I make it something inexpensive?”

“André, you fool! You clown! You actor!” Kek grinned at the telephone in pure enjoyment. “What a performance! I told you years ago you were wasting your talents! How have you been? And where in the devil have you been? And what are you doing in Lisbon?”

“Trying to make a living,” André explained easily. “Unfortunately, a lot of other people here have the same ambition, although I can’t imagine why. I’ve been here for years. Doing what? Well, a little of this and a little of that. And even less of succeeding,” he added, as if wishing to be honest about it. “This is a lovely town, Kek, and the weather and women are incomparable. I can see why ex-kings and dictators come here to retire. But I don’t recommend it for anyone who wants to work up to eating regularly.”

Huuygens leaned on his elbow, shaking his head in wonder, marveling at hearing from André after all these years. One hand pushed through his thick hair and then pressed against his scalp, trying to force the marvel of it through his head.

“My God, it’s good to hear your voice again! How many years has it been? Twelve, you say? Yes, I suppose it actually was. 1942... Time doesn’t fly, it disappears! The last time I saw you — yes, I guess it was that night in the cave. I tried to find all of you later, but they had me chasing around with that damned radio all over the Midi. Or another radio equally damned, all over some other place. Whatever happened to the others? To Georges? And Michel?”

“Michel is here in Lisbon — a big wheel in the police department, yet! Can you imagine it? Michel? But he is... He’s assistant to the chief of detectives, if you can believe it. In fact, he’s become a Portuguese citizen. After what happened to his wife, he didn’t want to stay in France, and one has to live somewhere. He—”

Kek frowned. “What happened to his wife?”

“You didn’t hear? No, I guess not. I heard you went to America right after the war. Well, what happened was that after the war they shaved her head, and I guess she didn’t like it.” The deep voice was even, conversational. “Anyway, that night she went into the bathroom and cut her throat. Not her wrists, mind you, but her throat...”

“My God!”

“Yes,” André said quietly. “It isn’t easy to cut your throat. Not and do a decent job. Yet I understand this was an excellent job. Almost professional. However—” he took a deep breath and continued “—anyway, as I was saying, after that Michel came to Lisbon. And has done very well. In fact, he was invited to this party, and he’s the one — but I’ll tell you about that later.” The heavy voice paused and then continued soberly. “And Georges? He died. Yes. Back there in the Auvergnes. I thought you must have known.”

Huuygens stared at the instrument in his hand with clouded eyes. He hadn’t known, but he shouldn’t have been surprised. That night in the damp cave had left Georges feverish, wandering in his thoughts, a very sick man. Now that he recalled, they had been forced to abandon Georges the following morning or none of them would have lived. And he, of course, had his instructions to deliver the radio to the group at Mauriac, over the summit of Mont Du. And had never seen the others after that night. So Georges had died...!

“Of pneumonia?”

“Of bullets. The Boches saw him crawling on the trail and they shot him. Maybe they thought he was a rabbit. A rabbit carrying a rifle.” André’s voice was flat, cold. “As you say, it was a long time ago. I think we should not have left him, though.”

“We had no choice.”

“I also agree with that. We had no choice. And it was his decision, he was the group leader. However!” The deep voice dropped the subject with the one word, coming back to the present, becoming lighter, relegating the bitter, frustrating memory of Georges dead on the trail to the dim past where it belonged. “You know, Kek, I had no idea I’d actually be able to get in touch with you, but I thought it worth a try.”

“And I’m glad you did. My God, I’m glad you did! You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice again, after all these years. When are you coming to Paris?”

“Paris?” There was a sharp bark of sardonic laughter. “I’m afraid I’m not as subtle as you in this business of outwitting the customs guards. They still have a warrant out for me in Paris. Some matter of smuggling cigarettes, back in the days when smuggling cigarettes was still a profitable affair — which will give you some idea of how long ago it was. And how long the miserable flics can hold a grudge.” The voice became pensive, thoughtful. “Today, of course, tobacco companies spend a fortune in advertising just to get people to take the unhealthy things off the shelves.” The voice changed again, becoming philosophical. “Ah, well, that’s the way it goes. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time — with the wrong product.”

Huuygens grinned affectionately. André hadn’t changed a bit. “Well, we’ll just have to get together someplace else, then. By the way, how did you manage to get in touch with me? Where did you get my unlisted telephone number?”

“Kek, Kek! You’re famous, my boy! Or infamous, if you prefer. In my circles you are not only well known, but also highly considered, and — to be honest — exceedingly envied. Any man who has been able to...” The deep voice suddenly paused — when it spoke again all lightness and frivolity had disappeared. “By the way, Kek — are you sure your apartment isn’t bugged?”

“Bugged?”

“That’s an American expression which is taking its rightful place in the languages of the world,” André said, but without any attempt at humor. “I mean, is your telephone tapped?”

Huuygens laughed aloud. “This is still France and not America, André. You’ve been away so long you’ve forgotten. The flics will follow you on the street, they will burst in on you at the most embarrassing moments, they will drag you in for an interrogation at the drop of a hat and question you with a baton, but tap your telephone? Never! It would be a denial of personal liberty.”