Robert L. Fish
The Tricks of the Trade
This book is dedicated with admiration
and respect to the memory of
an old friend
“The Great Merlini”
CLAYTON RAWSON
Book One
1
To André Martins, it was wonderful to be back in his beloved Paris, his sprawling, lively, beautiful, romantic, exciting, fantastic Paris. How long had it been? He shook his huge, tousled head, reaching up to scratch under the cheap cap he had pushed back on his curly white hair. Maybe it was better not even to think about it; memories were dangerous things. It had been a damned long time, far too long, that’s all he knew; but now he was back, and bulldozers and tanks wouldn’t get him away again. He strode along, enjoying every second; the air seemed to smell better, the sun to shine more brightly, and he felt young again — or at least younger. Paris in September! Perfection! Actually, he suddenly remembered, it was the first of October, but what the hell! Close enough.
He crossed the Porte de Maillot with an insouciance that came from having lived in Spain, where they not only drove as recklessly as they did in Paris but where they had fewer cars and therefore greater mobility in pedestrian pursuit. Gaining the far curb, he paused a moment to glance down the Avenue de la Grand Armée toward the Arc de Triomphe. Home! With a smile of deep satisfaction on his weather-beaten face, he took a deep breath and continued on his way, enjoying the shade of the trees along the edge of the Bois de Boulogne. He had dropped off the metro a good deal before his destination, preferring to climb into the upper world and enjoy his Paris a bit. He had also wanted to take the time to savor the pleasure of the surprise he had in store for his old friend Kek Huuygens.
The luxury apartment building was ahead of him. His eyebrows went up at the degree of affluence implied; he had known that Kek was eminently prosperous, but this looked like the apartment of ministers, or black marketeers. He checked the address on the marquee and then shrugged; it was the correct address, or at least the last one he had had. Could they have built a new building on the spot since he had last heard from Kek? It would be too disappointing; he put the thought aside and pushed through the heavy swinging glass doors, entering into a cool, dim interior. After the bright sun of the street it took several moments for his eyesight to adjust; after the wait he located the concierge’s built-in corner desk to his left and made his way to it.
“M’sieu Huuygens, please? His apartment number?”
He smiled genially down at the tiny man behind the desk, relieved now that it was apparent the name Huuygens was not unfamiliar, that Kek actually did live there. The sudden look of suspicion on the small, wrinkled face did not surprise André in the least; his appearance invoked suspicion more often than not. He removed his benign gaze from the little uniformed man and stared about the lobby a minute. Posh, very posh. Nice. And he would bet the flowers were real. The whole décor earned his approval... He brought his attention back to the concierge to discover the guardian of the gate had moved from behind his counter and now stood four-square — or more like two-square, André thought — before the elevator door. Possibly the little man was deaf?
“M’sieu Huuygens. Kek Huuygens,” André repeated in an elevated tone. “His apartment number, please?”
The little man tilted his head and looked up. From his vantage point André appeared quite mountainous, a series of lumpy foothills climbing higher and higher to be topped by a craggy, snow-capped peak wearing a wrinkled cap. He appeared somewhat the size of King Kong, which the concierge remembered vaguely from his youth; what the big man did not appear, however, was the type visitor usually admitted to the apartment of a fine gentleman such as M’sieu Kek Huuygens. This uncouth giant obviously lacked the savoirfaire one expected in visitors to this very superior apartment building — visitors not using the servants’ entrance or the service doorway in the rear, that is.
“Are you expected?”
André grinned, taking the little man into his confidence. On a day like today it was impossible to have secrets.
“No. As a matter of fact, I hope to surprise him.”
And who would not be surprised, the concierge thought with irritation, to open a door and find a duplicate of the Abominable Snowman facing him? Nor did the little concierge doubt for a moment that the surprise would scarcely be pleasant; this one, in addition to looming over normal-sized people like the Matterhorn, also had a face that looked as if it had been run over by a taxi and repaired by an intern. The concierge brought to mind Marshal Foch and Willie Pep, neither very large men, and determined not to be intimidated by mere size.
“I’m afraid M’sieu Huuygens is not at home,” he said coldly. His tone clearly added the words, To you.
“And I am afraid,” André said pleasantly, “that I would require M’sieu Huuygens to advise me of that fact in person.” His smile did not abate in the least. He reached over and lifted the concierge politely, so that they were face to face. The little man had the sudden feeling there were miles of empty air beneath his feet. The face before him seemed to be enlarged, its pores visible like a view in a shaving mirror or the close-up of the villain on a wide movie screen. The face opened, showing huge blocks of teeth; it was speaking to him. “M’sieu Huuygens — his apartment number, please?”
The concierge swallowed convulsively; the altitude gave him a ringing in his ears. He doubted that either Marshal Foch or Willie Pep had ever faced a challenge quite this threatening. In a far less dangerous position, if he recalled his distant days as an élève of history, even Napoleon had seen fit to surrender.
“Six fourteen,” he murmured faintly and felt himself descending, to be deposited gently back on his feet, with the solid footing beneath him restoring his courage. He straightened his uniform with a tug, shot his cuffs, and brushed himself off. No telling what the monster had touched before! It would be a pleasure calling the flics when this one was denied admission to 614. May they bring truncheons, pistols, and loaded capes and may the large one not know that the cloaks contained weights sewn into the hem, not to drape more gracefully, but precisely to teach troublemakers a lesson!
“Thank you,” André said graciously, remembering his mother’s teachings, and turned to the elevator.
The elevator operator had been watching the scene in the lobby from within the elevator cab, behind the protection of the closed door, peeking through the little, wire-embedded glass window. André became aware that the cab was at his floor. He bent down, glowering through the glass and pressing the bell button deafeningly at the same time. The door opened reluctantly and André found himself facing a gnome as tiny as the concierge; the gnome was rubbing his ear resentfully. And were there five more, André wondered, and if so what do they do? Man the boilers and sweep the halls? And if so, where is Snow White?
“Good evening,” he said to the operator with a slight bow and entered the small cab. “Six, please.” He waited a moment, staring ahead to the street, and then looked down at the tiny man curiously. “I said, the sixth floor, please. Do you take me up, or do I take you up?”
The door slid closed with a grudging click, as if it shared the management opinion of this interloper. They rose in that majestic accoustical purity reserved for the vertical conveyance of the very rich, with the elevator operator staring stonily at the door. André approved of the transport, even as his mind on another plane prepared for his meeting with Kek Huuygens. It had been years — not since they had seen each other in Lisbon, in fact. It would be good to see Kek again — if he was home, that is. André hoped fervently that his old friend was home; he had a strong premonition that should Apartment 614 be deserted or refuse him entrance, he might well encounter police when he descended, and he was in far too good a mood to wish for trouble. Besides, it would do his newly regained passport little good to return home and get into a fight with the flics the very first day! Maybe later, but not the first day...