His pronunciation of the name was atrocious, but that was the least of the effect of his words upon André. A feeling like a tiny electric shock ran across the big man’s nerves, but no sign of it appeared on his face; if anything, he managed to look more stonelike than ever. So this had to be the money-man, then! What a lovely pair of cutthroats — Sanchez and Duarte! He paused a moment before replying; when he spoke, he spoke slowly, as if to be clearly understood.
“I know a man named Huuygens — or I used to know him, that is, a long time ago in France. But he wasn’t Dutch. He was Polish, using a Dutch name. Actually, the man I’m referring to — I heard he took out American citizenship some time ago, but I could be wrong.” He shrugged and toyed with his brandy glass. “As I say, it’s been a long time.”
“And what does your Huuygens do for a living?”
André looked at him flatly. “What do you want to know for?”
Duarte’s face hardened; it occurred to André that even though small, Duarte had an organization that made him ten feet tall anytime he wanted to issue the order.
“I asked you a polite question,” Duarte said quietly. “I’m not from the police, as you well know. Now, let’s try it again: What does he do?”
André shrugged as if it were no skin off his nose. “He smuggles.” He pushed his battered cap back on his head, as if recognizing antagonism was no longer needed. “They tell me he’s the best there is.” There was an unaccountable touch of pride in his tone.
“That’s the one, then,” Duarte said evenly and leaned closer again. “How friendly were you with him?”
André raised his massive shoulders and let them drop. “We had our times together. Actually, I saved his life a few times. Why?”
“Saved his life?” Duarte was satisfied; his smile, while still cold, was sincere for the first time. “Then I assume he would trust you.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Of course,” André said, properly amazed at the words. “Why shouldn’t he trust me?”
Duarte paid no attention to the question, which in any event had been completely rhetorical. For once that monomaniac Sanchez had been right. His thick fingers drummed on his knee. He looked up.
“And you wouldn’t mind putting him in the way of a good thing?”
“What do you call a good thing?”
Duarte surveyed the big man from beneath half-closed eyes. He brought back his friendly smile. “I’ll be frank with you, André. We’ve made him a proposition to take a — an object — through customs for us. He says he wants time to think about it, undoubtedly to check on who we are, if he’ll get paid, how he’ll get paid — things like that. And that he won’t end up in jail on a police frame, I imagine. All reasonable precautions, but they take time, and we don’t have time. A phone call from you to him...” The words trailed off, self-explanatory.
“What is in this” — André caught himself in time — “object you want him to smuggle?”
Duarte stared at him coldly. “What difference does it make? Especially to you? I want one thing from you, and just one — I want you to call him in Paris. I have his number. Just tell him he’s dealing with reputable people.”
André frowned, thinking about the proposition, and then apparently came to a decision. He raised his eyes to look into those of Señor Duarte and then slowly shook his head.
“No.”
Duarte’s eyes narrowed; he bit back his temper. “Why not? You’ll be paid for the call and paid well. Why not call? What difference does it make to you?”
“This difference,” André said softly. His brain was functioning on all cylinders, and about time! he thought. “Let us suppose this object of yours was — let’s say — a time bomb...”
“A time bomb?” Duarte almost laughed. The imagination one uncovered in peasants! “What the devil would I want to bring a time bomb into Spain for?”
“Possibly because you might have taken out a contract on my friend Huuygens,” André said calmly. “He does have enemies, you know, or at least I assume he has. And I hear that among your other activities, you and your boys also...” He looked Duarte in the eye.
Duarte looked back at him. “I don’t take contracts outside of the country,” he said evenly. “I don’t know your friend, and I give you my word I have no desire to kill him. It isn’t a bomb or anything like a bomb. It’s a plain, ordinary suitcase.”
“Suitcases have been known to carry explosives,” André pointed out. He was beginning to enjoy himself. It just went to prove how little hard work really meant in this world. Sweat your brains out interrogating bartenders and whorehouse madames and nothing happened, but simply wait around bars and clues fairly flung themselves at you. This detective business was highly overrated as far as he was concerned.
“This suitcase—” Duarte stopped abruptly. For a horrible moment André wondered if his wild statement might have an actual basis in fact, that it might, indeed, carry dynamite. Duarte clenched his jaw and went on. He hated to discuss things with nobodies. “This suitcase happens to contain something this Huuygens has a mania against carrying. And it isn’t explosives.” He looked up calculatingly. “What do you have scruples against?”
“Poverty,” André said and grinned. “Poverty and bad brandy.”
“And that’s all?”
“That’s the works.”
“Good,” Duarte said evenly. “There’s no danger to your friend in this, if he knows his business, of course. And he’d pick up a big piece of change for doing it. And you’d be well paid for telephoning him. Fifty—” He saw the look on André’s face and amended his offer smoothly. “One hundred pesetas. Just to make a telephone call.”
André considered. “Where’s this suitcase now?”
The big man was getting out of hand! “What’s it to you?”
“Curiosity is all. Where is it?” He sounded stubborn.
Duarte promised himself that some of his boys would pay a visit to this André once this matter was settled and teach him manners. Give one of these little men on the edge of smuggling the slightest smell of a big deal and they suddenly put on airs. Still, for the time being the man could be useful, and the information was unimportant in any event.
“Argentina, if you must know.”
“And before Argentina?”
“There was no before Argentina! The stuff was made—” Duarte had had enough; he clamped off the words. “Yes or no,” he said after a brief pause.
André considered the smaller man whimsically. “You ought to import the stuff legally,” he suggested. “Call it dental supplies, or something of that nature.”
Duarte’s face whitened; his mouth became mean. Suddenly he was not a short fat man but Antonio Duarte y Bertrand, a big wheel and a very dangerous man, despite his size. André wondered if he had gone too far. Duarte’s voice was grating.
“Any more comments?”
“Who, me?” André shook his head. “Like you said, it’s none of my business. The only thing is, one hundred pesetas doesn’t go very far these days...” He considered the other innocently. “... five hundred?”
Duarte’s fist slammed on the table. What he should have done, of course, was have the boys take care of this monster and then let him make his call from a hospital bed.
“Do you make the call?” He looked on the verge of explosion. “For five hundred pesetas?”
“Of course,” André said. “I don’t guarantee Huuygens takes the job; all I guarantee is to give you a good recommendation. Understood?”