“Understood,” Duarte said tightly and came to his feet without wasting further time. He walked through the bar briskly with André at his side, not at all intimidated by the difference in their heights, and entered the manager’s office without knocking. The manager looked up from his desk, momentarily prepared to denounce the unexpected intruders; one look of recognition at his uninvited guest and he forced his expression to one of respect, if not admiration.
“Señor Duarte...”
“We want to use your telephone. A private call.”
The last was said with significance; the manager understood. He straightened some papers on his desk with a poor show of at least partial independence, got to his feet, and hastily left the room, closing the door behind him. Duarte picked up the telephone, clicked it impatiently for the operator’s attention, and gave her instructions in a drill-sergeant manner. André stood at ease, glancing about the room as the call was put through. Through the open, barred window the faint sounds of the harbor could be heard in the distance, although all that could be seen from the window was the faded red-brick wall of a warehouse across the narrow street, pockmarked with ant’s nests and sporting a few tattered posters aggrandizing a famous bullfighter, plus some scrawled graffiti taking exception to the torero’s talents. André had a tendency to agree with the graffiti.
The minutes dragged by; André was beginning to consider calling in a waiter — at his own expense, if necessary — when Duarte suddenly made an unintelligible sound and thrust the receiver in his direction. André took it and listened. A telephone bell was ringing in a well, it seemed. There was a sudden silence as the international operator cut the call momentarily; a few more seconds and she was back on the line.
“Here’s your party,” she said politely, and then Kek’s voice was in his ear. It was remarkably clear.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Kek? Kek Huuygens—?”
Duarte stood on tiptoe, trying to bring his ear in conjunction with the receiver; André obliged by bending lower and then went on without pause.
“This is a very old friend of yours you haven’t heard from in years — in many years. André Martins. Remember me? From the old days in the south of France? It’s been a long time, but you ought to remember me. André Martins? From Perpignan? The big man? I used to sing all the gypsy songs...”
“André? André Martins?” Kek was delighted. “My God, it has been a long time. Still, to be honest, just hearing your voice it seems like it was only yesterday! Forget you? How could I forget the man who saved my life? How are you?”
“Fine. Kek—”
“But the operator said the call was from Barcelona; the last I heard, you were living in Lisbon.”
“I left Lisbon a year or so ago—”
“Oh? And what are you doing with yourself these days?”
“A little of this and a little of that,” André said vaguely and then got down to business. “Look, Kek, I have a message for you.”
“Oh? From whom?”
André glanced over his shoulder questioningly. The short, fat man shook his head emphatically, waggled a finger definitively, and then bent down again, pressing his ear to the back of the receiver. André returned his attention to his call.
“You wouldn’t know him by name.” There was a brief pause and he went on. “Kek, have you been thinking about a trip? A vacation trip? Say, from Argentina to Spain?”
There was a sudden silence at the Paris end of the line. When Huuygens spoke again his voice was cautious, though still friendly.
“I’m considering it. Do you know anything about it I should know?”
“I know somebody has been kind enough to offer to pay your way. Well, I’m calling to say I know these people personally, and they’re first rate. Plenty of money, too, so you don’t have to worry about the cost being a drain on them. Highly reputable — in their own line, naturally. I rate them A-one.”
“I see.” There was another pause; Huuygens seemed to be thinking. “You say you know these people personally. Have you seen them recently?”
“Extremely recently. I’ve known them for a long time, too. They can be trusted.”
“That’s good,” Kek said. “Still, I haven’t made up my mind yet. I’m pretty busy these days, you know; or if you don’t know, I am. A vacation is fine, especially a free one, but I’ll have to think about it.”
“You do that,” André suggested. “And I hope you take it. You know me, Kek, and you know I wouldn’t steer you wrong—”
“I know that, André. I’d trust you with my life.” He laughed. “I have, several times.”
“Good, then think about it, eh, Kek? And if you get to Barcelona we can get together and see each other after all these years. Talk over old times...” Or, he added to himself with an inner smile, maybe we can turn this sister act into a vaudeville skit if smuggling ever goes sour. Anita can play the banjo.
“I promise to think about it seriously. And if I should get there, how do I reach you?”
“There’s a place here called Manuela’s. Everybody knows it. It’s a... well, a sort of club. They always know where I am. I move a lot.”
“Well, maybe I’ll see you in Barcelona, yet. It’s been good talking to you, André. Take care.”
“I will, Kek. You take care, too. Ciao.” André depressed the telephone lever, putting the receiver back in its cradle. He turned to Duarte. “Good enough?”
Even Duarte had been impressed. “Excellent!” he said and dug an overstuffed wallet from his pocket. He counted out ten fifty-peseta notes and thrust them at André. For a moment he considered adding an extra hundred as a tip and then abandoned the idea. For a tip he would overlook the big man’s lip and not put his boys on him. He reached up and patted André on the shoulder. “We may be able to do business again sometime. No scruples, eh?”
“Don’t make it sound any better than it is,” André said and grinned. He stuffed the bills into his pocket, feeling them wedge against the wad already there. Money, money, money, money — it was either feast or famine. If this kept on, he’d have to buy himself a wallet, something he had not required for years. Ah, well, he thought with a smile, at least he had made expenses, and that was always pleasant...
“Cocaine,” André said calmly into the telephone.
“Cocaine?”
“There isn’t the slightest doubt. It’s the only major drug that comes principally from South America, and since I called you this afternoon—”
“With somebody practically sitting in your lap?”
“With somebody blowing garlic in my face. A man named Duarte, Sanchez’s partner. Anyway, since I called you, I’ve been doing some checking. I practically put it to Duarte that it was cocaine — I asked him why he didn’t import it legally as dentists’ supplies, and I thought he was going to have his boys after me. Which I don’t mind telling you is not the most comfortable feeling in the world. Anyway, I guess we ended up friends, so that’s no problem. In any event, I started checking.”
“And?”
“And,” André said, a bit smugly because of his success, “not long ago Sanchez spent a month in Bolivia. He sent a postcard from there to Manuela’s girls, the whole bunch—”
“That’s that club you mentioned?” Kek laughed.
“Well, sure, I went back there — I mean, it was all in the interests of the investigation. Anyway, he sent this postcard from a place called Talma. I checked it out at the library. It’s nearly on the Argentinian border and on the edge of the Chaco — and the only possible thing a man like Sanchez could do there, or anyone else for that matter, would be to arrange to buy coca leaves. I’m sure he didn’t go for his health. I don’t know where he had the stuff actually made, but my guess would be right in Buenos Aires.”