“It could work,” he said slowly. “I don’t mean the smuggling; that’s perfect. I mean the thing with Schneller. Still, in everything, there are a couple of things I’m not too fond of—”
Kek faced him, unsmiling. “Just a couple?”
“Mainly. First, I don’t like the fact that you still don’t know how to teach Sanchez a lesson and still plan on giving him that suitcase...”
“And?”
“And suppose that Schneller doesn’t follow the bait? Suppose he doesn’t react the way you expect him to?”
Huuygens sighed and turned to look out of the window again out over the city, but not seeing it.
“Then,” he said, “we may be in trouble...”
12
Through the closed door of his apartment, Schneller could hear the sound of the telephone ringing. He fumbled his key ring into his hand, singling out a key, and hurried it into the lock, turned it quickly, and then searched for the key to a second lock, for the first time sorry he had been so thorough in his home-protective installations. He managed the auxiliary at last, the soft incessancy of the sound through the paneling a goad to his fingers. He swung the door aside as an irksome barrier, hurried across the room, his key strap dangling, and snatched up the instrument.
“Hello?” His voice was wheezing badly. One of these days, he promised himself, he had to stop smoking — and instantly he reached to touch the security blanket of the tobacco sack in his pocket as one might touch an amulet.
“Herr Schneller? Max Gross, from the Gerhardt Agency—”
“One second.” Schneller crossed the room, tucking the monstrous key ring into his pocket; he closed and locked the door and returned to the telephone, catching his breath. He sat down on the desk chair, overflowing it, speaking with more control. “All right. Go ahead.”
“Yes, sir.” Max spoke in German. “The subject left the Plaza Hotel about half an hour ago — two o’clock, precisely. He proceeded—”
“Was he alone?”
“Alone, yes.” It seemed to Max to be a rather odd question; Huuygens had been alone since he had arrived at Ezeiza Airport early that morning and could scarcely have picked up a companion since then without having been seen. However, Herr Schneller was paying for the surveillance, and Max was a firm believer in rendering unto Caesar.
“Well? Go ahead!”
Max came out of his reverie. “Yes, sir. Anyway, the subject proceeded to the British United Airways office in the Calle Maipú between Paraguay and Córdoba. It’s not far from the hotel and he walked. I followed the subject, taking all precautions not to be observed. Since the subject obviously was unaware of the surveillance, I proceeded into the office behind him. There was only one girl on counter duty, so I was able to obtain a place in line behind the subject and remained there while he transacted his business. The subject picked up tickets — it must be assumed they had been ordered by telephone prior — I mean, previously. I was therefore able, because of my position, to hear all that transpired.” Max giggled, veering from the agency vernacular a moment. “I couldn’t have helped hearing him if I’d tried—”
“Get on with it!” Schneller said gratingly. Why in the devil did every agency moron refer to a person as “the subject” instead of by name? And the rest of that garbage they used to replace plain German! This Max What’s-his-name was a fool. What kind of detectives was he paying for, anyway?
“Yes, sir!” Max said hurriedly. “Anyway, the subject leaves Buenos Aires the day after tomorrow—”
“The day after tomorrow? What’s he hanging around for?”
Max had no idea, but he didn’t seem to feel it politic to say so. Herr Schneller appeared to be a bit on edge this morning.
“Possibly to sight-see, sir. He may be a stranger here, taking advantage of his—”
“Get on with it!”
“Yes, sir! The subject leaves the day after tomorrow, Thursday, at seventeen twenty-five — that’s five twenty-five in the afternoon, sir — from Ezeiza Airport on British United Airways for London, arriving there at fourteen fifteen Saturday. That’s two fifteen in the after—”
“I know! I know! Keep quiet a second...”
London, eh? Schneller frowned at the desk blotter. Why would Huuygens pick an airport as large as either of the two major ports in London? He obviously would expect to be searched, since he always was; and they were far from fools in London. Besides, the chances of smuggling anything the size of a suitcase through customs in London had to be the devil’s own task. And when you were through, where were you? Still far from Spain, and on an island to boot. And even worse, of course — getting this Huuygens alone for the purpose of taking the suitcase from him in a busy place like London, with police all around, could also be a major problem...
“What airport?”
“Gatwick,” Max said, proud that he — or rather, the counter girl — had overlooked no detail.
Well, Schneller thought, at least Gatwick isn’t quite as crowded as Heathrow, but it still is a very busy airport. Possibly there was another answer? After all, just because a man buys a ticket for a certain destination doesn’t necessarily mean he has to go there.
“Any stopovers?”
“Two. Rio de Janeiro and Las Palmas in the Canaries. But he’s not staying in London; he’s going on,” Max added hurriedly, suddenly realizing that Herr Schneller was misunderstanding his information.
“Well, for God’s sake! Don’t make me drag it out of you word by word!” Good Lord! What was this incompetent’s name? Max? Really, Gerhardt would hear of this!
“Yes, sir. The subject changes planes in London, same airfield, Gatwick, also to British United, for Gibraltar. He leaves Gatwick at twenty-one forty-five and gets into Gibraltar — North Front Airport — at twenty-three fifteen. That’s” — Max realized he was close to repeating an error — “fifteen minutes before midnight. No, forty-five,” he amended hastily and anticipated a further question. “No stopovers on that leg. And that’s as far as his ticket goes.”
This Huuygens is really laying a trail, Schneller thought, and was happy he had been wise enough to put Gerhardt and his men on the job, even though it was just pure luck that a mental cripple like this Max should have gotten so much of the finer details.
“Now, what about luggage? Was there any mention of it? For example, what about the transfer from one plane to the other at Gatwick?”
“They put it from one plane to the other in London — the company does, that is. The girl said so; she said he’d have no worry on that score. He puts his bags in at Ezeiza here and doesn’t get his hands on them until Gibraltar.”
There was a pause as Schneller considered this information. Gibraltar, of course, made a lot more sense than Gatwick. Actually, it made a lot of sense. It was small, minute when compared with London, with far less traffic and far, far less staff. The intermediate stops were well forgotten; if Huuygens bought that detailed a ticket just to get off at Rio de Janeiro to throw anyone off his trail, he’d still be almost as far from his ultimate destination and still face all the same problems. No, Gibraltar made real sense — although how the man planned to get it from Gibraltar into Spain would be interesting. Actually, it would be even more interesting to know how he planned to get it out of the airport in Gibraltar. Interesting but nonessential, since M’sieu Huuygens had his, Schneller’s, permission to get it past customs any way he, Huuygens, chose; he, Schneller, would see to it that he, Huuygens, would be relieved of the custody of the suitcase in short order. This bit of cerebral gymnastics completed, Schneller went on with his calculating.