Gerhardt had always known that Schneller was clever with his hands, but he had never credited him with excessive imagination.
“From Paris to Perpignan,” he said with more respect. “A six-hour layover in Paris and then less than an hour’s flight to Perpignan. He’ll be getting there at twenty-one o-five.”
“Still from Orly?”
“Yes.”
“What about his luggage?”
“Willi said they put it on the plane at Orly for him — transfer it, that is. Checked in here, delivered in Perpignan.”
“And that’s the end of the line.” It was a statement.
“Yes. At least as far as the ticket he bought from Air France.”
The tight feeling began to leave Schneller; he had panicked for nothing. Obviously, Huuygens was no fool. He had simply taken the normal precaution of laying a false trail first in order to guarantee not being followed. He probably canceled his first ticket as soon as he got back to the hotel; in all probability he had paid by credit card—
“How did he pay?”
Gerhardt was ashamed not to know. “Willi didn’t say.”
“No matter.”
It was unimportant. There were no confederates; a smart man did not use them — unless they were essential, he amended hurriedly, thinking of Berlin. No. Huuygens was working alone and Perpignan was his true destination. It was fortunate he had arranged for Gerhardt to put enough men on the job so that he had not been led astray by that first booking. And equally fortunate that his call to Germany, according to the international operator, would not go through until six o’clock that evening, so that he had not as yet given definite instructions. He could now direct the men differently: one to Orly to join the flight with Huuygens, and the other to Perpignan to wait. Otherwise the scenario would be the same.
He frowned down at the desk blotter, his eyes narrowing. Or... just suppose Huuygens was being cute again — apparently a habit of his — and the second was the false trail, and not the first? In that case it would be better to have four men on the job: two for the Perpignan trip and two for the Gibraltar trip. He shook his head, his light-blue eyes murderous. This thing had damned well better work out, because the expenses were getting out of hand! Still, thirty pounds of pure cocaine — if everything worked out, that is. But what if it didn’t? He’d be the rest of his life paying off... He put the terrible thought from him and returned to the telephone.
“All right,” he said. “Where is he now?”
“I have Gomez following him.”
“Gomez?” For a moment it didn’t register. Gerhardt had an Argentinian national on his payroll? He kicked himself for thinking of inconsequentials at a time like that. “All right. Stay with him. At least until your two days are up.” No sense in paying and not getting the work done.
“We will,” Gerhardt said briefly and hung up.
Schneller’s hand reached unconsciously for his tobacco and papers. Perpignan, eh? Really even a better spot for Huuygens to try to cross the Spanish border than Gibraltar. Not very far from the coast, and a small fishing boat on a dark night, and a brief run to Barcelona. Except that M’sieu Huuygens would never leave Perpignan alive... Or Gibraltar — whichever...
Kek Huuygens strolled in a relaxed manner down the Avenida Santa Fe. It was six in the evening, that most perfect hour in October in Buenos Aires, and he was pleased to be on that most perfect of streets. The windows of many fine shops beckoned, and Kek paused every now and then to savor their wares, wishing he could bring some of them back for Anita. And also to determine that the small, swarthy figure following him continued to be reflected in the various polished glasses. Satisfied that he had not lost his little shadow, he crossed the road at a leisurely pace and pushed his way cheerfully through the glass door into the Alitalia office.
A lovely girl detached herself from writing up a ticket and approached, smiling, pleased to have been interrupted in the boring task, and especially by this handsome stranger. Behind Huuygens Gomez was having trouble with the heavy door. Kek was about to turn and open it for him when a departing customer took care of the emergency. Gomez came to stand behind Kek; Huuygens leaned over the counter.
“Do you have space to Rome?”
The girl automatically looked at the wall clock and then shook her head sadly. She hated to disappoint this nice-looking man. “It’s too late for today, and I’m afraid we’re booked for tomorrow. A pity; we had a no-show—”
“I was thinking of Thursday,” Kek said and smiled.
“Oh, we can get you out on Thursday,” the girl said; her tone indicated two things: that she would willingly put another passenger off to accommodate him, and that she was free until the plane left. She reached for her clipboard, wondering why more men in Buenos Aires did not have curly hair and gray eyes beneath jagged eyebrows. Behind Huuygens, Gomez stared about at the colorful posters on the cream walls, the perfect picture of a man waiting his turn in a queue. His swarthy face was emotionless, but inwardly he was exulting. The only Argentinian in the agency, and he would be the one who would have the information the big, blond client wanted; he, Gomez, would be the one who would report the wanted facts...
When a little less than twenty minutes later he did exactly that, he was surprised — and not a little disappointed — at the reception his information received.
“What!”
“Yes, sir,” Gomez repeated earnestly. “To Rome the evening after tomorrow at eighteen fifteen hours. Via Freetown and Casablanca. A layover of five hours at Leonardo da Vinci Airport in Rome, and then another Alitalia flight nonstop to Marseilles...”
He waited for the praise that, inexplicably, was not forthcoming.
“Tell Gerhardt to ring me as soon as he can,” Schneller said abruptly and slammed the telephone down.
His heavy features were twisted in frustration and anger; his big fist pounded the desk top softly. This Huuygens was playing with him! He was being cute again, knowing that Schneller abhorred cuteness! London, Paris, Rome! A joke, that’s what Huuygens was playing, a lousy, miserable, verdammt, unfunny joke! What was he trying to do? Make him, Schneller, hire half of Berlin as well as most of the Gerhardt Agency? Make him go broke following that damned suitcase? Whose suitcase was it in the first place? Who built it? Could Huuygens have built it? No! He admitted it himself! Well, then, him and his damned unfunny jokes! Well, he wouldn’t fall for it. Damn right he wouldn’t! He’d — He suddenly remembered the call to Berlin he had just completed; his hand shot out for the telephone, determined to cancel all instructions until he could see light in the puzzle, his mind composing curses for Huuygens and all of his relatives, past and future, but before he could raise the receiver, the instrument rang. He snatched it up. It was Gerhardt.
“Gomez just got in touch. He said you wanted to talk to me?”
“Yes! Take your men off Huuygens — your — your — your so-called operatives! Detectives! My good God!”
“What’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter, he says! He’s making idiots out of us, that’s what’s the matter! Your men must stand out like-like—” Schneller gave up on a proper comparison. “What are they wearing? Cowbells? That miserable Schweinhund will lead them from one airline to another like the pied piper all night long, or until they close! That bastard is just trying to—” Schneller suddenly clamped his jaws closed. He was talking too much; the details were no affair of Gerhardt’s. He also realized he was talking nonsense. “I’m sorry, Gerhardt. I’m upset. Forget what I said. Keep your men on him until he goes to the airport, but put on different men. He’s wise to everyone you’ve had on him so far. I’m sure.”