Most, but not all. Kek Huuygens’ thoughts were on neither. To begin with, he knew it would be a good ten hours more until a hot bath or rest would be possible; as for immigration and customs, he gave them no thought. His plans would work out or not; if not, alternate plans would be called for. His thoughts, therefore, were free of such mundane paths and were concentrated instead on perfecting the idea that had come to him in the long night. The Encyclopaedia Britannica, which had proven such a complication once upon a time when Kek had been attempting to aid a certain M’sieu Vries Waldeck get five million dollars into the United States, had more than repaid him. How lucky that Anita’s snoring — well, restlessness, say — had gotten him as far as “Elephants”! Now, assuming the prestigious encyclopedia was not in error — an unconscionable thought — he was fairly sure he knew how to teach Señor Sanchez a lesson. And one with a moral he could consider for some time.
It was a practical possibility, Kek was sure, although he would be pleased to have André’s advice and consent. It would scarcely do to blow themselves up in putting his scheme into practice; no matter how meritorious the idea, it was bound to be considered a failure in that circumstance.
He smiled happily to himself and stared down. The stained concrete of the Portela Airport in Lisbon was swirling upward to meet them; they touched down with a jar. The huge reactors instantly reversed themselves, jamming passengers back into their seats, and then released them as if by magic. The plane rolled gently down the runway, proud it had made it, and settled down, preening, before the terminal building. Seat belts were unfastened; people came to their feet in a daze, groping for belongings, amazed to be alive. There was a muffled clatter as the door was attacked from without, sunlight streamed into the cabin, and the huge bird began dropping passengers.
Kek followed the straggling line of loaded-down people into the terminal, squinting his eyes against the glare of sunlight reflected from the white building. In the distance the even blocks of apartment buildings along the Avenida Gago Coutinho stood etched against the horizon. Kek passed inside, waited his turn in immigration, presented his passport to have it stamped, and continued on past the bustling luggage racks to the customs area. An inspector detached himself from a group at the main desk and walked over, shaking his head.
“The senhor will need to get his luggage first—”
“I have no luggage.”
“No luggage?” It was quite unusual but not completely unknown. The inspector shrugged; it was not his province to see that passengers were properly accoutered. “Then, your passport, please? And your declaration form?”
Kek handed them over. The inspector frowned at the name, checked the face against the photograph in the booklet, and then nodded. He did not seem to be as surprised as most customs inspectors to find the famous — or infamous — Kek Huuygens at his station in the Lisbon customs. He nodded again and tipped his head, retaining possession of the passport. His voice was politeness itself.
“M’sieu Huuygens?”
“Yes?”
“If you could come with me, please?”
Kek stared. “May I ask why? Since I have no luggage?”
“Please...”
Kek shrugged hopelessly and followed along. They went through the gate, along a narrow aisle, and paused before a door. The inspector tapped on it with diffidence. A brusque voice from within bade them enter. The inspector opened the door and stood aside for Huuygens to go in first. Kek walked in. The inspector handed him his passport, backed out, and closed the door behind him. Kek turned. His eyes widened in surprise. Then he smiled in honest delight.
“Michel!” Michel Morell, assistant police chief of Lisbon and an old, old friend, sat behind a battered desk in the small room. It was stuffy in the room; a fan stood on a bracketed shelf in one corner, but it was not operating, nor did it appear to be in shape to operate. The assistant chief of police was looking at Kek steadily.
“Hello, Kek.”
Kek grinned. “Is that all the enthusiasm you can build up after all these years? How have you been? You’re looking well.” He looked about the shabby office as if noticing it for the first time. His face fell. “What happened, Michel? A reduction in rank?” He went on without awaiting an answer. “Imagine seeing you! Somewhat of a coincidence — I ran into André the other day—”
“I know,” Morell said quietly, interrupting. He picked up a pencil, beginning to twiddle it, watching it rather than Kek. “And it’s no coincidence. And there’s been no reduction in rank. I’m still with the police, not with customs, but in Portugal we have a bit more authority than in many other countries. Over many things.”
Kek swung his hand to indicate the office. “Then—”
“This isn’t my office. I came here to see you—”
Kek smiled. “That was nice!”
“—I heard you were passing through our city” — Morell looked up from the pencil; he smiled briefly, unhumorously — “and I thought it would be nice to make sure you did just that. Pass through, I mean.”
Kek frowned. “You heard I was passing through?”
“Yes.” Morell tossed the pencil aside. “I also saw André. Yesterday, in fact. He dropped into my office downtown for several reasons, one of which was to talk over old times. He mentioned he’d run into you on the street in Buenos Aires and that you’d be coming through Lisbon today on KLM—”
“André said that?” Huuygens sounded disappointed.
“Don’t blame him,” Morell said and shrugged. “He thought it would be a good idea if the three of us got together for old time’s sake.” He shook his head a bit sadly. “Old André isn’t too smart — he never was — but he meant well.”
“I suppose so,” Kek said and sighed. “However, I prefer my comings and goings to be treated with the same confidence with which I give them to people. Well, it makes no difference. However,” he went on, his face brightening at the thought, “we are all here together, so why not have that reunion?”
“For many reasons,” Morell said. He sounded almost bored with the conversation. “The main one being that you have a plane to catch.”
“I’ll postpone it!”
“You’ll take it,” Morell said evenly.
Kek looked at him, hurt and puzzled. “But why? I thought we were friends.”
“We were. And we are, anyplace except Lisbon.” Despite his. vaunted composure, Morell could not keep a touch of bitterness from his tone. “The last time you were here, friend, you very nearly got me fired. Worse, you came close to getting me imprisoned. And all for what I later heard were only a packet of miniature paintings—”
“Only!” Kek drew himself up. “They happened to be worth a fortune!”
“And that was worth putting me on the spot?”
“It had nothing to do with the miniatures, and you know it. It... it was necessary to... to get your help. The miniatures had nothing to do with it. And I knew you’d fall on your feet. You always have.”
“Thank you,” Morell said dryly. “In any event, do me a favor. Your plane to Madrid leaves in five hours, I am told. Be on it.”
“I have every intention of being on it,” Kek said stiffly.
“Good.” Morell’s black eyes studied the man before him. “No luggage?”
“None.”
“Which will save it being either searched or impounded,” Morell said and came to his feet. He hesitated a moment and then shrugged, a small dapper man with a frozen face and an erect, soldierly stance. “Sorry, Kek. I know the miniatures had nothing to do with it. As for my actions today, I hope there are no hard feelings.”
“I suppose everyone has to do his job as he sees fit,” Huuygens said sententiously and opened the door for Morell. “Well, we still have five hours. Let’s go downtown and have a drink.”
“I suggest you do your drinking alone,” Morell said with no expression, “and in the terminal.” He motioned Kek to precede him from the small office and closed the door behind them. He led the way past the customs gate to the main lobby of the terminal, Kek keeping pace with him. Morell paused in the center of the large room. For the first time he appeared a bit unhappy at his actions. “Good-bye, Kek.”
“Good-bye.” Kek put out his hand; Morell shook it hard. Huuygens put out a hand, claiming the other’s attention for a few more moments. “By the way, Michel, you said André dropped in to see you for several reasons. What were the other ones?”
“Just one other one. He was robbed,” Morell said. He sounded impatient with André.
“Robbed?”
“Yes. Can you imagine?” Morell shook his head. “I tell you, old André isn’t the man we used to know, believe me. In town five minutes, not even out of the airport proper, and somebody takes his suitcase away like candy from a baby! He says his back was turned for a second and the man — or woman, or whatever — must have picked it up and ran. He didn’t see a soul, but he still expects us to catch whoever did it and get his things back. André robbed like a child! Can you imagine?”
“Hardly...”
“Well, we all get old, I suppose.” Morell sighed, thought a moment, and then came from his reverie. He raised a hand. “Well, take care, Kek.”
“I shall. And you too,” Huuygens said softly and watched the military carriage of the dapper policeman as Morell walked out to his car. So André had been robbed of his suitcase, eh? My, my... He heard a small voice at about the level of his hip pocket and turned.
“Senhor?” A small boy was pushing an envelope in his direction.
“Yes?”
“A man said to give this to you. He said—” The boy swallowed; it seemed hard to believe now. “He said you’d give me” — the sum was really too much! — “fifty escudo...”
“He did, did he?”
Kek bit back a smile. If he was being watched, as he sincerely hoped he was, amusement was not indicated at this point. He took the envelope from the boy and handed him a fifty-escudo note; the lad scampered away before minds could be changed. Kek slit the envelope, removed a key, and pointedly searched the empty cover for a note he knew would not be there. He frowned at the number on the key and started toward one side of the large room. A loudspeaker suddenly exploded, announcing the final call for the continuation of his flight to Amsterdam. Kek paused to listen, his face expressionless, and then continued on toward the lockers, his senses keyed.