He looked at the refrigerator door with a pang, remembering his last meal, a long time ago, and then forced himself to go and sit down at the table, staring through the curtained window at the parkland across the street. He also hadn’t come to visit an old friend just to raid an icebox...
2
Señor Luis Anselmo Sanchez y Miranda was a tall, painfully thin man with a narrow face, cavernous cheeks, thin lips, and a large nose revealing flaring nostrils over a hairline mustache. His wedge-shaped forehead was split geometrically by a sharp widow’s peak that made him look slightly satanic; the black hair that flowed back on each side seemed polished, as if by wax. His eyes were hooded, his skin mottled, and his teeth could have stood both straightening and cleaning, but what his personal features lacked in beauty was at least partially compensated for by his clothing; he was impeccably dressed in a tight checkered suit favored by Spaniards of a certain type.
He glanced about the elegant room appreciatively, waited until Anita had excused herself — his black eyes following her with even greater appreciation than they had exhibited for the nudes on the walls — and then graciously accepted the seat offered him by a casual wave of his host’s hand. The bright light from the windows struck his eyes, but not so forcibly as to cause him to consider a change in seating; he appreciated the intelligent purpose that had led Huuygens to seat him there. And for what Señor Sanchez had in mind, an intelligent man was what he required. In fact, what he required was Kek Huuygens himself, and nobody else, and a little momentary discomfort was a small price to pay for obtaining those invaluable services.
There was a moment of silence, broken by Sanchez. “A lovely apartment...”
“Thank you. We find it most comfortable.” The tone Kek used was sufficiently polite but clearly hinted that he was sure his visitor had not come for the sole purpose of complimenting the furnishings. He tented his fingers, watching his guest above them. “You say André Martins gave you my telephone number?”
“Yes.” Sanchez nodded easily, neither overanxious to prove his good credentials nor hesitantly, as if trying to avoid the matter. It was well done, and Kek gave him credit for it. “He claims to be an old friend of yours, m’sieu.” It was a statement but ended on a slightly rising inflection.
“He is. Although I haven’t seen him in years. He went to Portugal; I went to the States...” One good lie deserves another, Kek thought, and leaned back, prepared to play the verbal chess game to conclusion. Move and countermove...
“Ah!” Señor Sanchez folded his pencillike fingers into a bundle which he deposited in his lap; they lay there like sticks. He seemed to relax a bit. “Yes. Luckily I’ve been able to be of some help to poor André from time to time — small jobs, occasional loans. A fine fellow, André, and strong as a bull, of course.” His French, Huuygens was pleased to see, was excellent; it would have been more difficult to conduct the charade in Kek’s Spanish, but far from impossible. Languages were vital to his profession. The thin man’s rich voice became sad. “Not too successful, André, I’m afraid — no businessman — but still, a fine fellow...”
What an actor! Kek thought. He kept his voice noncommittal. “As I say, I haven’t heard from him in years. What’s old André doing in Lisbon these days?”
“Not Lisbon. Barcelona. He came to Spain a year ago, at least. As to what he’s doing—” Sanchez shrugged. “A little of this and a little of that. I try to see to it the poor fellow doesn’t starve. He can’t return to France, you know. Some trouble with the police, I hear. A pity. He talks about Paris quite often.”
“It must be difficult. Trouble with the police, I mean.” Kek suppressed a yawn. “Well, be sure and give him my regards when you see him.” His tone relegated poor André Martins and his problems back to the oblivion in which they apparently existed. He pressed his tented fingers together tightly and then released the pressure; it was as if he was preparing for business. “And just exactly what did Martins tell you about me, señor?”
The man across from him hesitated a moment and then leaned forward slightly. It was something like watching a carpenter’s rule unfold.
“He told me you could help me with a problem I have.”
“A problem?”
“Yes. To be exact, M’sieu Huuygens, I have a suitcase which I should like to have taken through customs—”
“So?” Kek stared at him curiously. “What did André say that made you think that should interest me?”
Sanchez smiled. “I understand your caution, m’sieu, but believe me, you have no need of it with me. I am in much the same business as you — among other businesses, of course. I am well aware of your reputation and your talent for — well, for such things.” He tried to make out the expression on the shadowed face across from him, but without success. “Let me put it another way, m’sieu. Let us take a hypothetical example...”
“That might be better,” Kek agreed equably. “What example should we take?”
“Let’s take the case of a person who wished to bring a suitcase through customs without — well, shall we say without bothering the customs officials too much?”
Kek sighed gently. “If you wish to consider either the example or the suitcase hypothetical, fine; but let’s leave the rest of the language veritable, shall we? Semantics can get complicated at times.” He tapped his tented fingers together. “Now, let’s take the hypothetical case of a person wishing to smuggle a suitcase through customs.”
“Fair enough,” Sanchez said and grinned. “All right. Could such a thing be done?”
“I imagine so. Though I still fail to see why this should interest me.”
“With your permission, a little patience, m’sieu, I believe I can show you how it could interest you in a while. But first, you say it can be done?”
“I should say so. Taken from where to where?”
“From Buenos Aires to Barcelona.”
“And what would this hypothetical case contain?”
Señor Sanchez looked slightly disappointed at what he obviously considered a faux pas on the part of his host.
“Considering the fee I’m sure will be asked — a fee I’m equally sure will not be hypothetical — I should imagine the contents of the suitcase could remain secret.”
Kek shrugged. “Possibly by some, but certainly not by me. It appears, señor, that André did not tell you enough about me. Or possibly he didn’t know, since it’s been a long time. But let me say this: I can’t picture myself taking a hypothetical suitcase into Spain containing, say, narcotics, for example.”
“For no amount of money?”
“For no amount of money.”
“And if it didn’t contain narcotics?”
“Then it obviously would contain something else. Which would not have to be a secret.” He shook his head. “Let me suggest that I cannot imagine anyone, myself included, taking a suitcase through customs without knowing what he was carrying.”
There were several moments of prolonged silence, followed by a deep sigh. The hawklike profile pivoted, the hooded eyes studying the room without actually seeing any of the beauties it contained. The black, hooded eyes returned at last to Kek’s face as if calculating something.
“All right, m’sieu. My reticence is simply due to the fact that you will probably not believe what I am about to tell you—” He paused.
Kek nodded inwardly. You may be quite sure I won’t believe it, he silently assured the man across from him and waited. Sanchez seemed to find it hard to continue; his locked fingers writhed in his lap, like disturbed twigs. At last he looked up. “To tell you the truth, M’sieu Huuygens,” he said, “the suitcase will contain nothing more illegal than parchment.”