Anita stared at him. “A historian! I learn something new about you every day!”
Kek shrugged modestly. “Not a historian — an insomniac. When you are asleep and snoring, my darling, preventing me from getting any rest—”
“Snoring? Me?”
“You, my sweet. Someday I shall take the tape recorder into the bedroom and gather proof. At any rate,” Kek said with a grin in her direction, “at those times I read the encyclopedia until I get drowsy enough to overcome the local disturbances, and I’m all the way up to Elephants. If he’d have said Finland instead of Argentina, I’d have had to wait until next week to catch him. We won’t even talk about Venezuela.”
“Which proves I can’t snore very much, if you’re only up as far as ‘Elephants’!”
“I’m a slow reader.” Kek’s light tone disappeared. “At any rate, there was that final land grant issued, but where our friend Sanchez made an even greater mistake was in forgetting one thing: He forgot that by that year they were well past the age of parchment. The final grants of the Spanish crown were written in quill and ink, on oil paper. If anyone found that grant recently — assuming it had ever been lost — all he would have to do would be simply to mail it to Barcelona, registered mail, and forget all about the expensive services of M’sieu Kek Huuygens.” He smiled. “That’s the end of the lesson, children.”
André frowned. “So what’s in the suitcase?”
“A good question,” Kek conceded. “If it were coming from the Middle East, I’d bet on drugs; or even if he wanted to get it into Spain from France. Marseilles has become the leading producer of heroin in the world. I mention this in case either of you native-born Frenchmen need facts to brag about your native land. But drugs from South America?” He frowned and then unconsciously tugged at an earlobe as he pondered the problem. When he spoke his tone was apologetic. “André—”
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid that offer of hospitality was a bit premature. I’d like you to go back to Barcelona. With your contacts, possibly you could find out what Sanchez is up to.”
André’s first reaction was to ask how, but he contained himself. It would be tantamount to admitting that his position in the smuggling elite of Barcelona was well on the outskirts, and that the André that Kek remembered from the old days — the André of decision and forceful will — no longer existed. Better to bluff, he said to himself, and he came to his feet, grinning at Huuygens.
“I wouldn’t be surprised but what I could dig something up.” His grin widened. “On expenses, I assume?”
“Definitely. And by plane, this time — first class.” Kek smiled. “To be charged to Señor Luis Sanchez and Company — if we take on the job, that is.”
André’s face fell. “And if you don’t take on the job?”
“In that case,” Kek suggested dryly, “try to hunch down when you buy your ticket. Otherwise the airline might charge you for two seats...”
3
“He wants a few days to consider it,” Sanchez said into the telephone. His voice was conspiratorial, his skeletal hand cupping the receiver, as if that might in some way keep the words from filtering out into improper ears somewhere along the miles of long-distance wire. “I’ll have to wait around until he makes up his mind.”
At the far end of the call to Barcelona there was an unhappy sound. Señor Antonio Maria Duarte y Bertrand, the senior partner in the deal, was not pleased with the delay. Time was, after all, money. And money was Señor Duarte’s business, among many other things.
“What does he call a few days?”
“Three or four. Less than a week, he said.”
“Three or four, first! Then a week! Next it will be a month! What does he need time for?”
Sanchez shrugged. What a stupid question!
“You ask him,” he said. “He didn’t go into detail. He simply said he didn’t know me personally and that he wanted to check on my credentials. To make sure I’m not from the police, I suppose,” he added, well content that a check on his credentials would reveal quite the opposite. “And I imagine he wants to be sure he’ll be paid if he takes the job.”
“To hell with him!” Duarte said shortly. “We’ll get somebody else!”
“We will not get somebody else,” Sanchez said savagely. “Maybe you don’t care about your share, but I certainly care about mine! We will get Huuygens. Just be a little patient!”
“Patient! Why didn’t you increase the offer? Time is important, damn it!”
“Increase the offer, he says! Why didn’t you give me permission to increase the offer?” Luis Sanchez made a rude noise, properly aggrieved. What a damn shame he hadn’t the money to swing the deal himself but had to go in with this unspeakable idiot, Antonio! “You were the one who set ten thousand as the limit — not me!”
“It is, after all, my money,” Antonio pointed out, quite unaware of any illogic in his position, and then realized that further discussion along these lines would be fruitless and only benefit the Compañia Telefónica. “Why didn’t you use Rosa? That’s why you took her along, isn’t it? Wasn’t that one of your reasons?”
Sanchez risked a quick glance at the woman lying on the bed beside him, and automatically lowered his voice. “It wouldn’t have worked.”
Duarte frowned at the instrument in his hand. “He’s cierva?”
“No, no! It isn’t that. It’s simply that he’s got something — ah — better...”
Light finally dawned on Duarte. “Is Rosa listening?”
“Naturally.”
“So what do we do? Just wait?”
Sanchez paused a moment in thought. “Antonio—”
“Yes?”
“There’s a man in Barcelona; he’s named André Martins. A Frenchman or a Basque — one or the other. Do you know him?”
“This is a city of two million people! Do I know an André Martins! There must be fifty—”
“You can’t miss this one,” Sanchez said, interrupting brusquely. “He’s a giant and no chicken. He hangs around the docks, picks up a few pesetas doing this and that. He looks like a bum, has a face like an ex-prizefighter, always wears a cap, usually needs a shave, has gray hair, almost white—”
“Oh, him?” At the other end of the line Duarte nodded knowledgeably. “If it’s the one I think it is, I’ve seen him around, but I never knew his name. Why? What about him?”
Sanchez lowered his voice even farther.
“He’s a friend of this Huuygens, or he was once upon a time. Anyway, Huuygens apparently trusts him, God knows why. But I heard it before, and Huuygens practically confirmed it. Anyway, see if you can find this André. Give him—” Sanchez paused to consider and then realized there was no need to instruct Duarte on that score, “Well, give him a few pesetas — that’s a lot of money for that one — and get him to telephone Huuygens directly. For a price this André should do anything you ask him to, broke as he is.”
“Call Huuygens about what?”
Sanchez raised his eyes to the cracked plaster of the ceiling in supplication and then brought them down again. How Duarte had managed to get where he was was a continuing mystery!
“To give me — us — me a good name, for God’s sake! Have you been listening? To tell Huuygens he’ll be paid! To tell him we’re not police or customs men! Huuygens will listen to him, I tell you. And we can save some of that time you’re so concerned about!”
“If I can find this André what’s-his-name—”
“André Martins. Write it down before you forget it. And try looking if you want to find him,” Sanchez advised coldly. “Try the Porteño Bar; he’s around there when he’s got the price of a drink — there or the Cinco Puertas. Try the whole damn dock area. He’s too damned big to get lost.” His tone became sarcastic. “You won’t find him at the Ritz, so don’t waste time there.”