As I was saying, I was having lunch with this friend when suddenly he looked up, and then leaned across the table and said in a low voice: “Speaking of the tragedies connected with exchange” — we hadn’t been, but we would have been soon enough, with the brandy — “the perfect example just walked in. Don’t look now, but...” He hesitated a moment and then continued. “He’s the handsome, youngish-looking fellow the fat waitress is placing in that corner by the rubber plant.”
I looked over his shoulder into a faintly stained mirror in time to see a rather young, blond man being seated at the corner table. I turned my gaze back to my friend.
“And just what is his great tragedy?” I asked a bit lightly
“Five million dollars,” my friend answered seriously “Or at least, the equivalent of that sum in Belgian francs.’
Despite my normal equilibrium, I’m afraid my interest showed. Five million dollars in any currency was alway guaranteed to interest me. My friend smiled understandingly. “That’s Waldeck Klees, of Klees Imports. You’ve heard of him?”
Of course I had heard of him. I said as much, and then asked, “But I was given to understand that he had either sold or abandoned the company his father left him, and gone off to America.”
“He would love to,” my friend said with a faint smile. “He would adore to. But the Belgian Government won’t allow him to transfer any of his francs to dollars.”
I stared across the table in amazement. “But certainly...”
My friend shook his head as he read my thoughts. “No,” he replied. “I know the people in the black market who made the offer, and the most they would give him is twenty-five per cent. Nobody knows what can happen to currencies here, and there is growing danger in such transactions.”
My eyes went back to the mirror, studying the young man. A tragic figure. Waldeck Klees... of Klees Imports...
And that’s when the idea struck me. It came all at once, clear and complete. My face must have shown something, because my friend looked at me curiously, but I forced myself to smile, and finished our meal as quickly as possible.
When I got home that afternoon, Elsa was draped over a chaise longue reading a policier and eating bonbons. I have never been able to understand how she could practically live on bonbons and maintain that fabulous figure! But in any event, she was there and I sat down on the foot of the chaise longue and pushed her feet aside to make room.
“Chérie,” I said, “we are about to entertain at a cocktail party.”
“Why?” she asked with the little pout that never failed to intrigue most men, but which could irritate me beyond measure.
“Because I say so,” I told her bluntly. “The only thing is that it is absolutely essential that one particular man be there. And how you arrange this is completely in your hands.”
“Who?”
“Waldeck Klees. I’m sure you’ve heard the name.”
She thought a moment. Elsa could be quite smart at times, and she knew when not to argue. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve heard of him. I believe he’s a friend of the Fleurs.” She looked at me coolly. “When do you want the party and how many people do you want to invite?”
I smiled at her. “As soon as possible. And I should like it to be small — a friendly little group. I’m sure you know what I want.”
Well, I never even asked Elsa how she arranged it, but a week later, I found myself hosting a very delightful, intimate cocktail party. We were living then in the Boulevard Franklin Roosevelt, in one of those squatty little ultra-modern apartments that have sprung up like gold-plated sugar cubes along the park there. The flat, of course, was not mine. It belonged to a friend who was traveling, but there was no need for anyone to know that. And the servants, of course, had been hired for the evening.
I handled my duties as a host in a manner quite satisfactory, but still I managed to be alone when Elsa appeared with Klees, so that I was free to spend a few moments with him. I expressed my delight in meeting a person I had heard so much about, slipped my arm through his, stopped the butler to provide us with drinks, and led him off to an isolated corner. As we sat down, he glanced about.
“You have a very lovely establishment.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “We’ve been very happy here. However, we’ll be leaving for America in a few weeks. You see” — I smiled a bit apologetically — “I’ve finally managed to get my money out of Belgium in dollars.” I looked about the room. “It has really been a fine apartment, though. Tell me,” I went on, bringing my eyes back to him, “have you seen the Parisian Ballet? I understand that Marchand is wonderful.”
He denied having attended the ballet, accepted a replenishment of his drink, and leaned back thoughtfully.
“Legally?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The money,” he said quietly. “Were you able to get it out legally?”
“Of course.” I lifted my eyebrows at his implied suggestion. “I should scarcely have mentioned it otherwise. And of course, I couldn’t travel so freely if anything illegal were involved.”
“But just how...” he began, but I had already arisen and turned in the direction of some late guests who had entered.
“Some old friends,” I explained apologetically. “If you’ll excuse me...”
Somehow, I never managed to be alone with him the rest of the evening. Elsa passed some time talking to him, and I smiled vaguely at him several times from various small groups, but my duties as host prevented my getting together with him. When the party finally broke up, I shook hands with him and thanked him for having accepted our invitation. He nodded.
“We must have lunch together soon,” he said, holding my hand.
“I should be delighted,” I answered. “I’ll give you a ring.” He stared at me a moment and then went off to join the others at the lift.
Well, of course he called me about two days later, and after consulting a mythical appointment calendar, I arranged to see him a few days later at his club. His club was one that I knew by name and one which I had always dreamed of being invited to join although, of course, I never was. It was a small building located in one of those lovely winding streets running off the Grand’ Place, and boasted the finest cuisine in all Brussels — which is saying quite a bit.
In any event, we settled ourselves comfortably in the bar before the fire, and Klees wasted no time in getting down to business.
“I will tell you quite frankly why I wanted to meet you,” he said. “You claim you have a method for getting money out of Belgium in dollars — and legally. I should like to hear how you were able to accomplish it.”
I managed to look a bit upset, as if embarrassed by a host taking unfair advantage of a guest’s position. “I simply happened to mention it in passing.” I protested, “to explain our reason for leaving our apartment...”
He looked me right in the eye. “You mentioned it for no such reason,” he said with complete calm. “The apartment is not yours. The servants were hired for the evening. I have spent the last few days checking on you, my friend. You are a Pole by birth, passing yourself off as a Dutchman, and you have actually been an American citizen by naturalization for a year or so. Your wife is a Belgian, a former actress... And I am also convinced that the purpose of that obviously spurious cocktail party was simply to intrigue me with a suggestion for getting my money out in dollars.”