You have always been a curious man (Huuygens said. Our plane had lifted itself to cruising altitude, our seat belts were lying relaxed in our laps, two glasses of Madiera Five-Star reposed on the trays before us and our cigarettes were burning steadily.) I suppose, it’s a mark of your trade (he went on). In the past, I have often been willing to satisfy that curiosity of yours, because the affairs I have described to you have remained confidential whenever I made that a prior condition. And also, to be honest, because in general the matters we discussed were never really of a particularly serious nature. This time, I’m afraid, the matter is quite serious. However, you did me a far bigger favor than you know by picking up my ticket, and you shall have the story you were promised. I shall leave it to your intelligence to decide how much of it you will reveal, and when.
In any event, let me begin at the beginning. As I’m sure you know, I have a growing reputation as a man who manages on occasion to — shall we say, supersede? — some of the regulations which the customs services of most countries impose on items that cross their borders. As a result, in the past few years, people have called on me with increasing frequency for my help, and where nothing more than the morality of a regulation was concerned, I have been inclined to accept the commission. And, of course, been adequately paid for it.
To make a long story intelligible, about a week ago in Paris, I was approached by somebody through channels we need not discuss, other than to say that they were sufficiently involved. I was told that a certain Spanish gentleman, named Enrique Echavarria, living at present in Lisbon, had a collection of art treasures which he found himself forced to dispose of, and since the market in Portugal was not the best-paying, he wanted to get them to France where he could realize a greater income from their sale. Fortunately, unlike yourself, I am not of a curious nature, and I therefore did not bother to ask why, if these art treasures were legally held, their owner felt it necessary to employ the services of a man named Kek Huuygens and pay him what even I would not call a modest fee. However, once I was assured that narcotics were not involved, I accepted the commission. I packed a bag, flew to Lisbon, registered at my hotel and then presented myself at the address which had been given to me.
It was a small house at the end of a long avenue, set well back in the seclusion of extensive gardens and thick stands of trees, and protected by a high stone wall topped by barbed wire in a manner rarely seen in these new days of universal brotherhood and trust. The short driveway extending from the side of the house contained an automobile of rather ancient vintage, and ended in a large wrought-iron gate which, when I arrived, I found locked. I dismissed my taxi, found an old-fashioned bell pull set in a tangle of ivy on one post and rang it.
There was a movement at one of the windows, the hint of a curtain being drawn aside and then replaced, and a few moments later, a heavy-set man, dressed in the leather jacket and apron of the Portuguese manservant, came from the house. I gave him my name. He nodded and unlocked the gate, waited until I had entered, and then locked the gate once again behind me and followed me into the hallway of the house. I turned to present him with my hat and found myself facing a revolver.
“What is that for?” I asked a trifle testily.
He was not in the least perturbed by either my question or my tone. “You must forgive me,” he said in guttural and Teutonic-sounding French, “but I must ask you to submit to a search.”
“A search?” I was honestly surprised. “For what?”
“For weapons,” he said evenly. “Senhor Echavarria has a very valuable collection of paintings which he would not like to have stolen. I know who you are, of course, and also that you are expected. But still” — he did not sound in the least apologetic — “it is the rule.”
I shrugged. I never carry weapons, and in the course of my lifetime, I have been subjected to far greater inconveniences than mere searches. And I am far from unfamiliar with those. So I raised my arms and allowed him to make sure that I was unarmed. I might add that he did it with considerable skill. When at last he had assured himself of my complete innocuousness, he pocketed his gun and led me into the library. He took my hat, announced me to the man inside and quietly withdrew, closing the door.
The person seated at the desk at the far end of the long room rose. In the shadows caused by the trees hugging the windows behind him, it was difficult to see his face.
“M’sieu Huuygens!” he said in a pleased tone of voice. “I am very glad to meet you! I have heard much of you and of — ah, your exceptional abilities!”
There was something oddly familiar about the voice. Even the terrible French accent seemed to strike a chord. It was like the faintly remembered taste of some strange dish dredged up from the fleeting memory of some childhood feast. He came around the desk and walked up to me, his hand outstretched, setting himself beneath the more revealing light at my end of the room. I think I can feel justly proud that in no way did I allow my sudden recognition to color either my visible emotions or my actions, for the monster with whom I was shaking hands so cordially was none other than Wilhelm Gruber!
Huuygens paused in his tale and eyed me curiously. He had removed his dark glasses, and his deep-set gray eyes contained a light of speculation.
“You jumped when I mentioned that name,” he said slowly, thoughtfully. “You positively jumped!”
I refused to be led from the main stream of a story I suddenly realized could be extremely important. I cleared my throat and spoke, trying to sound noncommittal. “Go on with what you were saying.”
He studied me a moment and then grinned in sudden conviction. It was like the old Huuygens again. Ever since the plane had lifted from the runway, he had been more relaxed, and now he appeared almost carefree.
“Ah!” His grin widened. “I think I understand! As I recall, chasing the elusive Herr Gruber was one of your obsessions — or, at least, the obsession of your editor. And was probably — no, I should say certainly — the reason you were in Lisbon.” He continued to regard me with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, bear with me. Who knows? Possibly some part of the story I am telling you will enable you to file a cable to New York with fewer of your usual evasions.”
He seemed suddenly to realize that our glasses were empty. He rang for the steward, waited until we had again been served and then leaned back, twisting the stem of his glass idly between his fingers, putting his interrupted thoughts in order.
You may wonder (Huuygens continued at last, and his smile had disappeared as if it had never been, and his voice had returned to its somber inflection) how I was able to recognize Wilhelm Gruber so instantly, when he obviously had no conception that we have ever seen each other before. Or that I probably hated him as much or more than I have ever hated a man. Certainly, he had grown older; after all, more than twenty years had passed since Poland. And he had also changed his appearance. The Hitler mustache I remembered had been shaven off, and some surgeon at one time or another had used his instruments for the purpose of making that Aryan face less suspect. It would almost make one laugh, if it did not make one want to cry, because now he sported quite a Hebraic nose, almost the image of the nose he had once held up as the only proof necessary to merit extinction.
But, in any event, I recognized him. Instantly. When one sees, from hiding, his entire family — father, mother and younger sister — dragged from their house and slaughtered in the street on the orders of one man; when one later watches, through strands of barbed wire, that same man daily strutting up and down, demonstrating the unspoken threat of his authority by the savage, rhythmic beating of his whip against the polish of his high boots; when one has lived daily with that arrogant voice proclaiming the wave of the future in terms of hatred and torture, in a tone holding more joy than intimidation — well, one does not forget that man. Believe me. Nor have I ever forgotten Wilhelm Gruber!