“How are things going?” he asked.
“Fine!” I said. “Just about finished, thanks to Hans’ assistance.” I picked up the wrapped packet of miniatures and laid it on top, folding sheets of tissue about it to fill the space. “There!” I said. “That’s the lot.” And I laid the balance of my tissue on top of everything, set the cover in place and reached for my airplane bag.
Gruber watched me closely as I took the packet of nails from my bag and nailed the cover down securely. “We can strap it with steel banding aboard ship,” I said, almost as if to myself, and bringing out my pot of marking ink and my brush, I began printing an address neatly on the outside cover of the case.
“You certainly think of everything,” Gruber said almost grudgingly.
“Naturally,” I answered shortly, hoping that Hans would not recall that I had not thought to bring pliers. I continued to ply my brush, painting in the letters of the address. The case was being sent to a ficticious camera shop in Lyon, and when I had completed the final letter, I reached into my bag and brought out the gummed labels I had had printed. I wet them with my tongue and placed them about the top and sides of the case in conspicuous locations; they all read: PHOTOGRAPHIC PAPER — DO NOT OPEN IN DAYLIGHT. I must say they gave the whole package an extremely authentic appearance.
The scarred face broke into a smile of appreciation. “Very clever.”
“Only because the shipping documents and bill of lading are quite genuine. Except, of course, for the address of the consignee.”
He frowned at me. “And how were you able to arrange that?”
I stared at him coldly. “I’m afraid an exposition of my methods is not included in my fee,” I said.
I picked up the awkward case, refusing help, and carried it from the room, through the hallway and down to the car. As you can well imagine, both Gruber and his servant hurried to accompany me. I waited while Hans pulled the gate leaf to one side, then slid the large box into the trunk of the car. With my back to the two men, I hooked a wire there about the case and, with several turns, fastened it securely to the handle of the toolbox within. I brought the lid of the trunk down to rest against the case, and then bound the bumper and the trunk handle together with my cord. I straightened up, turning to the servant.
“All ready. If you would bring my hat and Senhor Echavarria’s valise, I think we had best be leaving. And my small airplane bag, too, if you please.”
The timing at this point was, of course, extremely critical, and I do not pretend that I was not nervous. But the servant merely nodded and returned to the house.
As the servant entered the doorway, I turned to Gruber and smiled. He smiled in return, a relaxed smile, and I placed my hand on his chest and shoved him with all my might, hooking his heel with my foot. He went over backwards, too startled for the moment even to cry out. In that moment, I had the gate pulled shut and had sprung for the driver’s seat of my car. Behind me, I heard his outraged screams and then the answering cry from his servant as he clattered from the house.
Then I had the motor going and was roaring off down the street.
I did not think they would chance shooting when the paintings might suffer damage as a result, but it had been a chance I had recognized and one I had been prepared to take. In any event, they did not waste the time. In the rear-view mirror, as I shot down the shaded avenue, I saw the gate being dragged open and even as I swung wildly about the first corner, Gruber’s car tore from the driveway, not even pausing to take the servant aboard.
The route I had selected had been chosen not only for its isolation, but also because it provided long, straight runs, and I had not turned from the road I was on when the hood of the pursuing car had come into view about the corner and was roaring down toward me. I put on a burst of speed, braked slightly to maneuver the next corner with my tires squealing and once again tramped on the gas. Gruber, in the car behind, took more of a chance; for an instant, as I glanced up into my rear-view mirror, I thought he was going to skid into a lamppost, but his car finally managed to straighten from its sway and came on. It seemed to be gaining, and I tramped on the accelerator until the distance between us had widened again.
Three more corners were taken in this desperate fashion, and three more roads raced down, before the factory entrance came into view, and it was just as I slammed on my brakes and swung into it that he made it into the street. For one brief moment, I thought he had missed me, but the sound of his brakes, screeching as he slowed for the sharp turn, came to me. I swung the wheel desperately and came to a shuddering stop with my fender almost against the pillar of the loading platform. I was trapped.
He also instantly braked his car. I opened the door of mine, took a deep breath and dove for the loading platform and the protection of the sagging door — none too soon. A bullet passed over my head, thudding into the brick and showering down small shards and dust. And then I was through to the darkened interior, my heart pounding. But I was sure that Gruber’s interest in his property would be greater than his desire for revenge, and I was right. I paused long enough to peer back through the half-opened door, and sure enough, he was tearing at the rope that held the trunk lid in place. I started across the room and had barely made the doorway on the other side, when the explosion came.
Huuygens paused in his tale; I stared at him with growing intelligence in my eyes. Undoubtedly, that must have been the explosion my correspondent friend from London had gone to investigate!
“You booby-trapped him!”
He opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment the steward appeared at our side, indicating the lighted panel over our heads. Huuygens crushed out his cigarette, and we both tightened our seat belts. I shook my head wonderingly. “You booby-trapped him!”
“Yes,” he said quite simply.
“You led him on until he didn’t even stop to think before he tore open that trunk lid. And started to wrestle those pictures out...” I suddenly frowned, remembering. “And those precious miniatures went up in the explosion as well.”
For a long moment he stared into my eyes. The plane was dropping and the sound of the landing-gear being lowered and locked into place was clearly audible.
“I shall tell you about that later,” he said. “Wait for me at the cab rank, and I’ll drive into town with you.”
“Wait for you? You’ll have to wait for me. You have no luggage.”
He smiled bitterly. “I told you the advantages of my reputation. Well, there are also disadvantages. One is that the customs officials have my name in a little book, and they tend to examine me rather thoroughly. Whether I have luggage or not...”
He was right, of course. As we came through Immigration, and Huuygens presented his passport, I saw a small conference begin, and even as I advanced with the other passengers into Customs, I saw him being taken politely but firmly aside and ushered into a small room.
Needless to say, I waited at the cab rank with growing impatience. When he finally appeared, Huuygens crawled in the cab beside me and smiled. I gave my address to the driver, then turned to him. “Well?”
“Well, they gave me an extremely efficient search. I was forced to undress and allow them to go through my clothing, piece by piece.” He spoke in English and in a low tone to protect our privacy from the driver. “Not pleasant, but unfortunately, there is very little one can do about it.”
“I don’t mean that,” I said with a touch of annoyance. “You were going to tell me about the miniatures.”