Kek tipped his head. “If you wish.”
“Good. Can you handle the... the affair?”
“I should think so. Yes.”
“Fine! And just how long do you think it will take to make your arrangements?”
Huuygens considered the question. “It’s rather difficult to say. I shall have to arrange a tourist’s visa to Brazil, of course...” His eyes went to the pictures on the wall again; he stepped forward, measured the largest against the length of his outstretched arm, and then nodded as he mentally recorded the dimension. He turned, adjusting his cuff. “There are several ways it can be done, of course, our job is to find the best. And most foolproof.”
Gruber was watching him with interest. “And that will be?”
Huuygens smiled faintly. “The one that will best assure success,” he said dryly.
Gruber grinned; his teeth gleamed. He seemed to like the answer. “Good enough. And where are you staying?”
“At the Ouro Vermelho. It’s a hotel on a small park, in the Rua Sidónia Pais.”
“I know where it is.” Gruber nodded and led the way from the room. He flicked off the light, locked the room carefully, and then arranged the tapestry to cover the door. He walked Huuygens to the door of the library, holding him lightly by the arm. “A pleasure, M’sieu Huuygens. Hans will get you a taxi. I suggest we keep in touch by telephone from now on — you have the number.” He smiled knowingly. “The fewer visits you make here, the better.”
Huuygens nodded his agreement, and then paused. “Your telephone — is it tapped?”
“No. Or at least I don’t think so.” Gruber seemed to think about it. “No. I’m quite sure it isn’t.” He shrugged. “Still, I suggest that m’sieu be circumspect.”
Huuygens nodded; the thin hand emerged from the smoking-jacket sleeve, shook his with the same pump-handle motion, and then withdrew. He was not surprised to see Hans waiting politely and patiently beyond the threshold in the hallway.
“Your taxi will be here in a moment, m’sieu.”
“Thank you.” Obviously, this was no place in which to voice any hidden secrets; only a most efficient microphone system could assure such unusual rapport between master and servant. He turned to bid his host adieu, but the library door was already closing. For a moment his eyes went the length of the hall, searching for some hint that Jadzia also lived in the dim house, but the walls of the corridor retained their impersonal rigidity.
“M’sieu?” Hans still sounded polite, but slightly less patient.
“Coming, dear,” Kek said in English, smiled pleasantly at the puzzled look on Hans’s face, and followed him casually down the hall. Step Three? No, not quite. But, at least, Step Two-and-a-half...
10
From the depths of the easy chair, feet comfortably sprawled before him, a thoughtful Kek Huuygens stared with slitted eyes through a cloud of cigarette smoke across the park that faced his hotel, not seeing the wooded hills in the distance, but rather the high glass case in the library of the Hochmann mansion, and the famous collection of miniatures that it protected.
When had he first seen that fantastic collection? He had, of course, glimpsed it when he had come home with Stefan that first time, although the important thing that remained with him from that first visit had been his meeting with Jadzia. He had not seen the collection to appreciate it truly until possibly a year later, when his second-year art class had obtained permission for a special trip to the estate, and their elderly professor had stood in silent admiration for several seconds before turning and delivering them a lecture on miniature paintings in general, and the exquisite Hochmann collection in particular.
He could still hear the dry, pedantic voice with its poorly concealed undertone of excitement. “Miniature paintings, gentlemen—” there had been a slight pause “—and ladies...”
Stefan’s sister, Jadzia, had come into the room and was standing quietly to one side, her large green eyes fixed upon him. He grinned at her and winked, feeling that warm, happy feeling of young love. My God, but his Jadzia was beautiful! She made a slight moue and tipped her head pertly, a signal that she would meet him as soon as he was free, in the summerhouse overlooking the lake. There was the slightest pursing of her lips in an indication of a kiss, and then she had left the room as silently as she had entered. He stared after her, marveling at his great fortune in being loved in return by anyone as wonderful as she, and then suddenly became aware that a dead silence had fallen in the room, broken at that moment by the professor speaking his name.
“With the kind permission of Mr. Janeczek,” the dry voice was saying with a sarcasm remembered all too well from the classroom, “possibly we might continue...”
He remembered turning red, trying to smother a cough, and then forcing himself to concentrate on the lecture. The professor had smiled, a surprisingly human smile for that terror of the classroom, and had then turned his attention back to the collection.
“Yes, gentlemen, this collection is quite unique, and therefore quite priceless. To begin with, many — if not most — of the great artists of history have, at one time or another, delighted in demonstrating their extreme control of their media by producing miniatures — paintings complete in all detail, with all color and warmth, all richness and depth, yet on a scale so small that in many cases the full beauty of the work cannot be seen without the aid of a magnifying glass. Miniature painting dates back as far as the Romans, and was a highly developed art form in the Orient at an early date. Before the sixteenth century, Persian, Indian, and Turkish artists were producing delicate, stylized miniatures. In fact, many of these artists bred cats, since only the throat hairs of two-month-old kittens were considered fine enough for their brushes...”
He remembered shifting from one foot to another. Jadzia at this moment was undoubtedly scolding the steward to be sure the wine was at the proper temperature, seeing to it that the arrangements for their meeting were handled to her satisfaction. What a wife she’ll make! he thought. And then, later, in the summerhouse, when the maid had taken away the demitasse cups, Jadzia’s deep green eyes would be serious with love, probing his, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her other hand carrying his to the warm curve of her breast... He shut the scene from him, forcing himself to concentrate on the lecture.
“Hans Holbein the Younger was probably the first important representative of the art in Europe, and he was shortly followed by Clouet in France, and then by Hilliard and Isaac in England. And others, many others. Still, gentlemen, despite the fact that the art was widely practiced, this collection is absolutely unique...”
He remembered how the professor had paused, his eyes gleaming, before continuing:
“And why is it so unusual, gentlemen? And therefore so valuable? Because, to begin with, miniatures were generally portraits, while, as you can see, the pictures you are now viewing are all landscapes, which were rarely painted in miniature form. Secondly, although the surfaces used for miniatures in those days varied from ivory to metal to — yes, gentlemen — even stretched chicken-skin, the examples you are privileged to see are all limited to one material — parchment. And lastly, while the Persians and others even called a painting as large as a book page a miniature, you will note that none of the paintings here is greater in size than two by four inches...”
The professor had paused, triumphant, almost as if he personally were somehow responsible for the existence of the collection simply because he had brought it to their attention.