André drank his cognac and reached for the bottle again. “Which reminds you of what?”
“That suitcase of yours reminds me I need one. I came away from Paris unprepared for some of the contingencies I’ve run into, timewise and otherwise. All I brought with me was a small overnight bag.” He pushed his glass forward. “Would it be possible to borrow a suitcase? Something like you used to drag around with you?”
“I suppose so.” André poured himself a drink and then filled Kek’s glass. “I’ll drop it off at your hotel tomorrow.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to luck.”
Huuygens smiled and shook his head. “There’s no such thing as luck.” He raised his glass as well. “Here’s to planning, friends, misdirection, and timing.”
“And luck,” André finished. He grinned and drank his brandy.
12
A leisurely breakfast in his room on Wednesday morning, and a refreshed Kek Huuygens braved the terrors of the Ouro Vermelho’s elevator, located his rented car in the cavernous bowels of the building, and drove from the garage into the Rua Sidonia Pais with a soft whistle on his lips. The affair had gone extremely well to this point, but what he considered the most important part of the scheme still had to be resolved, and that was what the schedule called for that morning.
With a detailed map of the city spread out on the seat beside him for easy reference, he managed to get through the complex, twisting roads of the Parque Florestal de Monsanto to the Bairro da Boa Vista, and drew to the curb a block away from the street on which Gruber lived. With the motor pulsing quietly, he bent over the map, studying a tentative route that consisted in the main of secondary avenues, leading in the direction of the Tejo and the docks. Satisfied at last, he straightened up and began driving.
His course took him along the northern edge of the huge park, and then plunged him into a network of narrow streets graced with small, clean houses with precisely trimmed gardens. A frown formed on his face as street after street exhibited a pristine similarity with the one before it. Lisbon, it seemed to him, must be the most immaculate city in the world, but that scarcely resolved his problem. With a muttered exclamation of annoyance, he pulled to the curb and consulted the map once again, the car motor patiently throbbing beneath him.
As a result of this further study, he shifted gears and started off again, cutting further to the north this time, continuing his search as he approached the Avenida do Brasil and saw the airport in the distance. To anyone who happened to notice the handsome man taking his ease behind the wheel, Kek would have appeared to be a motorist out to enjoy the fine autumn weather, and nothing more. A more acute observer, noting the extreme care with which he scrutinized each side street he passed, and almost unconsciously slowed down to stare down each small alley, might well have come to the conclusion that he was a potential buyer checking the neighborhood before committing himself to the purchase of a house for his family. Or — considering the expensive car he drove — more probably a house for his mistress.
Actually, his purpose was quite another. He had avoided a route that would take him near the center of the city, because the concentration of police was sure to be greater there, and he certainly wanted no part of them. Also, his requirements were scarcely to be found in the center of town. What he was looking for could only be found in the residential sections; a side street, preferably with a dead end, but one that contained at least one house with a walled garden. Not, however, walled in the manner of the Gruber home, but one that could easily be scaled.
When, by lunchtime, he still had not found anything to his liking, he forewent lunch and continued his search, the frown on his lean face deepening. He knew, of course, that if he were unsuccessful in finding his exact requirements, he could always investigate the edge of the city and somewhere there find a path that ended in a wooded area, but he preferred a place in town, closer to the Gruber home. Every additional mile only added to the risks.
And then, moments later, he came upon the perfect location, purely by accident. He almost passed it at first, for, to begin with, he was driving through an industrial neighborhood and had no thought of finding what he wanted here, and secondly, because the sign FOR SALE OR LEASE did not register on his mind at once. The half-glimpse he caught through the entrance, however, immediately struck him; he reversed the car and backed up for further examination. The frown disappeared as he stared down the cobblestone driveway a moment; he nodded in satisfaction and then swung the wheel, driving in.
The entrance he had taken led past two empty two-storied stone houses that had apparently once served as twin guardians of the gate; it delivered him to an old, abandoned factory. Wooden loading docks in complete disrepair formed three sides of a large rectangle containing the roughly paved yard area. Kek set the car brake, turned off the ignition, climbed down, and walked about the place. The factory had obviously not been in use for many, many years; the high walls that loomed over him were of worn and chipped brick, with a host of ants’ nests testifying to their age. The crooked window frames had flaked their paint to yellowed wood, and their grimed panes were either broken or missing completely. The doors that sagged into the darkened interior hung pathetically on their rusted and broken hinges.
Kek mounted the gap-toothed steps to the loading dock and tugged one of the doors open further; it came with a reluctant squeal, as if resenting interference after all those years. He peered in; the interior was empty, except for layers of dust and the debris that always seems to accumulate somehow in such places. He stepped inside, studying the overhead beams hung with cobwebs, listened to the eerie silence a moment, and then crossed the creaking wooden floor to a door leaning half-drunkenly open at the far side of the wide room. He glanced about the corner of the door and found himself staring at a thoroughfare beyond, reached by a series of grooved stone steps. He turned around; the entire place smelled of age, abandonment, and urine. He smiled to himself. It was ideal.
With extreme satisfaction he returned to the car and spread the map out on the seat, studying it carefully. He located the spot at which he found himself, and then the house in the Bairro da Boa Vista. According to the map, the distance between the two places was roughly three miles. Even the distance was more or less what Kek had hoped for, making the deserted factory even more ideal for his purpose. He pored over the map, studying the maze of streets separating the two points, and then folded the map, got behind the wheel, and drove from the enclosed yard with a faint smile on his lips.
A sandwich at a nearby sidewalk café served him for lunch, eaten with the map propped up against a ketchup bottle while he carefully planned the best route between the two places and memorized the names of the streets through which he would have to pass. Satisfied at last that he had it well in mind, he returned to his car and then began traversing the memorized route. Twice, certain details not noted on the map caused him to seek nearby alternate streets, but once he had made the trip to his satisfaction he settled down to driving back and forth over it until he was positive he would not hesitate at any corner, or fail to note those intersections that could prove dangerous or delaying. It was not until he had made the trip six times in each direction that he was certain it was indelibly impressed on his mind.