Huuygens sipped his drink, nodded in appreciation for its flavor, and placed his glass on the bar.
“I hear things,” he said simply. “Especially about old friends — and particularly old friends I’m interested in. You left Lisbon over a year ago and moved to Barcelona—”
“Things were dead in Lisbon.” André spoke almost without volition; the entire situation was impossible.
“—and you didn’t do much better in Barcelona, even with the leads furnished you by Pereira—”
André shrugged. “When it was raining business sense, God gave me a fork.” Light suddenly struck. He looked up, frowning. “You told Pereira to give me those leads!”
“Yes,” Kek said equably. “At any rate, they didn’t work out as well as we both hoped, so when you finally got a pardon from the French government—”
André was forced to grin. “One of the few advantages, I admit, of changing republics.” The cognac was making its presence felt; the strangeness of the meeting was fading, replaced by a friendly warmth.
“Yes,” Kek agreed and continued. “As I said, you left Barcelona yesterday, heading for Paris. I knew you’d come to see me as soon as you got here — or at least I hoped so. I also calculated you’d try to save the fare of an airplane.” He glanced at his watch, smiling. “The train from Barcelona arrived several hours ago—”
“Train!” André snorted and poured himself another drink. “What train! Bus! Then the metro. Then a spot of walking. The metro,” he added, “doesn’t smell like it used to.” He frowned in reminiscence, as if the bad smell of the metro was one of the things he had missed during his exile, now taken from him by strangers, and drank his drink.
“Ah,” Huuygens said in understanding, and nodded, pleased that the mystery was resolved. “That’s why, then. At any rate you’re here, and I’m very happy.”
“I’m rather pleased myself.” André wiped his lips on his cuff and looked at the bottle. It would be pressing hospitality of even an old friend to have more than three drinks. If it were offered, of course — Kek seemed to have read his mind; he poured another drink for André and raised his glass.
“Here’s to luck.” He drank and set his glass down. “Well, enough of this lovemaking. Where are your bags?”
“At the bus terminal. I came right over. I’ve got to get a room someplace and get settled, and then—”
“You’re staying here.” It was Anita speaking from across the room. “Your room is all ready.” Her eyes smiled at him. “Extra-length bed and all.”
André swung to face her. “No, no! Look—”
“You look,” Huuygens said calmly. “You saved my life three times in the old days, and then we lost track of each other until Lisbon and that affair of those miniature paintings, and that was a long time ago.” He shrugged. “It seems about the only way not to lose track of you is to keep you in sight. So you stay here.”
“You don’t seem to have much trouble keeping people in sight,” André said dryly. “Anyway, I can’t—”
“Besides,” Huuygens said evenly, interrupting, “I’m sure we can be useful to each other.”
André frowned and shook his head. “Kek, Kek! You should know me well enough to know I never took charity in my life, and I’m too old to start now. Besides — you need me on one of your jobs?” He snorted. “You’re known everywhere as the best smuggler in the world, and the smartest. Me? I didn’t even get away with bringing in a few lousy cases of cigarettes from Algiers right after the war! Miles from Marseilles and the police boat picks me out like I’d put out an SOS or something!” He shook his head decisively. “Thank you, but no. I’ll drink your liquor and have a meal on you from time to time, but no.” He looked up almost defiantly. “And I didn’t come to borrow money, either.”
“Are you all done?”
André raised a hand. “Don’t say it, because I’ll only repeat the whole thing.”
“And Anita says I’m stubborn! You listen to me—”
He was interrupted by the sudden sharp ringing of the telephone. All three swung around to face the unexpected sound. Kek’s eyes narrowed; it was an unlisted number, available only to those who were acquainted with the true nature of his vocation. Anita came to her feet, putting down her glass, moving to the telephone on the desk. There were times when Kek preferred not to be home to certain calls.
“Hello?”
The sound of a voice could be heard, muted, filtered through the receiver, audible to the two men in the quiet of the large room. Anita nodded, quite as if her caller could see her; she looked around.
“It’s a Señor Sanchez. He’d like to see you. He says he has an important job for you.”
“Ask him where he got my telephone number.”
Anita returned to the conversation on the telephone. A moment later she turned again; there was a slightly mischievous smile in her eyes. She covered the receiver with her hand.
“He says he got it from a very reliable source.” She paused a moment for effect. “He says he got it from an old friend of yours. You may remember him — André Martins.”
“Me?” André sat erect in shock. “Never!” He crossed himself and then paused to think. “Sanchez? Luis Sanchez? From Barcelona?” Anita shrugged her lack of knowledge. “It has to be him; he’s the only one who would even know my name.”
Kek looked at him. “Who is he?”
“A sour apple,” André said and made a face. “A real loss to society.”
“A lot of my clients are,” Kek said, grinning. His grin faded. “You never gave my name? Or mentioned this number?”
“Never!” André raised his hand. “Not only not to Sanchez, but to nobody. However,” he added, bringing his hand down, “I know it’s available, and it certainly would be to anyone with Sanchez’s connections. As well as the fact that we know each other and that we’re old friends.”
“Well,” Kek said, thinking about it, “at least he doesn’t sound like police. And people who lie to me I find interesting.” He looked at Anita, patiently holding the telephone mouthpiece cupped. “When does he want to come over?”
“Now, he says. He’s in a bar just down the street.”
“Good enough.” Kek smiled. “Tell him to come along.”
Anita spoke into the telephone and hung up. Without being bidden, she came to the bar, placed the cognac bottle on the glass shelf back of the bar, and set the used glasses in the sink beneath the counter; Kek’s interviews with perspective clients were nondrinking affairs. She wiped the surface with a towel and hung it up neatly. Kek came from behind the bar, pulled a chair around to face the corridor, and then looked sideways at André.
“How well do you know this Sanchez?”
“Well, if he’s the one from Barcelona, and he must be, then I know him well enough,” André said. He didn’t sound particularly proud of the acquaintanceship.
Kek thought a moment, a frown on his face, and then dropped into the chair. He looked up. “Take a good look at him through the peephole when he rings. Annie will let him in. You stay out of sight until he’s left.”
“Why?”
Kek smiled at him. “Call it a hunch.”
“All right,” André said agreeably, seeing no reason to argue, especially against a hunch. He moved to his feet, following Anita toward the front door. The bell rang just as he came up to it. One look through the withdrawn peephole cover was enough; he put the cover back in place and nodded vigorously to Anita and then went on back to the end of the corridor, pushing through a swinging door. He found himself in the kitchen and let the door swing shut softly behind him.
It occurred to him that possibly Kek was right. Maybe they could be useful to each other. Because in André’s experience, anyone who dealt with Señor Luis Sanchez or his friends at times needed more than brains. Sometimes a little muscle came in handy.