“Get my hands off? Get my hands off?” André stared at the big blond man in amazement. “That’s my bag, you crook!” He turned, still holding the handle, his eyes sweeping the room. “Ah! Hey, police! Police!”
“Let go, you fool!” Schneller’s temper exploded. He swung around, his huge fist aimed at André; only the fact that his other hand was gripping the handle kept it from being a lethal blow. It struck André on the side of the head, knocking him to his knees, but the big man from Perpignan kept his grip on the suitcase. He struggled to his feet, murder in his eyes.
“Let go!” Schneller screamed. He was beginning to panic. Just when he had his hands on both Huuygens and the suitcase! And how did this ox withstand that blow? A policeman was hurrying over in response to the clamor. Schneller’s jaw tightened. He dragged out the pistol, shoving it in André’s face. “Let go, damn it!”
André’s face seemed to solidify to solid rock. He let go of the handle of the suitcase and in the same motion brought his huge fist up, crashing it against Schneller’s jaw. The blond giant was stunned momentarily; before he could recover his wits, a pile-driver blow to his stomach doubled him over. The coup de grâce was administered by another hamlike fist smashing at the back of the exposed neck. Under that battering the huge Schneller collapsed to the floor with a thud, his breath driven from him; the revolver stretched before him, useless. A policeman pushed through the crowd that had gathered, unbuttoning his holster.
“What’s the trouble here?”
“Hit me when I wasn’t looking!” André said furiously and then came back to the proper matter. “Bastard had my suitcase!” His voice had changed to indignation. “Swiped it yesterday! Must have ducked it into a locker and figured he could walk out with it today, just like that!” He rubbed a bruised knuckle.
The policeman studied him a moment and then looked down. He bent over and picked up the gun, examined it, and slid it into his pocket. The look on his face promised trouble for the man on the floor; guns in Portugal are less approved by the police than in most countries. He rebuttoned his holster and looked up at André.
“You can identify the contents of the suitcase?”
“Of course.”
“And you reported the theft?”
“Naturally.” André looked hurt at this suggestion of dereliction. “At headquarters. Actually, to Senhor Morell himself. An old friend of mine, I might add,” he said significantly.
The policeman looked at him without expression.
“Well,” he said, “let’s all go downtown and see what this is all about.” He was not loath; airport duty consisted mainly of returning lost children to frantic parents or being mistaken for a porter. He squatted beside the unconscious man, put handcuffs on him first as a precaution, and then began to slowly slap his face, trying to bring him out of his coma. André waited patiently.
It was nearly three hours later, and André had returned from headquarters. He and Kek were sitting on the outside terrace beyond the balcony of the terminal, having a long cool drink at one of the wire tables. André chuckled.
“Our friend Schneller isn’t too bright. Trying to tackle the entire police department, can you imagine? He’d be well advised to stop smoking if he wants to take on some of the thugs on Michel’s payroll two or three at a time. He’ll be lucky if he gets away with just attempted theft; the way Michel was talking, I have a hunch they’ll lock him up and make him eat the key. Striking a policeman!” He sounded shocked at the very idea.
“You should have explained to him,” Kek said with a smile and glanced at his watch. The KLM flight to Amsterdam should have arrived by now; time to get on with the job. And André had a plane to catch, as well. He drank up and motioned to André to follow suit.
“Lots of time,” André said. “Ten minutes before my flight, at least.” He drank up nonetheless and set his glass down. “Did Michel come up to your expectations?”
Kek laughed. “Dear Michel! He never disappoints. I knew he’d elect himself a one-man greeting committee.”
“I still don’t understand why you wanted him to be—”
Kek looked at him humorously. “Because, my friend, any regular customs inspector would have taken one look at my name and put me through a complete physical search. Such a thing would be repugnant to Michel, even if it occurred to him, and especially with a friend. And I had something on me I didn’t care to explain. This.” A baggage check stub appeared in his fingers as if by magic. He slid it back into his pocket and came to his feet, smiling. “Well, time to get to work.”
André also rose. “And I’ve my plane to catch.” He picked up the suitcase he had fought so hard to take from Schneller. “I’ll meet you in Zaragoza. When does your plane get there?”
“About eight or nine, depending on Iberia. Get us some decent rooms, and rent a car—”
“I know.”
“And stop in a hardware store and get me a big screwdriver and a roll of copper wire. And some batteries — large flashlight batteries will do, although batteries with terminals would be easier—”
André paused in moving off. He stared at the other man in alarm.
“A screwdriver and wire? Look, Kek — if you’re planning on trying to jump that circuit and then pry the suitcase open, do me a favor. Wait until I’m far away. Schneller may not be overbright, but he’s a damn good mechanic. You’ll blow yourself and the case all over the province!”
“Oh ye of little faith...”
“And why batteries? They have electric lights in Zaragoza! Unless you don’t want to see what you’re doing.”
Kek smiled at him gently. “Don’t worry about it. Just be sure to buy the stuff.” He looked at his wristwatch as the loudspeaker blared. “And there’s your plane. I’ll see you tonight.”
“All right,” André said, but he sounded dubious. He hefted the suitcase easily and walked off with a frown on his face. The batteries were beyond explanation completely, but the screwdriver and the wire? It sounded like asking for trouble...
Kek watched him go, waited a proper interval, and then followed the big man back into the terminal. He trotted down the steps to the main floor, paying no attention to André, marching toward an airline gate a bit ahead of him. Steps two and three — Morell and Schneller — had been taken care of. Now for step four — getting the suitcase into Spain without disturbing the even lives of the Customs Inspection Service. And then for step five, and the most important one at the moment: Sanchez...
He turned at the bottom of the steps, moving toward the KLM desk, wiping the easy expression from his face, replacing it with a scowl. It was a pity he was going to make a clerk there suffer, but — to coin a phrase — one could not make an omelet without breaking heads. It was sad that spirits also had to be broken at times...
14
The dapper young man behind the KLM desk looked up politely. His expression changed to one of concern as he noted the look on the face of the man glaring at him over the counter. Whatever had annoyed the gentleman, it must have been something serious, and the young clerk sincerely hoped it did not involve either himself or the airline he represented. This husky, gray-eyed man with the tough jaw looked as if he could be unpleasant when he wanted to, and this seemed to be one of the times he wanted to.
The young man came to his feet quickly, advancing to the counter.
“Sir?”
“Would you mind telling me what kind of an airline you people are supposed to be running?” Kek asked truculently and mentally apologized to Royal Dutch Airlines, one of his favorites.