The sarcasm did not further unnerve the young clerk; he was beyond that. His voice had a tone of quiet desperation, as if he were merely waiting for his shift to end so he could go somewhere and get drunk.
“I’m sorry about the difficulty, sir, but it’s only an hour’s flight from Barcelona to Madrid, sir. We don’t fly that leg, but Iberia has frequent flights, almost every hour. I’m sure I can arrange to have your bag here in Madrid in three or four hours at the most.”
Kek smiled grimly. His gray eyes narrowed but did not leave the other’s face.
“My entire life is being directed for me by one small suitcase and one large group of incompetents!” He straightened up, tapping the folded Paris-Match dangerously in one palm for emphasis. “I have an important appointment in Aragon — in Zaragoza, to be exact — and my flight leaves in exactly thirty minutes. As you know, Iberia does not have flights to Zaragoza every hour; this is the last flight today. To miss this flight would mean—”
“Could I ask where you go from Zaragoza, sir?”
Kek stared at him in astonishment.
“Are you suggesting I give up my business and take on the profession of chasing my suitcase? Or that I spend the rest of my life in this shirt as a penance for traveling on your airline? Or that... that—” He gave up, shaking his head in amazement at the implied suggestion. “This is truly unbelievable!”
There was a moment’s silence; then the young man cleared his throat.
“Possibly we could get your suitcase to you in Zaragoza, sir. Iberia flies there from Barcelona—”
“They do?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do they have any more flights today?”
“One moment, sir...” An official airline guide was unearthed and leafed through. The boy’s moving finger slid down a column and paused. He looked up in obvious relief. “They only have one flight, sir, but it’s an evening one. They could still make it today...”
Kek looked at him. “Well! Do you suppose your company can manage to get my suitcase to Iberia for its flight without shipping it to Zanzibar or Chicago this time?” The young man stood silent, watching the man across from him as if paralyzed. Kek broke up the coma. “Does your teletype run itself? Or would your expertise be of any help?”
“Yes, sir,” the young man mumbled and staggered away.
Kek returned to his Paris-Match. He finished the article on mountain disasters, the one on the latest fashions (pant-suit bikinis for winter wear), and was starting on the normal explanation of France’s failure in World Cup football when the young man returned. He seemed to be sleepwalking.
“Your bag is just coming off our Amsterdam-Barcelona flight now, sir. They’ll be able to catch the Iberia flight to Zaragoza, sir. It will be waiting for you when you arrive, I’m sure,” he said in a dazed fashion.
“Thank you,” Kek said politely and nodded abruptly. He marched off, carrying the folded Paris-Match like a colorful baton, moving toward the doorway leading to the bar.
Still half an hour to go, and it might as well be spent usefully. And he really had to write a letter to KLM one of these days apologizing for his conduct, he thought with a smile, and pushed into the dimness of the cocktail lounge while visions of cognac danced in his head.
Kek hadn’t known that DC-3’s were still flying, and he was inordinately pleased a little less than an hour after leaving Madrid to know that the same number were as had been when he left the capital. Happy and slightly surprised, he climbed from the small plane, deafened and shaken but all in one piece, and made for the small building that served Zaragoza as terminal, weather station, taxi stand, and sightseeing object for local residents. It was many years since Kek had found himself at a small airport, but if his scheme actually worked, as it had every indication of doing, he promised himself that small airports would see him frequently. Until the word got out that Kek Huuygens was traveling to small airports, of course, at which time a new ploy would be required. He had no doubt that at that time a new ploy would be invented.
He followed the other three passengers into the building, basking in the warmth of the evening, now that the high plateau of Madrid had been left. A small counter in one corner advertised Iberia Airlines, and he made his way to it. It was deserted. He rapped on it a bit sharply. A wizened old man came from behind the coffee counter and walked over, drying his hands on an apron. His face was dark with distaste. This time Kek was politeness itself.
“I beg your pardon, but the Iberia clerk—”
“That’s me. What d’you want?”
“A suitcase was supposed to be delivered here for me? By Iberia, from Barcelona?” And wouldn’t it be too bad if KLM really made a mistake this time and his suitcase was on its way to Madagascar or someplace?
“Your name Huuygens?”
Kek did not allow the sweep of relief to show on his face. “Yes.”
“Boys who delivered it said you’ve been giving the kids from KLM a pretty rough time along the line,” the old man said. He didn’t look pleased with the man facing him; it was true that as Iberia’s agent in Zaragoza he did not hold as glamorous a position as agents in bigger cities, but he felt a kinship with the others. “Not their fault a suitcase gets lost, you know...”
Kek smiled at him. The perfect answer occurred to him.
“Tell the boys to pass the word back along the line that I’m an inspector with KLM. I was merely checking the politeness and efficiency of the boys. They all passed with flying colors,” he added, the smile still on his face. “My suitcase?”
The old man was far from mollified with the explanation. To his mind inspectors were as bad as complaining customers — worse, in fact. Stool pigeons, the lot of them.
“My suitcase,” Kek repeated. The smile was becoming strained.
“Well, all right...” The old man bent down behind the counter, tugging. The case came up; he set it on the counter, his hand still on it as if for protection.
“Thank you,” Kek said evenly and picked it from the old man’s hands. He nodded once in thanks and walked outside.
And that was that. It had been just as simple as he had envisioned. Merely have his suitcase chase him from airport to airport until it caught up with him at a local airport without customs service...
15
A car’s lights flashed on from the parking lot; there was the sound of a motor catching, an engine revving up. The car’s lights backed out and turned, swinging about the lot, illuminating it, and then drawing closer. The car pulled up before the entrance and André leaned over, opening the door. Kek slid in, placed the suitcase on the backseat next to its mate, and slammed the door. André grinned at him and gunned the car down the driveway, heading for their inn.
“Any trouble?”
“None,” Kek said wearily. “It went just about as scheduled.” He sighed. “I’d better not travel on KLM for a while, though. I have a feeling I’m not in their best graces.” He looked across the car. “Did you get us rooms?”
“Best in town,” André said expansively. His face fell a bit. “It’s still not the Ritz, you understand.”
“And the screwdriver and the batteries? And the wire?”
André paused at a crossroad, checked traffic, and then turned into it. He glanced at Kek sideways. He didn’t sound happy.
“I got them, but I think we’re asking for trouble trying to force that case. We both agreed it couldn’t be opened without blowing the two of us to kingdom come. And even if we don’t scatter ourselves all over Zaragoza, if there are any signs of tampering... Well, don’t forget that Sanchez still has Anita.”