“Parchment?” It was a lovely lie, Kek was forced to admit.
“Parchment.” Having made the plunge, the words came easier for Señor Sanchez. He unlocked his fingers, placing his hands on his bony knees. “M’sieu Huuygens, I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but it is the truth. A good many of the land titles to the most important pieces of property in the city of Buenos Aires depend for their legal validity on nothing more than the fact that the original grants given by the Spanish crown to the original owners have disappeared — or had disappeared, that is, until quite recently. Then, in an — an old church in — but the name is unimportant; let us simply say in a section of the city that once was a small village but is now a suburb, a part of Greater Buenos Aires, some of these original land grants were discovered. They had been there for years, put away in a drawer. The man who discovered them did so by pure accident, but he was smart enough to realize their potential worth, and—” He hesitated, slightly embarrassed.
“Stole them?”
Sanchez seemed relieved to have the naughty words spoken by someone with less sensibility than himself. “I’m afraid that’s right.” He shrugged delicately. “Actually, you might more properly say restole them, because of course they were the true grants to the land, and I’m sure the original owners didn’t give up either the land or the grants all that easily. In any event, most of the descendants of the original families live in Spain, and many of them in Barcelona. They were approached recently by this—” Again the slight hesitation.
“Thief?” Huuygens suggested politely.
“—the man who had located the parchments. However, he did not have the actual documents with him of course; he was afraid to take them through customs. They would have taken quite a bit of explaining, as you can well imagine. So the families commissioned me to go to Argentina and view the documents.” He shrugged. “I was convinced of their authenticity. And their potential value.”
“You are an expert on documents?”
Sanchez grinned; on his thin face it looked like a rictus.
“M’sieu, I am an expert on making money.”
Which is probably the first true statement said in this room since your arrival, Kek thought. Still, there is no doubt the man has a wonderful imagination. His grandchildren must enjoy his stories.
“But why bring the documents to Spain at all?” Kek asked. “The land they refer to is, after all, in Argentina.”
The thin man shook his head decisively. “No, no, m’sieu! To attempt to present the parchments in an Argentinian court would be ridiculous. A good part of what is now the city of Buenos Aires is involved. The government there simply could not allow such a claim to be considered for a moment. The documents would be impounded, declared fraudulent, and destroyed. Even in Spain—” He sighed. “My principals are important people, but I’m sure that even in Spain we shall have problems. But the documents are Spanish in origin, and there, at least, it’s felt we might have a chance.”
Huuygens nodded, as if seeing the logic of the other’s position. It was an imaginative story, he had to admit; he wondered whether Sanchez had come prepared with it or had made it up on the spur of the moment. However, he decided to play along a bit more.
“How big a suitcase are we talking about?”
“A normal suitcase.” Sanchez held out his pencillike fingers. “About so wide. A few feet. Nothing extraordinary.” He smiled. “Still, a bit too big to carry through customs under one’s coat.”
“The only thing I ever carry through customs under my coat,” Kek said, “is me. And I usually have more trouble with that than I do with anything else.” He changed the subject. “What’s the weight of this suitcase?”
Sanchez considered. “Fifteen kilo, I’d say. A bit more than thirty pounds. Not heavy at all.”
Which, heavy or not, would make a lot of parchment, Kek thought, and pitied the number of sheep called upon to furnish it. “Why a suitcase, necessarily?” he asked. “I assume the parchment is rolled; at least it was customary in those days. Wouldn’t folding harm it? Why not a tube of some sort?”
Sanchez considered him evenly. “Because, m’sieu, you will have to transport the material somehow to get it to Spain, and a tube with a lock on it might arouse the curiosity of a porter, or an airline baggage handler, or a clerk—”
“Locked? This suitcase will be locked?”
“Extremely well locked, m’sieu.” Now that the subject had been broached, Sanchez sounded determined to settle the matter for all time. “The suitcase will be locked and will remain locked, m’sieu. That is a vital condition. The value of these documents might prove a temptation to anyone, even to someone with your reputation for dealing fairly with clients. We are not talking about a paltry painting now, m’sieu, or a valuable book. We are talking about most of the city of Buenos Aires.” He waited for some response; Huuygens remained silent, watching him over his tented fingers. Sanchez took this as a form of acceptance and continued. “Well, m’sieu, what do you think? It can be done?”
“Oh, yes. It can be done, all right.”
“May one ask how?”
Kek looked at him sardonically. “One may ask, of course, but one would not be answered. After all, señor, the suitcase is still hypothetical, but my means of making a living is not.”
Sanchez smiled, accepting the answer. It was one he would have given himself. His smile faded. “And the charge would be? The cost to us?”
“Ah, that’s the problem, you see.” Kek frowned at the carpet and then brought his eyes up. “I’m not sure I want the job. A locked suitcase...” He smiled apologetically; even in the shadows Sanchez could see the boyish lift of the lips and the gleam of the white teeth. “Without intending any disrespect, señor, I don’t know you; that is a second thing. I would need to check your credentials. Say, with someone like André...” He waited for a reaction from the man across from him and gave him high marks for retaining his composure. “If I could find him after all these years, of course. But if not, with someone else. I have other contacts in Barcelona.”
Sanchez released a shuddering breath. Huuygens, at least, was interested! “Would ten thousand, American, plus any expenses involved induce you to take the job without wasting time?” He waved a hand impatiently. “Not that I worry about your checking on me, M’sieu Huuygens. I’m not of the police, and that’s all that should interest you. I’m well known in Barcelona, and that fact can easily be established by a simple telephone call.”
“I’m afraid I would want more than a simple telephone call to convince me, señor.” Kek came to his feet in an easy motion, indicating the interview was over, at least for the moment. “I shall have to let you know, Señor Sanchez. Where can I reach you?”
“How long before you can give me your decision, m’sieu?”
“Three or four days, I should think. A week at the very most.”
Sanchez unfolded himself, coming to his feet reluctantly. He seemed ill-disposed to leave the matter where it stood; he looked as if he blamed himself for not having been more successful in his mission.
“You are sure you would not care to decide right now?”
“Quite sure.”
Sanchez sighed. “Then as soon as possible, please, m’sieu. There is a lot of money involved, and other people. And we can’t even begin to prepare our case without the documentation.”