Kek shrugged, “I’m afraid—”
“I asked you a question.” The voice was low, but harsh, almost threatening. The two men at the nearby table looked up, their interest temporarily removed from their fingernails. The smaller man waved his hand at them; they subsided. He forced an apologetic smile to his thin lips. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid that was rather rude of me. But I would be interested in your giving me an answer.”
Kek studied the man. It was obvious the question meant something to the other, but Kek couldn’t imagine what. Possibly the simple truth would bring out the reason.
“I can remember three decks,” he said.
“As a player, or as an observer?”
“As a player.”
“Marvelous!” The man crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. Kek wondered where the conversation was leading. Polite blackmail? A share of the ten thousand for his silence? A possible partnership in future card play? But there was nothing illegal in remembering exposed cards, although it was doubtful that Max would ever play with him if he knew. Not to mention the other members of the Quinleven.
But Kek was sure the man across from him had other interests; there was no doubt at all the man had come to the club for the sole purpose of meeting him and speaking to him, and the stranger could scarcely have foreseen the meeting with Max, or that he and Max would become involved in the blackjack game. Or, for that matter, how the game would come out.
It seemed about time to find out what this was all about.
“You are a professional gambler, M’sieu?” Kek asked politely.
“I?” The man laughed, a genuine laugh, and tossed the spent match carelessly toward the ashtray rather than carefully placing it, a clear sign of a more relaxed manner. “I suppose in a way you could say so, I’m sure if I had devoted the time to it, or put my mind to it seriously when I was younger, I certainly could have become one. And had I so decided, M’sieu, you may be assured I would have been a most successful one.”
His eyes came up, serious now.
“I have the proper attitude for a gambler, M’sieu Huuygens. As I am sure you do. I pride myself on being a good loser, but many do that. Far more important, I claim indisputably to be a good winner. Which is usually far more difficult.” He shrugged, smiling faintly. “At least I never complain about luck. I accept whatever the Fates hand me, either good or bad.”
“In all things?” Kek asked softly.
“Not in all things, M’sieu. But in gambling, yes.”
“And if the Fates,” Kek said gently, “can be helped along by the remembering of cards that have been played—?”
“Of course,” the man said. His smile broadened; he was enjoying the conversation. Kek felt a sudden revulsion toward the man; somehow he seemed more obnoxious when happy than when angry. “It certainly isn’t cheating to remember cards; it’s merely part of the skill of the game.” His smile faded; his voice became harsh again. “Sometimes, when you gamble for things more important than money, my friend, remembering the cards that have been played can be vital. When you gamble, for example, with your life. As I have, many times...”
A slight chill touched Kek. At last he recognized the man.
2
Kek stared across the table curiously. “You’re Victor Girard.”
“Exactly, M’sieu.” Girard seemed more amused than pleased to finally be recognized. “Victor Eugène Armand Jean-Claude Girard, to be exact.” The fact that he had added most of the names himself once he had risen to fame — and that in all probability Huuygens was aware of the fact — did not bother him in the least. “It took you awhile.”
“It has been some time since M’sieu has been — well, in the news.”
“A year.” Girard waved it away.
“And to see you here in New York... I thought—”
“That I was still in Europe? That I was persona non grata with your State Department? That little misunderstanding was cleared up almost two weeks ago.” Girard repeated his hand motion, airily brushing smoke away together with any unnecessary questions as to his presence in the country. “As a matter of fact I’ve taken an apartment here in New York. I may well remain here.”
“I see,” Kek said. “And could I ask how you came to know my name? And where to find me?” He did not ask the obvious question as to why Girard had wanted to locate him, but the question remained, even if unspoken.
“But, of course!” Girard sounded surprised at himself for not having mentioned it sooner. “You see, M’sieu,” he said, dropping his voice confidentially, although the two of them, other than the bodyguards, were the only ones anywhere in the vicinity. “In... well, in getting safely to Europe — and even when I was there — I had need of certain...” His hands moved delicately. They reminded Kek of the motion of a snake charming a bird. “Well, call them ‘special services.’ And some of those special services brought me in touch with what might be called ‘the Underworld.’”
The man’s tone capitalized the words; there was a twinkle in his eye. Huuygens managed not to snort. For Victor Girard to speak of the underworld in that manner was almost ludicrous; his special police would have made the roughest of Europe’s underworld look like choir boys. When he attempted lightness, Kek decided, he was even more repulsive than when he was honestly happy. Girard grinned at him and went on.
“A shame to find oneself in degraded company, but there it is. One does what one must. However, to get to you. Naturally, when I needed the services of — if you’ll pardon me, M’sieu — an expert in avoiding the distasteful attentions of your Customs Service, I made inquiries. And I found a universality of opinion as to not only who was the best man, but the only man for the job, that was quite remarkable.”
He smiled brightly across the table.
“You should feel flattered, M’sieu. Your reputation is formidable.”
There was no doubt that the man was, indeed, Victor Give-Or-Take-A-Name Girard, but why a man of Girard’s background should require Kek’s particular talents was a most interesting question. Rumor, backed by facts, had it that when M’sieu Girard left Ile Rocheux he had taken about everything with him except the dock from which he had escaped by speedboat. Still, the best way to find out what the man wanted was to let him wade through his interminable introduction. The brandy would have helped pass the time, but unfortunately Huuygens never mixed liquor and business. And this definitely looked like business. He sighed and pushed his nearly full glass away from him.
Girard recognized the gesture for what it was and seemed pleased by it. He emptied his own glass down his throat with one gulp, put out his cigarette after one final drag, and got down to business.
“I’m interested in making you a simple business proposition,” he said evenly. “I should like to offer you—”
He stopped so abruptly that for a moment Huuygens wondered if perhaps the man had suddenly changed his mind, or if they were about to be interrupted by a newcomer unseen behind his back. But neither was the case. Instead a beatific smile spread across the swarthy pockmarked face, the teeth flashed, and Girard began again.
“Let me rephrase that,” he said, his tiny reptilian eyes coming as close to twinkling as was possible. “An offer of mere money to a man who so easily managed to win ten thousand dollars before my eyes so short a time ago, is scarcely proper. What I meant to say is that I should like to make a wager with you. A wager I am sure would be most interesting to a gambler such as yourself.” He paused, studying Huuygens. “You are a gambling man, are you not, M’sieu?”