“At times,” Kek said quietly, and waited.
“I admire caution, but this time there is small need of it. A simple wager, except I think you’ll will find the odds a bit unusual. But interesting. You see,” Girard said, quite obviously pleased with the brilliance of his newer approach, “I should like to wager fifty thousand dollars of my money, against” — he paused dramatically for effect, watching Huuygens closely — “against five dollars of your money...”
He paused again, but if he expected a reaction from his companion, he was disappointed. Kek merely waited quietly. Girard smiled tightly, not to be denied the dramatics of his proposition.
“—that you will not bring a certain object from Ile Rocheux into New York City through United States Customs, and deliver it to me!”
He leaned back triumphantly. There was a moment’s silence as Huuygens considered the other’s words. He was forced to admire the quaintness of the approach, but that scarcely answered the many questions the other’s offer had engendered. He nodded thoughtfully, considering the depths of the brandy before him, and then looked up. Girard’s eyes were bright upon him.
“As you say,” Huuygens said evenly, quite as if he faced ten-thousand-to-one odds every day, and occasionally even accepted them, “the odds are interesting. One might even call them generous. However, I assume in your investigation of my bona fides someone may have mentioned that there are certain items which I prefer do not elude Customs Service?”
Girard waved his hand impatiently.
“No, no, no! You mean narcotics! Of course they mentioned your scruples against touching them. Personally, that is your business. I have no interest in narcotics. No, no!” He leaned forward again, dropping his voice further; the excitement in his voice increased. There was an honesty, a dropping of pretense, to the man for the first time. “It is a carving—”
Kek’s eyebrows raised. “A carving?”
“Yes. But what a carving! In ivory. A Chang Tzu T’sien dating back more than eight centuries before the birth of the Christ. It isn’t very large — I imagine it would even fit into your coat pocket, although admittedly it would be bulky. It depicts a village scene in Hunan at that time — but I understand you are somewhat of an art connoisseur, yourself. You may even have heard of it. In translation its name means ‘The Village Dance.’” Girard paused, studying the frown that had appeared on Huuygens’ face. “You’ve heard of it? You know it?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“No,” Kek said slowly. “I’ve never seen it, but I’ve read the catalog data on it. The carving received quite a bit of publicity when Ile Rocheux bought it for their National Gallery. It was felt — if you’ll pardon me — that the money could possibly have been used better elsewhere, especially in a country where the per-capita income is about fifty dollars American a year...”
Girard’s eyes were suddenly hard; his smile had disappeared.
“I hope we are not going to allow our little discussion to wander off into sociology, M’sieu.”
“We are not,” Huuygens said amiably. “It was merely a comment in passing, to explain why and how I happen to be familiar with the work. I also wish to explain why I have certain questions about the entire matter.” His eyes came up. “Do you mind?”
Girard spread open his palms invitingly.
“First, then,” Huuygens said easily, “let me ask you to indulge my curiosity — because basically, I suppose, it’s hardly my business and could scarcely affect our — ah, wager. Still, the question remains and needs answering.” His eyes caught those of Girard and held them. “As I recall, M’sieu, when the Ile Rocheux museum bought the carving at auction at Sotheby’s in London, the price they paid was much less than the fifty thousand dollars you are now willing to — well, bet — to get it into this country. Am I guilty of error?”
The hooded eyes did not waver. “No, you are quite correct.”
“In fact,” Huuygens said, “the price that was paid was a bit over thirty thousand dollars, was it not?”
“Your memory is remarkable. The price was in pounds, but at the exchange rate of the day it came to thirty-one thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars, within a dollar or so.”
“Now,” Kek said, “even that value could only be realized at a legitimate sale or auction, which would be rather difficult, it seems to me, under any circumstance involving illegal ownership. Possibly some time in the future — actually, centuries in the future, considering the carving’s evaluation rate to date — it may well be priceless. But today, frankly, it is not. So—” Huuygens shrugged. “Naturally, one wonders.”
Girard’s expression had been undergoing a change as Huuygens spoke. Now the disappointment he had mastered when watching the blackjack game returned compounded. He shook his small head slowly.
“You do not understand, M’sieu,” he said, and there was a genuine touch of sadness in the husky voice at Huuygens’ incogitancy. “You do not begin to understand. If you know anything at all about me, if you believe even one-tenth of the things the newspapers have printed about me, then you should know several things. First, I am not stingy. Second, I do not lack for funds. Good God! I am not interested in the monetary value of the Chang carving. I have no intention of selling it, or trying to sell it. The thought is obscene! I simply wish to own it.”
He stared at Huuygens with a look Kek had seen many times before when dealing with collectors. It was the look of a zealot, a fanatic — in short, a Collector with a capital C. Girard shook his head.
“You cannot possibly understand, M’sieu,” he said quietly. “Even the world doesn’t understand, or the Chang would be priced beyond the silly daubings that Sotheby’s auctions for fortunes every day of the week. But price means nothing. It is simply the most incredibly beautiful piece of work I have ever seen, and I want it. But you are incapable of understanding...”
He was, of course, quite wrong. Huuygens understood perfectly; he had dealt with collectors before. For a moment he found himself almost liking the repulsive little man across from him, but only for the moment. Victor Girard’s record was only too well known. Girard put aside the mental picture of the carving that had been with him when he had last spoken, and got down to business again.
“You wonder why my offer was so high — I mean, the terms of my wager. I can tell you quite openly that until you made that final bet at blackjack a while back, I had no intention of offering you more than a fraction of that amount. But then I knew, to begin with, that you were not a man to haggle with. And I also knew I had to make a large enough bid — I mean, bet — to interest a man of your caliber.”
He sighed and shook his head.
“So I went high. Purposely high. Possibly it was a mistake. Possibly I was wrong in my judgment of you. Perhaps I should have remained with a smaller offer. Then you would have been convinced I was merely a petty crook out for a small profit and let it go at that.” He looked across the table into the gray eyes and then shook his head. “No, you would not have thought any such thing.” He sighed at the unforeseen problems involved in hiring a man: it had been simpler in the days when he could just order things done. “In any event, are there any more questions?”
“Several,” Kek said, not at all worried about the other’s problems. He stared into his nearly full brandy glass a moment, formulating his thoughts. Then he looked up. “For example: if you wanted the carving so much, why not simply go to any reputable dealer — Sotheby’s itself, for that matter — and simply commission them to buy it for you? If money is no object, it shouldn’t present any great problem. I’m sure the treasury of Ile Rocheux could use the cash,” he added dryly, pleased to see the look of irritation cross his companion’s face, “especially if I am to believe one-tenth the things the newspapers said, as you have suggested. And I’m sure that, commission and all, it would have cost you less than fifty thousand dollars.”