Роберт Фиш - The Wager

“ So suspicious,” Girard said softly. “And so uninformed!” The faint smile had reappeared on the pockmarked face, forgiving the other his rude comment. He shook his head. “M’sieu, nothing in the National Gallery may be sold. At any price. Ever. Everything there belongs to the People.” Again his sneering tone capitalized the word; his opinion of the People was being thrust in Kek’s face, as if in challenge. Kek chose to disregard it.

“I believe you,” he said. “And I also agree that a sociological discussion at this point would serve no purpose. Now, let’s talk of the carving. I assume you were the one who suggested to the museum that they acquire it?”

“I suggested they do most of the things they did,” Girard said with irony. “And not just the National Gallery.”

“I imagine that’s true,” Kek said, and continued without pause. “I also imagine that when you felt the time to depart was approaching, and while you were still persona grata in your own country, you were wise enough to replace the original carving with a cheap copy. Or maybe you did it when the carving first arrived—”

Girard was staring at him. Huuygens nodded.

“Cast vinyl, I imagine? Some of these imitations are remarkable. Well, where is the original? The genuine Chang? With a friend?”

Girard shook his head in disbelief. “Replaced what? With a copy? I only wish I had the chance!” He shook his head again. “The original — and only — carving is in the museum where it’s always been. On display in its little glass box — case, if you will — as always.” He sighed, just thinking about it.

There were several moments of silence as Huuygens digested this information. Girard frowned at him, as if wondering what was preoccupying the other man. At last Huuygens sighed with regret and placed his hands on the table as if prepared to rise.

“A pity,” he said with true disappointment. “And such lovely odds, too! Fifty thousand for five! You know,” he went on, “I think I would have enjoyed bringing the carving in, too. I’ve always thought there must be some fairly simple means of doing so, especially from the Caribbean...”

Girard frowned. “But what’s the trouble?”

“The trouble, M’sieu,” Huuygens said quietly, “is that I’m not a thief.”

Girard relaxed. He smiled a bit derisively.

“M’sieu,” he said quietly, “everyone has the privilege of putting a name to his own vices as he sees fit. You say you are not a thief. If you mean you are not a common thief, I should certainly have to agree. If you mean you are not a professional thief, I would be forced to concur even more heartily.” He waggled a finger. “My dear sir, I never thought of having you try to remove the carving from the museum; it is not your milieu , not your — how do the Americans say? — not your racket.”

“Then how do you expect to have it removed?”

“It will be removed by a person who is not as particular as yourself as to titles,” Girard said dryly. “By a professional thief. His name—”

“Hold it!” Huuygens raised a hand quickly. “I don’t want to know his name. And I don’t want him to know mine. There is no need.”

“Fair enough,” Girard said equably. “Our relationship — yours and mine — need only deal with the problem of getting the carving through Customs. It will take a clever man to bring it in and hand it over to me.” He suddenly grinned, his teeth looking like sugar cubes. “I am wagering those generous odds that that clever man is not you.” He nodded, his small eyes shrewd. “And I am beginning to suspect that you are interested. Am I correct?”

“At those odds? Yes, you are correct.”

“Then we have a deal? I mean, a wager?”

“That’s right,” Kek said, and reached his hand across the table. Girard took it, gave it a quick up-and-down shake, and released it.

“Done!” Girard’s manner changed abruptly. Now that Huuygens was committed, the man’s false air of friendship disappeared; for all practical purposes he was now dealing with an employee, albeit an expensive one. “Now, how do you plan on doing it?”

A faint smile touched Huuygens’ lips. “That will be my problem.”

“I’m not asking for any of your secrets,” Girard said shortly, “but I will need to know enough of your schedule so that I can have that nasty man, the professional thief, bring the carving to the proper place at the proper time.” He ended on a slightly sarcastic note.

“True,” Huuygens said. “Where is he now?”

“Paris. But I’ll have him in Ile Rocheux in ample time, not that a man of his caliber needs it.”

Huuygens thought a moment, his fingers drumming the table. At last he looked up, one hand unconsciously reaching up to tug at his earlobe, a sign he was beginning to think of the actual problem.

“At the moment I have only the sketchiest of ideas. I’ll have to think about it. But I should have a definite plan worked out sometime tomorrow. Where can I reach you?”

“Here.” The smaller man delved into a pocket, producing a card. “At this number. If I’m not there, leave a number and time when I can call you back. Is that satisfactory?”

“I’ll call and arrange a place where we can meet and discuss it,” Huuygens said. He smiled. “Telephones weren’t built for secrecy.”

“Fair enough. How long do you think it will take?” Girard seemed to realize this was a foolish question and cut it off. “As soon as possible, let us hope,” he said abruptly, and brought out his Gauloises. He lit one, inhaled deeply, and waved for the waiter. “Now that our business is finished,” he said, “you can finish your drink.” He stared across the table thoughtfully. “Three decks, eh? And a man who knows when to drink and when not to drink. A clever man...” Kek might not have been there from the tone of Girard’s voice. “A clever man...”

“A careful man,” Kek said, and raised his glass. True, he had to develop a means of bringing the Chang Tzu T’sien carving through Customs without being detected and that required thought and thinking and drinking did not mix, but the thinking could wait until tomorrow. The Quinleven Club brandy was excellent, and he had earned the drink, if only for putting up with Girard for this long. Still, if things worked out as they should work out, he would only have to see the man twice more. Which was enough.

A profitable evening; first the blackjack game and now being on the correct end of ten-thousand-to-one odds. He started to raise his glass and noticed the hard set to Girard’s face. Could it have been too profitable an evening? Well, Kek thought, I said I was a careful man rather than a clever one. Let’s try to be both in this caper. It could not only be profitable, but healthy, as well.

He downed his brandy and allowed the waiter to pour him a second.

“Darling,” Anita said. “Let me have the comics.”

Kek, still in pajamas and robe, his curly hair even more tousled than usual, was having his second cup of coffee in his favorite easy chair while reading the morning newspaper. He lowered it to glance across at Anita with patient good humor, wondering how he had ever been fortunate enough to have found a girl who looked like this in the morning. Actually, as he recalled, Anita had found him, which was even luckier for him.

“My sweet Anita,” he said. “How many times must I repeat it? The New York Times does not have comics.”

“Then why do you buy it?”

“To find out what is happening in this naughty world of ours,” Kek told her and turned a page.

Anita made a face. “You’d learn as much from the comics. Or more.” She was curled up on the sofa across from Kek, beautiful in a swirl of negligee, lighting her first cigarette of the day. She blew out the match and put it away. “Where do you think they got the idea of landing on the moon? From Bill Rogers.”