Robert Fish - The Hochmann Miniatures

The year was 1954, the month was September, and the weather was hot.

Claude Devereaux, one of the large and overworked staff of customs inspectors at the incoming-passenger section of Orly airport, tilted his stiff-brimmed cap back from his sweating forehead, leaned over to scrawl an indecipherable chalkmark on the suitcase before him, and then straightened up, wondering what imbecile had designed the uniform he wore, and if the idiot had ever suffered its heavy weight on a hot day. He nodded absently to the murmured thank you of the released passenger and turned to his next customer, automatically accepting the passport thrust at him, wondering if there might still be time after his shift to stop for a bire before going home. Probably not, he thought with a sigh, and brought his attention back to business.

He noted the name in the green booklet idly, and was about to ask for declaration forms, when he suddenly stiffened, the oppressive heat and even the beer instantly forgotten. The bulletins on the particular name he was staring at filled a large portion of his special-instruction book. His eyes slid across the page to the smiling, rather carefree photograph pasted beside the neat signature, and then raised slowly and wonderingly to study the person across the counter.

He saw a man he judged to be in his early or middle thirties, a bit above medium height, well dressed in the latest and most expensive fashion of the boulevardier, with broad shoulders that seemed just a trifle out of proportion with his otherwise slim and athletic body. The thick, curly hair, a bit tousled by a rather bumpy ride over the Alps, was already lightly touched with gray; it gave a certain romantic air to the strong, clean-shaven face below. Mercurial eyebrows slanted abruptly over gray eyes that, the official was sure, undoubtedly proved very attractive to women. He came to himself with a start; at the moment those gray eyes were beginning to dissipate their patience under the others blatant inspection. Claude Devereaux suspected quite rightly that those soft eyes could become quite cold and hard if the circumstances warranted. He bent forward with a diffident smile, lowering his voice.

Msieu Huuygens...

The man before him nodded gravely. Yes?

I am afraid...

Afraid of what? Kek Huuygens asked curiously.

The official raised his shoulders, smiling in a slightly embarrassed manner, although the glint in his eyes was anything but disconcerted.

Afraid that I must ask you to step into the chief inspectors office, he said smoothly, and immediately raised his palms, negating any personal responsibility. Those are our instructions, msieu.

Merde! A nuisance! The gray eyes studied the official thoughtfully a moment, as if attempting to judge the potential venality of the other. I dont suppose there is any other solution?

Msieu?

No, I suppose not. The notion was dismissed with an impatient shake of the head. Each and every time I come through French customs! Ridiculous! He shrugged. Well, I suppose if one must, one must.

Exactly, Devereaux agreed politely. What a story to tell his wife! No less a scoundrel than the famous Kek Huuygens himself had come through his station in customs, and had actually tried to bribe him! Well, not exactly to bribe him, but there had been an expression in those gray eyes for a moment that clearly indicated... The inspector dismissed the thought instantly. If his wife thought for one minute that he had turned down a bribe, she would never let him hear the end of it. Better just tell her... He paused. Better say nothing at all, he thought sourly, feeling somehow deprived of something, and then became aware that he was being addressed. He came to attention at once. Msieu?

The chief inspectors office? If you recall?

Ah, yes! If msieu will just follow me...

And about my luggage?

Your luggage? Claude Devereaux looked along the now vacant wooden counter, instantly brought from his dream, immediately on the alert. The bulletins had been most definite about this one! Watch him! Watch him constantly! Watch his every move! His eyes returned to the man before him suspiciously.

You mean your briefcase? Or is there more?

Its all I have, but its still my luggage. Kek suddenly smiled at the other confidingly, willing to let bygones be bygones, accepting the fact that the inspector was merely doing his job. I prefer to travel light, you know. A toothbrush, a clean pair of socks, a fresh shirt... He looked about easily, as if searching out a safe spot where no careless porter might inadvertently pick up the briefcase and deposit it unbidden at the taxi-rank, or where someone with less honest intent might not steal it. If I might leave it someplace out of the way...

The official glanced at the high-vaulted ceiling with small attempt to hide his amusement, and then looked down again. Really, there had to be some way he could tell this story to his wife, or at least to his girl friend! It was just too delicious! He shook his head pityingly.

Im afraid, msieu, that your briefcase must go with you to the chief inspectors office. He brightened falsely. In fact, Ill even carry it for you.

Youre very kind, Huuygens murmured, and followed along.

Charles Dumas, chief inspector of the Orly section, looked up from his cluttered desk at the entrance of the two men, leaned back in his chair with resignation, and audibly sighed. Today, obviously, he should have stayed home, or, better yet, gone to the club. The small office was baking in the unusual heat of the morning; the small fan droning in one corner was doing so without either enthusiasm or effectiveness; he was beginning to get a headache from the tiny print which somehow seemed to be the only font size available to the printing office, and now this! He accepted the proffered passport in silence, indicated with the merest motion of his head where he wished the briefcase deposited, and dismissed Inspector Devereaux with the tiniest lifting of his eyebrows. Even these efforts seemed to exhaust him; he waited until the disappointed inspector had reluctantly closed the door behind him, and then riffled through the pages of the passport. He paused at the fresh immigration stamp and then looked up with a faint grimace.

Msieu Huuygens...

Kek seated himself on the one wooden chair the small office offered its guests, wriggled it a bit to make sure it was secure, and then looked up, studying the others face. He leaned back, crossing his legs, and shook his head.

Really, Inspector, he said a bit plaintively, I fail to understand the expression on your face. It appears to me if anyone has reason to be aggrieved, its me. This business of a personal interview each time I come through customs...

Please. A pudgy hand came up wearily, interrupting. The chief inspector sighed and studied the passport almost as if he had never seen one before. So youve been traveling again?

Obviously.

To Switzerland this time, I see. The dark eyes came up from the booklet, inscrutable. A rather short trip, was it not?

Kek tilted his chair back against the wall, crossing his arms, resigning himself to the inevitable catechism. Just a weekend.

On business?

To avoid the heat of Paris for a few days, if you must know.

I see... The chief inspector sighed again. And I also see that you have nothing to declare. But, then, you seldom do.

The chair eased down softly. Huuygens considered the inspector quietly for several seconds, and then nodded as if seeing the logic of the others position.