by Brian Flynn
Five hours’ voyage out of the port of Hull the passengers of the Nicholas Maes who had summoned sufficient courage and hardihood to brave the wind and weather on the top deck had their attention diverted for a few moments by an aeroplane that flew joyously over them and rapidly left them far behind. It was apparently making for the coast of Holland. Lal Singh, keeping as much in the background as possible, regarded it with the stoical calm of his race and the pseudo-tourists (never very far away from him) were quick to detect this. It may be observed that the aeroplane in question carried a trio of eminent passengers—Sir Austin Kemble, the Chief Commissioner, the Crown Prince Alexis of Clorania—whom Mr. Bathurst had insisted upon being present, and no less a person than Mr. Bathurst himself. They made Amsterdam—the spider-web city of the “Land of Water”—in excellent time and made their way, piloted by the Chief Commissioner, to the Kalverstraat.
“A little light refreshment,” explained Sir Austin to His Royal Highness, “will prove most acceptable to every one of us. Also I have arranged to meet Cuypers in the Café Suisse. Cuypers is the head of the Dutch police,” he explained. “And an excellent fellow, I assure you.”
The gentleman mentioned was already there when they arrived. He spoke English fluently and greeted Sir Austin as an old friend and comrade.
“I received your message, Sir Austin,” he announces after the necessary introductions had been made, “and I have arranged that what you asked me will be attended to in every detail. The Nicholas Maes will be in to-night and will dock in the De Ruyter Kade. Your special gentleman will be carefully watched ashore by two of my most reliable men and if he doesn’t go direct to where you are expecting him to go—no matter—my men will never lose sight of him. If he does go straight on as you anticipate that he will—they will follow—to lend a hand—should a hand be wanted.” His fat face wreathed in smiles. It was a great honour to meet and work with the illustrious Sir Austin Kemble of the English police. He always welcomed the opportunity.
The Chief Commissioner nodded in acquiescence. “Good,” he commented. “Just what I want.”
Cuypers went on, flattered at Sir Austin’s commendation. “Your own people who are watching on the Nicholas Maes will join forced with my two men if they deem it necessary. I have arranged all the particulars with regard to that. A signal will be given to prevent any confusion arising. Is there anything else you would desire to know?” He disposed of his Lager with extreme satisfaction and gave an order for four more.
“Only this,” replied Sir Austin, a trifle defensively perhaps. He turned to Anthony. “I am relying on you implicitly, Mr. Bathurst. You have no doubt you say?”
Anthony smiled. “None at all, Sir Austin. Tell Mr. Cuypers what I imagine is going to happen when Lal Singh arrives.”
Sir Austin caressed his upper lip. “Stefanopoulos—Cuypers. Has he been pretty quiet lately? Can you tell me? Because we’re confident that he’s going to be in this job.”
Cuypers white teeth flashed into an appreciative smile. “But so! Well, I am not surprised. If it’s precious stones—there is always that possibility. But he is slippery! I cannot tell you how slippery, gentlemen.” He leaned forward to them impressively over the marble-topped table. “Stefanopoulos is one of the three biggest ‘fences’ in Europe. Possibly the biggest of all—excepting perhaps the notorious Adolf Schneitzer. It is only the really big stuff that he touches. The stuff that’s too big for the smaller men. Do you know his—his—?” He paused to collect the word he wanted. “What do you say—his pre—I know—antecedents?” His audience expressed their ignorance. Cuypers continued. “His father was a Greek who was employed for many years in the diamond-cutting industry of this city down in the Zwanenburger Straat. He got into trouble after he married one of our women and took to crime very thoroughly. In time he became an expert. His son—our man—is one of the craftiest devils you could meet. We’ve had him three times and wanted him many more times. But he’s like an eel. He’s cleared some of the biggest diamond robberies of recent years both in Europe and the States. And you think he’s going to occupy your present attention—eh?”
“Let me tell you this,” rejoined Anthony. “We have been waiting for a certain movement to be made by somebody in our country concerning the disposal of a very valuable, precious stone. A very big thing indeed. The bird we are trailing has flown to Amsterdam. Do you think I am very far out if I deduce the probable presence in the affair of M. Stefanopoulos?”
Cuypers shook his head. “Rather would I say, without hesitating, that you have hit the right nail on the head. At any rate,” he shrugged his shoulders expressively, “If your man is here and you are here to watch him wherever he goes—you cannot go very far wrong. Even if the trail as you call it doesn’t lead to Stefanopoulos.”
Sir Austin, who had been talking quietly to the Crown Prince for a moment or two broke in. “Where does this Stefanopoulos live?”
“In the Jewish Quarter,” replied the Dutchman.
“Far from here?” queried Anthony.
“Take a tram along the Geldersche Kade past the Fish Market into the New Market. Get off by St. Anthony’s Weigh House. You can’t miss that—it’s a rather quaint red-brick affair carrying round towers and spires. It was the old East Gate of Amsterdam. Go down a side turning just before Joden Bree Straat—the first turning on the left before the canal. Stefanopoulos lives in the second establishment on the right. But I shall be coming along with you when the fun starts—so you need have no worry about finding your way.”
“It is most essential that we should be able to interview Stefanopoulos before he receives his visitor,” remarked Anthony.
“That also shall be arranged,” said Cuypers. “I will see to it.”
He was as good as his word and early that afternoon the notorious Greek ‘fence’ of International reputation was privileged and surprised to receive four visitors. The establishment of the Jewish quarter to which Cuypers escorted them was externally unpretentious and to all appearances in no way significant of its proprietor’s world-wide notoriety. It was situated on the fringe of that part of the City of Amsterdam devoted for many years to the fascinating industry of diamond-cutting. To Anthony Bathurst, the quarter with its stalls and booths was as much reminiscent of London’s “Middlesex Street” as of anything he knew and the domicile of Stefanopoulos might have been removed en bloc from the Whitechapel Road. Cuypers beckoned to them.
“Come right in with me,” he said, “and let me do the talking.”
“What is the gentleman’s ostensible business?” asked Anthony.
“He’s a registered moneylender,” replied Cuypers, “and I for one, should be sorry to get in his clutches. He’s reputed to be the fourth richest man in Amsterdam.” He put his finger to his lips. “Leave it to me.”
As they entered a bell jingled noisily. Anthony noticed that they stood behind a high counter that ran all round the shop, for shop perhaps described the place most closely. From the apartment in the rear a curious figure shuffled towards them. Half Greek and half Dutch—as he had been described—but facially and physically he might have passed for “the Jew that Shakespeare drew.” Cupidity and cunning were the twin lights of his eyes. And with that strange tactfulness of the habitual criminal—that sixth sense that also seemed to be the life as it were of the other five—he divined that his four visitors carried for him an element of danger. This too—before he perceived the identity of Cuypers. But he betrayed no outward sign of his temporary discomfort. The school in which he had been trained was a hard one. He bowed with the servility of the race whose worst qualities he had usurped and whose best qualities he had discarded. Cuypers addressed him in English. He knew that Stefanopoulos was a cosmopolitan. To the astonishment of the Crown Prince he replied in the same tongue.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Vy am I thus honoured? Mynheer Cuypers is pleased—”
The Dutchman cut him short summarily. He bent forward over the counted and spoke for a few mom
ents to Stefanopoulos in a low tone—so low that the others were unable to catch his words. The Levantine started back eventually in spluttering denial but again Cuypers checked him. “We know” Anthony heard him say—“We know—so save your breath—Demetri. You’ll make nothing out of this deal, take it from me, and if you don’t arrange to do what I’ve just asked you, I’ll have you arrested within half an hour from now.”
Stefanopoulos snarled and showed a row of dirty yellow teeth. His lip curled back in menace. “You talk big! Pah! You can’t! What for am I to be arrested? I’m an honest trader—mind that, Mister.”
Cuypers administered the “coup de grace.” “Ever heard of the Contessa D’Amaldi? And her nine pigeon-blood rubies? If I couldn’t prove it, my friend—I’d hold you twelve months on a charge of ‘fencing’ them while I sought round for evidence. Got that, Demetri? Very well, then—we shall be here at five o’clock. Understand! Have everything ready—you know what to do.”
“I had to frighten the old vulture,” he explained jocularly as they passed out, “but in this particular instance, I really think he knows nothing. Lal Singh as you call him knows what you English call ‘the ropes.’”
Sir Austin Kemble laughed. “Better than he know what lies ahead of him,” he murmured, looking at his watch. “In about six hours time, shall we say?”
Chapter XXVI
Rendezvous
Cuypers tapped his Smith-Wesson significantly. “Understand, friend Demetri,” he announced decisively, “no tricks” The first hint that you are playing us false—and—” he fingered the revolver with a wealth of meaning. The Greek made no reply. Evidently he did understand. Cuypers went on. “I shall be here at your side all the time. Never more than a few inches away from you. Your assistant, do you see? I shall have a pen and ink and write—when your visitor comes—understand? I shall also have this.” More business with the revolver. “My three friends here will take up their position behind that door which will be left ajar.” He pointed to the door of the shop-parlour that communicated with the passage leading to the back of the house. “Lal Singh, when he arrives, will walk into a trap. For your place will be covered from the outside as well, my good Stefanopoulos. A famous English detective is here as well as my three friends—no less a person than Chief-Inspector Bannister of New Scotland Yard. I expect you have heard of him—I’ve no doubt he has of you. He will work from the outside in case of an attempted get-away on the part of your visitor—do you understand, little rabbit?”
The old “fence” nodded sullenly—he wasted no words.
“To your places then, gentlemen. Remember we may have to wait some time. but it’s dark by five. I shall expect our man to come straight on here from the quay-side.” Anthony squeezed himself into the musty-smelling passage with his two eminent companions and arranged his own position so that he commanded the view through the crack of the door. “A chink of vantage,” he remarked to the Crown Prince.
“A seat on the stairs will do for me for a time,” remarked Sir Austin sadly.
“And for me,” supplemented Alexis, “this place has a most infernal smell. I doubt whether I can endure it for long.”
Cuypers took a black velvet skull cap from the pocket of his jacket and put it on his round head. He patted it dramatically. “Pen and ink, Demetri—please! Quickly, too! And don’t forget, if the occasion demands to address me as ‘Pieter—Pieter Steen’ I am—for the next hour or so. Your very good clerk.”
Stefanopoulos, maintaining his sullen demeanour, put the writing materials in front of him. Cuypers grinned at him almost benevolently. “And one of your very best cigars, Demetri. You make an ungracious host! And a drop of real Schnapps. That’s right—and have a drop yourself, old boy. Show this poor native who’s coming to see you this evening a touching picture of the master hob-nobbing with his trusty old confidential clerk. Your very good—health.” He smacked his lips in gratified appreciation as Stefanopoulos grunted an unintelligible rejoinder. The two hours that followed reminded Anthony as he stood upright in the passage of that weary vigil in the garden of Considine Manor when he awaited with others the coming of the “Spider.” Neither the Crown Prince nor Sir Austin Kemble seemed particularly inclined to conversation. Remarks between them were few and far. A large old fashioned clock that hung on the wall of the evil-smelling passage announced the winging of the minutes with jaunty loudness. At times its ticking was the only sound that disturbed the ominous silence. In Anthony’s heart there was also a dangerous coldness. He was on the point of avenging a particularly cruel and callous crime—he was inclined to regard the case as perhaps—the door of the outer shop jangled discordantly! Through the crack of the door he saw the muscles of Cuyper’s face set rigidly as Stefanopoulos rose to his unsteady feet and shuffled once again into the shop. He heard a deep voice cut into the noise of the Greek’s shuffling slippers. Words passed that he was unable to hear. Then the two people came nearer.
“Salaam, sahib! You speak the Angleesh—yes?”
Anthony could not catch the reply but he saw Stefanopoulos usher his caller into the private apartment where Cuypers was seated. Sir Austin and the Crown Prince crowded noiselessly behind him in the passage. Anthony could now see the visitor quite plainly. He could see an Indian, clad in the white costume affected by his race, with turban on his head. He was a man of splendid physique. A flowing beard gave him the appearance of age and wisdom and his dark eyes glowed with excitement.
“What can I do for you?” mumbled the old Greek.
Lal Singh glanced meaningly at Cuypers busy with pen and paper. “My business is with you alone.”
“Be easy on that point. It is my clerk—you need not fear.”
Lal Singh hesitated for a moment and glanced round the room suspiciously. Then his fingers played delicately round his white turban for a palpitating second or two, and there flashed across the drabness of the squalid room the emerald-sapphire brilliance of the ‘Peacock’s Eye.’ Its rendezvous was reached at last! Stefanopoulos eyed the dazzling gem with greedy lust.
“So!” he permitted himself to mutter.
“I have come to trade,” declared Lal Singh. His tone held the silkiness of malevolent menace. “If you will deal justly with me. If not—I will kill you as I killed for—”
Demetri broke in. “This—eh?” His cunning eyes gleaming with cupidity caught those of Lal Singh and held them for a brief period.
The Indian laughed cruelly. “You have said. ‘Twas but Justice if you only knew.”
Stefanopoulos was silent. He held out his hand for this stone of liquid beauty that had come to him so unexpectedly, yet was not for him. His fingers itched to hold it—to feel some of its flaming fire. “Let me look at the stone,” he growled.
Lal Singh pushed it over very slowly, watching the old man as a hungry cat regards a mouse. Stefanopoulos held it to the light watching its flashing points of scintillating brilliance play round the room. The eyes of Lal Singh wandered upward, fascinated at what the Greek was doing. As they did so Cuypers rose like lightening and covered the Indian with his revolver. Simultaneously, Mr. Bathurst, similarly armed slipped through the door behind which he had been standing and covered Lal Singh from the rear.
“Don’t move,” he said, “or I’ll put a bullet through you. You are arrested for the murder of Sheila Delaney at Seabourne in England on July fifth. See to him, Cuypers!”
As the little Dutchman advanced and snapped the handcuffs upon the prisoner, Anthony was acutely aware of a flow of concentrated hatred and devilry that flooded him from the dark vindictive eyes of the arrested man. They flicked from Stefanopoulos and Cuypers to the Crown Prince and Sir Austin Kemble embracing them all, but they always returned to dwell balefully upon Mr. Bathurst. Unmoved—the last named walked quietly to the prisoner. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I don’t think any of you quite realise yet the real truth of what has happened.” His hand went to Lal Singh’s face and he jerked suddenly and strongly at the Indian’s beard.
The spirit gum failed to withstand the challenger. The beard came away in his hand. “Don’t you find the costume rather chilly, Bannister,” he said lightly, “for this particular season of the year?”
Chapter XXVII
Sir Austin Kemble removes his hat
“Dinner is served,” said the butler. “Will you escort Lady Fullgarney, Mr. Bathurst? And you, Sir Austin might be good enough to take Lady Brantwood? Thank you. If Lady Kemble will honour me?” said Matthew Fullgarney let his guests into the brilliantly-lighted dining-room of Dovaston Court. “I should have been delighted,” he said, “to have had the Crown Prince of Clorania with us for Christmas but, of course, he has a very much more important engagement”—he chuckled—“the wedding, I believe, is fixed for the last day of the old year. I suppose you are going—Mr. Bathurst? Surely, you should be the guest of honour?”