Stardust: A Sam Smith Mystery (The Sam Smith Mystery Series Book 10)

by Hannah Howe

  From my room, I telephoned Mac and Velvet, then Saskia. Within the hour, all had congregated and we held a council of war.

  “Well?” Mickey asked. He’d positioned himself by the window and was pacing back and forth. Meanwhile, Mac lounged in the armchair, Saskia and Velvet sat on the sofa while I perched on a bar stool, near the door.

  “Karla had the diamonds,” I said.

  “Had?” Mickey frowned.

  “She’s exchanged them, or at least some of them, for weapons.”

  “Guns?”

  I nodded, “Possibly.”

  “Is she mad?”

  I nodded with more vigour, “Probably.” Turning to Saskia, I said, “I need to talk with Otto Visser.”

  “Who’s Otto Visser?” Mickey asked.

  “An arms specialist,” Saskia explained.

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “We are acquaintances.”

  “Could you set up a meeting?”

  Saskia paused, then nodded, “I could try.”

  “Please, do it,” I said. “And once again, I’m in your debt.”

  Saskia stood. She smiled, “I will send you a bill.”

  “You do that,” I said, “and I’ll add your invoice to my expense account. Loudon can afford it; there’s no reason why you should go out of pocket.”

  With the financial aspects settled, Saskia left the hotel room to contact Otto Visser.

  Meanwhile, Mickey continued to pace, scoring a groove into the plush carpet. “Maybe we could jump Visser,” Mickey suggested.

  “We’re not sure if he has the diamonds.”

  “If we jump him,” Mickey said, “we’ll soon find out.”

  “He’s an arms specialist,” Mac pointed out. “Chances are, he’ll be armed.”

  Mickey sighed. He ran his fingers through his tousled hair. “Okay then,” he said, “let’s jump Karla instead.”

  “If she still has the diamonds,” I said, “I doubt that they’re on her person.”

  “We can’t just sit around,” Mickey complained, “we need to do something.”

  “How about thinking?” Mac suggested. “Though, to you, I appreciate that thinking is a novel concept.”

  Mickey lowered the zipper on his leather jacket. He undid the poppers on his jacket sleeves. Then he rolled those sleeves, and his sweater, up to his elbows. Clenching his hands into tight fists, he took a step towards Mac.

  “You care to step outside?” Mickey asked.

  “You care to shut up?” Mac yawned.

  With a muscle-bound walk, Mickey strode over to me. “When we recover the diamonds,” he said, “I propose a deal; a fifty-fifty split. That way, your client will be happy, and my client will be happy.”

  “That way,” I said, “both clients will be annoyed. If we recover the diamonds, we return them to Loudon.”

  “But,” Mickey complained, “he won them in a crooked game.”

  “Probably,” I said.

  “So why side with him?”

  “Because he hired me. And because I’m looking to protect Velvet’s interests.”

  “And if I find the diamonds before you?” Mickey asked.

  “You won’t,” Mac said from his position lounging in the armchair.

  “Say I do?” Mickey persisted.

  “If you do,” I said, “you’ll return the diamonds to your client?”

  “Of course.” Mickey offered a twitch of his right shoulder. When Mickey bent the truth, he often twitched, a common trait amongst liars.

  “With no percentage for yourself?” I asked.

  “Only my finder’s fee.”

  “With no diamonds going ‘missing’?”

  “That’s libellous, Sam,” Mickey scowled; “I don’t do business like that.”

  “If you find the diamonds,” I said, “with the intention of returning them to your client, I guess we have no right to stop you.”

  Mickey grinned. He rolled down his sleeves and secured the poppers on his jacket. While adjusting his zipper, he said, “I’ll be on my way then. May the best man win.”

  “Or woman,” Mac said from the armchair.

  “You count yourself in that?” Mickey scowled.

  In a lithe, poetic movement, Mac eased himself from the armchair, extended his right arm and thumped Mickey on the nose. A sickening crack did not augur well for Mickey’s looks or facial health.

  “He’s broken my nose,” Mickey complained, his hands clutching his face.

  “I reckon he’s straightened it,” I said while peering through a gap in Mickey’s fingers.

  “I’ll get even with you,” Mickey growled at Mac.

  With a groan, Mickey removed a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and, with gentle caresses, proceeded to dab the blood from his nose.

  “Why don’t you go for a walk in the cold air,” I suggested. “It might help stem the blood.”

  Mickey scowled at me. Then he walked from the room.

  Looking confused and a trifle concerned, Velvet bit her bottom lip. She shivered then said, “What if we don’t find the diamonds?”

  “We will,” Mac said.

  Mac’s simple statement, and reassuring tone, pacified Velvet. She sat with her hands in her lap, looking at Mac, her eyes wide and bright, her face eager and expectant, akin to a puppy eyeing its master. Velvet was a follower, I reminded myself. In time, she’d learn to think for herself. But, for now, she’d do well to take her lead from Mac.

  “Have you given any thought to your future?” I asked Velvet.

  “I want to sing,” she said, her features animated, alive.

  “I have a contact in the music business,” I said. “A manager.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Milton Vaughan-Urquhart.”

  “Never heard of him.” Velvet shook her head. She sighed with disappointment.

  “Milton manages Derwena de Caro and Woody Larson,” I said.

  “Derwena...” Velvet frowned. She stared down to the ground, her eyes hooded, intense, as though searching the lush carpet for inspiration. Looking up, she said, “Didn’t Derwena have a hit a few years ago, with ‘Love Bullet’?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Maybe I could contact Milton.”

  “Wow!” Velvet squealed. She jumped up, pirouetted and clapped her hands together, an expression of joy, a display of glee. “Would you do that, for me?”

  “I would,” I said, “but no promises, mind.”

  “A proper music manager,” Velvet said, her voice a whisper, her face a picture, the epitome of awe. “Maybe he’d help me to record a hit song.”

  “But first,” I said, “we must recover the diamonds.”

  “I’ll help,” Velvet enthused. “After all, if I stole them once, I can steal them again.”

  “A regular Raffles,” Mac said.

  “Who’s Raffles?” Velvet frowned.

  “A gentleman thief from the Victorian era,” Mac explained patiently.

  “How romantic,” Velvet sighed. “Maybe I could write a song about him.”

  “Do you write songs?” I asked.

  “I write lyrics.”

  “So, you’re not just a singer,” I said, “you have other talents.”

  Initially, Velvet frowned. She turned her back on me, to stare through the window. We stood in silence for a long minute. Then Velvet turned again, to face me, her features now swathed in a warm smile.

  “You’re right,” she said, “I do have other talents. If I don’t make it as a singer, maybe I could write lyrics. With Milton’s help, maybe I’ll realize my dream.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  With daylight fading, I took a taxi to the Vondelpark in the Museum Quarter. Once again, Saskia had worked the oracle and arranged a meeting – Otto Visser would talk with me, at the main entrance to the Vondelpark.

  The most attractive park in Amsterdam, the Vondelpark contained a number of trees, footpaths and ponds along with a colony of parakeets. Like the Jordaan,
the Vondelpark reminded me of home and Roath Park. In the mid to late 1800s, developers had landscaped both the Vondelpark and Roath Park from reclaimed marshland. In the 1960s, hippies had gathered in the Vondelpark to promote peace and love. I wondered idly what the park planners of the 1800s would make of that.

  After tipping the taxi driver, I walked to the main entrance. There, I spied Otto Visser. In his early fifties, Visser had short grey hair, combed over from the right, and pale blue eyes, hidden behind frameless spectacles. His face was stern and serious, distinguished by a strawberry birthmark on his right temple. Of average height and build, he wore a long grey raincoat, grey trousers and a black roll-neck sweater.

  According to Saskia, who’d supplied a picture of Visser, he enjoyed the Dutch sport of carambole –a game played on a billiard table without pockets – along with an interest in tulips and the Second World War.

  “You are Sam Smith?” he asked, his accent clipped, precise.

  I nodded, “I am.”

  “I don’t normally waste my time on people like you.”

  As Visser spoke, he stared through me to a statue of a pensive looking poet, Joost van den Vondel, in whose honour the locals had named the park. Regarded as a Dutch Shakespeare, Vondel flourished in the seventeenth century. To supplement his writing, he ran a hosiery business. In old age, Vondel fell on hard times and served as a pawnshop doorman. Such is the writer’s lot. He died of hypothermia in 1679, aged ninety-two.

  Otto Visser didn’t normally waste his time with the likes of me. Too bad, I thought, that I had to waste my time with the likes of him.

  However, instead of voicing my thoughts, I said, “I’m deeply honoured that you’ve granted me this audience.”

  We strolled into the park, walking alongside the narrow waterways, over beautiful bridges, sidestepping joggers and dog walkers, spying cows in the distance. The Vondelpark was the greenest park in Amsterdam, though many of its trees lacked their summer colours. Indeed, the silver branches appeared to shiver with the cold.

  While we walked through the trees, I said, “You met with Karla from the Zusterschap.”

  “Yes,” Visser replied succinctly.

  “To discuss the sale of guns and weapons?”

  Visser paused to remove and polish his spectacles. After breathing on the lenses and wiping them with a soft cloth, he said, “The purpose of our meeting is none of your business.”

  “If the Zusterschap get their hands on weapons,” I said, “they could destroy many lives; set the cause of women’s liberation back many years.”

  “That is none of my business,” Visser said.

  “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  With exaggerated care, Otto Visser returned the spectacles to the bridge of his nose. He adjusted the spectacles then stared down at me, his expression bordering on the supercilious. He asked, “Why should the cause of women’s liberation bother me?”

  “You’ll sell guns to anyone?”

  “Anyone,” he nodded.

  “Even me?”

  “Even you.”

  “Without first discovering my reason for buying a gun?”

  “I assume,” he said, “that your reason is to shoot the gun.”

  “And kill someone?”

  Visser shrugged, “That is up to you.”

  “Don’t you think that your stance is immoral?” I asked.

  “Governments sell guns to dictatorships,” Visser said. “Governments sell guns to opposing forces so that those forces can perpetuate their wars. Why should I have morals when world leaders operate in a moral vacuum?”

  We paused beside a park bench. Two teenagers were sitting on the bench, holding hands, eyeing each other. It was freezing cold, but they paid no heed. That must be love.

  Walking on, I asked, “How did the Zusterschap pay for their weapons?”

  Visser sighed, drawing the breath up from the soles of his highly polished shoes. “Finally, you get to a relevant question.”

  “Why is that question relevant?” I asked.

  “Your question is the reason why I agreed to this meeting.”

  “Go on.”

  “One moment.” Visser paused. He reached into his trouser pocket and produced an inhaler. After two puffs on the inhaler, he nodded. Then he returned the pump to his trouser pocket.

  “Asthma,” I said.

  Visser grimaced. “It can be a devil, especially when the weather is cold.” While circling the statue of Joost van den Vondel, Visser said, “Karla offered me diamonds in exchange for weapons; a considerable number of weapons.”

  “And?”

  “I called in an expert, to verify the quality of the diamonds.”

  “And?”

  “They were genuine, top grade. However,” Visser said, “during our negotiations, Karla made a switch; she drove away with the armaments and left me with a bag full of paste.”

  “She double-crossed you,” I said.

  Visser scowled then nodded.

  “She double-crossed an arms dealer.”

  Otto Visser shook his head. He thrust his hands deep into his raincoat pockets, a man perplexed. “The woman is insane. No one double-crosses me and gets away with it. No one makes a fool of Otto Visser.”

  “Your plan?” I asked.

  “Tell your friend...”

  “She’s not my friend.”

  “Tell Karla and the Zusterschap that I intend to take my revenge. Remind her that I have the means to take my revenge.”

  “I’m sure you do,” I said.

  “And I will take my revenge, if the diamonds are not delivered to me by noon tomorrow.”

  “What if Karla ignores your request?”

  Visser smiled. A man not used to smiling, the gesture seemed to pain him. “As you have already noted, I am an arms dealer. When it comes to murder, I am spoilt for choice.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Using Velvet’s mobile phone, I tried to contact Karla and Lia. However, neither would answer. So, I punched their numbers into my phone, only to achieve the same result. For a change, no one wanted to talk with me. Therefore, I decided to sleep on the problem and try again in the morning.

  In the morning, I alternated between Karla’s phone number and Lia’s phone number until, on the third attempt, Lia answered her phone.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hi,” I said, “it’s Sam. We need to talk.”

  “What about?”

  “Karla; I think she’s in danger.”

  “Danger?”

  “Yes.”

  “How come?”

  “Meet me at the Homomonument,” I said. “In half an hour.”

  “Why don’t you tell me over the phone?”

  Speaking the truth, I said, “I think we should meet in person; we have important matters to discuss.”

  Lia hesitated. After a prolonged silence, she said, “Okay, I’ll meet you at the Homomonument. But I have questions for you too, and I want answers.”

  With snowflakes in the air, I cycled to the Homomonument. If nothing else, this trip to Amsterdam was strengthening my calves and thighs. The bicycle seat did little for my posterior however, due to a lack of natural padding in that department. Ah, the perils of being slim.

  At the Homomonument, I parked my bicycle. Then I stamped my feet, adjusted my coat collar and waited for Lia. She arrived ten minutes late, in a taxi.

  “Where’s Karla?” I asked.

  Lia leaned against the grey railings and stared into the canal. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “She’s split?”

  “I think so.”

  “With the diamonds?”

  “Karla gave the diamonds to Otto Visser, or at least, some of them.”

  “She double-crossed Otto Visser,” I said.

  Lia spun around to face me. She blinked. Then, with her pupils dilating, she opened her eyes wide. “I’m sorry?”

  “Karla grabbed the weapons in exchange for fakes; she gave Visser a bag of paste.”


  “You mean...”

  “Yes,” I said. “She painted a large cross on her forehead and effectively yelled ‘shoot’.”

  Lia took a stride towards the monument’s triangular platform, which jutted out into the murky green water. Dumfounded, she sat on the cold stone steps beside a garland of colourful flowers. Someone had placed the flowers on the platform, maybe in recognition of a birthday, special event or anniversary.

  “She’s crazy,” Lia said.

  “Realization of that fact is a step forward,” I said, “for you, at least.”

  “She betrayed us. She betrayed the Zusterschap.”

  “When you worship tin gods,” I said, “they tend to turn rusty on you.”

  “But,” Lia gasped, “she was so committed.”

  I nodded, “Until the diamonds turned her head. You must realize that Karla, like many leaders, is in this for herself, for Karla, not for you or womankind.”

  “She let us down,” Lia said. In her distress, Lia placed her head in her hands.

  “Just as you let Velvet down.”

  Lia looked up and stared at me through beseeching eyes. “What am I going to do?” she asked.

  “First, help me to find Karla before Visser does.”

  “And then?”

  “That’s up to you,” I said.

  Lia climbed to her feet. She stared, sightlessly, across the canal to a building that housed a branch of Amnesty International. The building was tall, red-bricked with many windows – to let the light in, and out.

  “I didn’t set out to hurt Velvet,” Lia said, her tone plaintive.

  “But you did set out to use her,” I said, “to exploit her, just as Karla has used and exploited you.”

  “I believe in the Zusterschap,” Lia said.

  I hunched my shoulders against the cold and nodded, “We all need something to believe in.”

  “What do you believe in?” Lia asked.

  “Love,” I said, “and keeping my word.”

  “I mean, politically?”

  “We live in the age of the lie,” I said. “Politicians lie as a matter of course. The truth is a stranger to them, so I make them a stranger to me.”

  “You don’t trust them?”