Soon the stately Gothic spire of the Oude Kerk came into view. As the broad facade of the church came more into view, something startling occurred to London. The church wasn’t outside the Rosse Buurt, or even on its outskirts.
It’s right in the middle of the red-light district, she realized. And the address she was looking for was nearby. This is where her search for Mom had led her.
What could that possibly mean?
When she and Reggie continued on their way across the broad paved square surrounding the church, she saw a bronze statue up ahead that she assumed to be of some religious saint. But when she and the dog drew closer, London saw that it was of a full-busted, scantily clad young woman standing at the top of some steps in what appeared to be a doorframe.
London looked at the plaque at the base of the statue and saw that the woman had a name—“Belle.”
There was also an inscription on the granite base of the statue:
Respecteer sekswerkers over de hele wereld.
London mentally translated the inscription, which meant, “Respect sex workers all over the world.” The statue was dated 2017.
It was a striking sight to find directly in front of the oldest building in Amsterdam, let alone a church.
“I guess this tells us a lot about Holland, doesn’t it?” London said to Sir Reggie. “Here, prostitution is regarded as just another way to make a living. There’s nothing shameful about it at all.”
Still following the map, London walked a little faster. On the other side of the church was street she was looking for—Poppenhuisstraat. The neighborhood’s character didn’t change, and London felt a sinking doubt that they would find anything the least bit like what she’d hoped to find.
Sure enough, when she and Sir Reggie got to street number 65, she found herself facing another facade full of windows. Each woman on display here was standing in front of a flag of some European country. What little clothing they wore was suggestive of the traditional dress of those various countries—a dirndl bodice for Germany, a red velvet bonnet for Italy, a lace veil for Spain, an embroidered vest for Poland, a flowered apron for France, and so forth.
And a sign across the building displayed the exact same message London had found on the mysterious website:
Reis Lust
elke Europese taal
The first two words literally meant “wander lust,” and the line below it translated as “any European language.”
London heaved a long sigh of disappointment.
“I should have known,” she said to Sir Reggie. She felt dizzy with the overwhelming disappointment and her stomach churned with the bitter taste of failure.
Then she reminded herself sharply that this had been an unlikely lead anyhow. When she’d found the webpage, she had jumped to the conclusion that Reis Lust might be a name Mom was currently using, since she’d harbored a similar suspicion of a German tutor who had put out an advertisement under the name Fern Weh.
Both phrases meant “wander lust” in English. But in this case, the words weren’t the name of a person, but a name of the establishment itself.
“I guess the word ‘lust’ ought to have tipped me off,” London said aloud.
The webpage hadn’t been for a tutoring service at all, but for an altogether different sort of service. This particular brothel was staffed with workers of all European nationalities, who could cater to clients in any European language.
And it certainly had nothing to do with Mom.
And that’s just as well, London told herself, considering the circumstances.
She’d been foolish to get her hopes up over such a fragile clue.
Now she was just sure of one thing—she should never do this again.
Her search had come to an end. Maybe she could have had more fun here in Amsterdam if she hadn’t spent the whole day wondering about this address.
There seemed to be nothing to do now but head back to the Nachtmusik. London looked at her watch and saw that she had a couple of hours before she needed to be back aboard. There was no need to catch a water taxi right this minute. Instead, she and Sir Reggie walked along the nearest canal for a few moments until they found a bench overlooking the water.
She picked up Sir Reggie and set him in her lap.
She said to the dog, “OK, this is the part where you tell me how foolish I’ve been about this whole thing, and you warn me never to let my imagination and good sense run away with me ever again, and you tell me there’s no point in looking for Mom anymore, because she definitely doesn’t want to be found. Go ahead and scold me. I’ve got it coming.”
Instead of growling in a critical matter, Sir Reggie gave her an affectionate lick on the nose.
London laughed and said, “Aw, you’re too much of a pal to give me a hard time about it, aren’t you? I’m not so sure Bryce would have been so sympathetic if he’d come with me. I guess I’m lucky you’re here and he’s not. Even if he’d been nice about it, I’d be a lot more embarrassed than I am already.”
But Sir Reggie suddenly seemed to have something else on his mind. He turned his head toward the canal and sniffed the air and let out a worried whimper.
“What is it, boy?” London asked.
Without so much as a whine in reply, Sir Reggie hopped out of London’s lap. Before she could catch the end of his leash, he headed straight to the canal bank. The little dog stood at space in the railing, staring down into the water.
Puzzled, London got up and walked over beside him and looked down herself.
At the base of a short ladder was a narrow, floating wooden dock that ran parallel to the bank. Moored to the dock was a line of small rowboats, padlocked by bicycle chains to avoid theft.
“I don’t see anything odd,” she said to Sir Reggie.
But Sir Reggie clearly disagreed. He jumped off the bank and landed straight on the dock. Although London called his name, he dashed along the dock and then stopped at one of the boats.
“What is it boy?” London asked.
Staring into the boat, Sir Reggie let out a yap of alarm.
London felt a sharp tingle of worry.
I’ve got a bad feeling about this, she realized.
She climbed down the ladder and walked over to the boat that had caught Reggie’s attention.
A man was sprawled there in the bottom of the boat, and London could tell at a glance that he wasn’t taking a nap.
He’s dead, she realized with a gasp.
She also recognized his face.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
London gulped hard as she looked down at the body lying in the bottom of the boat.
This can’t be possible, she thought.
How could another person she had recently met have come to such a fate?
But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it isn’t who I think it is.
And for a moment, she thought maybe it wasn’t. Not a lot of light reached down to the boat from the street. Maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her.
As Sir Reggie whined worriedly beside her, London stooped down for a closer look.
Then she let out a groan of despair.
There was no mistaking those tight features, the peculiar eyes, nose, and lips that looked too small for the man’s bald head.
The dead man in that boat was definitely Pier Dekker, the quarrelsome conservator she had seen back at the Rijksmuseum. He was wearing the same clothes he had been then, except that his collar was open and he didn’t have on that yellow cravat.
Even his expression looked much the same—more cross and irritable than frightened or in pain. His throat looked a bit red.
London jumped to her feet and called out in Dutch as loudly as she could.
“Helpen! Politie!”
In what seemed like a split second, a young blonde woman appeared at the railing above her. She was wearing the yellow-striped black jacket of a surveillant, a Dutch patrol officer.
“What is the matter?” the surveillant called down to her.
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For a moment, all the breath seemed to have fled London’s lungs. All she could do was point into the boat.
The surveillant’s eyes widened and her mouth opened into a gasp. Then she scurried down the ladder and over to where London and Sir Reggie were standing.
“Oh, no!” she said. “It’s Meneer Schat!”
London was startled at the sound of the name. For a second, she wondered—had she made a mistake? Was the murdered man not Pier Dekker after all? But as she looked at those frozen features again, she was sure of it.
The surveillant touched London on the shoulder with concern. London saw from her nameplate that her name was Kaat Dijkstra.
“Are you alright?” Surveillant Dijkstra asked London in Dutch. “Do you need to sit down for a moment?”
London shook her head and replied in Dutch, “No, I’m fine. But I’d like to get back onto the shore.”
London picked up Sir Reggie and walked over to the ladder and reached up to set him at the top.
As she started to climb after him, Surveillant Dijkstra asked, “Are you American?”
London wasn’t surprised that the woman had noticed her accent.
“Yes, I’m American,” she said. “I do speak a little Dutch, but my vocabulary …”
London had been going to say she wasn’t sure that her Dutch vocabulary was large enough to discuss a situation like this. But she was struck by the realization that she’d had to talk about similar situations in Hungarian, Austrian, and German—and that this was a truly terrible way to develop her language skills.
The policewoman replied in English, “Don’t worry, I speak pretty good English.”
When London was back on solid ground again, she carried Sir Reggie straight over to the bench where they’d been sitting just a few moments ago. As she sat back down with the dog in her lap, Surveillant Dijkstra stepped a short distance away and spoke into her shoulder mic, apparently calling for assistance.
Reggie was shivering with alarm now. The discovery had obviously come as a shock to him as well as to London. She hugged and petted him to soothe his nerves.
Soon Surveillant Dijkstra came over to the bench and sat down beside London. She didn’t say anything for a moment. She didn’t even look at London. Her mouth hung open, and she looked pale, as if she were in shock. For a moment this struck London as odd. As a policewoman, hadn’t Dijkstra ever been involved in a murder case?
Of course not, London quickly realized. Her beat is the Rosse Buurt—the red-light district.
After all, De Wallen might be a den of vice, but it was legalized vice, and London had already noticed lots of police patrolling the area. There probably wasn’t much violence here in the Rosse Buurt, and certainly very little actual homicide. For all London knew, this might be the safest district in Amsterdam. Maybe Dijkstra had never seen a murder victim before.
I wish the same was true for me, London thought gloomily as she struggled to control the trembling that threatened to take over her whole body. Although she’d discovered other murder victims while on this trip, she couldn’t imagine ever getting used to it.
Then she heard the noise of approaching sirens.
Dijkstra shook off her shock and said, “Don’t worry, help is on the way. Do you have any idea how it happened?”
London shook her head no, then asked, “What name did you call him by just now?”
“Meneer Schat.”
London squinted curiously at the policewoman.
“Um, doesn’t that mean ‘Mr. Sweetie’?” she asked.
“That’s right,” Dijkstra said. “It wasn’t his real name, of course. But that’s what the sex workers around here always called him. So did I, actually. Whenever I saw him, I’d always say, ‘How are you doing tonight, Meneer Schat?’ He’d always grumble that he was fine. I don’t think he liked being called that. But since I didn’t know his real name, what else was I supposed to call him?”
“His name was Pier Dekker,” London said.
The policewoman’s eyes widened.
“How do you know his name?” she asked.
Before London could answer, Dijkstra added hastily, “No, you’d better not try to explain it to me. Wait until Hoofdinspecteur Braam gets here. It won’t be long. The Burgwallen police station is just a few blocks away.”
London recognized the word for “chief inspector.”
Dijkstra pointed and said, “Here he comes right now.”
To London’s surprise, Dijkstra was pointing to a uniformed man riding a bicycle across the nearest canal bridge. But London quickly realized that a bicycle was probably the fastest mode of transportation among these canals and narrow streets, at least when it came to short distances.
Meanwhile, she could still hear sirens, and could see boats with flashing lights approaching along the canal. Surveillants like Dijkstra were also gathering on foot, keeping gaping onlookers away and trying to set up some sort of perimeter with police tape.
Hoofdinspecteur Braam cut an almost comical figure as he approached on his bike. He was a tall, lanky man, and the bicycle appeared to be too small for him. He stopped in front of the bench, flipped down the kickstand, and got off the bike.
“What is the matter, Surveillant Dijkstra?” he asked the policewoman in Dutch.
“I will show you,” Dijkstra said.
She and Braam left London and Reggie sitting on the bench as they went to the ladder and down onto the dock. London could see their heads bobbing as they stood talking on the floating platform while they looked at the body.
London sighed as she said to Sir Reggie, “Why do you have to be so observant? This didn’t have to be our problem, you know.”
Sir Reggie let out a defensive-sounding whine.
“I know, I know. You were just doing your civic duty. You really are a very conscientious little animal. I would have done the same thing, of course.”
Three small police cars arrived, and two large motorboats with police insignias pulled up to the bank. The area was starting to burst into activity.
Dijkstra and the Hoofdinspecteur climbed back up the ladder. Braam took out a pad and pencil and strode purposefully toward London. She could see him more clearly now. He had a thin face with chiseled features. Although he was far from bad-looking, there was a kind of reptilian skepticism in his expression.
“Your name, please,” he said a bit curtly to London in English, preparing to write the name in his notebook. Apparently, Dijkstra had already told him that London was American.
“My name is London Rose,” she said. “And I’m the social director aboard—”
Hoofdinspecteur Braam interrupted, lifting his eyes from his notebook.
“Would you repeat your name, please?”
“Uh, London Rose.”
“And you work aboard a tour boat belonging to Epoch World Cruise Lines called the Nachtmusik?”
“That’s right.”
“And is the Nachtmusik currently docked here in Amsterdam?
“Yes.”
Braam arched one eyebrow, and his lips twisted into a hint of a smirk.
“Well, well, well, Mevrouw Rose,” he said. “Your reputation precedes you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
London felt a chill of alarm.
My reputation precedes me—how? she wondered, startled by the police chief’s sinister declaration.
“Uh, what do you mean?” she asked.
Braam shrugged and chuckled a bit darkly.
“Well, until just this minute, I wasn’t quite sure you were real. I thought you might be … how is it said in English? A sort of ‘urban legend.’ You see, you are quite the talk of law enforcement people all over Europe. After all, you are the woman who has discovered some three dead bodies in three different countries just during the last couple of weeks. And now you’ve discovered a fourth, right here in Holland. I am quite intrigued, naturally.”
London held back a moan of despair. She knew she shouldn’t be surprised that sh
e’d developed something of a reputation.
And apparently not a good one, she thought.
Choosing her words carefully, she said, “Hoofdinspecteur Braam, I don’t know exactly what people have been saying about me. But I never murdered anybody. In fact, I was the one who actually solved all three of those crimes and brought the killers to justice.”
With some help from Sir Reggie, she almost added.
But somehow, she suspected now was not the time to praise the crime-fighting prowess of her Yorkshire Terrier.
“Yes, quite the detective, aren’t you?” Braam stated. “Or so it is said.”
He sounds like he doesn’t believe it, London thought.
And in a way, she could understand why he wouldn’t believe it. She still didn’t quite believe it herself.
Braam lowered his notepad and looked intently into her eyes.
“And now … it appears that events are repeating themselves. What is more, Surveillant Dijkstra says you happen to know the victim’s name. How can that be?”
“I took a tour group to the Rijksmuseum earlier today,” London said. “You see, Meneer Dekker was on the restoration team that’s currently working on Rembrandt’s The Night Watch.”
“You sound like you knew him quite well,” Braam said.
“Oh, no, I didn’t know him at all,” London protested. “The docent who gave my group the tour through the Rijksmuseum asked him to talk to us about the restoration process. He did tell us about it, and what he said was very interesting, but I’m afraid things got … rather unpleasant …”
Her voice trailed off as she realized that her account wasn’t sounding good to the Hoofdinspecteur. He was glaring at her suspiciously. Even Surveillant Dijkstra had a frown on her face.
“Indeed?” Braam asked.
“Yes, one of my passengers made some impolite comments about the work Meneer Dekker was doing. The restorer got rather angry—not just with that passenger, but with the whole group.”
London hesitated, then added, “And with me, I’m afraid. I’m not sure why …”
Misfortune (and Gouda) Page 12