But what does this mean? London asked herself.
Were there two almost identical Van Gogh paintings of tulips?
But she knew exactly what the yellow cravat must mean.
Sir Reggie had cracked the murder case.
Because her dog had been the first to find the body last night, he must have recognized the victim’s scent on the cravat, which he’d run across while playing with the guard. Intrepid detective that he was, Sir Reggie had brought the evidence straight to London.
London stood up, holding the yellow cravat and staring back and forth between the gallery owner and the security guard.
Which one was the killer?
She waved the yellow cravat and said, “One of you killed Pier Dekker. You strangled him with this cravat.”
The next few moments revealed which one it was.
“Pier Dekker?” the gallery owner scoffed. “I’ve never heard of anyone by that name.”
The guard, Jurjen Smit, let out an incredulous snort.
“You’re lying, Meneer Meyer,” he said. “Dekker came here very often. You knew him well.”
“So what if I did?” Meyer blurted. “It doesn’t prove I killed him.”
The guard stepped toward Meyer accusingly.
“You did, I’m sure of it,” Smit said. “I’ve suspected for months that there’s something rotten this business, and especially your dealings with Pier Dekker. I’ve known there was something rotten about you.”
Meyer’s eyes darted among the faces around him.
“None of you can prove anything!” he yelped in a voice of rising desperation.
“No, but I imagine the police can,” Smit said, reaching for his shoulder microphone. “I’ll call for them right this minute.”
Meyer stood frozen with terror for a moment. Then he rushed out of the store and tore away down the street.
“We’ve got to catch him!” Smit said.
Bryce waved him back. “No, you stay here, in case he doubles back. You’ll need to explain things to the police when they arrive. We’ll get him.”
London, Bryce, and Sir Reggie dashed out of the store, but they didn’t see the fleeing man anywhere.
Then Sir Reggie barked and tugged on his leash.
“He’s caught Meyer’s scent,” London said.
“Let’s follow his lead,” Bryce said.
Sir Reggie pulled hard on his leash as London and Bryce struggled to keep pace with him. London glanced up and noticed that sky was darker than before. She only hoped it wouldn’t start raining before …
Before what? she wondered.
Before they caught up with Axel Meyer?
London wasn’t even sure they could catch up with him.
And if they did, what were they going to do then?
But somehow, they had to stop the man from escaping.
Sir Reggie led London and Bryce around a corner, where a bridge across one of the canals stretched out before them. If Meyer was up ahead somewhere, London couldn’t pick him out among the cars, bicycles, and other pedestrians. She could only hope that Sir Reggie wouldn’t lose the scent.
And that Bryce and I can keep up with him, she thought.
The dog was pulling harder and harder on his leash as they ran trailing behind him. It was obvious that the two humans couldn’t run as fast as the tough little dog could. London was sure that Sir Reggie wished they’d just let go of his leash and let him give chase on his own. But then he would surely disappear in the distance, and she would have no idea how to find him.
Weaving among puzzled pedestrians, London made a hasty apology as she bumped into a teenage boy, spinning him around. Then she and Bryce sprinted across a bridge following the little dog. Bryce bumped into a large man and fumbled out an apology in English, but neither of them could stop to explain why they were in such a hurry.
At one point, London thought about calling out to a nearby policeman for help. But what could she tell him? That they were in pursuit of a killer? By the time they could explain, Axel Meyer would be long gone.
The little dog took another sharp turn, then another, and yet another bridge over yet another canal stretched out ahead.
“Are you sure Sir Reggie knows where he’s going?” Bryce asked breathlessly.
“I hope so,” London gasped.
But they were definitely tiring faster than the dog.
After several minutes tearing along busy thoroughfares and crossing several canals, London recognized the changing neighborhood. She and Bryce were now entering the Rosse Buurt of De Wallen, with its narrow, twisting streets.
She felt her own heart pounding and her lungs burning. Neither she nor Bryce was by any means in bad physical condition. Even so, London wondered how much longer they could keep on like this.
To make matters worse, it was starting to rain now, and pedestrians were fleeing from the street. Sir Reggie slowed down to a walk and began to sniff around, going one way and then another, apparently unable to follow the scent in the falling rain.
“This isn’t good,” Bryce said.
“No, but we can’t give up,” London said. “He must be somewhere just ahead.”
“We need to split up,” she told Bryce. “We can cover more options that way.”
Bryce took a turn to the right, and London and Sir Reggie went off to the left. Instead of running, London and Sir Reggie walked along as she looked carefully on all sides, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fleeing man or to spot him if he was trying to hide somewhere.
The rain was falling in a steady shower now. This street was too narrow for cars, and no pedestrians were in sight. But surrounding were quite familiar, including rows of windowed booths, the bronze statue of “Belle” the sex worker, and the Zacht Coffeeshop.
At one corner, she wavered for a moment trying to decide which way to go.
London didn’t hear the man over the sound of the rain. She only caught a glimpse of movement in her peripheral vision before she felt a viselike grip take hold of her wrist.
She turned her head and saw Axel Meyer, his face twisted with anger. To her surprise, the man was immensely strong as well as bulky.
Strong enough to kill a man with a cravat, she thought.
He grinned at her cruelly, ignoring the water that was streaming down his face.
“I’m tired of running, aren’t you?” Meyer said in Dutch.
London’s breath had fled her lungs. She wanted to scream, but no sound escaped her throat. She heard Sir Reggie growl, but Meyer simply ignored the sound.
He chuckled grimly.
“Yesterday I found out how it feels to kill someone,” he said to her. “Do you know how it feels?”
London stared at him mutely, still unable to yell for help.
“It feels good,” Meyer said.
She and the killer seemed to be entirely alone there in the falling rain.
Then in a flash, Sir Reggie was barking ferociously and snapping at Meyer’s heels and ankles. Trying to kick at the dog, the man let out a yelp of his own as he slipped and almost fell on the wet pavement.
London seized the moment to twist her wrist loose from his grasp. She had enough presence of mind to sweep Sir Reggie into her arms before she fled.
As she broke into a run, she was dimly aware of a nearby clatter of footsteps, but she didn’t dare turn to look.
But when she dashed around the corner of a building, her heart jumped up in her throat at what she saw next. She and Sir Reggie had fled into a tiny cul-de-sac, a short length of alleyway that ended in a brick wall.
There’s no way out! she realized. Was her sleuthing going to end in disaster right here in this alley? She closed her eyes and braced herself for whatever was coming next.
But then she thought furiously, No. Not like this.
London closed her eyes and opened her mouth and shouted as loudly as she could.
“Help!”
As if in reply, she heard a noisy thud. She opened her eyes and turned aroun
d.
Axel Meyer was lying face down on the wet pavement. Three women were standing over him, as if daring him to move.
One of those women was Ingrid, who was wearing regular street clothes and standing above the prone man with her arms akimbo. Another was Anouk, wearing little else but the bathrobe she’d worn when London had met with her earlier. Anouk had removed one of her spiked-heel shoes and was obviously prepared to hammer Meyer in the head with it if he put up a fight.
The third woman was Ingrid’s large and formidable sister Femke, dressed in her security guard uniform. Femke sat down Meyer’s back and brushed her hands with satisfaction.
“I believe you called for help,” Femke said to London with a smile.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
London just stood gaping at the three women who were looking quite pleased with themselves in spite of the falling rain.
Then she finally stammered, “Uh … thank you.”
Sir Reggie let out a grateful bark of agreement.
But the pinned-down gallery owner was complaining, even with his cheek mashed against the wet pavement.
“How dare you!” Meyer growled, “Unhand me at once!”
“I don’t think so,” Ingrid said, nudging him with her foot.
“Not just yet, anyway,” Anouk added, tapping him on the head with her shoe.
Femke just shifted her weight as she sat on Meyer’s back, making him writhe and groan uncomfortably.
London sputtered, “But how … did you … ?”
“Femke and I were in the neighborhood,” Ingrid explained.
“We often stop by to visit Anouk during the day and bring her a snack while she is at work,” Femke said.
Anouk added, “We happened to look out my window when you and your dog ran by, all wet and worried looking. We came out just in time to see this big guy grab hold of you and hear him threaten you. We thought maybe you could use some help.
“You were so right,” London said, laughing with relief.
Just then Bryce came dashing up with a policewoman at his side. London immediately recognized Surveillant Kaat Dijkstra, the patrol officer who had appeared last night when London and Sir Reggie had found the body.
Bryce stared at the scene with surprise.
He said, “It looks like the situation is … under control.”
Then he added with a laugh, “Sorry to arrive late.”
“Better late than never,” London added, chuckling.
Dijkstra gazed upon the situation with amusement.
“Hello, ladies,” Dijkstra said with a pleasant wave.
“Hello, Kaat,” the women replied in unison.
Obviously the surveillant and these women knew each other well.
“It looks like you’ve been busy,” Dijkstra said to them.
“Just a little,” Femke said with a chuckle.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Meyer shouted from his prone position. “I’m innocent, I tell you!”
Anouk said, “An innocent man doesn’t threaten to kill anybody.”
Meyer looked up at Surveillant Dijkstra with a pleading expression.
“Who are you going to believe?” he asked the policewoman. “A respectable gallery owner or a sex worker?”
“Hmm,” Dijkstra said in a wry voice, coaxing the women away and helping Meyer to his feet. “Let me think about that.”
She immediately started to put Meyer in handcuffs.
“All right, I’ve decided,” she said. “You are under arrest.”
The policewoman told the others, “I have a police van parked on the next street. I’m taking this prisoner off to the station.” As she marched the subdued gallery owner away, she added, “I will notify Hoofdinspecteur Braam.”
“Come on, let’s all get inside and dry off,” Anouk said.
For the first time London realized how soaking wet she was. She saw that Bryce and Sir Reggie were no better off, and the three women who had rescued her were getting pretty wet as well. She was grateful when Anouk escorted them all to the little room where she and Ingrid did business.
Ingrid brought some blankets and towels, and Anouk poured some hot tea for everybody. The women took turns drying Sir Reggie, who was delighted by the attention. The room was crowded, but warm and comforting.
Everybody was a little dryer when there came a knock on the outside window. Anouk looked out and called “No business today” in Dutch. Then she said, “Oh” and disappeared through the door.
In a moment she returned, escorting Hoofdinspecteur Braam, who was wearing a wet poncho.
“He just came riding up on his bicycle.” Anouk informed the others.
Bryce and Braam shook hands, and then Anouk invited him to sit down with the others and offered him some tea as well.
“Thanks, perhaps some other time,” Braam said to her.
Then he looked at London with a quizzical tilt of his head.
“Tell me, Mevrouw Rose,” he said. “Do you think you are quite through with this investigation of yours at long, long last?”
“I hope so,” London said with a grin.
“I hope so too,” Braam said. “But I do suspect we’re now getting to the bottom of things. I just had an interesting phone conversation with the security guard at the Meyer Fijne Kunst gallery. He mentioned a certain yellow cravat—and I believe you said that a yellow cravat was missing from Dekker’s body when you found him. I’m sure a little forensics work will prove it to be the murder weapon. It is what I believe you Americans call a ‘smoking gun.’”
“What else did he the guard tell you?” Bryce asked.
“Oh, just some theories of his own about Meyer’s nefarious activities,” Braam said. “Meyer’s gallery seems to have been a front for his real business, which was fencing priceless stolen paintings for unscrupulous private buyers. He did most of his business with Pier Dekker, who was an expert art forger as well as a restorer.”
“But why did Meyer kill Dekker?” London asked. “And what did Helga van den Huevel have to do with this whole scheme?”
Braam let loose a peal of laughter.
“Mevrouw Rose, did anybody ever tell you that you ask far too many questions? Suffice it to say that we’ve already found plenty of incriminating in Mevrouw van den Huevel’s home, and she is telling us everything she knows now that we’ve got her in custody. Still, we’ve got a fair number of loose ends to tie up. I’m sure you’ll be able to read about everything in the newspapers during the coming days.”
London bristled with frustration.
The newspapers? she thought.
After the role she’d played in solving the mystery, she felt as though she deserved a more forthright explanation than that. But she was starting to realize that Braam actually enjoyed teasing her like this.
Bryce asked the hoofdinspecteur, “Does this mean the Nachtmusik is free to set sail?”
“A funny thing about that,” Braam said with a chuckle. “I called your captain just a little while ago to tell him your ship was no longer detained. That was before this little incident—and a bit premature of me, I now realize. But there is certainly no reason to delay your voyage any longer.”
Hoofdinspecteur Braam took his leave with a jaunty wave and rode away on his bicycle. It had stopped raining now, so London, Bryce, and Sir Reggie made their farewells to the three women started on their way. Although it wasn’t very far to the ship, London and her two companions were sore and exhausted from their chase, so they caught a water taxi to take them back to the Nachtmusik.
As they sat together during the short ride back, Reggie sat in London’s lap. Bryce put his arm around London’s shoulders, and she cuddled against him and put her head on his shoulder.
“London, is this sort of thing going to happen in every port?” Bryce said with a sigh.
“I don’t know what you mean,” London replied with a laugh.
“Of course you do,” Bryce said. “You seem to get into life-and-death situations at every
opportunity. Are things always going to be like that?”
“I’ll try my best to stay out of trouble,” London said. “But then, I do that all the time. I don’t go looking for trouble, Bryce. I really don’t.”
“I know you don’t, but …”
Bryce hesitated, then added, “I get scared for you London.”
London felt a sudden surge of warm emotion. It felt really lovely to have someone in her life who was really concerned about her like this. She snuggled more closely against Bryce and petted Sir Reggie.
“There’s no need to be scared for me,” London told Bryce with a slight laugh. “I’ll always have Sir Reggie to protect me.”
Bryce laughed as well.
“Yes, that is reassuring,” he said.
London and Bryce didn’t say anything for a few moments, just watched the quaint buildings as the boat continued on its way. London thought back to yesterday, when she’d kept looking for a moment to talk to Bryce about her search for her mother.
Should tell him now? she briefly wondered.
Then she remembered her keen disappointment at finding out the truth of that address, 65 Poppenhuisstraat, the name Reis Lust, and the meaning of that phrase “elke Europese taal”—“Any European language.”
The advertisement hadn’t led to Mom at all—just to a brothel in the Rosse Buurt.
It’s time to give up the search, she decided.
Mom didn’t want to be found, and London had no leads at all, so there was no need to talk about it with Bryce, at least not right now. But her budding relationship with Bryce was still an open question that puzzled her.
She said cautiously, “Bryce, about you and me … Do we know where things are really going? With us, I mean?”
Bryce gently stroked her hair.
“Who says we have to know anything?” he said. “Us … you and me … we’re not another mystery that has to be solved. Are we?”
He lifted her face to his, and they shared a soft, lingering kiss.
“No,” London said, smiling into his eyes. “I don’t suppose we are.”
At that very moment the water taxi arrived at its destination. London, Bryce, and Sir Reggie paid the fare and stepped ashore and walked the rest of the way to the Nachtmusik. As they approached the gangway, they were faced with a distressing sight. A group of reporters with cameras had gathered there in wait for London. Somehow, word must have gotten out about London’s recent adventure.
Misfortune (and Gouda) Page 23