"Why?"
"For many reasons, most of which will probably be beyond you."
"And it was never published?"
"As far as I know he never offered it to another London publisher."
He obviously sensed my hostility, for he added quickly, "I'm not the only scientist in the West who has followed his career with interest, many of us envious of the advantages of State patronage while deploring the inevitable distortion of facts. But there was nothing personal about my rejection of the book. Please understand that. It was a clever piece of writing, but not definitive, and I formed the impression that he was mainly concerned to convince himself of the validity of his own arguments. He had shifted his ground, you see." He leaned forward, his pipe clasped in both hands. "Just over a year ago I heard he was short of funds. He was then concentrating his energies on Greece, in the area of the Ionian Sea. As a member of a Committee that advises on the allocation of certain Government grants, I persuaded the Chairman to write to him suggesting this was something that might
come within the scope of our Committee. There was no reply to this. But then, in November of last year. Lord Craigallan had a letter from him. No doubt you are well aware of your father's present financial straits. He admitted he could not mount another expedition unaided. In the end, we not only gave him a grant, but, through my university, put a Land-Rover at his disposal and also provided him with a very able assistant. I had a report from Cartwright just before I left London. He had already informed me that he had found Dr. Van der Voort difficult to work with. But I had no idea how bad things were between them until I read his report."
He paused there and I knew we had at last reached the object of the interview. He put his pipe back in his mouth. "You know, I suppose, that Van der Voort has disappeared. What you may not know is the circumstances."
I stared at him, my mind adjusting slowly to this new information.
"Cartwright has a broken wrist, and other injuries—fortunately minor." He shook his head. "A clash of personalities I can understand. That's always possible in an expedition. Men get tired. The Aveather makes camping uncomfortable. Disappointment saps morale." He was frowning angrily. "But in this case the weather was fine—cold, but fine—and after more than a month of slogging it through the mountains without achieving anything, they had just made a significant discovery. There was no justification for it whatsoever."
"You mean my father attacked him?"
"So Cartwright says. Van der Voort called him out of his tent. There was an argument and he went for him with a stick. It was night, and the attack was so unexpected Cartwright didn't have a chance to defend himself. He took to his heels and that saved him. He describes Van der Voort's behaviour as that of a maniac."
"What happened then? You say my father disappeared?"
"He drove off in the Land-Rover." He was looking at me curiously. "You didn't know about this?"
"No."
The House in Amsterdam
43
"I presumed you did—that it was the reason you were in Amsterdam." I could see his curiosity mounting. He took his pipe out of his mouth and I said quickly:
"Where did this happen?"
"In Greece, near a village called Despotiko up by the Albanian border."
"There can't be many Land-Rovers in Greece," I said. "The authorities ought to be able to trace it quite easily."
He nodded. "Of course. But Cartwright thought it inadvisable to contact the police. They had difficulty enough getting into the country. In any case, he found the Land-Rover himself, abandoned in the nearby town of Jannina. What is disturbing is that the expedition's funds were gone." Apparently they had been keeping the money in the tool locker for safety and the padlock had been forced. "We've cabled them additional funds, but the whole thing is unpleasant to say the least of it." He leaned his head forward, his eyes narrowed. "You haven't heard from your father at all?" No.
"It's just a coincidence then that you're here?"
"Yes."
He leaned back. "I was hoping perhaps you could help me. What I'm concerned about, you see, is my own responsibility in the matter. I sponsored the allocation of the Government grant and I feel it my duty to see that the taxpayers' money is not wasted." He was staring at me. "If anything happens to him you're presumably his heir."
I laughed. "I shouldn't think so for a minute." And then, because he was still staring at me, as though holding me responsible, I said, "It's nothing to do with me. And anyway, as I imderstand it, he hasn't any money."
"I wasn't thinking of money," he said. "But he was writing a book. That book would almost certainly give us the information we need to continue the work of this expedition. And since he hadn't got the manuscript with him, I presume it's here in this house, and if I may say so . . ." He stopped at the sound of the street door closing and footsteps on the stairs.
It was Sonia Winters. She burst into the room and then checked at the sight of him sitting there at the desk. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you had anybody with you." She had been hurrying and her voice sounded breathless.
I introduced them. She seemed to have heard of Professor Holroyd, for she repeated his name and then stood there, staring at him, wide-eyed, in that infuriating way she had.
Holroyd smiled. "There's a young man with Dr. Van der Voort on his expedition—"
"My brother." Her voice was tight and controlled. Her eyes switched from Holroyd to me, and then back to Holroyd again. "I'd better go," she murmured. But she didn't move and her eyes remained fastened on him as though mesmerized.
I started to tell her what had happened, but she cut me short. "That's what I tried to tell you last night. Your father has disappeared. It's all in the letter I had from Hans—everything, if you'd only listened." Her gaze swung back to my visitor. "Why are you here?" She was suddenly so defensive, her tone so imperious, that even Holroyd was surprised and at a loss for words. She turned to me. "What does he want?"
"He's convinced my father was working on a book . . ."
"He wants to see it?"
Holroyd began to explain about the grant again, but she cut him short. "First an East German professor trying to bribe me, then threatening. Now you. There isn't any book."
"Come, come. Miss Winters." Holroyd's features were still set in a smile, his whole expression moulded to charm. "He's had two books published in Russia. He wrote a third which he offered to a London publisher. Since then he's been on a number of expeditions. Don't tell me he hasn't been committing the results of those expeditions to writing. It wouldn't be natural."
"I was acting as his secretary," she said. "I should know."
"Well, if it's not in book form, then it's in notes—nobody exhausts his personal resources on a series of expeditions without recording the result."
She gave a little shrug. "You can't judge Dr. Van der Voort by your own or anybody else's standards. He kept everything
in his head." And she added pointedly, "He didn't trust anybody, you see."
"Then what was Gilmore talking about?" Professor Hol-royd's voice had sharpened. Her attitude had clearly got under his skin. "He said something about a Journal."
"Dr. Van der Voort's Journal would hardly interest you."
"Why not? A Journal—a diary—call it what you like . . ."
"His Journal was concerned with behaviourism. It was a
very personal document, nothing to do with his expeditions
or any discoveries . . ."
"I don't believe it." His tone was blunt, his accent more pronounced. "A journal is just what I would expect him to keep; the basis for another book." He had risen to his feet, and now he moved towards her. He was a big, flabby man, and she looked tiny as she stood facing him. "Come on, lass. Better tell me where it is. He's disappeared, you know—with money that doesn't belong to him. I don't have to bring the authorities into it, but if the expedition is to go on, it must have all the necessary information." He stood there, waiting, while she hesitated.
Finally she said, "Very well then—Dr. Gilmore has it." "Gilmore?" He didn't bother to hide his annoyance. "But you have a copy, haven't you?"
She gave him a tight-lipped smile. "It was in manuscript."
"I see." He hesitated. "Well, I expect Dr. Gilmore will be
at the Rijksmuseum for tonight's lecture. I'll have a word with
him." He turned to me. "And I'll contact you again as soon
as I have any news. I take it this address will find you?"
I was about to say I was leaving next day, but Sonia Winters intervened. "I'll see to it that any letters are forwarded." He smiled, his eyes twinkling. "I'm sure you will, Miss Winters." He was suddenly all charm as he said goodbye to her. I took him downstairs then. "Tell me," he said, as I opened the door for him, "is Miss Winters a relative?"
* * XT ' >
No. "Do you know her well?" "I've met her twice." He grunted. "Well, it's none of my business, but she seems
to regard herself as something more than a secretary." And he added, "I would strongly advise you to make certain you have control of your father's writings—his notes, his Journal, everything. They could be of great value—scientifically." His manner was suddenly confidential. "I have a great deal of influence in academic circles and I know what I'm talking about." He smiled and patted my arm in a friendly way. "I hope when we meet again the situation will have resolved itself."
Back in the study I found her standing in the same position. "That man." Her voice trembled. "If Dr. Van der Voort had known the money came from him ..." She stared at me. "Have you got a cigarette, please?"
There were only three left in the crumpled packet I took from my pocket. She took one almost blindly and I lit it for her. "He hated the academic world, all the institutional professors who sit in judgment, never dirtying their hands in the field, never getting sweaty and tired, living off the work of others and not risking a penny of their own money. The English in particular."
"He always hated the English," I said. "He was a South African, remember."
She turned on me then. "You think that lets you out—that he hated you because you're English. Let me tell you this: It was because of what you are, not your nationality . . . Goede Hemell" she said. "Can't you understand? The academic world is a terribly ruthless one. That's why he opted out. He said they were like leeches, sucking the blood of others, taking all the credit. And that man Holroyd is the worst of the lot. His whole life, his whole reputation—it's built on the brains of others."
"Then why did you tell him Gilmore had the Journal?"
"Because he's the only one Dr. Van der Voort trusted. The Journal is safe with him. He knows the sort of man Holroyd is. And anyway, it isn't the Journal Holroyd's after—that wouldn't help him."
She paused then and I said, "Where's the old man now— d'you know?"
"How should I know?" She went over to the desk, drawing on the cio^arette as though she had never smoked one before and staring out of the window, her back towards me. "It would never have happened if he'd known. He'd never have accepted the money. But he was desperate, and then he remembered the letter he'd had from Lord Craigallan. It was like the answer to a prayer. Even then he delayed for months. And after he'd written to Craigallan and had been promised a Land-Rover and the help of a qualified assistant, he never suspected."
"He must have realized there were strings attached."
"Political strings, yes. He was used to that. Politics meant nothing to him any more. All he cared about was completing the work he had already started. He was like a child in some ways, and his illness had frightened him. It had made him realize that he hadn't much time. And now this." And she added, "I never read the Journal. But Dr. Gilmore has. That's what he wanted to see him about. I think he was afraid something like this . . ." Her voice trailed away. She was silent for a moment. Finally, she stubbed out her cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray. "I didn't expect you back here." Her voice was hard and brittle. "Then, when I saw the light on this evening, I came straight over. I felt I had to tell you what Hans had said in his letter." And she added, "But it doesn't matter now. You know it all." She turned suddenly and faced me. "I suppose you didn't get the job you were after?"
"No. But I've got the offer of another."
"Oh." Her face looked tired. "And it makes no difference —what's happened out there?"
"No." What the hell did she expect me to say? "I haven't the money to go looking for him."
"No, I suppose not." Moving slightly her hand touched the plate I had left on the desk and she glanced down at the sordid remains of my meal. "I should have thrown those biscuits away." She seemed at a loss for a moment. Then she smiled, a bright, artificial smile. "I'll make you some coffee, shall I?" She was already moving towards the kitchen and I didn't stop
her. She clearly felt the need to do something actively feminine and I needed time to collect my thoughts.
Two things filled my mind—the way this house drew those who were connected with my father, as though his brooding personality were a living force within its walls, and the extraordinary pattern that was dragging me almost against my will into the area of his activities. What if that pattern continued? I sat down at the desk and lit one of my two remaining cigarettes, thinking about it, conscious of a sense of inevitability, wondering what I would do if our paths crossed.
I was still thinking about that when the girl returned with coffee on a tray. "I'm sorry, there's no milk," she said. "And it's instant coffee." I offered her my last cigarette and she took it. The coffee was thin and bitter. We drank it in silence, our thoughts running on different lines. And when I tried to get her to explain what had happened, she only shook her head and said, "It's no good. It wouldn't mean very much to you." And she added, half to herself, "I'm worried about Hans. He's a very serious boy and so absorbed in his studies that he wouldn't know what to make of this." She was withdrawn and very tense, sitting there, nursing her steaming cup and puffing at her cigarette. Her fingers were long and slender, her wrists small. The boyish cut of her hair emphasized the delicacy of her features. It was the first time I had had the chance to study her face. It was like a piece of fine china, very pale, very clean-cut, the brow high, the nose straight and finely chiselled, the mouth and jaw strong.
She met my gaze and smiled uncertainly. Her eyes were the colour of aquamarine and in the gleam of the lamplight they looked brilliant against the surrounding whites. "When are you leaving?" she asked.
"Tomorrow."
She nodded. She wasn't really interested. "It's that man Borg, I suppose." And she added, "He's a crook, isn't he?"
"He deals in antiques," I said.
"And where's he sending you?"
"Malta. And then Turkey." I don't know why I told her. I
suppose I wanted her reaction, to share the feeling I had of a pattern forming.
Her eyes widened, but that was all. "Well, I hope you have a good voyage." She drank the rest of her coffee and stubbed out her cigarette. "I must go now." She got to her feet, her hands smoothing automatically at her woollen dress. It was very brief and close-fitting so that she looked even smaller than she really was. I, too, had risen, and she hesitated, staring up at me. "If you're short of money . . ."
"No, I'll be all right, thank you."
I saw her down to the door. It was cold outside, the canal a black ribbon broken by the reflection of the lighted windows opposite. We stood there for a moment, an awkward pause that held us silent. Finally she said, "My address is No. 27B— if you need to contact me." She turned then and was gone, walking quickly towards the bridge.
I watched her for a moment, feeling suddenly alone, then abruptly I went back up the steep little staircase and got my coat. It was already nine-thirty. Not much time, but there was just a chance—a last chance to break the pattern. And if I stayed in that house I knew the pull of his personality would be overwhelming. But all through the icy streets, though I was walking fast, I couldn't get aw
ay from him, my mind going over again what Holroyd had told me, the girl's behaviour, and that nice old man with his strange concern for a student he hadn't seen in thirty years.
There was no wind and when I reached the Oosterdok a mist was hanging white over the water, the ships standing like ghosts at the quays, with only their funnels and masts visible. It was just on ten when I entered the Prins Hendrik and Stolk was there, his tousled hair standing out of the dark collar of his monkey jacket as he leaned on the bar. He was with a bunch of Norwegians, all talking bad English, and I hesitated. But then he turned and saw me. "You!" he shouted in his deep booming voice. "Vat you doing here? Iss the yob no good?"
I told him the man had recovered and he laughed. "So, no
yob, eh?" He called for another Bokma. "Drink that. And now I introduce you to Kaptein Johannessen. He is bound for Durban and afterwards Auckland and his third officer has— what do you think, eh?—measles. He has measles, ja." And they roared with laughter.
I stayed drinking with them for an hour, and all the time I was turning it over in my mind. Johannessen was a big, friendly man, his officers a decent crowd, like all Norwegians. And the ship was going to New Zealand. I had only to ask him. I had only to say I wanted the job. Stolk gave me the opening and waited. But somehow the words stuck in my throat. A ship, the sea, the uncomplicated routine life, the crude jokes, the laughter, the easy companionship—I had it in my grasp, and I let it go. "You refuse this yob," Stolk boomed, "and you can buy your own Bokma."
It was bloody stupid of me. The ship was going where I wanted to go—a new life, and all I said was, "I've got a job already, thank you."
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