by Roy Lewis
Now, it was anti-climax and Clifford was dead. A decade-long manhunt was over. And Cardinal was left with a feeling of emptiness.
‘Did you find anything in the car?’ Grout asked suddenly. The Amsterdam man raised an interrogative eyebrow.
‘Anything of value,’ Grout added.
The detective shrugged. ‘Nothing. The car was clean, it had been hired only hours earlier, so it had been seldom used.’
Cardinal cast a contemptuous glance in Grout’s direction as though chiding him for even thinking the man who murdered Clifford would have left the Sforza brooch in the car.
‘I presume your officers have already checked on his hotel, and searched his room.’
‘They have.’ The Amsterdam detective smiled. ‘It had been hardly used. A few personal effects, that is all. But you are quite welcome to take a look also. We are only too happy to co-operate. Nevertheless, I am sure you will find nothing has been overlooked.’
The hotel Clifford had used was an expensive one in the centre of Amsterdam, much frequented by American tourists. Cardinal and Grout made their way through a plush lounge to the reception desk, introduced themselves and asked to be taken to the room used by Kling. The receptionist appeared embarrassed and explained that she should first contact the manager. She vanished in a flurry and Cardinal and Grout waited, eyeing some of the camera-laden Americans who wandered into the lounge. While they waited they heard a burst of applause from beyond large doors at the far end of the room and Cardinal grimaced.
‘A meeting or a lecture of some kind. I suppose it’ll be in Dutch, so that leaves me out. I presume you do speak Dutch, among your other accomplishments’
Grout made no reply and the receptionist returned with a harassed expression, called them forward to the lift and hurried ahead of them. She was a nervous, stringy woman, immaculately dressed but flustered. She was clearly not used to dealing with the police. She pressed the button in the lift and remained silent, head down as they ascended. When the doors opened a man stood waiting for them. He introduced himself as the manager, a small, edgy fellow in a dark grey suit and white shirt; his eyes seemed never to stay still, flicking glances about him as though seeking dusty evidence of cleaning staff incompetence. He gestured towards the end of the corridor, and led the way to the room taken in the name of Rudolf Kling.
He hovered in the doorway until Cardinal brusquely told him they would rather look around alone.
The two men worked through the rooms of the suite quickly and efficiently. Within the hour they faced each other and confessed defeat. There was nothing of value in the rooms. Cardinal sat down on the bed with a disgruntled expression, then lay back and closed his eyes.
‘I don’t understand it, Grout.’
Carefully, Grout slid into a chair and stared at his chief. He made no reply and after a moment Cardinal opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
‘And yet, though I don’t understand it, there’s something in all this that we should have seen but have just missed. For the life of me I can’t think what. But come on, Grout, you’re the one with flair, according to your uncle, the chief constable. You’re with me to do the thinking … I’m the honest plodder, you’re the bright, self-educated man. So what do you make of it all?’ He rolled over suddenly onto his stomach and glared at Grout. ‘You theorized about what happened at Chesters and thereafter and I went along with that, but somewhere we’ve gone wrong. We’ve skidded off track. But where?’
Grout considered, thinking over the events of the last twenty-four hours. At last, hesitantly, he said, ‘Time factor, sir.’
Cardinal glared at him, his thin mouth drooping and then he nodded, abruptly. ‘Yes, I suppose it’s been bothering me too. Not so much the time factor, as the timing of events. Clifford skipped from England and came to the Bodensee and then sat there. Waiting. But what was he waiting for?’
‘The fences, sir?’
‘But why couldn’t he arrange for them to be waiting for him? And then again, he left the Bodensee yesterday, or even earlier, and he came to Amsterdam. Then he waited again, here in this hotel. What the hell for? He contacted Le Cochon but that fat bastard insists they were to meet only to negotiate. But what? What was Clifford up to? Was he hoping to find a buyer for the Sforza brooch through Le Cochon? Or did he have something else on his mind? And really, what the hell was he doing here in Amsterdam? What was he waiting for?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
Cardinal growled deep in his chest as though infuriated that Grout could provide no answers. ‘There are two other things that bother me. The first is that damned man Schneider. I can’t understand why Clifford hired him … though it would have been more than useful to have him here last night, hey? Clifford wouldn’t have snuffed it then, would he?’’
‘Maybe that was the idea, sir. Protection.’
Cardinal snorted indignantly. ‘You heard what Enders said. Schneider was a contract killer, not a bloody guard.’
‘All right, sir,’ Grout replied levelly. ‘Protection and assassination.’
Cardinal struggled off the bed and began to pace around the confines of the room, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. He looked decidedly unhappy. ‘You know, Grout, it seems to me we’re beginning to spin around in circles. I’ve got the feeling we’ve got bogged down in irrelevant stuff and I’d like to know where. I’m getting a strong suspicion in my mind. …’
‘I think it has echoes in mine, sir.’
The two men stared at each other. Slowly, Cardinal said, nodding, ‘You know, I’m beginning to wonder that our assumption that Clifford was trying to sell the Eagle of Milan might be off the mark.’
‘I’m beginning to wonder the same thing, sir. If he had it, he could probably have done the deal he was seeking at the Bodensee. But he skipped from there, to arrive here in Amsterdam. And as for Le Cochon … maybe Clifford wasn’t trying to arrange a sale. Maybe he was just. …’
Cardinal nodded slowly. ‘Seeking information. It could be that’s why he was waiting at the Bodensee, and then came here when he realized he was wasting his time there. Information …’
‘Or a meeting with the man who was in possession of the Eagle.’
Cardinal nodded thoughtfully. He remained silent for a little while. ‘There’s another thing. Let’s go back to Rigby… . We’ve been assuming all along that Clifford killed Rigby. It would certainly have been Clifford’s style to kill him for breaking ranks, but have we been too limited in our assumptions? Clifford could have killed Rigby, or got one of his hard men to do it for him. But who else might have been in the frame? If it was someone else, someone who killed Rigby, grabbed the artefact and got out of England. …’
‘Once Clifford got wind of what was going on, he’d soon be hot on his tail, along with Schneider to act as his persuader. I’ve got the feeling, sir, we need to start all over again, and question each of our basic assumptions.’ Grout added.
Cardinal smiled. ‘It makes a pleasant change to have us both thinking along the same lines, Grout.’
‘Even if we’re no nearer to a conclusion than when we started, sir?’
Cardinal’s smile was replaced by a scowl. He continued to prowl around the room restlessly. ‘You know what we’ll have to do, Grout. We’ll have to go right back, start right at the very beginning and take logical steps. Work through in progression … it’s the plodding that brings results, Grout, not the flashes of intuition. We’ve got to work at this, look at our theories, discover—’
‘The non sequitur …’
‘The what?’
Grout smiled at Cardinal’s suspicious exclamation. ‘Discover where we’ve taken a wrong step in our process of logical thought. Like you, sir, I’m firming up on the one thought …’
‘Which one?’
‘That Clifford killed Joseph Rigby because he felt Rigby stepped out of line, doing his own thing… . Maybe it wasn’t Clifford at all.’
Cardinal stopped his pacing and loo
ked thoughtfully at Grout. ‘But if so, who the hell should we be looking for?’ His ascetic features mirrored the doubts that were plaguing his mind. Abruptly, he turned on his heel and marched towards the door, glancing at his watch. ‘To hell with it. I’ve arranged to meet Carmela Cacciatore downstairs in the bar. Maybe she’ll have more information for us. We can talk further, you and I, but we won’t discuss it here. We’ll do it downstairs, with our Italian temptress over a drink.’
Grout followed Cardinal out of the room. They took the lift down to the ground floor and as they entered the reception lounge, they were aware of a large number of men emerging from the open doors of the conference hall at the far end. The meeting was over, and the last stragglers were coming out of the lecture room. Cardinal scowled, guessing that it would make a drink at the bar difficult if not impossible to obtain among the crowd. He told Grout to return the key of Clifford’s room to the receptionist while he went to the bar to meet Carmela.
She was already in the bar, seated against the far wall with a drink in front of her. The bar, surprisingly, was not as crowded as Cardinal had feared. Presumably the members of the conference had been provided with a separate, exclusive room for their refreshment.
Cardinal raised a hand in recognition, placed an order at the bar for a brandy and soda and walked across to the woman waiting for him. Carmela Cacciatore really was a beautiful woman, even dressed in a somewhat severe manner on this occasion. But the severity ended at her throat: the top of her white blouse was unbuttoned and he could see the first swell of her magnificent bosom. It would always be a little difficult to concentrate on business in the presence of this woman, Cardinal concluded.
‘Any discoveries upstairs?’ she asked him hopefully.
He shook his head, sat down beside her. ‘Nothing. The room’s as clean as a whistle. What about you?’
She considered for a few moments, then shrugged. ‘The Carabinieri Art Squad has become a very efficient organization over the years. But apart from our own experts we, like other organizations, must deal from time to time with informants.’ She smiled briefly. ‘Like Le Cochon, for instance. It is not something I enjoy doing. I would prefer to lock such people away and make an end of it. But one must … temporize.’ She sighed. ‘However, with regard to our current business, the only thing I have been able to discover from my colleagues is that there are many rumours in the air. The dealers, the traders, the shady men who deal with the museums, they have begun to congregate here in Amsterdam.’
‘Is there any talk of the Eagle of Milan?’
Carmela shook her head. ‘Not specifically. The talk is only of an item of considerable value and historical interest. Beyond that, nothing. It is very strange, however. There is something almost amateurish about the whole thing. It is whispered that whoever is offering the artefact for sale is relatively new to the game. He – or she – is not one of the cordata, it may even be that this is his first foot in hot water.’ She glanced at him quickly, smiled. ‘That is an English idiom, is it not? I have expressed myself correctly in your language?’
Cardinal laughed. ‘Close enough,’ he said.
Someone was entering the bar. Cardinal looked up and raised a hand. Detective Sergeant Grout caught sight of him and nodded. He was not alone. Entering the bar with Grout was a tall, well-built, curly-headed man whose face was vaguely familiar to Cardinal. As the two men came forward Grout was smiling, but there was something else in his attitude that surprised Cardinal; he was aware of a certain veiled excitement in the detective sergeant’s eyes.
The two newcomers stood in front of the table where Cardinal and Carmela sat. Grout’s tone was cool, and controlled. He gestured to the man at his side. ‘I’ve met an acquaintance from Newcastle! May I introduce you, sir?’
He touched the left arm of the smiling, handsome man with the frosted sideburns and the friendly eyes. ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Cardinal … and with him is Miss Carmela Cacciatore. May I introduce to you Professor Donald Godfrey of the University of Newcastle?’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Godfrey uncorked the bottle and poured himself a liberal glass of champagne, then did the same for Cardinal, Carmela and Grout. He grinned expansively at the others as the waiter walked away and he raised his glass. ‘Salut! This is a damned sight better than fighting for a drink in the conference bar.’
‘And the surroundings are certainly comfortable,’ Grout observed, glancing around the bar. ‘But what exactly are we celebrating, Professor?’
‘The end of a strenuous few days,’ Godfrey replied. ‘A successful end to my tour in Europe, a few days more, at leisure, and then I hope to be on my way again.’
‘You celebrate in style, Professor,’ Cardinal said quietly, eyeing Grout, slightly puzzled. Carmela sat without speaking, but her glance was fixed curiously on the new arrival.
‘Ah, well,’ Godfrey said carelessly, ‘when I travel abroad I feel I ought to do it in comfort, you know? When I agree to give a talk I take my appropriate fee, but I also insist that my accommodation is not of the basic kind. If I’m not giving a talk but travelling under my own resources, well, after all, I have my university salary, my television earnings, my book royalties, and I’m single.’ His glance flickered appreciatively towards Carmela, as though laying down a challenge. ‘There’s no reason why I shouldn’t spend my money on life’s little luxuries. No harm in looking after myself, hey?’
‘No harm at all, sir,’ Cardinal said coolly. ‘But what exactly are you doing here in Amsterdam?’
Godfrey leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. He took a long sip at his drink and smiled. ‘I’m in the middle of a lecture tour. It was planned about eight months ago, you know, though the itinerary wasn’t finally decided until March. I’ve been to Rome, and Cologne, and this is the latest call in the whistle stop. Tomorrow, I’ll have a rest day and then it’s on to Norway, after which I head for the States—’
‘Professor Godfrey is an expert in archaeology, and antiquities,’ Grout explained to Carmela. He turned back to Godfrey. ‘There’s much interest in your topics on this lecture tour?’
‘My audiences seem fascinated by them! Believe me, my dear chap, they can’t get enough of it. The history of mediaeval England.’ Godfrey grinned again, almost mischievously. A certain euphoria crept into his tone. ‘I’m thinking of trying to con them in the States, persuade them into giving me a television series while I’m over there. Why today, in the audience I had downstairs, they were eighty per cent American tourists. And they lapped up what I had to say!’ He laughed, suddenly self-deprecating. ‘But there I go, blowing my own trumpet. Working in television does that for you … makes you extrovert. But what are you two gentlemen doing in Amsterdam? You’re a long way from home. And I can hardly believe you would be on holiday!’
Grout glanced at Cardinal and the flicker in his eyes told him to go ahead. ‘We’re really still making enquiries into that Rigby killing, up at Chesters Fort,’ Grout said.
Professor Godfrey pursed his lips, widened his eyes. ‘Really? The one you told me about when we met at the university? And it’s brought you here to Amsterdam?’
‘That’s so. One thing’s sort of led to another. But it seems we’ve now come up to a sort of dead end.’ Grout sipped his champagne and watched Godfrey as he leaned forward in interest. ‘A real dead end. The man who we’d hoped would help us in our enquiries has been murdered, you see. Chap called Kling.’
Godfrey pulled a face and managed a theatrical shudder. ‘Not my idea of fun, chasing killers around Europe. Still, everyone to his trade, I suppose. And it gets you out of the house, if you know what I mean.’ He turned to Carmela, gave her a well-honed, practised smile. ‘And you also, signorina, you are with the police?’
‘Not exactly.’ Carmela’s tone was sober. She was not smiling. ‘I am … interested in antiques.’
‘A collector? Interesting. …’
‘Not exactly,’ she said with a slight smi
le. Then she added, ‘But you, Professor Godfrey, I believe you’re a collector of antiques?’
‘How would you deduce that?’ Godfrey asked, raising his neatly trimmed eyebrows.
‘I believe I have seen one of your television appearances. When I was in London with my colleague, Mr Landon. I believe your collection is extensive.’
‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly.’ The nonchalant smile on Godfrey’s face was suddenly less nonchalant, stiffened at the edges. He shrugged, reluctantly. ‘I suppose you could say it’s … a collection of some consequence.’
‘Built up over the years, no doubt.’ Carmela nodded solemnly. ‘But how does one pick up bargains as an amateur collector, you know, of expensive items?’
Godfrey frowned, seemed slightly offended at the term. ‘Amateur? Well, I suppose I may be so described, though my work as a professor in the Antiquities section of the university has given me certain acquired skills. That, and of course one develops a flair for these things, an eye, an instinct for picking up the right article at the right price—’
‘But that means you must also be good at making the right contacts?’ Cardinal intervened almost innocently. Carmela glanced at him, and at Grout. It was as though she had become aware of a rising tension in the group. There was something going on which she had not latched onto.
Godfrey hesitated before answering. ‘What sort of contacts do you mean?’
Cardinal made no sign of replying and there was a sudden silence in the room. Carmela broke it by asking pleasantly, ‘Do you not fear that from time to time items you pick up might be stolen property? Artefacts of doubtful provenance?’
Godfrey licked his lips and injected more life into his grin. ‘Oh, not much chance of that if you deal with the right people, and it’s pretty much a closed circle really. Of course, you won’t know enough about the trade to—’