Julie said: ‘Seeing you’re so clever, would you mind—’
‘There’s no need to be unpleasant. Look at me. I am treating you with unfailing courtesy—or should I say chivalry—’
‘I suppose. What’s the Colonel going to say?’
‘That’s on consideration—or on re-consideration—well, he’s going to give me carte blanche. The 8 p.m. assignation is on.’
‘It would be nice to see you wrong for once,’ Julie said. ‘No, I didn’t really mean that. I only hope you are wrong.’
For a time no one spoke. The girls kept looking at the telephone on the coffee table by van Effen’s side. Van Effen wasn’t looking at anything in particular. The phone rang.
Van Effen picked it up. ‘Ah! Yes…I accept that. Maybe I did step out of line. But I was provoked.’ He winced and held the telephone some distance away from his ear. ‘Yes, sir, you were provoked too…Yes, I thoroughly agree. A very wise decision, if I may say so…Of course, you will be kept in the picture, sir…No, they don’t trust me…Yes, sir, here. Goodbye.’
He hung up and looked at Julie. ‘Why aren’t you in the kitchen, my girl? Distinctly smell burning. I was asked for lunch—’
‘Oh, do be quiet. What did he say?’
‘Carte blanche. 8 p.m.’
Julie looked at him, her face still, for what seemed a long time but could only have been a few seconds, then turned and went to the kitchen. Annemarie made a couple of steps towards him, stopped and said: ‘Peter.’
‘Don’t say it. I’ve already got out of one difficult situation. Don’t you and Julie put me in an impossible one.’
‘We won’t. I promise. You know that we can’t help what we feel and you can’t blame us for that. But you could blame us if we did start talking about it, so we won’t. That’s sure.’ She smiled. ‘Now, isn’t that considerate.’
‘Very. Do you know, Annemarie, I do believe I’m beginning to like you.’
‘Like me?’ She gave him a quizzical look. ‘So you didn’t even like me when you kissed me this morning? Absentmindedness, I suppose. Or do you just go around kissing policewomen as a matter of routine? Something to do with their morale, no doubt.’
‘You’re the first.’
‘And, no doubt, the last. We all make mistakes, whatever I mean by that cryptic remark. Who doesn’t trust you?’
‘Who doesn’t—what?’
‘Something you said to the Colonel.’
‘Ah. My criminal associates. We parted at the Hunter’s Horn professing mutual trust and faith. Didn’t stop them from staking a man out at the Trianon. An irritation. No problem.’
‘And after lunch?’
‘Stay here a bit. The Colonel is going to call me. That will be after we hear what, if anything, the FFF have been up to at two o’clock. The Colonel is convinced that they will not blow up the Hagestein. Frogmen have found no traces of any underwater charges in position.’
Van Effen called his office and asked for the desk sergeant. ‘The men on Fred Klassen and Alfred van Rees. They called in at noon?’ He listened briefly. ‘So van Rees has lost our man. Chance or on purpose, it doesn’t matter. I assume you have the licence number. All officers on patrol. Not to approach. Just locate. Note this number and call me here.’
Lunch was an excellent but hardly festive meal. Julie and Annemarie were determinedly overbright and over-cheerful and the harsh edges of strain occasionally showed through: if van Effen noticed anything amiss he made no comment: her brother, Julie knew, rarely missed anything.
They had coffee in the living-room. Shortly after two o’clock a young motorcycle policeman came to collect the Hunter’s Horn tape.
Julie said: ‘I hear that you are awaiting a call from the Colonel. After that?’
‘Your bed, my dear, if I may. I don’t know when I can expect to sleep tonight or even if I will sleep so I think an hour or two might be of some value. That hour or two, of course, would be helped along by the brandy you have—unaccountably—so far failed to offer me.’
The Colonel’s call came when van Effen was halfway through his brandy. It was a brief call and one-sided. Van Effen said ‘yes’ several times, ‘I see’ a couple of times, then told the Colonel goodbye and hung up.
‘The FFF blew up the North Holland dyke at exactly 2 p.m. Extensive flooding, but shallow and no lives lost. Not according to first reports. The Hagestein weir was not touched. As the Colonel says, he expected this. The frogmen had located no charges and he is convinced that the FFF were unable either to approach the weir or conceal charges. He’s further convinced that their blasting techniques are primitive and limited only to simple operations like blowing up dykes and canal banks.’
‘But you’re not convinced of this, are you?’ Julie said.
‘I’m neither convinced nor unconvinced. I know no more about it than you do. Maybe the Colonel finds it preferable, more comforting to think along those lines: maybe the FFF want the Colonel—us, the country—to think along those lines. They have all the hallmarks of being a devious and highly organized bunch. That impression, too, may be deceptive. Are they a simple-minded group trying to make us think they are devious or a devious-minded group trying to make us think they are simple? Figure it out for yourselves. I can’t. I’m going to rest lightly. Turn on the radio, would you? The FFF have, it seems, got into the habit of making a public announcement after what they no doubt regard as being one of their master strokes. Don’t bother to wake me to convey their next dire threat. In fact, don’t bother me for anything.’
He had barely dropped off when Julie came in and shook him awake. He opened his eyes and, as was his custom, was almost instantly awake. He said: ‘This is the way you don’t disturb me? The heav ens have fallen in?’
‘I’m sorry. A letter came for you.’
‘A letter? An exhausted man is torn from his slumbers—’
‘It came by special delivery,’ she said patiently. ‘It has Urgent stamped all over it.’
‘Let me see.’ He took the envelope from her, glanced briefly at the address and postmark, opened the envelope, half extracted the contents, pushed it back inside again and slid the envelope under the pillow. ‘And I’m disturbed by this. One of my fellow officers trying to be witty. Next time, be sure the heavens have fallen in.’
‘Let me see what was inside that letter,’ Julie said sharply. She sat on the bed, laid her hand on his arm and said in a gentle voice: ‘Please, Peter?’
Van Effen made to speak, said nothing, reached under his pillow, retrieved the envelope and gave the contents to Julie. It was not a letter, just a plain postcard, blank on one side. On the other side was a crude drawing of a coffin and a hang-man’s noose.
Julie tried to smile. ‘Well, it has been three months since the last one, hasn’t it?’
‘So?’ Van Effen sounded indifferent. ‘It’s been, as you say, three months. And what’s happened in that three months? Nothing. And no reason on earth why anything should happen in the next three months.’
‘If it’s so unimportant, why did you hide it?’
‘I didn’t hide it. I put it away in the full view of my little sister whom I didn’t want to upset.’
‘May I see that envelope, please?’ She took it, looked at it and handed it back. ‘All the others had come from other countries. This one is postmarked Amsterdam. That was the first thing you saw and that’s why you put it away. The Annecy brothers are in Amsterdam.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. This postcard could have come from any country to a friend or accomplice in Amsterdam who sent it on to this address.’
‘I don’t believe that. Kid sister or not, I’m all grown up and a big girl now. I can think for myself, I can feel for myself. I know they’re in Amsterdam. And so, I’m sure, do you. Oh, Peter. It’s all too much. One set of madmen threatening to flood our country, another set going to blow up the palace and now this.’ She shook her head. ‘Everything at once. Why?’
‘It is an unusual set of c
ircumstances.’
‘It is a—oh, do be quiet. Do you have no idea what is going on?’
‘I’ve no more idea than you have.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not sure I believe you. What are we going to do? What are you going to do?’
‘What do you expect me to do? Patrol the streets of Amsterdam until I find some character carrying a coffin over his shoulder and a noose in his hand.’ He put his hand on her arm. ‘Please excuse momentary irritation. There’s nothing I can do. Second thoughts, yes. I can go back to sleep, Next time, make sure the heavens have fallen.’
‘You’re hopeless.’ She half-smiled, rose, shook her head again when she saw that his eyes were already closed and left the room.
He had barely dropped off for the second time when Julie returned. ‘Sorry again, Peter. The Colonel. I told him you were asleep but he said it didn’t matter if you were dead, I was to bring you back to life again and get you to the phone. He left me in no doubt that it was very urgent indeed.’
Van Effen touched the bedside cupboard. ‘He could have used the scrambler.’
‘Probably using a public phone.’
Van Effen went through to the living-room, took the call, listened briefly, said: ‘I’m leaving now,’ and hung up.
Julie said: ‘Where?’
‘To meet a person the Colonel says may be a friend. I don’t know his name.’ Van Effen put on shoulder holster, tie and jacket. ‘Things, as you said, Julie, tend not to occur singly. First, the dyke nut-cases. Then the palace nut-cases. Then the Annecy nut-cases. Now this.’
‘Whatever “this” may be. Where’s your friend?’
‘Wouldn’t you know. He’s in the mortuary.’
FIVE
The old town of Amsterdam may well be unique in the attraction of its tree-lined winding canals, its medieval charm, its romance, its almost palpable sense of history, its nostalgic beauty. The city mortuary wasn’t like that at all. It didn’t possess a single attractive feature, it had no charm, medieval or modern, was totally and irredeemably ugly. It was clinical, functional, inhuman and wholly repellent. Only the dead, one would have thought, could have tolerated such a place: but the white-coated attendants, while not much given to whistling at their work, seemed no different from your average office worker, factory mechanic or farm labourer: this was their job and they did it in the best way they could.
Van Effen arrived to find de Graaf and a serious young man, who was introduced as Dr Prins, waiting for him. Dr Prins was attired in the regulation uniform of white coat and stethoscope. It was difficult to imagine what function a stethoscope played in a mortuary: possibly to check that incoming admissions were, in fact, dead on arrival: more probably, it was just part of the uniform. De Graaf was in a dark and sombre mood but this was not due to his surroundings for, over the long years, de Graaf had become more than accustomed to mortuaries: what he was not accustomed to was having to leave his fish course and a bottle of Chablis almost untouched on a restaurant table.
Dr Prins led them to a long, cavernous, tomb-like chamber, the furnishings of which—exclusively in concrete, white tiles, marble and metal—accorded well with the chilled atmosphere. An attendant, seeing Prins approach, opened a metal door and pulled out a wheeled rack that ran smoothly on steel runners. A shrouded form lay on this. Dr Prins took the top corner of the sheet.
‘I have to warn you, gentlemen, that this is not a sight for weak stomachs.’
‘My stomach couldn’t possibly be in worse condition than it is,’ de Graaf said. Prins looked at him curiously—de Graaf hadn’t seen fit to make mention of the abandoned fish and wine—and pulled back the sheet. What lay revealed was indeed, as the doctor had said, not a sight for queasy stomachs. Dr Prins looked at the faces of the two policemen and felt vaguely disappointed: not by a flicker of expression did they display whatever emotions they might have felt.
‘Cause of death, doctor?’ de Graaf said.
‘Multiple, massive injuries, of course. Cause? An autopsy will reveal—’
‘Autopsy!’ Van Effen’s voice was as cold as the mortuary itself. ‘I do not wish to be personal, doctor, but how long have you held this post?’
‘My first week.’ The slight pallor in his face suggested that Dr Prins was, himself, having some problems with his internal economy.
‘So you won’t have seen many cases like this. If any. This man has been murdered. He hasn’t fallen off the top of a high building or been run over by a heavy truck. In that case the skull or chest wall or pelvis or the femoral bones or tibia would have been crushed or broken. They haven’t. He’s been battered to death by iron bars. His face is unrecognizable, knee-caps smashed and forearms broken—no doubt when he was trying to defend himself against the iron bars.’
De Graaf said to the doctor: ‘He was, of course, wearing clothes when he was brought in. Anyone been through them?’
‘Identification, you mean, Colonel?’
‘Of course.’
‘Nothing that I know of.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ van Effen said. ‘I know who it is. I recognize that scar on the shoulder. Detective Rudolph Engel. He was shadowing a man known as Julius Caesar—you may remember Annemarie mentioning this character in La Caracha.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Because I was the person who told Engel to do the shadowing. I also warned him that there was more than a degree of danger attached and that he was on no account to be in a position where he would find himself without people around. I reminded him what had happened to the two detectives who had trailed Agnelli. He forgot or disobeyed or was carried away by curiosity or enthusiasm. Whatever it is, it cost him his life.’
‘But to murder him in this savage fashion?’ De Graaf shook his head. ‘Even to kill him at all. Well, it does seem an unbelievable instance of over-reacting.’
‘We’ll probably never know the truth, sir. But if we do we’ll probably find out that he wasn’t disposed of just for shadowing but because he’d found out something they couldn’t let him live to report. High stakes, Colonel.’
‘High indeed. It might help to have a word with this—ah—Julius Caesar.’
‘Probably couldn’t find him in the first place. He’ll have gone to ground, left Amsterdam for healthier climes or, most likely, shaved off his pepper-and-salt beard and got himself a wig for his bald pate and a pair of dark glasses to conceal his squint. Besides, even if we did pull him in, what have we got to charge him with?’
They thanked Dr Prins and left. As they were passing through the entrance hall a man at the desk called the Colonel and handed him a phone. The Colonel spoke briefly, handed back the phone and rejoined van Effen.
‘Not destined to be our afternoon, I’m afraid. Office. Just heard from the hospital. One of our men there. Just been fished out of a canal, it seems.’
‘What’s he doing in hospital? You mean he’s not drowned?’
‘No. Touch and go, it seems. We’d better have a look.’
‘Identity?’
‘Not established. Still unconscious. No papers, no badge. But carrying a gun and a pair of handcuffs. So they guessed it was a cop.’
In the hospital they were led to a private room on the first floor, from which a grey-haired doctor was just emerging. He saw de Graaf and smiled.
‘My old friend! You don’t waste time, I must say. One of your men has just had a rather unpleasant experience. A very close thing, very close, but he’ll be all right. In fact, he can leave in an hour or two.’
‘So he’s conscious?’
‘Conscious and in a very bad temper. Name of Voight.’
‘Mas Voight?’ van Effen said.
‘That’s him. Little boy saw him floating face down in the water. Luckily there were a couple of dock-workers close by. They fished him out and brought him here. Couldn’t have been in the water more than a minute or so.’
Voight was sitting up in bed and looking very disgruntled. After the briefest of c
ourteous enquiries as to his health de Graaf said: ‘How on earth did you come to fall into that canal?’
‘Fall into the canal!’ Voight was outraged. ‘Fall into—’
‘Shh!’ said the doctor. ‘You’ll just do yourself an injury.’ He gently turned Voight’s head: the blue and purple bruise behind the right ear promised to develop into something quite spectacular.
‘Must have run out of crowbars,’ van Effen said.
De Graaf frowned. ‘And what is that meant to mean?’
‘Our friends are being active again. Detective Voight was keeping an eye on Alfred van Rees and—’
‘Alfred van Rees!’
‘You know. The Rijkswaterstaat man. Locks, weirs, sluices and what have you. Unfortunately it would seem that Detective Voight couldn’t watch van Rees and his own back at the same time. Last report, Voight, was that you had lost van Rees.’
‘A patrolman found him again. Gave me the address. I drove down and parked by the canal, got out—’
‘What canal?’ van Effen said.
‘The Croquiskade.’
‘The Croquiskade! And van Rees. You astonish me. Hardly the most salubrious part of our fair city.’
Voight rubbed his neck. ‘I didn’t find it very salubrious either. I saw van Rees and another man coming out of this doorway and then they went back in again. Why, I don’t know. I wasn’t in a police car and as far as I know they’ve never seen me, never suspected I was following them. And then—well, the next thing I knew I was in this bed. Never even heard a footstep behind me.’
‘Did you get the house number?’
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