Carvalho paid a fond farewell to the waitress’s thighs with the look of a thief in a butcher’s shop. The three others were strolling towards the central canal in the heart of the red light district. A circle of onlookers had gathered round a Salvation Army band singing its hymns of praise or dire warning on the very threshold of the hell that was Amsterdam. The prostitutes watched the Salvation Army’s virtuous display from their shop windows. The uniformed musicians had been joined by some local housewives, who were protesting meekly in this way about something that had given their neighbourhood its character ever since the days of Adam and Eve, when it first grew up alongside the port of Amsterdam and the Central Station, which brought in their endless quota of people with hungry loins. Curious onlookers and the still hungry contemplated this piece of musical theatre with the condescending air of a football crowd being entertained by a Samoan wedding dance performed by a group of sensitive teenagers just finishing high school. The trees, the lights reflected on the water of the canal, the serene architecture of the surrounding houses, the polite reserve of the watching prostitutes, and the silent passers-by all contrived to make the red light district the opposite of sordid. In this context, the Salvation Army’s thunderous hymns sounded like pasa dobles at an end-of-year student party.
The three youngsters seemed to tire of the spectacle. Buffalo Bill was definitely the leader. He looked down again at his watch, and they set off along the right-hand side of the canal, peering into the entrances to live-sex clubs, porno cinemas or the so-called Museum of Sex, which in fact was one of the most successful stores in the whole area. They surprised Carvalho by going in. That did not seem to fit in with their hippy lifestyle or the habits of the locals. It was as if a Parisian on the margins were to visit the Lido or go on an excursion to Versailles or up the Eiffel Tower. Perhaps they were just being kitsch, and wanted to find sexual gadgets they could laugh at or admire for being so naive.
Carvalho walked round the small museum and went down into the basement. If he had been on his own he would have bought a leather sadist’s outfit that would have brought laughter or tears to the eyes of Charo, who had seen it all before but still found it hard to control her bladder when it came to laughing or crying. Then Buffalo Bill glanced at his watch again, and shepherded the other two out of the shop before they had really had time to look at anything. A group of French tourists was filling nearly all the gangways laughing hysterically in a way Carvalho would have thought possible only from a gaggle of Madrid matrons born in the back of beyond and brought up as strict Catholics. Idiocy and repression know no frontiers.
The three of them left the brightly lit canalside street as though they wanted to get out of the district altogether. They suddenly disappeared down a short alleyway on the right. Carvalho plunged after them, hurrying in order to keep them in view. They had speeded up, as though they wanted to gain time or get somewhere else quickly. The alleyway was in darkness, but Carvalho could just make out the girl running rather than walking away from him. Then he saw the two men stop, turn and come towards him. Carvalho looked over his shoulder and saw two more hulking individuals closing in on him. He was like the ham in a sandwich, caught between the two men on one side and Buffalo Bill and the hippies on the other. He chose what seemed the easier option and charged at Buffalo Bill head down. He thrust his hand into his pocket. Carvalho succeeded only in butting Bill’s bag rather than his body. He did manage to bring his open knife out of his pocket, but that was not much use either. The hippy sheep kicked him on the top of his skull. As Carvalho fell to the ground, the other two men reached him. He defended himself as best he could on his back, protecting his groin with his hands and kicking out in all directions. Someone kicked him twice in the ribs and he was forced to curl up into a ball. The two giants grappled for his legs and immobilised him. A foot began kicking his face. Carvalho tried to stand up. To his surprise they let him. As he struggled to his feet he could feel blows raining all over his body. One punch to the side of his head lit the dark street with flashes of light. The punches and kicks seemed endless. He had lost his knife, so there was nothing for it but to surrender. After one particularly vicious punch, he dropped to the ground again.
The beating stopped. The four men said something to each other. They searched his pockets then examined his papers. Two of them lifted him under the armpits. A third grabbed him by the feet and between them they started to carry him out to the end of the alley. Carvalho guessed they could be taking him to one of two places: either to the canal or to a car parked alongside it. If they threw him into the canal, they could either bind him hand and foot or drop him just as he was. If they tied his hands and feet he would have to struggle so much that he forced them to get rid of him on dry land rather than leaving him to drown. He half opened one eye and saw they were carrying him towards the edge of the canal. They were discussing something. It sounded as though they were worried about being seen. Carvalho could feel their arms grip him more tightly. He was preparing for the worst, but the three men were simply swaying backwards to gather strength, and he suddenly felt himself flying through the air. He fell two or three metres, and all he could think of was to shut his mouth to avoid the slimy canal water choking him. He hit the surface with a sudden cold shock, and allowed himself to drop down through the water. Fighting off his fear and repulsion, he swam along underwater. He could not see a thing, so he preferred to shut his eyes as tightly as possible. The stinking water filled his nostrils. He held his breath as long as he could, and tried to aim for one of the canal sides. One of his hands came into contact with the slimy wall. It felt like the scaly skin of some wet, horrible animal. He searched until he could find a crack to get a proper handhold, then stayed under water until there was no more air left in his lungs. As he rose slowly to the surface, it felt as though they were two stones weighing him down.
The damp air hurt as he gasped for breath. Keeping his head low in the water, he tried to spot his attackers on the canal side. There seemed to be no one around. In the darkness he could make out the even blacker shadow of the bridge the canal disappeared under. Slipping underwater once more, he swam towards it. When he surfaced again, he was protected underneath the arch. He clutched at a crack between the bricks and decided to wait until he had a reasonable possibility of emerging unscathed. Everything was quiet except for the sound of water dripping from his soaking sleeves. His adrenalin had warded off the cold until now, but he suddenly realised his teeth were chattering. He was revolted and scared, but above all felt sorry for himself. He imagined the bridge infested with man-eating rats, and was so terrified at the thought that he forgot about his safety. He sought desperately for places in the brick wall above him, and used his fingertips to haul himself up, although all the water soaking his clothes made him twice as heavy as usual. He could smell the acrid stench of canal water on his skin, his hair and his clothes. His wounds were burning, and one of his eyes was almost completely closed.
His head reached the top of the wall. He pulled himself up and collapsed face down on the side of the canal. He was breathing more easily now, but felt colder by the second. There was complete silence, broken only by the sounds of distant traffic. He decided to try to stand up. He succeeded, and stood still, waiting for some sort of reaction from his attackers. Nothing. As he set off running, he was deafened by the noise of his soaking shoes squelching against the pavement. As more water poured off him, he was able to run more quickly. His clothes were stuck to his body like a corset. He was in no state to hail a cab or even to return to his hotel along the main streets if he did not want to end up in a police station.
He felt exhausted, so he sat on a short flight of steps leading down to a shop in a basement. He saw old newspapers sticking out of the tops of the rubbish bins. He pulled some pages out, took off his jacket and shirt, and began to dry himself with them. Every so often he rubbed a bruise or a cut and muttered a curse. He wrung out the shirt and bundled it up in one of the bins. He tried to squeeze
as much water as possible out of the jacket, then put it back on with the lapels up to cover his chest. Then he took off his trousers and underpants. When he saw his private parts hanging down, he could not help but laugh. This was not the moment to be arrested as a flasher. He threw the pair of underpants into the bin as well, then dried the rest of his body. He wrung out the trousers as best he could and put them back on. The jacket and trousers were thick enough not to appear soaked through. He dried his hair and feet, then ran his fingers through his hair to comb it.
If he stuck to dimly lit streets, nobody would be able to tell he had almost been drowned. He had left his revolver in the hotel, so he was completely unarmed. He walked towards the start of the canal, opposite an imposing neoclassical building lit by the lamps of a leafy square. He did not want to reach the square itself, but hoped he could take the first street on the right that descended towards Waterloo Plein. He heard the sound of a car behind him, and dodged down another flight of steps until it had gone by.
A few seconds later, a police patrol car glided past. The cops got out, and Carvalho saw them disappear through a brightly lit doorway. He spotted a narrow, dark street that came out a few metres this side of the police station. Just what he needed. He walked towards it, watching intently to make sure there were no signs of movement in the police station doorway.
He slipped into the street and headed for Waterloo Plein, hoping that by keeping moving he would regain some warmth and take his mind off the stabbing pains that seemed to be coming from all over his body. The closer he got to his destination, the more confident he felt. He met a couple who opened and closed their mouths in mute astonishment. His eye had almost completely closed by now. He skirted Waterloo Plein and went on towards Rembrandt Square. As soon as he caught sight of the open space in the distance he let out a great sigh of relief.
He flung himself in through the hotel’s revolving doors. The amazed receptionist handed him his key and stammered out a couple of concerned questions about what had happened to him.
‘Some people tried to rob me, and in the struggle I fell into the water.’
‘Have you informed the police?’
‘Yes, of course. It was them who brought me here.’
The receptionist accompanied him to the lift, emphasising how lucky he had been.
‘Amsterdam seems like a quiet city, but at night the canals get filled with bodies. You had a lucky escape.’
When he was in the lift, Carvalho slumped against the side, his mind a complete blank. The menu for the hotel dinners was pinned above the instruction panel. It looked promising.
Carvalho opened his eyes. He was almost conscious that there was somebody else in the room. At the foot of his bed he could make out the same inspector who had interrogated him the previous day. Now he was staring at him concernedly. Carvalho could not return the favour because one of his eyes was throbbing violently.
‘They gave you a good going-over.’
Carvalho shrugged his shoulders. A stabbing pain in his ribs warned him not to do that again.
‘You know the city. It’s surprising you let yourself be jumped on.’
‘They tried to rob me.’
‘So the receptionist told me.’
‘Did he call you?’
‘You passed out in the lift.’
Carvalho opened his pyjamas and saw bandages and plasters on his wounds. He could also feel something sticky on his bad eye. Someone had patched him up.
‘Was anything stolen?’
‘No.’
‘Would you recognise your attackers?’
‘No. It was completely dark, and it was all over very quickly.’
‘It’s odd. Odd that they should throw you in a canal without tying you up.’
‘They thought I had passed out.’
‘But anyone who has passed out can wake up in a cold bath.’
‘Maybe they were kind hearted.’
The inspector came closer to Carvalho. He sat in a chair next to the writing desk.
‘It would be much better if you were straight with us. You were in the Paradise Club last night.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You became a member. We know the names of all the Paradise Club members.’
Carvalho wondered how many cops there had been disguised as hippies among the dreamy crowd in that particular paradise.
‘Did you make any friends in there?’ asked the inspector.
‘I went dressed as a Martian, but they were in ordinary clothes. No chance of any small talk.’
‘Did you smoke?’
‘At my age you can’t get used to that kind of thing. I’m almost forty.’
‘Me too.’
‘So you know what I’m talking about.’
‘No, I don’t. But that doesn’t matter. What did you do when you left the Paradise?’
‘I went to the red light district.’
‘Did you go in any of the shop windows?’
‘No.’
‘Did you get drunk?’
‘No.’
‘Where were you attacked?’
‘As I was going past an alleyway. They either pulled or pushed me into it. Four of them. They beat me up, and I pretended I had lost consciousness. They threw me into the canal. I waited until they had gone. Then I climbed out. I dried myself as best I could with sheets of newspaper and walked back to the hotel.’
‘Why walk? We always have patrol cars in the neighbourhood. Or at the very least you could have got a taxi.’
‘I was stunned. From all the blows. I wanted to reach the hotel, so I came walking back like a robot.’
The inspector seemed to be more interested in looking round the room.
‘This hotel needs redecorating.’
‘But it’s still very pleasant.’
‘Mr Carvalho, did you come to Holland on business related in any way to drugs? I don’t expect you to tell me the truth. I just want to warn you.’
The inspector’s finger was pointing at him accusingly.
‘The Dutch state has sufficient resources to create its own security mechanisms. We don’t need any foreign interference. Still less from somebody who isn’t even officially one of us any more. You’re a loose cannon, Mr Carvalho.’
‘I guess this isn’t the first case of a tourist getting beaten up and given a bath in a canal.’
‘No, but you’re a very special tourist. For example, normal tourists go and make a complaint to the police after the assault. I suppose you don’t want to do that.’
‘No. I’m only in Holland a few days, and I don’t want to complicate things by getting mixed up in a police investigation. Besides, they didn’t take anything. I was only carrying American credit cards, Carte Blanche and Diners, and about forty florins.’
‘You’ve still got them. They’re rather wet, but still usable. Which means they didn’t even steal the forty florins that were in your pocket.’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t enough for them.’
‘We’ve come across cases where people have been drowned for less than twenty.’
‘Unbelievable.’
Carvalho did not want to seem too smart, or to behave like a Chandler character facing a stupid, brutal LAPD cop. Among other things, because the inspector was not a stupid, brutal LAPD cop and he wasn’t a Chandler character. The inspector stood up.
‘This is the second and last warning. If you get mixed up in anything else, we’ll take drastic measures. By the way, Inspector Kayser sends his regards and hopes you get better quickly.’
‘Tell him I’ll pay him a visit before I leave.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Probably tomorrow. Or the day after.’
The inspector left the room. Carvalho rang down to reception to ask whether he had been seen by a doctor. He had, and apparently there was nothing seriously wrong with him. He was to stay in bed for a day, and if he had any problems, feeling dizzy for example, he was to call at once so he could be taken
to hospital. Carvalho lay back on the plump pillows and drank half of the glass of water that was on the bedside table. Then he hauled himself out of bed to see whether he could stand up. He knelt down and slowly straightened. So far, so good. He could feel pain in several parts of his body, and his eye stung like hell, but apart from that, there seemed to be nothing broken. He lay back on the bed, relieved. He called reception again and asked them to fetch his suit and take it to the dry cleaner’s. The receptionist himself came to get it. He asked how Carvalho was feeling, and promised his suit would be as good as new in a few hours. Carvalho ordered a fresh orange juice. It appeared with American alacrity. He drank it all, then sank back on the pillows. He did not want to fall asleep, but could feel a wave of tiredness coming over him. He closed his eyes, and almost immediately thought he could feel the slimy grip of the canal waters on his body. Grey rats were swimming towards him, their whiskers bristling above the water as they closed in on him. Carvalho was threshing about trying to stop them biting him. But he couldn’t make any noise, because his attackers were still up there at the canal side, listening for any sign that he was still alive.
He was awakened by a knock on the door. He slowly realised where he was. He had slept for almost two hours since he had drunk the orange juice. ‘Come in!’ he shouted. The doorknob turned, and in the doorway stood none other than his old friend Singel.
That was Carvalho’s first surprise. The second was the fluent English that Singel greeted him with, apologising for disturbing him, and asking him how he was. As before, Singel kept looking at him with his wide-eyed, angelic smile, like someone who has discovered a mysterious being from outer space. The smile was either a nervous tic or the sign that he was a public relations expert.
‘Mr Carvalho, I’m going to spare you the trouble of asking questions and sum up the situation as clearly as I can. You have obviously made the connection between the visit to us yesterday and the warning you got last night. That is all it was, a warning. You are well aware we could have left you at the bottom of the canal if we had wanted to.’
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