by Cathy Ace
Marty joins them. His tail is wagging, and he’s sniffing the pigs rather than the ground. He looks up at me, begging for a treat, but I show him my empty hands. From nowhere he drops a sparkling crystal at my feet, smiling. His head turns. Someone is calling him, though I cannot hear anything. He’s anxious to leave me, but first he puts his paw into my hand. I see it’s not his paw at all, but a box made of pure gold that’s glittering in the sunlight, which I cannot see. I open the box, but it’s empty; weighs nothing in my hand. The gold falls away and I see that the box is made of butterfly wings, which shimmer and gleam with myriad colors. The box disintegrates in my hand, and I feel cross that I’ve been so clumsy.
“Come, come,” shouts a voice. I look around and see a row of men, hundreds of them in a line, all wearing clothes covered in paint. Jonas runs along the line and touches each head. As he makes contact with them, each one explodes into a shower of colored powder, until the air is all used up and all that is left is color. Through the colors a figure is approaching. As it draws closer, I realize it is the man I have seen in Jonas’s photographs and portraits. The Unknown Man. He is smiling a broad smile. He comes close to my ear and I know he’s about to whisper his name, but he’s gone. What remains is the smell and heat of a thousand flashbulbs. I try to see him through the colors, but all I can see are rows and rows of perfect tulips, waving in a non-existent breeze.
Jonas is right in front of me again. His face is so close to mine that I reach out to touch his birthmark. The purple stain starts to peel off his face. I panic, and try to press it back on again, but there’s nothing to press against—he’s dissolved, and in his place is a little girl, crying, holding a doll with a purple face, and asking for her mommy. I reach down to comfort her, but she throws the doll at my head, screaming that she’ll never forgive me. I turn toward the sound of a bell ringing in the distance. It’s a church bell, mournful and discomforting. A coffin appears. It’s being carried by Johannes, Pieter, Dirk, Jonas. A man I somehow know is Charlie leads the party. He is at the front, playing a trumpet, which sounds like a bell. The casket passes me. Jonas turns to me as he walks by and says, “I dream the paintings—they come to me in dreams, like this.” As the funeral procession moves away, I see that Jonas has grown antlers, which he swats off his head onto the ground. Just before they disappear into the darkness, the lid of the coffin lifts and Mona Lisa sits up smiling and waving. “I’m off on my travels,” she shouts happily. “I hate Paris,” she adds, then lies down in the coffin again.
An alarm bell rings. Its loud, frantic peals are all around me. I clap my hands to my ears. My head hurts. Menno appears and the noise stops. He is holding a glass jar. Inside it is a book. “I have it now, it is safe,” he says, handing me the jar. The glass of the jar breaks in my hands and the book flies away like a bird, screaming like a crow as it goes. It’s a terrible sound—it’s the sound of real human misery, grown men and children wailing of loss.
“Cait, Cait, you’re crying. Come on, Wife, come out of it.”
I opened my eyes and took some tissues from Bud. “How long?” I asked.
“Almost an hour. I kept a close eye on you but, if your face was anything to go by, you were ‘seeing’ some pretty unpleasant, or at least puzzling, things. You okay? I worry about you when you do this, you know.”
I sat up. “I’m fine. I saw a lot, and quite a few things make more sense now. In fact, I’m really glad we’re going to be talking to your John Silver, because I think he can be of real use to us tomorrow, and we can be to him. I’ve been looking forward to meeting him—this man whose life you saved.”
Bud smiled gently. “He’s a good man. I think you’ll like him. I do.”
“Is he Dutch?”
Bud shook his head. “English, I believe. We never discussed it. I was here on a fact-finding mission, not for social chatter.”
“How on earth did you end up in situations where his life was at risk, twice, on a ‘fact-finding’ mission?” I was puzzled, and somewhat alarmed.
Bud hugged me to his side. “So much always depends on the sort of facts you’re trying to find. That’s all behind me now, and I am free to wallow in married bliss, and leave those days of gang logistics, hierarchies, and hit lists behind.”
I hugged him back. I didn’t like the sound of “hit lists,” and was glad he was in my arms, not chasing drug dealers, or gunrunners, around the back streets of Amsterdam.
“I’d like us to take your guy over to Jonas’s place this evening. If we’re meeting him here, let’s not hang about too long—let’s get over to the studio and show him what’s there.”
Bud sighed. “I guess I’m gonna have to wait for you to tell me what you’ve come up with until you tell him, right?”
“Yep—I need to get ready to go. Look at the time.”
Bud did, then I flew into hyperactive mode—we only had fifteen minutes to get down to reception to meet the mysterious Mr. Silver. I could hardly wait.
An Agent of the Law: A Portrait in Shadows
I EASILY SPOTTED JOHN SILVER in the lobby of our hotel. Leaning against a dimly lit wall, he looked like an ordinary tourist whose height seemed to disappear, so innocuous was his manner of dress and general appearance. If I’d been profiling him across a room, I might have guessed at his being a doctor, a veterinarian, or an academic. He had a professional air, but no swagger. A middle-aged man with wire-rimmed specs, not much gray hair, khaki pants, a blue open-necked shirt, and shoes that, being of woven leather, marked him out as at least European, not North American. As we approached him, I noted his body type was neither skinny nor heavyset. This was a man who worked hard to not stand out anywhere.
“A pleasure to meet you, Cait,” he said with a voice that was mid-range in pitch and level. A polite handshake followed. He grasped Bud’s extended hand with both of his, and I noticed a genuine warmth in the men’s greeting of each other.
“Been a few years,” said Bud. “You haven’t changed a bit.” He slapped John on the back.
“Neither have you, except you’ve dropped a few pounds,” replied the man, smiling.
Bud patted his tummy. “Fewer late-night meals on the go. Now I’m home to eat properly, not just shoving stuff into my face whenever I can.”
“Not easy, you’re right. Want to talk here, or…?”
“We thought we’d take you to my uncle’s studio. It’s private. And Cait wants to show you—well, she won’t tell me what, so I’ll let her surprise us both when we get there.”
John looked me up and down. “Must be interesting being married to the psychologist who courts controversy. Professor Cait Morgan is well spoken of in certain circles.” He bowed his head toward me.
Feeling quite proud, I replied, “Thank you. Of course, until this trip I had never heard of you, and Bud only told me of your existence a little while ago. If we head off to Jonas’s house, you two can catch up along the way, and we can all pat each other on the back when I’ve done some explaining. How about that—business first, then pleasure?”
“A woman after my own heart,” smiled John Silver as we made our way to the doors.
“She can’t have yours, she’s already got mine,” quipped Bud, who had a spring in his step that I hadn’t seen in several years. It did my heart good to see him with a colleague again—I knew he missed his friends from the force a great deal, but he hadn’t wanted to mix with them at all since his retirement. He felt he’d let everyone down by leaving, but we’d both known it was the right thing for him to do.
When we got to Jonas’s, Hannah opened her door before we could get in. I hugged her warm, round shoulders and thanked her for making all the arrangements for our luncheon. As Bud and John went upstairs, I allowed the aging woman to bathe in my enthusiasm for the café that had once been hers, and praised her choice of such a beautiful, historic place. Despite her split lip, she manage
d to beam as I spoke, and I, once again, warmed to her.
“I’ve not quite made up me mind where I want all those pictures hung yet, so tell your man he’s off the hook for tonight,” she said, laughing at her own little pun.
We swapped phone numbers so she could get in touch with me directly when she was ready, then I labored up the stairs to the attic, ready for what I knew would be some interesting conversations.
The room was still bright enough for us to not need to light the candles, but, when I finally arrived, I could see that Bud had removed the bricks from the wall and was showing John the place where the box had been hidden.
“Cait spotted it,” he was saying with pride, “but it makes me think Menno van der Hoeven wasn’t as honest as he could have been with us. I think he neglected to pass on a vital piece of information that I believe my uncle would have wanted me to have—otherwise, without that lucky break, we’d never have found the box. And I’m pretty sure Jonas meant us to. Ah, Cait, there you are. Come on, let’s get this done.”
There was only one chair, plus the tatty chaise, in the room, so I sat on the wide window ledge. It wasn’t terribly comfy, but it meant I could look down at Bud and John and study their faces as I spoke, whereas I was in silhouette. I noticed that John tried to angle his seat to get a better look at me, but I hoped it wouldn’t work. I needed this man, who still carried some sort of badge, to do what I asked, and I felt that a position of psychological superiority might help me convince him to do so.
“Let me start by telling you I know almost nothing about you, John, which I am sure is how you and Bud would like it to remain. I have deduced you’re in active service, probably working for an international agency, or at least liaising with one or more of them. You must somehow be connected with international crime in some way. Thanks for getting us the information about the medical records pertaining to the deaths of Dirk van der Hoeven, Jonas de Smet, and now Willem Weenix. Did you manage to find out anything more about the death of Charlie—or Charles—de Groot?”
John glanced at Bud with a knowing smirk. “All business, this one. Good choice, Bud.” I heard Bud’s sharp intake of breath.
I don’t like being spoken of as an object, and decided to nip this “old boys” thing in the bud. “We chose each other, John. On first meeting, you struck me as someone who would understand that. But is it your upbringing in the countryside of the West Midlands, your attendance at public school, or your military service that’s given you this idea that women are happy to be spoken of as something to be picked off a shelf by a man at will?”
Seconds of silence passed. John sat more upright on the shabby chaise. “You’ve accurately read my accent, and the changes it underwent, as well as my general bearing, Cait,” he said. There was an edge to his voice that hadn’t existed earlier. “I’ve read your papers on victim profiling. They’ve proved useful in certain quarters. I know Bud’s retired, but we’re always on the lookout for people who might want to…spread their wings, shall we say?”
My body wanted to stand, but I told it to remain seated. “So this is a job interview for a position in which I have no interest?” I kept my voice as level as I could manage.
“Doors close, windows open,” John replied. Bud shifted uneasily in his chair. “I understand there are some departmental changes afoot at your place of employment. And you have no tenure.”
“Universities are prone to such realignments,” I said. “I trust my qualifications, published works, and teaching record will stand me in good stead.”
“Maybe they will,” was his patronizing reply.
Bud’s eyes darted between John and me. I could tell things weren’t going quite as he’d planned or hoped. “We should return to the matter in hand. If we’re going to be prepared for the gathering at the art supply store tomorrow, we’d better focus,” he suggested.
John beamed at Bud and allowed the warmth to reenter his voice. “You’re right, of course, Bud. So, where do we start? With the recent accidental deaths, or with those from previous decades?”
“Charlie de Groot. Did he die of an overdose, as we’ve been led to believe, or…?” Bud left the alternatives unspoken.
John’s jaw tightened. “Sorry, Bud. Not an overdose. He was stuffed to the gills with all sorts of mood-changing substances, and he suffered severe head injuries, but neither of those things killed him. The head injuries were all post-mortem and likely the result of him banging along the sides of the canals for a day or so before they hauled his body out of the water. There was no water in his lungs, so he was definitely dead before he went into the water. What killed him was a series of sharp-trauma injuries in and around his heart, made by an unidentified, and certainly not discovered, long, very thin object. They opened a file on the case, but never got anywhere. It seems Charlie de Groot was quite a sociable fellow—and most of those he mixed with were about as talkative as an abomination of Trappist monks.”
Bud looked puzzled. I stepped up. “An ‘abomination’ is the collective noun for monks. It refers to the older ‘an abominable sight of monks,’ and possibly began in the sixteenth century during the dissolution of the monasteries under Henry VIII.”
John stared, round-eyed, for a second or two, then continued. “As you say. What it all boils down to is that the cops were overwhelmed with brief, uninformative statements. The case is still, technically, open. I hate to say it, but your uncle played a part in a cover-up of a murder.”
Bud and I exchanged a horrified look. “That’s one of the things I was afraid of,” said Bud. “That Charlie’s death wasn’t because of an overdose, or that one or both of the ‘bodies’ Jonas helped dispose of wasn’t dead, and he and his cronies ended up unwittingly killing someone. It’s a real risk when people don’t call the cops and try to hide things. Thanks, John. It’s terrible news, but I guess it helps, in a way, to know at least that much of the truth.” The men exchanged a significant look. I stood and lit the candles, because the light of the day had all but gone.
“Yes, thanks, John,” I said, retaking my perch. “Have you had any luck regarding a young soldier who ‘deserted’ in 1950 yet?”
“Not yet. I’ll keep you informed.”
“Thanks,” said Bud quietly.
“If there’s nothing more we can do about that part of the mystery, should we move on to these paintings?” I asked.
“The paintings?” said Bud sounding puzzled.
“Bud, you’ve seen and heard everything I have, and I know you both have a good deal more knowledge than I do about smuggling rings. Let me show you something you might not have fully appreciated.”
I walked across the attic to the spot where the broken Seurat/Klimt picture lay, mangled and forlorn. Both men joined me. I picked up the piece, turned it over, pulled the back of the box frame away from the broken edging, and held the entire structure up to the flame, so the candlelight could dance through the canvas.
Both men let out a little sound of surprise, and I knew from that moment on that John Silver would likely do as I asked of him, without too many questions. It was an excellent feeling.
A Gathering of Old Friends and Colleagues
WILLEM WEENIX’S DAUGHTER ELS HAD asked us to arrive at the family’s store at 11:00 AM. It had been a late night for all of us. John Silver had taken on the most impressive and onerous workload. Having now met the man, I had no doubt he would have completed his tasks.
Neither Bud nor I had packed clothes for our Amsterdam trip that were suitable for a memorial gathering, so we picked out what looked least jolly and headed off to the shop.
We were early. The glass door of the store was boarded over—a result of the break-in, no doubt—and a sign had been placed in one of the windows telling potential customers the shop would not reopen until further notice. Curtains had been closed behind the items in the window. Els and Ebba greeted us quietl
y, with three kisses each. They both looked drawn.
A semi-circle of chairs had been arranged facing the staircase at the back of the shop, and the alcove beneath it. Els had placed The Laughing Cavalier portrait of her father there, draped with black cloth. It made for an imposing sight.
Gradually the others arrived. Each was greeted by the grieving women and took a seat in the mournful space. Any conversation was muted, and old friends greeted each other warmly, but with sorrowful faces.
Greta van Burken was late, which I’d expected. All the other people at the memorial, even Bud and I had elected to wear somber clothing, but Greta presented herself in the sort of outfit that suggested she was off to a garden party; her wide-brimmed straw hat was decorated with sunflowers. On this occasion her hat pin sported a large, ceramic cornflower on its end. She was even wearing lace gloves, suggesting to me that she didn’t want to touch anything or anyone, which I suspected she would feel to be beneath her.
Red-eyed, Els and Ebba stood on either side of Willem’s portrait. Els fingered a damp handkerchief, and her daughter’s loving glances toward her mother showed concern and her own grief at the loss of her grandfather.
“Where’s Willem? Willem should be here. He’s such a good dancer. I hope he comes soon.” Everyone turned to look at Marlene as she leapt from her seat and began to fuss.
Menno answered his mother weakly, “Mama, Willem is dead; that’s why we’re all here. To remember him.”
Marlene van der Hoeven stood still and took in her surroundings for what I suspected was the first time. “Of course he is,” she said. “Look, there he is, smiling,” she pointed at the painting. “I’ll miss him so much,” she added, then began to cry, her son’s comforting arms around her, guiding her back to her seat.