Roller Coaster

by Michael Gilbert

  He said, “When I was given that particular assignment – with considerable reluctance on the part of my superior officers – I was as young as Hoyland and even more recently qualified. And I was so damned stupid that I came within an inch of getting myself killed. And should have been if I hadn’t happened to know how to construct a pick-lock out of a broken section of a wine rack and how to use it when I’d made it. Those were some of the things I’d learned at that rather peculiar college of further education in Cairo, but I’m quite certain it was not something which was taught at Wellington.”

  “Then Hoyland must take great care not to get himself locked up. Tell me, if you do decide to send him, how do you suggest he should set about finding this studio, or whatever it is?”

  “He’d have to keep an eye on Hendrik. According to the Dorcas ladies there’s another party of schoolboys there now. If Hendrik tries the same game with them, he’d have to follow him.”

  “And just how is he going to do that? As soon as he goes anywhere near Hendrik or the boys he’s bound to be spotted.”

  “Difficult. But not impossible.”

  “I can think of one way of making it a bit easier. You said that Mr Wetherall was willing to help.”

  “More than willing. Anxious. I saw him visualising himself in Amsterdam, in disguise, trailing Hendrik to his lair. Not, I fear, a very plausible scenario.”

  “Then let me suggest a better one. Get him to give Hoyland an official assignment, a letter on Education District paper, asking him to check up on the available accommodation for school parties in Amsterdam, Paris and Rome. Coupled with an undertaking to defray all reasonable expenses, but insisting on second-class travel – he’ll know just what touches to put in. Armed with that he can march into that hotel—”

  “The Witte Raaf.”

  “Right. And ask to see the proprietor. He’ll be able to question him about the arrangements he makes for school parties and might comment unfavourably on being told that there is no night-porter. With any luck he’ll spot Hendrik talking to the boys and ask who he is and what he thinks he’s up to. The more suspicious he is about Hendrik, the less suspicious Hendrik will be of him.”

  “Brilliant,” said Petrella and meant it.

  As soon as he got to his office on the following morning he sent for Hoyland and was irritated to find that he was unavailable. Ambrose, appealed to, inspected the day book and said, “He seems to have gone out on a job suggested by you. He’s seeing that newsagent, Chipping, to ask if he’s preferring charges and to find out if there was anyone who had a down on him and might have tried to frame him.”

  “Yes,” said Petrella. He remembered making the suggestion. He had not thought it would come to very much.

  “I’ve got Inspector Trench here. He’d like a word with you.”

  “Send him up.”

  Inspector Trench was the youngest of Petrella’s sub-divisional heads. He was in charge of CD, otherwise the Isle of Dogs, which was not, in fact, an island, but a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by a loop of the Thames.

  He said, “I’m afraid it’s another boat theft, sir.”

  “Yes, I saw your last report. How many does that make?”

  “Fifteen from my manor alone in the past year. This was one of the worst. More open and more violent. The others were mostly sneak-thieves, lifting boats which had been left unguarded or badly secured. Not this one. It was a very well-equipped motor-cruiser, lying at Millwall Pier. The details are in my report.”

  “Left unattended?”

  “Far from it. The skipper and a crew of three men were on board, ready to take her across next morning to St Malo, where the owner was going to pick her up. There were at least ten men involved. Six of them scrambled onto the ship. They knocked the skipper out, after which the other three didn’t seem to have shown a lot of fight. They soon had them all off the boat and locked up in a shed opposite the pier. I don’t think the owner of the shed was involved. They simply wrenched off the padlock he’d put on the door and substituted their own.”

  “You said ten men?”

  “Yes. The other four took no part in the actual theft. But they held the ring. Two men happened to come past and seemed to be interested in what was going on. They were told to bugger off.”

  “And buggered off?”

  “Rapidly. But one of them did stop at the first phone box they came to and reported the theft.”

  “Five out of ten for public spirit,” said Petrella. “Could he give any description of the four men?”

  “Yes. But not a very useful one. They were all wearing animal masks.”

  “What animals?”

  “A bull, a goat, a pig and a dog.”

  “Did that suggest anything to you?”

  “Certainly. It suggested two possibilities. Either they were the Farm Boys or – which seemed more likely – people pretending to be them.”

  “Not easy. Better check them anyway. No doubt they’ll have carefully interlocking alibis. But see if you can shake them down.”

  “Do what I can,” said Trench. “It seems to me those lads are getting too big for their boots.”

  After he had gone Petrella sat for a few minutes thinking. Trench had put his finger on the point that hurt. It wasn’t the theft itself. Thieving had become a fact of life to be dealt with as expeditiously as possible, but with a strong probability that neither the stealers nor the stolen goods would be identified and that the only sufferers would be the insurance company. No. What stung was the openness and violence of the operation. It argued a contempt for the police which was insulting and dangerous.

  He was thinking about this when his internal telephone rang. Ambrose said, “I’ve got a call here from Seymour Street. Chief Superintendent Spice.”

  Seymour Street was the headquarters station of DM, a sub-division which ran up from Oxford Street to the Marylebone Road. Petrella knew Spice by name, but had never met him.

  He said, “Sorry to trouble you. I expect you’ve got a heap of things on your plate. It’s just that a newspaper man’s gone missing and his people are getting worried.”

  “Is it Poston-Pirrie you’re talking about?”

  “That’s right. I was told that he was doing some investigation down in your area and wondered if he had holed up there.”

  “How long’s he been missing?”

  “Since Saturday. To start with it was assumed that he’d gone off for the weekend. Then he failed to turn up at a meeting which had been fixed for Monday morning at the Sentinel. The paper had got hold of some people he particularly wanted to meet and he’d definitely promised to be there. So they started ringing round.”

  Petrella thought back. He said, “It must have been a week or more since I last saw him. He didn’t make any mention of coming to live down here.”

  “I don’t suppose he would. He had a very comfortable pad in New Cavendish Street.”

  “Are you putting Missing Persons on to it?”

  “A bit early for that. But I’d be obliged if you could keep your eyes open.”

  Petrella promised to keep his eyes open. And his ears. If Poston-Pirrie was lurking anywhere in the neighbourhood he reckoned he’d hear about it soon enough.

  At that point Hoyland arrived. He said, “I think I’ve got to the bottom of that sheet of photographs. Mr Jackson got the truth out of his son – in the end. The story that he’d found it in his comic was something the kid had made up. It wasn’t true. The page of photographs was being handed round at his school. On a strictly commercial basis. You paid a pound and could keep it for a week.”

  “I guessed from its condition it was something like that. Did he tell his father who he got it from?”

  “No. He wouldn’t do that. But he said it must have been through a dozen pairs of hands before it reached him.”

  Petrella thought about this. Then he said, “I don’t think we can trace it back. None of the boys will want to talk. But we might be able to short-circuit it. If thi
s thing”—he held the crumpled sheet of paper by its corner, as though closer contact would dirty his hands—“has been in circulation for twelve weeks, we could find out from the school whether a party of their boys has been on one of these foreign tours within, say, the last six months. If they have, we could get the names of the boys who went and might be able to shake one of them down. I’ll put Wilmot on to it.” Noting the disappointment in Hoyland’s face he said, “I’d have given you the job, but I’ve got something more important for you. Do you speak Dutch?”

  “Enough to make myself understood. Not enough to pass as a Dutchman.”

  “You’re not going to pass as a Dutchman. You’re going to be an inspector from the East London Education Department. Here’s what I want you to do.”

  He talked for ten minutes and Hoyland listened. When he got out a pencil and started to make notes Petrella stopped him. “Better not put anything on paper. What you must remember are these two telephone numbers. The first is Wilfred Wetherall’s office number. If you’ve got any urgent information to pass to us, contact him, from a public call box, at any time in normal business hours. The second number is Police Commissioner Spaan, of the Amsterdam force. Commissioner in their set-up is equivalent to Commander in ours, so only use it if you need help badly. I hope you won’t have to, because this is strictly on an unofficial level.”

  “Understood,” said Hoyland. He sounded cheerful. The only thing he was worried about was that he might forget those two telephone numbers. As soon as he was out of the room he would write them down and learn them properly.

  “If you can’t strike a line in seven days, come home. That gives you a week to produce some return for the public money that’s being spent on you.”

  Hadn’t someone said that to him once? A long time ago.

  Chapter Six

  When his plane touched down at Schiphol Airport, Detective Peregrine Hoyland had no settled plan of campaign, which was just as well since the situation was fluid.

  An early visit to the Witte Raaf was called for and he had considered the advisability of actually putting up at this hotel, but had rejected it. By staying there he might pick up further useful information, but, when it came to the crunch, it would limit his freedom of movement.

  Studying a map of Amsterdam he had seen that there were three parallel streets. The Orteliuskade, which fronted Rembrandt Park and called itself a quay, though the only water near it was the ornamental lake in the park. Behind that ran Ortelius Straat, with the Witte Raaf about two-thirds of the way along it. Behind that again was Spilbergen Straat, in which his guide-book had mentioned a number of hotels classified as ‘medium range’. The Reizigerhof seemed a suitable one and it was to this that he directed his taxi.

  Mid-August was not, it seemed, high season in Amsterdam and he was quickly fixed up with a small, clean bedroom on the second floor overlooking the street. He dumped his bag, washed away some of the grime of his journey and descended into the blazing sunshine. It was hotter than in London. He had dressed, in the manner which he thought would be appropriate to an inspector in the Department of Education, in a dark suit, white shirt and old school tie, with a handkerchief peeping out of his breast pocket. He was beginning to regret this. Most of the men he passed wore open-necked shirts and light linen trousers; in one or two cases even Bermuda shorts. His respectable suit felt hot and heavy.

  Turning down one of the narrow passages which separated the two main streets he found himself almost directly in front of the Witte Raaf. It seemed a popular place. A party of American tourists, armed with cameras and guide-books, was coming out as he went in and most of the tables in the reception area were occupied. He could see no sign of any schoolboys.

  A man with a flat brown face and a fringe of white beard was standing behind the counter talking to the receptionist. Hoyland guessed that this would be the proprietor and marched up to him.

  “Herr Sturmann?”

  “I am indeed he.”

  “Might I have a word with you? In private.” He produced Mr Wetherall’s letter. The proprietor read it quickly, smiled and said, “Certainly. Follow me, please.” He led the way through a door behind the counter, across an outer office where a middle-aged lady with a moustache was pounding a typewriter, and into his inner sanctum.

  “Please to sit, Mr Hoyland. A cigar? A drink? No. Then what can I do for you?”

  Though accented, his English was quick and fluent. Not a fool, Hoyland guessed. He moved straight over to the attack.

  “We received a number of complaints from the organisers of a recent party of boys who were accommodated here. The East London schools’ party.”

  Sturmann was turning the pages of a ledger. He said, “Yes. I remember that the ladies in charge did speak to me. A little rash, I thought, to put high-spirited boys in charge of females – however, that was the business of the organisers.”

  “The business of the organisers was to see that the boys came to no harm.”

  “Harm? Surely you are exaggerating. There was an incident when three or four of them stayed out late on the last day of their visit—”

  “Four o’clock in the morning could certainly be described as late, for boys of that age.”

  “Was it as late as that? The ladies did not make the point clear to me.”

  “Certainly it was four o’clock in the morning. And the boys were drunk.”

  “Really, Mr Hoyland. You shock me. Are you sure of your facts?”

  “We regard the women as totally reliable. But there was more to it than that.”

  Up to this point Sturmann had been leaning back easily in his chair, his right hand fiddling with the glass paperweight on the desk, his left hand coming up to scratch the back of his sun-reddened neck. Now all movement ceased. He said, softly, “Yes?”

  “There is a man who, I am told, comes here so frequently that he seems to make it his second home. I have only been told his first name, which is Hendrik. You know the man I mean?”

  “It is a common name in Holland.”

  If he had not noticed Sturmann’s sudden immobility, Hoyland might have been deceived. But he was sure, now, that he was on to something. He repeated, in the flat tones of someone who is speaking a self-evident truth, “You know the man, I believe.”

  “It might be Hendrik Winkel you speak of. He is a regular customer at the bar here. Sometimes he dines. Has some complaint been made of him?”

  “He is said to make himself very friendly with the boys. Nothing wrong with that, I agree. Boys are friendly creatures. But in two cases his conduct was certainly open to criticism. On one occasion he offered to take the boys round the red-light district and on another to a strip-tease performance.”

  “When you put it like that,” said Sturmann, “it sounds terrible.” Hoyland noted that he was easy again. “But in fact neither invitation was as unreasonable as it sounds. The red-light district, the Walletjes, is a famous Amsterdam sight. Groups of tourists visit it regularly, treating it as a sight, you understand, an exhibition. In such visits there is only curiosity, no thought of immorality. The strip-tease, so-called, would be one of several turns at the Concert Gebouw. What you might call a smoking concert. The boys would not understand the jokes and exchanges, but would certainly enjoy the spectacle.”

  “I can’t agree that either entertainment is suitable for twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys. We will leave that for the moment as a matter of opinion. But now tell me this. To what entertainment was he driving them on their last night here?”

  Stillness again. A dangerous stillness, with anger behind it.

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “I am sure you understand. I am referring to the occasion on which he took a party of boys out by car and brought them back at four in the morning.”

  “That is a serious accusation, Mr Hoyland. Will you tell me upon what it is based?”

  “The information came from the boys themselves.”

  “Indeed? Then clearly it cal
ls for investigation. I will question Hendrik Winkel myself and ascertain whether he has some explanation.”

  “I hope it will be a satisfactory one.”

  “I hope so, too. For the good reputation of my hotel. Leave the matter with me. Tell me, what are your plans? How long do you stay here?”

  “That depends on how quickly I can carry out my programme. You will understand that I have to speak to the owners of other hotels, to find out what terms they can offer. Half a dozen names have been given me.”

  “And if the terms they offer are not so good as ours, you will not, I trust, be prejudiced by the matter we have been discussing. I am sure that the explanation will demonstrate, as we say, van een mug een olifant maken! Making an elephant out of a fly.”

  The proprietor was smiling now. Hoyland thought that it made his pear-shaped face even less attractive. He said, “Today is Tuesday. I should be finished with my investigation by Thursday. On Friday morning I go on to Paris. And, yes, if your terms are the best, and Mr Winkel can explain his curious conduct, I will not allow it to prejudice me.”

  “Excellent. Let us not part on bad terms. I invite you to sample our luncheon. That will, I am sure, enable you at least to report favourably on our catering. Allow me to conduct you.”

  The dining-room was crowded.

  Apart from three tables, which had been pushed together and looked as though they were waiting for a party, the only one left was in the window embrasures looking out over the Rembrandt Park. Since the proprietor swept Hoyland straight up to it, he assumed that it was one he kept for his special guests.

  The waiter was taking Hoyland’s order when a quiet voice from behind him said, “Would you think it an intrusion if I shared your table?”

  “Of course not.” Hoyland said it the more readily since the newcomer was not only English but, as evidenced by his voice and his clothing, was clearly a gentleman.

  “I wouldn’t have butted in, but this seemed to be the only place left. I understand that the tables in the middle are held for a party of schoolboys.”

  He turned his attention to the waiter and gave him his own order in reasonably fluent Dutch.