CONFLICT DIAMONDS: THE START OF THE BEGINNING

by Verner Jones

  “Aren’t you forgetting something, Stipe? He’s going to be expecting Henrick. You may have fooled him over the phone but a personal appearance is going to convince him that you are not the genuine article.”

  “Listen. This contact, if he is the contact, is one of Henrick’s less than honest dealers. If we can convince him of our association with Henrick there is no reason why he shouldn’t deal with us. Henrick surely would have told him something of our affair in London. We’ll be able to give him collaborating information that should convince him we’re genuine. Our problem now is to find out where Antonne and Schuller’s are located.”

  “Antone and Schuller. I read that name in Henrick’s diary.” Marta fumbled through a draw and withdrew a bound leather diary and thumbed through to the last entries. “Here it is Antone and Schuller… investigations! They’re private investigators, Stipe.” Marta looked up, baffled. “Something’s not right, Stipe. Why would Henrick be contacting a private detective and think it so important that he needed to be available to them even while in hospital?”

  “Shit knows, because I don’t. But we will soon find out. Pass me that telephone directory.” Marta handed the book over to him and Stipe located the address of the detective agency and scribbled the address on a note pad. “Let’s go and give them a visit. We've nothing to loose.”

  A side street off of the Warmoesstraat housed door number twenty-four and a tarnished placard depicting its occupants. Antone and Schuller were on the ground floor with apparently nobody renting any of the two floors above them, if the vacant signage was to be believed. They entered the outer vestibule that housed a lift and staircase to the higher floors. Blistered paint below the cornice revealed a damp stain where the water had penetrated the external stonework and spread like a ripple across the wall. The other walls weren’t fairing much better either. Antone and Schuller's door occupied the end of the hall. A half glazed door with the company name etched into the mottled glass. Stipe didn’t knock. They quietly entered looking to gain an advantage. The enclosed reception area was vacant. The desk in the corner, void of any office implements, suggested a secretary long dismissed. Two doors, identical as the entrance door had the names of Maurice Antone and David Schuller engraved on them. Which one to choose thought Stipe? Remembering the telephone conversation and the accented voice Stipe became convinced that Maurice Antone would be their man. As if answering Marta’s thoughts Stipe said.

  “It’s this door we want. Confidence is the key. Remember he can only throw us out of here.” He took her hand, knocked the door, and didn’t wait to be welcomed in. Inside a young man of about twenty-eight with thick sweptback black hair and white polo necked shirt sat busily writing on a sheet of A4. He looked up surprised at the sudden intrusion.

  “ Hello, Maurice Antone I believe?”

  “Yes,” replied the man looking for any recognising features to identify the two strangers standing before him, who it seemed, knew him. Stipe and Marta occupied the two vacant seats in front of his desk and made themselves comfortable before continuing.

  “We’re here on behalf of Henrick van der Meen.” A softening of his features informed Stipe that they had the right man.

  “Are you? I’m expecting him in my office this afternoon. Did you arrange with him to be here?”

  “ Not exactly. You see Henrick and I were very close and in recent times we shared everything. But now we have a problem. Henrick is dead you see. Died yesterday and we need to know what information you were going to pass on to him.”

  “But I only spoke to him less than an hour ago.”

  “Hah, that was me. Henrick gave me your number when I last saw him in the hospital just after you had called. He was about to fill me in on the details of your conversation when he had a second heart attack and, well, died from it, and we are all a bit up in the air as of how to proceed with a certain matter, and hope that you are going to provide us with the missing link.” Antone frowned and dropped his pen central on the desk and leaned back in his chair. He paused trying to get the measure of the voice in front of him and the situation that was being presented.

  “The investigation I had conducted for Mr van der Meen was of a very private nature. I’m sure that he would have wished to keep it so, and besides, I don’t see how it could be off any possible interest to you.” Stipe leaned forward in his chair.

  “Let’s cut to the chase here my friend and let us be the judge of whether the subject matter is of any interest or not. We’ll settle Henrick’s bill for him, he would have wanted us to do that, and we will give you a bonus of two thousand dollars in our appreciation for your help.” Stipe rested back into the chair his gaze fixed on Antone. Antone reciprocated the action and after a brief period pushed himself forward and leant on his desk.

  “You must understand, sir, that although Henrick is dead he has a wife. If she was ever to learn of this information it would cause a great deal of upset.”

  “Anton, whatever you tell us will never be divulged to anyone outside of this room. I, we swear that.”

  “So be it then.” Antone took a file from the edge of his desk, opened it and skimmed a leaf of paper in front of Stipe. “Henrick was trying to find a certain person whom he believed had fled to Paris. Our investigations proved to be successful. Her address and all the information are typed up in front of you. I believe she was his mistress. Her name is Celine Dupont.

  25

  Zoran lifted his head. Stabbing pains ricochet of the inside of his skull and his eyes were seeing anything but reality. Water was streaming past him, through his clothing, robbing is body heat, making him chilled. He rolled on to his back and raised his hand to his head and heard himself murmur. He forced his thoughts into some kind of order trying to remember why he was where he was, looking up at a steal trussed roof covered in glass sheeting and his head killing him. His vision cleared and his senses found the path that lead to normality and memories revealed to him once again that the shovel wielding Moslem bitch, and Popovic’s collaborator had thwarted him. As if to confirm his recollection of events he turned and saw Toni a few metres away from him. The corpse gave him a twisted sense of satisfaction and the impetus to react to the situation. His surroundings reverted to full focus and with an unsteady action he stumbled to his feet.

  The fire hose danced in front of him lashing him with its watery tentacle. He staggered towards it and kicked it angrily out of his way. Motionless on the ground laid one of the two doormen he had recruited from a local nightclub to work with him for a few days. A fat lot of use they had turned out to be. He checked him over. He was still breathing. Zoran located the knife that he had killed Toni with and cleaned his prints off. He placed the handle in the grip of the man on the floor then tossed it to the side. At least when the police found this mess they would have something to go on. Zoran made his way to the flour silo. His head was pounding but he began to feel in control again. He looked inside the silo and saw the twisted body and lifeless stare of his second accomplice wedged in the exit chute.

  “Useless piece of shite,” muttered Zoran and turned away from the corpse. Well at least now he wouldn’t have to pay all the money he had promised them.

  He looked around the room thinking if there was anything else that could link him to the place. Feeling safe that there was nothing to connect him to the bakery warehouse and with the last man only knowing him as Ivan Stuttman. He felt safe that once out the door his connection to the scene would end there. A hot bath, medication to his head, and a nights rest would see him ready to plan his next move, only this time there would be no mistakes, no slipping through his fingers. The bitch girl and her ponce friend, and that globe, were all going to be his, but only the globe would have a future.

  The funeral of Henrick van der Meen was a quiet affair, which surprised Stipe and Marta knowing that a man in his standing would have had numerous friends and associates who would surely have wanted to pay their last respects. Maybe there were more enemies than friends,
thought Stipe. They stood nearby, not so close, but near enough to witness the proceedings. The sky was bleak and it was not the warmest of days for the time of year. They watched as four black suited men lowered Henrick’s coffin into its final resting place. Stipe noticed Ton, Henrick’s son, standing next to his mother, and wished he could have a few friendly words with him and reminisce, but decided discretion was the better course to take. The service finished and the overcast sky brightened as if to say a chapter was closing in a book and a new one was beginning. The mourners turned to leave and Stipe and Marta did likewise taking a different route than the others.

  “Well at least we’ve paid our last respects to the man. I quite liked him in a funny sort of way.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought you’d say that when I think back to the time you held him at gun point.”

  “Don’t make me feel bad now, Stipe. You know that was just scare tactics.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up. It wasn’t good timing on my part was it?”

  “No. Let’s go and get a coffee.” Marta linked arms and quickened the pace towards a coffee shop that was beckoning to her from across the road. Once inside and seated and with steaming coffee in front of them, Marta raised the subject of Henrick again.

  “It’s funny when I think of Henrick trying to find Celine after what she did to all of us and especially Henrick.”

  “Yea, he was besotted with her. I think he was trying to find her to patch things up with her, not for any vengeful purpose. Once he had the money from the sale of the statue maybe he'd even persuade her to go away with him, who knows?”

  “I wonder what Celine did with the Mostel Star? She must have been able to dispose of it somehow.”

  “You know you’re right. She must have known that she could find a buyer for the stones before she took it and if she has sold the Mostel Star then maybe she has enough contacts to do a deal with us for the globe, especially if we cut her in on the action.”

  “What, deal with Celine. She robbed us once.”

  “Marta, it’s our only hope. We don’t know anyone here and Celine could be our way out.” A short silence ensued as Stipe waited for Marta to give her approval. He saw her features soften and knew that they would be going to Paris very shortly.

  “We’ll drink this and check out the train times. The sooner we leave the better.”

  “I haven’t said that we should go yet.”

  “Ahh..., but you will won’t you?” Marta paused before answering.

  “I suppose so.” Stipe grinned at Marta’s predictability.

  At the Amsterdam Central station the information clerk informed them that trains to the Paris Nord station ran approximately every two hours. Stipe bought two tickets and ushered Marta to the waiting room. It was forty minutes before the next train was due and Stipe felt safer in the confines of the platform bistro. The thought that Zoran could be lurking around bothered him. Stipe seated himself at one of the tables while Marta fetched a couple of cokes. Their unscheduled meeting with Celine was only hour’s away if the address on the paper that Anton had given them was correct. In the short time that had passed since deciding to go to Paris, Stipe hadn’t formulated a tactic to secure Celine’s help. His thoughts skated around the possibilities. Maybe she was financially secure enough as to not want to help them. They would need a persuasive element if that were the case. Marta still had the handgun if all else failed and he had to admit to himself, that despite what Marta had said earlier, the weapon looked comfortable in her hands. If on the other hand for some reason she was strapped for cash, then for sure the demure smile and welcoming arms would resurrect themselves as if another Henrick had knocked on her door with tickets to the Moulin Rouge. Marta returned with the drinks breaking his line of thought.

  “Don’t look worried, Stipe. You look like your one-day away from the hangman’s noose. It makes me feel unsettled. You are sure about this trip to Paris aren’t you, Stipe?”

  “Of course I am. I was just working out the game plan that’s all.”

  “Well within twenty minutes or so, our game plan, whatever it is, will be in its first leg. The train will soon be arriving, so I hope you’ll have it all worked out by then, my darling.” Marta gave him a playful pinch on the cheek.

  “I will don’t worry.”

  Zoran woke the next day with a lump that felt the size of a boxer’s glove and had the same ringing effect in his ear as if he had just been hit with one. He shook his head to try and clear the humming. It only made his temple pound. He showered and dressed and packed his things, eager to leave the hotel and get back on the trail of Stipe and Marta. He took his wallet out of the inside of his jacket and located the address that the taxi driver from the Bingham Hotel had given him and re-read the contents. ‘The Salisbury Arms’. That’s where they were staying, but he guessed that they would have moved on for sure, but it still needed to be checked out.

  Once there, a word with the landlord confirmed what he knew to be the case. They had fled back to Amsterdam and the only person that could help them, that bastard Henrick. Zoran did likewise and caught the next available plane back to Amsterdam, glad that he was distancing himself from the events of yesterday. He cleared customs and hailed a cab to take him to his hotel. A rush of dizziness made him reach for a street pole to steady himself. The ringing in his head intensified. ‘You’d better take it easy Zoran slow down a bit. That was a hefty blow that bitch gave you.’ He said to himself. The cab driver looked up at him.

  “Are you getting in friend?” Zoran took a couple of deep breaths and the dizziness started to clear.

  “Yes. Take me to the Victoria Hotel.” Zoran eased himself into the taxi thankful for the comfort of the chair. After checking into his room, Zoran called the Najinsky Hospital and was put through to the staff nurse on Henrick’s ward.

  “Hello. I am enquiring about Henrick van der Meen. Is he still a patient in the hospital as I would like to come and visit him?”

  “Are you a relative?”

  “No, but I’m a very close friend.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, Mr van der Meen passed away last week.” There was a silent pause as Zoran, feeling cheated by Henrick’s death, searched for the next question. “I think also that Mr van der Meen as been buried, sir. I’m sorry.” Before Zoran could reply the nurse disconnected. Zoran replaced the handset dropping it the last six inches into the cradle and angrily turned from the phone as if it was the phones fault that events weren’t going as intended. A shower and a change of clothes gave him time to think. He lit a cigarette, smoked half of it, grabbed his jacket off the bed and left for Celine’s apartment.

  Once there he cased the outside of the building and located the French doors of the balcony. From his position he could see no lights or activity inside. He took the lift to the corresponding floor, approached the apartment door and listened with his ear up to the panelling. It was as quiet as a falling snowflake. He turned to leave and the occupant from the apartment opposite entered the lobby. Zoran approached the woman.

  “Hi there. I was trying to find some friends of mine, a young couple, this was their last address, but no one is answering the door. Have you seen anyone here in the last week as I’m wondering if they still live here?”

  “Yes, they were here a few days ago. I shared the lift with them once, but I haven’t seen them in the last day or so but I work nights so our paths aren’t likely to cross much. Try again later.” Zoran thanked the woman and she returned to her apartment. Well at least he knew now they had returned. Zoran plucked a hair from his head and pushed it in the bottom of the apartment door trapping the hair in place; barely visible, but enough so that when he returned he could instantly see if the door had been opened if the hair was dislodged. He left and decided to check at Henrick’s store, stopping at a fast-print business-card booth along the way. He located a pay phone and called the store, pretending to be Henrick’s accountant he spoke to the manager, convincing him that w
ith a degree of urgency it was required of him to come to the store and check some financial matters in Henrick’s personal accounts. The visit by Stipe and Marta had raised doubts in the manager about Henrick’s dealings. This new request strengthened his belief and he felt compelled to help his former employee in any way he could. An appointment was made for that afternoon for Zoran to visit the office. On arrival, Zoran presented the fake business card and was ushered into Henrick’s office and placed his newly acquired attaché case on the desk and requested he be left undisturbed for one hour. The manager left convinced that he was helping matters in the Van der Meen Empire.

  Zoran went to work quickly searching the desk and the filing cabinets, receiving only frustration for his efforts. After twenty minutes he had found nothing and slumped back in the chair behind the desk, dejected. He sat wondering what to do when his gaze fell on a notepad on the desk with a scribbled indentation on the top leaf. He took a pencil and rubbed the flat edge of the lead over the surface. The name Anton and Schuller and an address appeared. Zoran studied the paper trying to make a connection and then decided that they would be his next port of call.

  On leaving the Paris Nord, Stipe and Marta took a cab through the Avenue Nelsine skirting through the bristling streets that drained the traffic from the Ave’ Des Champs Elysee. Celine’s apartment was in a tree-lined parked area on the Square Gabriel Pierre’. A nude statue of a young girl graced the benches and surrounding area. Stipe thought how that would appeal to Celines nature and probably influenced her choice of neighbourhood. A palisaded row of period buildings that were not in the low-income bracket of any potential leaser was where Celines apartment was situated. Stipe instructed the driver to stop short of the building. He paid the driver and they left the cab. They stood on the side of the pavement. Stipe familiarised himself with the surroundings. The first numbered address he saw was 106. Celine’s apartment was 82. He looked in the direction in which they had to walk checking to see if by any slight chance Celine’s BMW was parked nearby. He couldn’t locate it, noticing only a bevy of expensive cars. Marta was becoming impatient standing on the sidewalk looking like a couple of misplaced ornaments. She squeezed his hand.