Puppet on a Chain (6 page)

The hallway was deserted. I listened intently, but could hear nothing, no sound of approaching footfalls. I crossed to the lift, pressed the button, waited for the lift to appear, opened the door a crack, inserted a matchbox between jamb and door so that the latter couldn't close and complete the electrical circuit then hurried back to my suite. I dragged the waiter across to the lift, opened the door, dumped him without ceremony on the lift floor, withdrew the matchbox and let the door swing to. The lift remained where it was: obviously, no one was pressing the button of that particular lift at that particular moment.

I locked the outside door to my suite with the skeleton and made my way back to the fire-escape, by now an old and trusted friend. I reached street level unobserved and made my way round to the main entrance. The ancient at the barrel-organ was playing Verdi now and Verdi was losing by a mile. The operator had his back to me as I dropped a guilder into his tin can. He turned to thank me, his lips parted in a toothless smile, then he saw who it was and his jaw momentarily dropped open. He was at the very bottom of the heap and no one had bothered to inform him that Sherman was abroad. I gave him a kindly smile and passed into the foyer.

There were a couple of uniformed staff behind the desk, together with the manager, whose back was at the moment towards me. I said loudly: 'Six-one-six, please.'

The manager turned round sharply, his eyebrows raised high but not high enough. Then he gave me his warmhearted crocodile smile.

'Mr Sherman. I didn't know you were out.'

'Oh yes, indeed. Pre-dinner constitutional. Old English custom, you know.'

'Of course, of course.' He smiled at me archly as if there was something vaguely reprehensible about this old English custom, then allowed a slightly puzzled look to replace the smile. He was as phoney as they come. 'I don't remember seeing you go out.'

'Well, now,' I said reasonably, 'you can't be expected to attend to all of your guests all of the time, can you?' I gave him his own phoney smile back again, took the key and walked towards the bank of lifts. I was less than half-way there when I brought up short as a piercing scream cut through the foyer and brought instant silence, which lasted only long enough for the woman who had screamed to draw a deep breath and start in again. The source of this racket was a middle-aged, flamboyantly dressed female, a caricature of the American tourist abroad, who was standing in front of a lift, her mouth opened in a rounded 'O', her eyes like saucers. Beside her a portly character in a seer-sucker suit was trying to calm her, but he didn't look any too happy himself and gave the impression that he wouldn't have minded doing a little screaming himself.

The assistant manager rushed past me and I followed more leisurely. By the time I reached the lift the assistant manager was on his knees, bent over the sprawled-out form of the dead waiter.

'My goodness,' I said. 'Is he ill, do you think?'

'Ill? Ill?' The assistant manager glared at me. 'Look at the way his neck is. The man's dead.'

'Good God, I do believe you're right.' I stooped and peered more closely at the waiter. 'Haven't I seen this man somewhere before?'

'He was your floor-waiter,' the assistant manager said, which is not an easy remark to make with your teeth clamped together.

'I thought he looked familiar. In the midst of life -- ' I shook my head sadly. 'Where's the restaurant?'

'Where's the -- where's the -- '

'Never mind,' I said soothingly, 'I can see you're upset. I'll find it myself.'

The restaurant of the Hotel Rembrandt may not be, as the owners claim, the best in Holland, but I wouldn't care to take them to court on a charge of misrepresentation. From the caviare to the fresh out-of-season strawberries -- I wondered idly whether to charge this in the expense account as entertainment or bribes -- the food was superb. I thought briefly, but not guiltily, about Maggie and Belinda, but such things had to be. The red plush sofa on which I was sitting was the ultimate in dining comfort, so I leaned back in it, lifted my brandy glass and said, 'Amsterdam!'

'Amsterdam!' said Colonel Van de Graaf. The Colonel, deputy head of the city's police, had joined me, without invitation, only five minutes previously. He was sitting in a large chair which seemed too small for him. A very broad man of only medium height, he had iron-grey hair, a deeply-trenched, tanned face, the unmistakable cast of authority and an air about him of almost dismaying competence. He went on dryly: 'I'm glad to see you enjoying yourself, Major Sherman, after such an, eventful day.'

'Gather ye rosebuds while you may, Colonel -- life is all too short. What events?'

'We have been unable to discover very much about this man, James Duclos, who was shot and killed at the airport today.' A patient man and not one to be easily drawn, was Colonel de Graaf. 'We know only that he arrived from England three weeks ago, that he checked into the Hotel Schiller for one night and then disappeared. He seems, Major Sherman, to have been meeting your plane. Was this, one asks, just coincidence?'

'He was meeting me.' De Graaf was bound to find out sooner or later. 'One of my men. I think he must have got hold of a forged police pass from somewhere -- to get past immigration, I mean.'

'You surprise me.' He sighed heavily and didn't seem in the least surprised. 'My friend, it makes it very difficult for us if we don't know those things. I should have been told about Duclos. As we have instructions from Interpol in Paris to give you every possible assistance, don't you think it would be better if we can work together? We can help you -- you can help us.' He sipped some brandy. His grey eyes were verv direct. 'One would assume that this man of yours had information -- and now we have lost it.'

'Perhaps. Well, let's start by you helping me. Can you see if you have a Miss Astrid Lemay on your files? Works in a nightclub but she doesn't sound Dutch and she doesn't look Dutch so you may have something on her.'

The girl you knocked down at the airport? How do you know she works in a nightclub.'

'She told me,' I said unblushingly.

He frowned. 'The airport officials made no mention of any such remark to me.'

The airport officials are a bunch of old women.'

'Ah!' It could have meant anything. 'This information I can obtain. Nothing more?'

'Nothing more.'

'One other little event we have not referred to.'

Tell me.'

'The sixth-floor waiter- -- an unsavoury fellow about whom we know a little -- was not one of your men?'

'Colonel!'

'I didn't for a moment think he was. Did you know that he died of a broken neck?'

'He must have had a very heavy fall,' I said sympathetically.

De Graaf drained his brandy and stood up.

'We are not acquainted with you. Major Sherman, but you have been too long in Interpol and gained too much of a European reputation for us not to be acquainted with your methods. May I remind you that what goes in Istanbul and Marseilles and Palermo -- to name but a few places -- does not go in Amsterdam?'

'My word,' I said. 'You are well informed.'

'Here, in Amsterdam, we are all subject to the law.' He might not have heard me. 'Myself included. You are no exception.'

'Nor would I expect to be,' I said virtuously. 'Well then, co-operation. The purpose of my visit. When can I talk to you?'

'My office, ten o'clock.' He looked around the restaurant without enthusiasm. 'Here is hardly the time and place.'

I raised an eyebrow.

'The Hotel Rembrandt,' said de Graaf heavily, 'is a listening-post of international renown.'

'You astonish me,' I said.

De Graaf left. I wondered why the hell he thought I'd chosen to stay in the Hotel Rembrandt.

Colonel de Graaf's office wasn't in the least like the Hotel Rembrandt. It was a large enough room, but bleak and bare and functional, furnished mainly with steel-grey filing cabinets, a steel-grey table and steel-grey seats which were as hard as steel. But at least the decor had the effect of making you concentrate on the matter on hand: there was nothing to distract the mind or eye. De Graaf and I, after ten minutes preliminary discussion, were concentrating, although I think it came more easily to de Graaf than it did to me. I had lain awake to a late hour the previous night and am never at my. best at ten a.m. on a cold and blustery morning.

'All drugs,' de Graaf agreed. 'Of course we're concerned with all drugs -- opium, cannabis, amphetamine, LSD, STP, cocaine, amyl acetate -- you name it, Major Sherman, and we're concerned in it. They all destroy or lead on to destruction. But in this instance we are confining ourselves to the really evil one -- heroin. Agreed?'

'Agreed.' The deep incisive voice came from the doorway. I turned round and looked at the man who stood there, a tall man in a well-cut dark business suit, cool penetrating grey eyes, a pleasant face that could stop being pleasant very quickly, very professional-looking. There was no mistaking his profession. Here was a cop and not one to be taken lightly either.

He closed the door and walked across to me with the light springy step of a man much younger than one in his middle forties, which he was at least. He put out his hand and said: 'Van Gelder. I've heard a lot about you, Major Sherman.'

I thought this one over, briefly but carefully. decided to refrain from comment. I smiled and shook his hand.

'Inspector van Gelder,' de Graaf said. 'Head of our narcotics bureau. He will be working with you, Sherman. He will offer you the best co-operation possible.'

'I sincerely hope we can work well together.' Van Gelder smiled and sat down. 'Tell me, what progress your end? Do you think you can break the supply ring in England?'

'I think we could. It's a highly organized distributive pipeline, very highly integrated with almost no cut-offs -- and it's because of that that we have been able to identify dozens of their pushers and the half-dozen or so main distributors.'

'You could break the ring but you won't. You're leaving it strictly alone?'

'What else, Inspector? We break them up and the next distribution ring will be driven so far underground that we'll never find it. As it is, we can pick them up when and if we want to. The thing we really want to find out is how the damned stuff gets in -- and who's supplying it.'

'And you think -- obviously, or you wouldn't be here -- that the supplies come from here? Or hereabouts?'

'Not hereabouts. Here. And I don't think. I know. Eighty per cent of those under surveillance -- and I refer to the distributors and their intermediaries -- have links with this country. To be precise, with Amsterdam -- nearly all of them. They have relatives here, or they have friends. They have business contacts here or personally conduct business here or they come here on holiday. We've spent five years on building up this dossier.'

De Graaf smiled. 'On this place called "here".'

'On Amsterdam, yes.'

Van Gelder asked: 'There are copies of this dossier?'

'One.'

'With you?'

'Yes.'

'On you?'

'In the only safe place.' I tapped my head.

'As safe a place as any,' de Graaf approved, then added thoughtfully: 'As long, of course, that you don't meet up with people who might be inclined to treat you the way you treat them.'

'I don't understand, Colonel.'

'I speak in riddles,' de Graaf said affably. 'Ah right, I agree. At the moment the finger points at the Netherlands. Not to put too fine a point on it, as you don't put too fine a point on it, at Amsterdam. We, too, know our unfortunate reputation. We wish it was untrue. But it isn't. We know the stuff comes in in bulk. We know it goes out again all broken up -- but from where or how we have no idea.'

'It's your bailiwick,' I said mildly.

'It's what?'

'It's your province. It's in Amsterdam. You run the law in Amsterdam.'

'Do you make many friends in the course of a year?' van Gelder enquired politely.

'I'm not in this business to make friends.'

'You're in this business to destroy people who destroy people,' de Graaf said pacifically. 'We know about you. We have a splendid dossier on you. Would you like to see it?'

'Ancient history bores me.'

'Predictably.' De Graaf sighed. 'Look, Sherman, the best police forces in the world can come up against a concrete wall. That's what we have done -- not that I claim we're the best. All we require is one lead -- one single solitary lead . . . Perhaps you have some idea, some plan?'

'I arrived only yesterday.' I fished inside the inside of my lower right trouser-leg and gave the Colonel the two scraps of paper I'd found in the dead floor-waiter's pockets. 'Those figures. Those numbers. They mean anything to you?'

De Graaf gave them a cursory glance, held them up before a bright desk-lamp, laid them down on the desk. 'No.'

'Can you find out? If they have any meaning?'

'I have a very able staff. By the way, where did you get these?'

'A man gave them to me.'

'You mean you got them from a man.'

'There's a difference?'

'There could be a very great difference,' De Graaf leaned forward, face and voice very earnest. 'Look, Major Sherman, we know about your technique of getting people off balance and keeping them there. We know about your propensity for stepping outside the law --'

'Colonel de Graaf!'

'A well-taken point. You're probably never inside it to start with. We know about this deliberate policy -- admittedly as effective as it is suicidal -- of endless provocation, waiting for something, for somebody to break. But please, Major Sherman, please do not try to provoke too many people in Amsterdam. We have too many canals.'

'I won't provoke anyone,' I said. 'I'll be very careful.'

'I'm sure you will.' De Graaf sighed. 'And now, I believe, van Gelder has a few things to show you.'

Van Gelder had. He drove me in his own black Opel from the police HQ in the Marnixstraat to the city mortuary and by the time I left there I was wishing he hadn't.

The city mortuary lacked the old-world charm, the romance and nostalgic beauty of old Amsterdam. It was like the city mortuary in any big town, cold -- very cold -- and clinical and inhuman and repelling. The central block had down its centre two rows of white slabs of what appeared to be marble and almost certainly wasn't, while the sides of the room were lined with very large metal doors. The principal attendant here, resplendent in an immaculately starched white coat, was a cheerful, rubicund, genial character who appeared to be in perpetual danger of breaking out into gales of laughter, a very odd characteristic indeed, one would have thought, to find in a mortuary attendant until one recalled that more than a handful of England's hangmen in the past were reckoned to be the most rollicking tavern companions one could ever hope to have.