Floodgate

  Van Effen picked up a bedside phone, told the switchboard it was police and urgent, gave them his office number and said to de Graaf: ‘I don’t suppose that anyone will still be at number thirty-eight. But we may find something there—if, that is, they didn’t see Detective Voight being fished out of the canal. If they did, it’ll be as clean as a whistle. Question of search warrant, sir?’

  ‘Damn the search warrant.’ De Graaf was obviously rather shaken that his old friend van Rees could be involved in illegal activities. ‘Effect an entry by any means.’

  Van Effen was through to his office almost immediately, asked for a certain Sergeant Oudshoorn, got him in turn just as quickly, gave him the address and instructions and listened for a brief period.

  ‘No, Sergeant. Take four men. One at the front door, one at the back…No warrant. The Colonel says so. Yes. Take the damned door off its hinges if you have to. Or shoot the lock away. Detain anyone you find inside. Don’t leave there. Radio report to station and await instructions.’ He hung up. ‘Sergeant Oudshoorn seems to relish the prospect.’

  They told Voight to call home, have dry clothes brought, go home and rest and said goodbye. In the passage-way de Graaf said: ‘It can’t be. Impossible. Man’s a pillar of society. Good heavens, I even put him up for my club.’

  ‘Could be a perfectly innocent explanation, sir. The state of Voight’s neck and his immersion in the canal seems to suggest otherwise. Remember, I suggested in Schiphol that perhaps he was a Jekyll by day and a Hyde by night. Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe he’s a daylight Hyde.’ As they approached the hospital entrance van Effen stopped abruptly. De Graaf stopped also and looked at him curiously.

  ‘One rarely sees an expression of concern on your face, Peter. Something amiss?’

  ‘I hope not, sir. Something’s been nagging away at the back of my mind but I haven’t had time to think about it. Not until now. This call you got while you were lunching—at least, when you were about to have lunch—did it come from the station?’

  ‘Of course. Sergeant Bresser.’

  ‘Where did he get his information from?’

  ‘The hospital I presume. Bresser said he’d tried to find first you, then Lieutenant Valken and failing to find either he’d contacted me. Does it matter?’

  ‘This matters. Young Dr Prins at the mortuary is neither experienced nor very bright. For all he knew or suspected to the contrary, Engel might have fallen off the top of the Haven-gebouw, or been the victim of a street or industrial accident. The mortuary does not call in senior police officers unless they know or suspect that the victim did not meet a natural end. So the chances are that the call did not come from the hospital. Bresser’s a stolid unimaginative man. Thinking is not his forte. Was it your idea to call me up at Julie’s and ask me to come along?’

  ‘You’re beginning to get me worried now, too, Peter, although I don’t know why. Your name had been mentioned in the call but whether it was Bresser’s suggestion you come along or mine I’m not clear. Damn these lunches.’

  ‘Moment, sir.’ Van Effen went to the nearest telephone and dialled a number. He let it ring for perhaps fifteen seconds then dialled again while de Graaf watched him at first in perplexity, then in apprehension, then with the sick dawning of understanding. He was at the front door and holding it open when van Effen replaced the phone and came running towards him.

  Van Effen didn’t even bother to knock on Julie’s door, which he unlocked with the key he’d fished out coming up in the lift. The living-room appeared to be in perfectly normal condition, which meant nothing. Julie’s bedroom was also as it should have been but her bathroom told a different story. Thyssen, the guard, was lying on the floor, perfectly conscious and in apparent danger of suffering an apoplectic stroke, whether from rage or an effort to free himself from the ropes that bound wrists and ankles it was difficult to say. Perhaps he had been having difficulty in breathing through his gag. They freed him and helped him to his feet for he was unable to stand: if the blued hands were anything to go by the circulation of his feet must have been almost completely blocked off too. Whoever had tied him had worked with a will.

  They helped him through to the living-room and into an armchair. Van Effen massaged circulation back into hand and feet—not a pleasant process if one were to judge by Thyssen’s repeated winces and screwing-shut of the eyes—while de Graaf brought him a glass of brandy. He had to hold it to the man’s lips as Thyssen had yet to recover the use of his hands.

  ‘Van der Hum,’ de Graaf said referring to the brandy. ‘A universal specific and, in the circumstances, despite regulations—’

  Van Effen smiled. It wasn’t the strained smile of a man deliberately repressing emotion: he seemed quite remarkably unaffected by the turn of events. ‘The man who makes the regulations can break the regulations. It wouldn’t come amiss, sir.’

  They had barely sipped from their glasses when Thyssen recovered enough strength to seize his, lift his trembling hand to his mouth, and drink half the contents in one gulp: he coughed, spluttered, then spoke for the first time.

  ‘God, I’m sorry, Lieutenant! Most damnably sorry! Your sister—and that other nice lady.’ He drained his glass. ‘I should be taken out and shot.’

  ‘I don’t think it will come to that, Jan,’ van Effen said mildly. ‘Whatever happened is no fault of yours. What did happen?’

  Thyssen was so overcome with anger, bitterness and self-reproach that his account was so disjointed and repetitive as to be at times incoherent. It appeared that he had been approached by a Dutch army major—who would ever have harboured suspicions about an Army major?—who had produced a pistol fitted with a most un-Army silencer, forced Thyssen to produce his key and open the door, pushed him inside, followed and advised the girls not to move. He had been followed into the room almost immediately by three furniture-removal men: at least, they were dressed in heavy leather aprons of the type much favoured by their profession: what was atypical about them was that they wore hoods and gloves. Beyond that Thyssen could tell them nothing: he had been taken into the bathroom and tied, gagged and left lying on the floor.

  Van Effen went into Annemarie’s bedroom—the one that had formerly been his—took one quick look around and returned.

  ‘There’s a pile of Annemarie’s clothes lying on the bed and a wardrobe missing. They were tied, gagged and carried out in it—to anyone watching an obvious case of legitimate furniture removing. They must have been keeping tabs on me, sir, about the time you made the call to me from the restaurant. They would have had a furniture van parked nearby and would have moved in as soon as they saw me departing. Very neat indeed. A most uncomfortable trip for the young ladies—but I suppose they must have been too terrified out of their wits to worry about discomfort. Ironic, isn’t it, sir, that both of them this morning were full of gloom and woe and foreboding—and prophecies of disaster. Feeling fey was what they called it. They were both convinced that something terrible was going to happen to me: unfortunately for them they picked the wrong subject for concern.’

  De Graaf, a second glass of Van der Hum in his hands, paced up and down. Even forty years in the police had left him without van Effen’s ability to mask his emotions: anger and worry fought for dominance in his face.

  ‘What are those devils up to? What did they want—and who did they want? Annemarie? Julie? Or both?’

  ‘Julie.’ Van Effen handed him the postcard he and Julie had looked at earlier in the afternoon. De Graaf took it, examined both card and envelope and said: ‘When did this arrive?’

  ‘Just after lunch. Julie was very upset but I just pooh-poohed it, laughed the matter off. Clever van Effen. Brilliant van Effen.’

  ‘So your friends have returned, the Annecys back in Amsterdam. Lost no time in making their presence known and got at you in the very best way possible. God, I’m sorry, Peter.’

  ‘Feel sorry for the girls. Especially for Annemarie. It was just her fiendishly bad luck to be here when they
came for Julie. It was that towering genius, van Effen, of course, who had insisted that she remain here for her own safety. The demands should be arriving quite soon. You will not have forgotten, sir, that the Annecys were—and doubtless still are—specialists in blackmail.’ De Graaf shook his head and remained silent. ‘It’s kind of you not to say so, sir, but you will also not have forgotten that they are specialists in torture, which was the real reason I hunted them down.’

  ‘We haven’t been very clever so far,’ de Graaf said. ‘Things are uncommonly confusing.’

  ‘Kind of you to say “we” sir. You mean me.’ Van Effen refilled Thyssen’s glass, did the same for his own and sank into an armchair.

  After perhaps two minutes, de Graaf looked at him and said: ‘Well, surely there’s something we should be doing? Shall we start by making enquiries among the flat neighbours, the people living opposite?’

  ‘To check on the modus operandi of the kidnappers? A waste of time, Colonel. We wouldn’t find out any more than we already know. We’re dealing with professionals. But even professionals can make mistakes.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any so far.’ The Colonel was gloomy.

  ‘Nor have I. I’m assuming that Julie was the target.’ Van Effen reached for the telephone. ‘With your permission, sir, I’ll find out. Vasco. Sergeant Westenbrink. He was the only one who knew where Annemarie lived. They—whoever “they” are—may have put a tail on him and found out by methods I don’t care to think about.’

  ‘You think it likely? Or possible?’

  Van Effen dialled a number. ‘Possible, yes. Likely, no. I don’t think there’s anyone in Amsterdam who could follow Vasco without his being aware of it: by the same token I don’t think that there is anyone in the City who could be followed by Vasco and be aware of it. Vasco? Peter here. Anyone been taking an interest in you since you left this morning?…Talked to nobody? Annemarie and my sister Julie have been taken away…Within the past hour and, no, we have no idea. Put on your best civilian suit and come round, will you?’ Van Effen hung up and said to de Graaf: ‘Julie it was. Nobody’s been banging Vasco with crowbars.’

  ‘And you’ve asked him to join you?’

  ‘Us, sir. He’s far too valuable a man to be lying low and doing nothing. And, with your permission, sir, I’d like to try to recruit George.’

  ‘Your La Caracha friend? You said yourself he wasn’t very good at merging into backgrounds.’

  ‘That’s for Vasco. George, on the mental side as you saw for yourself, is very acute and knows the criminal mind probably better than anyone I know: on the physical side he’s a splendid insurance policy. So, progress. A very little, but progress nonetheless. I think it’s now fairly safe to say that the Annecy brothers and the would-be blowers-up of the royal palace are working in cahoots, or how else would the Annecys know that Rudolph Engel, who had been following one of the palace gang’s intermediaries, had been done in and delivered to the morgue?’

  ‘The palace gang, as you call them, could have done the kidnapping. The Annecys could have told them.’

  ‘Two things, sir. What possible motive could Agnelli and his friends have in abducting Lieutenant van Effen’s sister? None. The Annecys have a very powerful motive. The second thing is that it doesn’t matter a damn whether the Annecys gave Agnelli this address or not: the point is that they sure as hell know each other.’

  ‘And how does this knowledge help us, Peter?’

  ‘At the moment, it doesn’t. And it may even actually put us at a disadvantage. They’re not clowns and may well have figured out that we have figured out and exercise extra precautions because of that. Precautions against what, I can’t imagine.’

  ‘Neither can I. We’re doing nothing. There’s nothing, as far as I can see, that we can do.’

  ‘One or two small things, perhaps. Alfred van Rees, to start with.’

  ‘What’s van Rees got to do with Agnelli and the Annecys?’

  ‘Nothing. As far as we know. But we would at least be doing something about something. I suggest two tails on van Rees. One to keep an eye on van Rees, the other to keep an eye on the first tail. Just consider how lucky Mas Voight is to be still alive. Then I suggest we investigate van Rees’s bank statements.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘This pillar of the Rijkswaterstaat may be giving the dyke-blowers information that they couldn’t get elsewhere. Selling, not giving. Could be, of course, that if he’s picking up some money that he shouldn’t, he might have it stashed away in another account under another name. But criminals—especially people who are not habitual criminals, and I assume van Rees is not—often overlook the obvious.’

  ‘Can’t be done. Illegal. Man hasn’t even been charged, far less convicted of anything.’

  ‘They’ve got Julie and Annemarie.’

  ‘So. What connection do they have with van Rees?’

  ‘None. Again, as far as we know. Although I was just thinking of one of the last things Julie said to me, that how extraordinarily odd it was that the dyke-breakers, the palace bombers and the Annecy brothers should all happen along at the same time. Could be a coincidence. Could be too much of a coincidence. Or nothing. Maybe I just hate the whole wide criminal world. Forget it, sir. Just a suggestion.’

  The phone rang. Van Effen picked it up, listened, said thank you and hung up. ‘This should cheer us all up. There’s going to be a radio broadcast of the FFF’s latest communiqué in about ten minutes.’

  ‘Inevitable, I suppose. Your suggestion, Peter. Normally, I should dismiss it out of hand. But your suggestions have an extraordinary habit of turning up something.’ He smiled without any humour. ‘Maybe you share—what’s the word?—this precognition with your sister. We’ll put those two tails on van Rees—my God, the very idea of putting tails on van Rees—and have his liquid assets discreetly investigated. I shall probably be arraigned before Parliament for this. Drag you down with me, of course.’ He reached for the phone. ‘Let me handle this.’

  After he had arranged matters in his customary imperious fashion and put the phone down, van Effen said: ‘Thank you. Tell me, sir, do your linguistic friends at the University have all the tapes? Including the one I brought from the Hunter’s Horn?’ De Graaf nodded. ‘When do you expect them to be ready?’

  ‘When they’re ready, one supposes. Things move leisurely in the groves of Academe.’

  ‘Think you could hurry them up, sir? National emergency, something like that.’

  ‘I can but try.’ De Graaf called a number, spoke to someone he called Hector then, still holding the phone, turned to van Effen. ‘Six o’clock?’

  ‘Five forty-five, if possible.’

  De Graaf spoke briefly, hung up and said: ‘Very precise about our timing, aren’t we?’

  ‘Person coming round at six-thirty to the Trianon to give me the radio data for detonating this bomb in the palace cellars.’

  ‘First I heard of it. One finds it uncommonly difficult to keep up with your activities. One finds it rather droll, if I may say so, to find a police officer paying the courtesy of punctuality to a criminal.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Do you know—personally, I mean—any plastic surgeons?’

  ‘Plastic surgeons! What on earth do you want with—well, I should know better, you’ll have your reasons. But plastic surgeons? Do you think I know everyone in this city?’

  ‘To my knowledge, sir, yes. Or nearly everyone.’

  ‘I could talk to the police surgeon.’

  ‘De Wit is not a plastic surgeon, sir.’

  ‘Ah! I have it. My old friend Hugh. Outstanding. Professor Hugh Johnson.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like a Dutch surgeon to me. I mean, he’s not Dutch, is he?’

  ‘English. Trained at East Grinstead. I’m told that’s the best plastic surgery unit in Europe, if not the world. Man’s a genius.’ De Graaf smiled. ‘Not as smart as the Dutch, though. Not, specifically, as clever as one Dutch lady, a native of Amsterdam, whom he met here
on an exchange visit. Six months after they got married he found himself domiciled in this country. Still doesn’t know how it happened to him. The very man.’ De Graaf cleared his throat in a delicate fashion. ‘If you could give me some slight indication as to what you want—’

  ‘Certainly. In the guise in which I meet Agnelli I have scars on my face and hands—remind me to tell you what I’ll look like tonight when we meet at the University otherwise you won’t recognize me. I want those scars to look even more realistic and, more important to be of such a nature that they can’t easily be pulled off, washed off or scrubbed off.’

  ‘Ah. I see. I mean, I don’t see.’ De Graaf pondered briefly. ‘Don’t like this at all. You are referring, of course, to Agnelli and his friends and any suspicions they may harbour. I thought you were of the opinion that your bona fide status as an internationally wanted criminal was fairly secure.’

  ‘I increasingly believe so, sir. But they don’t sound like a lot with whom one can safely take any chances. Might even find a reason tonight to prove—without seeming to, of course—the genuineness and permanence of those scars.’

  De Graaf sighed. ‘We live in a devious world, a very devious world. Without wishing to give offence, Peter, I must say you seem perfectly at home in it. See what I can do. Damned phone again.’

  Van Effen picked it up, listened and said: ‘Send a man around with them, will you? Wait a minute.’ He turned to de Graaf. ‘Sergeant Oudshoorn. Says number thirty-eight is deserted. Neighbours say nobody has lived there for years. Most of the furniture is gone, too. Sergeant Oudshoorn—he’s young, enthusiastic, I told you he’d relish this assignment and we did give him a sort of carte blanche—has been investigating some locked cupboards and desk drawers.’

  ‘With the aid of crowbars and chisels, I suppose.’

  ‘I imagine so. I also imagine that it’s extremely doubtful that we’ll ever have any complaints on that score. Thing is, he says he’s come across some odd-looking maps, charts and plans that he can’t make head or tail of. Probably of no importance whatsoever. But we’re in no position to overlook one chance in a thousand. I’ve asked Oudshoorn to have them sent round. Do you think that, en route, this messenger might pick up some knowledgeable lad from the City Surveyor’s office who might just be able to enlighten us about those maps?’