The Saint in Europe (6 page)

Mr Jonkheer was a short bald man in his shirtsleeves, with a wide paunch under a leather apron and a wide multiple-chinned face. It was obvious at a glance that no make-up virtuoso could have duplicated him. His pale blue eyes looked small and bright behind thick gold-rimmed glasses.

“You are a writer, eh?” he said, with a kind of gruff affability. “Which magazine do you write for?”

“Any one that’ll buy what I write.”

“So. And what can I tell you for your article?” The Saint sat in one of the heavy armchairs and opened a pack of cigarettes.

“Well, anything interesting about your work,” he said.

“I cut jewels-principally diamonds.”

“I know. I’m told you’re one of the best cutters in the business.”

“There are many good ones. I am good.”

“I suppose you’ve been doing it all your life?”

“Since I am an apprentice, at sixteen. I have been cutting stones, now, for forty years.”

“You must have cut some famous jewels in that time.”

A twin pair of vertical lines began to pucker between the cutter’s bushy brows.

“Famous?”

“I mean, well-known jewels, that people would like to read about.”

“I have cut many good stones.”

This was manifestly going to make no revelationary progress. Simon said, as offhandedly as he could: “You’re too modest, Mr Jonkheer. For instance, how about the Angel’s Eye?”

There was no audible sound effect like a sickening thud, but the response was much the same. In a silence that fairly hummed with hollowness, the diamond cutter’s small bright eyes hardened and froze like drops of his own gems.

The Saint exhaled cigarette smoke and tried to appear as if he noticed nothing out of the ordinary. At last Jonkheer said: “What about the Angel’s Eye?”

“You know the stone I mean?”

“Of course. It is a famous diamond.”

“How are you going to re-cut it?”

“I am not re-cutting it.”

Jonkheer’s tone was still gruff, but no longer affable. Simon looked puzzled.

“But you have it here.”

“I do not.”

“I was told-“

“You are mistaken.”

“I don’t get it,” said the Saint, with an ingenuous frown. “The fellow who referred me to you said positively that the Angel’s Eye was brought to you for re-cutting only the other day. I don’t mean to pry into your business, but-“

The other’s steady stare was cold with suspicion.

“Who was this person?”

“It was somebody in the trade. I don’t know that I ought to mention his name. But he was very definite.”

Jonkheer gazed at him for a longer time, with no increase in friendliness. Then he turned his head slightly and called: “Zuilen, kom toch binnen!”

The burly blond man who had been sitting out in the hall walked in instantly, and without any preliminary sound, so that Simon realized that the door of the little office had never been fully closed and the big man must have been standing directly outside it. He brought his newspaper with him, carrying it rather awkwardly, as if he had something underneath it. With his left hand, he took a small leather folder from his pocket and showed Simon the card in it. The card carried his photograph and an inscription which Simon did not have time to read, but he recognized the official-looking seal and the word Politie.

The big man, whose name was evidently Zuilen, was a very polite politie.

“May I see your credentials, please?”

“My passport is at the hotel,” said the Saint.

“Something, perhaps, from the magazine you write for?”

“I don’t write for any particular magazine. I just peddle my stuff wherever I can.”

“You must have something on you, some evidence of identity,” said the blond man patiently. “Please.”

He did not openly suggest that if none were produced, the matter could be continued at headquarters. That would have been superfluous.

Simon produced his wallet, and watched interestedly while Zuilen glanced at the contents. The detective’s eyes snapped from the first card that caught them to the Saint’s face as if a switch had been flicked, but his manner reнmained painstakingly correct.

“Mr Templar,” he said, “I did not hear that you were a writer.”

“It’s a new racket,” said the Saint easily.

The blond man handed the wallet back.

“You would do well to search for your material someнwhere else,” he said. “There is nothing to interest you here.”

“Now Wait a minute,” Simon argued. “I’m not making any trouble. I was told on the best authority that Mr Jonkнheer had received a diamond called the Angel’s Eye to re-cut. I simply asked him about it. That isn’t a crime.”

“I am glad there is no crime,” said the burly man stolнidly. “We do not like to have crime from foreigners, espeнcially during the tourist season. Mr Jonkheer does not have any such diamond. Also he does not wish to be bothered. It is better that you do not make any trouble.” He held the door firmly open. “Good-day, Mr Templar.”

A few moments later, without a harsh word having been spoken or an overt threat having been uttered, the Saint found himself indisputably out on the sidewalk, blinking at the noonday sunshine and listening to the rattle of chain and bolts being refastened on the inside of the old oak door.

4

“It was a lovely job,” Simon told the Upwaters. “I never had a chance of getting to first base.”

They sat around a lunch table in one of the crypt-like rooms of the Vijf Vliegen, that quaintly labyrinthine resнtaurant on the Spuistraat, where they had arranged to meet; although only the Saint seemed to have much appetite for the excellent kalfoesters, thin fillets of veal browned in butнter and lemon juice, with stewed cucumbers and brown beans, which he had ordered for what he considered fairly earned nutriment.

“That policeman, too,” said Mrs Upwater indignantly. “That Jonkheer really must have the wool pulled over their eyes.”

“Or else they’re all in the swindle up to the neck with him,” Mr Upwater said bitterly.

“However it goes,” said the Saint, “the place is pretty well guarded. And I haven’t the faintest doubt that the Angel’s Eye is there. They were so grimly determined to deny it. I could see it gave Jonkheer a good jolt when I asked about it. I bet they’re still worrying about what my angle is, if that’s any help to you.”

“It’s there, all right,” Upwater said gloomily. “Did you see his safe?”

“Oh, yes. In his office.”

“I didn’t see it. I was taken right into his workshop, the first time, and the second time I didn’t get any further than the hall. If I’d seen the safe, I might have been able to have the policeman make him open it.”

“His office is on the ground floor, at the back of the hall.”

“The diamond probably isn’t there now, anyway,” said Mrs Upwater.

Simon took a deep pull at his beer.

“How big is this diamond?” he asked. “You said it was as big as the Hope. How big is that?”

“About a hundred carats,” Upwater said. He put the tips of his thumb and forefinger together, forming a circle. “About so big. It’d be easy to hide anywhere.”

Simon forked together the last remnants of food on his plate, and ate them with infinite enjoyment. Any lingering doubts that he might have had were gone. He knew that this was going to be an adventure to remember.

“I told you, I’m certain the Angel’s Eye is at Jonkheer’s,” he said. “That’s why the cop is staying on the premises. But I don’t think it’s hidden. I think they figure it’s well enough guarded. And an oldfashioned conservative type like Jonkheer would have complete confidence in an old-fashioned safe like that, just because it weighs a few tons and he’s had it ever since he went into business. He wouldn’t believe that any up-to-date expert could go through it like a coffee-can.”

The man and woman gazed at him uncertainly.

“What good does that do us?” Mr Upwater asked at length. “I’m no safe-cracker.”

“But I am,” said the Saint.

There was another long and pent-up silence.

“You’d burgle it?” Mrs Upwater said.

“I think you knew all along,” said the Saint gently, “that I would.”

Mrs Upwater began to cry.

“You can’t do that,” Mr Upwater protested. “That’s robbery!”

“To take back your own property?”

“But if you got caught-“

“If I only take the Angel’s Eye, which Jonkheer isn’t supposed to have anyway, how is he going to phrase his squawk?”

Mr Upwater clutched his wife’s hand, staring at the Saint with a pathetic sort of devotion.

“I never thought I’d find myself siding with anyone about breaking the law,” he said. “But you’re right, Mr Templar- Jonkheer’s got us by the short hairs, and the only way we can ever get even is to steal the diamond back, just about the same way that he got it. Only I could never ‘ve thought of it myself, and it beats me why you’d take a chance like that to help a total stranger.”

Simon lighted a cigarette.

“Well,” he said, and his smile was happily mephistopheнlian, “suppose I did just happen to take something else besides your diamond-by way of interest, you might say-would you feel it was your duty to tell the police about me?”

“I wouldn’t,” said Mrs Upwater promptly, dabbing her eyes. “A man like Jonkheer deserves to lose everything he’s got.”

“Then that’s settled,” said the Saint cheerfully. “How about some dessert? Some oliebollen? Or the flensjes should be mildly sensational.”

Mr Upwater shook his head. He was still staring at the Saint much as a lost explorer in the Sahara would have stared at the approach of an ice wagon.

“I’m too nervous to eat,” he said. “I’ll be in a sweat until this is over. When will you do it?”

“On the stroke of midnight,” said the Saint. “I’m superнstitious about the witching hour-it’s always been lucky for me. Besides, by that time our friend Jonkheer will be sound asleep, and even the police guard will be drowsy. I’m pretty sure Jonkheer lives over the shop, and he’s the type who would go to bed about ten.”

“Isn’t there anything I can do, Mr Templar? I wouldn’t be much of a hand at what you’re planning, but—”

“Not a thing. Take Mrs Upwater sightseeing. Have dinнner. Go to your room, break out some cards, and send for a bottle of schnapps. When the waiter brings it, make like I’ve gone to the bathroom. If anything goes wrong, you’ll be my alibi-we were all playing cards. I’ll see you soon after midnight, with your diamond.” Simon looked at his watch. “Now, if you’re through, I’ll run along. I’ve got to shop for a few things I don’t normally carry in my luggage.”

He spent an interesting afternoon in his own way, and got back to the Hollandia about six o’clock with no parнticular plans for the early part of the evening. But that state of tranquil vagueness lasted only until he turned away from the desk with his key. Then a hand smacked him violently between the shoulder-blades, and he turned again to meet the merry dark horn-spectacled eyes of a slight young man who looked more like a New Yorker than any New Yorker would have done.

“Simon, you old son-of-a-gun!” cried Pieter Liefman. “What shemozzle are you up to here?”

The scion of Amsterdam’s most traditionalistic brewery had spent some years in the United States, and prided himнself on his complete assimilation of the culture of the New World.

“Pete!” The Saint grinned. “You couldn’t have shown up at a better moment.”

“I’ve been out in the sticks,” Liefman said. “I just got back in town and got your message, and I came right over to try and track you down. What’s boiling?”

“Let’s get a drink somewhere and I’ll tell you.”

“My hot-shot’s outside. We can drive out to Scherpenнzeel, to the De Witte.”

“Good enough. The way you drive, you can get me back in plenty of time for what I want to do later.”

As Pieter Liefman needled his Jaguar through the sparse evening traffic with an ebullient disregard for all speed laws and principles of safety that would have had most passenнgers gripping the seat and muttering despondent prayers, Simon Templar leaned back with a cigarette and reflected gratefully on his good fortune. Pieter’s timely arrival had made his project even neater than he had hoped. “I guess you rate pretty high in this town, Pete,” he remarked.

“If you mean I should get a ducat for speeding, you don’t know the quarter of it. They throw the books at me about once a week.”

“But in any serious case, I imagine you’d be as influenнtial a witness as any guy could want.”

“Quit holding up on me,” Liefman implored. “Is the Saint on the war-path again?”

Simon began his tale at the beginning.

5

The return from Scherpenzeel, after a gargantuan repast devoured with respectful deliberation, was made at the same suicidal velocity, but so coolly timed that clocks were booming the hour that Simon had fixed in his mind as the Jaguar purred to a stop in the street where Hendrik Jonkнheer plied his trade, but several doors away from the house itself. The short street was deserted except for one other car parked at the opposite end.

“I only hope you’ve figured this on the button,” Pieter Liefman said.

“I am the world’s greatest practical psychologist,” said the Saint. “Go ahead with your part of the act.”

He slipped out of the car and strolled unhurriedly down the street to Jonkheer’s door. The building was dark and wrapped in silence. He turned the door handle experimenнtally. The door started to yawn at his touch, and no inside chain stopped it.

Simon stepped in, closing it swiftly and silently behind him. With a pencil flashlight smothered in his hand so that the bulb was almost covered by his fingers, he let a dim glow play momentarily over the inside of the frame. The chain was dangling, the hasp at one end still attached to it with fragments of freshly torn wood adhering to the screws, testifying to the inherent weakness of such devices which was no surprise to him.

He turned the same hardly more than phosphorescent illumination around the hall, and at the foot of the stairs he saw the burly blond guard, Zuilen, lying on the floor, the wrists and ankles expertly bound and tied together and his mouth covered with adhesive tape. The big policeman seemed uninjured, except probably in his dignity, to judge by the lively glare of wrath that smouldered in his eyes.