The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam (6 page)

“More than possible?”

“Honestly? I don’t think so. I mean, they had no reason to ask
anything about me. The way I see it, they were after the third
figurine. They didn’t know the American had hired me to steal their
figurines on the same night. So once he told them where the third
figurine was, they had no need to ask any more questions.”

“I suppose not.”

“And that’s not to mention that they haven’t come looking for
me.”

“True. There is something else though Charlie. The man with the
knife who broke into the apartment after you – where does he fit
into it all?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. But one thing did occur to me –
I turned the American down at first, yes? He was hoping I’d carry
out the job anyway, and he was right about that, but he didn’t know
I would for certain. Say he got nervous the next day and hired
someone else at short notice – someone who didn’t have what he
called ‘my talent’.”

“Which he didn’t. Because he used a mallet to get in and he made
a hell of a mess.”

“Well, a mallet or something similar, but you take my point.
Plus he was looking for the same thing I was because he started his
search under the pillow.”

“And he knew to leave just after ten o’clock.”

“Exactly.”

Victoria paused and made a humming noise as she considered my
theory. I scratched my earlobe, waiting for the outcome.

“But if you’re right,” she said, “the American took one hell of
a chance. Imagine if you two had run into each other.”

“We pretty much did! But I guess from his point of view, and
going on what happened to him later, he had to be sure someone
would get him the figurines.”

“Right. Hey, you know what you could have done? Gone back to the
café after you found the American to see if someone else was
waiting for him.”

“Yes, I didn’t think of that until the following day. But I’m
not sure I could have done it anyway. What if the police had taken
Marieke back to the café? I think there’s a good chance she might
own the place or at least live above it. And supposing she saw me
waiting there and pointed me out. It’s kind of far fetched but it
could have happened.”

Victoria didn’t respond. Her mind was off on another track,
pursuing other ideas. I waited for her to conclude her thoughts and
when she next spoke, it was with a certain hesitancy, as if
something terrible had just occurred to her but she didn’t want to
worry me unduly.

“Charlie, what if the men beat the American like that because
he’d already told them what they needed to know? What if he’d told
them your name after all and they were just tying up loose
ends?”

“You’re beginning to depress me.”

“Well, don’t you think you should consider moving on? I mean,
you’ve finished your book and these men sound dangerous.”

“They don’t just sound it. But the book’s not finished yet and
I’m not ready to leave Amsterdam. I like it here.”

“Right. Plus there’s the girl, I suppose.”

“Excuse me?”

“The blonde, Charlie. Don’t think I didn’t notice the time you
spent describing her.”

“Marieke? Oh, she’s attractive enough. But I hope I’m not quite
that transparent.”

“Come on, another damsel in distress? You love that stuff.”

“Do I now. Listen Vie, if you want the truth I suppose it did
occur to me that the American could have given the men her name.
But that’s really not my concern. I get the feeling she knew what
she was letting herself in for.”

“There is something else though, isn’t there?”

“Well, there’s my twenty thousand euros for starters. I did the
job I was hired for, after all. But suppose the American doesn’t
make it and I can’t collect, the way I see it I already have two of
the figurines. Maybe if I can just find the third one…”

“Charlie…”

“I’ll be careful.”

“But why take the risk? You have the six thousand euros you
found and maybe I can try for a little more for this book.”

“If I can solve the briefcase problem.”

“Well, yes. But how about I place some calls?”

“I don’t think so. Not yet anyway. Wait until I’ve had a chance
to think it over. And listen, Victoria? I’m going to have to go.
There’s someone knocking on my door. Take care, okay?”

“Like I’m the one who needs to take care,” she said, as I went
to lower the receiver. “I mean, what do I have to worry about? A
paper cut?”

∨
The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam
∧

T
he man I found on
the opposite side of the door to my apartment looked every inch the
police officer. He was of above average height (although perhaps
not for a Dutchman) with an upright stance that gave him the
appearance of a soldier standing to attention. His hair was neat
and clipped close to his head and a sober rain coat hung from his
angular shoulders, concealing a charcoal suit. The only thing
vaguely out of the ordinary were his spectacles, which were
frameless and achingly modern, the kind of glasses a Swedish
designer might wear.

“Mr. Howard?” he asked.

“Charlie Howard, that’s right.”

“I am Inspector Burggrave from the Amsterdam-Amstelland police
force. I would like to talk with you please.”

What he said fell somewhere between a request and an order and
the distinction was blurred enough for me to usher him into my
living room without another word. Antagonising police officers,
I’ve found, is just about the quickest way to make your life a
misery. Still…

“Do you mind if I ask how you got inside my building Inspector?
Usually visitors have to buzz me from downstairs.”

“Somebody was leaving,” he said, without elaborating any
further.

“I see. And they just let you inside?”

He nodded.

“You didn’t mention you were a police officer?”

I received a puzzled look, as if I was labouring the point.

“Forgive me,” I said. “But this is a communal building and I
tend to think those of us who live here have certain
responsibilities to one another. Especially where strangers are
concerned. Could I trouble you to show me your identity?”

He sighed and reached inside his coat with a practised gesture,
removing a leather folio that he flipped open before my eyes. I
scanned his name and rank.

“That’s fine then. Can I get you a drink?”

“No,” he said, returning his ID to his pocket.

“A seat?”

The Inspector remained standing, behaving as if he hadn’t heard
me at all, and meanwhile he looked around my living room, taking in
the piles of books on the floor and the coffee table, my writing
desk and laptop, the copy of my latest manuscript and beside it my
telephone and an ash tray containing a few cigarette butts. His
eyes passed over the framed first edition of Dashiell Hammett’s
The Maltese Falcon
hanging on my wall and on to the picture
windows overlooking the Binnenkant canal below and the houseboats
moored along the water’s edge. You learn to get used to the way a
policeman treats your home – how they inventory everything as if
it’s their God-given right to nosey around anyplace they please.
Burggrave was no different, although perhaps a little more thorough
than most.

“Do you have your papers?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your immigration papers.”

“Oh. I don’t have any,” I told him. “European Union and all
that.”

He blinked behind his highly polished lenses. “Your passport
then.”

“One moment,” I said, and left him while I went into my bedroom
to fetch my passport. When I returned, I found him studying the
cover art on the Hammett novel up close.

“Are you a book lover Inspector?”

He just looked at me. “It is a famous book?”

“Quite famous.”

“Most people hang pictures on their walls.”

“Well, I’m not really that into art. At least not in the
conventional sense.”

“You have heard of some of our Dutch masters?”

“One or two,” I admitted. “Though I’ve never really cared for
Van Gogh.”

I handed Burggrave my passport and he opened it at the back page
and studied me intently over the top of it, as if he suspected he
would find a discrepancy between my passport picture and my face.
Then he removed his pocket book and a pen from his coat and began
jotting down my details.

“What is your business in Amsterdam, Mr Howard?”

“I’m working on a book myself,” I said, gesturing to my
manuscript. “I’m a writer of mystery novels. Perhaps you’ve read
one of them?”

“I have not,” he said, concentrating on his note making. “Maybe
you are not so popular outside of your own country.”

“I sell very well in Japan.”

“Japan is not the Netherlands.”

You could see why they’d made him an Inspector.

“Is this just a routine check?” I asked, gesturing to my
passport.

“You were contacted by a man several days ago, Mr. Howard.
Wednesday evening.”

He glanced up and held my eyes.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember that,” I said, as evenly as I
could.

“He sent you an e–mail.”

“Really? I don’t recall it at all, but then I have been working
quite hard recently. You don’t happen to know his name, do
you?”

Burggrave studied me some more, looking for some kind of
giveaway. I smiled as pleasantly as I could and cocked my head to
one side.

“His name is Park.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head and acting as if I was trying hard
to remember. “I’m afraid that name means nothing to me.”

“We have his laptop. It tells us you read his message.”

“Oh,” I said. “Oh wait. Yes. I did have one message now you
mention it and I suppose it could have come from this man. I
deleted it right away, you see, because it was so odd. He asked me
to meet him in a bar, as I recall. Usually my readers might send me
a question about one of my stories or ask if I can sign a book.
It’s rare for them to want to meet me.”

“Did you meet him?”

I widened my eyes in surprise, then shook my head no.

“Of course not. Do you smoke Inspector?”

I darted away from his gaze towards my desk and picked up a
packet of cigarettes. I made a show of searching for a lighter,
looking beneath my papers and inside the uppermost desk drawer,
then left him for just a moment to go to the kitchen, indicating
with the unlit cigarette in my hand and a roll of my eyes what it
was I was after.

In the kitchen, I let out a breath I hadn’t known I’d been
holding and tried to think where to take things next. The reality
was I had few options. I’d set a course now and I’d have to follow
it through and see where it took me. Lying to a Dutch police
officer about meeting a man who’d been beaten close to death
probably wasn’t my smartest move ever but it could still turn out
okay if I played it right. After all, I got the impression
Burggrave hadn’t looked into my background yet and if I gave him no
cause for suspicion he might never place the phone call to the
British Embassy that would tell him all he could care to know about
my record.

I reached for the top of the stove, grabbed the box of kitchen
matches I kept there and returned to the living room. I was just
about to light up when Burggrave motioned towards the lighter that
was positioned quite visibly on my desk.

“Right before my eyes,” I said, throwing my hand up. “I’m always
doing that.”

Burggrave gave no indication as to whether he believed me or
not. I don’t suppose it really mattered. I reached for the lighter
and lit my cigarette, the flare reflecting in his spectacle
lenses.

“So you did not meet Mr. Park?” he asked again.

“That’s what I said.”

“But you did not tell him this?”

I exhaled smoke into the room.

“Reply to his e–mail, you mean? No, I didn’t. I suppose that was
rude of me. But you see, you can never be sure what these people
want or how, well, normal they are. I had thought that by not
answering he’d assume I hadn’t read his message.”

“But your computer sent him a message telling him you had.”

“A read receipt, I believe it’s called. I had no idea about
that.”

“So it is possible he went to this bar.”

“Café de Brug – the Café on the Bridge, I believe. I know it,
you see. And I suppose he could have gone. Why is it of interest to
you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Burggrave studied me again, as if he was registering precisely
what my face was doing so that he could gauge what effect the words
he was about to use would have on me.

“Mr. Park is in hospital. He was attacked.”

“Oh God. At the café?”

“In his apartment.”

“And you wondered if I might know something about it?”

Burggrave nodded carefully.

“Well I’m sorry I can’t help,” I said. “What does Mr. Park say
about it all?”

“He is asleep.”

I frowned, trying to act as if I was confused by the discrepancy
between the grave look on his face and the words he’d spoken.

“You mean he’s unconscious?”

“He could die.”

“God. I’m sorry to hear that. I only wish I could have helped
further.”

I extended my hand to shake but Burggrave just looked at it with
mild distaste before moving towards the door of my apartment.

“You will be staying in Amsterdam, Mr. Howard?” he called over
his shoulder.

“Until I finish my book.”

“I may speak to you again?”

“Fine. But Inspector, my passport?”

Burggrave paused. I opened my palm and held it out to him and
after a moment’s hesitation he reached inside his jacket and passed
the red folder back to me.

“Forgive me,” he managed, through gritted teeth.

“Not a problem,” I replied.

∨
The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam
∧

I
sat at my desk for
some time after he’d gone, smoking and looking out of my window at
the patterns the wind was making on the surface of the canal. I
thought about trying to work on my manuscript and the briefcase
problem Victoria had spotted but I knew it would be pointless. My
mind was on another course now, preoccupied with the mess I’d got
myself in. I wondered how wise it had been to he to Burggrave and
then I thought about whether Victoria was right and I should just
leave Amsterdam altogether. It wasn’t as if I had anything holding
me down: my possessions fitted in two holdalls, my rent was payable
on a weekly basis and I would be walking away from my latest bout
of thievery with close to six thousand euros in my pocket. It was a
nice fantasy, so far as it went, but that was all it could be. The
fact was I’d told Burggrave I was staying for the foreseeable
future and it would look suspicious if I left. And besides, I had a
feeling I might be missing out on a pretty intriguing opportunity
if I did go.