by George Sims
Eating this modest lunch, he had wry thoughts of his last trip to the city when he had been accompanied by a French girl who was an enthusiast of motor-racing, good food, and sex. They had stayed at No. 1 Professor Tulpplein, and three days had been passed largely in making love, with breaks for splendid meals at the Oesterbar and the Restaurant Dorrius. There had been time for one interlude at the Jordaan festival, seeing the funfair on the Palmgracht, listening to music in the brilliantly lit side-streets, and dancing on one of the illuminated barges on the Brouwersgracht, but generally it had been a kind of sex and food marathon from which Jacqueline had emerged undisputed winner, with unabated appetite.
Drinking a cup of coffee, Buchanan’s thoughts became more serious, turning again to the Leo Selver affair. When Katie had driven him to London Airport he had spotted an inscription in whitewash on a wall, in letters at least a foot high: THE FAR AWAY IS CLOSE AT HAND. He had been struck by how apt this was concerning Selver’s death. Leo must have entered Judy Latimer’s flat in a happy mood, excited at the prospect of making love to the girl; yet within a few hours they were both dead. Could there really be some connection between their deaths and whatever it was that ‘the Ring’ had purchased at the Trewartha sale? And was there a link also with the list of distinguished-sounding names that Leo had made together with his verdict on their fate: ‘Of this bunch eight are dead. Henry Cuyp alive…Court-Card as much of a mystery today as he was then.’
Strolling along the Singel, looking at the flower market, Buchanan found it hard to believe that probably within an hour or so he was going to be given an explanation of what had happened by the talkative Harry Freedson. Volubility was a quality that Katie had stressed in her description of Freedson. ‘Short, thin, with dark hair and eyes. Intelligent, nervy, sees the funny side of things. Gestures a lot and it’s hard to stop him talking, but I like him.’ Buchanan did not care how much Freedson would talk—any conversation with him was bound to be fascinating in the circumstances. His steps quickened as he turned into the Keizersgracht.
H. V. de Kort’s address was an impressively large house, newly decorated and redolent of prosperous activities within. There was a short flight of steps up to the tall, heavy wooden door which was slightly ajar. The hall had a floor of black and white squares, made out of highly polished rubber and looking like a giant chess-board. On a door to his right he saw the names ‘Mr H. V. de Kort, Mr J. K. Stuyt—Advocaten en Procureurs’, and pressed a gleaming brass bell.
The door was opened by a tall blonde with a delectable-looking mouth that turned up at the corners like Katie’s. She smiled so nicely that Buchanan experienced a fleeting sensation of pleasurable anticipation despite the fact that his philandering days were over. He smiled back and asked: ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Oh yes. Some.’
‘Good. My name’s Buchanan. Mr Harry Freedson suggested that I should call in here today. He said he would tell Mr de Kort to expect me.’
The smile vanished and there was just a suggestion of a frown as the girl said, ‘Oh yes. Please sit down,’ pointing to a chair close to her desk. She touched a red telephone, saying ‘Hebt U een pas?’, then ‘Sorry. Do you have any identification? Your passport?’
Buchanan handed her his passport and an international driving licence. The girl flicked open the passport to check on his photograph and took it with her as she left the room, saying: ‘Only a moment. There are magazines on the table.’
Buchanan did not feel like reading. A sensation of excitement was growing in him as he approached the meeting with Freedson, and he knew it would be impossible to concentrate on any printed matter.
The interior door opened within a minute and the attractive blonde appeared again, closely followed by a man in his mid-fifties dressed in a grey flannel suit and white shirt with a dark blue tie. He was an urbane figure, with well-groomed silver hair and an easy smile. He held out his right hand to shake Buchanan’s and passed back the driving licence and passport.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Buchanan. I’m Herman de Kort. Harry asked me to stroll along with you.’ He turned to the girl saying: ‘Half an hour, Godi. Tell Skemper I can see him at about three.’
De Kort took a dark blue raincoat and a brown felt hat from the rack and said to Buchanan, ‘You don’t worry about the rain? Won’t you get soaked?’
‘No, I’ll be all right.’
‘Ah, what it is to be young! When you get to my age circumspection sinks in. And the rain does too. But then, Dutch rain is special, rather like our own character—stolid, dogged.’
Buchanan waved good-bye to the girl and walked out of the office after de Kort who was brooding on his last sentence with obvious dissatisfaction. ‘Not stolid, dogged. No, they’re not the right adjectives for rain. What should it be?’ He pushed open the front door, gesturing towards the wet street.
Buchanan suggested, ‘Steady, persistent?’ and then grinned, adding, ‘I find it funny. I mean that you should be so concerned about getting the adjective exact. Imagine someone in London able to do the same thing in Dutch.’
De Kort shrugged. ‘That’s how it is for us, how it has always been, we have to learn languages. Is this your first visit to Amsterdam?’
‘No, my fifth, and I think it rained on each of my other trips so it hasn’t taken me by surprise. I just don’t own the right sort of clobber.’
‘Well, if it’s your fifth, presumably you like it here.’
‘I do, very much. It’s a city like Edinburgh—I keep on seeing places where I think it would be nice to live. A flat on any of the quieter canals would suit me fine. I like the atmosphere here too, the friendliness and tolerance. And if you are stolid and dogged, aren’t they good qualities? That was shown in the war, wasn’t it? Trying to resist the Nazis, trying to hide the Jews?’
De Kort said, ‘You mustn’t paint too rosy a picture of us. I could add a few warts. Before the war there was a large fascist group here. Indeed, I can remember standing on the edge of one of their party meetings and feeling sick, quite desperate in fact. I put that in just to keep the balance. Certainly we had our heroes too, the dockers, the women who starved themselves in ’45 to give their children food, men like the writer Johan Huizinga willing to be deported as hostage at the age of seventy…Yes, you’re right after all, we’re not a bad lot. A bit dull perhaps.’
Threading a way through busy traffic on the Spui and dodging round a three-carriage tram broke up the conversation. Despite the rain the Kalverstraat was crowded with shoppers, most of whom seemed to be under twenty-five. Somewhere an organ was grinding out endless variations on ‘Tulips From Amsterdam’.
Buchanan guessed they were heading in the general direction of the Zeedijk, the sailors’ area near the Oosterdok, where you could get cheap beer and food, and lots of trouble if you didn’t watch your step.
As if in answer to the question Buchanan had phrased only mentally, de Kort came to a halt outside the Galerie Mokum in the Grimburgwal, saying, ‘Despite my dogged, resolute steps I’m not quite sure yet of our destination. That’s Harry for you. I suggested he should use my office for the meeting. But that was too simple for him. So now you must just wait a moment while I check again. However, it’s a nice spot. This is the famous “House on the three canals”. Do you mind waiting here?’
Buchanan said, ‘Not at all.’
De Kort crossed over two small bridges and stepped into a glass cubicle lettered ‘telephoon’. An old woman carrying two shopping-bags saw Buchanan sheltering in the shop doorway and gestured with her head at the grey sky, saying, ‘Het regent altijd.’ As if to meet this challenge the rain faltered and a few moments later came to a stop. Immediately it did so a canary began to chirp.
Buchanan stepped out of the doorway and stared up at the gradually lightening sky. To the north above the area of warehouses and islands there was a widening streak of washed-out blue. The break in the weather h
ad come just in time to prevent his being soaked. The heavy brown boots which he had bought in Samos would stand up to any amount of rain, but his shoulders were beginning to feel decidedly damp and the windbreaker jacket was clinging to his back in places.
De Kort came striding back over the nearest bridge with brisk steps and a faintly amused expression. When he got close to Buchanan he said, ‘We must wait five minutes,’ in a colourless tone.
They both looked at their watches to check the time. Buchanan had an automatic Omega with a calendar, on a flexible stainless steel strap; de Kort’s watch was obviously more valuable, in a thin gold case, with elegant Roman numerals, on a black hide strap. They both showed the time to be two forty. De Kort shrugged. ‘Well, now I know where we are going at least. A bizarre choice for a meeting place in my opinion, but that’s up to Harry. Do you know the Amstelkring Museum, “Our Lord in the Attic”?’
‘No. That’s where we’re meeting?’
‘Yes, it’s just up the street from here. Two minutes’ walk. An interesting, odd place. A clandestine church built into an attic—in fact it extends over three houses, one on the canal here and two smaller houses behind. It was built about 1660 by Jan Hartman when there was an official ban on Catholic worship. Another sign of our tolerance I suppose, or at least a token of liberalism in a generally intolerant age. You see when the city had gone over to the Calvinist Church the Catholics were allowed to continue holding their services privately, if they were discreet. Not really clandestine meetings, because the authorities knew about them and turned a blind eye. On a Monday, out of the main tourist period, you may have the place to yourselves, though occasionally they still hold weddings there. Worth re-visiting some time without Harry, if I may say so. Okay, I’ve finished my five-minute lecture. Off we go.’
They walked in silence along the Oudezijds Voorburgwal where the canal side was lined with parked cars. They were entering the area renowned for brothels, blue films and sex shops. De Kort indicated seedy-looking premises with a waving hand and a disapproving look. ‘Sometimes I think we’re rather too tolerant. A “living sex-show”—what kind of people take part in that? Oh well…’
After another minute of silent walking, de Kort stopped. ‘Here we are. Number 40. Harry said he would be right up at the top. I’ll say good-bye now. Don’t forget, Buchanan, when you make your sixth trip to Amsterdam telephone me and we’ll have a meal.’
‘I’d like that very much. Thanks and good-bye.’
They shook hands and de Kort strode off, turning once to call out ‘Good luck’. Buchanan watched for a few moments. He had been impressed by de Kort’s quiet self-confidence and good sense. He thought Harry Freedson was fortunate to have de Kort for a friend.
Buchanan enjoyed entering the Amstelkring Museum; it was like being given the entrée to one of the fine old merchants’ houses still furnished in seventeenth-century style. He paid the entrance fee and decided he would come back on another trip when his mind was not obsessed by the meeting with Freedson.
With barely a glance at the delightful living-rooms he ascended the narrow staircase. It seemed as if he were alone in the place apart from the girl on the ground floor who sold tickets. Straining his ears to catch any sound from above, he mentally insured himself against the disappointment of a possible let-down. After the cloak-and-dagger stuff of the past half-hour he felt it was still possible that Freedson might not turn up.
Though Herman de Kort had given him a capsule history of ‘Our Lord in the Attic’, Buchanan experienced a feeling of surprise on reaching the top floor and entering the long room set out exactly like a Catholic church with rows of pews, a gallery and an elaborate altar behind which there was a very large oil-painting. The altar was flanked by two silver angels but there was no sign of Freedson.
Buchanan had no religious beliefs and he found the atmosphere of the place oppressive. There was a musty smell of old wood, candle smoke, and incense. Standing still, he could hear what sounded like a whispering noise in the gallery behind the top of the painting.
As he walked towards some wooden steps by the altar the whispering sound became urgent, impassioned, more like whimpering than praying. Buchanan took two steps up and then experienced a sight that shocked him momentarily. He was confronted by what appeared to be a gorilla in man’s clothing, holding a gun at a small man’s head. The victim was kneeling, holding up an arm as if to ward off the revolver.
The disturbing illusion lasted only for a second. With another step into the darkened area behind the painting Buchanan could see that the larger figure was that of a man with a black woollen helmet pulled over his face so that it made a mask, with small holes cut out for his eyes and mouth. The man in the black woollen mask swung round, shoving the small man to the floor, pointing the revolver at Buchanan’s face. Buchanan instinctively lurched first left then right, striking out with his right fist. He landed a solid punch just as the masked man struck out with the hand holding the gun.
Instead of the echoing shot which he had expected Buchanan felt a massive blow on his right shoulder, one that took him off balance so that he fell against the wall. The next moment he found himself on the floor staring across the room as the man in the mask stood still, hesitating. Colliding with the wall had knocked the breath from Buchanan and he could only get up slowly, feeling certain that at any moment he would be shot. But the masked man turned round and climbed out of a window, and instantly disappeared from sight. There was a loud clattering noise.
Buchanan moved to the window and saw that the masked man had made a staggering leap of six or seven feet across to the roof of the next house. It was an awesome jump, one that Buchanan might have attempted in order to save his own life but without any confidence of landing safely. The man on the roof was crouching down in a precarious position, facing away from Buchanan, leaning with his right hand and shoulder against the wet tiles. His back, clothed in a white macintosh, rose and fell for a few moments as he waited to regain his breath. The revolver dropped from his hand, slid down the tiles, bounced on the stone parapet and then spun in a hypnotizing slow arc to the alley-way some sixty or seventy feet below. He moved cautiously along the parapet, turned the corner of the roof, and vanished.
Buchanan heard a muffled noise behind him and looked round to see that the small man was kneeling and retching. His thin black hair had fallen forward revealing a bald crown. He retched loudly again but was not sick. He was chalk-white and sweating. He brushed his face with both hands, swallowed and said, ‘Christ, I was the lucky one there all right! You’re Buchanan?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did that maniac do then?’
‘He jumped. A fantastic jump!’
‘Well come on for fuck’s sake. Let’s get out of here.’
Chapter XIX
When Freedson and Buchanan left the Amstelkring Museum they did so in as calm a fashion as they could manage. They had run down a different set of stairs, led by Freedson who obviously knew every passage and stairway in the rabbit-warren made by connecting three houses together. All the time they could hear excited voices, and a woman shouting incoherent instructions. When they reached the ground floor Freedson stopped for a moment to push back his dishevelled hair, roughly dusted his trousers and stepped into the entrance hall, making some banal remark about a silver sanctuary lamp.
Buchanan took Freedson’s cue and said, ‘Oh yes’, then realized that the girl who took the tickets had left her post, and their little charade had been superfluous. They went out into the street and found that there was a crowd of people staring up at the roof. An American in a brown gaberdine suit kept repeating: ‘What is it, Joanie? What is it? Joanie, what did you see?’ An old Dutchman pointed vaguely upwards and said something, in a heavily accented, cawing voice that Buchanan could not understand at all. Freedson stood still as if only mildly interested by the odd incident which had attracted so many pedestrians.
‘Viel er iemand?’
‘Ik denk een ongeluk.’
‘Ik zag een man weghollen.’
‘Der politie komt er aan.’
Hearing this last sentence Freedson nodded sagely and said, ‘Yes, it’s all right. It seems the police are coming. But there’s nothing to see so we might as well go.’ They began to walk slowly along the Oudezijds Voorburgwal in the Zeedijk direction. Once out of earshot of the crowd, Freedson said, ‘Thanks. We’ll talk in a minute. There are some bars and cafés up ahead and we’ll pop into one. But thanks.’
A plump prostitute was leaning out of an upstairs window trying to make out what was going on outside No. 40. A more attractive one cut across their path, leaving a faint seductive perfume and whispering something indistinct. Freedson smiled. ‘Kom naar binnen indeed! Some chance! She must like your style. In fact I rather like the way you move myself. Jesus! Sid Chard told me that he once knew someone who would go through a brick wall for a box of matches. Now I’ve met one.’
Buchanan shivered. He felt empty and cold. Faced by the revolver, he had moved instinctively. Now there was a reaction at having come so close to death.
They made their way through twisting little streets close to the waterfront where Buchanan caught glimpses of grey wharves and old rotting timbers. Freedson paused by a bold sign offering SEVEN COLOUR TATTOOING—4000 DESIGNS—NO PAIN—NO SCAR and then Buchanan followed him down some steps to a small basement bar.
Buchanan sat at a table in a corner and took off his damp jacket. Freedson came over from the counter carrying two glasses and a bottle of gin. ‘Is this all right?’
Buchanan nodded. ‘You bet.’
