Puppet on a Chain

by Alistair MacLean

  ‘Pushing and forwarding. Some of the heroin – a relatively small amount – was left here in puppets: some went to the shops, some to the puppet van in the Vondel Park – and other vans, for all I know. Goodbody’s girls went to the shops and purchased those puppets – which were secretly marked – in perfectly legitimate stores and had them sent to minor heroin suppliers, or addicts, abroad. The ones in the Vondel Park were sold cheap to the barrel-organ men – they were the connections for the down-and-outs who were in so advanced a condition that they couldn’t be allowed to appear in respectable places – if, that is to say, you call sleazy dives like the Balinova a respectable place.’

  ‘Then how in God’s name did we never catch on to any of this?’ de Graaf demanded.

  ‘I’ll tell you in a moment. Still about the distribution. An even larger proportion of the stuff went from here in crates of Bibles – the ones which our saintly friend here so kindly distributed gratis all over Amsterdam. Some of the Bibles had hollow centres. The sweet young things that Goodbody here, in the ineffable goodness of his Christian heart, was trying to rehabilitate and save from a fate worse than death, would turn up at his services with Bibles clutched in their sweet little hands – some of them, God help us, fetchingly dressed as nuns – then go away with different Bibles clutched in their sweet little hands and then peddle the damned stuff in the night-clubs. The rest of the stuff – the bulk of the stuff – went to the Kasteel Linden. Or have I missed something, Goodbody?’

  From the expression on his face, it was pretty evident that I hadn’t missed out much of importance, but he didn’t answer me. I lifted my gun slightly and said: ‘Now, I think, Goodbody.’

  ‘No one’s taking the law into his own hands here!’ de Graaf said sharply.

  ‘You can see he’s trying to escape,’ I said reasonably. Goodbody was standing motionless: he couldn’t possibly have reached his fingers up another millimetre.

  Then, for the second time that day, a voice behind me said: ‘Drop that gun, Mr Sherman.’

  I turned slowly and dropped my gun. Anybody could take my gun from me. This time it was Trudi, emerging from shadows and only five feet away with a Luger held remarkably steadily in her right hand.

  ‘Trudi!’ De Graaf stared at the young happily-smiling blonde girl in shocked incomprehension. ‘What in God’s name—’ He broke off his words and cried out in pain instead as the barrel of van Gelder’s gun smashed down on his wrist. De Graaf’s gun clattered to the floor and as he turned to look at the man who had struck him de Graaf’s eyes held only stupefaction. Goodbody, Morgenstern and Muggenthaler lowered their hands, the last two producing guns of their own from under their pockets: so vastly voluminous was the yardage of cloth required to cover their enormous frames that they, unlike myself, did not require the ingenuity of specialized tailors to conceal the outline of their weapons.

  Goodbody produced a handkerchief, mopped a brow which stood in urgent need of mopping, and said querulously to Trudi: ‘You took your time about coming forward, didn’t you?’

  ‘Oh, I enjoyed it!’ She giggled, a happy and carefree sound that would have chilled the blood of a frozen flounder. ‘I enjoyed every moment of it!’

  ‘A touching pair, aren’t they?’ I said to van Gelder. ‘Herself and her saintly pal here. This quality of trusting child-like innocence—

  ‘Shut up,’ van Gelder said coldly. He approached, ran his hand over me for weapons, found none. ‘Sit on the floor. Keep your hands where I can see them. You, too, de Graaf.’

  We did as we were told. I sat cross-legged, my forearms on my thighs, my dangling hands close to my ankles. De Graaf stared at me, his face a mirror for his absolute lack of understanding.

  ‘I was coming to this bit,’ I said apologetically. ‘I was just on the point of telling you why you’ve made so little progress yourselves in tracing the source of those drugs. Your trusted lieutenant, Inspector van Gelder, made good and sure that no progress was made.’

  ‘Van Gelder?’ De Graaf, even with all the physical evidence to the contrary before him, still couldn’t conceive of a senior police officer’s treachery. ‘How can this be? It can’t be.’

  ‘That’s not a lollipop he’s pointing at you,’ I said mildly. Van Gelder’s the boss, van Gelder’s the brain. He’s the Frankenstein, all right: Goodbody’s just the monster that’s run out of control. Right, van Gelder?’

  ‘Right!’ The baleful glance van Gelder directed at Goodbody didn’t augur too well for Goodbody’s future, although I didn’t believe he had one anyway.

  I looked at Trudi without affection. ‘And as for your little Red Riding-hood, van Gelder, this sweet little mistress of yours—’

  ‘Mistress?’ De Graaf was so badly off balance that he no longer even looked stunned.

  ‘You heard. But I think van Gelder has rather fallen out of love with her, haven’t you, van Gelder? She has, shall we say, become too much of a psychopathic soulmate for the Reverend here.’ I turned to de Graaf. ‘Our little rosebud is no addict. Goodbody knows how to make those marks on her arms look real. He told me so. Her mental age is not eight, it’s older than sin itself. And twice as evil.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ De Graaf sounded tired. ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘She served three useful purposes,’ I said. ‘With van Gelder having a daughter like that, who would ever doubt that he was a dedicated enemy of drugs and all the evil men who profit by them? She was the perfect go-between for van Gelder and Goodbody – they never made contact, not even on the phone. And, most important, she was the vital link in the drug supply line. She took her puppet out to Huyler, switched it there for one loaded with heroin, took it back to the puppet van in the Vondel Park and switched it again. The van, of course, brought it here when it returned for more supplies. She is a very endearing child, is our Trudi. But she shouldn’t have used belladonna to give her eyes that glazed addict look. I didn’t catch on at the time, but give me time and clobber me over the head with a two-by-four and eventually I’ll catch on to anything. It wasn’t the right look, I’ve talked to too many junkies who had the right look. And then I knew.’

  Trudi giggled again and licked her lips. ‘Can I shoot him now? In the leg. High up?’

  ‘You’re a charming little morsel,’ I said, ‘but you should get your priorities right. Why don’t you look around you?’

  She looked around her. Everybody looked around him. I didn’t, I just looked straight at Belinda, then nodded almost imperceptibly at Trudi, who was standing between her and the open loading doors. Belinda, in turn, glanced briefly at Trudi and I knew she understood.

  ‘You fools!’ I said contemptuously. ‘How do you think I got all my information? I was given it! I was given it by two people who got scared to death and sold you down the river for a free pardon. Morgenstern and Muggenthaler.’

  There were some pretty inhuman characters among those present, no doubt about that, but they were all human in their reactions. They all stared in consternation at Morgenstern and Muggenthaler, who stood there with unbelieving eyes and mouths agape and it was with mouths agape that they died, for they were both carrying guns and the gun I now had in my hand was very small and I couldn’t afford just to wound them. In the same moment of time Belinda flung herself back against an off-guard Trudi, who staggered backwards, teetered on the edge of the loading sill, then fell from sight.

  Her thin wailing scream had not yet ended when de Graaf reached up desperately for van Gelder’s gun hand, but I’d no time to see how de Graaf made out, for I’d pushed myself to my toes, still in a crouching position and launched myself in a low dive for Goodbody, who was struggling to get his gun out. Goodbody pitched backwards with a crash that spoke well for the basic soundness of the warehouse floors, which remained where they were, and a second later I’d twisted round behind his back and had him making strange croaking noises in his throat, because I’d my arm hooked around his neck as if I were trying to make the front and back ends meet.


  De Graaf was lying on the floor, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. He was moaning a little. Van Gelder led a struggling Belinda in front of him, using her as a shield, just as I was using Goodbody as a shield. Van Gelder was smiling. Both our guns were pointing at each other.

  ‘I know the Shermans of this world.’ Van Gelder’s tone was calm, conversational. ‘They’d never risk hurting an innocent person – especially a girl so lovely as this. As for Goodbody there, I don’t care if he’s shot as full of holes as a colander. I make a point?’

  I looked at the right side of Goodbody’s face, which was the only part of it I could see. Its colour, varied between purple and mauve, and whether this was because he was being slowly strangled by me or because of his reaction to his erstwhile partner’s ready and callous abandonment of him was difficult to say. Why I looked at him I don’t know, the last thought in my mind was to weigh up the respective value of Belinda and Goodbody as hostages: as long as van Gelder had Belinda as a hostage he was as safe as a man in a church. Well, any church, that was, except the Reverend Goodbody’s.

  ‘You make a point,’ I said.

  ‘I make another point,’ van Gelder went on. ‘You have a pop-gun there. I have a police Colt.’ I nodded. ‘So, my safe-conduct.’ He began to move towards the head of the stairs, keeping Belinda between us. ‘There’s a blue police van at the foot of the street. My van. I’m taking that. On the way there I’m going to smash the office telephones. If, when I reach the van, I do not see you at the loading door there, then I shall no longer require her. You understand?’

  ‘I understand. And if you kill her wantonly, you will never be able to sleep easy again. You know that.’

  He said, ‘I know that,’ and disappeared walking backwards down the stairs, dragging Belinda behind him. I paid no attention to his going. I saw de Graaf sitting up and taking a handkerchief to his bleeding forehead, so apparently he was still able to fend for himself. I released my throttling grip on Goodbody’s neck, reached over and took his gun away, then, still seated behind him, brought out the handcuffs and secured both his wrists, one to the wrist of the dead Morgenstern, the other to the wrist of the dead Muggenthaler. I then rose, walked round to the front of Goodbody and helped a very shaky de Graaf to a chair. I looked back at Goodbody, who was staring at me with a face carved in a rictus of terror. When he spoke his normally deep, pontifical voice was almost an insane scream.

  ‘You’re not going to leave me like this!’

  I surveyed the two massive merchants to whom he was chained.

  ‘You can always tuck one under either arm and make good your escape.’

  ‘In God’s name, Sherman—’

  ‘You put Astrid on a hook. I told her I would help her and you put her on a hook. You had Maggie pitchforked to death. My Maggie. You were going to hang Belinda on a hook. My Belinda. You’re the man who loves death. Try it at close quarters for a change.’ I moved towards the loading door, checked and looked at him again. ‘And if I don’t find Belinda alive, I’m not coming back.’

  Goodbody moaned like some stricken animal and gazed with a horrified and shuddering revulsion at the two dead men who made him prisoner. I walked to the loading doors and glanced down.

  Trudi was lying spreadeagled on the pavement below. I didn’t spare her a second glance. Across the street van Gelder was leading Belinda towards the police van. At the door of the van he turned, looked up, saw me, nodded and opened the door.

  I turned away from the loading doors, crossed to the still groggy de Graaf, helped him to his feet and towards the head of the stairs. There, I turned and looked back at Goodbody. His eyes were staring in a fear-crazed face and he was making strange hoarse noises deep in his throat. He looked like a man lost for ever in a dark and endless nightmare, a man pursued by fiends and knowing he can never escape.

  FOURTEEN

  Darkness had almost fallen on the streets of Amsterdam. The drizzle was only light, but penetratingly cold as it was driven along by the high gusting wind. In the gaps between the wind-torn clouds the first stars winked palely: the moon was not yet up.

  I sat waiting behind the driving wheel of the Opel, parked close to a telephone-box. By and by the box door opened and de Graaf, dabbing with his handkerchief at the blood still oozing from the gash on his forehead, came out and entered the car. I glanced up at him interrogatively.

  The area will be completely cordoned within ten minutes. And when I say cordoned, I mean escape-proof. Guaranteed.’ He mopped some more blood. ‘But how can you be so sure—’

  ‘He’ll be there.’ I started the engine and drove off. ‘In the first place, van Gelder will figure it’s the last place in Amsterdam we’d ever think of looking for him. In the second place Goodbody, only this morning, removed the latest supply of heroin from Huyler. In one of those big puppets, for a certainty. The puppet wasn’t in his car out at the castle, so it must have been left in the church. He’d no time to take it anywhere else. Besides, there’s probably another fortune of the stuff lying about the church. Van Gelder’s not like Goodbody and Trudi. He’s not in the game for the kicks. He’s in it for the money – and he’s not going to pass up all that lovely lolly.’

  ‘Lolly?’

  ‘Sorry. Money. Maybe millions of dollars’ worth of the stuff.’

  ‘Van Gelder.’ De Graaf shook his head very slowly. ‘I can’t believe it. A man like that! With a magnificent police record.’

  ‘Save your sympathy for his victims,’ I said harshly. I hadn’t meant to speak like that to a sick man but I was still a sick man myself: I doubted whether the condition of my head was even fractionally better than that of de Graaf. ‘Van Gelder’s worse than any of them. You can at least say for Goodbody and Trudi that their minds were so sick and warped and diseased that they were no longer responsible for their actions. But van Gelder isn’t sick that way. He does it all cold-bloodedly for money. He knows the score. He knew what was going on, how his psychopathic pal Goodbody was behaving. And he tolerated it. If he could have kept the racket going on for ever, he’d have tolerated Goodbody’s lethal aberrations for ever. I looked at de Graaf speculatively. ‘You know that his brother and wife were killed in a car smash in Curacao?’

  De Graaf paused before replying. ‘It was not a tragic accident?’

  ‘It was not a tragic accident. We’ll never prove it, but I’d wager my pension that it was caused by a combination of his brother, who was a trained security officer, finding out too much about him and van Gelder’s desire to be rid of a wife who was coming between him and Trudi – in the days before Trudi’s more lovable qualities came to the surface. My point is that the man’s an ice-cold calculator, quite ruthless and totally devoid of what we’d regard as normal human feelings.’

  ‘You’ll never live to collect your pension,’ de Graaf said sombrely.

  ‘Maybe not. But I was right about one thing.’ We’d turned into the canal street of Goodbody’s church and there, directly ahead, was the plain blue police van. We didn’t stop, but drove past it, parked at the door of the church and got out. A uniformed sergeant came down the steps to greet us and any reactions he had caused by the sight of the two crocks in front of him he hid very well.

  ‘Empty, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ve even been up the belfry.’

  De Graaf turned away and looked at the blue van.

  ‘If Sergeant Gropius says there’s no one there, then there’s no one there.’ He paused, then said slowly: ‘Van Gelder’s a brilliant man. We know that now. He’s not in the church. He’s not in Goodbody’s house. My men have both sides of the canal and the street sealed off. So, he’s not here. He’s elsewhere.’

  ‘He’s elsewhere, but he’s here,’ I said. ‘If we don’t find him, how long will you keep the cordon in position?’

  ‘Till we’ve searched and then double-checked every house in the street. Two hours, maybe three.’

  ‘And then he could walk away?’

  ‘He could. If h
e was here.’

  ‘He’s here,’ I said with certainty. ‘It’s Saturday evening. Do the building workers turn out on Sundays?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So that gives him thirty-six hours. Tonight, even tomorrow night, he comes down and walks away.’

  ‘My head.’ Again de Graaf dabbed at his wound. ‘Van Gelder’s gun butt was very hard. I’m afraid—’

  ‘He’s not down here,’ I said patiently. ‘Searching the house is a waste of time. And I’m damned certain he’s not at the bottom of the canal holding his breath all the time. So where can he be?’

  I looked speculatively up into the dark and wind-torn sky. De Graaf followed my line of sight. The shadowy outline of the towering crane seemed to reach up almost to the clouds, the tip of its massive horizontal boom lost in the surrounding darkness. The great crane had always struck me as having a weirdly menacing atmosphere about it: tonight probably because of what I had in mind it looked awesome and forbidding and sinister to a degree.

  ‘Of course,’ de Graaf whispered. ‘Of course.’

  I said: ‘Well, then, I’d better be going.’

  ‘Madness! Madness! Look at you, look at your face. You’re not well.’

  ‘I’m well enough.’

  ‘Then I’m coming with you,’ de Graaf said determinedly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I have young, fit police officers—’

  ‘You haven’t the moral right to ask any of your men, young and fit or not, to do this. Don’t argue. I refuse. Besides, this is no case for a frontal assault. Secrecy, stealth – or nothing.’

  ‘He’s bound to see you.’ Unwillingly or not, de Graaf was coming round to my point of view.

  ‘Not bound to. From his point of view everything below must be in darkness.’

  ‘We can wait,’ he urged. ‘He’s bound to come down. Some time before Monday morning he’s bound to come down.’

  ‘Van Gelder takes no delight in death. That we know. But he’s totally indifferent to death. That we know also. Lives – other people’s lives – mean nothing to him.’