2007 - The Good Thief's Guide to Amsterdam

by Chris Ewan

  I can’t tell you how good it was to see him again. What I can tell you is that I whooped and did a silly little jig and followed that up with a seriously bad moonwalk. Because to hell with my book, there was at least one case I could solve all on my lonesome.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I had a few more errands to run after leaving the apartment, and one of them involved me teaming up with Stuart for an hour or so. Once we were done, I left him to carry out a job of his own devising, giving me just enough time to return to his building and place a series of phone calls.

  The first number I dialled was for the central police station and from there I asked to be transferred to Detective Inspector Riemer’s direct line. After a wait of around a minute or so, during which time I was treated to intermittent bursts of recorded Dutch soundbites, I was finally put through.

  “Mr. Howard,” Detective Inspector Riemer began. “You have some information for us?”

  “You remember me then,” I said.

  “Of course. I was just reviewing the notes on your interview.”

  “Ah. I should imagine that makes for some fascinating reading.”

  “The report is quite short, in fact. I see you would not answer many questions.”

  “Would you believe me if I told you I’m shy?”

  Riemer paused long enough to let me know exactly what she thought of my response.

  “What if I said I had the impression Inspector Burggrave had already formed a somewhat biased opinion of me?”

  She sighed. “I do not have time for games, Mr. Howard. What did you want?”

  “Oh, not much. Only to say that I think I know who killed Michael Park.”

  Riemer hesitated. I could picture her tense and crowd around the telephone receiver. “Will you agree to be interviewed?”

  “In a sense,” I said. “If you’ll meet with me.”

  “When?”

  “Four o’clock this afternoon. And bring your deluded colleague along too, will you?”

  After providing her with the necessary details, I rang off and called the next name on my list. The conversations I found myself conducting all followed a similar format and without exception everybody I called seemed reluctant to meet me. If I was a more sensitive type I might have developed a complex about that but the truth is I’ve never been one to take things to heart and fortunately I can be a stubborn fellow when the situation demands it. In point of fact, every single person I called showed up in the end, which I’m enough of a realist to admit probably had more to do with the lure of the diamonds than any reputation I’d developed for throwing a good party.

  The venue was one of Stuart’s masterstrokes. We were in the old central warehouse at the disused Van Zandt complex. All about us were broken storage crates, dusty wooden palettes, buckled metal trolleys and empty oil drums. The floor was covered in an ankle-high scree of waste and dust and fallen ceiling plaster and the temperature was no warmer than outside, since there was no heating to speak of and a good deal of the windows were smashed through, allowing the bitter gusts of winter air that scoured the surface water of the Oosterdok to whip around us.

  To give the scene some order, I’d gone to the trouble of arranging a number of crates and palettes to form a rough semi-circle in front of me but my efforts didn’t appear to have made my guests any more comfortable. Kim, for one, could have done with a hat and scarf, because she was obviously cold. Her chin was tucked right down inside the collar of her puff a jacket, her fine legs were crossed at the thigh and she was blowing warm air onto her cupped hands. I couldn’t ask her how she was feeling, though, because she’d evidently decided to have nothing to do with me or anyone else for that matter. Her hundred yard stare was a good one, but that was no surprise given she’d been practising it since her arrival.

  The wide man and the thin man were sat opposite her, sharing the same crate, and I noticed the thin man had found the time to replace the leather jacket I’d taken from him. I knew from experience now that the jacket wouldn’t provide much warmth but maybe that wasn’t the point. Perhaps it was all part of a uniform he and his broad companion had devised for themselves years ago, even if only on a subconscious level. I could imagine them both getting ready to head out for some general villainy and the procedure they might go through. Van keys? Check. Bower boots? Check. Baseball bat? Check. Shall I wear the leather jacket? Oh go on then.

  Talking of clothing, Inspector Burggrave and Detective Inspector Riemer were the most suitably attired, each of them wearing standard-issue police coats with dense fur linings. They also seemed the most inconvenienced by our get-together and gave the impression I was keeping them from far more pressing matters. That was nonsense, of course, but they were police officers after all and it would be bad form to appear pleased about being asked to show up someplace on anybody else’s terms. So they kept pacing around in circles and checking their watches and mobile telephones, and just for that I held off on starting for at least two minutes longer than I needed to.

  Stuart was sat just to my side and, like me, he was dressed in a thick, roll-neck jumper, though his was several sizes larger and many times more distended around the gut. He’d teemed the jumper with a woollen sports jacket with leather patches at the elbow and he had a very Rutherford-style paisley handkerchief poking out from his breast pocket. His final prop, a leather-bound briefcase, nestled on the floor beside his feet, and if anyone had had cause to look inside, they would have found it was as empty as the wide man’s head. Stuart looked entirely at ease, which he was entitled to, since he was the only person beside myself who knew anything of what was about to unfold.

  Next to Stuart was my final guest, Niels Van Zandt. To my mind, Mr. Van Zandt looked more fragile than he had done inside his home, his milky eyes watchful and ever ready, but I could also tell that part of him was caught up in the thrill of being back inside his family’s old business premises and, so far as I could make out, he seemed no more aware of the cold than he was of his own breathing. He wore only a cashmere sweater and corduroy trousers but from the easy way he was perched on his oil drum, gnarled hands lightly gripping the top of his cane, you would have thought he was comfortably reclined in front of the open fire in his study. Part of me wished I was there myself—I could have done with a mouthful of bourbon to settle my nerves before I began.

  “Thank you for coming,” I said, looking around the group of people in front of me and showing them my palms in a welcoming gesture. “Some of you are acquainted, I believe, though I hope you won’t mind if I hold off on the wider introductions for now. Suffice it to say that this gentleman on my right,” I said, motioning towards Stuart, “is Henry Rutherford, my lawyer. Mr Rutherford is here to ensure that everyone understands that I won’t be incriminating myself by anything I may say here today.”

  I looked at Burggrave and Detective Inspector Riemer and waited for both of them to acknowledge what I’d said. They did so, reluctantly.

  “For the record,” Stuart cut in, warming to his role, “the two police officers present have indicated their willingness to adhere to this understanding.”

  I thought he might try to get them to confirm it to him verbally but, like all successful confidence men, Stuart knew not to overplay his hand. Burggrave and Riemer contemplated him with evident distaste but he took it in his stride. As Rutherford, he could rise above such things. In truth, he was so comfortable in his performance that Kim must have found it difficult to reconcile the pompous individual before her now with the crazed gunman who had held a pistol to her head.

  “As most of you know,” I resumed, “the building we are in used to be the main storage and diamond cutting facility for Van Zandt Diamonds. Mr. Niels Van Zandt,” I went on, gesturing towards the resilient old gent, “is the nephew of Lars Van Zandt, the founder of the family diamond business. Mr. Van Zandt has agreed to join us today for the sake of clarifying a few points that might otherwise be taken as conjecture. Thank you again for coming, Mr. Van Zandt.”


  Van Zandt bowed his head and gave me a queer little wave, faintly regal, as if he was granting me permission to continue. If I was a military man I might have given him a quick salute but I’ve never been able to carry off that sort of thing so I just nodded, as if doffing an imaginary cap in his direction. He seemed to be enjoying my deference, so I went on with the charade.

  “Having had the pleasure of being able to talk with Mr Van Zandt, I can tell you that his family established their jewel trading business at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Their core activities involved them in purchasing uncut stones from the former Dutch colonies and refining them here in Amsterdam before selling them onto high-class jewellers and diamond retailers throughout the world. Unlike a number of their competitors, they were hugely successful and rapidly became the most powerful of the Dutch diamond merchants.”

  “Did you call us all here for a history lesson?” Riemer asked, sharply.

  “Not at all,” I assured her. “Though I think the background may help a little. And I must confess that I found it all rather fascinating when Mr. Van Zandt spoke to me. I don’t think it inaccurate to say,” I said, acknowledging Van Zandt again, “that Van Zandt Diamonds were one of the greatest companies this country has ever known.”

  Van Zandt nodded, a contented look upon his face.

  “And, as all of us are aware, Michael Park, the American, was sent to prison for killing a security guard here, most likely while attempting to steal uncut diamonds from the Van Zandt strong room. The unfortunate security guard’s name was Robert Wolkers. And this,” I said, gesturing to Kim, “is his daughter, Kim Wolkers.”

  Everyone looked at her in that moment, though Burggrave and Riemer’s heads turned fastest. Kim remained cool, neither acknowledging nor denying it. Her eyes moved only from the point of oblivion she’d been focused upon to the ground between her feet.

  “This is true?” Van Zandt asked, looking from Kim to me and back again.

  Kim didn’t react so it was left to me to confirm it.

  “Then you have my sympathies,” Van Zandt went on, his voice sombre. “My family were very saddened for you. I know that everyone on the board was most sad, though I believe they made a generous payment to your mother.”

  Kim looked up and glared at him, the severity of it jarring something in his watery, old-man eyes.

  “She was using the name Marieke Van Kleef for some time,” I said, directing my explanation to Burggrave and Riemer, before they could launch into any disruptive questioning. “I could explain why now, but that would put us ahead of ourselves. And what I’d really like to do, if you’ll all indulge me, is to skip to the part where I became involved.”

  I scanned the faces surrounding me, though I didn’t expect any of them to interrupt. They all wanted answers, even if, in Van Zandt’s case, it was more out of curiosity than necessity. The wide man and the thin man still hadn’t said anything yet, but they hadn’t seemed at all surprised when I revealed Kirn’s real identity. I could see they were uncomfortable, though, because they kept casting looks in the direction of the doors they had come in by, and the thin man was sat with his hands clenched together between his legs, his feet tapping out a nervous quick-time on the concrete floor. Both of them were facing away from Burggrave and Riemer, subconsciously shielding their features as though they were worried they might be recognised from some long-buried mug shots.

  “For the purposes of this afternoon, I want you to assume,” I said, turning from them to look at Stuart so as to give some emphasis to the assumption part, “that as well as being a writer, I have certain talents of a less than entirely legal nature.”

  “You are a thief,” the wide man announced.

  “On a purely theoretical basis,” I replied, “I will agree with you.”

  Burggrave turned and looked pointedly towards Riemer. She ignored him but it didn’t prevent her from giving me an ice-like glare. I shrugged, as if my criminality was nothing more than an unfortunate ailment I’d picked up some years before and had never quite been able to shake.

  “Working on this assumption,” I went on, “let us suppose that Michael Park contacted me, via the website I run, and asked me to meet him at Cafe de Brug, where, coincidentally, the beautiful, tragically orphaned Ms. Wolkers also happened to work. Let’s also say I showed up and over the course of a beer or two Michael asked me to obtain some items for him—the items in question being two monkey figurines located in the homes of these two gentlemen.”

  I cast my hand in the general direction of the wide man and the thin man. Somewhat ridiculously, I still didn’t know their real names, so I couldn’t introduce them as I might have hoped.

  “I’m afraid I still don’t know your names,” I said, and received a derisive snort from the thin man.

  “But we know them,” Riemer interrupted, surprising me as much as them. “I have reviewed a file on them only yesterday.”

  The two men looked at one another. The wide man shook his head minutely, as if telling his companion it was nothing to worry about. I wasn’t so sure about that.

  “Would you care to elaborate?” I asked.

  “It is police business.”

  “Tsk,” Van Zandt cut in. “Some people say there is too much of this ‘police business’ and not enough police work.”

  “If you have a complaint, sir,” Riemer began, “there are appropriate channels.”

  “Quite,” I said, “and more convenient times, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.” I smiled meekly at Van Zandt and, in time, he graced me with another of his considered nods. “And, to be honest, the names of these gentlemen really don’t concern us a great deal. During the last week or so, I’ve discovered that names can be untrustworthy things in any case. The only thing that really does matter is that these gentlemen had the monkey figurines Michael wanted.”

  “Can you describe them?” Riemer asked.

  “It’s not important.”

  “We will be the judge of that,” Burggrave said.

  “With respect,” Stuart told him, “I don’t think you’re here to be the judge of anything. At least not yet, anyway.”

  “Rutherford’s right,” I said. “But for the sake of clarity, they were so big.” I held my hands a few inches apart. “And they were made of plaster of Paris. The one Michael had was covering his eyes. It was part of a set of what we English call the Three Wise Monkeys.”

  Burggrave turned to his superior and began talking in Dutch, moving his hands at the same time to first cover his mouth and then his ears.

  “Yes, yes,” Riemer said, in English again, as if she was talking to a fool. “Everyone has heard of them. They are worth money?”

  “I didn’t think so,” I told her. “But Michael offered me a generous sum to obtain them for him nonetheless. At that point, I should say, I had no idea who he was, least of all that he was a thief himself. But it didn’t matter a great deal because I turned him down. He said he needed the job carried out the following night and the time-frame bothered me a great deal. Unfortunately, he gave me the addresses where I might find the monkeys anyway.”

  “Why did he do this?” Burggrave asked, trying, I thought, to regain some credibility after being slapped down by his superior.

  “He said he hoped I would change my mind. Sadly for me, I’m afraid I did just that. The following night, while Michael was dining with these two gentlemen at Cafe de Brug, I let myself into their homes and relieved them of the two monkey figurines in their possession. Problem was, when I got back, Michael was gone. That was when Kim appeared and told me he’d been frogmarched to his apartment by our friends here.”

  “It is not true,” the wide man said. “We walked to Michael’s home with him, but he invited us to do this.”

  “Yes, I thought that might be the case. I guess maybe it was getting close to the time we were supposed to meet and perhaps your meal hadn’t finished as soon as he’d hoped. Tell me, when you reached his apartment, did he make some kin
d of an excuse, feign an illness perhaps?”

  The wide man shrugged, as if I was close enough.

  “That wouldn’t have been long before Kim and I arrived. She wanted me with her because Michael had deviated from the plan he’d explained to her and she was worried. Partly her concern was for Michael, but in truth it was more for the monkeys.” I glanced over to her but still she refused to look at me. “When we arrived, we found him badly beaten in the bathroom.”

  “So these men killed him,” Van Zandt said, as if it were perfectly obvious who had committed the crime.

  “I assumed so,” I agreed. “In fact, I was sure of it and I thought I knew why. They didn’t know I’d stolen their monkeys, you see, so it seemed to me they were after the monkey Michael had. For some reason, the figurine was important enough for them to kill him and that was why he’d been so concerned to have me steal the monkeys when I did.”

  Burggrave removed his hands from his coat pockets and reached for the handcuffs suspended from his belt. Riemer stopped him with just a touch on his arm and a shake of her head.

  “You no longer think this?” Riemer asked me.

  “No. And for several reasons. One is that a few days after I was arrested on suspicion of beating Michael, quite wrongly I might add, these two gentlemen abducted me and held me prisoner in their apartment. When I was there, they told me they hadn’t done it.”