Roller Coaster

by Michael Gilbert

  He said, “Thom Sturmann is making a good thing out of this caravan-serai. It’s getting almost uncomfortably crowded.”

  “You come here a lot?”

  “About once a month. And I hardly like to tell you – as a loyal Englishman – that what I’m doing is getting a ship built. It’s a slow business, but not as slow as it would be on the Tyne.”

  “And cheaper, I suppose.”

  “A bit. Not all that much. The real trouble with our shipyards is that they never seem able to give you a firm delivery date. My name’s Ringland, by the way. You’re not in shipping yourself?”

  “Hardly,” said Hoyland, with a smile at the idea of himself as a shipping magnate. “The only thing I’m interested in shipping is parties of schoolboys.”

  He explained who he was and what he was doing.

  “Not a job I’d care for,” said Ringland. “I don’t mean your job. That gets you round Europe at the expense of someone else. I’d be all for that. I meant his sort of job. Doesn’t look happy, does he?”

  This was directed at a serious-looking young man who had come in with twenty rumbustious boys and was spreading them round the empty tables.

  Hoyland said, “There’s something you can tell me. One of the complaints about the last lot that I’m investigating was that a man going under the name of Hendrik Winkel – some sort of tout I imagine – had tried to get the boys to join him on a trip round the red-light district. Sturmann maintains that this was a normal bit of sight-seeing. Could he be right?”

  “Roughly right. Tourists do get taken round the Walletjes in the early part of the evening. The tarts lean out of their windows and shout insults at them and everyone feels they’re having a good time. If you’re after real business you go along after dark.”

  “I see,” said Hoyland doubtfully. “There was also talk about a striptease show.”

  “Plenty of them. Amsterdam’s a pretty tolerant city in some ways. I see that you’re a Wellingtonian. Recent vintage?”

  “I left three years ago.”

  “I asked because the son of an old friend of mine has just gone there. He told me he was in the Picton. All the houses are named after Wellington’s generals. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Correct. But for some odd reason most of them are called dormitories, not houses. I was in the Orange.”

  “Prince of Orange? The young man who destroyed the King’s German Legion at Waterloo by ordering them to charge at the wrong time and in the wrong direction?”

  “We skipped that bit of history,” said Hoyland, with a smile.

  “Hullo! Is that your tout?”

  A black-haired, pale-faced man had sidled into the room. He was dressed in a dark three-piece suit, which must have made him quite uncomfortably hot.

  “The black crow,” said Hoyland. “If his name’s Hendrik he’s my man. I’ll slip out ahead of him and tackle him in the lobby.”

  The newcomer was not eating. He had pulled up a chair to the end of the table furthest from the master in charge and was chatting up the boys. He seemed to be practising his English on them, whilst they practised their Dutch on him, a proceeding which was giving rise to a lot of giggling.

  Hoyland, who found the smorgasbord which was served as a starter more than enough for a whole meal, left the table through a door onto the terrace, circled the hotel and stationed himself in the reception area. The boys, having been served last, came out last. They were followed by Ringland who said, “You’ve missed your bird. He slipped off the same way that you did.”

  “Never mind,” said Hoyland. “He’ll be back.”

  It was clearly time that he did some serious thinking. He went back to his room in the Reizigerhof, opened the window, pulled up a chair beside it and sat looking down on the traffic which hustled and bustled up Spilbergen Straat.

  He had not missed the look of relief on Sturmann’s face when he had told him that he planned to leave on Friday morning. According to the receptionist the present party of boys was leaving on Saturday (‘Thank the good Lord.’ She had a low opinion of schoolboys). That meant that anything that was going to happen would be timed for Friday night. The idea, quite clearly, was to leave the action until the last moment and then get rid of the boys as quickly as possible.

  The more he thought over the problem the more clearly he recognised its difficulties. If the programme was a repeat from last time the boys would leave the hotel by car. No doubt these men had their eyes open. Another car, a taxi or a hire car following them would soon be spotted. His plan, therefore, was to use a bicycle, which he could hire and which was a common enough form of transport in Amsterdam to escape notice. But was it capable of keeping up with an efficiently-driven private car, particularly later in the evening when the traffic flow would be reduced? He doubted it.

  There was only one answer. He must get some idea of where the studio was, so that he could anticipate the opposition and get into the area ahead of them. Could he do that? A study of the street map had shown him that he might.

  The boy in the previous party who had kept his wits about him had noticed that they crossed a stretch of water by one bridge, ran round a bit and came back by another. This stretch of water must be the Amstel, a fact borne out by the reference to hearing the lion roaring. A car crossing the Amstel on Sarphati Straat would run, almost at once, alongside the Artis Park and its zoo. After that it could have fooled round in the Oosterpark area before re-crossing the Amstel. But by which bridge?

  There was a choice of two. One was the main Houderskade. The other, just below it, was called the Nieuwamstelbrug. It was on a much smaller road. A car which was not anxious to call attention to itself might well have preferred the quieter route. A further pointer. After crossing, it would have been heading into a maze of small streets, which the map called De Pijp, or the Pipe. Just the sort of area, away from all the main streets, which might have old office properties tucked into it. So far this was surmise, inspired by map-reading. Tomorrow he would take his bicycle and examine the whole area.

  Back in his own room after lunch Ringland asked the telephone exchange for an external line and dialled a number in the City of London. This was a direct line at the other end and went straight through to the man he wanted.

  He said, “Toby here, Bob. I’m having to take a chance on an open line because this is urgent.”

  “If it’s urgent,” said the placid voice at the other end, “fire away. But keep it short.”

  “Can you locate someone in our circle who’s clued up about Wellington? The school in Berkshire, I mean, not the West Country version. Some master or recent old boy. Best would be the man who looks after the OW register.”

  “Might be able to. What’s it all about?”

  “There’s a character called Hoyland sniffing round the hotel. May be all right. Sturmann says he’s got a letter from the East London Education people empowering him to investigate hotels taking youth groups in Amsterdam, Paris and whatever.”

  “Signed by who?”

  “A bod called Wilfred Wetherall. Why? Do you know him?”

  The man at the other end chuckled. “Everyone knows old Wetherall. He’s about ninety, but an honest old bird. So what’s worrying you?”

  “It’s just a feeling. His coming along so soon after the trouble we had with the other lot. Seemed rather too coincidental. He’s been trying to get his hooks into Hendrik. I warned him about this and he slipped out of the dining-room and made off. I’ve told him to make himself scarce until Friday night.”

  “Details of Hoyland, please.”

  “He was in the Orange dormitory. He left about three years ago. And he didn’t, I think, go on to the university. What I’d like to know is what he did do. He can’t make a living out of occasional jaunts to the Continent. What’s his real job?”

  “See what I can do. Arthur was at Wellington. Long before your chap, of course. By the way, who’s running transport?”

  “Jonathan. And that’s another w
orry. If Hoyland got at him he’d blow a gasket.”

  “Jonathan’s a wimp. I’m sorry we ever let him in on this. No use crying over spilt milk. Anything I can find out will have to be with you by the day after tomorrow if it’s going to be any use to you. So stay near a telephone.”

  Hoyland spent the whole of Wednesday exploring the section of Amsterdam that the map called the Old South. He gave most attention to the half of it which lay east of the Ruysdaelkade. West of it the nature of the city changed. It was full of museums and concert halls. The eastern half was much more the sort of area he had in mind, part residential, part business. It had once been prosperous, but had slipped. On some of the blocks of flats ‘To Let’ notices sprouted as thick as apples in autumn. Other buildings were shuttered and empty. No doubt the renovator would eventually arrive, as he had in the New South. At the moment it was an area that was waiting and hoping.

  Starting at the little Sarphati Park in the centre and moving in ever-widening circles, he traversed the whole district, memorising the twists and turns of the streets and picking out landmarks, like the church towers and the pointed roof of the sports hall, which would be useful guides at night. As far as he could judge, the place was poorly lighted. He was glad to see that the bicycle was the almost universal form of transport.

  When he had finished he selected a spot from which he could see both of the Amstel bridges. He was fully aware that he was taking a chance. The car might not come that way at all. But it was a better chance than trying to avoid detection when following it from the hotel.

  Now one last and very difficult matter had to be attended to. He had somehow to watch the hotel to see when the boys left it and what the car looked like. Useless to think of hanging about in the street. He would be spotted at once.

  He took the problem back with him to the hotel and thought about it, lying on his bed. When the solution struck him it was quite simple. The building he was in ran all the way back to the Ortelius Straat and the Witte Raaf hotel was on the opposite side. All he needed was a window in the back of his own hotel. He went out, climbed a further flight of stairs and found himself in an area of small rooms. Some of them had numbers on the doors. He noted particularly three rooms at the back. The doors were locked, but they looked to be what he wanted.

  He went downstairs to talk to the proprietress, a motherly woman who clearly had a soft spot for the young man. They talked in French. Hoyland spoke warmly in praise of the bedroom he had been allotted, but regretted that it had one drawback. The traffic in the Spilbergen Straat, which was a main road and a bus route, kept him awake at night. Might it be possible to change it for a smaller room at the back? He explained, with a smile, that he was not seeking to economise. No doubt the room would be smaller, but he was quite prepared to pay the same price for it.

  The proprietress smiled too. She said that it would be quite possible. The change-over could be effected that evening. She added that Hoyland reminded her of her own son, who was in the Dutch police.

  On Thursday evening Hoyland paid a farewell visit to the Witte Raaf. He explained to Sturmann, with disarming frankness, that the discussions he had held that day with a number of other hotels had not produced a tariff of charges lower than the ones at the Witte Raaf. Indeed, in some cases, they were higher. If Sturmann could assure him that future parties would be more carefully looked after and, in particular, would not be allowed to roam around late at night, then he was prepared to report favourably to the Education Authority.

  Sturmann assured him that he was already taking steps in the matter and pointed to an item in the local paper. It invited applications for the post of night-porter at the hotel. Hoyland thanked him for this proof of his attention and they parted with expressions of mutual regard.

  Satisfied with his day’s work, he slept soundly in his garret room.

  On Friday morning he set out early, on foot, leaving his bicycle chained up, with others, in the forecourt of the hotel. At a shop in a back street which he had located the day before and which seemed to specialise in sailors’ dunnage, he bought an old but respectable-looking suitcase and a seaman’s cloak. Once clear of the shop he packed the cloak into the suitcase. He had two hours to kill and spent one hour over a leisurely breakfast and the second on a bench in the Vondelpark, watching the water fowl and reading an English newspaper which he had got from a kiosk. Nothing much seemed to be happening. Most of the cricket matches had petered out in drawn games. For a moment he had an overmastering longing to be back in south London, at the half-empty Oval, watching the leisurely unfolding of county cricket.

  At half past ten he put such thoughts from him, picked up his suitcase and made his way on foot to the Central Station. Eleven o’clock was striking as he arrived. The train for Paris left at noon from platform eight. Platform seven, alongside it, announced a stopping train to Woerden and Rotterdam, leaving ten minutes before the Paris express. He had already noted these timings. He joined the queue at the ticket office and bought a third-class ticket to Abcoude, which was the first station down the line, after which he retired to the station buffet, ordered a cup of coffee and withdrew with it to a table at the back of the room. As he drank it, he kept an eye on the crowd on the concourse. He thought he saw a face that he recognised. Yes. It was Ringland and he was talking to a fair-haired young man. A fellow shipbuilder? They strolled up the concourse, turned and came back again and stopped to chat. Blondie had the sort of face that Hoyland particularly disliked. Not much forehead, too much nose and chin; over-poweringly English and upper class. It looked as though they were waiting for someone. But if so, why on that section of the platform which was devoted to departures? He was conscious of a first very faint prickle of uneasiness.

  Very well. If they were, for some accountable reason, keeping an eye on him, he would reward them with a full performance.

  By the time he reached the barrier Ringland had disappeared. Blondie was pretending, unconvincingly, to read a newspaper. Hoyland presented his ticket and strolled slowly along the platform, examining the Paris train for an empty carriage. He found one at the far end of the platform, dumped his bag in it and then leaned out of the corridor window and shouted to the boy with the trolley for a bottle of beer.

  He realised that the next move was going to be tricky, but since the local train was filling up from the rear, there was likely to be a rush of last-minute travellers for the few remaining seats in front. As it came, he slipped across with it, on the leeside of a large Dutch frau who seemed equally afraid of losing her children and the train. With her he landed in a compartment crammed to suffocation.

  Ten minutes later he was out on the platform at Abcoude, an uninspiring suburb of Amsterdam, where he had an uninspiring lunch, before catching a bus. After two changes, he found himself in the Duivendrecht district.

  This was where the leading diamond merchants had built their houses alongside the golf course. His idea was to keep out of the city until dusk and he could not have chosen a more peaceful place for a siesta. He was too worked up to sleep properly, but managed to doze.

  The brightness faded at last from a sky which had turned from dark blue to a threatening bronze. He could feel the thunder in the air and guessed that a storm was brewing up. It took him an hour to walk back to his hotel. There was no one in the lobby. The girl behind the desk was busy on the telephone. He took his key from its hook and padded up the four flights of stairs to his attic room. So far, so good.

  He moved a chair across to the window, opened it and sat down. It was an excellent observation post. All he had to do now was to stay awake, not easy after the exertions of the day.

  When he found his head nodding he got up and started to walk across the room. Three steps to the door and three back again. As he re-seated himself he heard the distant rumble of thunder. The storm was somewhere over the North Sea. It might not reach the city at all. He rather hoped that it would. Even if it brought rain it would lift some of the heaviness.

  He h
ad been on watch for more than two hours when the car arrived. He was certain it was the right one even before he saw Hendrik get out of it and go into the hotel. A long, dark saloon, not unlike the sort of vehicle favoured by undertakers. The back windows were curtained.

  Five minutes later the boys appeared, chattering happily. No hurry, said Hoyland to himself. If they follow the same routine there’ll be a preliminary session in a Braunen café to loosen the boys up. He watched the car drive off, then walked downstairs and out into the forecourt, unchained his bicycle and pedalled sedately away.

  His chosen observation post at the end of Jan Steen Straat was an archway which led to the back of a post office, long closed for the night, its vans parked in a neat row behind a padlocked gate.

  No question now of going to sleep. He was wide awake and worrying. It was perfectly possible that he had made a fool of himself. Even if he had correctly deduced the route of the car on the previous occasion, there was no guarantee that it would follow it a second time.

  One crawling hour later he had convinced himself that his plan had failed. A more courageous or a more enterprising operator would have accepted the risk and followed the car. He had just reached this unhappy conclusion when the car appeared, drove over the upper bridge and re-appeared ten minutes later, over the lower one. Precisely according to plan, thought Hoyland. After such a start, all must go well.

  The car, which was driving at a reduced speed through these badly lighted and twisting streets, was quite easy to follow. He gave it sufficient law to turn each corner ahead and then pedalled furiously to catch up before it could turn again. The only hitch occurred when it turned down an opening which he knew, from his previous reconnaissance, led to a dead-end, blocked by the sports hall. He guessed that the driver had made a mistake and had turned too soon. This was proved correct when he heard the sudden squeal of brakes and the noise of the car reversing. By the time it emerged, Hoyland had retreated into a handy doorway. He felt certain that the car was very close to its destination.