The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam

Chris Ewan

The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam

Charlie Howard #1

2007, EN

Charlie Howard doesn’t just write books about
a career thief, he also happens to be one. In Amsterdam working on
his latest novel, Charlie is approached by a mysterious American
who asks him to steal two apparently worthless monkey figurines
from two separate addresses on the same night. At first he says no.
Then he changes his mind. Only later, kidnapped and bound to a
chair, the American long dead and a spell in police custody behind
him, does Charlie begin to realise just how costly a mistake he
might have made. The Police think he killed the American. Others
think he knows the whereabouts of the elusive third monkey. But for
Charlie only three things matter: Can he clear his name? Can he get
away with the haul of a lifetime? And, can he solve the
briefcase-shaped plot-hole in his latest novel?

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∨
The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam
∧

I
want you to steal
something for me.” It wasn’t the first the time I’d heard those
words, though usually the person saying them liked to warm up to it
first. Not the American. He got straight to the point, casual as
you like. If I was a lesser writer, I’d tell you it set alarm bells
ringing inside my head or that a chill ran down my spine. In truth,
it just made me listen a little harder.

“You’ve made a mistake,” I told him. “I’m a writer, not a
burglar.”

“Some writer. I’ve been following your work. You’re good.” I
smiled. “A hack with a pricey education, nothing more.”

“Oh sure, as a writer. But as a thief, now that’s a different
story. You’ve got talent, kid, and that ain’t easy to find around
here.”

Around here was Amsterdam. To be exact, around here was a
dim-lit brown bar on a northern stretch of the Keizersgracht canal,
a twenty minute stroll or a ten minute bicycle ride from my
apartment. It was a cramped space, warmed more by the closeness of
the walls than the fading embers in the fire across from our table.
I’d been here before, though only in passing, and the name had
meant nothing to me when the American suggested it as a meeting
point. Now here I was again, a glass of Dutch beer in front of me
and a tricky proposition beyond that.

The American had contacted me through my website. Most suspense
writers have a website nowadays and you can go there to find all
kinds of information about me and my writing. There’s a page for
each of the burglar books I’ve written to date and a
News
section with details of any readings I’m involved in, as well as
some personal stuff my fans might care to know, such as where I
happen to be living while I’m writing my latest novel. There’s also
a link that allows readers to e–mail me and that was how the
American had been in touch.

A job for you
, he’d written.
Name your price. Hear me
out at Café de Brug. 10
PM
Thursday
(tomorrow
).

I had no idea who the American was, of course, and far less
reason to trust him, but then again, the lure of a new job was
something I’d long since given up trying to fight. Because the
truth, in case you haven’t already guessed, is that I don’t just
write books about a career thief also happen to be one.

“This talent you’re referring to,” I said. “Supposing it did
exist.”

“Supposing, I like that.”

“Well, just supposing, then, that I really do have this talent –
I’m curious how you’d like me to use it.”

The American checked over my shoulder, towards the doorway, then
over his own shoulder, towards the rear of the bar. When he was
satisfied that his neck worked just fine and that nobody was
eavesdropping on our conversation, he reached inside the front
pouch of his windbreaker and removed a small object that he placed
on the wooden table before me. The object, it turned out, was a
monkey figurine, about the size of my thumb. The monkey was sat on
his haunches, knees up around his chest, with his front paws
covering his eyes and his mouth wide open, as if in shock at
whatever it was he’d just seen inside the windbreaker.

“See no evil,” I said, half to myself, and the American nodded ‘
and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

I picked up the monkey for a closer look. From the weight and
the dry, gritty feel of it, I could tell the figurine had been
rendered in plaster of Paris, which went some way to explaining why
the finish was not very precise. The look of astonishment I’d read
on the monkey’s mouth could just as easily have been intended to
show fear or even dumb joy by its maker. All things considered, it
was hard to imagine it was worth more than a handful of pounds, or
even dollars or euros for that matter.

“There are two more of these monkeys,” the American said, not
altogether surprising me. “One covering his ears, the other
covering his mouth.”

“You don’t say.”

“I want you to steal them.”

I tilted my head to one side. “Supposing I could…obtain them for
you. I’m not sure it would be worth my while.”

The American leaned towards me and cocked an eyebrow. “How much
to make it worth your while?”

I thought about a figure, then doubled it.

“Ten thousand euros.”

“You want it tonight?”

I laughed. “But this is worthless,” I said, tossing the figurine
back to the American, who scrambled to catch it before it struck
the table.

“Not to me, kid,” he told me, carefully dusting the monkey down
and then placing it back inside the pouch of his windbreaker. “What
do you say?”

“I’ll think about it. Another beer?”

I stood and picked up our glasses without waiting for his answer
and crossed to the bar, where a not unattractive blonde was filling
some finger dishes with cashew nuts. She was tall and lean and
tanned in that year-round Scandinavian way that never fails to make
me feel impossibly English. You could tell she was used to fools
like me hitting on her and when her eyes met my own, it was with a
look that was like a ready apology.

“Twee pils astublieft,” I managed, meanwhile holding up two
fingers just in case the fact I was stood before a beer tap at a
bar with two empty beer glasses left her in any doubt as to what I
was aiming to buy.

“Of course,” she said, in clipped English.

She pushed her hair behind her ear, then took one of the glasses
and began to fill it, and meanwhile I tried to think about
something other than the freckles on her neck and ended up
considering how the American had found out about me instead. It was
intriguing, alright, because I was always careful to keep my
thieving a secret, and that was one of the reasons I travelled
around so much. The only person I talked about that side of my
character with at all was back in London and here in Amsterdam I’d
carried out just three jobs in the past four months, none of them
the type of thefts to draw much attention. True, one of the jobs
had been a commission, but the man who’d hired me was a Belgian who
passed his instructions through a Parisian fence I happened to
trust and it seemed unlikely the Belgian would have told the
American about me, given we’d never actually met. So how had the
American known to contact me? And why on earth did he want me to
steal two worthless figurines?

“Your beers,” the blonde said, scraping the froth from the top
of the half-pint glasses with a plastic spatula and placing them in
front of me.

“That man,” I said, indicating the American with a nod of my
head. “Has he been in here before?”

“Yes. He is an American.”

“Does he come here a lot?”

She pouted. “Many times, I think.”

“You know his name?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But he is polite, always
tipping.”

Of course he was. I laid a few extra notes on the table and
collected our beers.

The American was in his late fifties, I guessed, though it was
hard to gather much else about him. He had a thick head of grey
hair, cut in a jagged, youthful style, and he looked relatively fit
for his age. The windbreaker suited him, making him appear sporty,
like the type of guy who enjoyed sailing in his spare time, and I
had it in mind to pay attention to his hands and look for signs of
rope chaffing when he pulled me out of my thoughts by saying, “You
want to know my name, all you gotta do is ask. It’s Michael.”

“Michael…”

“You don’t have to say it so slow.”

“I was waiting for your surname.”

“Now that could be a long wait. The monkeys,” he went on, “are
in two locations. It’s important to me that you take them both.
It’s also important that you take them on the same night.”

“Two separate locations?”

“Uh huh.”

“In Amsterdam?”

“That’s right. Two places, fifteen minutes apart by foot.”

“And these places are private dwellings?”

“Private dwellings,” he echoed. “Jeez. One’s an apartment and
the other’s a houseboat, alright? You don’t have to worry about
alarms and you don’t have to worry about being disturbed because
the night you do this, both places’ll be empty.”

“How come?”

“Because the men that live in these two dwellings will be having
dinner. Here. With me.”

I gave this some thought. I wasn’t crazy about what I was
hearing.

“Sounds complicated,” I said. “Why don’t you take the monkeys
yourself? I can’t imagine they’ll be missed.”

“For one,” he said, hitching an eyebrow, “the guy in the
houseboat has a safe and he’s kind of guarded about the
combination. The other guy, he has an apartment in the Jordaan –
it’s on the top floor of a five storey building and he happens to
have three door locks I know of.”

“But no alarms.”

“None.”

“You’re sure?”

“Listen, you can’t have an alarm on a houseboat – you get a
storm or a barge goes by too fast, the movement of the canal
water’ll trigger it.”

“And the apartment?”

“Like I said, it’s on the fifth floor. Way I see it, the guy
figures he don’t need no alarm.”

“These locks…”

“Won’t be a problem for you. Me, I don’t have the keys or your
talent, which is how come we’re having this conversation.”

“Something else occurs to me,” I said. “Supposing these two men
value their figurines in the same way you do, well, what if they go
home after your meal and notice the figurines are gone – they’ll
suspect you.”

He shook his head. “They trust me.”

“Maybe. But if they do suspect you and they come looking for
you, well, you can see how my name is liable to crop up.”

“Not from these lips.”

“You say. But I don’t like it.”

“Well try this for size – I don’t plan on being any place they
can find me. We meet at seven and we’ll be done eating by ten –
that gives you three hours to do your job, which I figure is plenty
of time. The bar here closes at eleven and I have it in mind for
you to meet me with the figurines at a half after ten. If all goes
to schedule, I’ll be out of Amsterdam before midnight. And I ain’t
coming back.”

“You’re leaving the Netherlands?”

“Well now, there’s no need for you to know that, is there?”

I paused, tried something else.

“The timing’s kind of tight. Say I can’t get into this
safe.”