The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam (14 page)

I walked on from my street the short distance to the
Oosterdokskade Bridge, at one end of the Oosterdok. To my left was
the grand red-brick façade of Centraal Station, nexus of the Dutch
train system and home to raggedy-clothed vagabonds and glassy-eyed
druggies, hookers who couldn’t afford the overheads of a lighted
glass booth and western students bent-double with the weight of the
ruck-sacks on their backs. To my right was the bleak expanse of the
eastern dock area, rain drops ticking onto the surface of the water
from the bridge railings I was leaning against. The dark,
petroleum-laced currents undulated listlessly, nudging the flotsam
of discarded city litter against the concrete edges of the
dock.

Commercial vessels were moored all around – tugs, transporters,
sightseeing barges and even a dated cruise ship that had been
transformed into a floating youth hostel. A few decrepit houseboats
awaiting refits or the scrap yard were dotted here and there, along
I with the odd rubber dinghy.

The edges of the dock were bordered by anonymous pre-fab
warehouses where nameless industrial processes were undertaken or
complex chemicals stored. Between the warehouses I saw bare
concrete yards, with stacks of wooden palettes and mini forklift
trucks parked beside the gleaming BMWs and Mercedes of the factory
owners. Occasional manual workers, dressed in faded boiler suits
and heavy duty work boots, smoked cigarettes or talked into two-way
radios beneath plastic hard hats.

The docks were a large, open area and the biting wind that had
followed the storm showers swooped across the surface of the water
unhindered, cutting into me, seemingly passing right through the
fabric of my overcoat and woollen hat and gloves. I blew warm air
onto my hands and rubbed them together as I walked, pulled my chin
down against my chest to stop the wind getting at my bare neck, and
battled the cold for quite some time before I found the buildings I
was looking for.

The complex of stone-built warehouses lined the curved area near
the mouth of the harbour, at the point at which the dockland-water
met with the expanse of tidal water that separated central
Amsterdam from its northernmost district. There were three
warehouses in all, linked by raised walkways positioned on the
fourth floor of the six storey buildings. All of the warehouses
were empty and looked as if they’d been that way for a number of
years. Most of the single-glazed panels in the windows fronting the
dock had been smashed or blown through and on closer inspection,
the bottom floor of each building was nothing more than a vast
concrete carcass, while the yards that adjoined them were filled
only with wild-grass and abandoned metal cages and the burnt-out
remains of a Renault 19. Painted alongside the front fascia of the
middle warehouse, in stylised, faded white lettering, were the
words
Van Zandt
, just as Rutherford had said.

I’m not sure what I was hoping to find, really. Some grizzled
old employee of Van Zandt’s, perhaps. A factory hand who’d worked
there twelve years ago and had fallen on hard times since, warming
his gloved hands over a burning oil drum, just itching to talk with
me and bestow a nugget of information every bit as valuable in its
way as the jewels the American may, or may not, have stolen. But it
wasn’t to be. The truth was there was nothing there except dead air
and vacated space; the shell of a memory of a place that used to
exist.

∨
The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam
∧

W
hen I got back to my
apartment I fixed myself a mug of hot tea and some toast and then I
fished around in my wallet until I found Henry Rutherford’s
business card. I dialled his number from my desk phone and was
transferred directly to an answering machine. A tinny-sounding
Rutherford invited me to leave a message and I obliged him with the
shortest one I could devise.

Once I’d returned the telephone receiver to its cradle, I leaned
back in my chair, rested my feet on my desk and formed my fingers
into a pyramid beneath my chin. I sat like that for a while,
looking, I imagined, as if I was thinking about a whole bunch of
terribly complicated things. As it happened, I was thinking of
nothing very much at all. Sometimes it’s just comforting to sit
that way, to rest one’s chin on one’s finger tips, to balance one’s
weight over the hind legs of one’s chair, and to stare aimlessly at
the opposite side of a room. And before very long, I got caught up
in a kind of game with myself, easing the chair just a shade beyond
its natural balancing point, taunting myself with the possibility
of falling and then catching myself with my heels before I toppled
right over. I could have stayed that way for hours, at least until
the room became fully dark around me, but before dusk had given
serious consideration to settling my telephone rang and I answered
it to be confronted by a good deal of huffing and wheezing.

“Charlie,” Rutherford gasped. “You called and left me a
message.”

“I did,” I agreed. “Are you alright? You don’t sound too
well.”

“I just walked up four flights of stairs to my office. Damn
elevator was broken again. I swear they do it on purpose to keep us
all on our toes.”

“You ever wonder if it could be counter-productive?”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” he said, uncertainly. “Just give me a moment
and the old ticker will be back to normal. You want to tell me what
you need? How I can help?”

“This Van Zandt company you were telling me about,” I said, “the
one Michael robbed. I was thinking – you mentioned it was a family
firm?”

“That’s right.”

“Well are any of these Van Zandt’s still around, do you
know?”

“There’s one,” Rutherford said. “Lives near the Museum District,
I believe. A recluse by all accounts.”

“You have his address?”

“I could get you it. But I doubt it would do you any good.”

“I’d like to try,” I said. “See if he’ll talk to me, at least.
There’s no harm in that, I don’t think.”

“Only the risk of a wasted trip. Should I come along? I know a
fine restaurant nearby and…”

“That’s okay,” I cut in. “No need for you to tackle those stairs
anymore than you need to. If you could just find me the address,
though, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll have my secretary look into it. She’ll call you as soon as
she can.”

True to his word, I received a phone call not ten minutes later
from an efficient sounding Dutch woman who gave me the address and
contact number for a Mr. Niels Van Zandt without even pausing to
confirm who it was she was speaking to. I would have thanked her
for her trouble but she rang off before I had chance. It’s curious
– the Dutch will tell you they’re direct, but never rude. Why
bother to embroider what you’re saying with politeness, they’ll
ask? Just say what you need to. But the odd thing is, while the
rational part of me can’t fail to agree with this approach, my
emotional side struggles every time I experience it. This occasion
was no different and I shook my head in wonder as I replaced the
telephone receiver. Actually, it was still bugging me when I
gathered my coat and walked towards Centraal Station to catch a
tram to Museum Plein.

It was already dark by the time I reached the castle-like
Rijksmuseum and as I strolled through the archway running through
the centre of the building, my path was lit by a series of
ornamental lamps. I emerged from beneath the museum to find myself
stood at the threshold of a thin reflecting pool shrouded in mist.
A bar-café was open nearby, spilling neon light and music out into
the gloomy space, but I turned from it and walked north in search
of the Van Zandt residence.

The house was not what you might typically think of as imposing,
but it was impressive by Amsterdam standards, largely because it
was a detached property with a genuine front lawn. The lawn looked
to be well tended and it was in remarkably good health considering
the amount of rain the city had endured over the past few months.
The lush grass was illuminated by two security lamps at the front
of the property and the ambient light escaping the windows of the
rooms on the ground floor. Directly ahead of me, two parallel lines
of conical-shaped topiary plants bordered a pea-gravel pathway that
led to right up to the giant double doors at the front of the
house. I would have liked to follow that route directly to the
ornamental brass knocker if I could, but a pair of gilded security
gates barred my entrance. There was an intercom just by my elbow
and I pressed the call button and lowered my face to the
speaker.

I heard the burr and crackle of feedback and then a female voice
answered with a simple, “Ja?”

“Hello,” I began. “Is Mr. Van Zandt in?”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Charlie Howard. I’d like to speak to Mr. Van
Zandt.”

“You do not have an appointment?”

“No,” I confessed. “But I’d appreciate it if he could give me
five minutes of his time.”

“This is not possible without an appointment.”

“Can I make an appointment?”

“You must telephone in the morning.”

“Can’t I make one now?”

“It is too late.”

And with that she cut the intercom connection. More directness,
and this time I handled it about as well as I had done earlier. The
childish portion of my psyche was all set for a bout of knock-knock
ginger, but the dull, adult portion soon won out. I poked my face
through the gates and looked longingly at the house. Part of me was
tempted to climb up over the security fence and let myself in
through a window, just to see if Van Zandt might talk to me if I
could bypass whoever it was that had answered the intercom. Chances
were, though, he’d call the police. And given recent events, it
didn’t strike me as a master plan.

Reluctantly, I began walking off along the street. There were
several more houses of a similar style, though not many of them had
security gates. A few welcome lamps tripped on as I passed but I
got the impression they were there to aid house guests rather than
deter burglars. On another night, that might have led me to
consider whether the area was full of soft targets but my mind was
on other matters anyway and with Burggrave on my case it wasn’t the
right time for me to contemplate any casual thievery.

I got as far as the end of the road, then turned left and left
again, until I found myself stood opposite the entrance to the Van
Gogh museum. It was closing time and the last visitors were
wandering down the concrete steps at the front of the building,
many of them carrying poster tubes. No doubt most of the tubes
contained yet more prints of those damn sunflowers. They seem to be
in every tourist shop window in the city. The image is available on
postcards, on T–shirts, on tea towels and on coffee mugs. You can
buy it on mouse-mats or baseball caps or as a jigsaw puzzle. It’s a
wonder the average visitor knows that Van Gogh painted anything
else.

The tram stop I was after was just down the street from the Van
Gogh building and when I reached it I found that I was stood
opposite the Costers Diamond House. Now I’m not usually one to
believe in symbols or fate or cosmic balance or any of that stuff,
but quite honestly, it was one hell of a coincidence. And
coincidence aside, maybe all I needed was an excuse to try my luck
at Van Zandt’s place one more time. Just leaving it alone was
bugging me and in my experience persistence usually leads to some
kind of resolution, however welcome. And if I was never going to
get an opportunity to speak to Van Zandt himself, it seemed to me I
might as well find out right away rather than waste my time waiting
to telephone in the morning.

So, with my mind made up, I re-crossed the tram tracks embedded
in the tarmac roadway and headed around the block to Jan Luijken
Straat once more. And, wouldn’t you know it, just as I was
approaching from the end of the street I saw those self same gates
open and a well-dressed woman emerge. The woman wore a beige
raincoat and sheer tights and high-heel shoes, and she carried a
compact satchel in one hand. Her hair was tied up in a tight bun
and there was a business-like expression on her face. I watched her
secure the gate behind her and then I waited for her to walk off
along the street, feeling certain that the woman I had spoken to on
the intercom had just concluded her daily duties. I waited until
she turned at the end of the road and then I approached the
intercom and pressed the call button for a second time.

On this occasion, there was no immediate answer. I gazed at the
lighted downstairs windows for some indication of movement but I
couldn’t discern anything at all. Perhaps the house was empty
altogether, though I doubted it somehow. The woman I had spoken to
hadn’t confirmed Van Zandt was home but I’d got the impression he
was there. From what Rutherford said, he rarely left, and while the
average householder might leave on the odd light to deter burglars,
it was an unusual type indeed who left on as many lights as
this.

I was just about to press the call button again when my patience
was rewarded. This time, there was no voice on the speaker, only a
short buzzing noise before the gate was released from its catch. I
admit I was surprised, but not being one to shy away from a bit of
good fortune, I eased the gate open and stepped inside, then made
my way up the short pathway to the front doors, the pea-gravel
crunching beneath my feet like a thousand tiny bugs. When I reached
the door, I even tried something novel and lifted the brass knocker
and used it to rap on the woodwork.

Silence.

I waited a moment and knocked again. This time, I heard
shouting. Now my Dutch was still basic at best, but I got the
distinct impression I was being cursed. What on earth was going on
here? Did the guy want me to use my picks and make my own way
in?