The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam (16 page)

Van Zandt made a performance out of deciding whether to tell me
or not. He twisted the glass in his hand and sucked on his lips. At
last, he said, “There were four in the daytime. Two at night.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

“Do you remember the name of the guard who was working with
Robert Wolkers on the night he was killed?”

Van Zandt hesitated. “I do not remember.”

“You’re sure?”

“It was a long time ago.”

“But a significant night. You really don’t remember?”

“I do not,” he said, shaking his head determinedly.

I held his gaze but his eyes were placid as a mountain lake.
Lowering my head, I looked over the notes I’d made, reviewing where
the conversation had taken us. It was a good job I was only playing
the role of a biographer. My questioning had shown no clear
structure whatsoever and I felt sure we’d got off track somewhere
along the way. Van Zandt was telling me more than I’d expected, but
it was still only the things he was willing to share. In my head, I
wondered if it would be better to move away from facts and appeal
to his emotional side. Perhaps it would lead him to open up.

“Tell me,” I said, “what was your opinion of Michael Park?”

“He was a killer.”

“Yes, but how did you feel about what he did?”

Van Zandt shrugged and lifted his cane from the floor. “How does
this matter? He shot a man, yes? A man with a family. A wife. One
daughter. I felt what anyone would feel.”

“Yes, but what is that? Anger?”

He pouted.

“Hatred?”

He shook his head earnestly.

“Even when he took your diamonds?”

Van Zandt wagged his finger at me and clucked his tongue.

“You insult me?” he asked. “For what? For this American? What is
he to you? He is nothing. He is this,” he said, picking up one of
the cubes of ice melting in the base of his glass.

“He said he was innocent.”

“He was a thief.”

“And he admitted as much. Why not confess to being a killer
too?”

Van Zandt blew a raspberry. “And spend his life in prison?”

“It’s not so different from how he ended up.”

“That is not my concern. My concern was my guard. The family he
had. My concern was the safety of all my employees.”

“And that’s noble.”

Van Zandt nodded, then drained the dregs from his glass, tilting
his head right back so that I could see his Adam’s apple plummet
and rise. He motioned towards my own drink.

“You do not like?”

“I do,” I said, and managed another sip. This time the sting was
less severe, as though the first mouthful had dulled my taste buds.
The burn was still there at the back of my throat, but now I was
prepared for it, and it wasn’t such a shock. I swallowed, tried
another question.

“I wonder, if Michael Park had already killed the guard, why
didn’t he take all the jewels? He’d crossed a line by then, so it
seems to me he might as well have made the most of it.”

“But he could not get into the strong room.”

“A professional burglar?”

“It was secure.”

“But these locks? Who had the keys or the combinations to them?
Was it you?”

“It was combinations. Changed every day. I knew them.”

“And the guards too?”

Van Zandt shook his head.

“So it’s not possible that Michael made Robert Wolkers give him
the code before he killed him?”

“There is no chance of this at all.”

Van Zandt dismissed the notion in a cool tone and then levered
himself up from his chair and crossed to his drinks cabinet once
more. He began fixing himself a second bourbon, not bothering to
offer me a refill. I had the sense I’d taken things as far as I
probably could and that unless I stopped antagonising him I would
soon outstay my welcome.

“I’d be interested,” I said, resigning myself to what I was
about to do, “to hear a little about the history of the Van Zandt
company. I’m certain some background information would be
fascinating for my readers. Could you possibly oblige?”

∨
The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam
∧

L
ater that night,
after Van Zandt had finally grown tired of droning on about the
wonders of his family’s business empire, I let myself back into my
apartment and drew myself a bath. Once the water was hot enough to
scald flesh, I added a little cold and then I climbed into the tub
and lay flat amid the steaming water, staring blankly at the white
bathroom tiles on the opposite wall. Every now and again, I allowed
my backside to slip on the porcelain and my head to ease beneath
the waterline. Submerged there, I could hear a kind of metallic
echo in my ears and I could feel my hair floating above my head
like fine seaweed. Slowly, I’d resurface, spitting water from my
mouth and feeling the skin of my face prickle against the damp
air.

Van Zandt had lied to me, of course, though I was unsure how
much. There was always the chance that his memory was not what it
used to be but I was certain some of it was deliberate. I couldn’t
take offence, since I’d lied to him myself, and in any case it was
nothing personal because he’d been spinning the same tale for more
than a decade already. The funny thing was how weak the central
deceit happened to be. As Van Zandt had said himself, the company
line had always been that no more than a handful of cheap stones
were taken on the night Robert Wolkers was killed, those jewels
being the exact same ones that were found in Michael’s home when he
was arrested. I’d been confident for some time that was nonsense
but something Van Zandt had said had made me surer than ever
before. There was just one strong room, he’d told me, and at the
end of each day all of the jewels on the cutting floor were
returned to it. Well now, that being the case, how could the
American have got his hands on those worthless chunks of zircon
unless he’d also got inside the strong room where every other stone
was kept?

The contradiction was enough to get me thinking and pretty soon
I was stepping out of the bath and patting myself down with a towel
and wrapping the towel about my waist and making my way over to my
writing desk. I picked up the telephone when I got there and I
called Rutherford’s office number again, and while I waited for the
machine to pick up I looked out through the dark picture window at
the semi-naked reflection of myself suspended in mid-air above the
uppermost leaves of the tree that grew on the canal bank just in
front of my building. My reflection looked gaunt and hollow-eyed,
like some form of gormless refugee from the spirit world. It raised
its hand to me, spreading its fingers wide open, and waved
half-heartedly, as if it was uncertain whether I was really there.
I smiled thinly and was about to mouth something back when the
message tone on Rutherford’s machine interrupted my thoughts and I
broke away from my double to leave a few words.

Rutherford’s call the next morning woke me from a deep sleep,
one in which I’d been dreaming that every last one of my teeth had
fallen out and the only thing I had to put my teeth inside to
transport them to the dentist with was a glass of coca cola. When
the telephone rang, I was in the middle of a mad dash to the
dentist’s office, my way barred by countless zombie-like commuters,
and all the while my teeth were fizzing and dissolving away into
nothing in the glass of pop I held in my hands. The ringing wormed
its way into my dream and I found myself struggling to answer a
mobile telephone while pushing through the crowds of people. Then,
mercifully, the ringing made abrupt sense to the hard wiring in my
brain and I woke with a start and grabbed for the telephone
receiver.

“Hello?” I managed, before running my tongue over my teeth to
check they really were all still there.

“Rutherford here,” said Rutherford. “Got your message. Not too
early to call, I trust.”

“Not at all,” I said, pushing myself up on my elbows and rubbing
my face with my hand. “I was just reworking a chapter that’s been
bugging me. How can I help?”

“Isn’t that for me to ask? You said to call as soon as I got
your message.”

“Ah, yes.” I scratched my head and stifled a yawn. “So I did.
Sorry Rutherford, I’m just a little caught up in the scene, I
guess. How are you fixed for later this morning?”

“One moment,” he said, and I could picture him consulting his
schedule. “I could make myself available for a little while, I
think. What do you have in mind?”

“Another favour,” I told him. “It’s maybe something your
secretary could help out with for starters, but I was also hoping
you might be able to come along and meet someone with me.”

“You mean Niels Van Zandt?”

“No, as it happens. I’m thinking of the guard that was on duty
with Robert Wolkers the night he was killed. Rijker, I think you
said his name was.”

“You have an address?”

“That’s where your secretary comes in. He’s not in my phone
book.”

“Well, let me see what I can find out. I’ll be in touch.”

And he was, within the hour. But the news wasn’t what I’d hoped
for. It turned out neither one of us would be talking to Louis
Rijker in the near future because according to Rutherford’s
secretary, he’d been dead at least two years, something that went a
long way to explaining why I’d been unable to find an entry for him
in the city telephone directory. It was a blow, alright, because he
was just about the only other person I could think of who’d been
anywhere near the Van Zandt factory at the time of the robbery.
There was, though, a silver lining. Rutherford had an address for
his mother.

“She lives on Apollolaan. In the Old South district,” he told
me.

“Any chance you could come along?”

“Every chance,” he said, with all the eagerness that six grand
in used notes can buy.

The property I met Rutherford outside of was a one-storey,
redbrick bungalow with double-glazed windows that had been blocked
out with an opaque film on the lower panes. The film was there, I
presumed, to frustrate prowling eyes, although the rationale was
lost on me to some extent once I saw the cat flap that had been
fitted into the base of the U-PVC front door. The contraption put
me in mind of a moggy about the size of your average Alsatian. The
opening, to be clear, was huge, and anyone of below average build,
including yours truly, would have no trouble at all poking their
head and arm through and grasping for the plastic door handle from
the inside. And chances were if it was locked, the keys would be
hanging conveniently nearby, just waiting to do the very job they
were designed for.

Not that any of that really mattered, of course, because the
most daring thing I intended to do for the time being was to step
forward and press the doorbell. And wait. And then wait some
more.

I looked at Rutherford. “You’re sure this is the right
address?”

“Of course. But perhaps we should have telephoned first?”

“Perhaps so,” I said, and turned back to face the door and tap
my feet on the concrete stoop.

“Why don’t you ring the bell again?” Rutherford asked.

“You don’t think that’s rude?”

“Why would it be rude? She might not have heard.”

I bobbed my head, conceding the point.

“You’re right,” I told him. “I’ll risk it.”

And so I did. And this time, I pressed the doorbell for longer
than before, making quite certain that the ringing couldn’t be
missed. Once I let go, the silence felt strangely inappropriate and
I was almost tempted to ring the bell some more, just to fill the
sudden void. Instead, I linked my hands together behind my back and
rocked on my heels, then looked down at the damn cat flap again.
Even Rutherford could get in through it, I’d bet, and there could
be no more telling indictment of the device than that. The man had
a head the size of a weather balloon, after all.

“Perhaps we should come back,” he said, lifting his rounded
shoulders.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

Only he wasn’t. Because just as we were turning to leave, a
shadow passed over the panels of bubble glass on either side of the
front door and then I heard the noise of a key in the lock. Moments
later, the door opened and I found myself looking at a middle-aged
woman holding a plate of food in one hand and a congealed fork in
the other. The woman wore a colourful plastic apron and her coarse,
greying hair was pulled back from her face in a functional, if less
than stylish, ponytail.

“So,” she said, drawing the word out and letting the ‘o’ hang
before us for an eternity.

“Sooooo,” I mimicked, then looked to Rutherford for
assistance.

“Goedemorgen,” he began, brightly, and continued from there in
much the same tone, though the details of what he was saying were
lost to me until I heard the name Louis Rijker, after which
Rutherford gestured at me, explained we were ‘Engels’ and finally
asked if she happened to speak our language.

“Yes,” she said, in a matter of fact tone. “But I am not Mrs.
Rijker. I am her nurse.”

“You are?”

She nodded.

“May we speak to Mrs. Rijker?”

The woman inhaled deeply and held both hands up to us, raising
the fork and the dinner plate until they were level with her
shoulders and framing an expression that seemed to be saying our
guess was as good as hers.

“You may try, of course,” she explained. “But she does not speak
English, I do not think.”

“My friend can translate,” I said, pointing to Rutherford.

The woman gave another helpless shrug of her shoulders and then
backed away from the door and ushered us inside with a wave of her
fork.

“Please,” she said. “Come in.”

I glanced at Rutherford and then stepped inside the threshold
ahead of him, my feet sinking right into the downy fibres of a
dark-red carpet. As soon as I was inside, my eyes began to sting
like I’d just snorted lemon juice. The smell of cat was incredibly
strong. The thing is, I’m allergic to cats at the best of times,
but in this place the scent wasn’t just air-born, it was in the
very fabric of the building. Cat pee and cat hair in the carpet,
cat odour in the wallpaper, cat food in a tray by my feet.
Everywhere, CAT. But nowhere could I see the little blighter
responsible for it all.