The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam (19 page)

“Hey,” I called, the note of panic in my voice surprising me.
“Hey, my arm hurts. Please. It really hurts.”

I heard feet shuffling towards me out in the hallway.

“Please,” I went on. “At least help me upright. There’s no blood
getting to my arm.”

I could see a shadow on the floor at the threshold of the room
but it didn’t come any closer.

“Please, I’m begging you. Untie my arms. Let me stretch them.
Please.”

There was more shuffling, though this time the shadow receded.
Then the light in the hallway went out and not long after that I
began to whimper and curse to myself. I could have let go at that
point, could have really started to lose it, but instead I got
angry. I swore and I gnashed my teeth and I began thrashing around
on the chair, screaming each time I aggravated my injuries, which
was often, until I somehow managed to throw myself right around so
that I was lying on my other arm. And there I lay for God knows how
long, face pressed against the dusty wooden floor, my breathing
irregular, my chest pulsing sporadically and the gash on the back
of my skull maturing into the mother of all headaches, until, at
long last, the wide man and the thin man came back into the room
and stood looming over me once again.

“Get up,” the wide man ordered.

“I can’t.”

With great impatience, he motioned to the thin man and together
they lifted me and set the chair back onto its feet. I had no idea
what time it was although something made me think it was probably
late at night or early in the morning. The thin man looked tired
and drawn, so maybe that was what it was. In any case, it really
made no difference.

“Tell us about the American,” the wide man said.

I blinked, trying to gather my senses and put them in some form
of order.

“His name was Michael Park,” I began, working my jaw loose and
wetting my lips. The vinegary, mucus taste still lingered. “He just
got out of prison. He was convicted for – ”

“Yes, yes. Tell us about how you know him.”

“He hired me. To steal those monkeys from you. While you were
meeting him for dinner.”

“You lie,” he said, drawing his arm back as if to hit me.

“No,” I said, flinching. “It’s the truth, really. He said you
would trust him. But he arranged to meet you for a meal so that I
could steal them. He told me where you lived and where you kept the
monkeys.”

He lowered his arm cautiously. “Why would he do this?”

“I don’t know. But he was going to leave Amsterdam once I gave
them to him.”

“He told you this?”

“Yes. And I believed him.”

The wide man thought about what I’d told him and the thin man
watched him at it, his rat-like face twitching, spindly arms
hanging limp by his side. I didn’t like the thin man at all. The
wide man I could talk to but I got the feeling the thin man didn’t
have a brain for me to reason with. He appeared jittery, always on
edge, though I got the feeling that was his nature rather than any
drugs he might be on.

“Anyway,” I said, trying to keep the wide man talking, “what
does it matter to you? Michael is dead and you have the three
monkeys.”

The wide man pulled his head down into his shoulders once again,
as if he was bracing himself for something, and this time I really
thought he might step forward and strike me. He took a deep breath
and his huge chest lifted up and out, while his hands balled into
fists at his side. I could see him squeezing his fists, the skin
around his knuckles whitening.

“Why do you say this about the monkeys?”

“It just seems obvious. You stole the figurine Michael had. That
was why you beat him – so he’d tell you where it was. And now you
have the two monkeys back that I stole from you.”

“You said this before, that we killed him. It is not true.”

The thin man shook his head fitfully.

“Well if you didn’t kill him, who did?”

“You did,” the wide man said. “This is why the police arrested
you.”

“That was a mistake.”

“Another mistake.” He twisted his head from side to side. “The
policeman who arrested you, Burggrave, he does not make them.”

“He did this time. Listen, the truth is I went to Michael’s
apartment after I stole the monkeys from you but he was already
hurt by then. He was lying in the bath. His fingers were
broken.”

The wide man caught his breath sharply and turned his face away,
as if shying from the image I was painting. The thin man’s tongue
flicked out of his mouth, like a lizard’s.

“Did he speak?”

“No.”

“He’s lying,” the thin man said, conclusively. “He is trying to
trick us.”

“I’m not,” I said. “It’s true. Believe me.”

The wide man held up his hand, silencing us both.

“You do not have the final monkey?” he asked.

“Don’t you?”

He looked me square in the eyes, trying to read me again. This
time I did the same. Where was the third monkey? If I didn’t have
it and these two didn’t have it, then who did? And were they really
telling me the truth about not killing Michael? It was hard to
tell, given they’d just beaten me with a baseball bat and bound me
to a chair.

“How about,” I went on, “you let me go and I get you the third
monkey? I have an idea where it is.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere I should have thought of in the first place. If you
let me go, I’ll find it and bring it back to you.”

The wide man grinned then, showing me a mouthful of fillings. He
even managed a chuckle.

“You lie. You will go to the police.”

“Believe me, that’s the last thing I’d do.”

“But I do not believe you.” He nodded towards the thin man. “And
my friend says we should kill you. I am starting to agree.”

“No, listen to me. I
know
.”

“You know nothing.”

He motioned to the thin man and the two of them walked out of
the room, closing the door behind them.

♦

As soon as they’d gone, I got right back to what I’d been up to
before they came in. When you think about it, being a burglar is a
lot like being an escapologist. All those locks, chains and
bindings, they each work on the same principles. And while being a
burglar is all about getting into confined spaces, being an
escapologist is all about getting out of them. A recruitment
consultant might say that the two professions have transferable
skills. All of which is a round-a-bout way of saying that I’d
finally managed to loosen the ropes that bound my wrists to the
back of the chair.

The truth is I’d been working at the ropes since I’d first
regained consciousness. It hurt my chest to do it and bending my
wrists and contorting my fingers when my arms were already going
numb was certainly painful, but it was a damn sight better than
being killed. So I teased away at the rope and fumbled gamely with
the knots and after several hours I finally got a break and managed
to undo the first of them. And from there it was more of the same,
only with a tiny bit more give on the ropes and a fraction more
movement in my wrists, until I had the ropes all but ready to slip
off of my hands. And slip them off was exactly what I did the
moment the wide man and the thin man walked out of the room and
left me to my own devices.

Of course, that was only the first step, and after I’d gingerly
stretched my arms and assessed the burns on my wrists and shaken
some life back into my hands, I had to repeat the same process with
the ropes that were binding my feet. This time, though, I could see
what I was doing and what I was up against, and once I had the
crucial first knot loosened it was just a question of whether I had
enough time to finish the job before one of them waltzed back in
with the baseball bat to finish me.

Thoughts like that didn’t help. In fact, thoughts like that
positively hindered my progress by making me snatch at the ropes
and rush things a little too much. Problem was, while I was aware
of how it was slowing me down, I was so worried I’d miss my chance
to escape that I kept going in the same fashion; all flailing
fingers and thumbs. Then again, perhaps the terror helped in a way
because it kept my mind off my injuries. And thinking of something
other than the pain I was in was crucial when I’d finally freed
myself completely and was able to stand woozily from the chair and
begin preparing myself for the challenge of getting up into the
roof space.

As it happened, hauling myself up into the hatch hurt like hell,
and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. There’s also a fair chance
I did myself more harm than good by attempting it, given the way I
had to strain my ribs, but the experience did make me think that
maybe all that stuff about people summoning extra strength when
they find themselves in extraordinary circumstances is true because
I pulled myself up in spite of it all and I did it without
screaming or yelping at the stabs of electric pain that showered my
torso.

And because it was do or die, I suppose quite literally, it was
one almighty relief when I finally hooked my elbow and my thigh
over the edge of the hatch and then plunged my hand down below the
scratchy loft insulation to find that the gun was still there,
right where I’d hidden it, just as things always are when the
planets are aligned just so and the Good Lord is in a gracious
frame of mind.

Not that I had time to think of such things just then because I
was far too concerned with feeling around the butt of the gun as
quietly as possible until I found something that felt like a
recessed button and, teeth clenched, depressed it. A cartridge of
bullets fell out. Not what I’d intended. I fumbled the cartridge
back into place, then located another lever, one that I hoped was
the safety guard. I slipped the lever to one side, experienced
nothing untoward, then lowered my leg back into the ceiling space
of the room below and, bracing myself, dropped onto the lid of the
trunk as deftly as I could.

With the gun held out before me like a particularly menacing
torch, I walked to the edge of the room and paused, listening for
any noises from the two men that might suggest I’d been heard. I
listened hard but there was only silence and the sound of my
breathing; shallow and ragged in my throat. Stepping into the
hallway, I trained the gun onto the darkened space in front of me
and followed the muzzle towards the second bedroom. The door was
closed. I checked over my shoulder, then looked back to the door
and thought about kicking it through. In the end, I reached out and
turned the handle as slowly and as quietly as I could, easing the
door open a crack and peeking inside.

The room was unlit. After a few anxious moments, my eyes
adjusted and I could just make out the form of the thin man asleep
on the single camp bed. By his side and resting on the floor was
his leather jacket. I tiptoed towards the jacket and bent down, one
eye on the thin man the whole time, and then I felt around the
jacket until my fingers located the monkey figurines. They were in
the zipped pocket still. I daren’t risk opening the zip so I just
took the coat and backed out of the room into the hallway where, it
transpired, the wide man was waiting for me with the baseball bat
above his shoulder.

He didn’t expect the gun, though. If he had expected it, I guess
he would have waited by the side of the door and smacked me over
the head as soon as I emerged. Instead, he was facing me at the end
of the hallway and when he flicked on the overhead bulb he must
have thought that just the sight of the bat would be enough for me
to submit. His eyes became very big when I straightened my arm and
pointed the pistol in his direction. Then his eyes narrowed and a
series of frown lines appeared on his forehead.

“But we searched you,” he protested.

“Well, that’ll teach you to leave guns lying around,” I
whispered back. “Anyone could find them.”

“But…”

“Drop it,” I cut in, motioning to the bat. “And walk backwards.
Now. Back up.”

He hesitated. I jerked the gun at him. Slowly, the wide man set
the bat down to his side, handle leaning against the wall.

“No, on the floor,” I hissed.

The wide man began to kneel down. “Not you,” I said. “The bat.
Lay it on the floor.”

He did as I told him.

“Good, now move away from it.”

He shuffled backwards and I eyed the front door, noting that it
had been crudely repaired instead of replaced. Just then, he yelled
something in Dutch towards the second bedroom and an instant later,
the thin man slurred a reply. I shook my head and this time the
wide man said nothing further but it was already too late. I
advanced down the hallway, then wheeled around as the thin man
appeared behind me, bleary eyed, his jaw dropping to the floor the
moment he saw me with his coat and the handgun.

“Where are the keys to your van?” I demanded, switching the gun
between them.

The thin man was still too shocked to answer and the wide man
delayed.

“Your keys,” I shouted, jabbing the gun towards the thin man,
gripping the trigger ever tighter. “Now.”

Mutely, he motioned towards the jacket I was holding and I shook
it until I heard the keys jangle.

“Okay,” I went on, turning to the wide man again. “You open the
door. Good. Now back away some more. Further, further. Good.”

I checked on the thin man one last time, just to make sure he
hadn’t come any closer.

“If I hear either of you on the stairs before I get out of here,
so help me I will shoot. Understand?”

The thin man stood there with his mouth open, looking furtively
towards his partner, but the wide man nodded and placed his hands
behind his back in a casual gesture. I edged towards the door, gun
swinging between the two of them in a wavering arc, and then when I
was through the threshold I just turned and bolted for the stairs,
beginning a half-jump, half-stumble routine that took me to the
bottom of the five flights as quickly as I could go in my
condition. By the time I was on the final flight, my breathing was
laboured, my head felt light and my heart seemed to be in real
danger of beating its way clear out of my body, but I couldn’t hear
any footfall behind me. I reached the front door and grabbed for
the snap lock, yanked the thing back and rushed out into the cold,
dark night. Then I hurried away as best I could, meanwhile fumbling
around in the pockets of the leather jacket until I found the van
keys and veering towards the canal to toss them into the water. I
thought about ditching the gun too but in the end I settled for
wrapping the leather jacket around it, tucked the bundle beneath my
arm and shuffled away in search of the nearest bike rack.