increase in friendliness. Then he turned his head slightly and called: “Zuilen, kom toch binnen!”
The burly blond man who had been sitting out in the hall walked in instantly, and without any preliminary sound, so that Simon realized that the door of the little office had never been fully closed and the big man must have been standing directly outside it. He brought his newspaper with him, carrying it rather awkwardly, as if he had something underneath it. With his left hand, he took a small leather folder from his pocket and showed Simon the card in it. The card carried his photograph and an inscription which Simon did not have time to read, but he recognized the official-looking seal and the word Politie.
The big man, whose name was evidently Zuilen, was a very polite politie.
“May I see your credentials, please?”
“My passport is at the hotel,” said the Saint.
“Something, perhaps, from the magazine you write for?”
“I don’t write for any particular magazine. I just peddle my stuff wherever I can.”
“You must have something on you, some evidence of identity,” said the blond man patiently. “Please.”
He did not openly suggest that if none were produced, the matter could be continued at headquarters. That would have been superfluous.
Simon produced his wallet, and watched interestedly while Zuilen glanced at the contents. The detective’s eyes snapped from the first card that caught them to the Saint’s face as if a switch had been flicked, but his manner reнmained painstakingly correct.
“Mr Templar,” he said, “I did not hear that you were a writer.”
“It’s a new racket,” said the Saint easily.
The blond man handed the wallet back.
“You would do well to search for your material someнwhere else,” he said. “There is nothing to interest you here.”
“Now Wait a minute,” Simon argued. “I’m not making any trouble. I was told on the best authority that Mr Jonkнheer had received a diamond called the Angel’s Eye to re-cut. I simply asked him about it. That isn’t a crime.”
“I am glad there is no crime,” said the burly man stolнidly. “We do not like to have crime from foreigners, espeнcially during the tourist season. Mr Jonkheer does not have any such diamond. Also he does not wish to be bothered. It is better that you do not make any trouble.” He held the door firmly open. “Good-day, Mr Templar.”
A few moments later, without a harsh word having been spoken or an overt threat having been uttered, the Saint found himself indisputably out on the sidewalk, blinking at the noonday sunshine and listening to the rattle of chain and bolts being refastened on the inside of the old oak door.
4
“It was a lovely job,” Simon told the Upwaters. “I never had a chance of getting to first base.”
They sat around a lunch table in one of the crypt-like rooms of the Vijf Vliegen, that quaintly labyrinthine resнtaurant on the Spuistraat, where they had arranged to meet; although only the Saint seemed to have much appetite for the excellent kalfoesters, thin fillets of veal browned in butнter and lemon juice, with stewed cucumbers and brown beans, which he had ordered for what he considered fairly earned nutriment.
“That policeman, too,” said Mrs Upwater indignantly. “That Jonkheer really must have the wool pulled over their eyes.”
“Or else they’re all in the swindle up to the neck with him,” Mr Upwater said bitterly.
“However it goes,” said the Saint, “the place is pretty well guarded. And I haven’t the faintest doubt that the Angel’s Eye is there. They were so grimly determined to deny it. I could see it gave Jonkheer a good jolt when I asked about it. I bet they’re still worrying about what my angle is, if that’s any help to you.”
“It’s there, all right,” Upwater said gloomily. “Did you see his safe?”
“Oh, yes. In his office.”
“I didn’t see it. I was taken right into his workshop, the first time,
The burly blond man who had been sitting out in the hall walked in instantly, and without any preliminary sound, so that Simon realized that the door of the little office had never been fully closed and the big man must have been standing directly outside it. He brought his newspaper with him, carrying it rather awkwardly, as if he had something underneath it. With his left hand, he took a small leather folder from his pocket and showed Simon the card in it. The card carried his photograph and an inscription which Simon did not have time to read, but he recognized the official-looking seal and the word Politie.
The big man, whose name was evidently Zuilen, was a very polite politie.
“May I see your credentials, please?”
“My passport is at the hotel,” said the Saint.
“Something, perhaps, from the magazine you write for?”
“I don’t write for any particular magazine. I just peddle my stuff wherever I can.”
“You must have something on you, some evidence of identity,” said the blond man patiently. “Please.”
He did not openly suggest that if none were produced, the matter could be continued at headquarters. That would have been superfluous.
Simon produced his wallet, and watched interestedly while Zuilen glanced at the contents. The detective’s eyes snapped from the first card that caught them to the Saint’s face as if a switch had been flicked, but his manner reнmained painstakingly correct.
“Mr Templar,” he said, “I did not hear that you were a writer.”
“It’s a new racket,” said the Saint easily.
The blond man handed the wallet back.
“You would do well to search for your material someнwhere else,” he said. “There is nothing to interest you here.”
“Now Wait a minute,” Simon argued. “I’m not making any trouble. I was told on the best authority that Mr Jonkнheer had received a diamond called the Angel’s Eye to re-cut. I simply asked him about it. That isn’t a crime.”
“I am glad there is no crime,” said the burly man stolнidly. “We do not like to have crime from foreigners, espeнcially during the tourist season. Mr Jonkheer does not have any such diamond. Also he does not wish to be bothered. It is better that you do not make any trouble.” He held the door firmly open. “Good-day, Mr Templar.”
A few moments later, without a harsh word having been spoken or an overt threat having been uttered, the Saint found himself indisputably out on the sidewalk, blinking at the noonday sunshine and listening to the rattle of chain and bolts being refastened on the inside of the old oak door.
4
“It was a lovely job,” Simon told the Upwaters. “I never had a chance of getting to first base.”
They sat around a lunch table in one of the crypt-like rooms of the Vijf Vliegen, that quaintly labyrinthine resнtaurant on the Spuistraat, where they had arranged to meet; although only the Saint seemed to have much appetite for the excellent kalfoesters, thin fillets of veal browned in butнter and lemon juice, with stewed cucumbers and brown beans, which he had ordered for what he considered fairly earned nutriment.
“That policeman, too,” said Mrs Upwater indignantly. “That Jonkheer really must have the wool pulled over their eyes.”
“Or else they’re all in the swindle up to the neck with him,” Mr Upwater said bitterly.
“However it goes,” said the Saint, “the place is pretty well guarded. And I haven’t the faintest doubt that the Angel’s Eye is there. They were so grimly determined to deny it. I could see it gave Jonkheer a good jolt when I asked about it. I bet they’re still worrying about what my angle is, if that’s any help to you.”
“It’s there, all right,” Upwater said gloomily. “Did you see his safe?”
“Oh, yes. In his office.”
“I didn’t see it. I was taken right into his workshop, the first time,