I’ll see you soon after midnight, with your diamond.” Simon looked at his watch. “Now, if you’re through, I’ll run along. I’ve got to shop for a few things I don’t normally carry in my luggage.”
He spent an interesting afternoon in his own way, and got back to the Hollandia about six o’clock with no parнticular plans for the early part of the evening. But that state of tranquil vagueness lasted only until he turned away from the desk with his key. Then a hand smacked him violently between the shoulder-blades, and he turned again to meet the merry dark horn-spectacled eyes of a slight young man who looked more like a New Yorker than any New Yorker would have done.
“Simon, you old son-of-a-gun!” cried Pieter Liefman. “What shemozzle are you up to here?”
The scion of Amsterdam’s most traditionalistic brewery had spent some years in the United States, and prided himнself on his complete assimilation of the culture of the New World.
“Pete!” The Saint grinned. “You couldn’t have shown up at a better moment.”
“I’ve been out in the sticks,” Liefman said. “I just got back in town and got your message, and I came right over to try and track you down. What’s boiling?”
“Let’s get a drink somewhere and I’ll tell you.”
“My hot-shot’s outside. We can drive out to Scherpenнzeel, to the De Witte.”
“Good enough. The way you drive, you can get me back in plenty of time for what I want to do later.”
As Pieter Liefman needled his Jaguar through the sparse evening traffic with an ebullient disregard for all speed laws and principles of safety that would have had most passenнgers gripping the seat and muttering despondent prayers, Simon Templar leaned back with a cigarette and reflected gratefully on his good fortune. Pieter’s timely arrival had made his project even neater than he had hoped. “I guess you rate pretty high in this town, Pete,” he remarked.
“If you mean I should get a ducat for speeding, you don’t know the quarter of it. They throw the books at me about once a week.”
“But in any serious case, I imagine you’d be as influenнtial a witness as any guy could want.”
“Quit holding up on me,” Liefman implored. “Is the Saint on the war-path again?”
Simon began his tale at the beginning.
5
The return from Scherpenzeel, after a gargantuan repast devoured with respectful deliberation, was made at the same suicidal velocity, but so coolly timed that clocks were booming the hour that Simon had fixed in his mind as the Jaguar purred to a stop in the street where Hendrik Jonkнheer plied his trade, but several doors away from the house itself. The short street was deserted except for one other car parked at the opposite end.
“I only hope you’ve figured this on the button,” Pieter Liefman said.
“I am the world’s greatest practical psychologist,” said the Saint. “Go ahead with your part of the act.”
He slipped out of the car and strolled unhurriedly down the street to Jonkheer’s door. The building was dark and wrapped in silence. He turned the door handle experimenнtally. The door started to yawn at his touch, and no inside chain stopped it.
Simon stepped in, closing it swiftly and silently behind him. With a pencil flashlight smothered in his hand so that the bulb was almost covered by his fingers, he let a dim glow play momentarily over the inside of the frame. The chain was dangling, the hasp at one end still attached to it with fragments of freshly torn wood adhering to the screws, testifying to the inherent weakness of such devices which was no surprise to him.
He turned the same hardly more than phosphorescent illumination around the hall, and at the foot of the stairs he saw the burly blond guard, Zuilen, lying on the floor, the wrists and ankles expertly bound and tied together and his mouth covered with adhesive tape. The big policeman seemed uninjured, except probably in his dignity, to judge by the lively
He spent an interesting afternoon in his own way, and got back to the Hollandia about six o’clock with no parнticular plans for the early part of the evening. But that state of tranquil vagueness lasted only until he turned away from the desk with his key. Then a hand smacked him violently between the shoulder-blades, and he turned again to meet the merry dark horn-spectacled eyes of a slight young man who looked more like a New Yorker than any New Yorker would have done.
“Simon, you old son-of-a-gun!” cried Pieter Liefman. “What shemozzle are you up to here?”
The scion of Amsterdam’s most traditionalistic brewery had spent some years in the United States, and prided himнself on his complete assimilation of the culture of the New World.
“Pete!” The Saint grinned. “You couldn’t have shown up at a better moment.”
“I’ve been out in the sticks,” Liefman said. “I just got back in town and got your message, and I came right over to try and track you down. What’s boiling?”
“Let’s get a drink somewhere and I’ll tell you.”
“My hot-shot’s outside. We can drive out to Scherpenнzeel, to the De Witte.”
“Good enough. The way you drive, you can get me back in plenty of time for what I want to do later.”
As Pieter Liefman needled his Jaguar through the sparse evening traffic with an ebullient disregard for all speed laws and principles of safety that would have had most passenнgers gripping the seat and muttering despondent prayers, Simon Templar leaned back with a cigarette and reflected gratefully on his good fortune. Pieter’s timely arrival had made his project even neater than he had hoped. “I guess you rate pretty high in this town, Pete,” he remarked.
“If you mean I should get a ducat for speeding, you don’t know the quarter of it. They throw the books at me about once a week.”
“But in any serious case, I imagine you’d be as influenнtial a witness as any guy could want.”
“Quit holding up on me,” Liefman implored. “Is the Saint on the war-path again?”
Simon began his tale at the beginning.
5
The return from Scherpenzeel, after a gargantuan repast devoured with respectful deliberation, was made at the same suicidal velocity, but so coolly timed that clocks were booming the hour that Simon had fixed in his mind as the Jaguar purred to a stop in the street where Hendrik Jonkнheer plied his trade, but several doors away from the house itself. The short street was deserted except for one other car parked at the opposite end.
“I only hope you’ve figured this on the button,” Pieter Liefman said.
“I am the world’s greatest practical psychologist,” said the Saint. “Go ahead with your part of the act.”
He slipped out of the car and strolled unhurriedly down the street to Jonkheer’s door. The building was dark and wrapped in silence. He turned the door handle experimenнtally. The door started to yawn at his touch, and no inside chain stopped it.
Simon stepped in, closing it swiftly and silently behind him. With a pencil flashlight smothered in his hand so that the bulb was almost covered by his fingers, he let a dim glow play momentarily over the inside of the frame. The chain was dangling, the hasp at one end still attached to it with fragments of freshly torn wood adhering to the screws, testifying to the inherent weakness of such devices which was no surprise to him.
He turned the same hardly more than phosphorescent illumination around the hall, and at the foot of the stairs he saw the burly blond guard, Zuilen, lying on the floor, the wrists and ankles expertly bound and tied together and his mouth covered with adhesive tape. The big policeman seemed uninjured, except probably in his dignity, to judge by the lively
Similar Books
