As far as the detectives could see, Tracy Whitney and Jeff Stevens were merely tourists.
Inspector van Duren said to Cooper, “Isn’t it possible you’re wrong? They could be in Holland just to have a good time.”
“No,” Cooper said stubbornly. “I’m not wrong. Stay with her.” He had an ominous feeling that time was running out, that if Tracy Whitney did not make a move soon, the police surveillance would be called off again. That could not be allowed to happen. He joined the detectives who were keeping Tracy under observation.
Tracy and Jeff had connecting rooms at the Amstel. “For the sake of respectability,” Jeff had told Tracy, “but I won’t let you get far from me.”
“Promise?”
Each night Jeff stayed with her until early dawn, and they made love far into the night. He was a protean lover, by turns tender and considerate, wild and feral.
“It’s the first time,” Tracy whispered, “that I’ve really known what my body was for. Thank you, my love.”
“The pleasure’s all mine.”
“Only half.”
They roamed the city in an apparently aimless manner. They had lunch at the Excelsior in the Hôtel de I’Europe and dinner at the Bowedery, and ate all twenty-two courses served at the Indonesian Bali. They had rwtensoep, Holland’s famous pea soup; sampled hutspot, potatoes, carrots, and onions; and boerenkool met worst, made from thirteen vegetables and smoked sausage. They walked through the walletjes, the red-light district of Amsterdam, where fat, kimono-clad whores sat on the street windows displaying their ample wares; each evening the written report submitted to Inspector Joop van Duren ended with the same note: Nothing suspicious.
Patience, Daniel Cooper told himself. Patience.
At the urging of Cooper, Inspector van Duren went to Chief Commissioner Willems to ask permission to place electronic eavesdropping devices in the hotel rooms of the two suspects. Permission was denied.
“When you have more substantial grounds for your suspicions,” the chief commissioner said, “come back to me. Until then, I cannot permit you to eavesdrop on people who are so far guilty only of touring Holland.”
That conversation had taken place on Friday. On Monday morning Tracy and Jeff went to Paulus Potter Straat in Coster, the diamond center of Amsterdam, to visit the Neder-lands Diamond-Cutting Factory. Daniel Cooper was a part of the surveillance team. The factory was crowded with tourists. An English-speaking guide conducted them around the factory, explaining each operation in the cutting process, and at the end of the tour led the group to a large display room, where showcases filled with a variety of diamonds for sale lined the walls. This of course was the ultimate reason visitors were given a tour of the factory. In the center of the room stood a glass case dramatically mounted on a tall, black pedestal, and inside the case was the most exquisite diamond Tracy had ever seen.
The guide announced proudly, “And here, ladies and gentlemen, is the famous Lucullan diamond you have all read about. It was once purchased by a stage actor for his moviestar wife and is valued at ten million dollars. It is a perfect stone, one of the finest diamonds in the world.”
“That must be quite a target for jewel thieves,” Jeff said aloud.
Daniel Cooper moved forward so he could hear better.
The guide smiled indulgently. “Nee, mijnheer.” He nodded toward the armed guard standing near the exhibit. “This stone is more closely guarded than the jewels in the Tower of London. There is no danger. If anyone touches that glass case, an alarm rings—en onmiddellijk!—and every window and door in this room is instantly sealed off. At night electronic beams are on, and if someone enters the room, an alarm sounds at police headquarters.”
Jeff looked at Tracy and said, “I guess no one’s ever going to steal that diamond.”
Cooper exchanged a look with one of the detectives. That afternoon Inspector van Duren was given a report of the conversation.
The following day Tracy and Jeff visited the Rijksmuseum. At the entrance, Jeff purchased a directory plan of the museum, and he and Tracy passed through the main hall to the Gallery of Honor, filled with Fra Angelicos, Murillos, Ru-benses, Van Dycks, and Tiepolos. They moved slowly, pausing in front of each painting, and then walked into the Night Watch Room, where Rembrandt’s most famous painting hung. There they stayed. And the attractive Constable First-Class Fien Hauer, who was following them, thought to herself, Oh, my God!