‘Astrid?’ Belinda said. ‘You spoke to her?’
‘I passed the time of day with her. Not very profitably, I’m afraid. She wasn’t communicative.’ I told them briefly how uncommunicative she’d been, then went on: ‘Well, it’s time you two started doing a little work instead of hanging about night-clubs.’ They looked at each other, then coldly at me. ‘Maggie, take a stroll in the Vondel Park tomorrow. See if Trudi is there — you know her. Don’t let her see you — she knows you. See what she does, if she meets anyone, talks to anyone: it’s a big park but you should have little difficulty in locating her if she’s there — she’ll be accompanied by an old dear who’s about five feet round the middle. Belinda, keep tabs on that hostel tomorrow evening. If you recognize any girl who was in the church, follow her and see what she’s up to.’ I shrugged into my very damp jacket. ‘Good night.’
‘That was all? You’re off?’ Maggie seemed faintly surprised.
‘My, you are in a hurry,’ Belinda said.
‘Tomorrow night,’ I promised, I’ll tuck you both in and tell you all about Goldilocks and the three bears. Tonight I have things to attend to.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
I parked the police car on top of a ‘No parking’ sign painted on the road and walked the last hundred yards to the hotel. The barrel-organ had gone to wherever barrel-organs go in the watches of the night, and the foyer was deserted except for the assistant manager who was sitting dozing in a chair behind the desk. I reached over, quietly unhooked the key and walked up the first two flights of stairs before taking the lift in case I waked the assistant manager from what appeared to be a sound — and no doubt well-deserved — sleep.
I took off my wet clothes — which meant all of them — showered, put on a dry outfit, went down by lift and banged my room key noisily on the desk. The assistant manager blinked himself awake, looked at me, his watch and the key in that order.
‘Mr Sherman. I — I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘Hours ago. You were asleep. This quality of childlike innocence — ‘
He wasn’t listening to me. For a second time he peered fuzzily at his watch.
‘What are you doing, Mr Sherman?’
‘I am sleep-walking.’
‘It’s half-past two in the morning!’
‘I don’t sleep-walk during the day,’ I said reasonably. I turned and peered through the vestibule. ‘What? No doorman, no porter, no taximan, no organ-grinder, not a tail or shadow in sight. Lax. Remiss. You will be held to account for this negligence.’
‘Please?’
‘Eternal vigilance is the price of admiralty.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘I’m not sure I do either. Are there any barbers open at this time of night?’
‘Are there any — did you say — ‘
‘Never mind. I’m sure I’ll find one somewhere.’
I left. Twenty yards from the hotel I stepped into a doorway, cheerfully prepared to clobber anyone who seemed bent on following me, but after two or three minutes it became clear that no one was. I retrieved my car and drove down towards the docks area, parking it some distance and two streets away from the First Reformed Church of the American Huguenot Society. I walked down to the canal.
The canal, lined with the inevitable elm and lime trees, was dark and brown and still and reflected no light at all from the dimly-lit narrow streets on either side. Not one building on either side of the canal showed a light. The church looked more dilapidated and unsafe than ever and had about it that strange quality of stillness and remoteness and watchfulness that many churches seem to possess at night. The huge crane with its massive boom was silhouetted menacingly against the night sky. The absence of any indication of life was total. All that was lacking was a cemetery.
I crossed the street, mounted the steps and tried the church door. It was unlocked. There was no reason why it should have been locked but I found it vaguely surprising that it wasn’t. The hinges must have been well-oiled for the door opened and closed soundlessly.
I switched on the torch and made a quick 360 traverse. I was alone. I made a more methodical inspection. The interior was small, even smaller than one would have guessed from outside, blackened and ancient, so ancient that I could see that the oaken pews had originally been fashioned by adzes. I lifted the beam of the torch but there was no balcony, just half-a-dozen small dusty stained-glass windows that even on a sunny day could have admitted only a minimal quantity of light. The entrance door was the only external door to the church. The only other door was in a corner at the top end of the church, half-way between the pulpit and an antique bellows-operated organ. I made for this door, laid my hand on the knob and switched off the torch. This door creaked, but not loudly. I stepped forward cautiously and softly and it was as well that I did for what I stepped on was not another floor beyond but the first step in a flight of descending stairs. I followed those steps down, eighteen of them in a complete circle and moved forward gingerly, my hand extended in front of me to locate the door which I felt must be in front of me. But there was no door in front of me. I switched on my torch.
The room I found myself in was about half the size of the church above. I made another quick circuit with the torch. There were no windows here, just two naked overhead lights. I located the switch and switched it on. The room was even more blackened than the church proper. The rough wooden floor was filthy with the trampled dirt of countless years. There were some tables and chairs in the centre of the room and the two side walls were lined with half-booths, very narrow and very high. The place looked like a medieval cafe.
I felt my nostrils twitch involuntarily at a well-remembered and unloved smell. It could have come from anywhere but I fancied it came from the row of booths on my right. I put my torch away, took my pistol from its felt underarm holster, dug in a pocket for a silencer and screwed it on. I walked cat-footed across the room and my nose told me that I was heading in the right direction. The first booth was empty. So was the second. Then I heard the sound of breathing. I moved forward with millimetric stealth and my left eye and the barrel of the pistol went round the corner of the third booth at the same instant.
My precautions were unnecessary. No danger offered here. Two things rested on the narrow deal table, an ashtray with a cigarette end burnt away to the butt, and the arms and head of a man who was slumped forward, sound asleep, his face turned away from me. I didn’t have to see his face. George’s gaunt frame and threadbare clothes were unmistakable. Last time I’d seen him I’d have sworn that he would have been unable to stir from his bed for the next twenty-four hours — or I would have sworn, had he been a normal person. But junkies in an advanced state of addiction are as far from normal as any person can ever become and are capable of astonishing if very brief feats of recovery. I left him where he was. For the moment, he presented no problem.
There was a door at the end of this room between the two rows of booths. I opened it, with rather less care than previously, went inside, located a switch and pressed it.
This was a wide but very narrow room, running the full width of the church but no more than ten feet across. Both sides of the room were lined with shelves and those shelves were stacked high with Bibles. It came as no surprise to discover that they were replicas of those I had examined in the warehouse of Morgenstern and Muggenthaler, the ones that the First Reformed Church handed out with such liberality to the Amsterdam hotels. There didn’t seem to be anything to be gained by having another look at them so I stuck my gun in my belt and went ahead and looked at them anyway. I picked several at random from the front row on a shelf and flicked through them: they were as innocuous as Bibles can be, which is as innocuous as you can get. I jerked into the second row and the same cursory examination yielded up the same result. I pushed part of the second row to one side and picked up a Bible from the third row.