I went into a local ironmongery store and bought a ball of twine and the biggest Stilson wrench they had on their shelves. Four minutes later I had the Opel parked less than a hundred yards from the warehouse, but not in the same street.
I made my way up the very narrow and extremely ill-lit service alley between the street in which the warehouse stood and the one running parallel to it. The first warehouse I came to on my left had a rickety wooden fire-escape that would have been the first thing to burn down in a fire but that was the first and last. I went at least fifty yards past the building I reckoned to be Morgenstern and Muggenthaler’s, and nary another fire-escape did I come to: knotted sheets must have been at a premium in that part of Amsterdam.
I went back to the one and only fire-escape and made my way up to the roof. I took an instant dislike to this roof as I did to all the other roofs I had to cross to arrive at the one I wanted. All the ridgepoles ran at right angles to the street, the roofs themselves were steeply pitched and treacherously slippery from the rain and, to compound the difficulties, the architects of yesteryear, with what they had mistakenly regarded as the laudable intention of creating a diversity of skyline styles, had craftily arranged matters so that no two roofs were of precisely the same design or height. At first I proceeded cautiously, but caution got me nowhere and I soon developed the only practical method of getting from one ridgepole to the next — running down one steeply pitched roof-side and letting the momentum carry me as far as possible up the other side before falling flat and scrabbling the last few feet up on hands and knees. At last I came to what I thought would be the roof I wanted, edged out to street level, leaned out over the gable and peered down.
I was right first time, which made a change for me. The shirt-sleeved sentry, almost twenty feet directly below .me, was still maintaining his vigil. I attached one end of the ball of twine securely to the hole in the handle of the Stilson, lay flat so that my arm and the cord would clear the hoisting beam and lowered the Stilson about fifteen feet before starting to swing it in a gentle pendulum arc which increased with every movement of my hand. I increased it as rapidly as possible, for only feet beneath me a bright light shone through the crack between the two loading doors in the top storey and I had no means of knowing how long those doors would remain unopened.
The Stilson, which must have weighed at least four pounds, was now swinging through an arc of almost 90 degrees. I lowered it three more feet and wondered how long it would be before the guard would become puzzled by the soft swish of sound that it must inevitably be making in its passage through the air, but at that moment his attention was fortunately distracted. A blue van had just entered the street and its arrival helped me in two ways: the watcher leaned further out to investigate this machine and at the same time the sound of its engine covered any intimation of danger from the swinging Stilson above.
The van stopped thirty yards away and the engine died. The Stilson was at the outer limit of its swing. As it started to descend I let the cord slip another couple of feet through my fingers. The guard, aware suddenly but far too late that something was amiss, twisted his head round just in time to catch the full weight of the Stilson on the forehead. He collapsed as if a bridge had fallen on him and slowly toppled backwards out of sight.
The door of the van opened and de Graaf got out. He waved to me. I made two beckoning gestures with my right arm, checked to see that the small gun was still firmly anchored inside my sock and shoe, lowered myself till my stomach was resting on the hoisting beam, then transferred my position till I was suspended by hands. I took my gun from its shoulder-holster, held it in my teeth, swung back, just once, then forwards, my left foot reaching for the loading sill, and my right foot kicking the doors open as I reached out my hands to get purchase on the door jambs. I took the gun in my right hand.
There were four of them there, Belinda, Goodbody and the two partners. Belinda, white-faced, struggling, but making no sound, was already clad in a flowing Huyler costume and embroidered bodice, her arms held by the rubicund, jovially good-natured Morgenstern and Muggenthaler whose beaming avuncular smiles now began to congeal in almost grotesque slow motion: Goodbody, who had had his back to me and had been adjusting Belinda’s wimpled headgear to his aesthetic satisfaction, turned round very slowly. His mouth fell slowly open, his eyes widened and the blood drained from his face until it was almost the colour of his snowy hair.
I took two steps into the loft and reached an arm for Belinda. She stared at me for unbelieving seconds, then shook off the nerveless hands of Morgenstern and Muggenthaler and came running to me. Her heart was racing like a captive bird’s but she seemed otherwise not much the worse for what could only have been the most ghastly experience.
I looked at the three men and smiled as much as I could without hurting my face too much. I said: ‘Now, you know what death looks like.’
They knew all right. Their faces frozen, they stretched their hands upwards as far as they could. I kept them like that, not speaking, until de Graaf and van Gelder came pounding up the stairs and into the loft. During that time nothing happened. I will swear none of them as much as blinked. Belinda had begun to shake uncontrollably from the reaction, but she managed to smile wanly at me and I knew she would be all right: Paris Interpol hadn’t just picked her out of a hat.
De Graaf and van Gelder, both with guns in their hands, looked at the tableau. De Graaf said: ‘What in God’s name do you think you are about, Sherman? Why are those three men — ‘
‘Suppose I explain?’ I interrupted reasonably. ‘It will require some explanation,’ van Gelder said heavily. Three well-known and respected citizens of Amsterdam — ‘ ‘Please don’t make me laugh,’ I said. ‘It hurts my face.’ That too,’ de Graaf said. ‘How on earth — ‘ ‘I cut myself shaving.’ That was Astrid’s line, really, but I wasn’t at my inventive best. ‘Can I tell it?’ De Graaf sighed and nodded. ‘In my way?’ He nodded again.
I said to Belinda: ‘You know Maggie’s dead?’ ‘I know she’s dead.’ Her voice was a shaking whisper, she wasn’t as recovered as I’d thought. ‘He’s just told me. He told me and he smiled.’
‘It’s his Christian compassion shining through. He can’t help it. Well,’ I said to the policeman, ‘take a good look gentlemen. At Goodbody. The most sadistically psychopathic killer I’ve ever met — or heard of, for that matter. The man who hung Astrid Lemay on a hook. The man who had Maggie pitchforked to death in a hayfield in Huyler. The man — ‘
‘You said pitchforked?’ De Graaf asked. You could see his mind couldn’t accept it.
‘Later. The man who drove George Lemay so mad that he killed him. The man who tried to kill me the same way; the man who tried to kill me three times today. The man who puts bottles of gin in the hands of dying junkies. The man who drops people into canals with lead piping wrapped round their waists after God knows what suffering and tortures. Apart from being the man who brings degradation and dementia and death to thousands of crazed human beings throughout the world. By his own admission, the master puppeteer who dangles a thousand hooked puppets from the end of his chains and makes them all dance to his tune. The dance of death.’
‘It’s not possible,’ van Gelder said. He seemed dazed. ‘It can’t be. Dr Goodbody? The pastor of — -‘
‘His name is Ignatius Catanelli and he’s on our files. An ex-member of an Eastern Seaboard cosa nostra. But even the Mafia couldn’t stomach him. By their lights they never kill wantonly, only for sound business reasons. But Catanelli killed because he’s in love with death. When he was a little boy he probably pulled the wings off flies. But when he grew up, flies weren’t enough for him. He had to leave the States, for the Mafia offered only one alternative.’