Алистер Маклин - Floodgate

‘Let me see what was inside that letter,’ Julie said sharply. She sat on the bed, laid her hand on his arm and said in a gentle voice: ‘Please, Peter?’

Van Effen made to speak, said nothing, reached under his pillow, retrieved the envelope and gave the contents to Julie. It was not a letter, just a plain postcard, blank on one side. On the other side was a crude drawing of a coffin and a hang-man’s noose.

Julie tried to smile. ‘Well, it has been three months since the last one, hasn’t it?’

‘So?’ Van Effen sounded indifferent. ‘It’s been, as you say, three months. And what’s happened in that three months? Nothing. And no reason on earth why anything should happen in the next three months.’

‘If it’s so unimportant, why did you hide it?’

‘I didn’t hide it. I put it away in the full view of my little sister whom I didn’t want to upset.’

‘May I see that envelope, please?’ She took it, looked at it and handed it back. ‘All the others had come from other countries. This one is postmarked Amsterdam. That was the first thing you saw and that’s why you put it away. The Annecy brothers are in Amsterdam.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. This postcard could have come from any country to a friend or accomplice in Amsterdam who sent it on to this address.’

‘I don’t believe that. Kid sister or not, I’m all grown up and a big girl now. I can think for myself, I can feel for myself. I know they’re in Amsterdam. And so, I’m sure, do you. Oh, Peter. It’s all too much. One set of madmen threatening to flood our country, another set going to blow up the palace and now this.’ She shook her head. ‘Everything at once. Why?’

‘It is an unusual set of circumstances.’

‘It is a – oh, do be quiet. Do you have no idea what is going on?’

‘I’ve no more idea than you have.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not sure I believe you. What are we going to do? What are you going to do?’

‘What do you expect me to do? Patrol the streets of Amsterdam until I find some character carrying a coffin over his shoulder and a noose in his hand.’ He put his hand on her arm. ‘Please excuse momentary irritation. There’s nothing I can do. Second thoughts, yes. I can go back to sleep, Next time, make sure the heavens have fallen.’

‘You’re hopeless.’ She half-smiled, rose, shook her head again when she saw that his eyes were already closed and left the room.

He had barely dropped off for the second time when Julie returned. ‘Sorry again, Peter. The Colonel. I told him you were asleep but he said it didn’t matter if you were dead, I was to bring you back to life again and get you to the phone. He left me in no doubt that it was very urgent indeed.’

Van Effen touched the bedside cupboard. ‘He could have used the scrambler.’

‘Probably using a public phone.’

Van Effen went through to the living-room, took the call, listened briefly, said: ‘I’m leaving now,’ and hung up.

Julie said: ‘Where?’

‘To meet a person the Colonel says may be a friend. I don’t know his name.’ Van Effen put on shoulder holster, tie and jacket. ‘Things, as you said, Julie, tend not to occur singly. First, the dyke nut-cases. Then the palace nut-cases. Then the Annecy nut-cases. Now this.’

‘Whatever “this” may be. Where’s your friend?’

‘Wouldn’t you know. He’s in the mortuary.’

The old town of Amsterdam may well be unique in the attraction of its tree-lined winding canals, its medieval charm, its romance, its almost palpable sense of history, its nostalgic beauty. The city mortuary wasn’t like that at all. It didn’t possess a single attractive feature, it had no charm, medieval or modern, was totally and irredeemably ugly. It was clinical, functional, inhuman and wholly repellent. Only the dead, one would have thought, could have tolerated such a place: but the white-coated attendants, while not much given to whistling at their work, seemed no different from your average office worker, factory mechanic or farm labourer: this was their job and they did it in the best way they could.

Van Effen arrived to find de Graaf and a serious young man, who was introduced as Dr Prins, waiting for him. Dr Prins was attired in the regulation uniform of white coat and stethoscope. It was difficult to imagine what function a stethoscope played in a mortuary: possibly to check that incoming admissions were, in fact, dead on arrival: more probably, it was just part of the uniform. De Graaf was in a dark and sombre mood but this was not due to his surroundings for, over the long years, de Graaf had become more than accustomed to mortuaries: what he was not accustomed to was having to leave his fish course and a bottle of Chablis almost untouched on a restaurant table.

Dr Prins led them to a long, cavernous, tomb-like chamber, the furnishings of which – exclusively in concrete, white tiles, marble and metal – accorded well with the chilled atmosphere. An attendant, seeing Prins approach, opened a metal door and pulled out a wheeled rack that ran smoothly on steel runners. A shrouded form lay on this. Dr Prins took the top corner of the sheet.

‘I have to warn you, gentlemen, that this is not a sight for weak stomachs.’

‘My stomach couldn’t possibly be in worse condition than it is,’ de Graaf said. Prins looked at him curiously – de Graaf hadn’t seen fit to make mention of the abandoned fish and wine – and pulled back the sheet. What lay revealed was indeed, as the doctor had said, not a sight for queasy stomachs. Dr Prins looked at the faces of the two policemen and felt vaguely disappointed: not by a flicker of expression did they display whatever emotions they might have felt.

‘Cause of death, doctor?’ de Graaf said.

‘Multiple, massive injuries, of course. Cause? An autopsy will reveal –’

‘Autopsy!’ Van Effen’s voice was as cold as the mortuary itself. ‘I do not wish to be personal, doctor, but how long have you held this post?’

‘My first week.’ The slight pallor in his face suggested that Dr Prins was, himself, having some problems with his internal economy.

‘So you won’t have seen many cases like this. If any. This man has been murdered. He hasn’t fallen off the top of a high building or been run over by a heavy truck. In that case the skull or chest wall or pelvis or the femoral bones or tibia would have been crushed or broken. They haven’t. He’s been battered to death by iron bars. His face is unrecognizable, knee-caps smashed and forearms broken – no doubt when he was trying to defend himself against the iron bars.’

De Graaf said to the doctor: ‘He was, of course, wearing clothes when he was brought in. Anyone been through them?’

‘Identification, you mean, Colonel?’

‘Of course.’

‘Nothing that I know of.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ van Effen said. ‘I know who it is. I recognize that scar on the shoulder. Detective Rudolph Engel. He was shadowing a man known as Julius Caesar – you may remember Annemarie mentioning this character in La Caracha.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Because I was the person who told Engel to do the shadowing. I also warned him that there was more than a degree of danger attached and that he was on no account to be in a position where he would find himself without people around. I reminded him what had happened to the two detectives who had trailed Agnelli. He forgot or disobeyed or was carried away by curiosity or enthusiasm. Whatever it is, it cost him his life.’

‘But to murder him in this savage fashion?’ De Graaf shook his head. ‘Even to kill him at all. Well, it does seem an unbelievable instance of over-reacting.’