Алистер Маклин - Floodgate

They helped him through to the living-room and into an armchair. Van Effen massaged circulation back into hand and feet – not a pleasant process if one were to judge by Thyssen’s repeated winces and screwing-shut of the eyes – while de Graaf brought him a glass of brandy. He had to hold it to the man’s lips as Thyssen had yet to recover the use of his hands.

‘Van der Hum,’ de Graaf said referring to the brandy. ‘A universal specific and, in the circumstances, despite regulations –’

Van Effen smiled. It wasn’t the strained smile of a man deliberately repressing emotion: he seemed quite remarkably unaffected by the turn of events. ‘The man who makes the regulations can break the regulations. It wouldn’t come amiss, sir.’

They had barely sipped from their glasses when Thyssen recovered enough strength to seize his, lift his trembling hand to his mouth, and drink half the contents in one gulp: he coughed, spluttered, then spoke for the first time.

‘God, I’m sorry, Lieutenant! Most damnably sorry! Your sister – and that other nice lady.’ He drained his glass. ‘I should be taken out and shot.’

‘I don’t think it will come to that, Jan,’ van Effen said mildly. ‘Whatever happened is no fault of yours. What did happen?’

Thyssen was so overcome with anger, bitterness and self-reproach that his account was so disjointed and repetitive as to be at times incoherent. It appeared that he had been approached by a Dutch army major – who would ever have harboured suspicions about an Army major? – who had produced a pistol fitted with a most un-Army silencer, forced Thyssen to produce his key and open the door, pushed him inside, followed and advised the girls not to move. He had been followed into the room almost immediately by three furniture-removal men: at least, they were dressed in heavy leather aprons of the type much favoured by their profession: what was atypical about them was that they wore hoods and gloves. Beyond that Thyssen could tell them nothing: he had been taken into the bathroom and tied, gagged and left lying on the floor.

Van Effen went into Annemarie’s bedroom – the one that had formerly been his – took one quick look around and returned.

‘There’s a pile of Annemarie’s clothes lying on the bed and a wardrobe missing. They were tied, gagged and carried out in it – to anyone watching an obvious case of legitimate furniture removing. They must have been keeping tabs on me, sir, about the time you made the call to me from the restaurant. They would have had a furniture van parked nearby and would have moved in as soon as they saw me departing. Very neat indeed. A most uncomfortable trip for the young ladies – but I suppose they must have been too terrified out of their wits to worry about discomfort. Ironic, isn’t it, sir, that both of them this morning were full of gloom and woe and foreboding – and prophecies of disaster. Feeling fey was what they called it. They were both convinced that something terrible was going to happen to me: unfortunately for them they picked the wrong subject for concern.’

De Graaf, a second glass of Van der Hum in his hands, paced up and down. Even forty years in the police had left him without van Effen’s ability to mask his emotions: anger and worry fought for dominance in his face.

‘What are those devils up to? What did they want – and who did they want? Annemarie? Julie? Or both?’

‘Julie.’ Van Effen handed him the postcard he and Julie had looked at earlier in the afternoon. De Graaf took it, examined both card and envelope and said: ‘When did this arrive?’

‘Just after lunch. Julie was very upset but I just pooh-poohed it, laughed the matter off. Clever van Effen. Brilliant van Effen.’

‘So your friends have returned, the Annecys back in Amsterdam. Lost no time in making their presence known and got at you in the very best way possible. God, I’m sorry, Peter.’

‘Feel sorry for the girls. Especially for Annemarie. It was just her fiendishly bad luck to be here when they came for Julie. It was that towering genius, van Effen, of course, who had insisted that she remain here for her own safety. The demands should be arriving quite soon. You will not have forgotten, sir, that the Annecys were – and doubtless still are – specialists in blackmail.’ De Graaf shook his head and remained silent. ‘It’s kind of you not to say so, sir, but you will also not have forgotten that they are specialists in torture, which was the real reason I hunted them down.’

‘We haven’t been very clever so far,’ de Graaf said. ‘Things are uncommonly confusing.’

‘Kind of you to say “we” sir. You mean me.’ Van Effen refilled Thyssen’s glass, did the same for his own and sank into an armchair.

After perhaps two minutes, de Graaf looked at him and said: ‘Well, surely there’s something we should be doing? Shall we start by making enquiries among the flat neighbours, the people living opposite?’

‘To check on the modus operandi of the kidnappers? A waste of time, Colonel. We wouldn’t find out any more than we already know. We’re dealing with professionals. But even professionals can make mistakes.’

‘I haven’t seen any so far.’ The Colonel was gloomy.

‘Nor have I. I’m assuming that Julie was the target.’ Van Effen reached for the telephone. ‘With your permission, sir, I’ll find out. Vasco. Sergeant Westenbrink. He was the only one who knew where Annemarie lived. They – whoever “they” are – may have put a tail on him and found out by methods I don’t care to think about.’

‘You think it likely? Or possible?’

Van Effen dialled a number. ‘Possible, yes. Likely, no. I don’t think there’s anyone in Amsterdam who could follow Vasco without his being aware of it: by the same token I don’t think that there is anyone in the City who could be followed by Vasco and be aware of it. Vasco? Peter here. Anyone been taking an interest in you since you left this morning?…Talked to nobody? Annemarie and my sister Julie have been taken away…Within the past hour and, no, we have no idea. Put on your best civilian suit and come round, will you?’ Van Effen hung up and said to de Graaf: ‘Julie it was. Nobody’s been banging Vasco with crowbars.’

‘And you’ve asked him to join you?’

‘Us, sir. He’s far too valuable a man to be lying low and doing nothing. And, with your permission, sir, I’d like to try to recruit George.’

‘Your La Caracha friend? You said yourself he wasn’t very good at merging into backgrounds.’

‘That’s for Vasco. George, on the mental side as you saw for yourself, is very acute and knows the criminal mind probably better than anyone I know: on the physical side he’s a splendid insurance policy. So, progress. A very little, but progress nonetheless. I think it’s now fairly safe to say that the Annecy brothers and the would-be blowers-up of the royal palace are working in cahoots, or how else would the Annecys know that Rudolph Engel, who had been following one of the palace gang’s intermediaries, had been done in and delivered to the morgue?’

‘The palace gang, as you call them, could have done the kidnapping. The Annecys could have told them.’

‘Two things, sir. What possible motive could Agnelli and his friends have in abducting Lieutenant van Effen’s sister? None. The Annecys have a very powerful motive. The second thing is that it doesn’t matter a damn whether the Annecys gave Agnelli this address or not: the point is that they sure as hell know each other.’

‘And how does this knowledge help us, Peter?’

‘At the moment, it doesn’t. And it may even actually put us at a disadvantage. They’re not clowns and may well have figured out that we have figured out and exercise extra precautions because of that. Precautions against what, I can’t imagine.’