Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Europe

“I am glad there is no crime,” said the burly man stolidly. “We do not like to have crime from foreigners, especially during the tourist season. Mr Jonkheer does not have any such diamond. Also he does not wish to be bothered. It is better that you do not make any trouble.” He held the door firmly open. “Good day, Mr Templar.”

A few moments later, without a harsh word having been spoken or an overt threat having been uttered, the Saint found himself indisputably out on the sidewalk, blinking at the noonday sunshine and listening to the rattle of chain and bolts being refastened on the inside of the old oak door.

“It was a lovely job,” Simon told the Upwaters. “I never had a chance of getting to first base.”

They sat around a lunch table in one of the crypt-like rooms of the d’Vijff Vliegen, that quaintly labyrinthine restaurant on the Spuistraat, where they had arranged to meet, although only the Saint seemed to have much appetite for the excellent kalfoesters , thin fillets of veal browned in butter and lemon juice, with stewed cucumbers and brown beans, which he had ordered for what he considered fairly earned nutriment.

“That policeman, too,” said Mrs Upwater indignantly. “That Jonkheer really must have the wool pulled over their eyes.”

“Or else they’re all in the swindle up to the neck with him,” Mr Upwater said bitterly.

“However it goes,” said the Saint, “the place is pretty well guarded. And I haven’t the faintest doubt that the Angel’s Eye is there. They were so grimly determined to deny it. I could see it gave Jonkheer a good jolt when I asked about it. I bet they’re still worrying about what my angle is, if that’s any help to you.”

“It’s there, all right,” Upwater said gloomily. “Did you see his safe?”

“Oh, yes. In his office.”

“I didn’t see it. I was taken right into his workshop, the first time, and the second time I didn’t get any further than the hall. If I’d seen the safe, I might have been able to have the policeman make him open it.”

“His office is on the ground floor, at the back of the hall.”

“The diamond probably isn’t there now, anyway,” said Mrs Upwater.

Simon took a deep pull at his beer.

“How big is this diamond?” he asked. “You said it was as big as the Hope. How big is that?”

“About a hundred carats,” Upwater said. He put the tips of his thumb and forefinger together, forming a circle, “About so big. It’d be easy to hide anywhere.”

Simon forked together the last remnants of food on his plate, and ate them with infinite enjoyment. Any lingering doubts that he might have had were gone. He knew that this was going to be an adventure to remember.

“I told you, I’m certain the Angel’s Eye is at Jonkheer’s,” he said. “That’s why the cop is staying on the premises. But I don’t think it’s hidden. I think they figure it’s well enough guarded. And an old-fashioned conservative type like Jonkheer would have complete confidence in an old-fashioned safe like that, just because it weighs a few tons and he’s had it ever since he went into business. He wouldn’t believe that any up-to-date expert could go through it like a coffee-can.”

The man and woman gazed at him uncertainly.

“What good does that do us?” Mr Upwater asked at length. “I’m no safe-cracker.”

“But I am,” said the Saint.

There was another long and pent-up silence.

“You’d burgle it?” Mrs Upwater said.

“I think you knew all along,” said the Saint gently, “that I would.”

Mrs Upwater began to cry.

“You can’t do that,” Mr Upwater protested. “That’s robbery!”

“To take back your own property?”

“But if you got caught—”

“If I only take the Angel’s Eye, which Jonkheer isn’t supposed to have anyway, how is he going to phrase his squawk?”

Mr Upwater clutched his wife’s hand, staring at the Saint with a pathetic sort of devotion.

“I never thought I’d find myself siding with anyone about breaking the law,” he said. “But you’re right, Mr Templar — Jonkheer’s got us by the short hairs, and the only way we can ever get even is to steal the diamond back, just about the same way that he got it. Only I could never’ve thought of it myself, and it beats me why you’d take a chance like that to help a total stranger.”

Simon lighted a cigarette.

“Well,” he said, and his smile was happily Mephistophelian, “suppose I did just happen to take something else besides your diamond — by way of interest, you might say — would you feel it was your duty to tell the police about me?”

“I wouldn’t,” said Mrs Upwater promptly, dabbing her eyes. “A man like Jonkheer deserves to lose everything he’s got.”

“Then that’s settled,” said the Saint cheerfully. “How about some dessert? Some oliebollen ? Or the flensjes should be mildly sensational.”

Mr Upwater shook his head. He was still staring at the Saint much as a lost explorer in the Sahara would have stared at the approach of an ice wagon.

“I’m too nervous to eat,” he said. “I’ll be in a sweat until this is over. When will you do it?”

“On the stroke of midnight,” said the Saint. “I’m superstitious about the witching hour — it’s always been lucky for me. Besides, by that time our friend Jonkheer will be sound asleep, and even the police guard will be drowsy. I’m pretty sure Jonkheer lives over the shop, and he’s the type who would go to bed about ten.”

“Isn’t there anything I can do, Mr Templar? I wouldn’t be much of a hand at what you’re planning, but—”

“Not a thing. Take Mrs Upwater sightseeing. Have dinner. Go to your room, break out some cards, and send for a bottle of schnapps. When the waiter brings it, make like I’ve gone to the bathroom. If anything goes wrong, you’ll be my alibi — we were all playing cards. I’ll see you soon after midnight, with your diamond.” Simon looked at his watch. “Now, if you’re through, I’ll run along. I’ve got to shop for a few things I don’t normally carry in my luggage.”

He spent an interesting afternoon in his own way, and got back to the Hollandia about six o’clock with no particular plans for the early part of the evening. But that state of tranquil vagueness lasted only until he turned away from the desk with his key. Then a hand smacked him violently between the shoulder-blades, and he turned again to meet the merry dark horn-spectacled eyes of a slight young man who looked more like a New Yorker than any New Yorker would have done.

“Simon, you old son-of-a-gun!” cried Pieter Liefman. “What shemozzle are you up to here?”

The scion of Amsterdam’s most traditionalistic brewery had spent some years in the United States, and prided himself on his complete assimilation of the culture of the New World.

“Pete!” The Saint grinned. “You couldn’t have shown up at a better moment.”

“I’ve been out in the sticks,” Liefman said. “I just got back in town and got your message, and I came right over to try and track you down. What’s boiling?”

“Let’s get a drink somewhere and I’ll tell you.”

“My hot-shot’s outside. We can drive out to Scherpenzeel, to the De Witte.”

“Good enough. The way you drive, you can get me back in plenty of time for what I want to do later.”

As Pieter Liefman needled his Jaguar through the sparse evening traffic with an ebullient disregard for all speed laws and principles of safety that would have had most passengers gripping the seat and muttering despondent prayers, Simon Templar leaned back with a cigarette and reflected gratefully on his good fortune. Pieter’s timely arrival had made his project even neater than he had hoped.