Alistair MacLean - Puppet on a Chain

I returned to the scene of my ballet performance where two large uniformed men, with bolstered pistols, seized me purposefully by the arms.

'You've got the wrong man,' I said wearily, 'so kindly take your damned hands off me and give me room to breathe.' They hesitated, looked at each other, released me and moved away: they moved away nearly all of two inches. I looked at the girl who was being talked to gently by someone who must have been a very important airport official for he wasn't wearing a uniform. I looked at the girl again because my eyes ached as well as my head and it was easier looking at her than at the man by her side.

She was dressed in a dark dress and dark coat with the white roll of a polo-necked jumper showing at the throat. She would have been about in her mid-twenties, and her dark hair, brown eyes, almost Grecian features and the olive blush to her complexion made it clear she was no native of those parts. Put her alongside Maggie and Belinda and you'd have to spend not only the best years of your life but also most of the declining ones to find a trio like them, although, admittedly, this girl was hardly looking at her best at that moment: her face was ashen and she was dabbing with a large white handkerchief, probably borrowed from the man at her side, at the blood oozing from an already swelling bruise on her left temple.

'Good God!' I said. I sounded contrite and I felt it for no more than the next man am I given to the wanton damaging of works of art. 'Did I do that?'

'Of course not.' Her voice was low and husky but maybe that was only since I'd knocked her down. 'I cut myself shaving this morning.'

'I'm terribly sorry. I was chasing a man who's just killed someone and you got in my way. I'm afraid he escaped.'

'My name is Schroeder. I work here.' The man by the girl's side, a tough and shrewd-looking character in perhaps his mid-fifties, apparently suffered from the odd self-depreciation which unaccountably afflicts so many men who have reached positions of considerable responsibility. 'We have been informed of the killing. Regrettable, most regrettable. That this should happen in Schiphol Airport!'

'Your fair reputation,' I agreed. 'I hope the dead man is feeling thoroughly ashamed of himself.'

'Such talk doesn't help,' Schroeder said sharply. 'Did you know the dead men?'

'How the hell should I? I've just stepped off the plane. Ask the stewardess, ask the captain, ask a dozen people who were aboard the plane. KL 132 from London, arrival time 1555.' I looked at my watch. 'Good God! Only six minutes ago.'

'You haven't answered my question.' Schroeder not only looked shrewd, he was shrewd.

'I wouldn't know him even if I saw him now.'

'Mm. Has it ever occurred to you, Mr — ah — '

'Sherman.'

'Has it ever occurred to you, Mr Sherman, that normal members of the public don't set off in pursuit of an armed killer?'

'Maybe I'm sub-normal.'

'Or perhaps you carry a gun, too?'

I unbuttoned my jacket and held the sides wide.

'Did you — by any chance — recognize the killer?',

'No.' But I'd never forget him, though. I turned to the girl. 'May I ask you a question, Miss — '

'Miss Lemay,' Schroeder said shortly.

'Did you recognize the killer? You must have had a good look at him. Running men invariably attract attention.'

'Why should I know him?'

I didn't try to be shrewd as Schroeder had been. I said: 'Would you like to have a look at the dead man? Maybe might recognize him?'

She shuddered and shook her head.

Still not being clever, I said: 'Meeting someone?'

'I don't understand.'

'Your standing at the immigration exit.'

She shook her head again. If a beautiful girl can look ghastly, then she looked ghastly.

'Then why be here? To see the sights? I should have thought the immigration hall in Schiphol was the most unsightly place in Amsterdam.'

'That'll do.' Schroeder was brusque. 'Your questions are without point and the young lady is clearly distressed.' He gave me a hard look to remind me that I was responsible for her distress. 'Interrogation is for police officers.'

'I am a police officer.' I handed over my passport and warrant card and as I did Maggie and Belinda emerged from the exit. They glanced in my direction, broke step and stared at me with a mixture of concern and consternation as well they might considering the way I felt and undoubtedly looked, but I just scowled at them, as a self-conscious and injured man will scowl at anyone who stares at him, so they hurriedly put their faces straight again and moved on their way. I returned my attention to Schroeder, who was now regarding me with a quite different expression on his face.

'Major Paul Sherman, London Bureau of Interpol. This makes a considerable difference, I must say. It also explains why you behaved like a policeman and interrogate like a policeman. But I shall have to check your credentials, of course.'

'Check whatever you like with whoever you like,' I said, assuming that Mr Schroeder's English grammar wouldn't be up to picking faults in my syntax. 'I suggest you start with Colonel Van de Graaf at the Central HQ.'

'You know the Colonel?'

'It's just a name I picked out of my head. You'll find me in the bar.' I made to move off, then checked as the two big policemen made to follow me. I looked at Schroeder. 'I've no intention of buying drinks for them.'

'It's all right,' Schroeder said to the two men. 'Major Sherman will not run away.'

'Not as long as you have my passport and warrant card,' I agreed. I looked at the girl. 'I am sorry, Miss Lemay. This must have been a great shock to you and it's all my fault. Will you come and have a drink with me? You look as if you need one.'

She dabbed her cheek some more and looked at me in a manner that demolished all thoughts of instant friendship.

'I wouldn't even cross the road with you,' she said tonelessly. The way she said it indicated that she would willingly have gone half-way across a busy street with me and then abandoned me there. If I had been a blind man.

'Welcome to Amsterdam,' I said drearily and trudged off in the direction of the nearest bar.

I don't normally stay at five-star hotels for the excellent reason that I can't afford to, but when I'm abroad I have a practically unlimited expense account about which questions are seldom asked and never answered, and as those foreign trips tend to be exhausting affairs I see no reason to deny myself a few moments of peace and relaxation in the most comfortable and luxurious hotels possible.

The Hotel Rembrandt was undoubtedly one such. It was rather a magnificent if somewhat ornate edifice perched on a corner of one of the innermost ring canals of the old city: its splendidly carved balconies actually overhung the canal itself so that any careless sleepwalker could at least be reassured that he wouldn't break his neck if he toppled over the edge of his balcony — not, that is, unless he had the misfortune to land on top of one of the glass-sided canal touring boats which passed by at very frequent intervals: a superb eye-level view of those same boats could be had from the ground-floor restaurant which claimed, with some justification, to be the best in Holland.

My yellow Mercedes cab drew up at the front door and while I was waiting for the doorman to pay the cab and get my bag my attention was caught by the sound of 'The Skaters' Waltz' being played in the most excruciatingly off-key, tinny and toneless fashion I'd ever heard. The sound emanated from a very large, high, ornately painted and obviously very ancient mechanical barrel-organ parked across the road in a choice position to obstruct the maximum amount of traffic in that narrow street. Beneath the canopy of the barrel-organ, a canopy which appeared to have been assembled from the remnants of an unknown number of faded beach umbrellas, a row of puppets, beautifully made and, to my uncritical eye, exquisitely gowned in a variety of Dutch traditional costumes, jiggled up and down on the ends of rubber-covered springs: the motive power for the jiggling appeared to derive purely from the vibration inherent in the operation of this museum piece itself.