Chapter XXV

Mr. Bathurst’s Patience Is Rewarded

The golden sunshine of July passed into the mellower maturity of August. August in its turn yielded place to the quieter beauty of September and russet-brown October reigned at due season in the latter’s stead. The mystery of the murder of Sheila Delaney—in the words of the cheaper Press—the “Dentist’s-Chair Murder” yet remained unsolved. The “Daily Bugle” continued its bugling. Sir Austin Kemble allowed himself at various odd times to dwell somewhat bitterly upon the vaticination of Mr. Bathurst and at other times was sorely taxed to restrain his growing impatience. Chief-Inspector Bannister was doomed to suffer the biggest disappointment of his hitherto distinguished career. The day for his retirement from his high position in the Criminal Investigation Department arrived after the manner of Time and Tide, and he was no nearer to arresting Sheila Delaney’s slayer when that eventful day came than he had been on the fateful July evening when Sergeant Godfrey had dragged him into the case. Sir Austin shook hands with him in farewell and shrugged his aristocratic shoulders in rather cynical commiseration. “I know how keen you were, Bannister, to complete your Seabourne case and I also know the many difficulties against which you have been forced to contend. The fact that you have failed is merely to be deplored—that is all. To err is human. You take with you my very best wishes. Good-bye.”

Thus the mantle of Bannister fell upon Macmorran, and after the manner of mantles apparently made an excellent fit. Bannister however had not relinquished the trail altogether. Mr. Bathurst read his letter with undisguised interest. He also replied to it immediately.

“My dear Bannister,” he wrote, “Hearty congratulations upon your well-earned retirement. Which is it to be? The Sussex Downs or the entrancing West Country? I am perfectly certain that either would be graced by your presence. In relation to the question that you raise with regard to the somewhat baffling case that exercised our joint intelligences a few months ago—please don’t worry, you may rely on me. Rest assured that I should never attempt to conclude my case without acquainting you and inviting your valuable co-operation. I have too much admiration for Scotland Yard in general and incidentally yourself in particular. Also it might prove too big for me to adopt any other methods single-handed. I told you whom I suspected upon the occasion of our last meeting. You alone know of that suspicion. I am still waiting now, as I was at the time that I gave you my confidence. Hold yourself in readiness to move at a moment’s notice. When that time comes I will communicate with you. Then my dear Bannister—we will taste success! And till then——

“Faithfully yours, “Anthony L. Bathurst.”

This letter afforded the Ex-Inspector both consolation and satisfaction. At any rate, he would share in the triumph when the hands of Justice closed upon the criminal. He decided therefore to postpone his departure to the selected spot for his retirement at any rate, for a month or two—say till after Christmas. But Fate decreed that he was in action again before then. Anthony Bathurst’s expectations were realised. On a misty morning in mid-November that promised a better day the _S.S. Nicholas Maes_ steamed out of Hull and began to plough her way through icy-cold green waves towards the rising morning sun and the City of Amsterdam. She was an undistinguished unit of the Holland S.S. Company but on this particular occasion perhaps, stood nearer to a place in the maritime sun than ever before. For “amongst those sailing” were two plain-clothes men from New Scotland Yard—ostensibly ordinary tourists—and a handsome, stalwart and venerable Indian. The passenger-list recorded the Indian as “Ram Das” and the two plain-clothes men as “Hobbs” and “Sutcliffe.” All these names, it is needless to say, had been assumed for the occasion. Similarly also Ex-Chief-Inspector Bannister, in at the death, true to Mr. Bathurst’s written promise, had thought it safer and better to register in a name other than his own. You never know how the sight of a name, observed quite by accident, will strike a person’s remoter memory and awaken an undesired interest. The two plain-clothes men were under explicit instructions to hold no communication whatever with anybody. Ram Das, or Lal Singh as we will call him from now henceforward was to be shadowed to every step and watched to every action without his suspicions being in any way aroused and New Scotland Yard is not in the habit of sending one man—eminent though he might be—to do two men’s work.

Five hours’ voyage out of the port of Hull the passengers of the _Nicholas Maes_ who had summoned sufficient courage and hardihood to brave the wind and weather on the top deck had their attention diverted for a few moments by an aeroplane that flew joyously over them and rapidly left them far behind. It was apparently making for the coast of Holland. Lal Singh, keeping as much in the background as possible, regarded it with the stoical calm of his race and the pseudo-tourists (never very far away from him) were quick to detect this. It may be observed that the aeroplane in question carried a trio of eminent passengers—Sir Austin Kemble, the Chief Commissioner, the Crown Prince Alexis of Clorania—whom Mr. Bathurst had insisted upon being present, and no less a person than Mr. Bathurst himself. They made Amsterdam—the spider-web city of the “Land of Water”—in excellent time and made their way, piloted by the Chief Commissioner, to the Kalverstraat.

“A little light refreshment,” explained Sir Austin to His Royal Highness, “will prove most acceptable to every one of us. Also I have arranged to meet Cuypers in the _Café Suisse_. Cuypers is the head of the Dutch police,” he explained. “And an excellent fellow, I assure you.”

The gentleman mentioned was already there when they arrived. He spoke English fluently and greeted Sir Austin as an old friend and comrade.

“I received your message, Sir Austin,” he announced after the necessary introductions had been made, “and I have arranged that what you asked me will be attended to in every detail. The _Nicholas Maes_ will be in to-night and will dock in the De Ruyter Kade. Your special gentleman will be carefully watched ashore by two of my most reliable men and if he doesn’t go direct to where you are expecting him to go—no matter—my men will never lose sight of him. If he does go straight on as you anticipate that he will—they will follow—to lend a hand—should a hand be wanted.” His fat face wreathed in smiles. It was a great honour to meet and work with the illustrious Sir Austin Kemble of the English police. He always welcomed the opportunity.

The Chief Commissioner nodded in acquiescence. “Good,” he commented. “Just what I want.”

Cuypers went on, flattered at Sir Austin’s commendation. “Your own people who are watching on the _Nicholas Maes_ will join forces with my two men if they deem it necessary. I have arranged all the particulars with regard to that. A signal will be given to prevent any confusion arising. Is there anything else you would desire to know?” He disposed of his Lager with extreme satisfaction and gave an order for four more.

“Only this,” replied Sir Austin, a trifle defensively perhaps. He turned to Anthony. “I am relying on you implicitly, Mr. Bathurst. You have no _doubt_ you say?”

Anthony smiled. “None at all, Sir Austin. Tell Mr. Cuypers what I imagine is going to happen when Lal Singh arrives.”

Sir Austin caressed his upper lip. “Stefanopoulos—Cuypers. Has he been pretty quiet lately? Can you tell me? Because we’re confident that he’s going to be in this job.”

Cuypers’ white teeth flashed into an appreciative smile. “But so! Well, I am not surprised. If it’s precious stones—there is always that possibility. But he is slippery! I cannot tell you how slippery, gentlemen.” He leaned forward to them impressively over the marble-topped table. “Stefanopoulos is one of the three biggest ‘fences’ in Europe. Possibly the biggest of all—excepting perhaps the notorious Adolf Schneitzer. It is only the really big stuff that he touches. The stuff that’s too big for the smaller men. Do you know his—his——?” He paused to collect the word he wanted. “What do you say—his pre—I know—antecedents?” His audience expressed their ignorance. Cuypers continued. “His father was a Greek who was employed for many years in the diamond-cutting industry of this city down in the Zwanenburger Straat. He got into trouble after he married one of our women and took to crime very thoroughly. In time he became an expert. His son—our man—is one of the craftiest devils you could meet. We’ve had him three times and wanted him many more times. But he’s like an eel. He’s cleared some of the biggest diamond robberies of recent years both in Europe and the States. And you think he’s going to occupy your present attention—eh?”

“Let me tell you this,” rejoined Anthony. “We have been waiting for a certain movement to be made by somebody in our country concerning the disposal of a very valuable, precious stone. A very big thing indeed. The bird we are trailing has flown to Amsterdam. Do you think I am very far out if I deduce the probable presence in the affair of M. Stefanopoulos?”

Cuypers shook his head. “Rather would I say, without hesitation, that you have hit the right nail on the head. At any rate,” he shrugged his shoulders expressively, “If your man is here and you are here to watch him wherever he goes—you cannot go very far wrong. Even if the trail as you call it doesn’t lead to Stefanopoulos.”

Sir Austin, who had been talking quietly to the Crown Prince for a moment or two broke in. “Where does this Stefanopoulos live?”

“In the Jewish Quarter,” replied the Dutchman.

“Far from here?” queried Anthony.

“Take a tram along the Geldersche Kade past the Fish Market into the New Market. Get off by St. Anthony’s Weigh House. You can’t miss that—it’s a rather quaint red-brick affair carrying round towers and spires. It was the old East Gate of Amsterdam. Go down a side turning just before Joden Bree Straat—the first turning on the left before the canal. Stefanopoulos lives in the second establishment on the right. But I shall be coming along with you when the fun starts—so you need have no worry about finding your way.”

“It is most essential that we should be able to interview Stefanopoulos before he receives his visitor,” remarked Anthony.

“That also shall be arranged,” said Cuypers. “I will see to it.”

He was as good as his word and early that afternoon the notorious Greek “fence” of International reputation was privileged and surprised to receive four visitors. The establishment in the Jewish quarter to which Cuypers escorted them was externally unpretentious and to all appearances in no way significant of its proprietor’s world-wide notoriety. It was situated on the fringe of that part of the City of Amsterdam devoted for many years to the fascinating industry of diamond-cutting. To Anthony Bathurst, the quarter with its stalls and booths was as much reminiscent of London’s “Middlesex Street” as of anything he knew and the domicile of Stefanopoulos might have been removed _en bloc_ from the Whitechapel Road. Cuypers beckoned to them.

“Come right in with me,” he said, “and let me do the talking.”

“What is the gentleman’s ostensible business?” asked Anthony.

“He’s a registered moneylender,” replied Cuypers, “and I for one, should be sorry to get in his clutches. He’s reputed to be the fourth richest man in Amsterdam.” He put his forefinger to his lips. “Leave it to me.”

As they entered a bell jingled noisily. Anthony noticed that they stood behind a high counter that ran all round the shop, for shop perhaps described the place most closely. From the apartment in the rear a curious figure shuffled towards them. Half Greek and half Dutch—as he had been described—but facially and physically he might have passed for “the Jew that Shakespeare drew.” Cupidity and cunning were the twin lights of his eyes. And with that strange tactfulness of the habitual criminal—that sixth sense that also seems to be the life as it were of the other five—he divined that his four visitors carried for him an element of danger. This too—before he perceived the identity of Cuypers. But he betrayed no outward sign of his temporary discomfort. The school in which he had been trained was a hard one. He bowed with the servility of the race whose worst qualities he had usurped and whose best qualities he had discarded. Cuypers addressed him in English. He knew that Stefanopoulos was a cosmopolitan. To the astonishment of the Crown Prince he replied in the same tongue.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Vy am I thus honoured? Mynheer Cuypers is pleased——”

The Dutchman cut him short summarily. He bent forward over the counter and spoke for a few moments to Stefanopoulos in a low tone—so low that the others were unable to catch his words. The Levantine started back eventually in spluttering denial but again Cuypers checked him. “We know” Anthony heard him say—“we _know_—so save your breath—Demetri. You’ll make nothing out of this deal, take it from me, and if you don’t arrange to do what I’ve just asked you, I’ll have you arrested within half an hour from now.”

Stefanopoulos snarled and showed a row of dirty yellow teeth. His lip curled back in menace. “You talk big! Pah! You can’t! What for am I to be arrested? I’m an honest trader—mind that, Mister.”

Cuypers administered the “_coup de grâce_.” “Ever heard of the Contessa D’Amaldi? And her nine pigeon-blood rubies? If I couldn’t prove it, my friend—I’d hold you twelve months on a charge of ‘fencing’ them while I sought round for evidence. Got that, Demetri? Very well, then—we shall be here at five o’clock. Understand! Have everything ready—you know what to do.”

“I had to frighten the old vulture,” he explained jocularly as they passed out, “but in this particular instance, I really think he knows nothing. Lal Singh as you call him knows what you English call ‘the ropes.’”

Sir Austin Kemble laughed. “Better than he knows what lies ahead of him,” he murmured, looking at his watch. “In about six hours time, shall we say?”