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?”