because his attackers were still up there at the canal side, listening for any sign that he was still alive.
He was awakened by a knock on the door. He slowly realised where he was. He had slept for almost two hours since he had drunk the orange juice. ‘Come in!’ he shouted. The doorknob turned, and in the doorway stood none other than his old friend Singel.
T hat was Carvalho’s first surprise. The second was the fluent English that Singel greeted him with, apologising for disturbing him, and asking him how he was. As before, Singel kept looking at him with his wide-eyed, angelic smile, like someone who has discovered a mysterious being from outer space. The smile was either a nervous tic or the sign that he was a public relations expert.
‘Mr Carvalho, I’m going to spare you the trouble of asking questions and sum up the situation as clearly as I can. You have obviously made the connection between the visit to us yesterday and the warning you got last night. That is all it was, a warning. You are well aware we could have left you at the bottom of the canal if we had wanted to.’
The seriousness of what he was saying in no way altered his guileless, beaming expression. He went on in the same tone of voice:
‘A few hours ago, a policeman came to see you. I’d like to know what you talked about.’
Carvalho was unsure that this was a different person asking him questions. Singel behaved just as politely as the inspector. Possibly they wanted to know the same things.
‘I told the policeman what I wanted him to hear. And I’ll tell you what I want you to hear.’
‘We’ve been thinking that your interests do not necessarily clash with ours. Perhaps we were a little hasty yesterday, andyou are looking for your Spanish friends for reasons that don’t concern us.’
‘I’m quite sure they don’t.’
‘So what are they?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve been hired to find Julio Chesma. I’m a private investigator, and there are reasons to believe that Julio Chesma and the body of a drowned man washed ashore on a Spanish beach are one and the same. A client has asked me to confirm his identity. A tattoo the drowned man had on his back is what brought me to Amsterdam. When I got here I learned his name and where he was staying. Now I need to know what happened to him from the moment he arrived at your boarding house to the moment he died. I’m not interested in whatever business he got mixed up in. Just what his life was like in those months. Nothing else interests either me or my client.’
‘What relation do you suspect there was between your friend and me, for example?’
‘I can imagine lots of things: drugs, the white slave traffic, smuggling tulips or Delftware abroad. Or you two could be masons, or part of Opus Dei.’
‘Opus Dei?’
‘I know what I mean.’
‘It’s true your friend had some business dealings with us. And of course we would prefer you not to try to get to the bottom of them. Perhaps it would be wiser if we collaborated. We’ll give you the chance to find out how he lived, but the information will have nothing to do with the deals he did with us.’
‘What sort of information?’
‘Women, for example. He liked them a lot, but at the same time almost always managed to keep business and bed strictly separated.’
‘It sounds like we have a deal.’
‘You have no choice. You could probably go to the police and tell them about this conversation. All you would gain by that would be to have me arrested, but that won’t get the Dutch police very far. They already know where I live, and anyway I have a dozen alibis. For you it would be different. If you go to the police, you might save yourself from a drowning in Holland. But there is water everywhere. And people die on dry land too.’
‘I understand.’
‘Perfect. Then I’ll start by telling you all I know. Your friend stayed at the Patrice Hotel until a year ago. From time to time he took trips, but strictly
He was awakened by a knock on the door. He slowly realised where he was. He had slept for almost two hours since he had drunk the orange juice. ‘Come in!’ he shouted. The doorknob turned, and in the doorway stood none other than his old friend Singel.
T hat was Carvalho’s first surprise. The second was the fluent English that Singel greeted him with, apologising for disturbing him, and asking him how he was. As before, Singel kept looking at him with his wide-eyed, angelic smile, like someone who has discovered a mysterious being from outer space. The smile was either a nervous tic or the sign that he was a public relations expert.
‘Mr Carvalho, I’m going to spare you the trouble of asking questions and sum up the situation as clearly as I can. You have obviously made the connection between the visit to us yesterday and the warning you got last night. That is all it was, a warning. You are well aware we could have left you at the bottom of the canal if we had wanted to.’
The seriousness of what he was saying in no way altered his guileless, beaming expression. He went on in the same tone of voice:
‘A few hours ago, a policeman came to see you. I’d like to know what you talked about.’
Carvalho was unsure that this was a different person asking him questions. Singel behaved just as politely as the inspector. Possibly they wanted to know the same things.
‘I told the policeman what I wanted him to hear. And I’ll tell you what I want you to hear.’
‘We’ve been thinking that your interests do not necessarily clash with ours. Perhaps we were a little hasty yesterday, andyou are looking for your Spanish friends for reasons that don’t concern us.’
‘I’m quite sure they don’t.’
‘So what are they?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve been hired to find Julio Chesma. I’m a private investigator, and there are reasons to believe that Julio Chesma and the body of a drowned man washed ashore on a Spanish beach are one and the same. A client has asked me to confirm his identity. A tattoo the drowned man had on his back is what brought me to Amsterdam. When I got here I learned his name and where he was staying. Now I need to know what happened to him from the moment he arrived at your boarding house to the moment he died. I’m not interested in whatever business he got mixed up in. Just what his life was like in those months. Nothing else interests either me or my client.’
‘What relation do you suspect there was between your friend and me, for example?’
‘I can imagine lots of things: drugs, the white slave traffic, smuggling tulips or Delftware abroad. Or you two could be masons, or part of Opus Dei.’
‘Opus Dei?’
‘I know what I mean.’
‘It’s true your friend had some business dealings with us. And of course we would prefer you not to try to get to the bottom of them. Perhaps it would be wiser if we collaborated. We’ll give you the chance to find out how he lived, but the information will have nothing to do with the deals he did with us.’
‘What sort of information?’
‘Women, for example. He liked them a lot, but at the same time almost always managed to keep business and bed strictly separated.’
‘It sounds like we have a deal.’
‘You have no choice. You could probably go to the police and tell them about this conversation. All you would gain by that would be to have me arrested, but that won’t get the Dutch police very far. They already know where I live, and anyway I have a dozen alibis. For you it would be different. If you go to the police, you might save yourself from a drowning in Holland. But there is water everywhere. And people die on dry land too.’
‘I understand.’
‘Perfect. Then I’ll start by telling you all I know. Your friend stayed at the Patrice Hotel until a year ago. From time to time he took trips, but strictly
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