Floodgate. Alistair MacLean
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and these restaurants have ears. You must be about the same age as my daughters? May I ask how old you are?’
‘You must excuse the Colonel,’ van Effen said. ‘Policemen are much given to asking questions: some Chiefs of Police never stop.’
The girl was smiling at de Graaf while van Effen was speaking and, once again, van Effen could have been addressing a brick wall. ‘Twenty-seven,’ she said.
‘Twenty-seven. Exactly the age of my elder daughter. And Miss Anne Meijer. Bears out my contention—the younger generation of Dutchmen are a poor, backward and unenterprising lot.’ He looked at van Effen, as if he symbolized all that was wrong with the current generation, then looked again at the girl. ‘Odd. I know I’ve never seen you but your voice is vaguely familiar.’ He looked at van Effen again and frowned slightly. ‘I look forward immensely to having dinner with you, but I thought—well, Peter, there were one or two confidential business matters that we had to discuss.’
‘Indeed, sir. But when you suggested we meet at seven o’clock you made no exclusions.’
‘I don’t understand.’
The girl said: ‘Colonel.’
‘Yes, my dear?’
‘Am I really such a hussy, a harlot, harridan and ghastly spectacle? Or is it because you don’t trust me that you want to speak privately with Peter?’
De Graaf took a pace forward, caught the girl by the shoulders, removed one hand to stop a passing waiter and said: ‘A jonge jenever. Large.’
‘Immediately, Colonel.’
De Graaf held her shoulders again, stared intently into her face—he was probably trying to equate or associate the vision before him with the creature he had met in La Caracha—shook his head, muttered something to or about the same nameless deity and sank into the nearest chair.
Van Effen was sympathetic. ‘It comes as a shock, I know, sir. Happened to me the first time. A brilliant make-up artist, don’t you think? If it’s any consolation, sir, she also fooled me once. But no disguise this time—just a wash and brush-up.’ He looked at her consideringly. ‘But, well, yes, rather good-looking.’
‘Good-looking. Hah!’ De Graaf took the jonge jenever from the waiter’s tray and quaffed half the contents at a gulp. ‘Ravishing. At my age, systems shouldn’t be subjected to such shocks. Anne? Annemarie? What do I call you?’
‘Whichever.’
‘Anne. My dear. I said such dreadful things about you. It is not possible.’
‘Of course it’s not. I couldn’t believe Peter when he said you had.’
Van Effen waved a hand. ‘A loose translation, shall we say?’
‘Very loose.’ Wisely, de Graaf did not pursue the subject. ‘And what in heaven’s name, is a girl like you doing in a job like this.’
‘I thought it was an honourable profession?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. But what I meant was—well—’
‘What the Colonel means,’ van Effen said, ‘is that you should be an international stage or screen star, presiding over a Parisian salon, or married to an American oil millionaire—billionaire, if you like—or a belted English earl. Too beautiful, that’s your trouble. Isn’t that it, Colonel?’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’
‘Dear me.’ Anne smiled. ‘Doesn’t say much for your Amsterdam girls. You mean you only employ ugly girls?’
De Graaf smiled for the first time that evening. ‘I am not to be drawn. The Chief of Police is famed for his powers of recovery. But you—you—among those dreadful Krakers and dressed like a—like—’
‘Harlot? Hussy?’
‘If you like, yes.’ He put his hand on hers. ‘This is no place for a girl like you. Must get you out of it. Police is no place for you.’
‘One has to earn a living, sir.’
‘You? You need never earn a living. That, Anne, is a compliment.’
‘I like what I’m doing.’
De Graaf didn’t seem to have heard her. He was gazing at some distant object out in space. Van Effen said to the girl: ‘Watch him. He’s at his most cunning when he goes into a trance.’
‘I am not in a trance,’ de Graaf said coldly. ‘What did you say your surname was?’
‘Meijer.’
‘You have a family?’
‘Oh, yes. The usual. Parents, sisters, two brothers.’
‘Brothers and sisters share your interest in law and order?’
‘Police, you mean. No.’
‘Your father?’
‘Again police?’ She smiled as a person smiles when recalling someone of whom they are very fond. ‘I couldn’t imagine it. He’s in the building business.’
‘Does he know what kind of business you are in?’
She hesitated. ‘Well, no.’
‘What do you mean, well, no? He doesn’t, does he? Why?’
‘Why?’ She seemed to be on the defensive. ‘He likes us to be independent.’
‘Would he approve of what you are doing? And that was no answer you gave me. Would he approve of his darling daughter mingling with the Krakers?’
‘Is this what it’s like to be a suspect, sir, and to be grilled? Am I supposed to have done something wrong?’
‘Of course not. Would he approve?’ The entranced Colonel of a few minutes previously could have belonged to another world.
‘No.’
‘You put me in a quandary. I don’t like you being in this. You, apparently, do. Your father wouldn’t. To whom should I listen—you or your father?’
‘The question hardly arises, sir. You don’t know my father.’
‘Child!’
‘What does that mean. I don’t understand.’
‘I know your father. Very well. We’ve been friends for over thirty years.’
‘Impossible! You can’t know him. You’ve only just met me and you didn’t even know me.’ She was no actress and was visibly upset. ‘This is—this is a trick of some kind.’
‘Annemarie.’ Van Effen touched her arm. ‘If the Colonel says he’s a friend of your father, then he is. Come on, sir.’
‘I know. When next you write or phone, Anne—if you ever do—give my warmest regards to David Joseph Karlmann Meijer.’
Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth as if to speak, closed it again and turned to van Effen. ‘I think it’s my turn for a jonge jenever.’
De Graaf looked at van Effen. ‘My old friend David—we’ve gone sailing, fishing, skiing, hunting over the years—we were even up exploring the Amazon before this young lady here was born—owns a huge construction company. He also owns one of the biggest cement factories in the Netherlands, oil refineries, tankers, an electronics firm and God knows what else. “One has to earn a living, sir,”’ he mimicked. ‘Earn a living! Cruel, cruel landlord throwing the poor orphan out into the snow. Ah!’ He turned to look at the maître d’ at his elbow. ‘Good evening. The young people will choose for me. But, first, another jonge jenever.’ He looked at Annemarie. ‘Must have something to cry into. They say gin is best.’
After the orders had been taken and the maître d’ and his minions departed,