everyone seemed out of place.
The ice rink was enormous. It was like being inside an aircraft hangar. It was rectangular in shape, surrounded by five rows of plastic seats rising in steps over the ice. There was an observation box at one end and the terrace cafe at the other. Everything was slightly shabby, old-fashioned… and cold. The ice was actually steaming as it caught the warm air from outside and chilled it. There were only about half a dozen skaters out there and, as they glided along the surface of the rink, they seemed to disappear into the fog like bizarre, dancing ghosts.
There was also a handful of spectators. An old lady sat knitting. She might have been aged eighty-six but I somehow doubted that she was the agent. An ice-cream seller was sitting on his own, looking depressed because nobody was buying his ice creams. The nearest he got to eighty-six was the 99-flakes he was advertising.
I glanced back at Tim. He had fallen over again. Either that, or he was trying to ice-skate on his nose.
But there was one good skater on the ice, a real professional in a black tracksuit. If you’ve ever watched ice- skaters, you’ll know that they seem to move without even trying. It’s almost as though they’re flying standing up. Well, this man was like that. I watched him as he sped round in a huge figure of eight. Then I turned back and began to thread my way through the remaining spectators.
That was when I saw them. They were sitting down in the middle of the highest row of seats with their legs spread out on the seats below them. One was tall and thin, dressed in a grey suit with a bow tie. At some time in his life he’d had a nasty argument with someone… and I mean nasty. The someone had left a scar that started just to the side of his left eye and ran all the way down to his neck. I’d never seen a scar quite like it. It looked like you could post a letter in it. His companion was shorter, dressed in jeans, white T-shirt and black leather jacket. He had hair like an oil-slick and a face that seemed to have been moulded by somebody with large thumbs. He didn’t need a scar. He was ugly enough already.
Why had I noticed them? It was simple. They weren’t watching the ice. I got the feeling they were watching me — and as I walked past them, following a line of seats a few rows below, I felt their four eyes swivelling round and sticking to me like leeches in a swamp. Even as I went, I wondered if one of them could be Agent 86. But I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.
The music changed from classical to jazz.
Tim fell over more jazzily this time. The professional swung round him in another smooth circle. Scarface and Ugly were still sitting where I’d seen them, only now they were looking away. I decided to ignore them.
But where was 86?
I walked up to the top row, passing seat eighty-six as I went. It was empty. I turned back and took one last look at the rink. Tim was sitting on the ice, shaking his head, and suddenly I wanted to laugh. The man in the black tracksuit had skated two figures round him. I could see the figures cut by the blades in the surface of the ice. An eight and a six.
I ran back down to the edge of the rink and called to Tim. That was a mistake. I’d allowed myself to get excited and I’d shown it. And although I only half-noticed it then, I had good reason to remember it later.
Scarface and Ugly were watching me again.
We found the tracksuit in the changing room but the skater was no longer in it. He was taking a shower. We waited until he came out, a white towel wrapped round his waist. He was a tough, broad-shouldered man. The water was still glistening off muscles that would have looked good on a horse. He had pale skin and grey, watchful eyes that reminded me of my old friend Inspector Snape. He sat down between Tim and me without seeming to notice either of us.
“86?” I said.
He just sat there as if he hadn’t even heard me. Then slowly he turned his head and looked at me with an expressionless face. “I don’t know you,” he said.
Tim took over. “I liked the skating,” he said. “You always practise figures?”
The skater shrugged. “What of it?” His English was almost perfect, but with a slight American accent.
“I’m a friend of a friend of yours,” Tim explained. “A guy called McMuffin.”
“McGuffin,” I corrected him.
The skater shook his head. Water dripped out of his hair. “I don’t know this name…”
Tim smiled. He was playing the private detective now — cooler than the ice on the rink. “Well, here’s something else you don’t know,” he drawled. “McGuffin is in his McCoffin.”
The skater seemed uninterested. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“The name’s Tim Diamond. Private eye.”
“How about you?” I asked.
“My name is Rushmore. Hugo Rushmore. I’m sorry to hear about your friend but I can’t help you. I’m just a skater. That’s all.”
For a moment I almost believed him — but the figures cut in the ice couldn’t have been just a coincidence. And without Agent 86, we were nowhere.
I decided to have one last try. “Please, Mr Rushmore,” I said. “You’ve got to help us.”
Still he looked blank. And then I remembered the ticket that I had found in McGuffin’s hotel room, the ticket that had brought us all this way. I still had it in my pocket. I fished it out and handed it to him.
“McGuffin gave us this,” I said. “Before he died.”
Rushmore took the ticket. It was as if I’d said the right password or turned on some sort of switch. A light came on in his eyes. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get a drink.”
We went up to the cafe terrace I’d seen before. It had a view over the rink, but either the day had got warmer or the ice had got colder, because there was so much mist you could hardly see it.
I could just make out two figures standing at the far end and thought of Scarface and Ugly but they were too far away and the mist washed them out. Rushmore was drinking a Coke and had bought us both milk shakes, which would have been nicer if someone had remembered to shake the milk.
“There’s not a lot I can tell you,” he began. “I do a little work for the Dutch Secret Service…”
“What sort of work?” Tim asked.
“That’s a secret. But I’ll tell you this much. I was ordered to look after Jake McGuffin while he was over here. His boss — Mr Waverly — was desperate to find Charon.” Rushmore paused and considered. “There was something odd going on,” he added. “Something Waverly hadn’t told Jake.”
“You mean, Waverly was keeping something back?” I said.
“That’s right. There was a connection between Mr Waverly and Charon. It was as if they knew each other in some way. Jake said the whole thing stank. But he never found out what it was…”
A connection between Waverly and Charon. It seemed impossible. After all, Waverly was the one who wanted to find Charon. It was all getting confusing. “What was McGuffin doing here in Holland?” I asked.
“He’d followed Charon over here.” Rushmore finished his Coke. “The last time I saw him he was planning to check out some old house just outside the city.”
“You know the name?” Tim asked.
Rushmore nodded. “Yes. It’s called the Winter House. The Villa de Winter, in Dutch. It’s about twenty kilometres from Amsterdam.”
“Twenty kilometres…” Tim tried to work it out on his fingers. He didn’t have enough fingers.
“Twelve miles,” I said. I turned to Rushmore. “Could you take us there?”
His eyes narrowed. “It could be dangerous.”
“That’s all right,” Tim chimed in. “You can go in first.”
Rushmore looked from Tim back to me. “All right,” he said. “The rink closes at six today. Come back at five past. I’ll drive you out this evening.”
We stood up.
“See you later, Mr Skater,” I muttered.
“Yeah. Watch how you go, Hugo,” Tim added. I looked down at the ice, searching for the figures that I’d glimpsed behind the mist. But the ice was empty. The two of them had gone.
We got back to the ice rink at six o’clock after an afternoon in Amsterdam. It was still light outside, but once we’d passed through the swing doors into the old building it was as if we’d entered some sort of artificial Arctic night. The ticket-seller had gone home. The lights had been turned off and the windows with their frosted glass and wire grills kept most of the sunlight out. The rink itself stretched out silent and empty, with the mist still curling
