Death of a Delft Blue

With Laura, to think of a thing was tantamount to carrying it out. She looked thoughtfully after the organ- grinders and then set out to follow them. They went some distance, but halted at the end of a bridge which carried crowds of cyclists and pedestrians. Here one man began to turn the large wheel which rotated the cylinder, while the other picked up the collecting box. Laura walked on to the bridge and leaned on the parapet, gazing down at the waters of the canal as she listened to the music.

The tunes followed one another, but there was no suggestion of The Flowers of the Forest. A small crowd soon gathered, and the collecting box made its rounds. Laura took out a florin and waved it. The man with the box came up to her. She said, before she put in the coin:

‘What happened to my favourite tune, then?’

The man looked at her impassively.

‘Mevrouw is mistaken. We never had that tune — or else mevrouw did not sing it correctly.’ He said it politely, not insolently.

‘You did have it, you know,’ said Laura, staring into his china-blue eyes. ‘Didn’t you? Why are you unwilling to agree about it?’

The man shrugged his heavy shoulders.

‘You are mistaken,’ he repeated. ‘I know nothing of such a tune.’

‘No?’ Inspiration came to her. ‘When did you last play outside a block of apartments near the Raadhuis?’

She knew that she had scored, for the man dropped his eyes.

‘Many times,’ he answered sullenly, and turned away before she could put her money into the box. She watched him walk back and saw him speak to his companion, who stopped playing in order to listen. Then he changed places with him. The older man came over to Laura and rattled the collecting box. Laura put in her florin with a smile, but there was nothing smiling about the Netherlander. He said:

‘Thank you, mevrouw. And now please stop pestering us. If we have not the tune you wish, we have it not. If you do not believe me, you must listen until we have completed the tunes which we have, then you will be convinced that we speak the truth.’

‘Look,’ said Laura, ‘you can surely admit that you did have the tune I hummed to you. It isn’t a crime to change the cylinder. But if you persist in denying that you once had a different cylinder, one which had this tune, it will make me think that there is something fishy going on.’

‘Fishy?’

‘Wrong. Bad. Criminal.’

The man gave her a hard look.

‘You are molesting us,’ he said; and, to Laura’s astonishment and dismay, he left her abruptly and went over to a policeman. In a few moments the policeman was beside her, with the organ-grinder in tow.

‘This man,’ he said, in careful English, ‘complaint is making.’

‘Why?’ asked Laura.

‘He says you are giving offence.’

‘But I’m doing nothing of the kind. I merely asked him to play a favourite tune for me.’

‘He says you follow him and offend him.’

‘I had no intention of offending him.’

‘So — no more. In Amsterdam is an honourable work, the street organ. No?’

‘Yes, of course, if you say so.’

‘So! No more to follow, no more to speak. No more to annoy. Yes?’

‘All right.’

The policeman nodded and took himself off. The older man returned to his companion. Laura stood her ground, in spite of the wide-eyed stares of three children who had dismounted from their bicycles to hear what the policeman had to say. The organ bawled on. Laura recognised the tune. The cylinder had come full cycle. She was glad of this extra confirmation that The Flowers of the Forest no longer formed part of its repertoire. She waited until the organ moved off and then, very thoughtfully indeed, she walked all the way back to her hotel.

‘Something nasty in the woodshed all right,’ thought Laura, ‘and the Colwyn-Welch family is indicated. Now, do I contact Mrs Croc. or do I carry on by myself?’

The fact that she had a doubt made her come to an abrupt decision. Her meal over, she had the porter call a taxi and went to the apartment of Binnen and her daughters. She had primed herself with all sorts of reasons for originating the visit, but none of them proved to be necessary. She was shown in at once, and, to her considerable astonishment, there was Sweyn van Zestien. This explained why the apartment was not locked up.

‘Welcome, Mrs Gavin,’ he said, making her a little bow before giving her his hand. ‘I think we have come here on the same errand.’

‘To tell the truth, I don’t quite know why I’ve come,’ said Laura. ‘I suppose I was going to look for something, but, if it was here, you’re certain to have found it by now.’

‘Found it? But — found what?’

‘The cylinder from the barrel-organ.’

Sweyn looked puzzled, as well he might.

‘I’m afraid I do not understand,’ he said.