The first stage of the rescue operation was to take Pol back to their hotel, where Packer paid off the taxi and bundled the Frenchman, dribbling and giggling, through the side entrance and up in the automatic lift, which was mercifully empty. They met no one in the corridor to their room. Inside, they lugged him unceremoniously into the bathroom; and while Sarah ordered black coffee from room service, Packer coaxed Pol into giving him the name of his own hotel.
They left him soaking in one of Sarah’s bubble baths, with instructions to answer the telephone, but not the door; hung a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign outside, went downstairs and took a taxi to the Frenchman’s hotel — the Amstel, one of the oldest and most select in Amsterdam. They entered the marble foyer — Sarah now dressed in casual Cardin and swinging a Gucci bag, Packer in suit and tie — and were told by Reception that Monsieur Pol had already settled his bill and was leaving that night.
Most of his luggage had been brought down; there remained only a few things in his suite, which he had intended to collect before two o’clock. The desk staff displayed an amiable deference, as soon as they found that the two of them were English; and while Sarah chatted to the ancient head porter, Packer explained to the desk clerk that Monsieur Pol had met with a slight but unfortunate accident. He would not be able to collect his luggage personally — but, of course, neither of them would be offended if one of the staff accompanied them upstairs, while they finished Pol’s packing.
As Packer suspected, Pol existed in a state of opulent chaos. A half-full magnum of Krug stood uncorked on a side table, next to an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, which Packer eyed enviously. Sarah, who had been systematically going through the drawers, gave a shout of delight. In the bedside table she had found a fat roll of one-hundred-guilder notes, together with 7800 French francs in various denominations. Packer strode over and peeled off two of the Dutch notes, and put them in his wallet. ‘That’ll do for taxi fares, for a start.’
She stood, still holding the bundles of notes in each hand. For a moment the two of them looked at each other without expression. She spoke first: ‘He’d never remember — he’s far too drunk.’
Packer glanced at the door, where the hotel clerk was waiting discreetly out of sight in the passage; then shook his head. ‘For a girl with your background, Sarah love, you seem pretty light fingered. Or maybe you’re just greedy?’
‘Why not? — if he gets drunk and leaves the stuff lying around everywhere?’
He took the notes from her hand and stuffed them into his inside pocket, next to his traveller’s cheques. ‘And he’d probably never counted them in the first place,’ he said; then smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll let you have your cut, after we’ve deducted expenses — and a fee. Harbouring tulip butchers from justice isn’t cheap, you know. He’ll get what’s left over — if there is any.’
‘Anyone could tell you’re a Welsh Jew,’ she said, smiling, ‘even if you don’t look like one.’
Packer now began himself to examine the drawer by the bed. He picked out a vellum folder stamped with the image of a bird with a snake’s head, talons and a blue and gold fanned tail. Inside was a first-class, open return ticket to Mamounia, capital of the second richest oil-producing nation in the Middle East. Pol was booked from Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam, but Packer observed that the ticket had been issued by the state’s national airline in Zürich.
He put the folder into a monogrammed Louis Vuitton case, and rejoined Sarah in the bathroom where she was busily sweeping bottles of eau-de-cologne, deodorants, anti-perspirants, pills and patent medicines into a toilet case that was larger than Packer’s hold-all.
He was smiling at the idea of Pol actually being vain, when he saw something lying half hidden under a very dirty ivory comb. It was an opened envelope, with an English stamp, addressed to M. Charles Pol, c/o American Express, Amsterdam. The postmark was London, but Packer could not make out the date stamp.
He turned it over. On the torn flap, above a familiar crest, were the initials SMRTS. Packer looked up and gazed at his gaunt image in the mirror, and saw his passionless blue eyes light up with the dawning of a great excitement. The envelope was empty.
Carefully, making sure that Sarah could not see, he folded it once and placed it in the zipped-up inner compartment of his wallet.
He made a final, swift check through the room, before they rejoined the hotel clerk outside.
‘Thank God the Dutch are a trusting, English-loving people!’ Packer muttered, as they rode down in the lift.
The only obstacle they encountered before leaving was the petite insistence of the head porter on either a written or telephoned authorization from Pol himself. Packer had anticipated this. He had asked for a note from Pol, but the Frenchman had seemed to be in no state to write even his own name. Packer now took the precaution of putting the call through himself, from the public phone in the lobby, before summoning the head porter to answer it. Pol sounded drowsy, but was coherent enough to satisfy the old Dutchman.
A taxi had already been called, and while Pol’s three elegant suitcases were being loaded into the boot, Packer ostentatiously gave the head porter their destination as Schiphol Airport, Lufthansa counter, in time for the 2.00 p.m. flight for Munich. Once inside, he instructed the driver to take them to their hotel.
The lobby reported no disturbances. Up in their room they found Pol still in the bathroom, dozing on the lavatory,
