“Faithfully yours,
“Anthony L. Bathurst.”
This letter afforded the Ex-Inspector both consolation and satisfaction. At any rate, he would share in the triumph when the hands of Justice closed upon the criminal. He decided therefore to postpone his departure to the selected spot for his retirement at any rate, for a month or two—say till after Christmas. But Fate decreed that he was in action again before then. Anthony Bathurst’s expectations were realised. On a misty morning in mid-November that promised a better day the S.S. Nicholas Maes steamed out of Hull and began to plough her way through icy-cold green waves towards the rising morning sun and the City of Amsterdam. She was an undistinguished unit of the Holland S.S. Company but on this particular occasion perhaps, stood nearer to a place in the maritime sun than ever before. For “amongst those sailing” were two plain-clothes men from New Scotland Yard—ostensibly ordinary tourists—and a handsome, stalwart and venerable Indian. The passenger-list recorded the Indian as “Ram Das” and the two plain-clothes men as “Hobbs” and “Sutcliffe.” All these names, it is needless to say, had been assumed for the occasion. Similarly also Ex-Chief-Inspector Bannister, in at the death, true to Mr. Bathurst’s written promise, had thought it safer and better to register in a name other than his own. You never know how the sight of a name, observed quite by accident, will strike a person’s remoter memory and awaken an undesired interest. The two plain-clothes men were under explicit instructions to hold no communication whatever with anybody. Ram Das, or Lal Singh as we will call him from now henceforward was to be shadowed to every step and watched to every action without his suspicions being in any way aroused and New Scotland Yard is not in the habit of sending one man—eminent though he might be—to do two men’s work.
Five hours’ voyage out of the port of Hull the passengers of the Nicholas Maes who had summoned sufficient courage and hardihood to brave the wind and weather on the top deck had their attention diverted for a few moments by an aeroplane that flew joyously over them and rapidly left them far behind. It was apparently making for the coast of Holland. Lal Singh, keeping as much in the background as possible, regarded it with the stoical calm of his race and the pseudo-tourists (never very far away from him) were quick to detect this. It may be observed that the aeroplane in question carried a trio of eminent passengers—Sir Austin Kemble, the Chief Commissioner, the Crown Prince Alexis of Clorania—whom Mr. Bathurst had insisted upon being present, and no less a person than Mr. Bathurst himself. They made Amsterdam—the spider-web city of the “Land of Water”—in excellent time and made their way, piloted by the Chief Commissioner, to the Kalverstraat.
“A little light refreshment,” explained Sir Austin to His Royal Highness, “will prove most acceptable to every one of us. Also I have arranged to meet Cuypers in the Café Suisse. Cuypers is the head of the Dutch police,” he explained. “And an excellent fellow, I assure you.”
The gentleman mentioned was already there when they arrived. He spoke English fluently and greeted Sir Austin as an old friend and comrade.
“I received your message, Sir Austin,” he announces after the necessary introductions had been made, “and I have arranged that what you asked me will be attended to in every detail. The Nicholas Maes will be in to-night and will dock in the De Ruyter Kade. Your special gentleman will be carefully watched ashore by two of my most reliable men and if he doesn’t go direct to where you are expecting him to go—no matter—my men will never lose sight of him. If he does go straight on as you anticipate that he will—they will follow—to lend a hand—should a hand be wanted.” His fat face wreathed in smiles. It was a great honour to meet and work with the illustrious Sir Austin Kemble of the English police. He always welcomed the opportunity.
The Chief Commissioner nodded in acquiescence. “Good,” he commented. “Just what I want.”
Cuypers went on, flattered at Sir Austin’s commendation. “Your own people who are watching on the Nicholas Maes will join forced with my two men if they deem it necessary. I have arranged all the particulars with regard to that. A signal will be given to prevent any confusion arising. Is there anything else you would desire to know?” He disposed of his Lager with extreme satisfaction and gave an order for four more.
“Only this,” replied Sir Austin, a trifle defensively perhaps. He turned to Anthony. “I am relying on you implicitly, Mr. Bathurst. You have no doubt you say?”
Anthony smiled. “None at all, Sir Austin. Tell Mr. Cuypers what I imagine is going to happen when Lal Singh arrives.”
Sir Austin caressed his upper lip. “Stefanopoulos—Cuypers. Has he been pretty quiet lately? Can you tell me? Because we’re confident that he’s going to be in this job.”
Cuypers white teeth flashed into an appreciative smile. “But so! Well, I am not surprised. If it’s precious stones—there is always that possibility. But he is slippery! I cannot tell you how slippery, gentlemen.” He leaned forward to them impressively over the marble-topped table. “Stefanopoulos is one of the three biggest ‘fences’ in Europe. Possibly the biggest of all—excepting perhaps the notorious Adolf Schneitzer. It is only the really big stuff that he touches. The stuff that’s too big for the smaller men. Do you know his—his—?” He paused to collect the word he wanted. “What do you say—his pre—I know—antecedents?” His audience expressed their ignorance. Cuypers continued. “His father was a Greek who was employed for many years in the diamond-cutting industry of this city down in the Zwanenburger Straat. He got into trouble after he married one of our women and took to crime very thoroughly. In time he became an expert. His son—our
