“Let me tell you this,” rejoined Anthony. “We have been waiting for a certain movement to be made by somebody in our country concerning the disposal of a very valuable, precious stone. A very big thing indeed. The bird we are trailing has flown to Amsterdam. Do you think I am very far out if I deduce the probable presence in the affair of M. Stefanopoulos?”
Cuypers shook his head. “Rather would I say, without hesitating, that you have hit the right nail on the head. At any rate,” he shrugged his shoulders expressively, “If your man is here and you are here to watch him wherever he goes—you cannot go very far wrong. Even if the trail as you call it doesn’t lead to Stefanopoulos.”
Sir Austin, who had been talking quietly to the Crown Prince for a moment or two broke in. “Where does this Stefanopoulos live?”
“In the Jewish Quarter,” replied the Dutchman.
“Far from here?” queried Anthony.
“Take a tram along the Geldersche Kade past the Fish Market into the New Market. Get off by St. Anthony’s Weigh House. You can’t miss that—it’s a rather quaint red-brick affair carrying round towers and spires. It was the old East Gate of Amsterdam. Go down a side turning just before Joden Bree Straat—the first turning on the left before the canal. Stefanopoulos lives in the second establishment on the right. But I shall be coming along with you when the fun starts—so you need have no worry about finding your way.”
“It is most essential that we should be able to interview Stefanopoulos before he receives his visitor,” remarked Anthony.
“That also shall be arranged,” said Cuypers. “I will see to it.”
He was as good as his word and early that afternoon the notorious Greek ‘fence’ of International reputation was privileged and surprised to receive four visitors. The establishment of the Jewish quarter to which Cuypers escorted them was externally unpretentious and to all appearances in no way significant of its proprietor’s world-wide notoriety. It was situated on the fringe of that part of the City of Amsterdam devoted for many years to the fascinating industry of diamond-cutting. To Anthony Bathurst, the quarter with its stalls and booths was as much reminiscent of London’s “Middlesex Street” as of anything he knew and the domicile of Stefanopoulos might have been removed en bloc from the Whitechapel Road. Cuypers beckoned to them.
“Come right in with me,” he said, “and let me do the talking.”
“What is the gentleman’s ostensible business?” asked Anthony.
“He’s a registered moneylender,” replied Cuypers, “and I for one, should be sorry to get in his clutches. He’s reputed to be the fourth richest man in Amsterdam.” He put his finger to his lips. “Leave it to me.”
As they entered a bell jingled noisily. Anthony noticed that they stood behind a high counter that ran all round the shop, for shop perhaps described the place most closely. From the apartment in the rear a curious figure shuffled towards them. Half Greek and half Dutch—as he had been described—but facially and physically he might have passed for “the Jew that Shakespeare drew.” Cupidity and cunning were the twin lights of his eyes. And with that strange tactfulness of the habitual criminal—that sixth sense that also seemed to be the life as it were of the other five—he divined that his four visitors carried for him an element of danger. This too—before he perceived the identity of Cuypers. But he betrayed no outward sign of his temporary discomfort. The school in which he had been trained was a hard one. He bowed with the servility of the race whose worst qualities he had usurped and whose best qualities he had discarded. Cuypers addressed him in English. He knew that Stefanopoulos was a cosmopolitan. To the astonishment of the Crown Prince he replied in the same tongue.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Vy am I thus honoured? Mynheer Cuypers is pleased—”
The Dutchman cut him short summarily. He bent forward over the counted and spoke for a few moments to Stefanopoulos in a low tone—so low that the others were unable to catch his words. The Levantine started back eventually in spluttering denial but again Cuypers checked him. “We know” Anthony heard him say—“We know—so save your breath—Demetri. You’ll make nothing out of this deal, take it from me, and if you don’t arrange to do what I’ve just asked you, I’ll have you arrested within half an hour from now.”
Stefanopoulos snarled and showed a row of dirty yellow teeth. His lip curled back in menace. “You talk big! Pah! You can’t! What for am I to be arrested? I’m an honest trader—mind that, Mister.”
Cuypers administered the “coup de grace.” “Ever heard of the Contessa D’Amaldi? And her nine pigeon-blood rubies? If I couldn’t prove it, my friend—I’d hold you twelve months on a charge of ‘fencing’ them while I sought round for evidence. Got that, Demetri? Very well, then—we shall be here at five o’clock. Understand! Have everything ready—you know what to do.”
“I had to frighten the old vulture,” he explained jocularly as they passed out, “but in this particular instance, I really think he knows nothing. Lal Singh as you call him knows what you English call ‘the ropes.’”
Sir Austin Kemble laughed. “Better than he know what lies ahead of him,” he murmured, looking at his watch. “In about six hours time, shall we say?”
Chapter XXVI
Rendezvous
Cuypers tapped his Smith-Wesson significantly. “Understand, friend Demetri,” he announced decisively, “no tricks” The first hint that you are playing us false—and—” he fingered the revolver with a wealth of meaning. The Greek made no reply. Evidently he did understand. Cuypers went on. “I shall be here at your side all the time.
