Police Headquarters
Elandsgracht 117
Amsterdam
The Next Morning
Before arriving at the address on Van Decker's card, Lang had insisted on stopping at the same business store where Louis had made copies the day before, leaving the Belgian to wait on the street. Minutes later he emerged, and the two proceeded to the policeman's office.
"The store back there," Louis asked as Lang emerged. "What…?"
"Unfinished business, Louis," Lang said in a tone that encouraged no more questions. "Now, let's see what the good inspector wants."
Located on the outskirts of the Central Canal Ring, the four-story building's only distinction was the red, white, and blue stripes of the Dutch flag hanging limply over the door. Inside, the place could have been a police station anywhere. People, in and out of uniform, hurriedly swirled past to the accompaniment of ringing phones and the hum of electronics, Just across the threshold a metal detector blocked entry. Emptying his pockets, Louis asked for directions to the office of Inspector Van Decker.
They were directed to the third floor, which in the
United States would have been the fourth. Europeans did not count the ground level, a custom going back to a time when homeowners were taxed by the number of stories. Lang always wondered how American cities, always cash- strapped, had missed that source of revenue.
The elevator could have been timed with a calendar. When it finally delivered them to the top floor, someone had alerted the Dutch detective. He was waiting as the doors creaked open. He greeted them with what could have been a "good morning," turned, and led them to the end of the hall.
His office was sparse even by government standards: two uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs, multiple filing cabinets, and a plank floor that had seen a lot more foot traffic than polish. A computer terminal and keyboard shared a desktop with a single file folder and a telephone. An unmistakably government-issued swivel chair squeaked a greeting as Van Decker lowered himself into it while motioning them toward the two remaining seats.
The chairs were every bit as hard as they looked.
Van Decker produced a pair of eyeglasses from a coat pocket and opened the file, a blunt signal that the inspector intended to get right down to business.
The spectacles were more for show than sight. They rested at the end of the man's nose as he continued to scan the file before lifting his gaze. "You said you shot both men with one of their own weapons?"
Lang was unsure at whom the question was directed, so he kept quiet, certain he had made no such statement.
Louis wriggled in his chair in a doomed effort to get settled against the unforgiving wood. "I said Monsieur Reilly did."
Van Decker's gaze shifted to Lang like a hawk watching its prey. "You attacked two men with weapons and disarmed them?"
"I got the gun away from one of them. It went off while he was trying to wrestle it back. The other man was attempting to get a shot. I got lucky."
Van Decker's eyes were hooded by the heavy brows as he lifted his head slightly. "I would agree, Mr Reilly, very lucky. Particularly since the dead man was not shot with either pistol we found. The only bullets from those weapons, we dug out of the walls and tables. And there was no indication the fatal shot was fired from the close range you suggest, no powder burns."
Now Lang understood why the policeman had been solicitous about calling it a night: He'd wanted test results before a full interview. Van Decker was sly indeed.
Lang feigned surprise. "I… I'm not sure what you're saying, Inspector."
Van Decker clasped his hands together, the fingers intertwined, as he leaned forward. "I'm saying, Mr. Reilly, that I know there was another gun involved, and I want to know where it is. We here in the Netherlands do not allow our citizens-or visitors-to carry firearms like American cowboys. Possession of a gun without a permit is a very serious crime. And we grant very few permits. What I want to know, Mr. Reilly, is where is the weapon that killed the man last night? If you produce it, we may overlook the crime of having such a thing on your person. If not…"
Lang stared back in what he hoped passed for surprised innocence. "I have no gun, Inspector. The metal detector downstairs would have discovered it."
Van Decker sighed, the sound of a man faced with a simple task made difficult. "Very well, Mr. Reilly. I think it only fair to warn you your hotel room is being thoroughly searched. If the gun that killed the man last night is found…"
His voice trailed off, the consequences evidently too dire to describe.
Lang slouched as much as the confines of his chair would allow, a man totally at ease. "I understand, Inspector, but I have no reason to worry."
Louis was less successful in ignoring what he thought was surely about to happen. Lang glared at him, and the Belgian turned his head so the inspector would have difficulty seeing his concern.
"An odd thing happened last night," Van Decker continued. "As I said, we do not allow unrestricted ownership of handguns here. Yet less than three kilometers from the university there was a boating accident. The victim had been shot with a bullet that matched the one we took from the dead man at the laboratory. I have been in this job nearly fifteen years, Mr. Reilly, and I can count few evenings where unrelated shootings have taken place. Quite a coincidence, would you not agree?"
Lang nodded. "Just goes to show that gun control isn't all it's supposed to be. As we say in the States, 'When guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns'"
Van Decker gave him a sour look, certain he was being made fun of, as indeed he was.
Lang stood. "If there's nothing else, Inspector…"
The policeman didn't bother to get up. "Not at the moment, Mr. Reilly, not at the moment. Please go about your business. For the peace of this city, I hope that business is elsewhere."
Outside, Louis had to hurry to match Lang's quick steps. "There was no… no point in his having us come to his office," he said petulantly. "All he did was make accusions he cannot prove."
Lang smiled. "The point, Louis, is that the wily old fox simply wanted to flush out the weapon that fired the bullets they took from the dead man and the guy on the boat."
"Flush?" Louis was clearly thinking of some sort of plumbing mechanism.
"Flush. Obviously I wouldn't be so stupid as to try to sneak a pistol past the metal detectors at the cop shop; so, if I had such a thing, I'd hide it in my hotel room. Or ask the concierge for a safety-deposit box."
Louis stopped in his tracks, a grin dividing his face. "A safety-deposit box or a mailbox, one like they rent at the business center where we stopped."
"At the business center where we are going just before we catch the train back to Brussels. I only hope I don't get any mail that would cause them to look in the box I rented between now and then."