Wolf Angel, Mark Hobson [best free ebook reader for pc .txt] 📗

several minutes like this, during which Beumers especially was starting to fidget and sigh, Pieter coughed politely.

“Oh yes. Inspector..?”

“Van Dijk, Amsterdam PD.”

Kohnstamm carefully closed his notebook and set it aside, and replaced his pen into its silver penholder. “You were enquiring about some rings. To sell or to buy?”

“Neither.” Pieter reached into his pocket and pulled out the photos he’d borrowed from Adolf. He passed them over. “We are after any details you may have regarding these.”

“Which you made,” Beumers added gruffly.

Kohnstamm had a quick glance at them and then handed the photos back. “Mmm, mmm, indeed,” he replied through pursed lips.

“So you definitely made these? For a customer?

“I most certainly did. Beautiful aren’t they?”

“You do know what these are don’t you?” Beumers asked, his brow furrowed.

“I didn’t ask for the why’s and where fore’s. None of my business really. Clients commission me to do all kinds of work all of the time. It could be to repair some family heirloom, to design a piece of body-piercing for some young teenage tearaway hippy. Or to craft a bespoke piece of jewellery like this.” He pointed vaguely at the photos of the ring.

“So this particular ring? With this somewhat unique design? You remember making this specifically?”

“Yes I do Inspector. I remember clearly that it was around about eighteen months ago. The circumstances were slightly unusual, which makes it stick out in my memory.”

Pieter and Beumers exchanged a look. “How so?”

“Because it was all very hush-hush, and shrouded in secrecy. Very exciting in a way. The client wished to remain anonymous. I arrived for work one morning to find a long letter shoved through my letterbox, with a very precise request detailing what was required, the design and nature of the work. There was also a large amount of cash, with a promise of more to follow once the items were finished. I never once had any face-to-face interaction with the client themselves.”

“So you’re saying you don’t know who this mystery person was? No name or anything? Even though they just handed over a huge amount of money?”

The jeweller said nothing, just shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

“How much are we talking?”

Kohnstaam turned his eyes on Beumers. “Oh about twenty thousand euros.”

“For a fucking ring?”

“Not just one ring, err, Sergeant. The order was for over thirty.”

They were both quiet as that sunk in.

Kohnstaam shuffled about in his chair, beaming at them. He removed the pince-nez spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose, and then carefully put them away in a slim leather case.

“I’m very sorry that I can’t be of much help officers. I really don’t have much to tell you. The client placed a commission and paid in cash, half in advance and the rest afterwards. When the work was complete I was instructed to leave the rings in a safety deposit box at DNK just down the road on Prinsengracht. At no stage did I see or speak to anybody. Like I told you, it was all very hush-hush.”

“Do you still have the letter and envelope?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t keep my paperwork after a commission is complete. Client confidentiality and all that.”

Pieter and Beumers rose to leave. At the door, Beumers turned back. “You’re Jewish right?”

“Of course.”

“How do you live with yourself, knowing what those rings are? The kind of people who ordered them?”

Kohnstaam laughed lightly. “Work is work Sergeant.”

As they headed down the stairs, they heard the jeweller add, “and beggars can’t be chooses.”

“Fucking creep,” Beumers declared once they were outside. “Did you see the way he was drooling when he was talking about teenage hippies having their belly buttons pierced?”

“Now now Daan. Perks of the job.”

Pieter strolled up the street to a nearby tobacconists stand. He bought a newspaper and re-joined his colleague.

“You checking the soccer results?”

“I’m not, but you are.” He shoved the newspaper into his hands, and nodded at a bench across the pavement. “Park yourself down there and keep an eye on our friend here. Follow him wherever he goes, make a note of anybody who calls around to see him. Report back if anything odd happens.”

“What, you putting me on stakeout?”

“Yes. I know it’s below your paygrade Daan, but at least you’ll be getting plenty of fresh air.”

From his office window Levi Kohnstaam peered down at the figure sitting on the bench below, ostensibly reading a newspaper.

Keeping well back out of view, but not taking his eyes off the police officer, he reached across and picked up the telephone receiver from his desk. He knew the number by heart, it was ingrained on his brain, and his chubby fingers quickly tapped at the buttons.

Listening to the ringing sound at the other end of the line Kohnstaam’s throat went dry. He dreaded the times he spoke to the person he was now calling, for it filled him with a terrible stomach-churning fear, but he knew he had no choice. On the fifth ring, it was answered.

“Is something wrong?” said the gravelly voice.

“I uh… mmm, possibly,” he stuttered. “I’ve just had a visit from the police. They were uh… asking questions, about the rings.”

Silence, except for the faint buzzing on the line.

“I thought you should know. One of them is still outside, wa-watching my office. What should I do?”

Again there was a long pause, but now with the sound of laboured breathing. Finally a response.

“Come here. Let him see you. Make sure he follows.”

The line went dead.

CHAPTER 10

A WALK ACROSS TOWN

From where he was sitting Daan Beumers had a good view of Kohnstaam’s office. Beside the bakery was the narrow door that led to a short passage and the staircase leading up to the second-floor premises, and he could see the three windows above, lit up from the inside. He could not fail to see anybody coming or going.

He waited for nearly an hour, with no movement. Sitting and holding his newspaper, legs crossed and hunched down on the bench, Beumers hoped he did a good impression of someone casually passing time. After a