The World's Finest Mystery Part 38

The steel gate closed automatically behind the car; the security system went into its third and final phase.

When Goldwa.s.ser pulled up abreast of f.a.n.n.y, he slowed down and smiled invitingly. It was all the encouragement she needed. Pleasantly surprised she ran round the car and sank into the empty seat beside him with a contented sigh. "You have just saved my life," she cooed happily.

The mighty twelve-cylinder engine accelerated. Goldwa.s.ser was happy to listen to her telling him how lucky she was, working for a company like Diamonds International and people like Mr. Goldwa.s.ser. He thought that the weekend ahead might turn out quite nicely. His wife was on holiday in Marbella and he didn't expect her back before Monday.

Not for one moment did he remember his pocketbook and other valuables still on the roof.

Pier was preparing breakfast and Rosa was calculating how much extra income they had earned this month, on an old copy of a regional paper. "Almost three hundred and sixty euros," she said. "If we do all right today, we could deposit two hundred euros for the Damian fund at the end of the week." She made a quick calculation. "They can buy medicine for seven lepers with that." Pier and Rosa both lived on social security and since Pier had moved in with her, they could make ends meet fairly well. They earned extra income by putting advertising pamphlets in mailboxes for Rosa's brother, in the city's difficult districts. Her brother gave her half of what he got from the Belgian Distribution Service, the company with the monopoly on door-to-door advertising. He spent the other half in 't Heilig Huiske cafe on Klooster Street. The advantage was that Pier and Rosa got their money under the counter. That's why they thought it no more than fair to donate part of these earnings to a charitable inst.i.tution every month. This way none of it would get stuck to anyone's fingers, and they were left with a clean conscience.

Pier put the bacon and eggs on the Formica kitchen table. He knew she'd already explained to him once but he'd forgotten. "What is a euro again?" he asked.

"The euro replaces the former franc but it's worth forty times as much. And you can use it in almost all European countries."

Pier put a rasher of bacon between two slices of bread and sank his teeth in. "It's going to rain today," he said, chewing. "We'd better put on our raincoats."

Rosa nodded. "There. Now you see how lucky we are. When I was a child we didn't have raincoats. We were so poor that we wore the same clothes year-round. Rain or s.h.i.+ne." She spread margarine on her bread and jabbed her fork into the pan. "What areas are we doing today?" she asked.

"The Diamond district and the Jewish district." Pier answered. "From Vesting Street to the Charlottealei. A regional, two DIY leaflets, and three supermarket flyers. Everything is folded and ready. We'll have to come back twice to get more." He knew exactly how many houses and how many mailboxes there were on each street.

They continued eating and Rosa was talking about her childhood again, about how there had been ten of them at her house and how sometimes they had to share two or three eggs among them. "See how lucky we are?" she repeated as she sc.r.a.ped the last bits of egg from the pan with a slice of bread, broke it in two and gave half to Pier.

The downpour had turned into a dull rain that left dirty tracks on the winds.h.i.+eld of the SL 600. f.a.n.n.y wasn't only good at languages but she'd also studied art history for a while and when Goldwa.s.ser told her he had a collection of rare Chagall prints at home, she showed great interest. A gift from heaven to Goldwa.s.ser. He'd been trying to find an excuse to take her with him to his impressive house on the Kastanjelaan, near Nachtegalen Park. They drove down Quinten Matsijslei, with the city park on their right. At the intersection of Plantin and Moretuslei and the Loosplaats the traffic lights changed to red. Goldwa.s.ser took his foot off the accelerator and cleared his throat. "Maybe we could go to my place first..."

f.a.n.n.y pointed through the winds.h.i.+eld. "Look at those tramps. They look like a couple from the silent movie era."

At the intersection, a strange-looking couple was pus.h.i.+ng across a rickety old pram, laden with door-to-door advertis.e.m.e.nts. They had prepared themselves for a long period in the rain by wearing two raincoats, a short one on top of a long one. Little hats with sun cream ads printed on them perched on their heads. The pram's wheels were wobbly so their progress was slow. They stopped on the first traffic island and stared at the approaching SL 600. The man was scratching his beard and saying something to the woman.

Goldwa.s.ser stopped in front of the pedestrian crossing. The man pointed at the car and said something about getting wet. f.a.n.n.y giggled. "I think they're asking for a ride. They're getting wet."

The diamond merchant ignored them. He was used to people looking at his car or making remarks about it. The man stepped into the gutter and tapped on the car roof. This was going too far. Goldwa.s.ser wanted to grab the radiotelephone to alert the police if necessary, when the light changed to green. He accelerated and sped away. The tramp jumped backward. "Hey, watch it!" he yelled. "There's a pocketbook on your roof."

But Goldwa.s.ser didn't hear him. f.a.n.n.y had turned the music down a bit and cuddled up against him. "Why don't you show me your collection before you drop me off at my place, Mr. Goldwa.s.ser? Or don't you like showing me your best stuff?"

His thoughts raced ahead. He glanced quickly in the rearview mirror and saw the tramp standing in the middle of the intersection and picking something off the street. Fools! Risking their lives for a cigarette b.u.t.t. The man was waving something at the disappearing car, but Goldwa.s.ser wasn't the least bit interested. f.a.n.n.y put a hand on his knee and kept it there.

Rosa and Pier were sitting on the roofed terrace of the park cafe. A cup of coffee with a filter in front of them and the empty pram beside their table. They had finished their round through the Jewish district first. The pocketbook was lying on the table. They were discussing what to do with it. From where they were sitting, they had a view of the beautiful four-story, turn-of-the-century brick building in which the city-center police station was housed.

"Shall I hand it in over there?" he suggested. "Tuur Dommelaar's daughter works there. Nice girl."

Rosa emptied the small, silver cream jug into her coffee. She never wasted anything. She was thinking. "We'd better see who it belongs to first," she said, as she stirred her coffee "Because of the reward."

"Reward for what?" Pier asked.

"Our finders fee. But that means we'll have to take the pocketbook back to the owner personally. If we hand it in at the police station, he'll get it anyway, with a little delay, but that won't help anyone."

"You mean the police will keep the reward for themselves."

"No, silly, they're not allowed to accept money. We are, because we'll donate it to charity. I'm thinking of Starving Africa. What do you think?"

As always, Pier agreed with her.

He opened the pocketbook and spread the contents out across the table. A wallet, a mobile no bigger than a credit card, a cigarette holder and a gold lighter.

Rosa inspected the wallet. She found an ID card in a plastic cover, belonging to a Walter Goldwa.s.ser, born in Vienna on December 25, 1958. A Christmas baby. His address was Kastanjelaan 32A, Antwerp. The picture showed a man with a round, puffy face, heavy eyebrows and a hint of baldness.

She also found a few blank checks belonging to the Diamonds International office in the Hoveniersstraat, five hundred euros in bills, two bank cards, an American Express Gold Card and a couple of tissue paper envelopes. She opened one of them. At the same time the sun broke through the clouds. About ten polished diamonds of the highest quality lay sparkling in the sunlight. She closed the envelope.

"Do you know where the Kastanjelaan is?" she asked.

Pier nodded. "Near the Acacialaan and the Berkenlaan. South of Nachtegalen Park. The most expensive neighborhood in the city. The people who live there are mainly very rich diamond merchants, Israelis, Indians, Pakistanis. Only a hundred and eight mailboxes."

Rosa put the cookie she had been given with her coffee next to Pier's filter. She knew he had a sweet-tooth and he deserved to have the extra one. "We'll go home now, to pick up the rest of the leaflets," she said. "And then I'll finish the round. You ride your bike to the Kastanjelaan to rea.s.sure Mr. Goldwa.s.ser that we've found his pocketbook. But in order to give him a chance to think about some reward or other you tell him..." She leaned forward and lowered her voice.

Pier listened respectfully. Rosa always had these brilliant ideas.

f.a.n.n.y had put a CD with music by French chansonniers into the CD player. She zapped through the songs until she heard Jane Birkin and Serge Gainsbourg's voices singing "Je t'aime, moi non plus." It sounded very suggestive. And when f.a.n.n.y started tapping the rhythm on Goldwa.s.ser's knee with her fingers, he had great difficulty in keeping his mind on his driving.

"Is your wife going to mind you showing me your Chagall collection?" she asked when the song had ended.

"My wife doesn't care for art. When the weather here is like this, she feels better on the Costa del Sol. We own a little pied-a-terre there. She won't be back until next week. If she likes the weather there, that is."

"Good for her."

They reached Kastanjelaan 32A, a large villa in a s.p.a.cious garden, surrounded by a 2.5-meter-high gate guarded with cameras. He stopped the car in front of the entrance and punched in a code on the radiotelephone. The gate swung open and he drove through. The gate closed behind them and at the same time the garage door opened automatically. Inside, he switched off the engine. He waited until the gate was closed before getting out of the car.

"The security in your home is just as good as at the company," f.a.n.n.y remarked. "Not just for the Chagall prints, is it?"

"You can't be too careful these days." Goldwa.s.ser answered. "Carjacking, burglary, robbery in broad daylight. It happens all the time. You have to be especially careful when you arrive home. The criminals lie in wait and just slip inside with you. But there's no chance of that here. Here no one enters unless I say so. You can sleep soundly." He led her through a kind of lockage into a s.p.a.cious hall. "I just hope that you have no intention of doing so," he joked.

"Do what, Mr. Goldwa.s.ser?"

"Sleep soundly."

"Naughty, naughty." f.a.n.n.y shook an admonis.h.i.+ng finger. "But don't worry, I'm much too curious about seeing your Chagall collection."

They walked down the hall together. He showed her the Chagall prints, the Dali, original drawings and the Pica.s.sos. With a certain pride, he also showed her how the camera system and the infrared and volumetric sensors worked. At the first sign of trouble they alerted the central office in town, staffed round-the-clock, on a special wavelength. If necessary, they'll warn the police.

They finished the tour in a living room with luxurious couches and a mahogany bar. Goldwa.s.ser flipped a switch beside the door. The curtains closed and the lights went on. Hidden speakers emitted mood music. f.a.n.n.y walked past the paintings on the wall and studied the signatures. She saw a discreet security control panel. She pointed at it. "Isn't that a bit over the top?" she asked. "It's like a fortress in here. What if you're just having some friends over? How do they get in without upsetting the entire neighborhood?"

"You check the monitor first to see if it's really your friends and then you push the welcome b.u.t.ton. Look. The rest is automatic." He rested his hand on her hip as if by accident. "What would you say to a gla.s.s of Champagne before we look at the real works of art?"

f.a.n.n.y giggled. "And I was afraid this was going to be a dull day."

Goldwa.s.ser walked to the bar with a spring in his step and fetched a bottle of Dom Perignon from the fridge. He got two gla.s.ses. "Here we go," he said cheerfully and popped the cork.

At the same time f.a.n.n.y pushed the welcome b.u.t.ton.

Her tinkling laughter and the bubbling Champagne drowned out the control panel's warning beep.

When a short but heavy downpour broke, Pier bowed his head over the bicycle's handlebar. He peddled as fast as he could. Riding a bicycle in Antwerp was very dangerous, not just because there were hardly any bike paths but also because of the rude disdain with which Antwerp drivers claimed the right of way and were never given a ticket for disregarding all the traffic rules. But he wasn't intimidated. In his boxing days he hadn't been afraid of anything either. He'd had thirty professional bouts, of which he'd won seven by knockout. Too bad he'd taken that nasty fall in the last one. It had meant the end of his career, especially because he sometimes had problems concentrating since then.

For instance, he'd been wondering for a while now why he hadn't taken the pocketbook and its contents with him straight away. He even considered turning back to ask Rosa again but he didn't want her to think he wasn't playing with a full deck. He rode on, trusting that he would remember in time.

He reached the Kastanjelaan in no time at all. He leaned his bike on the gate to number 32A. There was a sticker over the mailbox: No commercial leaflets, please. Typical rich people. He rang the bell and stared at the perforated ornamental plating, which he suspected hid a microphone. Nothing happened. Only the cameras over the gate made a zooming noise. He rang again. Suddenly a red light went on in the door panel. A voice with a strange accent asked: "Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?"

Suddenly he remembered. "I came for the reward." he said.

Walter Goldwa.s.ser held his gla.s.s by the stem and raised it. "Here's to a happy ending."

f.a.n.n.y stirred the Champagne with her pinky and was admiring the rising bubbles. "I have a better plan," she said. "Let's drink to the jackpot we're about to take with us."

Goldwa.s.ser suddenly looked dubious. "What jackpot?"

"I think it's about one million euros." She put her pinky in her mouth and sucked the liquor off. "That's what the contents of the vault at Diamonds International are worth at the moment, isn't it?"

The provocatively pouted lips and the words she spoke somehow didn't match. Goldwa.s.ser didn't understand at all. "What are you talking about?" he asked, frowning. "What do the contents of the vault? ..."

f.a.n.n.y listened with her head tilted. She smiled. "Maybe you'd better get two more gla.s.ses out." She pointed behind her with her thumb. "We're going to have company."

Goldwa.s.ser looked over her shoulder at the door. He was shocked to the core. Two men dressed in dark blue jeans and anoraks were standing in the doorway. They looked like Slavs and had dark, mean-looking eyes and they looked as alike as two drops of water. Like a perfect hostess f.a.n.n.y was doing the honors. "May I introduce these gentlemen to you? The man who is slightly cross-eyed is Kosta. His twin brother, recognizable by the small lump on the left side of his nose, calls himself Stako. Both are specialists at obtaining information, especially from people who would rather remain silent. They refined their interrogation techniques while working for the KGB, but since Russia has introduced a free market economy, they have been offering their services to the highest bidder."

Goldwa.s.ser was so angry he could hardly listen. "Get the h.e.l.l out of here. All three of you!" He made a move towards the control panel but stopped dead in his tracks when Kosta and Stako simultaneously pulled out dangerous-looking guns. He was still more angry than frightened. The fact that he had allowed a floozy like f.a.n.n.y to trick him like that bothered him most of all. All things considered, she wasn't even attractive. "Who are you?" He snapped. "What do you want from me?"

"Compliments from Igor Fedojev. You know him, don't you?"

"No."

"Oh, come on, Walter. You worked for him once."

"Me? Never! I have heard of him, that's true. I know he controls a large part of the gold and diamond trade in Moscow, but I've never had business dealings with him and I have no intention of doing so now. His reputation is not too good in the West."

"That'll change very quickly now that he's about to take over Diamonds International."

"That's what you think. My company isn't for sale. I'm far too young to quit."

"More to the point, you're too young to die."

Goldwa.s.ser now understood he'd better pull in his head. "Now, listen here, f.a.n.n.y, uh... Ms. Galinda. You'd better run along now, while you still can." As he spoke he moved backward, until he reached a pedestal with a painted plaster sculpture of a hamadryas baboon in attack position on it. His hand was only centimeters away from the alarm b.u.t.ton built into the pedestal when Kosta without taking aim, pulled the trigger and shot the baboon's head into smithereens. One of the shards drilled straight through Goldwa.s.ser's cheek. Tasting blood he was convinced that he'd been hit by the bullet itself. He put a hand against his cheek and backed away. "Okay," he moaned. "If it's money you're after." He gestured at the Floris Jespers painting. "Behind there is a small safe. Some of my wife's jewelry is in there and some cash. At least two hundred thousand euros. Take it."

"Empty it."

Goldwa.s.ser hastened to comply. He spread the money and jewels out on a table and looked at them beseechingly. "Is this okay?"

"Take your clothes off." Stako ordered.

Goldwa.s.ser swallowed some blood. "What's that?"

Stako leveled his gun at Goldwa.s.ser's crotch. "Take them off, now!"

"He means it, Walter. If you don't hurry you'll never be able to show anyone your collection again."

Goldwa.s.ser didn't doubt that Stako would carry out his threat. With trembling hands he took off his clothes. When he was down to just his underpants he gave f.a.n.n.y a beseeching look. "Please, Miss Galinda."

f.a.n.n.y looked at his potbelly and shrugged her shoulders.

Moments later Goldwa.s.ser was sitting on a chair in just his underpants. He'd been bound to the chair hand and foot, with plastic handcuffs.

Kosta and Stako stuck their guns in their belts.

With growing fear Goldwa.s.ser saw how they pulled up a low table on which they put all sorts of instruments which they got from the pockets of their anoraks: a straight razor, two detonators, a transmitter, a syringe, and a few ampoules. But what frightened him most was the extension cord with a plug attached, alligator clips, and a voltage regulator.

f.a.n.n.y pulled up a chair and made herself comfortable. "Shall we start by clearing up a few things?" She didn't wait for an answer, "As we know, your real name isn't Walter Goldwa.s.ser, but Salomon Slepak. And you're a Russian Jew. As Slepak you worked as a diamond sampler for the Department of Mineralogy in Siberia until the Soviet Union fell apart. After the wall came down, you went to Moscow to work for Igor Fedojev, an ex-KGB colonel who had started privately exporting Russian industrial diamonds."

Goldwa.s.ser shuffled his backside across the chair. "You have mistaken me for someone else, Miss Galinda. I was born in Vienna and lived there until I moved to Antwerp six years ago, to establish Diamonds International. I can prove it."

f.a.n.n.y picked up the razor and opened it. "As Slepak you became Fedojev's confidant. Six years ago you brought a diamond valued at half a million dollars to London on a business plane owned by Fedojev. Once over the Channel the plane sent out a mayday. It crashed. Some time later the coastguard found the wreck. It was partly submerged, lying on a sandbank. The pilot's body and Slepak's had been washed away. The diamonds had disappeared as well." With a quick movement she put the razor on Goldwa.s.ser's hairy upper leg and sc.r.a.ped off some of the hair. A drop of blood welled up from a small nick and trickled down his s.h.i.+n. "I'd better shave all of it off to conduct the electricity better. Too bad for you my hand isn't very steady."

Goldwa.s.ser was s.h.i.+vering with fear. He understood that it made no sense to deny it. "The entire diamond trade in Russia was in the hands of the mob, Miss Galinda, headed by Fedojev. He forced me to work for him, but I wanted to lead an honest life, free from blackmail, murder, and manslaughter."

"n.o.body leaves Fedojev, except feet first, Slepak. And anyone who crosses him signs his own death warrant. As his former lieutenant you should be aware of this." The razor slid across his chest in the direction of his navel and left fresh, bleeding cuts. Goldwa.s.ser's eyes nearly popped out with fear. "I haven't sold Fedojev short. I gave him the case with the diamonds back later, saying that it had just been found."

"You shouldn't have done that, Slepak, it made Fedojev think. Honesty doesn't always pay." The blade swiped downward.

Goldwa.s.ser couldn't take any more. "Stop, please." he begged. "Tell me how to make it up to you!"

"You can start by signing a doc.u.ment to the effect that Diamonds International will only trade in goods and money from Fedojev Trading."

That meant that his company would be used to launder Fedojev's money. He didn't care. Anything was better than this. "Okay!" Goldwa.s.ser moaned. "Untie me. I'll sign."

"Afterwards we'll drive to the Hovenierstraat together to empty the vault. A million euros is the least you owe Fedojev for your disloyalty."

"That can't be done until Monday morning at nine o'clock," Goldwa.s.ser said. "The vault is on a timer. Until then the security in and around that building is so good that a fly couldn't land in the parking lot without alerting the entire diamond district."

"I know," f.a.n.n.y said. "But I also know that you have a secret code with which you can bypa.s.s the timer."

"That's right. But if anyone uses that number to open the vault, an automatic alarm signal is sent to the central office. They then send a patrol car to see what's going on. Even if I tell them over the phone that everything is all right, they will come and see whether I'm acting under duress."