Free The Hidden Target by Helen MacInnes Page A

couldn’t be satisfactorily explained. Even so, police made notes in little books. “What will you have?” he asked Nina. Whatever she’d choose, Madge would choose.
    “I’m not really hungry.”
    “Then we’ll order the Koffietafel. It’s always ready to serve.” He finished his drink and signalled to their waitress.
    “I don’t think—”
    “You’ll eat,” he told her. “Your next meal will be in Belgium.” He lifted Tony’s glass. “To our travels.”
    “To our travels,” Nina echoed.
    “Far and wide,” Madge ended, and smiled happily.

6
    BRUNA IMPORTS , read the restrained legend above the doorway of one of the restored houses on the Prinsengracht. There were other commercial establishments, too, on this Old Amsterdam street, including expensive restaurants and a luxury hotel, so that the firm of Bruna was not remarkable, tucked away as it was in the middle of a row of ancient gables. Crefeld’s office was on the top floor, reached by a very small private elevator installed years ago for someone’s heart ailment: it could hold two people if they were thin enough and pressed in a tight embrace. Renwick touched an ivory button to signal Crefeld. The elevator door was released, and he could ride up in solitary state, avoiding the staircase that would have taken him through the busy second and third floors, where imports of coffee and pepper were actually marketed. Bruna was authentic, not a false front for mysterious activities. But how Jake Crefeld— Jacobus van Crefeld, to give his full name; Brigadier-General to give him his equivalent rank—had ever managed to secure an office in this building was something that aroused Renwick’s admiration. Knowing Jake’s diplomacy, he wasn’t astounded.
    The corridor was short and narrow. Crefeld’s door, as old and heavy as all the other carved woodwork in this building, had a faded sign, small and difficult to read: J. SCHLEE/RARE BOOKS/BY APPOINTMENT ONLY . The door swung open as Renwick was about to knock, and Crefeld was there with his broad smile and firm handshake to welcome him inside. “Had a peephole installed, Jake?” Renwick asked, studying the carved upper panel of the door as it was closed and bolted behind him. The small cut-out was centred in a wooden rosette, part of the door’s decoration both outside and in, not noticeable except by close scrutiny.
    “And necessary,” Crefeld said. “Such are these times, Bob.” His large round face tried to look sad and failed. He was a big man in every way, in voice and laugh as well as in body and heart. The surprising thing was his light footstep, his quick movement. Nothing heavy or lumbering. Now he was at his desk, pulling a chair in place for Renwick. “I am sorry to bring you all the way from Brussels, but I thought it wise if we weren’t seen together, there. Den Haag was also out of the question for the same reason.”
    ***
    “I guessed that. No trouble at all. I enjoyed getting away from the office.” This one was still the same as when Renwick had last visited it: dark panelled walls enclosing a square room, with a large desk, two comfortable chairs, a filing cabinet, and three telephones. There was one powerful lamp for evening work; by day, light beamed through the diamond panes of two windows, narrow and tall, which stood close to the desk. Everything was well in reach of Crefeld’s long arm. Now, he was lifting a large attaché case on to his lap. Renwick waited, wondering if the business that had brought him here necessitated so many documents. Then he smiled: he had forgotten that Jake never let business interfere with regular mealtimes.
    “We’ll lunch first,” Crefeld was saying as he opened the attaché case, “and talk of this and that. I heard a rumour that you were resigning. Are you?” He swept blotting pad and letters aside, and in the cleared space spread out a checked napkin which had covered the food. Next came a plastic box containing cold cuts and