Free The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam by Chris Ewan Page B

Inspector,” I said, “I didn’t even whisper your name.”
    ♦
    Handcuffed in the rear of the police car, speeding through the
back streets of Amsterdam with strangers gawping at me, I wondered
if perhaps I should correct Burggrave. I hadn’t been under
arrest . I couldn’t be, not until he had placed me under
arrest in the first place. But on reflection, I decided that now
was not the time to quibble over English usage with a man who
seemed to have taken quite a severe disliking to me. Now was the
time to keep my own counsel.
    It was just as well I had some counsel to fall back on, because
Burggrave did everything in his power to prevent me contacting a
lawyer and when, at last, one finally arrived at the police station
I was taken to, his English was very nearly as poor as my Dutch. To
begin with the three of us sat around an interview table in a
sparsely furnished room, arguing in Dutch and then somewhat more
and somewhat less broken English, about when I would be allowed my
first refreshment break. After ten minutes or so of this nonsense,
I finally made myself face Burggrave directly and said, in a
measured way, that I’d decided for the time being I would let
myself be interviewed without my lawyer present. And at that point,
we paused for a refreshment break.
    When we resumed, Burggrave was accompanied by the same uniformed
officer who had been present at my arrest. He also had a paperback
book in his hand. Burggrave threw the book down onto the table in
front of me and I picked it up and fanned the pages, as if I was
deciding whether or not to devote the next two hours of my life to
reading it. I already knew what happened, though, because it was my
first mystery novel, The Thief and the Five Fingers , written
by Charles E. Howard and available at all good book shops.
    “Who should I make the dedication out to?” I asked, motioning
for Burggrave’s companion to lend me his biro. “My favourite
Dutchman, perhaps?”
    Burggrave snatched the biro from his colleague’s outstretched
hand and glared at him. Then he sat down in the plastic chair that
was facing me from across the interview table.
    “Your picture,” Burggrave said, opening the inside back cover of
the book, “it is not you.”
    “You’re right.”
    “Why is this?”
    “Women readers like a handsome author,” I said, shrugging. “This
guy was a catalogue model, I believe.”
    “But you use your real name.”
    “It’s a paradox, alright.”
    “You write books about criminals.”
    “A burglar, yes.”
    He raised an eyebrow. “And you are a criminal.”
    “Well now,” I said, scratching my head, “I can only assume
you’re referring to an incident from when I was a much younger
man.”
    “You were convicted for theft.”
    “Actually, for giving, though I admit there was a little
stealing before that. I was sentenced to a short spell of community
service. What of it?”
    Burggrave chewed his lip and leaned back in his chair. “It is
interesting, I think, that you are a criminal, and that you write
books about a criminal, and that you lie about meeting a
criminal.”
    “Well,” I said, “I don’t class myself as a criminal. And as for
lying, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    Burggrave made a show of shaking his head, as though he was
mystified by my response, and then he removed his gleaming
spectacles to buff them unnecessarily with his handkerchief. When
he was done, he put his spectacles back on and blinked at me, as if
he was seeing me for the first time, almost as though the glasses
had suddenly afforded him a rare form of super-sight that enabled
him to see clean through my lies.
    “You told me you did not meet Mr. Park.”
    “Did I? I have to admit I don’t remember the finer details of
our conversation.”
    “You said you did not meet him. But I have witnesses. Three men
who saw you in Café de Brug on Wednesday evening.”
    “Well how can that be?” I asked. “I hope you didn’t show