Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991

Clay philosophically shrugged. Something would turn up. It always had. He was hungry, for he had not eaten since lunch, and then only coffee and two broodies, the small, open-faced sandwiches that are offered everywhere in Dutch cafes and food shops. He had decided to skip eating an evening meal to save money. By the most stringent economy, he would barely be able to hold out until his boat sailed for America.

Clay turned off the Oude Zijds Voorburgwal onto a dimly lighted side street. The narrow thoroughfare was dank with the dampness that comes late at night from Amsterdam’s canals, and evil-smelling. Prices ought to be cheaper here. Perhaps he could find an upstairs place where he could afford to get a room for the evening. Otherwise, it would be sitting up all night in the railroad station for him. His luggage was checked at the railway station so he could search for a room unencumbered. Clay shrugged his broad shoulders and ran a hand through pale blond hair. In spite of his natural optimism, he was discouraged. The prospect of spending a night in any of the dives he had seen, even though he had been turned down because they were full, was not something to anticipate. Anything he might find would be worse.

Clay paused by the darkened door of a cheap rooming house. Abruptly, a hand suddenly grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. His first reaction was that he was being robbed, and he struggled free. Then he saw that the hand that had grabbed him belonged to a woman, a woman of the Zeedjik, dressed in a flimsy red kimono.

The woman hissed to him in English, “Do you want someone to see you? Come in. The police could be just around the corner.”

If Clay had been thinking clearly he would have resisted, but he was startled, and his native Tennessee courtesy did not permit him to strike a woman. Before he quite realized what was happening, she had pulled him inside but paid no attention to him until she had locked the door. The window shade was drawn.

Then her manner abruptly changed. She turned to inspect him critically. “Your disguise is good, Eric. Very good. You do look like a down-at-the-heels American student traveler.”

Clay fought back the involuntary smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I do my best to look authentic,” he said.

“You have done well. Klaas will be pleased. I shall tell him how good your disguise is. Wait, I will bring your package and your money.” Then the woman in the red kimono vanished into another room.

Dazed, Clay sat down on the edge of the bed. Slowly, his mind began to work. It occurred to him that he had accidentally blundered into a dangerous situation. It was obviously a case of mistaken identity, and the terror at being observed by the police puzzled him. The police do not bother the women of the Zeedjik — or their customers. No, this must be something much more than that. Clay was sorely tempted to get out but, before he could escape, the woman returned.

Involuntarily, Clay found his eyes drawn to the young woman’s face and body. She appeared to be about twenty-five, with a hard look, but different. She belonged to the underworld, but she was almost stunningly beautiful. Her air, the way she walked, spelled money, big money. She was redhaired, with finely-etched nose and chin, an elegant mouth, and unblemished skin. Clay found himself staring at her, open-mouthed.

The woman read his thoughts and flushed slightly. Unconsciously, she drew the folds of the wispy red kimono more tightly around her.

“It was too dangerous to give you the delivery at the hotel,” she said simply. “The hotel is being watched. I had to pretend to be a woman of the Zeedjik for this one night.”

Clay Felton nodded. “Good idea.”

“Here’s your money. Count it, please, so there will be no question of a mistake. The rest you will receive when the delivery is made in America.” She handed him a thick packet of Dutch currency.

Since she expected him to count the money, he did so. It amounted to five thousand Dutch guilders — about fourteen hundred dollars, American.

“Here’s what you are to deliver. Just put it in your baggage, but be very careful with it, please.”

To Clay’s astonishment, she handed him a pair of souvenir Dutch wooden shoes. He turned them toward the light. The wooden shoes were varnished, with decals of garlands of brightly-colored tulips, and a Dutch boy and girl holding hands. In English, each shoe carried the legend Amsterdam, Venice of the North. Both wooden shoes were filled with Dutch chocolates wrapped in gold foil. The shoes were tied together and covered with cellophane. Similar chocolate-filled wooden shoes were on sale at every souvenir shop in Amsterdam for about two dollars a pair. Clay wondered what this special pair contained — heroin or diamonds?

“Clever. Shouldn’t attract any attention at Customs.”

“They won’t. There is no risk for you.”

I’ll bet, Clay thought, but he said nothing.

“You’d better leave quickly. I’ll show you out the back way.”