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

The noises of Amsterdam’s early morning traffic awakened him, but Clay did not venture out from his cranny underneath the bridge until swarms of people were on the street, hurrying to work. Then he felt it safe to melt into the rushing throng. His first step was to take a tram to the railway station. Then he bought a Dutch newspaper, glanced at it, saw that a picture of the murdered man was on the front page. He wanted to read the story but could not make out the language. Anyway, he was in a hurry, with more important things to do.

Clay reclaimed his baggage from the luggage room, went into the men’s room, washed quickly, and ran a comb through his disheveled hair. Then he went into a pay lavatory, took his wrinkled blue suit from the valise, and put it on. Wrapping his faded khaki shorts, sport shirt, and sandals in the Dutch newspaper, he waited until nobody was looking, then dumped the bundle into a trash container. Examining himself in the mirror, he was partially satisfied. Then he rechecked his luggage.

The next step was to find a barber. Explaining that he wanted a shave was easy, but trying to get the idea across to a Dutch barber that he wanted an unfamiliar crew haircut was harder. Somehow he managed. Next, Clay walked down the Damrak until he found an optical shop. The clerk spoke English, so it was not difficult to explain that he had lost his glasses and needed a pair to replace them for reading. No, he was sorry he did not remember the prescription. Clay glanced at some eye charts, and the clerk gave him a weak prescription that magnified objects only slightly. After selecting a dark, horn-rimmed frame for his glasses, Clay looked at himself in the mirror and was satisfied that a dramatic change had been made in his appearance. He paid for the glasses with one of the bills the redhaired girl had given him. There was much change. One thing he did not have to worry about now was money.

The next stop was a famous men’s clothing store on Dam Square where he selected a conservative outfit and emerged from the changing rooms wearing his new apparel. As an afterthought, he bought a hat to cover his light blond hair.

Clay hailed a cab and went next to the V.V.V., Amsterdam’s official tourist organization, where he requested a room at the Grand Hotel Krasnapolsky. His luck was good. The clerk was able to get him a reservation, so Clay went across the street to the railroad station, reclaimed his checked luggage, and was registered in the Krasnapolsky fifteen minutes later.

Next came a hot, soaking bath. Then he called room service and ordered breakfast: ham and eggs, toast, a jar of good Dutch jam, and a pot of black coffee. Stretched luxuriously on a soft, clean bed, Clay decided that if he might die, he was going to live first class while he could. After eating, he fell into an exhausted sleep.

Waking, he ventured into the lobby of the hotel, bought the Paris edition of a New York paper, then went into the dining room and ordered lunch. While waiting for his steak, Clay leafed through the pages of the newspaper. On page four he found what he was looking for:

AMERICAN SLAIN IN AMSTERDAM

The mysterious slaying of a young American, Eric Phelan, 23, has created a sensation in Amsterdam. An anonymous tip yesterday led police to drag an indicated section of the Zeedjik Canal. Phelan’s weighted body, the throat cut, with knife wounds apparently indicating torture before death, was recovered last night.

Rumors, on which the police refuse to comment, connected Phelan with diamond smuggling operations between the Netherlands and the United States. Last week U.S. Customs officials closely questioned Phelan about his activities, but there was no arrest for lack of evidence. Unofficially, Phelan’s death is believed to have been caused by a rival smuggling gang...