Page 15 of The Amsterdam Enigma (The Continental Capers of Melody Chesterton #3)

M elody did not know how telephone calls were placed in Amsterdam.

She approached Robert and told him she wished to make a call to someone, but all she knew was the name and the street.

As she said this, it occurred to Melody that perhaps Alessandro was using an assumed name.

However, she considered that he owned newspapers in the Netherlands.

Surely, remaining incognito was pointless.

Wasn’t his entire persona as an operative about hiding in plain sight?

In the hope she was correct, Melody provided Alessandro’s name and the street.

Robert made a telephone call to the operator, and a few minutes later, he handed her the receiver.

As she took it, Melody suddenly realised that Fatima might have answered.

Steeling herself for an uncomfortable conversation, she nervously greeted whoever was on the other end of the line. Fortunately, it was Alessandro.

After overhearing Robert’s earlier conversation with Alessandro, Melody was aware of how public the front desk was.

She tried to keep her voice low as she said, “Conte Foscari. I was thinking about your deceased friend’s widow and would like to pay a call of condolence.

Would you be available to escort me?” Melody hoped this message was both vague enough not to attract the attention of anyone who might overhear it, yet clear enough that Alessandro would understand her point .

“I am sure the grieving widow would greatly appreciate a visit,” Alessandro replied, seeming to understand Melody’s drift. “I will meet you in the hotel lobby at ten o’clock, if that is convenient.” Melody assured him it would be perfect and then handed the receiver back to Robert.

Glancing at the clock on the counter, Melody realised she had some time before Alessandro arrived.

She looked down at the dress she had donned earlier and decided it was a touch too colourful for a condolence call.

After all, the woman they were to visit had indeed lost someone close to her, even if she was only his common-law wife.

Melody returned to her room and, after explaining where she was going and with whom, asked Mary to assist her in finding something more suitable to wear.

Mary continued to remain silent but conveyed her intense disapproval through her facial expressions and the occasional tut.

Melody was surprised that the woman didn’t insist on accompanying her on the outing with Alessandro.

Finally, they found an appropriately conservative navy dress and decided to pair it with her new bolero jacket that was pretty, but also quite simple and so would match the respectful tone of condolence for the visit.

Melody changed her clothes and hurried back down to the lobby, realising she was now running late.

When she exited the lift, Melody saw Alessandro was already waiting for her.

In that first moment, she forgot how he had treated her since Venice and every negative emotion she had towards him, simply taking in how strikingly handsome he was.

His chiselled features, olive skin tone, and jet-black hair offset his green eyes, framed by thick, dark, curling lashes.

Melody recalled the first moment she had laid eyes on him outside the train station in Venice.

Tall and broad-shouldered, Conte Alessandro Foscari had thrown her off balance and continued to do so even many weeks later.

Then Melody remembered the kiss they had shared in the gondola and how, in that moment, she had been willing to throw caution and all sense of propriety to the wind.

Memories of that moment made her blush and feel shame, both for her behaviour and for her naivety in believing that the suave, urbane man of the world could have any genuine interest in a young, innocent girl .

As much as Melody resented Alessandro for taking advantage of her innocence – and not even for genuinely romantic reasons – she realised she had played a part in enabling him to do so.

She had been so eager to prove that she was sophisticated and worldly that she had ignored Rat and Mary’s warnings, along with her own instincts.

No one had forced her into that gondola.

She had chosen a dress with a daringly low-cut neckline, despite Mary’s protestations.

She had wanted to be seduced. Well, to the extent that she had considered what that meant, she had wanted it.

Melody realised that she could either insist on being involved in this investigation or maintain a state of open hostility towards Alessandro, but she couldn’t do both.

She took a deep breath, composed herself, and walked towards him. “I apologise for my tardiness, Alessandro,” Melody said, making a point of using his given name for the first time in weeks.

A slight quirk of his lips indicated Alessandro had picked up on the subtle change in attitude, but he made no comment.

Instead, he followed her lead. “It is no matter, Melody. I have only been here for a couple of minutes.” Alessandro looked around to ensure they could not be overheard, then said in a low voice, “I assume you wish to visit Vermeer’s widow. ”

Melody tried to be equally discreet as she replied, “Yes. She might know something, even if she doesn’t realise its importance.”

“It is certainly something worth pursuing,” Alessandro acknowledged. “Then let us be on our way. I ensured I had the address before leaving home. I think that dress is appropriate.”

Melody was tempted to give a sharp retort, but then considered what Alessandro was wearing.

He was always dressed in the height of fashion, in clothes that spoke of the finest tailoring and the wealth to afford it.

However, for this outing, while his clothes weren’t tattered by any means, they were less well-made and less cared for.

The trousers did not feature their usual knife-edged crease, and the cravat was not tied with the precision that only a highly paid valet could achieve.

Overall, he resembled a middle-class bank or law clerk.

Nothing could hide his good looks, but certainly, the appearance of a life of monied ease had vanished.

Instead of the biting comment that had sprung to her lips, Melody said, “Then let us be on our way. ”

“The house is in Plantagebuurt, which is only a fifteen-to-twenty-minute walk,” Alessandro explained. “Or we can take a tram if you prefer.”

Melody indicated her willingness to walk. It would give them time to converse.

They left the hotel and began winding their way south through the hustle and bustle of Damrak. Trams rattled past as they entered the narrower lanes near Nieuwmarkt, where patrons of the cafés spilled onto the cobbled streets and the aroma of roasting coffee made Melody yearn for another cup.

They walked in silence for several minutes until Melody asked, “What story will we give for our appearance?”

“I am going to say that I am a journalist and wish to write a piece about Meneer Brenner and wanted to know more about his history.”

While it was a reasonable story, Melody wondered how she would fit into it.

“Who am I then?” Alessandro reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim, lightweight pocket camera.

Melody was astonished by the camera's small size and curious about how Alessandro obtained it.

Maybe his work as a newspaper publisher gave him access to amazing new technologies.

“You are my photographer,” he explained. It was a reasonable enough story. Although women weren’t common in journalism, they had made some inroads.

There was another more pressing question. “What if she won’t talk to us?”

“I can be very persuasive,” Alessandro said in a teasing tone that was a little too close to the truth for Melody’s comfort.

Choosing to ignore that provocation, she instead pointed out, “If she does know anything of what Karl Brenner was really doing, I doubt she will reveal that to a pair of journalists.”

“I agree. However, I very much doubt she knows much. What she might know is why Brenner ended up in Amsterdam and what his feelings were towards his native Germany, and more to the point, why they were what they were.”

The crowds began to thin as they passed the old city walls and moved eastward along Plantage Middenlaan, where majestic chestnut trees shaded the quiet boulevards.

By the time they reached the leafy calm of Plantagebuurt, the noise of the city had muted.

It was a quiet and pretty working-class neighbourhood, Melody noted.

Brick row houses lined the street, ivy climbed over wrought-iron railings, and lace curtains fluttered in the tall windows that were so characteristic of Amsterdam’s architecture.

They made their way to a house that was indistinguishable from its neighbours and knocked on the door.

Given Vermeer’s job on the docks, it was unlikely that he occupied the entire house, and indeed, the woman who answered the door had the look of a landlady that apparently transcended countries and cultures.

It seemed that Alessandro spoke Dutch or at least spoke it well enough to communicate with the woman. She heard the name Brenner, to which the woman nodded and then stood aside to let them in.

Inside, the house was clean, albeit somewhat shabby. The furniture was well-made yet scratched and battered. The woman led them into a front parlour and indicated that they should sit. She then left the room.

A few minutes later, the door opened again, and a woman, perhaps of around forty years old, with a kind, if worn face, entered.

She had black hair and intelligent, warm, brown eyes.

The woman was wearing widow’s weeds, which made her already pale complexion look washed out.

Melody thought the woman had probably been quite pretty before a hard life had worn her down.

Alessandro stood at the woman’s entrance and introduced himself and Melody. He then spoke some more in Dutch, and the woman nodded her head.

“She is happy to talk with us and to have you take some photos,” Alessandro explained.

The woman sat, and Alessandro began to ask her questions, which she seemed willing to answer. When he was done, Alessandro indicated Melody should take a photo or two. She hadn’t expected him to translate everything he was saying and was content to wait to hear what Alessandro had learned.