Page 22 of The Amsterdam Enigma (The Continental Capers of Melody Chesterton #3)

M elody felt quite conspicuous in the ugly outfit and with the very tall young man at her side.

She hoped that whoever had been following her had been fooled by the decoy who had left in her place, because she wasn’t sure that the signora’s logic about becoming invisible by being so obviously garish held water.

Melody hurried along, trying to keep her head down and not do anything that would attract any more attention to them.

At some point, they got on a tram and sat on that for twenty minutes or so.

When they disembarked, they were in a very different part of town.

In fact, it looked as if they were close to the docks.

Melody wondered if Rat was nearby, which caused her to wonder how his investigation was going.

She hoped better than hers. So far, all she’d done was go shopping and have an overpriced meal.

Johannes led her to what looked like a small, rather rundown working men’s tavern.

Given that it was mid-afternoon, the place was empty.

Johannes pointed for Melody to make her way in, alone.

She hoped he had the right place because this didn’t look to be the kind of establishment where a well-brought up young woman should be spending time alone. Actually, probably any young woman.

The tavern was dark and smelled of stale beer and smoke. She looked around to see where she was supposed to be going, and spotted Alessandro in a gloomy corner, drinking a mug of beer.

Melody made her way over to where he sat. As she got closer, Alessandro said, “Ah, Miss Smith, I’m so glad you could make it.” For a moment, she was tempted to look over her shoulder to see who he was speaking to; then she realised she was Miss Smith.

In an equally exaggerated tone – at least to her ear – Melody said, “Yes, it took me a little while to follow your directions, but here I am.”

Alessandro indicated she should take a seat and called over to the woman behind the bar to bring a cup of coffee. Melody was relieved; she had no liking for beer and didn’t want to pretend to be drinking it.

After the coffee was delivered, the woman disappeared into the back of the tavern, and Melody and Alessandro appeared to be alone. Even so, he spoke quietly. “I assume Signora Vecchi helped you and you don’t believe you were followed from there?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure I was followed there,” Melody admitted. “But yes, we went through her charade and one of her men brought me here. Now, tell me, what is going on?”

“I found out what Huis Jansen is. As I suspected, it is a small family-run importer of spices. We need a legitimate reason to go in and ask to be shown around. We are going to pretend to be representatives of an Italian import firm looking to expand spice purchases from the Dutch East Indies. I am Signor Alessandro Marchetti of Fratelli Marchetti. , and you are my secretary, Miss Smith. We are hoping to find a new importer because we became suspicious of the business practices of our former one. Given this, we are hoping to verify shipping practices before making a decision.”

Superficially, this sounded like a decent enough story, but Melody also saw some possible holes in it as she considered it more deeply.

“And we’re just turning up without an appointment?” she asked.

“Not at all. I had Fatima call and make an appointment for us in twenty minutes,” he explained.

Well, that was one question answered, but there was another, more significant one that had occurred to Melody. “Aren’t they going to ask us who our former importers are?”

Alessandro smiled. “If they do, and I’m sure you’re right about that, I will feign professional discretion and withhold the name. I am sure there is enough malfeasance that takes places around these docks that whoever we talk to will draw his own conclusions.” Melody hoped he was right.

It seemed she had time to drink her coffee and so she took a couple of sips while reviewing Alessandro’s disguise.

He was dressed quite smartly, but certainly not in his usual dapper tailoring.

His outfit was of a much higher quality than the one he had worn when pretending to be a journalist, but still far lower than might be worn by the titan of industry he was in reality.

Instead, he looked like a moderately prosperous merchant, who was still not so successful that he might have underlings make such visits on his behalf.

Alessandro noticed her review and asked, “Do I pass muster?”

“Indeed. Do I?”

He laughed. “Definitely. While the dress is well-made, it is quite ruined by that unflattering hat and jacket both of which have the look of a lower middle-class striver trying just a little too hard.”

His assessment of the hat was just as Melody’s own had been. One thing was evident: Signora Vecchi’s observation about men not paying close attention to what women were wearing didn’t apply to Alessandro.

“What about my accent?” Melody asked. Would she pass as a secretary, even to a Dutchman?

“Can you modulate it at all?” Alessandro asked. Could he? Of course, Melody couldn’t imagine what a titled Italian, speaking Dutch, might sound like and how that might need to be modified.

Melody considered the question; could she?

Unlike Rat, she had no memory of how she had spoken as a four-year-old in Whitechapel.

However, she thought about how some of Granny’s more unusual friends spoke.

The Ladies of KB, an eclectic social gathering of London madams, were perhaps not typical role models, and Melody had only met them a few times over the years.

Nevertheless, she had spent enough time around them to think of one of them now: Madame Zsa Zsa, whose real name was Laurie.

Whatever Madame Zsa Zsa’s real roots, she now cultivated an accent that couldn’t easily be placed, but which sounded as if she were trying just a little too hard not to talk like a cockney .

Melody tried to recall Laurie’s voice, and said in her best attempt at an impersonation, “How’s this instead?”

Laughing again, Alessandro said, “That’s very good. It sounds like you’re trying just a little too hard to cover up rather rough origins.”

“That was precisely what I was going for.”

Alessandro pulled out his pocket watch. “I think we might make our way over to Huis Jansen now.” He pulled out some coins and left them on the table. He stood and Melody followed suit.

When they left the tavern, they turned down a quiet, narrow street.

Halfway down, Alessandro stopped outside of a tall, narrow brick structure that sat between warehouses, its gabled roof capped with a small hoisting beam.

The facade bore a fading sign painted in neat serif lettering: Huis Jansen – Specerijen the sort of establishment that had earned its reputation not by flash, but by generations of meticulous, honest trade.

Based on the feel of Huis Jansen, it would be entirely believable that Signor Alessandro Marchetti of Fratelli Marchetti.

would have heard good things about their business practices.

The footsteps grew louder, and suddenly, a man entered the room and asked them something in Dutch. Alessandro responded.

“Goedemiddag,” the man said, before quickly switching to English with a practiced ease. “You must be the buyers from Marchetti & Co., yes?”