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in grey got off at the Dam. The Dam, the main square in Amsterdam, is full of historical landmarks such as the Royal Palace and the New Church which is so old that they have to keep shoring it up to prevent it from collapsing entirely, but neither received as much as a glance from the grey man that night. He scuttled down a side-street by the Hotel Krasnapolsky, turned left, in the direction of the docks, along the Oudezijds Voorburgwal canal, then turned right again and dipped into a maze of side-streets that obviously penetrated more and more deeply into the warehouse area of the town, one of the few areas not listed among the tourist attractions of Amsterdam. He was the easiest man to follow I'd ever come across. He looked neither to left nor right, far less behind him. I could have been riding an elephant ten paces behind him and he'd never have noticed.
    I stopped at a corner and watched him make his way along a narrow, ill-lit and singularly unlovely street, lined exclusively by warehouses on both sides, tall five-storey buildings whose gabled roofs leaned out towards those on the other side of the street, lending an air of claustrophobic menace, of dark foreboding and brooding watchfulness which I didn't much care for at all.
    From the fact that the grey man had now broken into a shambling run I concluded that this excessive demonstration of zeal could only mean that he was near journey's end, and I was right. Half-way along the street he ran up a set of handrailed steps, produced a key, opened a door and disappeared inside a warehouse. I followed at my leisure, but not too slowly, and glanced incuriously at the nameplate above the door of the warehouse: 'Morgenstern and Muggenthaler', the legend read. I'd never heard of the firm, but it was a name I'd be unlikely to forget. I passed on without breaking step.
    It wasn't much of an hotel room, I had to admit, but then it wasn't much of an hotel to begin with. Just as the outside of the hotel was small and drab and paint-peeling and unprepossessing, so was the interior of the room. The few articles of furniture the room contained, which included a single bed and a sofa which obviously converted into a bed, had been sadly overtaken by the years since the long-dead days of their prime, if they'd ever, had a prime. The carpet was threadbare, but nowhere near as threadbare as the curtains and bed coverlet: the tiny bathroom leading off the room had the floor space of a telephone-box. But the room was saved from complete disaster by a pair of redeeming features that would have lent a certain aura of desirability to even the bleakest of prison cells. Maggie and Belinda, perched side by side on the edge of the bed, looked at me without enthusiasm as I lowered myself wearily on to the couch.
    'Tweedledum and Tweedledee,' I said. 'All alone in wicked Amsterdam. Everything all right?'
    'No.' There was a positive note in Belinda's voice.
    'No?' I let my surprise show.
    She gestured to indicate room. 'Well, I mean, look at it.'
    I looked at it. 'So?'
    'Would you live here?'
    'Well, frankly, no. But then five-star hotels are for managerial types like myself. For a couple of struggling typists these quarters are perfectly adequate. For a couple of young girls who are not the struggling typists they appear to be this provides about as complete a degree of anonymity of background as you can hope to achieve.' I paused. 'At least, I hope. I assume you're both in the clear. Anyone on the plane you recognized?'
    'No.' They spoke in unison with an identical shake of the head.
    'Anyone in Schiphol you recognized?'
    'No.'
    'Anyone take any particular interest in you at Schiphol?'
    'No.'
    'This room bugged?'
    'No.'
    'Been out?'
    'Yes.'
    'Been followed?'
    'No.'
    'Room searched in your absence?'
    'No.'
    'You look amused, Belinda,' I said. She wasn't exactly giggling but she was having a little difficulty with her facial muscles. 'Do tell. I need cheering up.'
    'Well.' She was suddenly thoughtful,