"I guess not. Tell me about the setup here, anyway. You seem to have it all arranged very nicely."

"It's not bad, at that. From the street you see through that blind, this place is a kind of cheap hotel. We have a bar there, and although 'tis not a port itself, the town sees plenty of boyos from Amsterdam and Rotterdam. And from the canal, too, for that matter. So the bar is crowded…"

"And bugged at every table, no doubt?"

"… and bugged at every table," the fat man agreed equably, with a sidelong glance at the multichannel tape recorder inputs. "We obtain a great deal of useful information from those tapes... when they've been sorted, that is. Which is why bar prices are cheap and why we take care to keep it filled."

"And the hotel?"

"Curiously enough," Hendrik van der Lee said dryly, "the hotel seems to be booked solid all the time. There's never a room to spare when a body tries to book!"

"You yourself never appear on the hotel premises at all, I suppose?"

"Never. I always come along the canal bank on the Sint Pietersstraat. It's easier for the chair that way, for there are steps in the front here, you see. Also it means I'm never connected with the place at all. And there's a third advantage we have here, Mr. Solo."

"You restrict yourself to three?"

Van der Lee chuckled throatily. "Apart from the sailors and other boyos who give me information—er—involuntarily, through the hidden mikes," be said, "there's plenty more who come here to deliver the goods they're paid for."

"I can guess. Hotel porters and taxi men and—"

"Quite, quite. We don't have to be too precise, do we? Well, these ladies and gentlemen have to get in to see me. And whereas a crowd like I have might soon draw attention in another neighborhood, it works very well here. There's always a few sailors droppin' by to see the ould girls on Sint Pietersstraat—I have another entry through one of the houses there—and there's always a multitude comin' to the bar of the hotel. So between them, who's goin' to notice a few extra here and there?"

Annike came back into the room carrying a tray. Pushing aside a heap of manuscripts on the big table, she set out glasses, coffee cups, saucers, a long-handed, conical copper pan full of thick, sweet Turkish coffee, and a bottle of Izarra—the fiery yellow Basque liqueur that was the only spirit the Moroccan-Irishman had ever been known to drink.

"You still have a sweet tooth, I see!" Solo said as the girl handed him a cup of steaming coffee and a glass of the digestif.

"Ah, yes. It's a thing you never lose, Mr. Solo. Your continued good health, sir. And now—what can I do for you this time?"

"I thought you might know," Solo said. He had imagined that since Waverly had arranged the meeting, he might have briefed Van der Lee. But the big man merely shook his head slowly.

"Oh, well in that case I'll tell you," the agent continued. "It's just a piece of information I want... but you'll not find it in your filing system or your newspaper stories this time. You might get a lead from your secret microphones, though—if you have enough members of the bent fraternity in your bar. But I have to warn you there's not a police department in Europe that knows the answer to my question."

"Yes, Mr. Solo?"

"Quite simply, it is this: there exists a highly organized escape network in Europe. For a price, it takes people across frontiers, out of reach of the law. All the police forces know it exists; not one knows a thing about it. What I want to know is, one, who runs this organization; two, how it works; and three, how one gets in touch with it if necessary."

Solo sat back on his stool, drained his cup, and set it down carefully on its saucer.

Tufik, or Van der Lee, had not moved. He sat bulkily in his chair, staring straight ahead and humming a tuneless little air through his teeth. The girl, who had been curled up on the floor at his paralyzed feet, rose and refilled the cups and glasses.

Eventually the fat man moved. He spun his chair around and wheeled swiftly to the other end of the table, where he began ferreting about beneath an untidy pile of gossip columns torn roughly from the previous week's Sunday news papers. "There's a telephone in here somewhere," he muttered. "I know there's an instrument on this very table… Ah!" He gave a cry of triumph and flourished an ivory-colored receiver in one hand. His other hand delved back into the pile, and there followed the sound of a dial being spun.

After a moment he began speaking. There was a conversation in rapid Dutch, which Solo was unable to follow, and then he said in English,"... Oh, and by the way—here's a tip you can pass on to the advocate! Tell him, from me, that the articles he wants can be obtained in Brussels… Yes, quite cheaply. In boxes of ten... But tell him they're much stronger than the English ones: I think there's a whole cc. in each." He chuckled and then added, "And tell him the information won't cost him a penny. It's on the house."

He turned the chair back to face Solo. "It's not an easy thing you're askin'," he said slowly. "But if you care to come back around midnight, I think I might have somethin' for you. In the meantime..."

"I know. The little question of emolument? I suppose it's too much to hope that you're still working for Waverly?"

"Indeed it is, Mr. Solo. Indeed it is. Pleasant though that little arrangement was, it was purely temporary, you understand. I wished to take my revenge upon a certain organization, and helping you seemed the best way to do it. But it couldn't last long, mark you: it got in the way of my usual business."

"I can imagine," Solo said. "How much?"

"Well now... seein' you don't take the subscription service––you'd be well advised to consider it, an organization like yours, you know. You should tell Waverly—but seein' you do not, then it's the regular straight fee for a single piece of information."

"Which is?"

"In Dutch currency, two thousand five hundred guilders. And since you are an old friend, we'll consider the three separate pieces of information you want simply as if they were one... "

"Well, thank you!"

"… and add only the customary fifty percent surcharge that we impose in cases where the information sought is especially difficult to obtain."

"Be my guest!" Solo said caustically, holding out his wallet. He paused with his fingers on the thick wad of notes it contained. "Plus, I have no doubt, a healthy percentage for 'service'?"

"Twenty," Van der Leo said calmly. "The staff have to be looked after, as you know, in this kind of business."

"And, if I remember, still more for state tax or something…"

"Mr. Solo!" the fat man interrupted. "You forget what a neat and tidy country it is here. In Holland all prices are net!"

"So thank goodness for small mercies! How much?"

"Wait'll we see now... two five and fifty percent is twelve-fifty makes seven-fifty plus two plus one equals three seven-fifty... plus twenty percent of that equals seven- fifty again... making four five. A straight four thousand five hundred floris, thank you, Mr. Solo."

"About thirteen hundred dollars," Solo said as he counted notes into the fat palm. "It'd better be good!"

"Always trust an old friend," Van der Lee said piously, stuffing the money into his hip pocket. "If you'd like to leave via the hotel, it would probably attract less attention in the long run. Annike will show you the way; she's going out anyway."