Mr Jonkheer was a short bald man in his shirtsleeves, with a wide paunch under a leather apron and a wide multiple-chinned face. It was obvious at a glance that no make-up virtuoso could have duplicated him. His pale blue eyes looked small and bright behind thick gold-rimmed glasses.
“You are a writer, eh?” he said, with a kind of gruff affability. “Which magazine do you write for?”
“Any one that’ll buy what I write.”
“So. And what can I tell you for your article?”
The Saint sat in one of the heavy armchairs and opened a pack of cigarettes.
“Well, anything interesting about your work,” he said.
“I cut jewels — principally diamonds.”
“I know. I’m told you’re one of the best cutters in the business.”
“There are many good ones. I am good.”
“I suppose you’ve been doing it all your life?”