The other’s steady stare was cold with suspicion.
“Who was this person?”
“It was somebody in the trade. I don’t know that I ought to mention his name. But he was very definite.”
Jonkheer gazed at him for a longer time, with no increase in friendliness. Then he turned his head slightly and called, “ Zuilen, kom tock binnen! ”
The burly blond man who had been sitting out in the hall walked in instantly, and without any preliminary sound, so that Simon realized that the door of the little office had never been fully closed and the big man must have been standing directly outside it. He brought his newspaper with him, carrying it rather awkwardly, as if he had something underneath it. With his left hand, he took a small leather folder from his pocket and showed Simon the card in it. The card carried his photograph and an inscription which Simon did not have time to read, but he recognized the official-looking seal and the word politie.
The big man, whose name was evidently Zuilen, was a very polite politieagent.
“May I see your credentials, please?”
“My passport is at the hotel,” said the Saint.
“Something, perhaps, from the magazine you write for?”
“I don’t write for any particular magazine. I just peddle my stuff wherever I can.”