Over the High Side (11 page)

Pleasant, vanity-tickling notions such as that of the policeman as zoologist would not do, alas. Was he not the centurion in the gospel? A man giving orders; a man under orders.

Human beings are not geese.

The octopus did try hard. He had recently been on a ‘recyclage' training course at the police college in Fontainebleau, and had been amused at recent instructions given to traffic cops.

‘Do not lean your hand on a man's car.' Better still:

‘If a driver is accompanied by his family, and you have occasion to address him a reproach, ask him to step out of the car. You must beware of injuring his dignity as a man, and his authority as a parent.'

What a terrifying gap there was between ‘We, the people … in order to ensure a more perfect …' – how did it go? – ‘the blessings of liberty to our posterity …' and the sidewalks of Chicago – or Paris – or Amsterdam.

He had of course a high degree of detachment. Learned on simple, physiological lines on dreary nights of street duty upon Amsterdamse cobblestones. Look at the silly bugger, you
with the pain in the shoulder-blades, feeling the feet, moist down the neck: stop yawning. It had continued in every report he had ever written, with the other Van der Valk, the goose one, leaning over his shoulder helping.

He had lucidity, simplicity, humility. Poor things, and permeable. He was a shaky fellow, and Mrs Flanagan not the easiest of exercises. Not when one half of his head was telling him that she was a bit of a chimpanzee, no?, while the other was wallowing upon billows of sex and thinking it lush.

She was ‘anxious to help'. She spoke fluently of her father, explaining how she and her sisters had been brought to this country as children, of her mother and various stepmothers, of papa's fantasies, extravagances and instabilities, all with ironic affection.

‘An interesting background.'

‘Well, I'm at home now, here in Ireland. My birth and my nationality are just accidents. I suppose I remain Dutch, in various ways, but I have become a different, more complex person.'

She enjoyed talking about the person she had become.

She seemed to wish to create a special relationship with him, in which they were both intelligent, informed, detached persons, collaborating in the scientific experiment devolving upon her father's death. Observing the geese together. Was she even moved, or touched, by this death?

‘Why do you think your father was killed, Mevrouw?' lighting a cigar, being very obtuse, very literal, very Dutch.

‘That seems impossible to answer – so metaphysical. People get killed. They cross the road without looking, or get attacked by criminals – why? Why are some so old, and some so young? I won't insult your intelligence, Commissaire, with a lot of talk about Destiny.'

She was very forthcoming. He did not tell her that he had been reading her letters, but she seemed quite unsurprised at his knowing something of her life, and was perfectly happy to amplify. She spoke lavishly about her husband, ‘my poor Eddy', who she hinted was a bit of a drunk, of her sisters who had psychological problems with their men, of the difficulties of bringing up children, of anything under the sun; art, music,
history, religion: she was unwearyingly fluent. She was compassionate, philosophical – and a good deal in love with herself. She seemed in no hurry for him to go.

‘Oh, there's my youngest waking up – no, no, don't take that as a hint to go. I'll make some fresh tea. I like company. I'm only a housewife, you see, and I'm stuck at home a great deal.'

‘But you have a lot of friends?'

‘Oh, quite a few, I suppose. I like people to drop in; I like to keep open house. We have lots of discussions, here.' She waved an arm around; he looked about him. Pleasant room, shabby and comfortable: disorderly, welcoming. Vase of flowers, needing renewing: several reproductions of modern pictures as well as a Raphael: heaps of newspapers, magazines and gramophone records muddled casually together. Intellectual interests right and left. It was very much like Arlette's living-room at home. What was the difference? Was there even any?

‘Do you by the way know a young man called Denis Lynch?'

Her answer was as easy and open as all her others. ‘Indeed I do. Dear Denis. A boy with a great many qualities – he'll be a valuable person, I think. In a difficult stage of development of course; he's not very happy at home.'

‘You seem to know him well.'

‘I should think that, yes, I did know him as well as anybody.' With a bland and cheerful innocence, and a note like self-congratulation, as though it were greatly to her credit to have such understanding.

‘How did you come to know him?'

‘How does one come to know anyone? He's just a student.'

‘I suppose that in Ireland as anywhere else people form compact groups and move in a restricted circle. One meets other people at points of intersection – a sports club, or a music society, or something like that.'

She gave a supercilious little laugh.

‘My dear Commissaire, how Dutch you do sound. We don't have such tight little circles with those minute graduations of standing: Ireland is more democratic, more open. People
are –' she sketched in the air with her hands ‘– more fluid. Less of these constipated little snobberies. Dublin's larger than The Hague, you know – and larger-minded.' The tone was snubbing and he wondered whether there wasn't an area of sensitivity about Denis.

‘But you don't know his family?'

‘Heavens no. Very rich and boring – politicians. I know a lot of it from him, naturally. Why all this interest in Denis, anyhow?'

‘You must forgive me: I'm here to learn. Ireland is plainly very attractive – so much I've learned; from Anna, for instance.'

‘From Anna?' startled.

‘She speaks of Ireland with affection – does that surprise you?'

‘No no, of course not. She lived here a while, true enough.'

‘She met Denis here?'

‘Denis? Not that I know of – no, that's not possible – it's some years since she was here.'

‘But she knows him?'

‘I've no idea. Since you brought up the subject, and she seems to be the source of your information, I assume she does; I don't know. I haven't seen Denis for some time.'

‘You knew he was in Holland?'

‘I knew he had a plan for going around Europe,' tranquilly. ‘Something about a possible job; it was rather vague, I think. You know, these students, how they make grandiose plans, but quite often nothing comes of them. I didn't know he was in Holland, but it doesn't surprise me to hear he was, if that's what you mean.'

‘He knew your father?'

‘Well, again, you seem to be telling me he did, and I repeat I've no idea. I recall saying to him if he was in Holland why not look my father up. I suppose he did that, since Anna told you about him.'

‘Anna says she doesn't know him.'

‘Well, if she said that why ask me, since she knows more about it than I do? Sorry – but we seem to be going around in circles, don't you think? What is all this about Denis?'

‘How long have you known him, Mevrouw?'

‘Dear me; this is getting to sound quite like an interrogation.'

‘That worries you?'

‘No – I suppose it surprises me.'

‘But it's quite natural. Your father was killed, Mrs Flanagan.'

‘But good heavens, what can that have to do with Denis?' ‘I've no idea, Mrs Flanagan.'

‘That sounds very queer in a Dutch mouth, calling me that all the time. You can't very well call me Miss Martinez – you'd better call me Stasie; I feel more at home with that.'

‘You don't want to talk about Denis?'

‘I simply can't understand why you keep on harping on about him. What's he got to do with it?'

‘That's what we're trying to learn.'

‘I only meant,' with her little gurgle of laughter, ‘that all this sounds a bit ridiculous – we sit here so solemn. Of course Dutch people do tend to be so solemn – I sometimes forget I'm Dutch myself. There – Father was the least solemn of people.'

‘You were attached to him?'

‘Greatly. He had plenty of faults, of course, and I saw them, and suffered from them too, being his daughter.'

‘You wish to know who killed him?'

She thought about this for some time, holding her cigarette up and turning it around, staring at it.

‘No,' she said at last. ‘No, I don't think I do. It seems to me that it's part of his private life: he's dead, then leave him alone, in dignity and self-respect. Oh, I know you can argue the point, tell me it affects society and all that, but you're a sort of functionary with a vested interest in being nosy, if you'll forgive me; I don't want to sound rude. It's your job and so forth, and you consider it a duty – but I'm sorry, I hate it, all that raking over of people's lives and little secrets. I think it a frightful invasion of privacy, when one's dead too and can't stop it. I'm sorry.'

‘You don't have to be sorry: I quite agree. But you were telling me,' blandly, ‘where you met Denis.'

Her little laugh again.

‘You are persistent. I don't really recall, but I think one of my friends brought him here, originally.'

‘And you don't recall who?'

‘Well, we've lots of friends as I said. I didn't know it would be thought all that important.'

‘Yes, I see that. Well, thank you very much, Mrs Flanagan.'

‘Stasie. But is that all?'

‘Is there more?'

‘Good heavens, man, I only meant I didn't understand why you go on and on about something trivial and then go racing off. I don't know if you're in a hurry of course. I suppose you want to see my sisters. I don't think either of them are home, just now. Agathe's a nurse, you know, and at work. Agnes went into town, I do believe.'

‘I'd be interested to meet your husband.'

‘Oh. Well, he's generally here in the evenings, though not always, and most week-ends – there are mostly quite a few people at week-ends; friends you know, dropping in.'

‘And you're generally at home, during the afternoons?'

‘At this time – I go out mostly later, for a walk with the child, and to do my shopping. Just like in Holland,' laughing. ‘And in the mornings of course, when I have boring domestic chores.'

‘I'll be trotting along, then,' he said. ‘Many thanks for the tea.'

‘I haven't helped you much, have I? Elucidate, I mean.'

‘We haven't got as far as elucidation yet.'

‘No?'

‘We're not scientists, so we do no predicting, and elucidating is a thing a court does – or doesn't, more likely. All we do is pick the piece of grit out of the machine, once we've found it – always assuming we're given the time to look. Goodbye, Mevrouw.'

‘Au revoir, surely?'

‘It's quite likely.'

He spent an agreeable hour exploring the sea-front, and found a Martello tower, which would please Arlette, who went in for literature. He took a bus back into town, pleased with himself that again it was the other direction that had
all the packed buses. It was nice being pleased with himself about this: there didn't seem much else.

*

‘From the Netherlands Embassy,' said the porter. A dinky little Olivetti typewriter, very nice except that, as he discovered at once, using it for a letter to Arlette, it had been dropped on the floor – or perhaps thrown at a diplomat – and had a strong tendency to stick. There was also a chaste envelope with a piece of plain paper inside, at which he made faces. He got rapidly into a bad mood.

The message was brief and unhelpful.

Denis Lynch, we are told, has been seen in Rome, and on verification is staying with the Irish Ambassador to the Vatican, with whose son he was at school. No secret about this, nor anything odd noticed about his behaviour. He seems to be in Rome for an informal stay of undetermined length.

Didn't seem to be anything one could usefully add to that. One could ask how many other Ambassadors' sons the boy had been to school with, but he did not want to: on the whole he preferred not to know. He could get his own back on the Netherlands Embassy by writing in his turn a lot of stuff they would not want to know: he might have, if the typewriter keys had not stuck so. Instead, he went to the best bar in Europe, for sociological observation, taking his little notebook.

‘Point acquired,' wrote Van der Valk (very dear, the whisky here, and the embassy will be scrutinizing the expenses: I don't care, went out to Monkstown and back by bus and that's enough economy for today) – where was I? Oh yes. ‘Stasie knows Lynch, admits it freely. No attempt at denial: i.e. known about and readily checkable. It is now beyond question that Lynch knew and was with Martinez. Stasie seems to have no notion, perhaps quite truthfully, of his being involved in the killing (since he was as far as is known the last person to see M. alive). Query, what information has she received from Anna (who denies knowing Lynch)? Logical to expect
Lynch had met Anna, but not inevitable: we have no evidence on the subject.

‘Two subsidiary points: Stasie does not ask outright what exactly the Netherlands police are doing frigging about in Ireland, although (a) she's extremely curious and (b) it's an obvious question. Does this show elusiveness, unease, or conceivable guilty knowledge, possibly indirect?

‘Nor does she ask what evidence the police have to link Denis with the death, since that, obviously, is what they're on about, or why keep asking about him. Hm.

‘A presumption can be said to exist that Denis is not only connected with this death but is the author. Conclusion unchanged: in view of shaky grounds for any extradition demand and probable diplomatic pressure exercisable by Senator Lynch, we simply need a stronger case and that's what I'm doing here. We need either an admission by Denis Lynch, who is hobnobbing with the Vatican, and can't be just arrested anyhow, or, much more fruitful, some strong independent corroborative evidence.