Over the High Side (12 page)

‘On basis of conversation with Stasie it is cons. op. that such evidence exists.'

Cons. op. means considered opinion, which is jargon meaning the report-writer can't prove it. Van der Valk, staring vacantly at the bar, saw he'd got something wrong. The not-a-drop-is-sold slogan isn't Power, but Jameson. Makes no odds, he decided; like all the detergents with different names it's more than probable they're the same firm … where was I?

‘Two problems therefore exist. Getting Lynch back to Ireland, where one could possibly question him, and getting a handle on Stasie. She is not, presumably, an accessory. Technically she's not even a witness. But she is the link between Lynch and Martinez (evidence of gallery attendant and of picture) and she's probably more than that: to wit, a spring or detonator. It is postulated that L. killed M.: it then follows that something intensely violent set this in movement, and the simplest, most obvious thing is Stasie herself.' Mm, rather a lot of postulating there.

Questioning Stasie is not really much easier than questioning
Lynch: i.e. she's an Irish citizen and while not as tricky as Denis we've even less grip.

Van der Valk sighed and ordered more whisky. He had been told to be very gentle, very milky, a study in tact, and very well, he would be all these things, but it would cost whisky and oysters in large quantities and the Embassy comptroller would jolly well have to put up with it, that's all. From somewhere his mind had resurrected a saying (army service, Hamburg, 1945) taught him by one of those moustached British officers in the Green Jackets or the Green Howards; green something, anyway.

Exhausted nature for refreshment calls:

Stout for the brain, and oysters for the balls.

Definitely. But where was I?

Can't just go round asking blunt questions, but ten quid to a brass farthing (we're picking up English, huh?) the boy is or was her lover. Possible explanation of his coming to stick papa with the souvenir paper-knife but slightly insufficient.

I wish I could seduce her, but one doesn't put remarks like that in written reports which go to the Embassy, the Procureur General, and the Ministry in The Hague (he sighed for the good old days working for old Samson, who detested written reports which were ‘full of nothing but bullshit' and to whom one could say such things, and did). Mark you Dublin, or so Stasie says, isn't as small-minded a town as The Hague. So we better not say such things here either, but we can damn well think them.

Back to point-acquired an instant, veux-tu? She is very curious. One could tease her. Have to view the other sisters, and interview too, as part of a tidy formal operation, but this is definitely the one we want (it was her picture). Anyway this minute she's busy briefing them, telling them to be vague on the subject of Denis. If we can establish by any tactical means (a chat with Flynn on this subject) that Denis is Stasie's lover the point isn't just acquired it's damn well vital. So we're going to hang her up by the heels and shake till things fall out, even if we have to bed the lady ourself to get so far. But he forgot about Stasie while looking at the people in the bar and
listening to their voices: he couldn't get any further at present with her except in dirty daydreams. One could work in from the two opposite ends of the Denis problem: what about Mrs Lynch?

*

Having studied the clientèle of the cocktail bar with care, the night before, he put on his good suit, what Arlette called his cavalry outfit. He was tall, and despite his big bones and clumsy features looked good in a suit, but if it was a town suit, too light, too smooth, too narrow, too white-shirted, he looked too like a farmer on Sunday or, as Arlette said, like a boxer being interviewed on television. Since becoming a person of dignity he had acquired ‘squire' suits.

‘But you mustn't look too horsy; your face is quite horsy enough.' The bar last night had been full of talk about Fairy-house and Leopardstown, Punchestown and Baldoyle (what lovely names Irish racecourses did have): he knew exactly what she meant. He spat on his shoes and took pains with his tie as well as leaving his briefcase behind.

Downstairs he surveyed himself majestically in the glass, decided he was all right since the pageboys did not snigger, had the porter whistle for a taxi, and said ‘Ailesbury Road' with lordly nonchalance.

Ah yes, the Belgian Embassy, brickwork nicely mellow, and the French Embassy, utterly hideous, built for a successful butcher. It was so very like Aerdenhout. He crunched across gravel, mounted portly stone steps and rang a polished brass bell with a rich soft note. A uniformed maid opened almost at once, well trained; she said nothing. He took his hat off.

‘I'm calling if I may on Mrs Lynch.'

She held the door, closed it softly behind him and said, ‘I'm afraid Mrs Lynch is not able to see you just yet,' which meant she wasn't up yet.

‘Perhaps you could give her my card.' He had two kinds of card, nasty printed ones saying ‘Divisional Commissaire' which wouldn't do at all, and superior ones, engraved, with his name and address. The maid was experienced; she looked at the card, at him: was he likely to steal little silver boxes?

‘I'm afraid you may have a bit of a wait; would you like to come in here?'

The hall had been stiff; cream paint, mahogany, gladioli, a soft bright echo up handsome red Wilton stair-carpet. The drawing-room, at the front of the house, was conventional but pleasant. There was a coal fire, a luxury surely now reserved to the few people with proper maids. It burned under a white marble chimney-piece, a large gilt-framed looking-glass flanked by rococo silver candlesticks. There were several large formal oil paintings, mixed with watercolour landscapes of somewhat self-consciously Irish simplicity. Polished parquet, carpet, Chinese silk hearthrug, Persian rugs in the bays. He thought it all looked very gracious-living-from Harrods, pre-1939. None the worse for that, perhaps (when in the dentist's waiting-room, he always studied
House and Garden
and
Jours de France
). There were two large cut-glass lustres, and crystal lamps by Lalique. In front of the yellow silk chesterfield was an occasional table, with in a neat row the
Irish Times
, the London
Times
and
Le Monde
, margins lined up; he was quite carried away by this. Everything here was as it should be: glass-fronted cabinet with china, severely plain silver cigarette-box – but the maid was coming back.

‘Madame will be pleased to see you, and begs you to excuse her for keeping you waiting.' He bowed. ‘Will you please make yourself comfortable, and the papers are there if you care to glance at them.'

In the silence was a soft smooth-rubbed tocking; grandfather. He prowled about, puzzled. It all seemed very Forsyte – dear Irene has such good taste. A lot of this stuff was antique, and had gone well at Sotheby's, and would now go even better. Clock was probably Tompion, piano in one bay was certainly Steinway, writing-desk in the other might well be Queen Anne, the curtains were a heavy yellow satin that had darkened agreeably. Yet there was something phony, and he did not know what. If he had ever seen a pre-war West End comedy, probably featuring Gerald du Maurier and Gladys Cooper, with wistaria just outside the window where the lights were dimmed artistically for Act Two – an Hour Later, he might have thought this a pretentious effort at empire building. And yet at the same
time there was something natural and simple – a genuineness – he could not quite decide about this, but the reverie was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs Lynch.

She wasn't at all willow, soft, or elegant: quite the contrary to dear Irene. She was quite small, round, and not-quite-fat, what the French call ‘boulotte'. Her darkish springy hair was cut short and curled wirily round a plain, kind face like Madame de Gaulle's. She was dressed in a silk wrapper printed with white and yellow marguerites, which suited her, for everything about her was like that; fresh, bright and simple. Her walk and her voice were rapid, direct, well managed. (Not Gladys Cooper, but perhaps Yvonne Arnaud.) The professionally hostess smile was warmed by the fresh voice.

‘How do you do, Mr Van der Valk? Do please sit down, and tell me how I can be of service to you. Have you forgiven me for being so long? And would you like a cigarette? No? And is it too early for me to offer you something? – perhaps a glass of sherry – oh yes, please do.'

‘It sounds very nice, but what a lot I do drink here in Ireland.'

‘Nonsense, very good for you and I'll have one too.' She rang the bell.

‘Annie, some sherry, please. Well, Mr Van der Valk? – I'm curious.'

She took him, presumably, for a politician or at least for someone with ‘a business proposal' – well, perhaps he had. But he mustn't sail under false colours.

He decided he had been right not to rehearse any freshness of phrase. Whatever foolishness now came out of his mouth would have to make up in spontaneity what it lacked in intelligence.

‘You're going to find me a nuisance. I'm afraid. You won't be pleased; I may make you angry.'

‘Well, we'll see, shall we?'

‘Put briefly I am a police officer, from Holland as you know, the commissaire of a town where a few weeks ago a man was killed. An oldish man, a business man, inoffensive, respected, a type of man it is difficult to imagine getting brutally killed. There are very few things that help us to understand this happening.
One thing we learned was that a little before his death he was seen in company with a young man, whom we have since identified as your son Denis.'

Mrs Lynch picked a cigarette out of the silver box and held it between her lips; no hands, like a man.

‘Killed? How, killed? Like pushed under a bus killed?'

‘Almost exactly like that. He was suddenly stabbed in the street, with a sort of dagger. An unusual, puzzling death, which I for my sins have to try and account for.'

‘Ah, thank you, Annie. Will you tell Bessie? – I won't be going out after all this morning, but I may go out to lunch and would she have that purplish suit for me? I beg your pardon, Mr Van der Valk, I was thinking over what you said. Perhaps you'll tell me why you come to me. I understand that unless I'm mistaken you have some reason to believe that Denis is concerned somehow in this tragic happening, but I should have supposed that the more usual approach would be to my husband, who is in Dublin, at his office.'

‘Yes,' said Van der Valk. ‘The explanation why I haven't is so simple it doesn't bear telling: I was scared to.'

She threw back her head to laugh.

‘That's really rich … scared to. Forgive me, but you don't look that scared.'

‘I don't know whether I ought to be scared or not, since I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Senator Lynch. But everybody tells me he's scaring.'

‘Well, perhaps so he is, sometimes, or likes to appear so. But I would think you'd have to grin and bear it, scared or not. Surely you should see him.' Plenty of shrewdness in the round, pleasant face.

‘That's perfectly true, and whether I should go to see him is something I hoped you would help me decide.'

‘Aha, I see, and how can I do that?'

‘My superiors, the legal authorities in Holland, they're like most legal people very cautious, very scrupulous, looking at things from every angle – I daresay you know people like that.'

‘Very many, for my sins – which must be quite as bad as yours. But come to the point.'

‘The thing about Denis, who seems to have been on a little
sightseeing trip in Amsterdam, is that by a coincidence he left the country that evening. We want to talk to him as part of the inquiry, since it is important to know what Mr Martinez was doing and perhaps thinking. But there are legal difficulties. We can't question anybody in another country without of course their full consent. We felt a bit disappointed about Denis popping off so suddenly, and then we found out who he was and who his father was, and then everyone got in a state, because Senator Lynch, the Irish Embassy told us, isn't just anybody.'

‘True. But perhaps I am?'

‘No, Madame. My idea in coming to see you was that you would know your son better than anybody.' Saying which, he drank some sherry. Failing a good swig of Sister Crabtree's Tonic Wine (stimulates and fortifies; recommended for fatigue, listlessness and convalescent states) sherry would have to do. She drank some of hers too without tasting it, staring over the rim of the glass.

‘Not anybody. Better than most, in the past, perhaps. I'm a level-headed person, Mr Van der Valk. Not conspicuous for brains, but a reputation for common sense. Somebody told you that, no doubt, and that's why you come.' Smile, grim, showing lines around the mouth and jaw, despite much careful work by Helena Rubinstein. ‘What you really mean, I think, is that Senator Lynch appears a formidable figure, and you decided I might provide you with a crack in these fortifications; a vulnerable point as you might call it. Isn't that it?'

Level-headed was the word.

‘It's a lot of things, I think. Includes that, no doubt. But nobody really wants to pursue this. It's important, but it ruffles diplomatic feathers.'

‘So you got sent to do the dirty work. Ungrateful task.'

‘Lot of truth in that,' grinning despite himself. ‘Honestly, Madame, we're poking about in the dark. Police work is very inexact – like meteorology; I watch two clouds and wonder if they'll bump, and if they do whether lightning will come out. As with the weather, any forecasts of what is going to happen are pretty inaccurate and the public tends to believe the opposite of the forecast.'

‘Perhaps it is to guard against that we have this basic belief about people being assumed innocent until proved guilty. You do the opposite, I've been told,' stabbing out her cigarette and taking another.

Van der Valk lay back in the big armchair and stretched his feet out. Conciliatory gesture against aggression, Doctor Lorenz might have called this.