Over the High Side (6 page)

He had studied their photographs with some interest. A family resemblance that was strong and came no doubt from their mother – the same fair hair and strong, slightly rawboned features with something faintly Slav in the conformation, especially in Agnes, the eldest. Agathe was heavier, rounder in the face, with a lot of bosom and a fine pair of eyes. Anastasia, the youngest, was the prettiest, but the photo was somewhat out of date, he thought: didn't look more than twenty-three or four, with finer, more delicate features. Photographer had given her a misty, romanticized expression that was probably misleading into the bargain.

His last visit was to Alfred, in the machine tool firm on the Weteringschans. The older generation, who had known Martinez for years – been to the University together, belonged to the same club before the war. Jovial, high-living, smooth-tongued old boy. No family connection. Had ‘been able to do dear old Xavier a good turn from time to time,' he said. Hm. He said, thought Van der Valk remembering his letter. But it filled more gaps.

‘Have a cigar, Commissaire – no no, I insist. Now how shall
I say this without seeming scornful? – why, he was cleverer than me.' Quite something that, in Alfred's estimation. ‘A bit – a bit unstable if you follow me. Had a trick of finding trade a bit unworthy. Old-fashioned paternalistic view of commerce. Bizarre – given to sudden impulses. Over-imaginative – now, perhaps I go too far. Level-headed enough, no really harebrained schemes, but didn't always show sufficient – what? – prudence, longsightedness – call it what you will. Or was it patience, perseverance? Perhaps. He could be notably impatient and above all with fools.

‘Very talented. Marvellous palate – great judge of a drink or a cigar. Man of the world – urbane, cultivated, knew a lot about art, that sort of thing.' It did rather sound, thought Van der Valk, as though Alfred considered knowing all about art the biggest handicap a businessman could possibly acquire.

‘Made two or three fortunes in his life and lost 'em again – no, I don't know how. Didn't speculate, no. We've all made a few duff investments in our time. Yes, I knew his wife – that's right, I recall those girls when they were little. Three little charmers with long blonde hair, tied up in big bows, white satin ribbon. Had a big house then out in the country along the Vecht, packs of servants, cars, horses – on his way to his first million and suddenly smashed it all up. No, I don't know why, never did. Threw the wife over – never understood that either – ran off abroad somewhere – just before the war, didn't see him again for years. Heard he did well – something bizarre happened. No, I've no idea, just as though he suddenly got tired of riches and success. And women all the time, great collector of women. Something irresponsible – no no, not what you're thinking, he married them, always married them, invariably some odd quixotry: great mistake to marry them, Commissaire, great mistake.'

The old gentleman took the cigar out of his mouth to laugh, which made him belch noisily.

‘Too much dindin,' he said, unconcerned.

‘And since he came back?'

‘Ah. Bit sad really. Hadn't gone soft, but lost his touch, lost his luck perhaps, or pushed it too far maybe. Not modern.
Always on the scratch for a big killin' and never quite getting there because he didn't really understand the postwar world. He got older, girls got younger, what?'

‘You've met the present wife?'

‘Sure, little Anna, when was it now – we had dinner together – year ago? I've no idea any more. Quiet little girl, no harm in her. Very devoted. Old boy very deferential to her in public, holdin' her chair, that sort of thing, very courtly. Bit of a tyrant at home, I believe. Notable coxswain right up to his last years. Poor old boy, whatever could have happened to him? Got assassinated by one of these maniacs we have about the place now – what is it they do? – inject themselves with peanut butter or something. Go mataglap. Old boy pushes young ruffian off the pavement and gets killed for his pains. Big crowd, ruffian runs away – never catch 'em. Police no good, no disrespect to you intended my dear feller.'

‘Might there have been a new little girl?'

‘I doubt it, doubt it very much. Didn't have hole'n'corner affairs, not his style. If he had a girl he had to show her off, display her in public, and above all create a whole system to prove the old one was all wrong. No hypocrisy – understand me – made me laugh, in the past. Convince himself it had been a big disaster, that he was making her suffer, it should never have happened and the only thing was to pretend it had never taken place – and all this in affection and respect, etcetera.' A lot of moist chuckling, another massive belch. He swallowed a bit of smoke and had to cough, which made his eyes water. He rolled about and slapped his massive stomach.

‘My girlie days are over,' he said regretfully, ‘eatin's what I enjoy most, nowadays. No no, I would have known. Capable of it – wonderful man for undiminished virility an' all that. But he would have shown her off. We saw one another frequently enough, in restaurants and so on – we're creatures of habit at our age, y'know, go where the waiter knows you. Not at all, Commissaire, not at all. Only sorry can't be more help. Something illegal? Good heavens man, you don't know what you're saying. The type to pay a bill twice rather than be thought close-fisted – his downfall in one way. Always was over-free. Breedin' perhaps – old Dutch family, distinguished,
none left now. Never had a son, kept tryin'. This girl never gave him a child, I do believe – can't have been his fault, that. Can you find your own way out?'

Van der Valk went back to his office to meditate.

*

He didn't believe in the long-haired mayonnaise addict! He didn't believe in Anna having a lover. He didn't know what he did believe in. Casting about for any conceivable loose end he had forgotten or hadn't noticed he saw the note he had made upside down on his blotting-paper that morning. What was that? Couldn't read his own writing, now … oh yes, Anna had been here, it was Amsterdam ringing up about a hired car; something totally irrelevant – why did one's time always get wasted with rubbish … oh well … pooh … yes, pooh … oh well, why not? Yes, yes, he knew all about maxims written in manuals. Stuff thought up by imbeciles to be learned by more imbeciles. Never neglect the most insignificant detail which may turn out … Samuel Smiles wrote that one. Oh well, why not when all was said and done.

‘I want some information – no, I don't want your charming hostess. I don't want to hire a car at all, I've got one. This is the police. No, I said this is the police. Van der Valk, Commissaire, Criminal Brigade, yes, that's right, yes, good morning good evening. Now I want details of who, in the course of last week, hired a car – yes of course I give you the number. I want to know if it is still out and if not where it was left. I want to know what mileage it did – don't be so damned silly, man, I'm not asking the colour of his eyes. You don't just hand out cars like toffees. You make out a form. You make a driving-licence check. I want the number of that licence. And when it's a foreigner, don't you make a passport check? … Left at Schiphol on what date? … yes, I'm still here: Denis James Lynch, spell that … American? … yes. Yes. No. No. Nothing for you to worry about. Nonsense. You tell your area manager from me, Commissaire Van der Valk, if he doesn't like it he can tell me so.'

The car that had been parked two days running on the far side of the street to the Martinez apartment was booked in
the name of a young Irishman called Denis Lynch. Which was something of a coincidence, interesting Van der Valk, no great believer in the long arm, enough to want to know more. Alas, before he knew enough he was bidden to attend the Officer of Justice. Evil-minded personage.

*

‘This,' said the Officer of Justice, ‘is not at all satisfactory. I can't issue a commission on the basis of a hired car someone left in the street. She denies all knowledge of this car, you tell me. Man may have had business, or relations, or an acquaintance, anywhere in the district.'

‘The local commissariat has done a door to door. Nobody knows Mr Lynch from Ireland.' Officers of Justice do not say ‘So what?' but they think it.

‘He was just taking a stroll. Visiting an antique shop or whatnot.'

‘All day? Two days running?'

‘Proves nothing. Now if you could place this car in your area, around the time Martinez was attacked – I might be willing to listen then.'

‘Who notices a rented car? – nothing distinguishes it.'

‘Why should anything distinguish it? It was parked on the wrong side, a thing all foreigners do. Otherwise it would have attracted no notice.'

‘Nevertheless,' said Van der Valk obstinately, ‘KLM tell me that Mr Lynch flew out of the Amsterdam airport on the evening of Martinez' death after changing his booking at short notice.'

‘Yes, yes,' impatient. ‘It could be most significant and no doubt you imagine it is. But I must have a peg to hang it on. I can't see myself,' sarcastically, ‘asking for an extradition order on account of a parking offence. Did you find out where he stayed, while in Holland?'

‘Nine days in all in a little hotel in the Paul Potterstraat. Slip correctly filled in. Occupation given as student: reason for visit, tourism.'

‘Quite. And what criminal activities were noticed in the Paul Potterstraat?' Fortunately, Van der Valk was used to the
heavy humour of magistrates exercised at the expense of the police. It is common form.

‘He went out every day after breakfast, and slept in his bed at night.'

‘You appear, Commissaire, to entertain a hypothesis that a tourist came expressly to Amsterdam to murder this Martinez, but took nine days to make his mind up. You are wasting my time.'

‘It's all we've got.' Which did, yes, sound excessively feeble.

‘The paper-knife?'

‘Made in Holland,' drearily. ‘Tourist souvenir with the town coat of arms.'

‘This town?'

‘Yes. But they're still made by the hundred and sold everywhere.'

‘What was that tiresome Martinez doing here anyway?' muttered the magistrate crossly. He felt that he was being played with too. But he could show irritation; Van de Valk couldn't.

Self-respecting people did not get stabbed on a Saturday afternoon outside Vroom and Dreesman.

*

It was still such marvellous weather; everyone exclaimed over it. The great thing, they agreed earnestly, was that being autumn it wasn't too hot. Didn't they call it an Indian Summer? – that couldn't be, surely: why, everyone knew that summer in India was insufferable. Or Saint Martin? – what had he to do with it? There was no lack of rambling talk, much sententious opinionating about atom bombs and jumbo jets. Meteorological law – lore? – got laid down in every café. Everybody enjoying themselves but me, thought Van der Valk self-pityingly. It had become plain that he was condemned to the kind of police investigation never mentioned in crime stories, because it was far too dull.

He even failed to see humour in making an identikit photo, generally good for a laugh. People – the hotel porter, the car-hire ‘hostess', the airline booking girl – produced regulation clichés from women's magazines. What was a sensitive mouth,
a firm jaw, a fresh complexion? They came to the laboratory and did their best: as usual, the compromise arrived at satisfied nobody. A camel is a horse designed by a committee, thought Van der Valk, not for the first time cursing all eyewitnesses – not for the last time – from the bottom, or dregs, of his heart.

With this wooden object, and a ten-year-old photo of Martinez, who had like a wise man disliked being photographed, the inquiry hobbled upon flat feet in circles.

Two antiquated plainclothes men from Central Recherche, characters who had learned nothing in thirty years but professional insensitivity (indifference to disturbing anyone on absurd and futile grounds, refusal to be snubbed, veneer of unconvincing and threadbare politeness upon utter lack of consideration, whether for people, mealtimes, television programmes or just comfort in general – comfort means not being involved, that terror of all populations) – these two dreary old bores were beating up Amsterdam. Not all of it, naturally; would have taken a year. The tourist quarter. Since Lynch was a tourist, said Van der Valk hatingly, he had gone to the Rembrandthuis, or Anne Frank's garret, or gone for a ride on the waterbus. He just might have been seen there with Martinez.

Two more old bores were shuffling round his own town, which was at least smaller, so that concentric circles could begin with the pavement outside Vroom. They came one day with the information that Martinez had been seen in the municipal art gallery, possibly on the day in question. He had been with a man, but the attendant didn't think it was anyone like that, staring in disbelief at the Lynch reconstruction. Man in glasses. Van der Valk could not feel convinced that this item really advanced the inquiry very much.

Meanwhile he had read more letters. The three lovely ladies had private lives seeming both confused and bizarre and so, as the magistrate might say, what? He thought that any fluent and prolific letter-writer – Arlette for instance – would give the same impression.

There was nothing to be had out of Anna. She had never laid eyes on the mysterious car, had never heard of Mr Lynch. Yes, the ladies of Belgrave Square had sent long emotional
telegrams and Interflora wreaths, but had not come: they couldn't get away. They were under the impression that Vader had had a heart attack; she hardly knew how to tell them he had been stabbed. What good would it do anyway? She supposed she would have to tell them sooner or later. No, none of them read the Dutch papers.

‘You wouldn't think of going back to Ireland yourself?' fishing vaguely.

‘It would be attractive in a way, I suppose,' as though she had never thought of the idea. ‘It would be pleasant to be near them all again, and I enjoyed Ireland. But earning a living would be harder: that's what I've got to think of.'