I took the paper and stared at the Dutch version. I didn’t bother to torn it over. There was a scrawled signature at the bottom that I couldn’t read. The black lettering of the type had little red edges where the ribbon had been out of true. Van Renkum said: ‘‘Briefly what it says there is that he saw your brother talking to someone on the bridge. They separated and your brother stood for a minute or two watching the other man out of sight. Then he stepped on the parapet and jumped into the canal. The witness is quite certain that there was no one else on the bridge at the time.’’
With no knowledge of the language I could still make something of it. ‘‘On the night of the 30th March … when I let up the blind … no cry for help …’’
Van Renkum said again: ‘‘The translation is on the back, Mr. Turner.’’
I handed the paper to him. I got up and took out a cigarette. Someone gave me a light.
‘‘Do you say you offered a reward?’’
Tholen cleared himself of smoke by waving his open palm. ‘‘I should like it that you would see this witness, Aahrens, tomorrow, to judge for yourself. He is a man of honest repute and incurs some risk to his home life by giving this testimony. He would not be tempted by a few guilders.’’
Van Renkum said: ‘‘ There is much more to explain yet, Mr. Turner. If you will sit down …’’
I said: ‘‘ So Grevil …’’
In the street outside you could hear the bicycle bells. They must have been getting impatient at some traffic jam because they were all ringing together.
Van Renkum said: ‘‘We no longer think he took his own life because of a broken love affair. That was in fact never an explanation we altogether believed.’’
‘‘Then why did he do it? Why?’’
‘‘We must ask your patience to go back. Take a drink and sit down and we will tell you the rest.’’
I sat down. I felt sick. ‘‘ Well?’’
‘‘Before the war the import of opium into the Dutch East Indies was a Government monopoly and strictly controlled. During the war all imports from Persia naturally stopped, but the Japanese brought in a good deal and encouraged its use in Java as a matter of policy. A drug-taking population is a quiescent one, you understand. So after the war the new Indonesian Government found itself in possession of some twenty-five tons of opium. The sale of this it controlled and restricted at first in a thoroughly responsible way; but during the trouble with our Government the Indonesians were very short of money to buy arms, and so they decided to sell some of this opium in the international market. You may remember the scandal that arose.’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Well, in the confusion of that time a quantity of the opium was pilfered by lesser members of the Government and much today is still unaccounted for. In March of this year our agents in Java reported that a substantial amount was about to be smuggled into Holland and a close watch was kept to intercept it. Later we were informed that it was being flown into Amsterdam on a particular K.L.M. flight, so when the plane landed at Schiphol it was impounded and all its passengers and crew and their luggage searched—all that is except some cases of archaeological specimens which were the possession of Dr. Grevil Turner, whose reputation was above reproach.’’
‘‘And right to be so,’’ said Tholen.
‘‘In any event, four of the five cases went direct to the Rijksmuseum where they were at once examined. The fifth, remaining in the possession of Dr. Turner, presented a greater difficulty.’’ Van Renkum frowned at his cuff and fingered the embossed silver cuff-link. ‘‘Before taking any further step we cabled again to Batavia and again were assured that, according to information there, the opium had left. So Inspector Tholen and another plain-clothes officer called at Dr. Turner’s hotel and explained the position to him and requested permission to open the fifth case. Dr. Turner refused.’’
I looked at Tholen. ‘‘ He refused?’’
‘‘Yes. He was—angry at the suspicion. He says it is an insult that he shall be so accused. I explain that it is not to accuse him that we come but to clear up our own minds. I tried to explain, you understand, to say that it is our duty to stop this traffic. He will not agree that this is the way to do it. Then I must insist. I have authority by Netherlands law to search his possession. To this he submits with not-good grace and we open the case. In it there is many kilograms weight of opium.’’
I took a drink now. There was no water in it I didn’t want water.
Tholen said: ‘‘Sometimes the police work has great difficulties. It is necessary to sum up, to form opinion at short notice. This is the first time I meet Dr. Turner. To look at he is like his reputation. Who would think? But often one has been forced before to say, who would think? Facts, evidence, that is all to go on. And here the evidence is as black as can be. When we discover the opium Dr. Turner looks very ill, very angry. He states there is no knowledge to him as to the opium or of how it is come in the case. He declares he is angry too at the loss of some things which should have been there. He speaks, of some mistake, but cannot explain at all how the mistake is made. I request a statement. This he says he will not give until he has seen the British Ambassador. I agree and phone Van Renkum and also phone to have the opium removed. Then I make the grave mistake of leaving him.’’
Van Renkum had finished with his cuff-link, ‘‘If we had treated Dr. Turner like an ordinary criminal he would still be alive—but we felt we could not do that. With his distinguished record and his connections in the Netherlands … It would be better to give him time to reflect. A confession might come, and with it information, invaluable information. Or he might make some move on his own which would be almost as useful. We posted a man to watch Dr. Turner’s movements, and sent two men round to interview the companion who had accompanied Dr. Turner from Java. Unfortunately the man was not in his hotel. He never returned and his travelling-bag was left unclaimed. Still more unfortunately, during the evening Dr. Turner evaded the detective who had been left to watch him, and by the follow morning it was too late.’’
‘‘In other words,’’ I said, ‘‘ he put the seal on his guilt by killing himself.’’
Van Renkum looked pained. ‘‘ If we had thought that we should have had less excuse to withhold the facts from Dr. Turner’s widow or, indeed, from you. We chose to withhold judgment’’
The Bols was going down inside me, fiery and full of sham good cheer.
Van Renkum said: ‘‘It would not have been to our credit to lay a very unpleasant crime at the door of this distinguished scientist unless we were convinced it must be so laid. In the end the information that our man has brought back from Jakarta, and what we have found here since suggests something rather different.’’
‘‘It was Buckingham’s doing?’’
‘‘Yes. We’ve discovered the source of his supply in Java and his contacts here. Last week we made a clean sweep of them here, including their head, whom we were most anxious to bring in, a man I believe you met called Jodenbree. Although we shall probably——’’
‘‘Jodenbree,’’ I said. ‘‘You’ve got him …’’
‘‘Yes. He’s coming up for trial next month, and we shall make sure of a conviction. It may be that Dr. Turner knew all about it and helped Buckingham—some points suggest it; his refusal to let us open the case, his visit to De Walletjes where Jodenbree lived. But on the whole we think it much more likely that he was duped until the very end.’’
I rubbed my cigarette out. Tholen’s cigar had a long tube of white ash unbroken at its end.
I said: ‘‘Then why do you suppose that he—committed suicide?’’
‘‘Not because he was guilty but because he had no possible way of proving himself innocent. Faced with what seemed to him an intolerable situation, notoriety, imprisonment, disgrace, he chose what seemed to him then the only escape.’’
There was a long silence. I pushed my chair back but didn’t get up. A tram clattered noisily in the street
<
br /> I said: ‘‘Although by taking his own life he very much increased the possibility of being thought guilty, although he did that, you’re still prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt and consider him innocent?’’
‘‘Yes, now we know what we do know.’’
‘‘Then I wonder why he didn’t reason that way at the time?’’
Van Renkum said: ‘‘It’s easy to be wise after the event. It’s easy to say, ‘I wouldn’t have taken that course.’ But with the thing full upon you … He may well not have realised how much we should be able to discover. And also, if I may say so, it is not a verdict of not guilty that could have been brought in; but not proven. In such a case the mud will always stick no matter what you say in your own defence, no matter even what is proved afterwards.’’
Too late Tholen moved his cigar towards the ash-tray. A shower of white ash drifted down towards the carpet like stage snow. He had been watching me, like a doctor with a troublesome patient.
‘‘I know how it is over this,’’ he said. ‘‘I know how you are disappointed. But it has been my duty to tell you.’’
‘‘Did Grevil ever phone the British Ambassador?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘And Buckingham? Have you been able to include him in this net?’’
‘‘No,’’ said Van Renkum. ‘‘ It’s the one gap. We’ve given what information we can to the British police in case they can trace him.’’
Tholen said: ‘‘And you, Mr. Turner? Have you made some progress on your own?’’
I met his eyes. They were sharp just then. I said: ‘‘On the evidence you now have—if you should find him in another country—would you be able to proceed with an extradition order?’’
‘‘Yes. If we were able to establish identity. But I think it is perhaps quite difficult to establish that.’’
Chapter Seventeen
I found there was no service for Naples the next day. The best offered was a 3.15 p.m. plane for Rome, so I decided to take that. That way I could see Aahrens in the morning. Anyway, I had suddenly lost the will to hurry back to Italy.
That one night in Amsterdam I sat up late drinking coffee at one of the street-side cafés. There was some sort of a fête or anniversary on, because the streets were decorated and more people than usual were about. Watching the homely agreeable respectable faces pressing by, it came to me to wonder if this busy, attractive but slightly provincial city was the same one in which a district known as the Little Walls existed. It seemed improbable. It seemed improbable that many of these people would know of its existence. It seemed improbable that Grevil should have done.
I wasn’t yet properly taking it all in. It was like being stabbed with a weapon that partly froze the area of damage. The injury was something you couldn’t pin down to the locality of a limb or an organ—it was outside them all and within them all.
Two or three times I tried to face up to what it all meant to me, but it was too soon. I seemed altogether to have lost my sense of judgment. When the cafês began to shut down some time after midnight, I got up and began to walk and must have wandered round the city for two hours or more. When I finally turned in at the hotel my legs were tired and my mouth was dry and bitter from too many cigarettes. I lay down on the bed and waited for the morning.
About six I was up again and looking for a bathroom—curious the lack of them in hotels in this clean city—and when I had washed and shaved I lit up again and finished off the last of Grevil’s notes. As I might have expected, they ended on a reference to Buckingham.
‘‘Came back from two-day shoot better for the mountain air. Glad J. B. persuaded me to go. Bivouacked for night above forest; the quietness at sundown most noticeable after the customary chorus of insects; even the wou-wou silent for long periods. Returning found and caught fine specimen of the chalcosoma atlas beetle. J. B. full of his usual odd quirks of knowledge. Pressed me to spend few extra days making expedition Boro-Budur—should much have liked to but feel have been here long enough. If I come back next year shall invite Jack to come with me.
‘‘He is returning home with me and have promised to get him job with expedition to Euphrates in autumn under Massey. This beneath his obvious talents but a beginning, and certainly better than the thing he would normally drift into. Shall miss him when we separate. There’s an acid refreshment in his company, a challenge, a stimulus. Consider him the perfect companion for such undertakings as this. The attractions of opposites, no doubt, and rather an obsession.’’
That was the end: That was all. But perhaps it meant a lot those several long entries about Martin Coxon in a book intended solely for notes on the excavations.’ Grevil, the single-minded, whose concentration, on his work was a stock joke among his friends.
I saw Aahrens at erven. It didn’t help much except that it made the testimony more real for me and more conclusive. On the way to the Leidseplein I bought some magazines to read on the flight; but I might as well have saved the money, because in the air it was just the same as on the ground. I kept saying to myself Martin Coxon didn’t kill Grevil, no one did; he killed himself. He killed himself. I had to keep on telling myself, so that presently perhaps I should know it to be true. Everything else beside that was unimportant.
Crossing the Alps by plane always reminds me of Operation Moon a little ahead of time. I stared at Mont Blanc rearing its austere head among a score of lesser peaks, and the ring of white summits was a pearl necklace about the throat of Italy, (Or perhaps it was a hangman’s rope.) Then there was the opal-blue Mediterranean and Elba, and tree-covered mountains, and snow on Corsica, gaunt in the distance.
I had kept Grevil’s references to Buckingham separate from the rest, so I was able to go through them now. I thought perhaps with this new knowledge … But the only one which on second reading seemed to have a greater significance was where he said, referring to some discussion on spiritual degradation: ‘‘ If it were true I think one would be capable of that desperation absolute and complete that William James speaks of, the whole universe coagulating about the sufferer into a material of overwhelming horror, surrounding him without opening or end—and no other conception or sensation able to live for a moment in its presence.’’
He’d written that just after he’d been ill with a bad bout of fever. Impossible to say how far he had thrown off the after-effects nobody would ever be able to say what sort of physical or mental health he had been in when he flew home.
Nobody except perhaps Martin Coxon.
Much, much, was still obscure. Perhaps it always would be. That Grevil had taken his own life was the thing that stuck.
I slept better in Rome. It was probably because I was fagged out, and just for the time there seemed nothing more to think about, nothing that was worth thinking about—nothing that wasn’t shoddy and rotten and futile and worthless—nothing that did not feed a black and bitter rage.
Next day I took the train for Naples and caught the afternoon boat. There wasn’t anyone I knew on the boat this time, and I was glad. I didn’t want to talk to anybody. When I saw the craggy outline of the island coming closer, I felt I didn’t even want to return. Perhaps in a way I was coming back to something in myself that I hadn’t yet faced up to. It would be dangerous to meet Martin in this mood.
Martin was out. They said he’d been away all day. I sat on the balcony and drank some wine and tried to read the magazines. In the narrow lane outside the hotel a fat woman in a cheap print frock was trying to get on a donkey. The donkey-man, with a brown face and a halo of gold curls, was trying to help her and trying not to laugh. She was dead serious about it, and so was the little man in the cloth cap and spectacles who was holding the donkey’s nose. The fat was creased round her bare elbows, her neck and face were red and peeling. She looked awful, I wondered if they were English or American. I wondered where Martin was and how much I should tell him. I wondered why in the first place he had linked himself with Buckingham in the eyes of the English p
olice. Probably it wasn’t that way. Perhaps they had known of his being in the blockade running of the coast of Palestine at the same time as Buckingham and had asked him for information, and Martin had given it to divert suspicion from himself.
The woman got on the donkey at last and they began to lurch up the lane. I heard her voice.
‘‘Nimm Acht, Karl! Ich habe heine. Lust zu rennen.’’
I decided to go to the Villa Atrani.
The sun had set before I got there, and a few stars, keeping their distance, were showing in the remote sky.
Only Charlotte Weber and Charles Sanbergh were in, and I felt I’d interrupted a private half-hour. Mme Weber said: ‘‘ Dear boy, you’ve kept your promise. People say, ‘darling, I’ll be back’, and the next time you see them it’s the following decade … How was England?’’
‘‘Amsterdam. All right Have you seen Martin Coxon?’’
‘‘Not since this morning,’’ said Sanbergh.
Mme Weber screwed another cigarette into her long cigarette-holder. After she’d lit it she waved the match in zigzag lines until it reluctantly went out. She said: ‘‘Leonie’s gone away.’’
‘‘Away? Where?’’
‘‘To Rome. She heard some friends were there, and took it into her head to rush off yesterday afternoon. I warned her. That monument to Victor Emmanuel is such a bore in the hot weather. Overpowerin’. Gimbel, don’t make those disgusting chewing noises. Charles, do something about Gimbel.’’
Sanbergh stirred the dog with his foot ‘‘Your friend Coxon was up here yesterday evening. We had dinner together on my yacht. An interesting character, your friend Coxon.’’
‘‘Yes?’’ I said.
‘‘I think he went fishing today. I saw him at the quay this morning hiring a boat. Excuse me, I must telephone.’’ He got up and went out of the room. Again this evening he was friendly enough. It. would all have been very puzzling if I’d had the interest to care.
The Little Walls Page 19