The Tulip Virus

by Danielle Hermans

  “And that was the origin of Holland’s famous tulip fields,” Alec said.

  “Precisely.”

  “So the supply of tulips must have kept growing,” Damian said.

  “Yes, and the market changed. Ordinary tulips were no longer scarce, so prices plummeted, and they became affordable for people of modest means. The supply kept increasing, but demand increased too, because many more people could now afford to buy them. At the same time, wealthier buyers started focusing on the really rare and unusual varieties, what you might call the limited editions.” Dick grinned broadly, tipped his head back, downed the last of the cola, and let out a burp.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “So here’s the thing. The new breed of professional gardeners cultivated exceptional, novel varieties of tulips, producing just a few bulbs of each kind. The most expensive ones were called broken tulips, because of the beautiful, flamelike patterns on their petals. Some of them sold for thousands of guilders. Just a moment, I’ll show you.”

  Steering with his feet, Dick propelled his chair toward the bookcase.

  “Here, get an eyeful of this.”

  He rolled back over to Alec and Damian and laid the book on his lap. It was the catalog from an art exhibition at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam about the illustrators of tulip books.

  “Here are some different tulip varieties. Look how exquisite they are, those colors, and those patterns. Incredible, isn’t it?” As Dick paged through the catalog, showing Alec and Damian the prints, he missed the meaningful look that passed between them.

  “Some of them are unique— this one, for instance.” He pointed to a tulip with magnificent streaks of dark purple on its delicate white petals. “Tulips like that were hard to come by.”

  “And worth their weight in gold,” Damian added.

  “Yes, literally.”

  Dick maneuvered his chair back to the bookcase and returned the book to the shelf.

  “More and more people saw that there was money in the tulip trade. Your very first investment, in just one or two bulbs, could fetch a tidy profit. That’s when things went out of control. Everyone wanted more: more bulbs, more money, more trading.”

  “But there has to be a limit,” Alec said.

  Dick nodded. “And the limit was coming up fast.”

  NINETEEN

  It was twelve thirty and the restaurant was packed with men in suits, the dark fabric absorbing the dim light. Their muted conversations were studded with peals of laughter. It was lunchtime in the City, London’s business district.

  Coetzer sat in the corner, his jacket slung over the back of his chair. Next to the remains of his lunch, the paper was open to the financial news. He fit in perfectly. Experience had taught him that no matter where he was, no matter who he was dealing with, blending in was a matter of life or death. Every detail had to be just right to ensure invisibility.

  He pushed away his plate and folded up the paper. Just as the waiter was serving him his espresso, his phone rang. The waiter shook his head, put a finger to his lips, and pointed at a sign high on the wall: a cell phone with a thick red line through it. Coetzer nodded, making his way outside to take the call.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me. To be honest, I’d been expecting you to call me,” the nasal voice said. “When that didn’t happen, and I had to read in the paper what had become of Schoeller, and how you had handled the situation, I thought you might have pulled a vanishing act.”

  “Actually, I was just about to contact you, so that we could work out—”

  “I presume you didn’t find out anything, or else you would have phoned. Funny, I thought I was hiring a professional. If the aim had been to kill him, I could just as well have sent someone else. You were paid for your interrogation skills, not to smash a hole in a man’s skull without even getting the information I asked for. I paid you half up front, but there’s no way in—”

  “One moment, please,” Coetzer said. He walked about ten feet farther away from the restaurant, out of earshot of the customers who were standing around smoking. “It’s not how I pictured it, either,” he said quietly. “He would never have told me a thing, no matter what I did to him. He was tough. I don’t have to work on someone for hours to figure that out.”

  “So you decided you might as well just do him in.”

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  “Get him to tell you where it is, you moron. Find out where he hid it.”

  Only now that the man was losing his temper did Coetzer detect a slight accent. His client was not using his real name, any more than he was, but for some reason Coetzer had always assumed he was dealing with an Englishman. They were silent for a moment. Then the man said, “You failed.”

  Coetzer bit back his anger. A store of suppressed rage always came in handy for that essential burst of physical energy, like a shot of adrenaline.

  “Some people never spill,” he said.

  “He was the nexus. Everything revolved around Schoeller. Now we are left with nothing. What do you propose to do about it?”

  “There’s still his nephew.”

  “What? The man who found him? You obviously haven’t been reading the papers. By the time he got there, his uncle was already dead. Thanks to your brilliant work, Schoeller couldn’t say a word to his nephew.”

  “That’s not what I mean. His nephew was his only living relative, right? His sole heir? So he might have left him something.”

  Silence. “It’s possible.”

  “Anyway, I’ll look into it.”

  “You mean we’ll soon have a second corpse on our hands?”

  “That depends on what you ask me to do.”

  “Let there be no misunderstanding. I’m sure you realize that the payment we discussed will not be forthcoming. Investigating the nephew is part of the first job, so don’t suppose I’m giving you a new one. This is what happens when you improvise. Get to work and make sure to keep me posted. Show a bit more sense this time and find out where the fuck Schoeller hid the bloody thing. Don’t come back to me empty-handed, or you can kiss the rest of your money good-bye.”

  Coetzer snapped his telephone shut. He’d soon have the funds he needed to retire permanently to his farm near Cape Town, and he’d never have to take this kind of shit again. With a smile on his face, he strolled back into the restaurant.

  Dawn walked into the video room.

  “Jesus, Tim, what have you been eating?” Pinching her nose to keep out the garlic stench that filled the stuffy little room, she grabbed the chair next to him and pulled it as far away from him as possible.

  He glanced at her in amusement. “Don’t be such a drama queen. It can’t be the worst odor you’ve run into in all your years on the job. Or are you trying to tell me a little garlic is worse than the smell of a corpse?”

  “Depends what the corpse ate.”

  He turned to her, cocking his head. His glasses were covered with greasy fingerprints. As Dawn wondered how he could see anything, he leaned forward and breathed in her face. “Does it really?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Have you had time to look?”

  In a corner above them were two monitors with frozen images of Schoeller’s funeral.

  “No, I just scanned through them to see if there was a break in the recording. But you’ve got the whole thing there.”

  “Good. So show me what you’ve got.”

  Tim pressed a couple of buttons. One screen showed the assembly hall at the cemetery and the other showed the lobby.

  “Can you rewind to the beginning and turn on the sound?”

  “Whoa, take it easy, what do you think I’m doing here?”

  He punched a few more buttons and adjusted the controls. The hum of voices filled the room.

  He rubbed his hands. “Okay, I’m ready. What are we looking for?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “You don’t know yet?”

  “That’s right,
I don’t know yet. Just run the video.”

  The cameras had recorded the entire service, from the moment the guests arrived until they left after offering condolences to Alec. After two hours, the last guests walked out the door, followed soon after by Alec, Damian, and Emma.

  Tim stopped the tape. “And?” He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Notice anything?”

  Dawn shook her head. “No, nothing. It all looks normal to me.”

  “Wainwright doesn’t actually think the murderer was there, does he? Come on, it’s a myth that killers return to the scene of the crime or go to their victims’ funerals. It’s like he’s forgotten the difference between fiction and reality. He must be watching too many cop shows.”

  Dawn raised her eyebrows. “Don’t forget, he inspired a lot of those cop shows. Some of those stories are taken right from his career. If you only knew how many scriptwriters come to talk to him.”

  Tim shrugged. “Do you want the tapes, or should I take them to the archives?”

  “Could you burn a DVD for me? I’d like to go through them again later.”

  Alkmaar

  FEBRUARY 4, 1637

  An icy blast of wind slammed the heavy door behind them. The girl who’d let them in was striding on ahead. In the middle of the entrance hall, she stopped and turned around. “If you wait here, I’ll let the director know you’ve arrived.”

  Lauris Bartelmieszoon and Philip de Klerck stood, numb with cold, in the frigid entrance hall of the orphanage. Without exchanging a word, they removed their soaked hats and shook them out. Melting snow dripped from their cloaks onto the floor.

  Lauris looked down, poked at a puddle of icy water with the toe of his shoe, and softly said, “How do you suppose they’re doing?”

  Philip turned his head and shrugged.

  Lauris nodded and squeezed the brim of his hat. He was appalled that Wouter Winckel’s children had ended up here. When Wouter had asked him and Philip to serve as guardians, this had not been what he had in mind at all. But they’d had little choice.

  Hearing swift footsteps approaching, he tried to shake off his guilt. The door through which the girl had vanished was thrown open, and Adriaen Koorn, director of the Alkmaar Orphanage, entered the room.

  “Gentlemen, you’re here,” he said, coming toward them. He was short, and his thin legs jutted out of his rotund body like stalks. His lower jaw jutted forward, placing his bottom row of small yellow teeth well in front of the top row. His skin was sallow, and his bulging eyes darted from side to side.

  “Welcome,” he said.

  Lauris shook the man’s hand, which was limp and sweaty. He wiped off his palm on his coat and instinctively stepped back.

  “Follow me, please.” Spinning around on his small feet, Koorn led them to the rear of the hall and opened the door.

  The odor of peat hung thick in the air. Seated at the table in the center of the sparsely furnished meeting room was Willem Winckel, Wouter’s eldest son. As soon as he caught sight of them, a smile lit his melancholy face, and he rose to his feet.

  “Uncle Lauris, Uncle Philip, I’m so glad to see you!” he said as he embraced the two men.

  “How are you, my boy? And the others? Is everyone all right?” Lauris asked, looking him straight in the eyes. The weather had been cold, and the orphans were not always in good health.

  “Everyone’s fine,” Willem said.

  “Of course everyone’s fine.” Koorn, who had moved to Willem’s side, clapped the boy on the shoulder. “We take excellent care of our children, as you know. And after tomorrow’s event, we’ll be able to take even better care of them.”

  He rubbed his hands together with such an air of satisfaction that Lauris and Philip exchanged a knowing glance. They understood only too well that this auction was an opportunity for the director to bring in a great deal of money. The orphanage had to raise its own funds and relied on private donations, this they knew. Yet Koorn was being remarkably insensitive, especially considering that Willem was in the room. After all, it was the estate of the boy’s father, Wouter Winckel, that they were there to discuss. Lauris felt embarrassed.

  “Come,” said Koorn, “take a seat. Let us begin.”

  They sat down around the table.

  “Willem has asked me to explain how the auction will work. He tells me you’ve never been to one before, and he’d like me to describe the procedure, so that— as he puts it— you can make sure we follow all the rules. Of course, the entire process will take place under my close scrutiny, but you are the children’s guardians and, as such, ultimately responsible for their well-being.”

  Irritated by the man’s condescending tone, and troubled by his own conscience, Lauris said, “That’s right, we’re responsible, and what’s more, we made a promise to Wouter Winckel that we intend to keep.”

  After Wouter’s death, the orphanage director had persuaded the two guardians to let him take care of the children. All seven of them. Far too many for Lauris and Philip to handle. Philip was prepared to take the girls, and Lauris the boys, but the director had emphasized that in the orphanage all seven could stay together. “All they have left is each other,” he said. After trying out the arrangement for a couple of months, the two guardians had decided to remove the children from the orphanage after all. But they thought better of it when Adriaen Koorn informed them that the auction was scheduled for February. After that, Wouter’s children would have the means to live in dependently. Seven months had passed since they’d had that conversation.

  “A promise?” Adriaen asked. Lauris saw the director’s left eyelid twitch. His protruding Adam’s apple bobbed uneasily.

  “Yes,” Lauris answered. “We promised that Mr. Winckel’s children would want for nothing after his death, and that his estate would be divided among them fairly and honestly.”

  “Oh, is that the promise you mean?” Lauris detected a spark of anger in the bulging eyes. “Well, then, you can both rest easy now. Honesty and fairness are my watchwords, as anyone who knows me can confirm. Now, let me explain this whole business to you, so you can go back home with your minds at ease.”

  The sardonic undertone did not escape Lauris. He opened his mouth but felt a nudge at his elbow. Philip looked at Lauris, shook his head surreptitiously, and said, “If you’d be so kind . . .”

  An hour later Philip and Lauris were walking out the front gate of the orphanage. In the shelter of the west wall of the church, they wrapped their damp cloaks firmly around them and donned their hats.

  “Well? What do you make of this?” Philip asked.

  “I don’t trust him. We’ll have to go to the auction and keep track of the bids for each lot. As Koorn said, Wouter’s estate is now in the hands of the orphanage, and the children won’t get their share till the proceeds have come in.”

  “How much did he say was going to the orphanage?”

  “One-tenth.”

  “So the more they bring in, the more the orphanage gets.”

  “And that means they’ll do everything they can to make the auction a success. That should benefit the children. Since it’s obvious the director is already counting his guilders, I’m sure he’s done a good job of advertising the event.”

  “You mean this should actually work out in everyone’s best interest?”

  Lauris nodded, but his expression was solemn. “Still, we’d better watch out, Philip. Willem asked us to come here for a reason. If he doesn’t trust Adriaen Koorn, then neither do I.”

  They turned the corner. The wind lashed at their faces, and the whirling snow stung their flesh like a swarm of bees.

  As Lauris and Philip made their way through the streets of Alkmaar, hunched against the wind, Adriaen Koorn hastened through the long, bare corridors to the north side of the orphanage. At the door to his apartments, he stopped and raised his fist to knock. Then, changing his mind, he turned the knob and entered.

  The visitor was standing by the hearth, exactly where Adriae
n had left him an hour ago, with his back turned to the door. He was still wearing his cloak, and the hood still covered his head. The man turned slowly to face him.

  Adriaen unconsciously rubbed his upper arms. When he left to speak with the two guardians, it had been warm in the room, with a crackling fire in the hearth. The flames were still blazing, but now he felt a chill. It seemed as if all the heat was being sucked in by his guest.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t know it would take so long. If you’d given me some notice of your visit, I could’ve—”

  “Have you got everything organized?” The voice from under the hood was muted and hoarse.

  “Yes, as far as I’m concerned, we’re ready.”

  The man thrust his hand into the folds of his cloak. When he withdrew it, he was holding a book. Adriaen stepped forward and took it from him.

  “Is this it?”

  “Yes.”

  “The descriptions were clear enough?” Adriaen asked, staring at the volume. Suddenly he jerked his head up apprehensively. His guest’s icy gaze was boring into him. It clawed into his brain, so intense it almost hurt. Adriaen lowered his eyes.

  “You have doubts?” the man asked.

  “No, no, not at all.” Adriaen’s voice cracked.

  “You have doubts.”

  The man tore the book from his hands and leafed through it with long, spindly fingers. Every few seconds, he brought his index finger to his mouth, licked the tip, and turned another page, disdainfully eyeing the bright watercolor illustrations. Then he shut the book and gave it back.

  “What do you think? Will these pictures will rouse their interest?”

  Adriaen nodded.

  “Greed and folly are close companions.” The man raised his head, looked at Adriaen, and said, “I’ve kept my side of the agreement. Alkmaar is teeming with buyers. The inns are all full, so the letters and pamphlets must have done their work.”

  For the past few days, Adriaen had looked on in astonishment as the traders poured into the city. He had expected a good turnout, but he never would have thought they’d flock to Alkmaar by the hundreds in such miserable weather. There wasn’t an empty bed to be had in town; some of the locals had even given up their own in return for princely sums.