“Thank you, Mrs Merckel. If I do have to come back again, I’ll try and be very discreet about it. Remember what I said – be the same.”
Attractive woman, he thought as he drove off. He didn’t know that he felt altogether quite so indignant about Dr van der Post.
Nine
Before going home he phoned an acquaintance, a man who owned a picture shop, dealer and restorer in a small and specialised but skilful way, who always amused him. Charles was a lucky person, always effervescent, with an enormous sense of the ridiculous and limitless ability to enjoy himself.
“Hallo, Charles. No, don’t tell me how you are; it takes too long. Are you well up in modern artists? Come come, you move in the circle – you go to the parties, you can speak the absurd language.”
“What circle?” crossly. “There are dozens; they don’t necessarily intersect.” Charles’ voice always came over the telephone in a high scream. “And there aren’t any modern artists. There used to be a few but they’ve all run away to Paris like wise men. That was forty years ago anyway. Now they’re all terribly old-fashioned, and can only paint with torn up dirty newspaper or bits of old bicycles. Deathly boring and totally unsaleable. There is of course Pop Art. You want a quick course in Pop Art?”
“No. I want a quick course in Casimir Cabestan.”
“That gin-sodden old fraud? There you are – went to Paris forty years ago, was stupid enough to come back because he didn’t get the admiration there he felt he deserved – never been any good since except for very young girls.”
“What’s this about girls?”
“Nobody knows. Cas looks the revolting old wreck he is every inch, but possesses a sort of eerie appeal for tiny little girls of fourteen, whose blood he drinks. He generally has two or three in tow.”
“Had, you mean. Been dead nearly a month.”
“You don’t tell me. Well, all I can say is it really was high time. That just shows you – I have little or no contact with these circles as you call them.”
“Yes, but since you know about the tiny girls you plainly saw him from time to time. You will know the stamping ground – perhaps where these famous tiny girls were collected, or paraded, or whatever.”
“Oh that. Yes, a sort of squalid dive they call the New Arts Club. Was probably new when Berthe Morisot was a tiny little girl. Now I’ve got it; you want to be taken? When? Tonight if you like.”
“It really is deplorable, this place,” Charles was saying a few hours later; he was looking very fetching in a dark olive-green suit and an enormous yellow carnation. “It belongs perfectly to Casimir’s era; one expects to see people like Ezra Pound all shaggy and youthful. Casimir fancied himself as a sort of painters’ Scott Fitzgerald. I suppose we have to say Poor Old now instead of Dirty Old. But the poor dears have nowhere to go. They still gather here and talk all excited about Trends. I haven’t been here in a year. Now who are you today, if I may ask?”
“I’d better be Mr Petersen, come from Denmark, awfully keen about art. Do these types speak French?”
“Artists’ French, fearfully twee. Here we are.”
They had reached a very dingy entrance in a dingy street full of wholesalers, squashed in between the Damrak and the old quarter. The New Arts Club occupied a basement under a building filled to bursting point, as far as van der Valk could tell, with old rags and papers done up in bundles.
“They’re always praying there’ll be a fire upstairs and then they could run away to Tahiti with the insurance money,” said Charles. “Belong, you see, to the time when people really did run away to Tahiti. That’s old Ben over there.”
The light was excessively dim, but van der Valk distinguished a few eccentric haircuts, though quite unable to say whether male or female. Behind a candle stuck on the tiny bar, in the grave of thousands of other candles forming a dusty and discoloured volcano of grease, loomed a dishevelled man looking about sixty, with a monastic hairdo, a goatee, a blue sailor’s jumper, and mermaids tattooed on the backs of his hands. His face was quite weather-beaten, but in a pasty way, like a Pirate of Penzance that has forgotten to put his make-up on.
“Hallo, Ben, how are you, old chap? This is a friend, comes from Denmark, so let’s all speak French, shall we?”
“Grand, my dears, grand. And how about a wee droppie?” The voice of this square-rigger crimp was that of the eternal hanger-on; piping, precious. The tattooed hand sketched a coy arabesque in the air and a gin bottle appeared.
“Mr Petersen was having a chat about old days and happened to mention Casimir, whom he knew before the war in Paris. We thought we’d find him here.”
“Oh, haven’t you heard? – poor, poor old Cas. Daid. Yais sir, daid.” The voice had dropped into a sort of pretend-American, as though it thought it had strayed back somehow into Sylvia’s Bookshop. “So tragic. Just a few weeks ago, only. Ah, Charlie, my dear, the old faces drop out one by one.”
“Ben, I am not an old face, so don’t include me. But what about the young faces? Surely there were some sweet young faces gathered round at the end?”
“No, no, he was all alone in the flat; heart attack. Young Harry Simons found him after nobody’d seen him for a day or two. As for the gorgeous lovelies, the last one I ever saw was a perfect pet. Cas called her his Sweet Sue, but she didn’t come in to us. He brought her a couple of times to show her off, but she didn’t really belong, you know. Amateur girl, Charlie, some rich pig’s spriglet out slumming. Young Harry might know, of course, but we haven’t seen him either lately. Got above the friends who gave him his start.” Not a bad witness, thought van der Valk professionally. They notice and record everything; you just have to know what percentage of that harmless tattling malice you have to discount.
“Well, well,” Charles was saying. “That’s all rather an unhappy coincidence, isn’t it, Mr Petersen? Pity, pity, poor old Cas. We’ll have to be running along: so long, Ben, old boy, give my love to Art.”
“Any good?” asked Charles back in his white Renault coupé that amused van der Valk as much as the carnation did.
“I’d like to hear more about this Harry, and Sweet Sue. I want to find someone that knew this old drunk closely in the last months.”
“Yes, I see. Or rather I don’t see but I don’t intend to ask. Well, I can find Harry for you. This Sue I know nothing of. I warn you, Harry Simons is a nasty little beast, who thinks of nothing but money, and what I don’t understand is his having any interest in old Cas, most of whose work changes hands for the price of the canvas.”
“Tell me briefly and simply what this Harry is.”
“Harry is the son of old Simons, who was a good picture man and knew his stuff, and was respected by all. Had a gallery in Paris and one here. Got caught resisting and was turned into soap. Harry was a boy then, safe in America. Turned up a few years ago with a very bright line of patter; knew it all. The going in Paris was too rough but he flourishes here. He’s quite a patron of these pop-art laddies and he knows that crowd in the cellar, but as old Ben did not fail to point out Harry cultivates old dames in mink coats and thinks himself a cut above garret-starvers. Cas, who is sudden death to a dealer and has been ever since the war, wouldn’t be any use to our bright Harry. Get it?”
“I get it. Since you know him, can you work me in?”
“Sure. He’s no friend of mine; runs around with all the pseudo-intellectuals. But I can phone him – shall we see if he’s in?”
“Yes.”
“Luck,” said Charles, coming back from a phone box. “In, and expecting you; I’ll drop you if you like. You are keen on modern art. He’s hooked, because he can’t understand why I should pass such a bird on to him, knowing as he does that I hate his guts.”
The flat was near the park, only two streets away from the brass plate announcing Dr van der Post’s calling. But this street was a lot less attractive; trees had been cut and speculative builders with more of other people’s money than taste of their own had remodelled the h
ouses with uninspired modernism. Van der Valk gazed at Harry’s address, a large block of service flats without character or interest, trying to remember the limerick about the man who got on the blower to Mies van der Rohe.
One went up in a lift after looking for the number among rows of letterboxes. The landing had a pale violet carpet and orange-yellow walls; the lift had violet walls and an orange carpet. Van der Valk pressed a buzzer. A man of about thirty opened the door, dark and good-looking, with a supple, fine-boned body. Didn’t look particularly Jewish, but more as though modelled on a South American polo-player. He was wearing jodhpurs with soft beautiful cowboy boots under them and an angora sweater, all in different shades of milky coffee. A blue silk shirt completed the colour scheme of a Siamese cat. Van der Valk looked to see whether he had little silver bells around his neck but was disappointed.
“Come in, come in,” hospitably. “Whisky?”
“That would be very nice.”
There were more luscious colour-schemes inside; the living-room was dark dull crimson and old gold, with a white coffee-table and white curtains. It was large and there was not much furniture, but plenty of art. Van der Valk sank languorously into a long long low low divan, clutched a glass of Stand Fast with a feeling that the name was inappropriate, and concluded that Mr Simons mixed business with pleasure.
“Have a look about you,” said Simons negligently. “All this comes in and out very rapidly, of course, but while it’s here it’s all for sale. Or have you some special name in mind?”
“Yes, I have, to tell the truth. Cabestan. I was wondering whether any of his early work was for sale.”
Fine dark eyebrows arched at him.
“I knew him slightly but I don’t deal in his work. I understood from Mr van Deijssel…”
“He didn’t really know what the object of my interest was. I think that Casimir’s been a little over-neglected.”
Simons considered this with slow nods.
“That could be. Say, though, it might even be an idea. One might be able to revive some of his stuff, especially the early work as you say. You could buy now and get a rock-bottom price. Why shouldn’t we get together on this? I take it your aim is to encourage a market? I should be able to get some for you, I think. Starting perhaps with a particular line – what is your especial interest - portraits perhaps?”
It came like a cue to van der Valk. “Girls.”
“You mean nudes?”
“I haven’t said that I was interested in buying pictures at all, Mr Simons. I don’t want to carry on this conversation under false pretences. I am an inspector of police of the city of Amsterdam, and there are some queries in my mind about this death. My especial interest in Cabestan is girls, but not on canvas. Live girls. They can be nude or not, just as you prefer,” pleasantly.
Harry took his time about sitting down and pouring out a whisky; the decanter, thought van der Valk, a squat Swedish thing, was a bad lumpy shape. He leaned back, glanced round, saw a piece of art that struck him as more obnoxious than most and put his tongue out at it.
“I don’t see how I can help you,” said Harry warily. It didn’t have to mean anything that he was wary: he was the type that always is, and most suspects a trap when there isn’t one. They are so dishonest that they are flummoxed completely by someone being honest. “I remember telling you that I knew him, but I saw very little of him and have no knowledge about his life.”
“Before his death,” quietly, “Cabestan was seen around quite a good deal with a girl. A young and pretty girl, as I have heard the kind he habitually had dangling.”
“That’s true,” with a big open smile. “Old Casimir certainly did have a way of finding girls.”
“You know this girl?”
“My dear man, I hardly knew him, let alone his girls. I have a vague notion she is an art student of sorts. I have seen her, I think.”
“It was you who found Cabestan dead, I believe?”
“Yes, it was,” fluently. “I’d been after him some time – I heard he had a whole bundle of drawings, early work by quite a few people he knew in Paris, and I was thinking of offering him a price for them. I couldn’t make out why he didn’t answer his bell, and I suggested at the house downstairs that he might be ill, and a sort of secretary person called the police – it was they, incidentally, that found him, not me. I was simply there.”
“What is the girl’s name?”
“Good heavens, I don’t know. Or I can’t recall. I was introduced to her at a party, I remember – Jill, Janet, something like that. I talked with her a minute or two – you know how parties are. I have a memory of a pretty enough girl, that’s all.”
“I see,” with an internal grin. “I’d like to find this girl, you see. I’d like you to throw your mind back carefully and remember who introduced you to her.”
The silky eyebrows knitted handsomely; big thought.
“There were several people there I know more or less well. I really can’t tell for certain. It might have been Mrs van der Post.”
Van der Valk’s turn to model eyebrow-knitting on this languid example.
“Really? Mrs van der Post?”
“Yes, I dare say you know her. She’s a good customer of mine.”
“Isn’t she the wife of some doctor?”
“I believe she is; I’ve never met him; don’t know him at all.”
“And was Cabestan at this party?”
“I don’t recall that he was – no, no, that’s unlikely. I might be quite mistaken about Mrs van der Post; Cas being in my mind, you see, and the fact is that he lived in her house, up above – I might have imagined a connection that doesn’t exist. I just remember chatting with her at that party.”
“Who gave this party?” Simons didn’t quite like answering.
“A television producer I know a bit – Arthur de Vries – out in Blaricum. But that’s all three or four months ago. I’m afraid I really can’t help you any more.”
“That’s all right,” said van der Valk generously. He really was content. This artistic cowboy wouldn’t have told too many lies, because too much of his tale could be checked, and for all he knew van der Valk had already checked.
“Just one final remark, Mr Simons. It might be an excellent notion to try and create a market for nudes by Casimir, but don’t get any idea of calling the press to get yourself a bit of publicity. It has a way of rebounding. And if any pressmen get to hear that the police were interested in Casimir, I’d know who told them. Get me? And if I told that, there might be a whole lot of people not at all grateful to you. People who might be capable of doing your business a great deal of harm. All right? Just remember – keep your mouth shut.” Harry Simons’ bright black eyes had an odd expression that might have been knowing and might have been puzzled but was definitely quite intelligent in a faintly repulsive way; van der Valk didn’t think he would try and promote himself any press publicity. As for the caginess, these people couldn’t breathe unless they were being cagy about something, but what on earth was there to be cagy about where Casimir’s girlfriends were concerned and why should Mr Simons feel hot and bothered about ‘a pretty enough girl, that’s all’? ‘A rich man’s spriglet out slumming,’ old Ben had said. It all sounded harmless enough; nothing to get evasive about. Van der Valk walked the kilometre odd back to his home. It was a perfect summer night; everywhere on the streets were crowds of gay, laughing, slightly drunken tourists. He felt curious, and a bit inclined to pester Mr Simons.
At home he undid his shoes, wiggled his toes, kissed his wife and reached for the telephone book. Blaricum, mm, out Hilversum way. He dialled.
“Might I speak to Mr de Vries?”
“I’m afraid he’s at the studio; if it’s on business you could try there.”
“No, no – personal.”
“Well, can I take the message? This is Mrs de Vries – who is calling, please?”
“Oh, I’m a friend of Harry Simons. I just came from his house - we
were talking, as it chanced, about your husband.”
“Oh, really? I was talking to Harry just a while back but he said he’d ring the studio.”
“Ah yes, must be the same thing we were discussing.”
“Shall I give you the number, Mr…?… I didn’t catch your name.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs de Vries; it’ll do in the morning, thank you so much again.”
He rang off and beamed at his wife, who had raised eyebrows.
“What were you putting on that affected voice for?” she asked.
“Ha. I’ve been moving amongst the intellectuals – putting up with some modern art, and picking up their little ways, don’t you know.”
“It sounds awful when you do it – I don’t mind Charles.”
“Exactly. Dear Charles; he put me on to this. Let’s ring him up… Charles?… I’ve had a nice chat with Harry. Don’t worry; I said you knew nothing about it. But this girl of Casimir’s – you know, this Susie – there’s something funny there. Harry knows her, which wouldn’t be noteworthy or even interesting. But he pretends he doesn’t know her, and that is most interesting. He even rings up a fellow who knows something about it to enjoin him to be discreet. Any ideas about that?”
“I should just say he was being tricky out of force of habit. People always lie to policemen.”
“Yes indeedy. Especially when anybody has died. You see no significance?”
“What’s a girl called Susie more or less? That old Cas always had a couple in tow – the usual vacant teenagers.”
“Then why make such an elaborate pretence of knowing nothing about them?”
“Oh go to bed and stop fussing.”
He put the phone back, pleased with himself. “This is my night for being direct and blunt,” he told Arlette. “Find me Simons, H in the book, will you?”
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