Everyone but me, Zomerlust appeared to think; his fresh face was glum and drawn.
‘We’d have preferred it to be you – we’re quite upset it isn’t you. Would have meant a sight less trouble.’ Van der Valk, hamming away, saw this sink in; he was given to crude remarks in downright bad taste and every now and again they helped. He went back to the offhand tone.
‘More trouble for me means less for you, but some, none the less. Somebody killed your wife, somebody whose identity I don’t begin to guess at, about whom I know strictly nothing. I have to know a great deal more about Esther’s life. Yes – sort of familiar, calling her Esther, and it irritates you. But understand that I have to become familiar with her: as familiar as I can get. I have to ask you questions that will embarrass as well as irritate you, and you’ll just have to keep reminding yourself that I have one purpose only – to find the man who killed her. Better for you than its being thought that you’d killed your wife – in which case you’d be asked these questions anyway,’ dryly.
‘Like what kind of questions?’ Honest and a bit puzzled.
‘Like for instance why did Esther not give you a child?’
The fair skin flushed at once, but he answered readily, woodenly: ‘We were against it.’
‘We or she?’
‘She – but I agreed. Too many – here – everywhere. What sort of world are they born into anywhere? – hunger, napalm, you name it and we’ve got it.’
‘A man’s instinct is to found a family.’
‘Less, when he’s seen something of the world.’
‘Esther had seen a lot of the world?’
‘My idea as much as hers,’ stubbornly.
‘What made a bond between you, in the first place?’
‘She nursed me when I got some grenade splinters and was in dock.’
‘In France, yes. And you found her attractive and took her out – that’s straightforward.’
‘She was lonely. She’d been played a dirty trick by some man.’
‘Ruth’s father?’
‘Maybe. I suppose so.’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘No,’ simply. ‘She never told me.’
‘He’d deserted her? She was bitter?’
‘I don’t know. She told me she was pregnant. I told her that made no difference to me. It didn’t and it hasn’t.’ Life had crept into his voice. ‘She was a good wife. If she was killed it wasn’t on account of anything she’d done and that’s something you’d better get clear.’
‘A good wife,’ repeated Van der Valk ponderously. ‘How?’
‘How, how?’
‘Put it in military language – she was a passionate woman?’
‘You mind your mouth.’
‘I told you it wouldn’t be pleasant.’
‘She was a good wife every way and that’s all I’ll tell you. She never cheated, never lied. She was a fine girl.’ The simple phrase had a dignity Van der Valk hated to attack.
‘Did she drink when you knew her first?’
‘She liked a drink. I never saw her drunk.’
‘One couldn’t ask for a more loyal person than you.’ The man looked steadily, turning it over. A slow mind, but firm. He would take his time about making it up, and once he had there would be no budging him.
‘Not more than she was, Mister.’
‘She stuck to her loyalties?’
‘Someone cheated her once, badly. I told you I don’t know who. Maybe it was that man. But I never heard her say an unjust word to the child.’
‘I’d like nothing better than to leave things the way you did, and not even ask, believe me.’
‘Esther’s dead. I can’t change that and no more can you. Leave her in peace. That’s what she would have wanted – and asked.’
‘As a man I agree. As a servant under oath – like you, I’m a servant of the state and I do what I’m told – can’t be done. I do my best; I’ll show you. What have you decided about Ruth? You’ve spoken to your family?’
Zomerlust flushed again; he seemed to be begging Van der Valk not to humiliate him.
‘They wouldn’t have her,’ painfully. ‘I’ll have to see what I can do.’
‘You could marry again.’
‘No,’ slowly. ‘I couldn’t ask another woman to accept – the situation,’ he ended lamely.
‘Do you’ – it was Van der Valk’s turn to speak hesitantly – ‘want me to make you an offer? If you were to allow me, I’d like to adopt Ruth.’ He hadn’t thought of coming out with it so roundly. It had only been a vague notion. He was a good deal astonished, and so was poor old Zomerlust.
‘How do you … How would you?’
‘My wife is French. I have two boys – they’re more or less grown up. Away from home. It could be done.’
‘Mister – you don’t know what you might be letting yourself in for. You don’t know …’
‘Neither did you.’
‘I did it for Esther.’
‘Put it that I am too.’
‘You’re not what I thought, altogether.’
‘Meaning a bastard? Little do you know.’
‘No – you’re a good man.’
‘Can’t have that. In this job you see that there are very few good men. And perhaps even fewer bad ones.’
‘I’ll have to think about this.’
‘Yes. Back to Esther. Born in France, up in the coal-fields somewhere – of Jugoslav origin – you know anything about that? Whether she had a family?’
‘I don’t know – she never talked about it. Never mentioned any family. She thought of herself as French. I’ve asked these things – it’s no good. You have to take her as you find her. Take me as I am, she’d say. Just a camp follower.’
‘What did she mean by that?’
‘I suppose that she’d always worked among the soldiers. She was a special kind of military nurse – airborne ambulance, ipsa or something they called them. She’d done parachute training. I served in Korea – you know? Well, she’d served in Indochina. You asked what was the bond between us; well that was, sort of. She had a uniform, had some kind of military insignia – French: I wouldn’t know what.’
‘This camp – there were French troops there?’
‘The camp was on loan to Nato – everyone used it. But there were lots of units of all kinds, engineers, paratroops, a cavalry squadron – it’s a place the size of Holland, kind of desert. Not farming country. Good for nothing much but manoeuvre terrain and such – rocky.’
‘You liked the French – got on with them?’
‘No, couldn’t stand the sods.’ Van der Valk grinned inwardly. The Dutch never could stomach the French.
‘Not good soldiers?’ blandly.
‘Oh they’re tough enough – I’ve talked to a few, who’d served in Algeria, Indochina. They’re all a bit cracked. I just don’t like them.’
‘And Esther?’
‘Well, she was used to them,’ defensively.
‘Esther spoke French to Ruth. You think her father was French?’
‘I prefer not to think about it. What good does it do? I respected her wishes. She’d had a hard life. What good would it do me to know? Or her? Ruth, I mean.’
‘So it boils down to this. You know little or nothing about Ruth – or about Esther – because you deliberately made it a policy not to ask. You stick to that? You’d tell the judge that?’
‘Sure. It’s the truth, whatever you think.’
‘Oh, I accept it,’ said Van der Valk. ‘I guess that’s all. I’ll get my driver to take you back.’
Zomerlust got up slowly.
‘Speaking of that matter? You mean it? Really? You see, I’m thinking of what would be best. For her. She owes me nothing. It would be best – for her, maybe – if she never saw me again. She’d soon forget me,’ without bitterness. ‘Course, I could only agree if I knew for sure. Not that she’d be looked after, I mean more that she wouldn’t be let down. I don’t know how to say i
t.’
‘You’re her legal guardian. These things need lawyers. There are formalities.’
‘Damn the formalities,’ muttered Zomerlust. ‘If I trust you I trust you. Go ahead.’
‘This inquiry will take some time,’ said Van der Valk, well aware that this was something of an understatement. ‘We’ll have the opportunity to see something of each other. It can be worked out.’
‘I’d better get back. My section commander …’
‘You want to meet my wife?’
‘You won’t want me sitting drinking tea in your house,’ said Zomerlust with a ghost of a smile, ‘and neither would Ruth.’
‘See you soon, Sergeant.’
The man picked up his beret; metal winked in the sun.
‘Ruth has a badge on her beret,’ said Van der Valk idly.
‘One of Esther’s. She had a lot. Ruth asked for it.’ Of course. Nurses collected such things, souvenirs of boys they had nursed, been out with, slept with, very likely. There might well have been many, but it was a fruitless thought.
Chapter Eight
Van der Valk, who had been thinking for some time without its having brought him much further, was scribbling on a piece of paper. It seemed to be a draft for a telegram.
Department? – Tarn, Lozère, one of those.
‘Military Hospital. Pray write all known details known Marx, Esther, born one, six, thirty-four – no. Pray send urgentest all known. Victim homicide stop. Official inquiry opened stop.’
He scribbled it out.
‘Marx, Esther, born one, six, thirty-four, victim homicide assailant unknown. Official inquiry opened. Pray furnish all known life and service urgentest.’ He rang for his secretary. ‘Get this into officialese. Find out the Préfecture for that camp and the district. Copies to Police Judiciaire, the military hospital and anywhere else you think of that might be of some use.’
He took another piece of paper and scribbled some more: ‘Commissaire de Police. Personal. Parallel official request received,’ he had to make this a bit enigmatic, so that it would not arouse any curiosity in the wrong quarters, ‘would be pleased know your unofficial mind stop does bottle champagne interest you stop if desired phone home number after eight stop greetings downtrodden confrère.’
He had known such little letters succeed before now, childish as they were. Official messages advanced upon their appointed ways, through the bland and anaesthetized digestive systems of official bureaux, and in due course produced bland tasteless replies. It was lunchtime; he went home.
‘I don’t understand this message,’ said the post-office clerk, worried.
‘Where does it say you should? Just count the number of words, son, and spare the intellectual effort.’
‘There is bouillabaisse,’ said Ruth with open eyes; she had just learned the word and was pleased with the sound it made.
‘Good – I’ve been getting anti-French demonstrations the whole morning.’
‘I am delighted,’ said Arlette, beaming.
‘I know how it’s made – Arlette taught me.’
‘Very very good; we will exchange lessons. Words in ou make their plural with an s, except bijou caillou chou …’
‘Genou hibou joujou pou. May I tell you? One big onion, three tomatoes, six potatoes and six pieces of garlic.’
‘And a stone covered in seaweed,’ said Arlette with a straight face. The week before, she had come upon a recipe in an English Sunday paper, and laughed till she cried.
‘Where do you go to school, Ruth?’
‘On the corner of the Van Lennepweg and the Oosterkade.’
‘Would you like to change? There is a school where there are children from several different countries, and they do things in other languages.’
‘Oh yes. But it’s the middle of term.’
‘We will say you’ve just arrived from Madagascar.’
‘But then I’d be very cold and I wouldn’t speak Dutch.’
‘There you are – just think – you have an enormous advantage.’
‘Aren’t I going back then to the Van Lennepweg?’
‘If it’s all right by you, no. You stay here with Arlette.’
‘And have bouillabaisse every day?’
‘Except Saturday, when there is cassoulet, because of the rugby players.’
‘Official?’ asked Arlette.
‘No, not official – but from the horse’s mouth.’
‘What horse?’ asked Ruth, already alarmed by the rugby players, who sounded menacing.
‘Dinner, children. Ruth, take off your apron and wash your hands.’
Official channels being what they are he was surprised to have a telephone message before the office closed, giving him an answer to his inquiries. The answer had come on the telex, was very brief, and not very enlightening. It said, ‘Our representative will call upon you tomorrow morning,’ and was signed with a code number. Van der Valk studied this laconic phrase with interest. He felt as if he had thrown a fishing line into the Volga and come up with an enormous sturgeon, and got a colleague in the Hague on the phone.
‘I read you a code number.’
‘Aha.’
‘Am I right? – is this DST?’
‘It is. What have you been doing – joining the Secret Army?’
‘No no, I like the French.’
‘Be very quiet and very innocent,’ advised the colleague, who had dealings now and then with the French police. ‘They’re terrifyingly polite, like the General.’
The second message pleased him more, though it was equally laconic. It was a civilian telegram delivered by a bicycle-boy, and said ‘Stand by your phone Mazarel’.
Van der Valk was vague with the Press when they asked about progress.
‘Now let’s see,’ he said to Arlette when he got home again, ‘DST – that’s counter-espionage, hm?’
‘No that’s SDECE. DST is surveillance of territory, but I think it’s a question of not letting your left hand know about the right. What interest have you in them?’ She sounded a bit anxious.
‘I don’t know at all. They seem to have an interest in me. They propose to call tomorrow disguised as a traveller in groceries. The password is “How do you stand for cornflakes?”’
‘Very funny.’
At five minutes to nine the telephone rang.
‘France is calling you.’
‘Put them on.’ There were bangs and snaps, and the gabbling of exchange girls far away in the rugby players’ country – the medieval guts of the French telephone system. Van der Valk suspected them of doing it on purpose. They could build a variable-geometry jet fighter in half the time it took the Americans, but were not going to allow the population to be contaminated by advanced technology like telephones. Civilized of them, on the whole.
‘You’re through,’ quacked several ducks.
‘Through what?’ said a male voice suddenly in his ear.
‘The Mont Blanc Tunnel probably,’ he said politely.
‘Go on,’ said a duck impatiently.
‘Come and give me lessons,’ went the male voice. ‘Am I really talking to you?’ in a voice without the sweet reasonable tone.
‘Myself, confrère, to my pleasure.’
‘Good. The champagne is a good idea.’
‘It’s a promise – I have a feeling I’ll be in your district shortly.’
‘I’m not going to talk on an open line, of course. This may not interest you, but I’m doubtful, you know, whether your official inquiries will meet with much enthusiasm.’ Van der Valk digested this news for a minute.
‘You think I’m going to hit a big dull echoing silence, do you?’
‘I just thought of giving you a bit of a hint. So you wouldn’t think I was just being obstructive.’ That, thought Van der Valk, is reasonably clear and certainly familiar, but one would like to know what he was talking about, even so.
‘My customer’s name rings a little bell, does it?’
‘Oh yes. No
particular surprise will greet your news. Nothing’s known of course. I have nothing on paper. In fact I don’t have anything for you at all.’
‘I didn’t suppose you had. Would have been a great deal too much to hope for.’
‘It might strike sensitive ears in some quarters,’ went on the voice in a do-you-understand-me way, ‘turn them a bit red.’
‘I see.’ He didn’t but hoped he might, with perseverance.
‘That’s all, really.’
‘Give me a clue to the crossword, though.’
‘Yes, of course – you couldn’t possibly be expected to grasp it. Let’s see – you talk any English?’
‘Some.’
‘Think about a dee, a bee, and a pee, and then use your memory.’
‘When I get a tiercé in the right order I’ll order two bottles of champagne.’ Chuckles sounded.
‘Drop by any time. Yes, mademoiselle, but don’t panic me.’
‘Are you finished with your correspondent?’ asked a prim Dutch voice.
‘Yes, miss, thanks.’ A dee, a bee, a pee? His mind was a perfect blank. ‘Di, bi, pi, and do I understand English?’
‘What?’ said Arlette.
‘It’s the police boss where Esther used to work in the military hospital. I sent a routine wire for anything known – I mean she might have a police record or something. I sent a civilian wire just asking casually whether he knew of anything that wasn’t official. He goes extremely enigmatic, hints that my request may prove an embarrassment to persons unknown – I have no clue whatever who or why – and ends up giving me something and do I know English? Di, bi, pi – now what can that mean, in English?’
‘Why English?’ asked Arlette, puzzled.
‘Well he’s spelling something out so he does it in English to throw the phone girls off – they use that Lucien Arthur jargon.’
‘And you don’t understand?’ asked Arlette, in such an odd voice that he looked sharply at her.
‘You mean you do?’
‘Certainly I do,’ in a dry curt way. A red light, he thought. She’s not going to say any more. It’s something that affects her, which she refuses to talk about. After a minute’s thought he looked at her but she was deep in her book. He thought he understood but he was still no nearer the meaning of the, dibipi.
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