Tsing-Boum

by Nicolas Freeling

  Van der Valk put the phone down, got underneath a magenta satin counterpane, and went peacefully to sleep after the porter had politely agreed with him that Lapérouse was a nice peaceful place where he would certainly be happy.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  He got a table by the window, and pink lampshades and the kind of steak that sticks to one’s insides and those nice creamy potatoes and the kind of Burgundy that comes straight from a Renoir girl’s big luscious breasts and there was even a bit left over to go with the Roquefort. The coffee was nice too. And he had a view of the autumn night across the Seine to the Quai des Orfèvres and the Palace of Justice and the Préfecture de Police, which gave him a nice homy feeling. Back in Amsterdam the local pub on the Prinsengracht had been nothing like this. It was a pity that this man had to come and spoil it, and worse still to waste the brandy on him. One had to be in something really squalid like DST to appreciate such people. He felt grateful for the two hours of delicious cocooned sleep before the chambermaid called him with his suit sponged and pressed, and for the really solid dinner that removed that lamentable clueless feeling.

  Still, it had been well-timed, no doubt of that. He had been dallying over his second cup of coffee and had a cigar going, an Upmann that could have been made of tightly-rolled hundred-franc notes, the price the Ministry of Justice in The Hague had to pay for it. Well, he had saved them the price of a train ticket from Clermont-Ferrand to Paris/Austerlitz, hadn’t he?

  The man was smoking a cigar too, a tough dark cheroot from Holland by way of Sumatra, Brazil, and lord knew what other small unimportant places, and he was smoking it in a peculiarly horrible way. He put the well-wetted cheroot in the middle of his mouth, sucked a great gobful of smoke, spat it out and caught it again in two obscene serpents up his nose, and from there it came out of his ears as far as Van de Valk was concerned because he could not bear to look.

  The man was big, as big as himself and fatter, but he moved quickly and softly on his feet and seemed agile. He had a head full of distinguished silver hair, very thick and healthy and expensively cut and arranged, and a pale grey suit open over a cream silk shirt. No overcoat unless he had left it downstairs. No pullover. Toughy. Swifty, He might have been fifty years old and again he might not. He was talking to the waiter and as Van der Valk watched idly he came catfooting down the plummy carpet and leaned over with easy familiarity.

  ‘Thought I’d catch you here – friends gave me the word. No, I had dinner at Orly but I’d like an ice-cream.’ The waiter was standing there with his fingertips tapping negligently on a menu.

  ‘With pineapple, and kirsch, and cream.’

  ‘Brandy, Mr …?’

  ‘McLintock’s the name, Joe McLintock from the Far North. Don’t suppose they’ve got any Glenlivet, but the brandy sounds good.’ ‘Two.’ The waiter bowed.

  ‘Glad to meet a friend,’ said Mr McLintock stretching luxuriantly. He had a chest like a barrel under that silk shirt. One could have taken him for an ex-heavyweight champion, or the manager of a very prosperous football team. He spoke a fluent thick French but had trouble getting his mouth round diphthongs. He could be from the Far North all right, thought Van der Valk, though himself he thought McLintock a poorish choice unless the man was fronting as a fur salesman for the Hudson Bay Company. ‘I just got in from Brussels – looks like I timed it. Say, that looks good.’ His voice was soft, low, and creamy, suitable for expensive restaurants and going well with the pineapple ice-cream he now began to eat happily. A scent of kirsch floated across; Van der Valk blew a fan of smoke. Brandy arrived. Not a football team – an ice-hockey team. ‘The friends have the word you’re anxious to meet a fellow.’ His language too was something that Van der Valk could take a dislike to without any effort at all. It seemed to be culled from espionage fiction, and enlivened with catchwords learned from disc-jockeys.

  ‘I’m looking for a man called Laforêt.’

  ‘Ah you spika de English too. Great, great. You say it, I’ll follow it – Spanish, Norwegian, anything you like. Terrific linguist, McLintock. Well now, a chap called Laforêt … Yes, sir, I heard a little whisper about that this morning in Brussels, and I made a tiny teeny phone call because I reckoned this was where McLintock might make a tiny teeny deal. How teeny would that be, according to your catalogue?’

  ‘Just for the address?’

  ‘That’s what we’re dealing in right now or have I got out in Atlanta instead of in Memphis? Don’t let me hustle you, natch – I haven’t got this address right here on a bit of paper. But I can find it, yes man, I can find that bit of paper. Twenty-four hours?’

  ‘Twenty-four hours from now – one thousand francs.’ The big man was very busy cleaning out the ice-cream coupe and licking the spoon with a large pink tongue. Van der Valk sipped his brandy. ‘Swiss,’ he added negligently.

  There was a loud affected sigh.

  ‘Holy cow, that sure tasted good. Just can’t resist being lazy even if it does me an injury. ’Tisn’t ezzactly a heavy rate for twenny-four hours’ hard slogging, but in these handsome surroundings it’s kind of cruel to be horsetrading.’ Certainly not American. As good as certainly not Canadian. Scots was out of the question.

  ‘Now whereabouts?’

  ‘The tables on the gallery in the Saint-Germain drugstore,’ said Van der Valk, rather pleased with himself. ‘They have good ice-cream there.’

  ‘Between eight and nine in the p.m. – I don’t like making promises, Mister, but I’ll see what I can do.’ He lit another of his phallic symbols. ‘I’d like to have a little insurance. This party – he’s wanted? By the way I guess I never introduced myself properly – Joe McLintock’s in the commercial aviation business, but he likes to steer clear of politics.’

  ‘Balthasar – Arthur Balthasar. I’m in the legal business, Mr McLintock. I don’t have any interest in politics myself; in fact I’m a bit of a pacifist. But you know what they call us Swiss – the bankers of Europe. And why are we the bankers of Europe? Because people trust us. They bring us money, and they bring us secrets, and we have friends in the most unexpected directions, and we are trustworthy because we don’t mix ourselves up in politics and fancy adventures. We like sober careful investments that aren’t too insecure. Cinema companies, treasure-hunters, speculators – they don’t come to us for underwriting. And we don’t ever pay in advance. But on delivery – then we pay on the nail, Mr McLintock, and it smells just as good as gold.’

  ‘I believe you – every word. And when Joe gives his word it’s his bond. Now this party – he’s youngish mm? I wouldn’t put him over forty. He’s got blue eyes, and fair hair – he’s a nice chap. I’ve run up against him a couple of times, I rather think, but it’s a few months back. Likeable guy. Now of course my trust is just as solid as you’ve been describing it back there, and where we usually ask for the Dun and Bradstreet ratings, our mutual friends are the best of references. Cuts both directions, an introduction like that, to the mutual benefit of all, we may add. You ask me no questions and that is very handsome, yessir, very handsome. And I don’t ask any questions but seeing as this is almost a friend and a really likeable guy I forget my conscience and we make it fifteen hundred right?’

  ‘Waiter … bill … many thanks. So you’re going to the Folies Bergères? – may I wish you a very enjoyable evening? Please do excuse me, I have to make a phone call.’

  ‘Well sir, I see you’re a business man and so am I and we’ll make no more bones about it. Agreed agreed. Before nine tomorrow – no, I thank you, I never wear overcoats. I like the evening and I think I’ll treat myself to a little stroll as far as the Saint-Germain crossing. You can rely on Joe, ask anyone who knows. That’s settled then. A deal is a deal and a date is a date and if it should take a few hours longer I won’t spare the time nor the trouble. Sleep well.’

  Van der Valk had taken his time about putting on his overcoat and getting his stick organized. The cloakroom attendant called him a taxi and he said ‘Contin
ental’ in a stiff Swiss voice. A few hundred metres along the quay he saw the big light-grey shoulders moving with a slow easy swagger through a cloud of cigar-smoke down towards the Odéon. The driver crossed the river, tore down the Rue de Rivoli and stopped with a jerk outside the Continental.

  ‘Go round to the Castiglione side, would you?’ He took his time hunting in his trouser pocket for change, went into the hotel, straight through and out on the far side, crossed the road, had a little stroll around the Tuileries for his digestion, crossed the Solferino bridge, and was back in his hotel surprised to find that it was only nine thirty. A night porter as polite as the day one had been, but fatter and more confidential as befitted a night porter, promised to have Arlette on the telephone by the time he had got upstairs. He had not been followed – not, at least, since leaving the Continental and Mr. McLintock was welcome to that – he might even get to feel at home there.

  Van der Valk made affectionate kissing noises at the telephone, put it down lovingly, rubbed his nose and started to ponder.

  Arlette’s big news – but it clicked, it fitted, it was alive, right …

  This man – there was no news, and that was good news. Pointless to feel aggrieved about his habits, his accent or his cigars, which were all unimportant. The man was just a little informer like a hundred others who touched a hundred-franc note from DST from time to time. Reliability – complete. Trustworthiness – zero. He plainly did know Laforêt and in exchange for money – assuming anybody gave him money, sniggered Van der Valk, because it wouldn’t be him – he would hand over some perfectly genuine information. The only thing was, it might be a little out of date. The fellow was perfectly capable of ringing up Laforêt, touching a few more francs for the news that somebody was asking questions, and keeping an eye on the bird’s flight. He would then be most aggrieved at having been diddled, point to the nest still irrefutably warm, congratulate himself on being so close, apologize profusely for the naughty bird, and guarantee to mark its passage for just a bit more money.

  Of course, he was too enslaved to DST for any big stuff double-cross. Any police informer knows that the day he sends the cops on a trip with a lump of sugar and a drop of eaude-Cologne he will be arrested for indecent exposure within thirty minutes.

  One would like to know the little something with which DST undoubtedly twisted such people’s arms – there always was a little something … But the hint had been clear: ‘Handle him as you see fit’. In other words, officialdom considered that it had paid its debts, done him a good turn, and refastened its own shoelaces; it did not intend to bother any further. They had nothing whatever against Laforêt, and at this time of day their interest in him was academic. Borza-the-brown-man had been telling the truth: why not? Laforêt was a dusty and forgotten file, an ancient story about some hanky-panky cooked up in the Algerian time by paratroop commanders. Laforêt had been without active interest since 1960, and that was a long long time.

  This McLintock – the way to deal with him might be to move suddenly.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Even if there were no private planes, there was one place one could always get to in a hurry these days and that was Brussels. One never knew when one might suddenly feel the need to be nasty to the Dutch about margarine or give Italians a rap on the knuckles about secret subsidies. He seized his telephone.

  ‘Is there a night plane to Brussels?’

  ‘Let’s see – you’ve just missed that one – seven in the morning.’

  ‘Or a train?’ It had struck him that that obnoxious McGuthrie – what was it he called himself? – might have notions about planes. ‘Oh yes, there’s always a night train – you’d catch it easily; you’ve an hour to get to the Gare du Nord.’ A pleasure: it was not perhaps among his very favourite railway stations, but it would serve.

  Belgium: one never spoke quite the right French for the Belgians, nor quite the right Dutch for the Flemings, so that there was a feeling of being tactless either way and one followed the notice saying Sortie/Uitgang with a mixture of irritation and relief. He got a self-drive from that self-pitying firm which is forever telling everybody that it tries harder. He wished he knew the Russian for ‘Well, try harder still’. And by the time something like daylight appeared through an undecided mixture of fog, snow, and rain he was well into Baluka-Land. This was Arlette’s name for the backwoods of Flanders, those gloomy stretches which seem neither properly Holland nor really Belgium, and perhaps the best solution would be to incorporate them into the Grand Duchy of Courland, lying in equally bleak indecision between Lithuania and Estonia.

  Poor old Laforêt. Grievances collected in this corner, which thought of itself as being heartily loathed by Holland and Belgium alike – with some justification. Had he any skills, apart from being a soldier? What had his family been like – his home? What had brought him to this hole? An idea of growing mushrooms or some such little business: running perhaps a garage or a small hotel – the kind of job learned from a teach-yourself-bookkeeping paperback in the Home Economics Series?

  He had not seen any photograph of Laforêt, but he had two or three descriptions to match together. Ability, charm, good looks, and plenty of brains – how much of that had the years blurred or obliterated? Fair hair, slightly wavy: he might be grey, mudbrown, bald or wear a toupée by this time. Such photos as existed, in files in Paris or elsewhere, were bound to be misleading. In them all he wore a uniform, which he wore well. Square jaw, square shoulders. A fresh healthy face, the kind that never looks tired or yellow. The kind of face that would go unnoticed in any Dutch street. What had he done here in the wilds of Limburg, among villages with names like Opoeteren and Neerglabbeek, in this landscape from an early novel by Georges Simenon? Taken to drink? Van der Valk would have quite understood and been profoundly sympathetic.

  Somewhere near Hasselt – a long way. A child’s description that was not easy to pin down. Road to Hasselt? Coming out of Western Holland, that could be any of the roads winding southward from half a dozen little Dutch towns – Bergen, Breda, or Tilburg. An airfield – there could not be many. He headed for one of the frontier posts, where he had an acquaintance in the Customs.

  ‘A little airfield – with a parachute school? Most flying clubs have one. Any amount – let’s look at the map. I know them all, more or less. A Frenchman with fair hair? My poor boy, we have no Frenchmen round here! The people who work on these places – yes, I have a nodding acquaintanceship. Ask my opposite number, at Turnhout perhaps. Yes, they most of them have Customs posts – one doesn’t know what these little planes might be getting up to, but of course their movements are easily enough controlled. Within the drainage areas, as we call them, of the big towns there are generally a few business men flying private planes, and they hop across to England, Germany, lord knows where. But what are you doing running around the countryside? Surely you could get all this with a few phone calls back in the office.’

  ‘It’s all very vague and unofficial,’ said Van der Valk negligently. ‘Sort of obscure hunch I had last night – and I happened to be in Brussels anyway.’

  ‘Well, d’you want me to ring my colleague in Turnhout? He’d be better placed, if it’s on the Belgian side.’

  ‘I have an obscure feeling that it is on the Belgian side.’

  ‘The thing is to distinguish clearly between a commercial airport properly speaking, of which there are only a few, and little private fields – dozens of those, naturally; we don’t lack strips of grass round hereabouts that are good for not much else, hm.’

  ‘Ring him up – I’d like to talk to him.’

  ‘… Extension seven, please … Van Ryseghem? – put him on, would you … out on the field? … ah, in that case I’ll hold on … Hallo Johnny, how’s tricks? I bet it’s slack, there’s hardly any visibility here either. So you’ve got a few minutes? I’ve a friend here who has a police inquiry. No, no, quite unofficial – shall I put him on?’

  ‘This is extremely tangential,’
said Van der Valk softly. ‘A man I think of as having an administrative job, perhaps, on what is probably a private field. French in origin and has perhaps an accent. Around forty, medium build, fair hair, fresh complexion.’

  ‘Can’t think of anybody like that,’ said a dubious voice. ‘Of course there are lots of these little fields – what? Oh yes, a parachute school is a common feature – anything to turn a few extra pennies. Flying lessons for a single-engine licence – popular hobby. Gliding, of course. Here we used to have a lot of that, but with the increase in commercial movement involving Antwerp most of that stuff has moved further east. Over towards Hasselt? Yes, two or three – couldn’t really say: try Bilsen or Maaseyck.’ Van der Valk had been saving his high card, but now was the time to show it.

  ‘I’ve another description, much more precise, which may ring a bell. It is of a big man, heavily built, showy dresser. Thick silver hair, tanned face. Looks about fifty, perhaps because of the hair, and describes himself as to do with aviation. Has an act of being Canadian.’

  ‘Sounds like Conny Desmet – except he’s not Canadian; Belgian as you could wish: had his passport in my hands a dozen times; he’s always in and out.’

  ‘Profession?’

  ‘Company director or something like that – I don’t recall. Comes from Liège I do believe. But he’s a pilot if that’s what you mean by aviation – single-engine of course.’

  ‘You’ve helped me a great deal.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it,’ said the voice, surprised.

  Snow had fallen. Not enough to mask the lowering country with innocence, but just enough to make the blackened fields look blacker. More would fall, but still not enough. The sky was dour, but had not the yellowish glare of a real snow sky. A day for the electric light to burn even at midday, for cobblestones to be greasy and treacherous, for the depressing bray of the ambulance to sound in all the city streets.