‘His name’s not Balthasar and he isn’t Swiss,’ remarked Laforêt. ‘He’s called Van der Valk. He’s a Dutch policeman.’ Ferocity peeped very quickly out of the watchful grey eyes. He drew carefully on the cigar and said, ‘Well well well.’
‘Just a question of getting up a little early, Mr McLintock. To use your own sensible words, buying a little insurance.’
‘I’m an interested spectator.’
‘A little more than that.’
The big man grinned, lifted his glass, said ‘Here’s luck’ and drank. ‘Nix. I don’t have to tell you. You people always operate on bluff when you don’t know where you’re going. What you’ve got on Bos here – Laforêt if you wish – I neither know nor care, but you’ve nothing on me. No compulsion to tell the truth to somebody nosy that I’m aware of.’
‘I think you might be a witness. I even think it possible that a judge might want you to tell the truth, which I’m sure would cause pain, though it wouldn’t necessarily be lethal, Mr Desmet – or are you Mr Desmet?’
‘That’s my name, Mister Van der Valk. You’ve been asking – go on asking. Conny Desmet, plain business man and nothing against him. Ask anywhere – Brussels, Antwerp – you’ll get the same answer. Nothing on him – a plain citizen.’
‘And in Paris? I already know what answer I get there. A part-time informer, in whose hot little hand DST have slipped a penny from time to time – just as I do occasionally for my own eager little band who telephone me with gossip about their neighbours. Let’s not pretend any more.’
‘Who’s denying it?’ said Desmet pouring himself some more whisky, ‘nothing illegal about that. I’m a business man: I keep my ear to the ground. I hear that somebody’s looking for a man called Laforêt. Being a friend of his, I think I’d like to know a little more, so I can warn him if necessary.’
‘And how much is in it to sell him out.’
‘You know what he offered?’ contemptuously, to Laforêt. ‘A miserable thousand francs to know where you were. Cheapskates.’
‘How much would you have taken?’ asked Laforêt with interest.
‘About two,’ suggested Van der Valk. ‘He was going to tip you off all right, to get another thousand out of telling me where you’d gone. He was going to nip back to Paris, where I would be sitting on my behind waiting for him. Finding me here is a slight surprise.’
He had been hoping to annoy the big man enough to tempt him into imprudence, but insults were small change to him – he had probably got used to much worse.
Laforêt unwrapped a fresh piece of chewing-gum.
‘That would be about right,’ he said. Amazingly relaxed, noticed Van der Valk. Desmet was relaxed in the way a gambler might be who has hedged his bets enough to be sure he will never lose a packet. But Laforêt no longer cared a damn. He had nothing to lose at all. ‘You’ve got him pretty well taped,’ he went on conversationally as though the big man were not there behind the bar an arm’s length away from him. ‘He’s a smalltime fixer. Charm boy. Whipped cream to tumble the girls and plenty of cheese for any man who might nibble. Don’t underestimate him; he built this business up from nothing. I’ve never done much more here than earn my keep – he hired me as managerial front man – and parachute instructor of course. He’s able, intelligent – he’s got a commercial pilot’s licence, and he’s well in with all the local bigwigs. Right now he’s beginning to climb on top and make real money, and he’d be all set to push me off the boat because now he could replace me easily. He’s come quite a way. You want to know what DST have on him? He’s an ex-Legionnaire – yes, that’s where I got to know him; we’re ex-comrades.’ The word ‘comrades’ had a rare sarcasm. Desmet and Van der Valk were both very still.
‘He got made a sergeant,’ went on Laforêt, spitting out his chewing-gum and tossing it in an ashtray. ‘Always willing, always there, always a smile. But a barrackroom lawyer, knowing all the fiddles. Kept an eye on the main chance. Was very quick to go over to the right way of thinking when the Vietminh told him to, because you see he owed nothing to the French. He was in the Charlemagne crowd when the Germans were looking for sympathizers – joined up as young as he could; really keen.’
‘I’ll remember you, boy, in my will,’ said Desmet deliberately, ‘the officer boy – tough para laddie, who crept off into the cave at Dominique.’
‘That’s what he had on me, you see,’ said Laforêt to Van der Valk smiling.
‘I’ve got a little more than that, and I’m thinking it might be just what this little policeman man wants to put you in the bag for – murder.’
Laforêt laughed in his face.
‘You’ve missed the bus, big fellow. He’s got all he wants.’
Desmet smoked his cigar and thought this over slowly, taking his time about it.
‘Where’s your authority?’ he asked Van der Valk suddenly. ‘You’re on my property here, and I can chuck you out any time I feel like it.’
‘You could indeed,’ came the mild answer. ‘It would, though, be a poor tactic. I have a special commission from the Ministry of Justice in The Hague, with which the French, the Belgians and anybody else – I don’t know exactly how much petrol you have in those tanks – would make it a special point to cooperate. Suppose I want you taken in by four gendarmes with the wagon – one phone call and a quarter of an hour is what it would take.’
‘On what charge?’
‘Oh, I’ve the choice of half a dozen,’ cheerfully. ‘Obstruction of justice, abetting escape, sheltering a criminal known to be wanted, attempted bribe of a public servant – do I go on?’ Desmet was taken aback by the impudence.
‘And what proof have you got? Tell me what. What proof for a second of any of these things? I’d have my lawyer there in five minutes to sue you for wrongful arrest and defamation of character.’
‘Try it and see,’ said Van der Valk. ‘One down, another come on. We could hold you for months, sonny, drowning you in bullshit and giving you no end of publicity. Be a setback to all the old pals’ circus, all the businessmen in Antwerp and Brussels playing poker dice with Honest Joe McLintock from the Far North – they’d think twice in future about you buying them a whisky.’
‘You could even do a lot better than that,’ remarked Laforêt in the pause that followed. ‘Ask him where he met Esther Marx a month or so ago.’
‘Do you know?’
‘Certainly. What she didn’t tell me – she didn’t want to cause me pain – he did. Loving every second of it.’
Desmet, who was helping himself for the third time to a big whisky, looked slowly from one to the other, his eyes resting on each in turn, coolly weighing it all up, estimating how much harm it could possibly do him. As long as it was only insults …
‘Sure,’ he agreed at length affably, ‘spit it out. Soldier boy has all these years of inferiority complex to get shot of. Spit it out: I’ll be real interested. I’ve got a feeling it’s your last few minutes, laddie. You’re going to spend the rest of your life behind bars no matter what you do or say. Whereas Conny Desmet is going to walk out a free man, and whatever little scandals you try to go chatting up, people forget. They always forget. Didn’t you know? You could do anything, anything – in a few months they’ll have forgotten. That’s what’s so handy about people – they’re plastic. Only little snivellers like you don’t forget, who are too goddam stupid to see that everyone else has forgotten.’ It was getting talkative, thought Van der Valk, but it’s drinking quite a lot of whisky there for eleven in the morning. Let it go on by all means – let it drink itself indiscreet and we will see …
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Take your time.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Esther had been shopping in Rotterdam. About every four months or so she took the car there or to Amsterdam for a day, leaving dinner ready for Ruth and getting back late in the evening. She was always scrupulous on these occasions about bringing back surprise presents, and besides the cotton underclothes and the pullov
er marked down she would make sure that before anything else she got Harry a gaudy sports shirt for weekends, or some new cleaning or mending gadget for the car, or one of the leathery things he liked: a new watch-strap or identity-card folder, a cunning little sheath for his lighter or fountain-pen. Ruth was no problem, since a permanent-wave set for dolls, a miniature dressing-table set – there was always something she had set her heart on within the last month or so and that she would greet with whoops, forgetting the solitary lunch and the lonely wait in the evening while Esther drove back through the rush-hour traffic that always worried Harry, but she was a good driver, with quick reflexes and a cool head.
For herself it was an excuse, really; shopping did not interest her that much. Of course the big stores had more range and a more sophisticated display sense than one found at home, and little expensive boutiques had little expensive frocks – oh yes, one enjoyed looking, and she had a taste for clothes. But apart from the money question she rarely indulged herself – it was too ludicrous. Just every now and then she dressed up for the hell of it, even if it were only to have her hair done or go to the pictures or just lounge about in the flat playing records …
She might buy herself a scarf or a pair of gloves. It was much more for the atmosphere that she went. It gave her a tingle still to share pavements with people who moved in a wider world, to have lunch in a proper restaurant and not just a snack bar, to have a pastis and a half-bottle of drinkable Bordeaux and make a waiter skip. Wasn’t the Metropole in Hanoi, but there – she didn’t want it to be. She knew too well that daydreams are a more dangerous drug than opium and just as habit-forming. She might be wearing Italian shoes, and perfume, and a coat on her back that had cost money, but she didn’t walk about thinking she was the general’s wife. Marx has her feet on the ground; she did the same to go to the corner greengrocer. Self-respect. And the old Simca, always spotlessly clean and polished – that was Harry Zomerlust’s car and no other.
Nearly six on a fine summer evening – a chilly draught between the buildings but there always was in Rotterdam. She had the car parked down below the Lijnbaan, cleverly, where she could get out into the traffic flow in one smooth turn without any awkward manoeuvring. Damn, some clown had squeezed his fat-bottomed American self in where there was no room, and his front wing so overhung her turning circle that she would certainly not get out without a paint massacre – and she would rather scratch a nearly new Dodge than the silk-smooth home respray on the Ariane, but it was better still to be patient for a few minutes. Belgian registration – they were always like that! Aha, there he came. Company director type with a big black briefcase – lovely soft leather; Harry would like that except what the hell would he do with a briefcase!
‘I’m afraid you’re jamming me; will you please back out?’
‘Sorry mevrouw, sorry. One has to park where one can, you know – why it’s Esther.’
‘I’m very sorry … but of course – it’s Tuong-ot. You’re so damn prosperous I didn’t know you for a second. My my, Dodge Dart – I bet you’re still flogging penicillin.’ Great bark of laughter.
‘Same old Esther, always insulting everybody. But for God’s sake, girl, leave the cars here – perhaps they’ll get friendly and have little ones. What’s a cross between a Dodge and a Simca?’
Esther laughed. Tuong-ot – a flanneller who would talk his way out of anything.
‘A Mickey Mouse designed by General Motors.’
‘Come and have a drink.’
‘Well – one – just to let you apologize properly.’
‘They’ve pastis at the place across the street – come on.’
‘Pernod or Ricard?’
‘Either – I’m not fussy. I mean it – one. I’ve an hour’s drive.’
‘Right – I’ve more than two. Tuong-ot – brings it back. I’ve almost forgotten – but I hadn’t forgotten you.’ She hadn’t forgotten the big Fleming, a Legion sergeant with a notorious creamy tongue and ability to get round any regulation. She hadn’t liked him much, but he was harmless. Known as Tuongot because of his amazing capacity for the scarlet sauce of pounded hot peppers that went with every Eastern rice dish. The Dutch had it too, brought from Indonesia. Sambal they called it – they spoke Malay over in the Dutch places. But to her it meant Indochina, those little pots of seedy red purée. It had been an affectation of the big Fleming’s – smearing it all over everything and shovelling it down as though it were tomato ketchup.
‘You still like it?’
‘Love it – had it for lunch here – cleaned the pot and sent the boy for more – were his eyes popping!’ She laughed, amused. But that was nice about coming to Rotterdam – a harmless silly meeting and a drink at a bar. She picked up her drink and swirled the ice cubes in the old way, as when ice in a drink was the biggest luxury there was and young officers would kiss their fingers in Hanoi with the classic expression ‘Here’s to the terrace outside Fouquet’s’.
‘Here’s to old days.’
‘Here’s to the present if you don’t mind. To the future if you wish.’
‘Right,’ he agreed. ‘Hell with the old days. Now’s the time. Esther – you look great.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘You’ll never believe it but I’m in the flyfly industry. Got a little airfield in Limburg, going on great – six planes and they’re all mine, and I sit in the driver’s seat – every licence you can get on single engines, navigation, the lot. You ought to see us – we get people from Eindhoven, Liège ‘swell’s Maastricht, Hasselt – you name it.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ said Esther mechanically.
‘Come on, have another, one for the future and one for the present. What’s yours?’
‘Dull, feller, dull.’ She smiled. ‘Married – yes, army man. What else? I live here – no not here; up the coast. Just quiet. I’ve had enough excitement.’
‘Go on, what do you do? Any flying?’
‘Not unless I fit the Simca with wings.’
‘You should come and look us up – no, I mean it – no distance in a car. Fly all you like – teach you to drive – do it myself. Charge? What’s that? What, for the girls who flew for us? Nix, nix. And jump – you should come and teach a few of our fat business men to jump. See them shaking like a jelly before they’re pushed … yes of course we got a parachute school – we got everything except you.’ He made her laugh with a dramatic funny description of business men who wanted to be heroes, and one massive tycoon from Eindhoven who brought his secretary …
‘Made her jump ahead of him he did – so that in case his chute didn’t open she could catch him on the way down!’ Crafty twister he had been in the old days, but people changed. Confidence in themselves, a new career for which they were better suited – this one, he’d never been a real soldier, not what she called a soldier.
She was tempted to take him up on it. Not now, not in a hurry; Esther knew better than to do things in a hurry. But she would turn it around, see how the idea looked.
‘Shouldn’t be calling you Esther now you’re grown up and married and everything.’
‘That’s right, Madame Zomerlust to you, and what’s more I only sleep with my husband. But I don’t mind – call me Esther if you like – it’s the last sentimental corner I have left.’ The two pastis had made her a bit too relaxed, but she would watch it.
‘No, no more.’
‘Esther – who’d have thought it, gone Dutch! Why you speak Dutch as well as me.’
‘Better, I hope – le gros Flamand!’
‘There’s the girl – I haven’t been called “le gros Flamand” in years!’
But he didn’t make any passes, treated her with politeness, opened the door for her, gave a little bow when he left her at the car …
Ach what – harmless! A tiny touch of nostalgia – like a touch of Tuong-ot on the plain rice of Rotterdam. And she’d been careful to tell him nothing.
It hadn’t occurred to her that he had her married
name and the number of the Simca – plenty of information for someone with a taste and a talent for working things out.
Ruth had a school holiday – trades union conference of teachers; they never had such things in holiday times! Agitation about their pay or their pensions – the army couldn’t do such things! One could not speak of a decision, and anyway she was tired of deciding things. She had had to decide so many things, from sometimes speaking French to Ruth to accepting the fact that she was not going to have another child: she could not blame Harry, poor devil – it was just one of those things, and had forced her to yet another decision, that was – almost – as hard, which was that she was condemned to the Van Lennepweg, or somewhere very like it, for many many years.
She had had dreams – so much the worse for the dreams – of a house of her own. Of planting roses and watching them grow. If she had had two children or more … Regulations!
A bright sunny day. Really she did not care whether she was making up her mind or whether she was just drawing a straw to see who got the shortest. She would take Ruth. It would be exciting for her, to go up in an aeroplane. And what did it matter – what importance had someone like the big Fleming? He knew nothing about her anyway – he had not come back to France after the summer of fifty-four.
There was another thing; if she went alone he might consider it as an invitation of sorts. Taking Ruth at least made it clear that she was not looking for any ‘adventures’ today, thank you.
It was not the first time she had been out of Holland, even since living in the Van Lennepweg. They had spent the meagre fortnight of a Dutch holiday in Denmark, and on a Rhine cruise – and Norway this year. She had not wanted to go to England, and Harry – she neither, come to that – had not wanted to go to France, and small blame to him. Hell, there were plenty of other places. She had sometimes suggested working, tentatively, to make a bit more money for these holidays – just a part-time job. For a few weeks. But no, he wouldn’t have it and she didn’t press it. He had the right to be awkward about things. He wasn’t awkward, anyway. Did he not show absolute trust in her? Did he not give her complete freedom, as far as the Van Lennepweg could give anyone complete freedom? Did he ever ask where she had been, ever ask what she did with money, ever knit his brows at whisky bottles or cigarette packets? No, he did not.
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