The Midas Murders

by Pieter Aspe

  Cleynwerk had taken his seat. He scratched his sandy beard and said nothing.

  “The tourist season begins in a couple of months,” Moens continued. “I hope this is a once-only incident, but if we’re dealing with extremists they’ll probably strike again before Easter.”

  “When is Easter this year?”

  Councillor Dewilde’s question was completely irrelevant, but Moens checked the date nonetheless.

  “April 16,” he said affably. Moens wasn’t planning to antagonize Dewilde with a condescending answer.

  Dewilde, an aerodynamic copy of the Michelin man, produced a leather-bound pocket calendar. “That obliges us to have our monuments guarded day and night,” he said with the air of a future statesman.

  Dewilde had given up his job as a teacher at a technical school three months earlier. He had graduated from high school with a diploma in mechanics and owed his success in politics to his father, a thriving contractor.

  “Do you have any idea what that means?” asked Penninck wearily. “Bruges has a lot of monuments!”

  “Call in all the police personnel on the payroll and bob’s your uncle,” Cleynwerk sneered. “There’s never a problem when the Brits are playing Club Brugge, is there?”

  “Or we could drum up some neighborhood watch groups. I know plenty of people here in Bruges who would be happy to contribute free of charge,” Marie-Jeanne Derycke suggested enthusiastically. She beamed like a bashful schoolgirl, quite a feat for a woman on the wrong side of two hundred pounds.

  Penninck sighed—but, unlike the mayor, not in silence.

  “Do you think my suggestion is ridiculous, Councillor? I wonder if you would have the same reaction if the suggestion had been formulated by a male colleague.” She was clearly enjoying the moment.

  Penninck didn’t want to give the impression that he was sick to the back teeth of her inflated feminism. He smiled graciously, like a pharaoh who’d just been told that the architect working on his pyramid had passed away.

  Marie-Jeanne Derycke interpreted the smile as an admission of defeat and folded her arms manfully.

  “And if that doesn’t work, we can always call in the paratroopers,” said councillor Suzanne Dewit of Social Services, her tongue firmly in her cheek.

  The two women hated each other with a vengeance. Marie-Jeanne was fifty-five, big-boned, and none too bright. Dewit was thirty-two, elegant, and a German philology graduate. She had picked up a mere 476 votes and owed her seat entirely to the fact that the Socialists had insisted on fronting a woman, determined not to tarnish their image as a woman-friendly party.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, please. This isn’t the time or the place,” Moens intervened.

  Dewit grinned arrogantly and Derycke lit a cigarette in a huff. She only did it to annoy Dewit … the bitch hated cigarette smoke.

  “Has the investigation produced any results?” asked Cleynwerk, in an effort to get the discussion back on a respectable track.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that why the mayor invited the commissioners?” asked Marc Decorte dryly. The councillor for Tourism had spent most of the meeting playing with his ballpoint, which he now set aside with a dramatic gesture.

  Chief Commissioner Carton and Van In found the city’s fathers and mothers in a dense haze of gray-blue smoke. With the exception of Dewit, everyone had followed Derycke’s example. The crystal chandeliers were covered in a layer of brown nicotine, to which the previous administration had also made a serious contribution.

  Van In inspected the rabble and hoped the bullshit would be kept to a minimum. He liked to compare politicians with psychopaths: they both killed without a motive, the latter people, the former time.

  On the mayor’s invitation, Carton took a seat at the head of the table. Van In was obliged to sit beside him.

  Moens cleared his throat, and silence filled the chamber.

  “Assistant Commissioner Van In, Head of Bruges’s Special Investigations Unit, will now bring us up to speed on his inquiry into the bomb attack.”

  It sounded terrible. The inexperienced mayor used upper-case letters when he spoke, typical of a cautious politician trying not to step on anyone’s toes. Moens folded his arms on his belly, peered over the heads of the assembled councillors, and took his seat like a Tibetan lama with a winning lottery ticket in his pocket.

  Van In created a dramatic silence by staring passively into space. Carton treated him to a bad-tempered kick under the table.

  “Honorable Mayor, Respected Councillors,” he said reluctantly.

  Van In wasn’t aware that he too was speaking in capital letters.

  “Today’s incident is a concern for all of us. We’re not used to terrorism here in Bruges.”

  Everyone listened with bated breath. Van In couldn’t understand why, since he had yet to say anything that might warrant their apprehension.

  “I will be contacting the National Security people tomorrow for a list of extremist groups who might be capable of such an attack. I’m also expecting a report from the bomb-disposal unit in a couple of days. My assistant is coordinating the investigation in and around the scene of the attack.”

  “Ridiculous,” Cleynwerk snorted. “Any one of us could make up that sort of crap.”

  “Mister Cleynwerk,” Moens intervened solicitously. “At least let the commissioner finish.”

  Van In thanked the mayor with a friendly nod.

  “In cooperation with the appropriate services, we’ve put together an inventory of important monuments in the city. The Federal Police have agreed to cooperate, and the Army has provided expert personnel. The plan is to check important buildings for explosives as frequently as possible.”

  “But our respected colleague Penninck claimed only a moment ago that Bruges had so many valuable buildings that efficient police surveillance wasn’t a viable proposition,” councillor Dewilde whined.

  Penninck rolled his Parker fountain pen between his thumb and forefinger, clearly irked. Moens had neglected to bring him up to date on police strategy. Now that sucker Dewilde had made him appear like a complete idiot.

  “We’re talking a selection of monuments, you understand,” Carton intervened, coming to the aid of the councillor for Finance.

  Penninck had supported Carton’s application for chief commissioner without condition. Carton had no other option than to step up to the line for him.

  “All the buildings with an electronic alarm system are secure and are not included on the list. The Army will be checking them before they close their doors in the evening.”

  Carton tried to make his reasoning sound convincing. He knew good and well that every alarm system had its weaknesses. Most had been designed to keep out burglars, not terrorists. Someone intent on planting a bomb didn’t need to break in.

  “This allows us to scratch all the museums, the city hall, the Belfort, and a number of churches off the list,” said Carton.

  “Is there anything else worth blowing up?” Derycke scoffed. She puffed a vigorous cloud of smoke in Dewit’s direction. “And if they plant a car bomb on Market Square, you’ll still be looking for it years from now,” she added sarcastically.

  Jesus H., Van In grumbled inwardly, what gave the blond bimbo that idea? He didn’t fancy the idea of having to listen to a series of disaster scenarios late into the night. Of course the police were powerless, but try selling that to the ladies and gentlemen of the mayor’s council.

  As Van In had feared, the discussion was rekindled and finally degenerated into a mud-slinging match. At the end of his tether, Moens called in the booze, bottles of Straffe Hendrik—Bruges’s strongest beer—and jenever. The generous servings of alcohol prematurely drained his councillors. They fell silent at one-fifteen, like a car engine with sugar in the carburetor. The situation was indeed worrying, so they agreed to the measures formulated by
the commissioner and resigned themselves to the fact that little more could be done for the time being.

  When everyone was about to leave, Van In noticed the mayor whispering something in Carton’s ear. The chief commissioner hung back and out of necessity he did the same.

  The city hall janitor, an unobtrusive man in a navy blue suit, waited docilely at the door, his keys jingling very discreetly.

  “Go on up, Antoine,” said Moens. “I’ll call when we’re done. It shouldn’t take long,” he added enthusiastically.

  The man nodded and shambled resignedly down the corridor. But he didn’t go upstairs. His wife had been asleep for more than an hour and there was nothing worth watching on the box. A recently opened Straffe Hendrik in the kitchen was more inviting.

  The mayor’s office was located at the rear of the city hall. It was a spacious room, a combination of an office and a sitting room. Visitors were treated to a magnificent view of the classically structured garden and the canals. The mayor owned his own motorboat, and a jetty had been provided.

  “Take a seat, gentlemen,” said Moens in a formal tone. He pointed to the red velvet lounge suite. A handsome desk in walnut veneer monopolized attention in the middle of the room.

  “Cognac or whiskey?”

  Moens deliberately didn’t offer beer; otherwise he would have had to bother the janitor.

  Carton opted for cognac. Moens and Van In chose whiskey. When all three had taken a polite sip, Moens made his way to his desk.

  Dzing.

  Van In recognized the sound of a spring-loaded latch, and that suggested a secret compartment.

  “I received this letter at home this morning,” said Moens glumly. He handed Carton a pale yellow envelope.

  “I didn’t want to start a panic,” he said apologetically. Both Carton and Van In knew the real reason: Moens didn’t trust half his councillors.

  “This is an explicit threat,” Moens said before putting on his reading glasses, “another attack. And next time we shouldn’t expect another ‘firecracker.’ It says ‘Bruges will tremble.’ ‘Les touristes should stay at home this year…. Le phénomène has already been observed in Turkey and Egypt.’”

  Moens poured a good mouthful of whiskey down his throat while Carton explored the letter. He wasn’t a fast reader.

  “On top of that, they’re threatening to liquidate me if I don’t cooperate,” Moens sighed.

  “What does that mean, for Christ’s sake?” Van In responded incredulously. “Cooperate? With what?”

  “They don’t say.”

  Moens had started to pace up and down. Carton peered over his glasses and asked himself why the mayor had given him the letter to read and then blabbed its contents.

  “I don’t think we should be too concerned, not for the moment at least,” said Van In resolutely.

  Moens stopped in his tracks and Carton grabbed his forehead.

  “I mean … you’re not in danger as long as they haven’t made known their demands,” Van In explained in response to the perplexed expression on the mayor’s face.

  “Is the letter signed?” Van In continued.

  Carton took off his glasses and handed Van In the sheet of paper.

  “Terrorists usually leave a signature,” said Van In after reading the letter. “Call me old-fashioned, but your average bomber doesn’t usually have a laser printer in his arsenal.”

  Moens nodded enthusiastically. So it was true what they said about Van In and his Sherlock nose.

  “And why the French?”

  Van In held the letter up to the light to check the watermark.

  “This is the work of either a crazy person or a bunch of hot-headed Walloons,” he said flatly.

  The mayor sat down and gaped at him open-mouthed. Carton folded his arms over his belly and leaned backward. “So the watermark is French.”

  Van In folded the letter, making sure not to rub over the paper. “Do you have a plastic bag?” He carefully picked up the envelope by one of its corners.

  Moens jumped to his feet and rummaged around in his desk. “Will a shopping bag do?”

  They could immediately tell where the mayor bought his fish. Van In slipped the letter and the envelope into the bag with the greatest of care.

  “I’ll know by tomorrow if there’s a useable fingerprint, at least if the mayor has no objection to my involving the technical boys at the judicial police lab.”

  “Can you guarantee the necessary discretion, Van In?” asked Moens, still clearly unsettled.

  “Leo Vanmaele is a good friend. I’d even trust him with my love letters,” said Van In nonchalantly.

  Moens refreshed his whiskey and greedily emptied the glass.

  The mayor is scared, Van In thought to himself.

  “Fine, Commissioner, but on the condition that the contents of the letter are not leaked.”

  Moens shouldn’t have repeated his condition. Van In had the impression he was shaking.

  “What made you think of Walloons, Commissioner?” asked Carton out of the blue.

  The crafty old dog sensed instinctively that Van In knew more than he wanted to share.

  Van In lit a cigarette, self-assured and without asking permission. He filled his lungs and fired straight ahead.

  “Everyone knows that the Walloon community is having a hard time. Advances in federalization are hurting them. They’re afraid the Flemish are going to split social security. That would cost them more than a hundred billion, money they simply don’t have. Belgium must be the only country in the world that never turned its ethnic issues into bloodshed; but if the Flemish stop the flow of money and the Walloons begin to feel the pinch, it wouldn’t surprise me if certain extremists resorted to violence. The letter refers explicitly to Turkey and Egypt, where terrorists have been trying to intimidate tourists. Bruges is the most visited city in Flanders. And why do you think they chose Gezelle as their first target?”

  “Jesus,” Moens muttered. “Do you think … ?”

  “Your analysis is alarming to say the least, Van In,” Carton interrupted. “But I have to admit that such a scenario does sound plausible.”

  Van In relished the compliment. He had invented the entire theory on the spot.

  “State Security should have more news for us tomorrow. If there’s an anti-Flemish movement at work, that’s where we need to concentrate our efforts.”

  “Excellent idea, Commissioner,” said Moens enthusiastically.

  “In the meantime, I suggest we place the mayor under around-the-clock surveillance.”

  “Excellent, Van In.”

  “But there’s one more problem.”

  Carton and Moens were all ears, like children listening to a fairytale.

  “Does it make sense to involve the other police services, or do we prefer to go it alone?”

  Carton flushed hot and cold. Van In was playing with fire.

  “I promised the Federal and judicial police that we would cooperate,” said the chief commissioner with a tone of caution.

  “Of course we’ll cooperate; but if we can force a breakthrough in the investigation, we’re not obliged to inform them right away. Wouldn’t it be good if we managed to solve the case ourselves?”

  The decision was made. As mayor, Moens was also in charge of the Bruges police.

  “Good, Van In. We’ll do it your way,” said Moens boldly. “You’ve got a week.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.” Van In emptied his glass in a single gulp. Moens might have been a mediocre politician, but he certainly knew his whiskey.

  9

  VAN IN APPEARED AT THE police station on Hauwer Street a good forty-five minutes late, having enjoyed a refreshing night’s sleep. Nobody looked at the clock.

  “Good morning,” said Versavel; “you look good.” They were in the hallway outsid
e their office; Versavel had just made copies of a couple of police reports.

  The commissioner was wearing an old-fashioned pinstriped suit under a crumpled gabardine overcoat. His tie was loud, to say the least. A ridiculous fedora defied gravity on his head. The sergeant saluted informally and tried to keep a straight face.

  The commissioner proclaimed: “May I introduce secret agent Van In?”

  Versavel asked himself if Van In was being serious. Van In didn’t wait for an answer. He twirled on the spot and threw open his gabardine like an experienced runway model.

  “Lead us not into temptation,” Versavel groaned. He brushed his moustache and treated Van In to a wolf whistle. Van In stepped back instinctively.

  “Keep your hands to yourself, or I’ll cuff you,” he threatened.

  Versavel got the picture.

  One of the officers the duo had bumped into on the stairs the previous day discreetly withdrew into his room. So it was true: Van In had a screw loose.

  Versavel spotted the young officer peering through a crack in the door.

  “Showtime,” he grinned, throwing his arm around his boss’s shoulder.

  “Parumpumpumpum, pumpum, pumpum, parumpumpum….”

  Van In willingly let Versavel take the lead as they danced to the melody of the world’s most famous waltz.

  “You’re a bloody good dancer, Commissioner,” Versavel chuckled. “Would you like my report as we dance?”

  “Never mind, Guido. Before you know it, they’ll be thinking we’re a little … er.”

  “That you’re a little….” Versavel protested. “Everybody knows that I’m perfectly normal.”

  When Van In caught sight of the young officer, he turned and gazed longingly into Versavel’s eyes.

  “Your place or mine?” he asked in a hoarse baritone voice.

  The voyeur had been joined in the meantime by a couple of colleagues.