Divisional commissaire Wollek was like an old grey wolf, his face, his voice, all his movements were as quiet as Chinese writing, done on silk with a sable brush, and Van der Valk liked him at once. He had the manners of a cardinal and thin delicate hands, and should have been sitting at a gilt-cornered table covered in Spanish leather, with the walls covered in Rubens paintings, but such things are not found in police bureaus.
‘A cigarette?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Difficult for you, all this. But perhaps you could tell me your story.’
Van der Valk told, leaving out nothing.
‘Yes. A king in a rainy country. One wonders what he was doing there – he would have found Paris more congenial.’
‘The old gentleman, his father, is an old tyrant as I hear. He might have been very dictatorial.’
‘The role of the wife is obscure.’
‘It’s all obscure. Luckily we’re not called on to understand it. Nothing now but to notify all concerned and say we’re sorry. I was one jump behind the whole way. I simply never had the facts to go on that might have helped me understand. They sent me off on this goose-chase, exactly as though they feared or suspected something serious would happen, yet the things they must have known – or feared – they never told me. Now I have to go back and tell them I’ve found him, and he’s dead, under circumstances that almost look as though he had killed himself for fear I would find him.’
‘I don’t understand why they were in such a hurry,’ suggested Wollek. ‘The reason given was that he was an irresponsible person, as I understand, and might throw money about. Apparently he did throw money about. But with the amount of money involved, that is only a drop. He couldn’t have remained hidden for very long, after all. Why the hurry? Why not signal him as a missing person and wait till he was noticed somewhere?’
‘I’ve wondered the same thing. His wife behaved more as though she didn’t want him found. It’s possible that when the old man got to hear, he issued a dictatorial order that sonny-boy was to be traced and brought back to reason pretty damn quick.’
‘I think we’ll have to find out,’ slowly. ‘A French subject has died under obscure circumstances, on French soil. That means that I am responsible for any inquiry that may be made later. I’d better ring up Paris. This old gentleman sounds the type that might draw a lot of water. And perhaps you’d better notify the Germans, since you know these people in Köln. And of course his wife. Both these people will have to be formally identified. Would you like to use my telephone?’ He pushed it across the desk towards Van der Valk.
‘Yes.’
He rang Amsterdam. The Portuguese majordomo was full of regret, but he had not seen Anne-Marie, nor had he heard from her. It was peculiar, but since leaving Innsbruck, she seemed to have vanished. He rang Canisius. A private secretary, as full of silky regrets as any majordomo, told him that Mr Canisius was unfortunately away from home: they would be in communication with him that day – was there any message?
‘No. Ask him to leave a number where I can reach him. It’s extremely urgent.’ They would do that. Would Mr Van der Valk be kind enough to ring again at five-thirty? That was extremely good of him.
‘Polizei Praesidium, Köln. Herr Stössel, please … Heinz? Van der Valk. I’m in Strasbourg. End of the trail, I’m afraid. They’re both dead. Double suicide. You’ll have to get hold of the father and bring him over here. Office of Commissaire Wollek in Strasbourg. Yes, today – the sooner we get that over the better.’
‘I’ll arrange that,’ came Stössel’s distant, unemotional voice. ‘In fact you’ve given me a job I’ll have to do twice over. Your Mrs Marschal is here. Peculiar thing. She turned up here this morning. Said she wanted to see the girl’s parents. She had a tale about persuading the girl to come back home directly she was found, and so forth. I told her I was waiting to hear something from you. Wouldn’t do to be precipitate.’
‘How did she strike you?’
‘Rather shrill and emotional. It would have made matters worse. She’s staying here at Park – she said she’d stay here till I heard from you.’
‘Sorry, Heinz. You’d better bring her along as well. She’ll have to identify her husband, and make the usual arrangements with the authorities here – funeral and so on.’
‘I’m just looking at the map. Frankfurt – mm – Karlsruhe … Looks as though it’ll take about four hours on the road. You’d better expect me around six.’
‘Very well. I’ll be here.’
Mr Wollek was nodding gently – every Strasbourgeois can follow German.
‘We’d better have lunch,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come back to me here this afternoon.’
‘I don’t feel much like lunch.’
‘Quite, and that’s just the time to have a good one. You know this town at all?’ His voice was paternal. These young men, it seemed to say. Getting upset about a death and not eating properly. ‘I’ll give you the address of a good place. I’d join you, but I’m afraid this has given me some extra work. Ask them for liver – it’s still in season.’
*
The old boy was perfectly right; what was the use of getting in an uproar? There was nothing left but the details of administration. The French would do that. And Heinz Stössel, by a strange coincidence, had the job to do that nobody liked – breaking the news. He himself had nothing to do at all. The lieutenant of gendarmerie in Saverne was filling in forms, Mr Wollek in Strasbourg was there to make sure nothing went wrong, Heinz had a tedious and disagreeable drive in front of him from Köln – and he could twiddle his thumbs. He just didn’t know why he felt so damned uneasy. He would go and have a proper meal and plenty to drink; it was a sour thought that he would put it on his expense sheet, which would go back to the police accounts in Amsterdam, and get sent on, eventually, to Canisius. The executors, as near as made no matter, of Jean-Claude Marschal, deceased. There was no point in thinking about that, either.
There was fresh goose-liver. Very simple, cut in slices and cooked in butter like any other kind of liver. Reinette apples went with it, sliced too and cooked soft in a spoonful of white wine. Van der Valk read the paper, drank a bottle of champagne, and was shamefacedly surprised to find that it had done him a lot of good. Arlette would have agreed. What would be the point, she would have asked with the same common sense as Monsieur Wollek, of sitting being miserable with a dried-out ham sandwich just because you are upset about a suicide? That makes no sense.
*
‘You had a good lunch?’ asked Wollek politely. He was sitting where Van der Valk had left him, in the same position. He had had his ashtray emptied, and the window opened to air the room.
‘Very good. Did me no harm. I’m more tired than I had realized.’
‘I can understand that. You were a little bit out of your depth, weren’t you? Millionaires are not quite the same as other people, are they? Awkward kind of predicament. You were given ridiculous instructions, too. Nothing clear-cut, nothing defined. No crime, one can’t quite see what all the fuss is about, why there is such a panic – the fact is nobody quite knew what they wanted. I’ve known similar things done. Then if anything goes wrong they can blame it handily on the investigating officer. He didn’t understand his instructions, they’d say. Quite right too – omitting only the fact that there never were any proper instructions.’
Van der Valk allowed himself to grin for the first time in days, it seemed.
‘Well, I can add a bit to this picture. I rang a colleague of mine in Paris, who has considerable experience of this financial set. Ask him which Rothschild is which and he’ll tell you the whole family history and draw you a pedigree.’
Sounds like Kan, thought Van der Valk. They had one in Amsterdam like that too.
‘I asked him about this Marschal. He knew about him all right. Said he was a bright and able fellow, but completely on the periphery of affairs. Quite frankly, his death wouldn’t make a ha’porth of effective odds, to
the structure of this business, or to the conduct of their affairs, or anything else. I asked whether the death could possibly create any reverberations, being a suicide, but he seems to think it would make none whatever.’
‘But what about the old man?’ asked Van der Valk. ‘This is his son, after all. Heir, what’s more, to a terrific fortune. The old man had made over a tremendous amount of money already to him, to avoid inheritance tax or whatnot. Nobody apparently knows quite how much. It’s salted away in God knows how many different banks. This one had pretty big balances just on current accounts, under disguised names. I stumbled on that in Germany – they’re all names of Napoleon’s marshals!’
Wollek lifted an amused eyebrow.
‘We’ll find a few in Strasbourg then, maybe. Great breeding-ground for marshals. Romantic-minded chap.’
‘What happens to all this vast quantity of Napoleonic poppy? Sounds like the buried treasure of the SS.’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I asked. Our man in Paris doesn’t know, but he says he can probably find out. He thought probably it all reverted to the old man, since the son died while he was still alive. The old man can presumably settle it on anything or anyone he pleases – if there are no descendants he can give it to the cats’ home.’
‘There are two children – both girls. He could perhaps make a trust fund or something.’
‘He’s going to find out. You see we have a right to ask, since this is, after all, a suicide. He knows this fellow Canisius who approached you, but only vaguely, since he doesn’t run the French side of the business. There are two or three more of the same sort that sit in the Paris offices under the old man’s eye. He’ll probably ring me up this evening with whatever news he’s managed to pick up.’
‘I’ve got to ring this Canisius again anyway,’ said Van der Valk, ‘I’ll see whether he can shed any light. I imagine the death will complicate things in some way, because it must be the reason they were so anxious to have Marschal traced in a hurry. Might have some bearing on the administration of the business. My boss back in Amsterdam must have been given a pretty strong reason to send me off after the man the way he did. Naturally he didn’t tell me – I’m only a bum inspector of police. Mine not to reason why.’
Wollek smiled slowly.
‘Prefects enjoy sending the police on that kind of damfool errand – with a few hints that the Ministry of the Interior will notice how smartly action is taken.’
Van der Valk made a sour face.
‘I’ve always been good and sure there was more to all this than anyone saw fit to tell me,’ with disgust. ‘I suppose I might as well make this phone call – they’ll be here from Germany in another hour. Can I use your phone again?’
The secretary in Amsterdam was abominably suave.
‘Ah, Mr Van der Valk. Thank you so much for ringing. We have been in touch with Mr Canisius since you called. Unfortunately – most unfortunately – he is tied at present to some quite pressing business commitments. He asks me to convey to you his gratitude, and to assure you again – of course he realizes that it is quite unnecessary – of his confidence in your discretion and ability. He will be back in Amsterdam on Monday. Perhaps you could be so good as to make personal contact with him then.’
Van der Valk was irritated by all this creaminess.
‘Where is he, exactly? This is a situation that needs his immediate attention.’
‘Oh he realizes that: please reassure yourself. He particularly impressed upon me to be sure to make it clear that he quite understood how things stood, shall I say?’ The suavity now had an unpleasant knowingness about it. Van der Valk took the receiver away from his ear and shook it angrily.
‘Where is he? – just tell me that. Is he is Paris?’
‘Mr Canisius has business in Spain,’ said the secretary very primly. Van der Valk felt veins in his forehead swelling. He forgot to speak French, and lapsed into an earthy Amsterdam Dutch.
‘Look, Mr Buy-and-Sell, you tell me where I can get hold of Canisius if I need him or I can promise you faithfully that next week you’ll be signing on at the Labour Exchange. Police business – you hear?’
‘Mr Canisius generally stays on these occasions at the Prince de Galles in Biarritz,’ very stiff now, and filled with distaste for badly-brought-up policemen. Mr Wollek, arms folded, had a faint smile.
‘Pen-pusher,’ said Van der Valk, putting the receiver back. ‘By God I’d rather pick up empty ice-cream cartons with a pointed stick.’ He made a small face of apology towards the Frenchman. ‘One has to shout at them, you know – like in Germany.’
‘We’ve got too polite,’ gently. ‘People take us for the man from the Inland Revenue. Sometimes I have to put this on my door.’ He picked up a little plastic plaque that lay on his desk, with black letters engraved on it. ’Cave canem.’
Van der Valk took it in his hand and laughed. It said simply ‘Chien Méchant’.
The telephone rang on the desk.
‘Yes? …Send them up.’ Wollek wiped the amusement off his face. ‘Germany,’ he said quietly.
Heinz Stössel spoke slow, quite good French with a clawky accent that did not make his pale impassive face any the less formidable.
‘This is Commissaire Wollek of the Strasbourg police,’ said Van der Valk formally.
‘My sincerely-felt sympathies,’ said Mr Wollek to Herr Sch-wiewelbein with equal formality, in the sing-song German of Alsace.
Mr Schwiewelbein was a man of fifty. His hair was brown and white in patches, both discoloured, his clothes and hat were clerical and neutral, and he had a carefully neutral face, but there was even now a military look about him. The outward signs were shoulders that he had never let stoop nor become rounded, and the heavy scar of a machine-gun bullet that had ploughed up one side of his jaw and mutilated his ear, which had healed roughly and never been prettified. It showed too, less obviously, in a face that Van der Valk found strangely striking. There was a great deal of fortitude in that face, not that of a quick or particularly intelligent man, but like the centurion in the Bible, a man that could both take orders and give them, a man that could endure under fire, a man that would never lose a certain patient sweetness no matter how he was battered. He had sat down without any fuss on the nearest chair, his hat on his knees, waiting for three senior police officers from three different countries to find time to smash his world up for him.
They were waiting for Anne-Marie. She was in street clothes, a suit that Van der Valk could see had cost a great deal without quite knowing why he was sure. She noticed him studying it.
‘Nina Ricci,’ she said, with a touch of familiar sarcasm. She sat down in her chair again (she had got up to hang her coat next to Mr Wollek’s sober dark-blue loden), put her hands in her lap, got a violent fit of shivering, controlled herself abruptly, and stayed quite still. There were no chairs for Van der Valk or Heinz Stössel, but neither of them cared.
‘I am very pleased,’ began Wollek gently in his funny German, ‘to have the help of Herr Stössel and Mr Van der Valk, who both know much more about these circumstances than I do. You will understand, Madame und Herr, that these formalities are demanded by the law and I am here to fulfil them. The facts are very simple. Mr Marschal was staying in a house he owned not far from here in the company of a young woman, and for reasons we do not know put an end to both their lives. They were found by Mr Van der Valk, who was looking for Mr Marschal on behalf of his family as I understand, and he reported the facts to the local authorities. Both bodies have been brought to the city, and both will have to be formally identified, which is why your presence here was necessary. It is now quite late but it is good, as I judge, to get that done with. I don’t doubt then but that the Procureur will give the authorization to make whatever arrangements you wish, tomorrow morning. I have seen to the necessary paper work. Shall we go?’
There was a black ID Citroën in the cobbled courtyard with a police driver. Mr Wollek signed to Anne-Marie and to Van der Va
lk, and got in himself. The two Germans got into Stössel’s black Mercedes.
‘Medico-Legal Institute,’ said Wollek.
It would have been like a vile rehearsal for a funeral cortège but that the police driver, with the streets of Strasbourg emptying and darkening, wasted no time. Stössel, to keep up, had to make the tyres of the Mercedes squeal at the corners.
The nasty part was conducted in an equally brisk way. The attendant had a slight brassy smell of white wine about him, but dropped no stitches under Mr Wollek’s eye.
‘Will you formally identify the two persons found by you at the address named here?’ in the precise metallic French of the Republic’s judicial forms.
‘I recognize them both and I do so formally identify,’ said Van der Valk.
‘Can you, Madame, identify this man as Jean-Claude Marschal and as your husband?’
‘I do identify him – as both,’ Anne-Marie’s voice was as metallic as Wollek’s, and much louder. It grated in the stillness.
‘And can you, sir, identify the young woman as Fräulein Dagmar Schwiewelbein?’
‘It is my daughter,’ said the man simply, very quietly.
‘May I have your signatures, please?’
*
They were back in the office. Wollek brought several papers together on his desk, turned them on end, and tapped them to get the edges level.
‘Copies of these documents that you will need for your administration, Herr Stössel, will be made when we have the Procureur’s signature of release. That should be done tomorrow morning. You know how clerks are – they go home at night.’ Heinz Stössel, who had not said a word since coming, nodded with a very faint smile.
‘One more formality. Herr Schwiewelbein, the scene of this tragedy has been carefully examined by the lieutenant of gendarmerie and has been inspected by the Substitute for the Parquet as French law requires. Some tests have been made by technicians under my control. Both observation by skilled officers and the laboratory tests confirm the appearances. Your daughter did not kill herself. She was shot and died instantly and painlessly at a moment when she was happy and peaceful. She may have been asleep. Immediately after, as far as can be judged, the man with her ended his own life.’ Wollek paused for a fraction, flicked his eyes at Anne-Marie, and went on smoothly.
The King of the Rainy Country Page 12