Strike Out Where Not Applicable

by Nicolas Freeling

  ‘Still do – use it for checkin’ sacks of feed; grain and so on. Has it any importance?’

  ‘None at all. I found a weight, and I saw that the machine has a sliding scale, and wondered what a weight would be doing here.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Outside,’ vaguely.

  ‘Happens constantly. Machine’s in the store where we keep grain, but people keep on usin’ weights for doorstops or whatnot, very tiresome of them. Can I be of any service to you?’ Plainly he was busy, and anxious to get rid of this tedious visitor, with’ his gabble about weights.

  ‘No, thanks. How far is the White Horse, across the fields that way?’

  ‘About a kilometre and a half, I suppose. Make a pleasant little walk if you don’t mind gettin’ your boots dirty. Marguerite comes round the road with the car. Bernhard did too – too lazy to walk. So am I, come to that. See you later, perhaps.’

  ‘Whenever you like.’

  He went back round his corner – nobody had passed him for a good quarter of an hour, he noticed. He got a magnifying glass out of his pocket and examined both the golf club and the weight carefully. There was nothing to see. Why should there be? That they should be there proved nothing at all. Of course there need not be anything. The golf club had rather too sharp an edge, he thought, but he wasn’t very taken with the golf club anyway. It made no difference that he could see whether Bernhard had been hit by somebody he knew well (equate possibly with trusted) or less well (equate with distrusted if you cared to but he didn’t) – if he saw you standing there with a golf club in your hand, it looked either lunatic or sinister. Since the evidence seemed to point to Bernhard’s having got off the horse – and he hadn’t got off complaisantly to make hitting him easier …

  Whereas this weight … You had it in your hand and it hardly showed. Should anyone meet you walking round the corner there was nothing to catch the eye. If you put it into a largish handkerchief – or scarf – and held that by the corners you had a good weapon, didn’t you, that could be slid into a pocket in a second if the need arose. The need hadn’t arisen, and you just chucked it away. Nobody noticed and in three days it had acquired enough rust to make it look as though it had been there a week or two. Yes, he rather liked the weight.

  The afternoon of a working day is dead, in a restaurant. Hotels stay open in a somnolent way, cafés go on serving beers and icecream for anyone along the road that takes a fancy to stop, but a restaurant shuts its doors and sleeps. In the White Horse the girls had served Marguerite and Saskia their coffee and gone home; Ted the cook had turned his stoves out, cleared all remnants of food into the larder, and left his apron on the just-scrubbed table. The women had piled the last of the washing-up into the sink and scarpered. Saskia made herself a second cup of coffee and turned the machine off, and complete silence settled like dust upon the whole house. It threw into relief the tiny sounds of Saskia stirring a lump of sugar, the squeak of the cork that Marguerite was pushing back into Bernhard’s last bottle of mirabelle, still half full, and the distant fridge motor clanking to a stop.

  ‘Maybe a drink will do me good. I’ve been so nervous all morning I could scream.’

  ‘It’s sort of disquieting not knowing,’ agreed Saskia, in a calm, unworried voice.

  ‘First all those mysterious hints dropped this morning – I still don’t know what to make of half that – and then having him back for lunch …’

  ‘I can’t say I took to him personally, but I think he’s relatively harmless.’

  ‘It’s silly to say harmless. They go on digging and digging at people, listening to every sort of silly gossip – how can one feel safe?’

  ‘We could try and have a discreet word with Mr Mije and see whether he couldn’t be choked off, possibly?’

  ‘I don’t think so – he’s a separate department. Anyway he said he’d got instructions from the Officer of Justice – Mr Mije couldn’t do anything about that.’

  ‘Well there’s no use in worrying.’

  ‘I only wish 1 knew what that stupid Maartens has fixed in his head.’

  ‘Still, he’s a doctor – they have to be discreet – the professional secret. It would be much more Francis that I’d be uneasy about – he’s always such a loose talker.’

  ‘Marion I feel sure I can rely on. And I’m convinced, you know, there’s nothing in it really. But if that awful man comes back I don’t know what I mightn’t say.’

  ‘Listen, darling,’ said Saskia, ‘you’re tired and overwrought. He said, after all, that the funeral can go ahead, and there’ll be an end of it as far as the gossip is concerned.’

  ‘I’ll have to change and go and see those funeral people.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s closing day – you can go and do that then. It would be foolish to do that now when you’re overtired. I’ve a much better idea.’

  ‘Oh, Sas, no.’

  ‘But it’ll do you good – think how it will rest you. You can have a nice sleep and you don’t have to come down this evening at all – there are only six bookings, so far.’

  ‘But Sas, we shouldn’t – especially now.’

  ‘Don’t be such a goose – I’m only saying that you need to unwind. I’ll give you a really nice hot bath and then you’ll already feel miles better – you’ll see. You can be lovely and lazy – you don’t have to do a thing. And this evening I’ll bring you your supper up and you can have it nice and quietly.’

  ‘You don’t think he’ll ask the girls questions, do you, and that they’ll blurt out heaven knows what?’

  ‘The girls don’t have a clue,’ firmly.

  Van der Valk had got bored with peregrinations round the back yard. He had seen things for himself. Any person not a total stranger would melt into the landscape around here. You could be seen by twenty people, noticed by three and remembered by none. You could be somebody arriving in a car, promenading on a horse, having a stroll across the fields, or you could just as easily be living right here in the house.

  And of course Bernhard could very well have been killed by a small boy with a catapult …

  What was it that Maartens had fixed in his head? What had made him so uneasy that he stuck his neck out? It wasn’t just the physical appearance of the wound, nor was it Fischer’s level of general health. Something a lot more than that, to make a country doctor do something that – if he were wrong – would mean the end of his practice in that whole area of Holland …

  Stupe – he was not walking round the back yard any more, but he hadn’t stopped peregrinating inside his own skull yet! He jerked at himself: the sit-down had done his leg, which was beginning to warn him that fatigue led to pain, some good, and in front of him there was a cup of coffee that had gone cold, which hadn’t improved it, and heaven knew it was in no further need of disimprovement. The jerk was completed by his wife’s name suddenly penetrating his mind.

  ‘ … haven’t seen her all afternoon.’ A woman’s voice, speaking in French too, so that he knew immediately that this must be the famous Janine. He was turning round for a cautious eyeful – wasn’t she supposed to be very pretty? – when a jovial smack landed on his shoulder and Francis’ voice said, ‘Ha – we have a surprise for you.’ Well – it was certainly as stupid to pretend he was not there – everyone here knew who he was – as to draw attention to him. He got to his feet.

  ‘But I saw her little car outside.’

  ‘She stayed home to gather grass for her rabbits – let me present her husband.’

  He turned round with an amiably polite face and had to adjust his eyes to something that only came up to his shoulder – a pretty woman, yes, but one of the miniature ones, a tiny bit of thistledown. Without knowing why, he was surprised – Arlette had never said she was a tiny one, had she? The beautifully cut breeches, amusing as they were, did not really suit her type: a cashmere sweater showed off elegant breasts as well as splendid hair. The all-black get-up was fetching but she was the kind of woman that would not look her best in
sports clothes. He wondered why she was looking astonished.

  ‘Enchanté, Madame,’ kissing the hand, though it was a long way down.

  ‘Oh – you talk French.’

  ‘Learned from my wife.’

  ‘I was just asking – isn’t she here with you?’

  ‘I’m afraid not – I borrowed her car.’

  ‘You – you ride too?’ Francis, who obviously found her a good joke, was enjoying the scene.

  ‘ ’Fraid not. I happened to be here – I have the pleasure of knowing Francis here slightly and was having a look at his domain.’

  ‘The Inspector Calls.’ Francis guffawed at his own pleasantry.

  ‘You’re the Commissaire de Police – Arlette – I’m sorry, I mean your wife – told me, I remember.’ She seemed very shy and embarrassed.

  ‘Is that alarming?’ A tremendous beauty, sure enough, but the rather whining voice and this startled fawn act lessened her attractions. Not so much shy, perhaps, as ill at ease and defensive. She was looking for an excuse now to get away from him.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t stop – I’ve quite a long drive – it was just that seeing the car I wondered why I hadn’t seen …’ She let it trail off and fidgeted.

  ‘Must get out of that slovenly habit of lettin’ him hit the fence,’ Francis was saying. ‘I’ve told you often enough; you’re bein’ over-impetuous and lettin’ him take off too soon. Not pickin’ him up properly, and he feels the indecision in you. You must know the exact moment at which you want him to jump, and he’ll know it too.’

  ‘He’s always in such a hurry – I try to slow him down more.’

  Van der Valk gave what was supposed to be a winning smile.

  ‘My wife speaks often of you with great enthusiasm – I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’ There are plenty of easy answers to this kind of silly remark, ranging from the equally conventional to the mildly flirtatious, but she wasn’t playing. So defensively as to be hostile she said, ‘I’m sorry not to see her – you must please give her my love – my regards,’ and turning hurriedly towards Francis, ‘I’m sorry, I really do have to buzz; I’m supposed to be going out tonight.’ She literally ran: Van der Valk grinned.

  ‘She’s inclined to be a bit like that,’ said Francis tolerantly. ‘Stand-off-don’t-touch-me – still, I hadn’t thought she’d be like that with you, seeing your wife is the one she’s big friends with. Got an inferiority complex or whatever they call it. Nice little girl really, apart from that nonsense of talkin’ French all the time – people say she’s affected because of that. I like her; looks like ninepence but got courage. Not afraid of any jump, even far too big for her; sticks on like a monkey, and when she does fall she falls light” not like some of our sacks of spuds here. You’re lookin’ a bit peaked, old chap – leg bother you much?’

  ‘A bit of fatigue – normal.’

  ‘Come upstairs; have a drink to pep you up.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  Indeed he was tired, and glad to get away from the gabble, install himself in one of the big armchairs upstairs, and have a lot of Queen Anne whisky – typically showy whisky for export to just this kind of place, he thought, sipping at it and immediately feeling better. Francis had seized on his wife’s absence to have some too.

  ‘Any conclusions? – I mean do you really believe in monkey-business?’ conspiratorially.

  He had known well enough that solicitude about his fatigue was really curiosity.

  ‘Not a lot. Doesn’t do to have conclusions. He didn’t hit himself. Which leaves a pretty wide field – anyone might have strolled past and clonked him.’

  ‘Clonked him what with?’

  ‘There’s any amount of odd junk lying around. That coke furnace – the boilerhouse door in the yard was standing open – about twelve kinds of poker standing about.’

  ‘Damn careless stable-boys.’ Francis did his Weygand act, producing a monocle from the watch-pocket of his breeches, fixing it in his face and staring at nothing before letting it fall back in his palm. ‘Doesn’t sound like much, though, does it? A vague theory still, I mean to say. No real evidence – “pièces de conviction”, what. Must say I’m obliged to you for keeping so quiet. Thought there’d be a lot of chaps tramplin’ about – pressmen too, most likely. Seen none of them – don’t want to either.’

  ‘Might be some for the funeral.’

  ‘Funeral, mm. Everyone’ll go. Lookin’ sad and pious. You too, no doubt.’ The first sign of spitefulness he had seen. ‘Lookin’ for people to show signs of guilty confusion.’

  ‘All I’ve got is an interrogatory commission, you know. Nobody says there have to be signs of guilty confusion. I don’t even interrogate anyone – you notice? Just myself.’

  ‘Too complicated for me – too much self-interrogation about, these days.’

  Van der Valk decided to change this conversation, which showed every sign of being aimless.

  ‘I saw what looked like your painter in the village – having lunch in the pub.’

  Francis, still ruffled by his own self-interrogations, grunted, swallowed whisky jerkily, remembered his manners, and said, ‘Dickie? Talented chap. Yes, he lives in that pub. Seems to suit him well enough – dog’s life I’d call it.’

  ‘He make a living?’

  Rather a crafty grin appeared on the fierce military countenance.

  ‘You’d be surprised. He makes these series of kind of huntin’ prints. Etchin’ – sells them too. And these other things, what the devil is it you call them?’

  ‘Lithograph?’

  ‘Knew there was grease in it somewhere,’ obscurely. ‘Rapid sort of chalk drawings – a good eye for a horse, don’t know how he does it. I offered to get him up on a horse but he wouldn’t, said he was scared, don’t understand that because he’s no more scared than I am. With that kind of love for the animal you’re not scared out of ignorance, that makes no sense.’ Francis evidently had admiration for this odd talent.

  ‘No, Dickie looks as poor as a rat on an oiltanker but he makes a livin’ all right. Done portraits of some of our industry wives here too – don’t care much for them myself but he gets two and a half thousand for them!’

  ‘But why does he live here?’

  ‘He explained it all to me one day – he’s carved out a sort of reputation with horses; a sort of signature, I suppose – what these art wogs recognize him by. Marion bought those two portraits from him – saw to it, though, he gave her a discount! Mark you, he’s a pleasant chap; quiet, retiring, doesn’t get on my nerves – and in a way it’s an attraction – pleases the people to have an artist about sketchin’.’

  Ah – that was it – he saw now the reason for approval.

  ‘I see.’ The door at the end opened and Marion drifted in, with a vase of flowers. She had a different set of tweeds today, in more of the brilliant colours that seemed to be her style: this time turquoise and sea green, and a wonderful kind of Tyrian purple. She smiled as she drifted over towards them.

  ‘Why, good day to you, Mr Van der Valk – delighted to see you again.’

  ‘He’s been trottin’ about all afternoon,’ said Francis – impossible to tell whether the tone were sarcastic approval or only mockery. ‘Got pretty tired, so I suggested he rest his leg a bit away from the wear and tear. Look after him will you, Marion? – I’ve got to go and see to a few things.’ He stood up, stamped a bit around in his boots as though they were tight, went ‘Ha’ a few times vaguely, and finally said, ‘Be seein’ you,’ to nobody in particular before stumping off noisily.

  The woman paid no attention, but went on drifting round the room arranging her flowers, clipping stalks afresh, pinching off dead blooms, performing that feminine rite that Van der Valk defined as ‘plumping up the cushions’. Her movements were gentle and silent; she seemed not to notice his presence. He watched her quietly, which she was perfectly conscious of without getting flummoxed. ‘Have some more whisky.’

  He had already
had one large one too many, but was ready to punish his insides for the sake of professional relations. A bit like a business man in a tax-deductible restaurant, ordering oysters which he rather hates, but they impress the customers.

  ‘That sounds very attractive,’ in a lazy voice which he could see did not take her in. She did not hurry herself, swept her trimmings into a piece of florist’s paper, screwed it up to throw in the paper-basket and said, ‘I think I’d like one too,’ comfortably.

  There were plenty of openings, but he chose the classic one of showing interest in clothes, which never does any harm.

  ‘I’m very struck by your suits. Where do you get those marvellous materials?’

  ‘Oh, oh,’ laughing, ‘that’s a great secret but you’re a detective of course. One or two houses in London have them – they come from Ireland. They’re too thick and loose to tailor and they aren’t as easy to cut as they look.’

  ‘They suit you remarkably,’ stretching out his leg in a make-yourself-at-home way.

  ‘Thank you – but the fact is they don’t look good on – how d’you put it? – sturdy women. And I’m not sturdy,’ with calm.

  After complimenting them, embarrass them.

  ‘Ah, that’s why you tell me – they certainly wouldn’t suit my wife,’ Arlette would have been very cross to hear herself described as sturdy but she wasn’t here …

  ‘Your wife looks very nice indeed as she is,’ with poise. She had prepared the drinks by now, in a way he did not care for, with lots of ice-cubes and Perrier water – that tiresome French habit – but he took a swig with enthusiasm along with her – he rather liked this woman. She was much too upper to say cheers, or prosit, or any other vulgar slogans.

  ‘This death,’ calmly, sitting down with her long thin legs sideways and taking a packet of Player’s Number Three from her jacket pocket with a little gold lighter. ‘It has made me think a good deal, and I wonder whether my thoughts come anywhere near the ideas you must surely be beginning to assemble. I rather gather you’re convinced there was no accident.… I saw you outside a couple of times this afternoon. It struck me that you were looking for something that he might have been hit with.’