Strike Out Where Not Applicable

by Nicolas Freeling

  ‘You’ve met some of these riding-school types?’

  ‘I’ve never been there, but don’t forget I run a restaurant too. I don’t go over to customers much, is-everything-all-right, that crap. I want to know it’s all right – I can do that without asking them! But I know that gang all right. They come to my place, and they’ve loud voices.’

  ‘Francis too?’

  Rob’s sombre face – perhaps it was the Pernod – had an expression that was a bit sly, and at the same time innocent, as though it were making him boyish.

  ‘A rider – you get used to studying faces; they tell you a lot. Not just who’s feeling the pinch, but who’s going to stick no matter what, who’s planning something pretty soon – who’s in a conspiracy. And the managers, in the cars … La Touche does a bit of his horse-coping in my place – the food’s good, and he likes it. When the wife’s with him he pretends he mustn’t eat because it’s bad for his health. When she’s not he stuffs like a hog.’ He knocked ash into a clean ashtray, which he studied as though it were a glass in which Francis’ face might appear. ‘Janine’s told me a lot too. He’s all right with her – that’s because she’s pretty. Men like that have a soft spot for a pretty girl. He doesn’t notice human beings much, I reckon – like a picture by Stubbs.’

  ‘Like what?’ Van der Valk was taken aback despite himself.

  Rob, betrayed by Pernod, drank some more, embarrassed.

  ‘Well, I know a bit about pictures – not much – I’ve no education. He was some English fellow painted horses – well, the people are there in the picture too, but they’re just there to fill it up, sort of. Don’t seem to mean much to him – horse is what counts. I sort of see La Touche like that a bit.’

  Full of surprises – who would have thought it? He remembered the pictures – ‘Rob buys them,’ Janine had said. He hadn’t looked at them properly and was angry with himself – he hated missing opportunities like that.

  ‘Have another drink.’

  ‘One’s enough, thanks. Two’d spoil it.’ He drank up the watery dregs of his own, dodging half-melted ice-cubes. He liked this fellow. Resourceful; he had been poor, and knew how to handle that, and now he was rich, and knew how to handle that, too.… His wife, very possibly, was the hole in these fortifications. It was a risk to ask, a risk he had to take.

  ‘What’s the matter with Janine?’ casually. ‘She doesn’t seem to get much fun out of things.’

  The face, relaxed and easy, got hard and heavy again instantly. He looked attentively at Van der Valk who was lighting a cigar with a lot of concentration. Still, he answered.

  ‘She’s a hell of a girl,’ challengingly. ‘Poor or rich she’s been with me one hundred per cent, all the way. Never looked at another man and never would. And she likes being rich – why wouldn’t she? I wanted to give her the earth. Mad keen on that horse: eager as mustard, goes out there nearly every day.’

  ‘She drives that car really well, too. But she seems to have grievances.’

  ‘Going on about the rich, you mean? Talking Belgian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re a policeman – you ought to know people do funny things, but there’s often a really simple innocent explanation.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Janine can’t have a baby. She was sick, and in hospital they said she mustn’t try any more,’ with embarrassment, that made him more sympathetic. ‘She’d had miscarriages. She was pretty downcast. Lucky that year I was world champion – maybe because of that. Things go that way.’

  ‘What do you make, if you’re champion?’ curiously.

  ‘As long as you go on winning things! – around four hundred thousand a year.’

  Wow! He had expected a good round sum …

  ‘It cheered her up?’

  ‘I wanted her to see that one can go on having a good time, especially if one’s rich.’

  The door opened and Arlette came in, still in a sort of glow from her afternoon. She was like that – everything she did she put a lot into. Thought, zest, enjoyment, even knitting or cooking cabbage. She hated missing any fun.

  She was a bit tousled, and looked good. The hours on a horse had slimmed and hardened her; she had lost that pudgy look she was beginning to get. Her fairly nondescript straight dark-blonde hair had gold lights from the open air; she was whistling.

  ‘This is my wife.’ They had been speaking Dutch but he switched into French; he wanted to see how Rob got on with Arlette. He had got up politely at once; he kissed her hand nicely, a bit shyly.

  ‘I’m really glad to meet you, Madame. Janine talks a lot about you – she admires you a lot!’

  ‘I admire her a lot,’ said Arlette with warmth, ‘she’s afraid of nothing. I’m very fond of her. She’s easily the person I like best out there.’

  ‘I think without you she’d be pretty lonely. She doesn’t find it easy to mix with people. She’s got a real friend in you and believe me, I appreciate that a lot.’ The words were sincere, but awkward, which struck Van der Valk. The fellow was so good with other men. Was he like that with all women? Or was it French women? Surely he didn’t suspect her of being a bit over-sophisticated for a simple Dutch lad?

  ‘Why don’t you sit down again,’ said Arlette happily, ‘and we’ll all have a drink?’

  ‘I’d like that a lot – but I’d better go, really; Janine’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.’

  ‘Give her a phone-call. Pity she’s not with you.’

  ‘No, I won’t, thanks very much, really. But I hope she’ll bring you out to the coast – any time. I mean that.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Arlette, throwing her gloves at the table in the corner.

  Odd, thought Van der Valk after the Ferrari had slithered off. He enjoys her, obviously, but equally obviously he doesn’t feel at ease with her.

  Marguerite Fischer was decidedly nervous, a thing she was unaccustomed to; it made her irritable and snappy. This funeral was sticking in her throat: Saskia had been so sarcastic, so – so cynical … It was terribly difficult to know what to do: important that initiative should not leave her.

  The undertaker wanted nothing better than that she should leave it all to him: he made more money that way. People like that, thought Marguerite, have it too easy in business; they are accustomed to tearful and helpless widows who haven’t a clue. They are over-ready to spring into the breach and arrange everything with their loathsomely obtrusive tact. Marguerite refused point-blank to be tearful, although she had plenty of good reasons for being so, because it simply wasn’t in her character. Nor would she ever admit to not having a clue, under any circumstances. But there were so many obstacles.… Saskia. The undertaker. Her sister Jo. Her sister Jo’s husband, the butcher from The Hague. Oh damn, damn, damn.… That wasn’t a very nice thing to say with one’s husband awaiting burial, Marguerite told herself severely. She must pull herself together, and face the future with equanimity. Ian: the future belonged to Ian.

  Under ordinary conditions she would have known exactly what to do. Funerals were part of life, and one knew exactly and in detail how they should be conducted. But first Bernhard had died – awful, to think that she had sometimes imagined that happening – in an odd sort of way, obscured at once by a cloud of gossip – most unpleasant. Then they had taken him off to the hospital for a post-mortem, which always meant something beastly. She had always liked Maartens, and now he had let her down really badly. Who could stand up to that official questioning and suspicion and using phrases nobody understood? – and that horrid feeling that authority will decide, all heartless and inhuman as it is, leaving you helpless, not knowing.… And now on top of everything this awful police commissaire, soft-voiced, soft-footed, saying all sorts of things in a way you could twist to mean everything. Beastly man.… The thunderclouded, blood-dark word homicide hung about choking her, like a poisonous vapour. Marguerite was not a woman of much imagination, but she found herself thinking of carbon dioxide – or was it mono
xide?

  And Ian – what about Ian? Tell him? – or not to tell him? He had an official position, he couldn’t be mixed up with such things. He would be very angry. He might even decide that his judgement had been wrong.

  Oh that policeman – he had said too much and left too much unsaid, and that had been what had caused her nerves to give way this afternoon – that lunch had never ended. She had had to turn to Saskia – who else was there?

  She felt better on Tuesday morning, at first. It had been a comfort to have Saskia sleep with her – it had helped obliterate the other figure, who had been used to snore, with a strong fume of alcohol. She had got used to both, but at what a price.

  She hoped to heaven that worried as she was she hadn’t talked in her sleep or anything. Saskia was so sharp, and so suspicious.

  At least the policeman had given permission for the funeral – otherwise she would only have had the official note in the post this morning, and that would have meant at least one more day wasted.

  She had been crisp and businesslike yesterday evening with the undertaker. The bath and the rest had done her good, and restored her courage: after a cup of tea at four she had driven over again.

  ‘Quite all right, dear lady. In confidence, it is by no means the first time I have dealt with such a situation. A post-mortem means nothing, dear no. I will arrange the formalities with the University Hospital. You do realize – all aspects to a perfectly natural state.… Now the ceremony itself; when were you planning that? For what day?’

  ‘As soon as may be. Wednesday, if possible.’

  ‘Mm, dear lady, mm – it could just barely be done, I suppose,’ dubious and discouraging. ‘We would, I fear, need twenty-four hours at the very least, to produce, hm, a good effect. It depends on the hospital – what they have done – where were you thinking of having the bier? At your home? Of course our premises are at your disposal. Many families prefer the respects to be paid at our resting-place – we are so exceptionally well equipped for a bier that has real dignity … solemnity … But dear lady, have you thought of the cards – the notifications?’

  ‘There aren’t going to be any cards. It’s not too late to put a notice in tomorrow’s papers.’

  ‘Yes yes, I see. I do realize that the occasion is, hm, an exception to what is generally – but won’t the warning be extremely, hm, brief?’

  She had thought this one out.

  ‘I think that’s all to the good. Less publicity. I want to keep this strictly private. Very few people will be attending, probably.’

  ‘I see,’ with disappointment. ‘Very well, dear lady. And the bier – from our premises?’

  ‘No. From the house. I’m closing the restaurant all day. Bring – uh, bring it at nine in the morning. We will have the funeral at eleven. That will be plenty of time.’

  ‘It is short, very short,’ he mourned. ‘I do fully completely understand – thoroughly highly approve – your feelings do you the greatest best credit – but very short. We would not like to think that any service we can provide had been, hm, scraped.’

  ‘Yes. Will you arrange to start at once?’

  ‘It is already quite late.’ The word ‘overtime’ was looming on the horizon, and he was arranging a tactful phrase to wrap it up in. Marquerite, a business woman who knew all about overtime, saw it coming.

  ‘I will understand if you are put to extra expense – as long as you have it all properly itemized for me to see.’ He cheered up.

  ‘Rest assured, dear lady – assured – that no pains shall be spared. No pains – we are very well equipped.’

  Newspaper offices were less trouble. It may be too late to advertise your second-hand car, but newspapers stretch points for deaths, especially in the provinces – if they want to stay in business. On Tuesday, notices duly appeared.

  ‘Mevrouw Fischer-De Kimpe regrets to announce the sudden death in a tragic accident of her dearly beloved husband Bernhard Fischer, owner-manager of the restaurant “The White Horse”, Warmond-Lisse. In the circumstances the funeral will take place in strict privacy on Wednesday, April 27th. The last respects may be paid between 9 and 11 a.m. on this day. You are kindly asked to send no flowers, and to observe the family’s wish for simplicity and privacy.’

  According to subeditorial fantasies the morning paper in The Hague and the evening paper in Haarlem added little comments of their own.

  Mr Bernhard Fischer, whose sudden death is elsewhere announced in our columns was one of the best-known restaurateurs in Holland, and our readers will be grieved to learn of his fatal accident. The late Heer Fischer had made the “White Horse” one of the best-known meeting-places in the country for visitors to this famous region, and was known throughout Europe for his friendly hospitality as well as his unmatched skill in culinary matters. To Mevrouw Fischer we present our deep respect and sorrowing sympathies.

  (See news columns p. 9, and advertisement columns, p. 13.)

  Van der Valk turned obediently to page nine.

  A tragic riding accident

  Mr Bernhard Fischer, the well-known restaurateur, whose obituary notice will be found on p. 2 of this edition, met his death in tragic and untimely circumstances over the weekend. While out riding, a sport he had recently taken up, it is presumed that he dismounted to adjust the harness. Frightened or disquieted, possibly by a low-flying jet, his mount lashed out and by unhappy coincidence struck the rider on the head, causing instant death. The accident was discovered within minutes by passers by, but all efforts to reanimate the unfortunate victim proved fruitless.

  (See p. 5 – ‘Supersonic bang – Minister studies further complaints.’)

  Van der Valk, who had invented the low-flying jet and was rather proud of it, felt contented. No mention of the manège, or of Doctor Maartens’ reticences, everything beautifully vague and no awkwardnesses. Since this had taken no more than eight or nine phone-calls, it wasn’t bad at all.

  A ‘box’ in the advertisement columns stated that the ‘White Horse’ would be closed on Wednesday, April 27th, for the whole day, on account of bereavement.

  ‘Do you have to go to this funeral?’ asked Arlette.

  ‘Certainly. In full cavalry regalia – accompanying you.’

  ‘You mean I have to go? – but it says private.’

  ‘Private simply means discreet. We mingle with the patrons of the manège – you’ll find they’ll turn out in force.’

  ‘But why you?’

  ‘Inspector Maigret always goes to funerals, which are pregnant with significance: on this occasion I incline to agree.’

  ‘Very well,’ resignedly. ‘Is a black two-piece all right?’

  ‘Quite all right. And my clergyman suit.’

  The whole of Tuesday had been a headache to Marguerite. She had deliberately kept the restaurant open in the interests of normality; now she wished she hadn’t. For every normal German that hadn’t read the local papers there were two Morbid Marias looking for attention, and Saskia had been annoying. The telephone never stopped ringing with barbaric expressions of conventional condolence concealing a wish to get things straight. (Nobody had noticed an aeroplane, but then one didn’t notice aeroplanes these days. If that policeman Maggie Sebregt mentioned had been sensible enough to check up on aeroplanes – now one thought of it nothing was more likely: those horrible jets, darling, that frighten all the animals, and me, too … well, perhaps he was of some use after all. With which Marguerite, who knew nothing about any aeroplane, had to agree.)

  There had been the President of the Hotel and Catering Association, and the editor of the Hotel Keepers’ Weekly – both fussy and ponderous. And Saskia had gone on and on.

  ‘Why not have the whole thing done from the undertaker’s as they suggested? He has a suitable place, the thing is properly organized, and people don’t so intrude on you; you have some protection from gossip and spying eyes.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sas, that’s a thing I couldn’t do. He was my husband after all, this wa
s his place, here he lived; here he has a right to die. Anyway’ – she had paid her tribute to the decencies, and could afford now a bit of the disillusionment that had been creeping up on her – ‘if we had it there we’d be likely to find people saying we’d no heart, etcetera, and that we were ashamed to bring him here – afraid to show him even. There might not even be wanting people to whisper that I’d been glad to have him dead.’ She thought – hoped – that Saskia knew nothing about Ian, but there were other people, she knew, who did.

  ‘There are never people wanting – even to hint that you’d killed him,’ expressing downright, that dreadful outspoken way Saskia had, a thought Marguerite had had but not dared put into words.

  ‘Yes, but shut up, Sas, do.’

  Jo had been just as annoying – even more so – in the opposite direction. She was Marguerite’s only sister, three years older than her, and had at last found something to lay down the law about to that stubborn girl. Had she not arranged the funeral of their father three years ago, in circumstances of splendour? She had wormed out about Doctor Maartens – and got in a fine fume about it – but Commissaire Van der Valk had been suppressed.

  ‘It’s outrageous, that’s all I can say, outrageous. So hole and corner – such things just aren’t done. And such a well-known man.’

  She had detested Bernhard for being a well-known man. It was just sheer accident that a restaurant-owner should be better-known than a butcher.

  ‘The restaurant should have been closed the moment you heard of his death, and kept shut till after the funeral. We should have made a really fine laying-out room, where people could come and pay their respects properly – a well-known man like that. Disgusting. You seem to have lost all your proper feelings, that’s all I can say.’

  The husband – the prosperous butcher – agreed, and said so. Marguerite could not help thinking how he had refused to deal with Bernhard.

  ‘No no, Margie, that’s no way to do business. I’m your brother-in-law, right? – and then you make an arrangement, and there’s too much gets taken on trust, and things get into an embarrassing situation. Suppose you queried a bill or something – why, I’d be bound to accept your word for it, wouldn’t I now? And an order that size – you know how it is, these restaurant managers – a butcher who gets that size order from a place, now they expect him to drop an envelope each time he delivers, isn’t it, with a kickback. Now I wouldn’t know what Bernhard would be suggesting but I …’