Over the High Side

by Nicolas Freeling

  ‘Just like you,’ said Agnes, who plainly had heard of his adventure with much pleasure. ‘You couldn’t say that the car which hit you had killed you or tried to.’

  Agathe took the needle full of knitting, tucked it under her armpit, and with the empty needle scratched unselfconsciously round the clip of her bra, quite unconcerned about the presence of a stupid policeman going on about her father’s death. This absence of tenseness struck Van der Valk. Figures danced meaninglessly across the television screen: Agnes had turned the sound down out of perfunctory politeness, but had left the picture to show him clearly how little he was wanted. He didn’t like the room much. An ordinary room in a small Victorian house, but furnished with a garish ostentation.

  ‘Of course,’ went on Agnes, ‘Denis met Father, who was showing him round Amsterdam probably. But if you really can’t find anyone better than that to suspect, well, you must be pretty incompetent is all I can say. As for coming snooping round here, well, Jim – my husband – wouldn’t be best pleased is all I can say.’ And all these people can say always does include such a very great deal …

  Agathe was a bit more conciliatory. Nurse – tactful.

  ‘It does seem an awful waste of time. I simply can’t imagine what you go wandering around Dublin for. Even if Denis could tell you anything he isn’t here. He’s in Rome by the way,’ to her sister. ‘Stasie got a card from him.’ Agnes made a poo sound; what was that to her?

  ‘Did your husband know your father?’ he asked Agathe.

  ‘Met him a few times – no, not when he lived here – not for a few years now. He was here on trips, a time or two.’

  ‘I’d be interested in his opinion.’ No reaction.

  ‘Well he’s not here – gone to the pictures. He goes often; it rests his nerves.’

  ‘No real importance,’ he said vaguely. ‘Well, thank you for the courteous welcome and your patience.’ Jim Collins’s whisky bottle was standing on a tray with glasses but he wasn’t getting offered any!

  ‘Don’t mention it but if you take my advice you’ll be getting back to Holland. There’s nothing here to interest you. Our private lives are our own – and you don’t get away with invasion of privacy here.’ He got the message! They knew of course about Denis and Stasie: they must know. But they didn’t, he thought, know what big Jim Collins was getting up to in his spare time. Or the little sister! So much for the conspiracy theory.

  The lovely ladies of Belgrave Square are either very stupid or… no, they can’t be that stupid!

  He left, with an impression that the moment his back was turned the two of them would be having a violent quarrel.

  *

  ‘They don’t know anything at all,’ he muttered. ‘I wonder if even Stasie really knows herself.’

  Inspector Flynn had had a sudden idea.

  ‘Did you maybe bed her a tiny bit on purpose?’ suddenly, a bit awed at so much wickedness.

  ‘Not really on purpose. Kind of half and half. Like her a bit. One decides to – or not to – and then one wavers, because of – oh, fear or shame or scruple, or anything you like, maybe worry at being found out, and you end up doing or not doing because you just can’t help yourself.’

  ‘The cork theory is it now? Floating along according to the whims of the current?’

  ‘More or less,’ vaguely. What did it matter what you called it? He couldn’t explain – he didn’t need to either; this fellow was quite bright enough to see for himself: he wasn’t a fool. What will Stasie do next?

  He had wanted to get closer to her. Well he had. Right up against her. There was a nick in his fingernail that caught irritatingly on his pullover; he opened the small blade of his knife, cut a smooth edge carefully, and flipped the knife at the table, where it stuck for once, quivering in a nervous, sensitive way.

  ‘Destroying the good government equipment,’ said Flynn. ‘I’m wondering now whether perhaps this wasn’t a clever thing to have done.’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ flipping the knife again and spearing an empty cigarette packet.

  ‘Saint Sebastian, that’s who you are. All stuck full with arrows. The Senator Lynch will be shooting a few off at you too.’

  ‘I wonder what’s happened to Denis.’

  *

  There had been about five occasions in his life when he had had to put on a dinner-jacket. The fancy-dress did not irritate him: this was a carnival; very well, dress up. The dinner-jacket fitted well; the secret of these hire places was to have good stuff, well cut, standing up to the cleaning. One paid a high price – as for most things, including understanding. No difference really between Lynch and Stasie. One had to obey these peoples’ ‘rules’. The Lynch world – the more important, perhaps, to obey its rules since Denis had slipped outside them. And it was a test, again. Lynch’s confidence depended on himself being house-trained, as the civil servants put it.

  The sling was too white and too smelly in a nasty hospital way. He threw it out, and tried a black silk scarf instead. Better. Hurt my wrist playing polo.

  The formal invitation had said seven thirty for eight, so he made it seven forty-five precisely and the maid took his trench-coat without disapproval. Being tall and big-boned had been some use when a rookie trainee on the streets, and still served a purpose. But he needed a little cord, a tiny little Legion of Honour or something, really.

  There were several guests. There was an old gentleman in a monocle from the Belgian Embassy, who spoke a few polite words in careful, formal Dutch, like a District Commissioner addressing the natives. Van der Valk, with no wish to get caught in linguistic problems of the Brussels suburbs, answered in French, whereat the old gentleman smiled and began a series – which lasted all evening – of rapid, brilliant, devious comic stories. There was also a Dublin surgeon and his wife, both covered in what Arlette called les marques extérieures de la richesse. He was a big, fat man, interested in criminology and the reform of the penal code: Van der Valk was found wanting, slightly, here. There was also an old lady in petunia satin who began over the glasses of sherry by asking him whether he had read Proust. He did not come too well out of this either, but it put the old gentleman into chuckles.

  ‘When the Duke was on his way to an evening party, and met by agitated female relatives announcing the death of his cousin, a piece of news he had been dreading all day since he was greatly looking forward to this particular party, he climbed resolutely into his carriage saying “People do exaggerate so.”’

  ‘An answer I’ve always wanted to give when told about people’s deaths,’ said Van der Valk, winning back a bit of ground.

  During dinner, which was grand enough for him to eye all the little trinkets and be grateful it wasn’t the asparagus season, he got told a good deal about the Common Market, about which he knew little. Everyone was a mine of information, including himself. The food was good, the wine very. The soufflé might have had too much sugar in it. Mrs Lynch took the ladies away – he had wondered ábout this phenomenon – and port was produced. It all went on rather. Did one have to tell dirty stories? – he never could remember any. He was relieved to find it wasn’t Lynch’s style.

  But was it going on all night? He was beginning to wonder whether he was being made a fool of, fiddling with a little gold cup holding two drops of lukewarm coffee, terrified that somebody would begin talking about art, when he was suddenly liberated by the old gentleman taking polite leave of him. It was a signal; the old lady went off to read Proust in bed, the surgeon had to operate at seven forty-five next morning, a very pretty young American girl (fancied, distinctly, despite Stasie) had a whole sheaf of lecture-notes still to go through, and he was still bowing politely, more or less, when both Lynches reappeared suddenly in the drawing-room and said ‘Please take another cigar.’ It was, he realized bemusedly, his cue.

  ‘Denis,’ said Senator Lynch slowly past the cigar-cutter. ‘Denis,’ he said again, striking a match. He blew a long symmetrical plume of smoke as though he were a bronze
Renaissance fountain and said, ‘I haven’t seen Denis at all.’

  Van der Valk blew smoke back. We’re like two old battleships, he thought, at Jutland or somewhere, firing away like mad even when there’s nothing to be seen. It was important not to get flustered. He had got flustered once that day already, and was still none too sure what it mightn’t lead to.

  ‘But I don’t think you brought me here to tell me nothing but that. My wife has read Proust. She knows, too, a lot more than I do about the Common Market. And myself, when I hear of somebody’s death I’m in a poor position to say that people do exaggerate so. It might be misunderstood.’

  ‘I haven’t finished,’ said Lynch. He turned suddenly to his wife. ‘You tell him,’ he said abruptly.

  She had been looking very good. Dark blue velvet, a sapphire and diamond necklace, earrings and eyes to match. But as he turned towards her the sparkle went out of the sapphires.

  ‘He has vanished,’ she said.

  ‘Abruptly?’ asked Van der Valk with adrenalin whisking into his bloodstream.

  ‘Abruptly.’

  ‘He knew you were coming?’

  ‘I can’t turn up,’ said Lynch simply, ‘totally unannounced, even in a friend’s house. I gave very little notice. I rang from the airport, saying I had unexpected business in Rome – expecting and getting an invitation to lunch.’

  ‘Yes of course. But then?’

  ‘I could hardly ask my friend not to mention my arrival, could I?’ The voice had lost the mannered, pompous inflection. ‘My host – I need hardly say he is considerably upset – noticed nothing untoward. Denis received news of my coming at breakfast, apparently unperturbed, remained tranquil. Said little. Did not appear at lunch. Has been missing since.’

  ‘Took no clothes or luggage?’

  ‘No – well, there’s a certain confusion. The day before, he was at the beach, and had a bag. This morning, he had beach things with him. The bag is missing. His other clothes are untouched. The inference seems to be … that he went towards the beach.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Have been informed,’ reluctantly. ‘Have … so far … found no trace of him.’

  ‘And now please forgive a brutally professional question. Mrs Lynch – do you think …?’

  She faced him with firmness.

  ‘That he drowned himself? Does one ever? I mean accept such an idea, without a fight?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I mean that one says – I suppose without thinking of it – that a person is not capable of such and such an action. And then – when one comes to think of it … It’s not in his character. He doesn’t run away in front of difficulties. It’s not like him – I can’t believe it.’

  No, thought Van der Valk, looking at her and at Lynch in turn: nor do I. Except that one never knows. When there is an unknown quantity, and that quantity is called Stasie … I better keep quiet, he thought.

  ‘You came straight back here,’ to Lynch.

  ‘I wished in the circumstances to be with my wife,’ staring into Van der Valk’s face. ‘Not entirely abnormal, that. And … what could I do, anyhow?’

  ‘And since – no news?’

  ‘You understand, Commissaire, that this is being handled … diplomatically if you follow me.’

  ‘I’m only too aware of it,’ not without bitterness.

  Mrs Lynch got up suddenly, came over and sat down beside him.

  ‘Please, please don’t be angry. We are doing our best. We will do our best. We won’t try to hinder you; you must do what you think right. Try and be patient, try to believe – we haven’t hidden Denis or encouraged him to hide. What ever lies behind this awful story – one faces things when one has to.’

  Lynch had seen that Van der Valk was exasperated, and had understood.

  ‘You saw Monsieur de Coninck here tonight,’ making his mind up. ‘The gentleman with the monocle. He looks an antiquated dilettante. It’s a mistake to think that. Well, be that as it may, he is acting for me in this affair. He is an exdiplomat – he has great experience, and – and considerable influence,’ he went on hurriedly, flustered for all his command over himself by the bleak stony eye. ‘He is acting for me in this affair. He has been in touch with Rome – with the embassy, with the Ministry of the Interior – with the police. My wife is right – I intend to see this business through. I have nothing to hide from you.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Van der Valk abruptly. ‘What do the police say?’ He suddenly realized that he was stone-cold sober and badly in need of a drink. Mrs Lynch, whether she read his thoughts or not, made no offer, but picked up the decanter and gave him a slosh.

  ‘Coninck heard from them tonight. They say the boy was not drowned because they would have found him by now.’

  Quite so, but could one believe them? He disposed of the slosh and got another straight away. His face must have been showing his scepticism.

  ‘Well – they’re formal: what can one say? Try and understand that if I had not contacted you earlier, it was in hope that the boy would turn up.’

  Helped by the slosh, Van der Valk made an effort.

  ‘All right, there’s been time lost, it’s too late to worry about it. You realize that I have to make a report to my superiors. I hope that Monsieur de Coninck has good relations with The Hague.’

  ‘He has,’ said Mrs Lynch with simplicity. Van der Valk did think of saying Oh Jaysus, or possibly Janey Mac, a euphemism Mr Flynn was fond of, but he was past it.

  ‘Why did you give this party tonight?’

  ‘Several reasons,’ quiet and slowly, ‘not all of them bad. It was foreseen – after thought I decided to leave things as they stood. I wished to gain some distancing, some detachment, to impose a balanced frame of mind and to mature my thoughts. I wished to get a grip upon my self-command, and ridiculous though you may find the notion, these conventional patterns of civilized society are a considerable help in forming judgments. It is also true that Coninck wished for an opportunity of meeting you – for God’s sake man, don’t take offence,’ for Van der Valk was again beginning to bristle.

  ‘Nobody is going to interfere with you, Commissaire,’ said Mrs Lynch’s soft voice. ‘You are on the spot. You will judge. You do not know yet that Monsieur de Coninck is not an interfering old busybody. He is an old, trusted, valued – proved – friend of ours – that is nothing to you and of course I understand that. But he has unusually clear judgment. He agreed at once that you must be given a free hand but what to you is of more importance is that he can be of considerable service to you.’

  Van der Valk shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘You don’t see that this affair goes beyond the little local framework – it’s going to explode. The moment The Hague hears about this I will be called back for what the press calls consultations and what I call getting my orders. I won’t have any free hand. This piece of news – this disappearance – will mean a lengthy panic. After which somebody will have the exceptionally brilliant idea of sending me to Rome. I’m nothing but a goddam tourist.’

  ‘I think,’ very gently, ‘that if Monsieur de Coninck were to have the good fortune to be taken into your confidence he could persuade your authorities – The Hague as you put it – that you were the best judge of whatever steps needed to be taken. Is it pardonable to ask what your – what’s the word? – your ideas have led to? – I mean it isn’t just Denis. There’s a – there are other factors; isn’t it so?’

  He took his brandy glass and moved it from side to side so that it caught the light.

  ‘Perhaps,’ at last, ‘you’ve been wondering why I ate mostly with my one hand.’

  ‘Not particularly,’ politely. ‘Americans always do.’

  ‘I have a broken collarbone. My arm should be in a sling strictly speaking but I took it off because it’s healing well, and because I thought it seemed a little ostentatious.’

  ‘And how do you come to have a broken collarbone?’ asked Lynch with careful courtesy. />
  ‘Somebody tried to hit me on the head.’

  There was an appropriate silence.

  ‘Coninck,’ said Lynch at last, ‘lives just two minutes from here – I could perhaps give him a phone call.’

  ‘The Irish police can hardly be left totally in the dark – perhaps you’ll leave that to me to handle.’ Everybody wants to get into the act, Van der Valk was thinking wryly, wondering about the old gentleman with the monocle.

  ‘He has your total confidence?’ he went on.

  ‘As I assure you.’

  ‘And you’re prepared to give me the same?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You mean that?’

  ‘I mean that,’ said Mrs Lynch.

  ‘Then yes, I’d like to talk to him on the phone. I suppose your line’s not tapped?’ Something of the old Terence Lynch reappeared around the lines of the Senator’s mouth.

  ‘Make yourself easy. I know how to protect myself. It is my son, apparently, whom I have failed to protect,’ he added.

  Monsieur de Coninck would be more than pleased to have a little talk with Monsieur le Commissaire. Yes, that little affaire; he was au courant. Why yes, he did think perhaps he could be of some use: to talk of influence … but he was fortunate in having the ear of various people … In the morning? – my dear faller, he was good for nothing in the mornings. If the Commissaire was not too tired right now there was no time like the present and he had a cigar on which he would value an opinion … Just around the corner. My dear faller, I will be expecting you.

  It was only in the street, in Ailesbury Road, that Van der Valk was struck by an idea that was now of increased importance. That the gap between Senator Lynch’s world and, say Eddy Flanagan, was pretty wide. Flynn had made the point; perhaps neither had given it enough weight. The Lynch house, the Lynch life – a carefully constructed machine in which standards – old-fashioned use of the word – were important, and were respected. Dinner-jackets, formal manners and place-settings, well-trained servants, silver boxes, courteous diplomacies, the elaborate code that belonged at first sight to a world of before 1939 – these had their use. Lynch had decided that this was the way to lead life. The man was far from ridiculous.