‘No wonder you were so ardent on your return from this exciting town. I innocently put that down to eating too much steak. I suppose I should be speaking of a transference of affection.’
The words, as they were meant to, stung.
Like a whip, he thought a day later, rubbing his face as though there really were a mark across it.
Luckily – yes, luckily – the office was suddenly very busy. A couple of days furious – or at least exceedingly busy-bee – work was needed. His department, the criminal bureau of a largish country district including a lively (and nowadays petulant) university town, was understaffed (chronic complaint of all police bureaux) and though he went on a good deal about the efficiency of his arrangements, and there was even some truth in the boast, he still had not got to the end of administrative bumf that had accumulated during absence among the fleshpots of Dublin; horrible great piles of paper needing signature, about half of which actually had to be read. Indeed about a quarter had to be read with comprehension. Being invariably either in the opaquest of officialese, or in scientific jargon, these had to be read twice as a rule.
In addition, there arrived in rapid succession an abortion, an indecent assault, some phony Swiss banknotes, and a robbery with unpleasantly wanton violence committed by juveniles. There was no leisure for meditation.
Still, his staff noticed that he fell into trances, drank large amounts of tea, and rubbed his nose a good deal, besides being ungenerously short and tetchy for someone who’s just had a holiday (everyone was convinced it had been a holiday, and he was aggrieved when the Chief Commissaire for the Province of North Holland, his remote but invariably tedious superior, rang up in a mood for eating captive goats and went on for hours about Van der Valk never being there when needed, and he would take this opportunity of reminding him, all at great length, and he couldn’t even say, ‘Oh God and,’ down the dead telephone at the end because the switchboard might still have the plug in and what about Discipline …).
A holiday! Back in forty-five, in the army, he recalled, the English used to call it a skive. His language was full of English words, these days, since Mr Flynn’s conversation lessons.
It was true he went into trances, and in them there was a recurring theme; Arlette’s wounded and wounding phrase about transference of affection. What did it mean? Of course, it meant that he had slept with Stasie and then leapt hungrily into bed with her, that this was disgusting and unforgiveable and a beastly betrayal, and a mean and dirty insult. But it meant something else too, and he did not quite know what. It was ‘on the tip of his tongue’.
Poor Stasie! To bed her, while sneaking about to catch her out in her pathetic, secret, neurotic life – it had been unforgiveable.
What was she? – who was she, this pretty and attractive female, this intelligent and cultivated woman? For a start, she took after her da. And straight off one fell into the clutch of hundreds of learned gentlemen, all brandishing behavioural sciences the titles of which sounded as though just invented by satirical weeklies: Van der Valk had the greatest scepticism towards all of them. Because one knew little about Mr Martinez, deceased, and that little was already too much. Intelligent, witty, charming, a fantasist. Temperamentally, incapable of staying on rails. Alarming capacity for justifying dubious performances by bizarre personal codes of conduct. Wealth of possibilities: far too much already – what had Stasie’s childhood and upbringing really been like?
Was she vicious? – he didn’t know and was sure none of the learned gentlemen did either, however many behavioural hand-grenades got rolled around and tossed out to explode in a hail of jargon. One could say that she was fertile ground; that was easy, as easy as pointing to the thirst and need for affection and stability, the pathetic reaching for a ‘normal marriage’, the equally pathetic belief that each new love would bring happiness – and wound about everything she did the cloudy sandstorm of deception and self-deception, the passion for intrigue and endless clever little schemes – and oh! that amazing plausibility. What chance had Denis against this formidable female, when he himself had been caught, however momentarily, in the snare? And the result of that second’s vanity and greed and happy foolish lechery? – a horrible blow in Arlette’s vitals.
Lucky for her – and him – that she had such resources: she had tried for a day to ‘punish’ him, failed, cried, and flung herself at him, shouting, ‘Love me, go on, obliterate that devouring cow,’ (‘cette vache engloutissante’ – it sounded better still and more terrifying in French). What chance had Denis had?
Lynch and his wife had been deeply, bitterly wounded as the first result: crime spreading as it always did like a cancer, destroying love, trust, honesty down endless ramifications for a long, long way. They thought they had ‘failed’. He had tried to tell them that it was not so, that there was nothing ‘failed’ in Denis, that it would all pass … he had talked a lot and what good would that do … he had done harm, but he had tried to make up.
He had written a closely argued report stating his conviction that Denis was an accidental killer, that it had been as so often, ‘the victim’s fault’. But the prosecutor was determined to make up his own mind about that. He had let Van der Valk see that he wanted no theories – they were three a penny any day. A fact or two, an essential complementary fact. There were a few around somewhere.
Why did he feel so pestered by that nasty little phrase about a transference of affection?
When he hit on it, or guessed at least that he might have, it was exactly like searching all over the house for his spectacles and finding them perched on his forehead.
*
‘Get me Mrs Martinez on the telephone, will you? If there’s no answer try the city hall to see if she changed her address.’ He signed two or three papers without seeing what was written on them. ‘Not moved? – oh you have her? – put her on – Commissaire Van der Valk, mevrouw, good morning. As you know there’ve been considerable developments since we last spoke … yes … yes … yes, that’s normal that you should be called on to amplify if need be your statement: the magistrate has a dossier now and doesn’t want dust to gather on it. That’s just what I called you about; I wanted a word with you … no no, quite separate from the Officer of Justice, the police have nothing further to do with the instruction that is now going forward … no, I’ve no further power to intervene. Like you, I’m just one in a cloud of witnesses. Just that before passing in my file I’d like to round out a detail or two. I wondered whether you’d allow me to call … no you’re working, I understand – this evening then? … quite so, but I won’t take up much of your time … till then and thank you, mevrouw.’
She didn’t sound in the least enthusiastic about seeing him but that was nothing new – nobody ever was!
‘Could we have supper a little early? I have to go to Amsterdam.’
‘We could but what a bore. Business?’
‘Unofficially business – the Martinez woman. With benefit of hindsight I find there are a few things I still have to ask her. The file’s been hanging about and I want to tidy it up before sending it in.’
‘You don’t have to make so many excuses. Why not this afternoon?’
‘No the woman’s working – reasonable; her living to earn.’
‘Then there’s no choice and supper can be early. Just don’t take her to bed, that’s all.’ His mouth opened until he grasped that this was humour.
‘Don’t say such things,’ reprovingly, very much the government servant of upright life and severe morals.
‘No and don’t think them either is what you mean. I was teasing you – if that is allowed. O.K. it’s understood.’
*
He did wish rather that the administration would discover some other official transport. As prudent, cheap, and reliable as a Volkswagen beetle; just something else, that’s all. He parked in the Rivierenlaan and plunged into the rabbit warren. The card in the name slot was the same: simply had ‘F.X.’ crossed out and Mrs written in.
He rang the bell.
Anna looked unchanged; her hair-style was altered but it was the same pleasant-looking youthful woman, quite pretty in her dairymaid style, neat small body trim in a close-fitting wool frock, who opened the door, recognized him, frowned a little, smiled a very little, said good-evening quite politely and motioned him in with not too bad a grace.
A few changes had been made inside the little flat. He didn’t quite know what: subtly, it had become ‘working woman alone’ instead of ‘married couple’. No sign anywhere of any man’s presence. She offered him coffee; he refused and got a glass of vermouth. He disliked vermouth too after supper but didn’t want to appear stiff.
‘I’m glad to see you’re re-adapting with no trouble.’
She shrugged; what useful answer was there?
‘One can generally do things when one has no choice.’
Exactly; like murders, but one didn’t say such things. She offered a cigarette, very formal and courteous, sat down, upright on a straight chair, legs crossed professionally as though she had a shorthand pad on her lap. Straight serious face. He leaned back, gazed vaguely about, said, ‘I suppose you’re right,’ vaguely.
‘You’ve not altered much,’ with a kind of good-natured curiosity.
‘What could I afford to alter? I have met with much kindness. Several old business acquaintances of – of my husband’s – made a point of offering me work – serious work, not just charity. I earn my living. Fortunately I have no children to worry about.’ Poor old Martinez, thought Van der Valk. All that long active often brilliant life. So many women. He’s left a trace all right, but not the one he wanted.
Anna, plainly ill at ease, propped her elbow on her knee, put her chin on her palm, and looked severe, not wanting any more beating about the bush.
‘What was it you wanted, Commissaire?’
‘Oh, I had been wondering whether in your situation you wouldn’t have preferred to go back to Ireland.’
She seemed much surprised; frowned, thought about it, looking narrowly. Ireland? What was he getting at?
‘This is my town,’ she said, ‘I was born here; I’ve lived nearly all my life here.’
‘You have family here?’
‘That is to say – I seem to remember telling you that my family disapproved of my marriage – there was a certain coldness.’
‘Which your husband’s death has not altered?’
She made a grimace, giving her a school-girl look.
‘Rather the contrary if anything.’
‘You mean an attitude of, “I told you so”?’
She seemed relieved at his catching on.
‘Yes. I saw them rarely – perhaps once a year. My husband – wished to avoid quarrels – and not to cause me pain.’
‘You didn’t want your family feelings to interfere with your marriage.’
She flushed, all over her high, rather bumpy forehead.
‘I just wondered whether his death impelled you to heal the breach, so to speak.’
‘No. I don’t understand why you should think I might want to go back to Ireland.’
‘But it’s simple surely. I recall your saying you regarded your husband’s daughters almost like sisters. Which I agree is simple and natural. So that under the painful circumstances it would seem a natural thing to do. Quite an attractive solution.’
She flushed again – she was an easy flusher – and fidgeted slightly.
‘That is so, possibly. Was, I should put it. Things – alter.’
‘Oh quite. You’re a young woman. Doubtless you’ll marry again.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ prim. ‘You’re very interested in my personal life.’
‘Yes,’ blandly.
‘It seems exaggerated. Surely your inquiry is finished.’
‘Not altogether.’
‘But you said yourself – the magistrate – Denis –’ painfully, ‘– poor Denis – I mean – he’s confessed, hasn’t he?’
‘You’ve been wondering – like all of us – poor Denis, what could have got into him to behave like that. You’d be interested to know.’
‘I – er – I don’t know. It’s a very painful subject. I don’t like to talk about it.’
‘And of course you never met Denis, did you?’
Her eyes were her best feature. A clear cornflower blue, unusually large in her small face. Perhaps a little too round. Another flaming great blush.
‘No.’ Squeezed out.
‘But I’m afraid we have to talk about it – if only to do justice to him.’
‘I was summoned by the Officer of Justice,’ with an effort. ‘He didn’t tell me much – he said that Denis – had been in love with Stasie. Do we have to go on about this? – it’s hateful.’
‘There are a few inconsistencies.’
‘But it can’t – it isn’t any longer your business. You said so. I don’t like your – routing about – in my feelings like this. You haven’t any right to question me.’
‘Mevrouw Martinez, as long as my file is not closed I’m afraid I do have the right to question whom I please.’
‘I’m sorry; I beg your pardon. It’s – you must see that this is a wound that isn’t healed. I was very much attached to my husband.’
‘Of course. You know that I spent a week or so in Ireland? I had the pleasure of meeting your sisters.’
‘Yes – I mean, I didn’t know exactly; I supposed as much.’
‘Interesting woman, Stasie. Very attractive.’
‘Er – yes.’
‘Understandable that Denis should fall in love with her.’
‘Er – yes.’ Scarlet all over. Hating it.
‘Sex at the bottom of our misfortunes as usual. Its place in modern society is possibly exaggerated though, would you say?’
She had assumed a look of worldly wisdom. Enlightened people were not bothered at talking about sex. On the contrary, they discussed it with alarming fluency.
‘To understand something about Denis,’ in an odious, jolly voice, ‘we have to draw a picture, mm?’ I am being bastardly, he thought, but professionally so. There is a difference. ‘Denis refuses to,’ he went on. ‘Another proof – if one were needed. Denis in love with Stasie, mm. One of these affairs in which a lot of excitement is generated by concealment. Secret assignations, breathless meetings at queer times in peculiar places, fear of discovery – spice of danger, hm? All unbeknown to Denis, everyone knows all about this famous love affair. Her sisters know, the excellent Mr Collins knows, and while he’s good at pretending the contrary, I’m convinced Mr Flanagan knows: he can hardly not know, and he’s a better judge of his wife than anyone gives him credit for.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘Why, you know your sisters, and I’ve too much respect for your judgement not to give weight to your opinion. Correct me if I seem unfair to them.’
She said nothing, remained sitting upright and still, quite collected.
‘A woman like Stasie – she gets satisfaction from this kind of situation. Answers various deeply rooted needs – that’s no especial business of mine, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘I wouldn’t really know. I suppose so.’
‘But a boy,’ warming to it. ‘Young romantic boy. He has of course pleasure, hm, physical pleasure, excitement a good deal. And perhaps, too, some splendid illusions. He caresses notions of giving her help and healing, understanding and devotion, sun and rain in her desert garden. He glows with sensations that are very far from wicked or vicious. I suppose,’ said Van der Valk sadly, ‘that such notions sound intensely ludicrous to anyone my age or yours – but I had ideas like that too once. Didn’t we all burn to change an evil world?’
She was following him all right, with an attention so close that her face and neck were rigid with strain.
‘And then there was a crisis,’ in accents of classical tragedy. ‘Isn’t there always? Stasie broke it off. The world is a villainous place and Othello’s occupat
ion’s gone. And like many before him our Denis goes for a big trip to the South Seas. His parents are delighted. Instead of wasting his time in Dublin, what could be better than travel – broadens the mind. They have many friends well placed to keep a benevolent eye on cherished son, smooth his path, mm? Lucky Denis. He can go to Paris or Rome – but he goes to none of these places. He goes to Holland. I wondered why. I suppose that like other young men he didn’t want any of these oversmoothed and supervised paths provided. Wanted more of an adventure – somewhere he could be independent, real, courageous. So clinging to happy memories of what he thought of as his first adult adventure he came here to look you all up. You met him then – what did you think?’
‘I –.’ she went scarlet. Suddenly down stage, and suddenly a spotlight and suddenly she had to open her mouth and sing. ‘I –’ And not unexpectedly she dried dead.
‘You told me a lot of lies, didn’t you?’ said Van der Valk in the most tranquil voice imaginable.
‘I …’ She didn’t have anything to say at all.’
‘You were afraid. Very well. We’ll leave that – bearing in mind,’ still mildly, ‘that the examining magistrate will want to know. Just tell me about Denis.’
‘I spoke to him – well – yes, I did tell a lie about that – I mean, I was worried about the scandal, I mean, about Stasie … he spent an evening here,’ hurriedly. ‘He had projects and notions about finding a job here and he wanted to get – my husband’s advice.’
‘Quite odd. No? Don’t you think so? He’s had a break with Stasie – not a row, but a grand renunciation, very emotional, knowing her, with weeping and tremendous words about not ruining one another’s lives. Then he comes here, where he is constantly reminded of her, where memories and reflections crowd in at every corner. Can you explain that?’
Anna’s forearm was crossed tightly over her chest, her hand on the upper arm, squeezing the flesh nervously.
‘How should I explain it,’ irritably. ‘You seem to make a big thing of all these psychological ins and outs – I don’t know. Anyhow, it might be all supposition – you say this and that was so but it might not be so in the least, however convincing it sounds.’
Over the High Side Page 23