The World's Finest Mystery...

by Ed Gorman

  "I… you want to hear something crazy?" she said. "Very crazy?"

  "I've heard enough crazy in the last hour to last me the rest of my days," he said.

  "Maybe… I mean maybe we could be… you know, see each other. You could meet my husband, your nephew."

  "I'll pick my time to see the boy," he said. "He won't know. I won't bother him. If you hadn't pulled the trigger in the bedroom, I might have considered your offer, but not now. Not now."

  He got out of the chair. She watched him walk to the wall and take down the painting of the scorpion on the scale.

  "It's yours," he said holding it out to his sister.

  She slung her purse over her arm and took the painting.

  "The woman in the other paintings," she said turning her head toward them. "Who is she?"

  "No one," he said looking at the paintings with her. "I made her up."

  Ringerman walked to the front door, threw open the heavy bolt and turned the other locks. He opened the door.

  She stepped into the corridor.

  "Tomorrow morning at the bank, ten sharp," he said.

  "Thank you for the painting. I wish…"

  He was shaking his head 'no', not sure of what she might wish, but certain that he would have no part in making it come true.

  "Emma Bovary," he said softly. She didn't seem to hear.

  She walked slowly down the hall, painting held out in front of her. Ringerman closed the door and bolted it. The envelope was ready, addressed and stamped. He got the tapes from the two recorders and dropped them into the envelope.

  In a few minutes, he would get dressed, go down and drop the envelope in the mailbox a block away. Now he sat in front of the table in his living room and looked at the photographs he had spread out.

  They would go in his wallet along with the old snapshot of his parents and if anyone ever asked him about his family, he would show them his collection.

  He looked at the photograph of Charlotte for about a minute and said aloud, "We don't look like either of our parents. Not even a little."

  He would take the bars off the windows now. He would remove the bolt lock from his front door. He would not keep himself locked in or keep others locked out.

  Ringerman touched the image of his sister, got up and moved to the bedroom to get dressed.

  Bob Mendes

  Noble Causes

  BOB MENDES was a chartered accountant until 1989, when he became a full-time writer. His lyrical power and style catapulted him to the front ranks of the European authors. He has twice won the Golden Noose, Belgium's highest mystery award, in 1993 for his novel Vengeance, and in 1997 for The Power of Fire. His novels have been translated into French, German, Spanish, and Czech. "Noble Causes," which first appeared in the magazine De Standaard, showcases all of his strengths in one tightly woven story.

  Noble Causes

  Bob Mendes

  It was Friday afternoon and pouring with rain. Walter Goldwasser was the last person to leave the Diamonds International building at precisely two o'clock. He left through a reinforced side door leading to the executive car park. Eighteen seconds after he pulled the door closed behind him, the second phase of the newly installed security system was automatically activated.

  His Mercedes SL 600 was parked ten meters away. With his Delvaux calfskin attaché case in one hand and a man's pocketbook and his car keys in the other, he risked the plunge through the rain. Halfway between the door and his car, he pushed the remote control button to unlock the car doors. No satisfying click, no flashing car lights: the remote wasn't working. Of course, the car was in a puddle so he couldn't even put his attaché case down. In order to free one hand, he put his pocketbook on the roof of the car. With his thumb he slid the flat emergency key out of the remote and put it in the lock.

  As he tried to open the car door, he saw Fanny Galinda, the newly appointed secretary, on the sidewalk behind the fence. She was trying to find her way among the puddles, holding a newspaper over her head. She was wearing a white blouse and red pullover, on a black leather miniskirt riding up even farther because of her raised arms, so that he could admire the flawless shape of her thighs and calves in the black leggings even more.

  Fanny was a Romanian refugee who had been hired a week ago because of her knowledge of Russian and other Slavic languages, in view of the constant expansion of trade with the East. Only this morning she had told him in a confidential mood that she had no friends in Antwerp. The least he could do in this weather was offer her a ride.

  He called her name, but she was too busy trying to keep her hairdo and legs dry. She didn't hear him.

  Goldwasser hastily slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Heat sensors and TV cameras recorded the changing situation. Now he had to punch in the code number for the security system on his mobile or radiotelephone within thirty seconds otherwise he would set off the alarm. He made a mistake the first time and had to start over. At last the gate opened. He drove through it. Relieved, he saw Fanny standing thirty meters up the road, under the awning of a jewelry store admiring the window display. He turned on the CD player and took his time choosing an appropriate piece of music.

  The steel gate closed automatically behind the car; the security system went into its third and final phase.

  When Goldwasser pulled up abreast of Fanny, he slowed down and smiled invitingly. It was all the encouragement she needed. Pleasantly surprised she ran round the car and sank into the empty seat beside him with a contented sigh. "You have just saved my life," she cooed happily.

  The mighty twelve-cylinder engine accelerated. Goldwasser was happy to listen to her telling him how lucky she was, working for a company like Diamonds International and people like Mr. Goldwasser. He thought that the weekend ahead might turn out quite nicely. His wife was on holiday in Marbella and he didn't expect her back before Monday.

  Not for one moment did he remember his pocketbook and other valuables still on the roof.

  * * *

  Pier was preparing breakfast and Rosa was calculating how much extra income they had earned this month, on an old copy of a regional paper. "Almost three hundred and sixty euros," she said. "If we do all right today, we could deposit two hundred euros for the Damian fund at the end of the week." She made a quick calculation. "They can buy medicine for seven lepers with that." Pier and Rosa both lived on social security and since Pier had moved in with her, they could make ends meet fairly well. They earned extra income by putting advertising pamphlets in mailboxes for Rosa's brother, in the city's difficult districts. Her brother gave her half of what he got from the Belgian Distribution Service, the company with the monopoly on door-to-door advertising. He spent the other half in 't Heilig Huiske café on Klooster Street. The advantage was that Pier and Rosa got their money under the counter. That's why they thought it no more than fair to donate part of these earnings to a charitable institution every month. This way none of it would get stuck to anyone's fingers, and they were left with a clean conscience.

  Pier put the bacon and eggs on the Formica kitchen table. He knew she'd already explained to him once but he'd forgotten. "What is a euro again?" he asked.

  "The euro replaces the former franc but it's worth forty times as much. And you can use it in almost all European countries."

  Pier put a rasher of bacon between two slices of bread and sank his teeth in. "It's going to rain today," he said, chewing. "We'd better put on our raincoats."

  Rosa nodded. "There. Now you see how lucky we are. When I was a child we didn't have raincoats. We were so poor that we wore the same clothes year-round. Rain or shine." She spread margarine on her bread and jabbed her fork into the pan. "What areas are we doing today?" she asked.

  "The Diamond district and the Jewish district." Pier answered. "From Vesting Street to the Charlottealei. A regional, two DIY leaflets, and three supermarket flyers. Everything is folded and ready. We'll have to come back twice to get more." He knew exactly how many houses and how many ma
ilboxes there were on each street.

  They continued eating and Rosa was talking about her childhood again, about how there had been ten of them at her house and how sometimes they had to share two or three eggs among them. "See how lucky we are?" she repeated as she scraped the last bits of egg from the pan with a slice of bread, broke it in two and gave half to Pier.

  * * *

  The downpour had turned into a dull rain that left dirty tracks on the windshield of the SL 600. Fanny wasn't only good at languages but she'd also studied art history for a while and when Goldwasser told her he had a collection of rare Chagall prints at home, she showed great interest. A gift from heaven to Goldwasser. He'd been trying to find an excuse to take her with him to his impressive house on the Kastanjelaan, near Nachtegalen Park. They drove down Quinten Matsijslei, with the city park on their right. At the intersection of Plantin and Moretuslei and the Loosplaats the traffic lights changed to red. Goldwasser took his foot off the accelerator and cleared his throat. "Maybe we could go to my place first…"

  Fanny pointed through the windshield. "Look at those tramps. They look like a couple from the silent movie era."

  At the intersection, a strange-looking couple was pushing across a rickety old pram, laden with door-to-door advertisements. They had prepared themselves for a long period in the rain by wearing two raincoats, a short one on top of a long one. Little hats with sun cream ads printed on them perched on their heads. The pram's wheels were wobbly so their progress was slow. They stopped on the first traffic island and stared at the approaching SL 600. The man was scratching his beard and saying something to the woman.

  Goldwasser stopped in front of the pedestrian crossing. The man pointed at the car and said something about getting wet. Fanny giggled. "I think they're asking for a ride. They're getting wet."

  The diamond merchant ignored them. He was used to people looking at his car or making remarks about it. The man stepped into the gutter and tapped on the car roof. This was going too far. Goldwasser wanted to grab the radiotelephone to alert the police if necessary, when the light changed to green. He accelerated and sped away. The tramp jumped backward. "Hey, watch it!" he yelled. "There's a pocketbook on your roof."

  But Goldwasser didn't hear him. Fanny had turned the music down a bit and cuddled up against him. "Why don't you show me your collection before you drop me off at my place, Mr. Goldwasser? Or don't you like showing me your best stuff?"

  His thoughts raced ahead. He glanced quickly in the rearview mirror and saw the tramp standing in the middle of the intersection and picking something off the street. Fools! Risking their lives for a cigarette butt. The man was waving something at the disappearing car, but Goldwasser wasn't the least bit interested. Fanny put a hand on his knee and kept it there.

  * * *

  Rosa and Pier were sitting on the roofed terrace of the park café. A cup of coffee with a filter in front of them and the empty pram beside their table. They had finished their round through the Jewish district first. The pocketbook was lying on the table. They were discussing what to do with it. From where they were sitting, they had a view of the beautiful four-story, turn-of-the-century brick building in which the city-center police station was housed.

  "Shall I hand it in over there?" he suggested. "Tuur Dommelaar's daughter works there. Nice girl."

  Rosa emptied the small, silver cream jug into her coffee. She never wasted anything. She was thinking. "We'd better see who it belongs to first," she said, as she stirred her coffee "Because of the reward."

  "Reward for what?" Pier asked.

  "Our finders fee. But that means we'll have to take the pocketbook back to the owner personally. If we hand it in at the police station, he'll get it anyway, with a little delay, but that won't help anyone."

  "You mean the police will keep the reward for themselves."

  "No, silly, they're not allowed to accept money. We are, because we'll donate it to charity. I'm thinking of Starving Africa. What do you think?"

  As always, Pier agreed with her.

  He opened the pocketbook and spread the contents out across the table. A wallet, a mobile no bigger than a credit card, a cigarette holder and a gold lighter.

  Rosa inspected the wallet. She found an ID card in a plastic cover, belonging to a Walter Goldwasser, born in Vienna on December 25, 1958. A Christmas baby. His address was Kastanjelaan 32A, Antwerp. The picture showed a man with a round, puffy face, heavy eyebrows and a hint of baldness.

  She also found a few blank checks belonging to the Diamonds International office in the Hoveniersstraat, five hundred euros in bills, two bank cards, an American Express Gold Card and a couple of tissue paper envelopes. She opened one of them. At the same time the sun broke through the clouds. About ten polished diamonds of the highest quality lay sparkling in the sunlight. She closed the envelope.

  "Do you know where the Kastanjelaan is?" she asked.

  Pier nodded. "Near the Acacialaan and the Berkenlaan. South of Nachtegalen Park. The most expensive neighborhood in the city. The people who live there are mainly very rich diamond merchants, Israelis, Indians, Pakistanis. Only a hundred and eight mailboxes."

  Rosa put the cookie she had been given with her coffee next to Pier's filter. She knew he had a sweet-tooth and he deserved to have the extra one. "We'll go home now, to pick up the rest of the leaflets," she said. "And then I'll finish the round. You ride your bike to the Kastanjelaan to reassure Mr. Goldwasser that we've found his pocketbook. But in order to give him a chance to think about some reward or other you tell him…" She leaned forward and lowered her voice.

  Pier listened respectfully. Rosa always had these brilliant ideas.

  * * *

  Fanny had put a CD with music by French chansonniers into the CD player. She zapped through the songs until she heard Jane Birkin and Serge Gainsbourg's voices singing "Je t'aime, moi non plus." It sounded very suggestive. And when Fanny started tapping the rhythm on Goldwasser's knee with her fingers, he had great difficulty in keeping his mind on his driving.

  "Is your wife going to mind you showing me your Chagall collection?" she asked when the song had ended.

  "My wife doesn't care for art. When the weather here is like this, she feels better on the Costa del Sol. We own a little pied-à-terre there. She won't be back until next week. If she likes the weather there, that is."

  "Good for her."

  They reached Kastanjelaan 32A, a large villa in a spacious garden, surrounded by a 2.5-meter-high gate guarded with cameras. He stopped the car in front of the entrance and punched in a code on the radiotelephone. The gate swung open and he drove through. The gate closed behind them and at the same time the garage door opened automatically. Inside, he switched off the engine. He waited until the gate was closed before getting out of the car.

  "The security in your home is just as good as at the company," Fanny remarked. "Not just for the Chagall prints, is it?"

  "You can't be too careful these days." Goldwasser answered. "Carjacking, burglary, robbery in broad daylight. It happens all the time. You have to be especially careful when you arrive home. The criminals lie in wait and just slip inside with you. But there's no chance of that here. Here no one enters unless I say so. You can sleep soundly." He led her through a kind of lockage into a spacious hall. "I just hope that you have no intention of doing so," he joked.

  "Do what, Mr. Goldwasser?"

  "Sleep soundly."

  "Naughty, naughty." Fanny shook an admonishing finger. "But don't worry, I'm much too curious about seeing your Chagall collection."

  They walked down the hall together. He showed her the Chagall prints, the Dali, original drawings and the Picassos. With a certain pride, he also showed her how the camera system and the infrared and volumetric sensors worked. At the first sign of trouble they alerted the central office in town, staffed round-the-clock, on a special wavelength. If necessary, they'll warn the police.

  They finished the tour in a living room with luxurious couches
and a mahogany bar. Goldwasser flipped a switch beside the door. The curtains closed and the lights went on. Hidden speakers emitted mood music. Fanny walked past the paintings on the wall and studied the signatures. She saw a discreet security control panel. She pointed at it. "Isn't that a bit over the top?" she asked. "It's like a fortress in here. What if you're just having some friends over? How do they get in without upsetting the entire neighborhood?"

  "You check the monitor first to see if it's really your friends and then you push the welcome button. Look. The rest is automatic." He rested his hand on her hip as if by accident. "What would you say to a glass of Champagne before we look at the real works of art?"