The Midas Murders

by Pieter Aspe

  “We’re practicing for carnival,” Van In roared. “Obligatory dance lessons for anyone caught staring for more than ten seconds, starting right now.”

  The curious faces disappeared as if by magic. Van In laughed loud and hard. Versavel was concerned.

  “You look cheerful this morning, Commissioner.”

  Van In straightened his shirt and checked the position of his tie.

  “I had a reasonably good day yesterday,” he smirked. “Police work doesn’t have to be boring by definition.”

  Versavel politely cleared his throat. “Did Véronique give you the special treatment?”

  He sounded disapproving, and that was his intention.

  Van In froze. He knew the sergeant would go through fire and water for Hannelore.

  “The scrag called you half an hour ago,” said Versavel, clearly irked. “She forgot to tell you something yesterday.” He couldn’t understand why Van In would drink cheap spumante when he had the best of champagne at home.

  “Are you trying to say something, Sergeant?”

  “Should I be, Commissioner?”

  Van In pushed open the door of room 204 with his shoulder.

  “The flesh is weak, Guido. I don’t have to tell you that,” he muttered. “Is there coffee?”

  “I made a fresh pot at eight.”

  Versavel glanced knowingly at his watch.

  “I said we would get back to her this afternoon,” said the sergeant as he poured his boss a cup.

  “Excellent,” Van In snapped. “And don’t forget the key to her chastity belt.”

  Versavel handed his boss the coffee and sat down at his desk, his head held high. Van In hadn’t been on form for a couple of weeks. His depressions had been more frequent than an average northern European weather system. There was no point in getting his back up any further.

  “Did the people at city hall have anything to say?”

  Van In shrugged his shoulders indifferently. The thought of Véronique made him horny. What was he to do? His body reacted to the bitch like a hungry baby to a juicy breast.

  “They were on the verge of declaring martial law,” he sneered. “Did the door-to-door come up with anything?”

  Versavel pursed his lips. “Shall I read you the reports?” he said in a tone that didn’t bode well.

  “Leave it. I assume everyone heard the explosion and went back to sleep.”

  “How did you guess? The people who called wanted us to file complaints.”

  “Of course,” Van In hooted. “As if we’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “Do we have something better to do?” Versavel jested. “Take Depuydt, for example. He calls us almost every evening at nine fifty-five. The poor bastard lives next door to the Octopus, that piano bar on Wool Street.”

  Van In carefully placed his cup on his desk. He had been trying for more than twenty-four hours to recover the fleeting impression that had crossed his mind in the Gezelle Inn—and suddenly there it was, the skinny guy in Lonneville’s office, clear as the nose on his face.

  “The piano music is driving him mad, but we’re not allowed to intervene. Depuydt’s tried just about everything: official noise-abatement measurements, angry letters to the press; he even complained to a justice of the peace,” Versavel chattered. “If it was up to me, I’d close the place down. There’s an ambulance at the door every other night. Food poisoning. Jeez. I don’t want to think about it.”

  Van In was only half listening.

  “Depuydt, did you say? Surely not Philippe Depuydt?”

  “That’s the man. Know him?”

  “I went to school with a Philippe Depuydt. Is he roughly my age?”

  “I think so. If you want, I can get his address.”

  “Don’t bother, Guido. It’s not that important.”

  Versavel made his way to the windowsill and poured another cup of coffee.

  “Apropos, is Carton here?”

  Van In held out his cup and Versavel obliged with coffee and sugar. He himself was satisfied with a drop of skimmed milk.

  “You know as well as I do that Carton can’t handle the drink. And don’t try to tell me that you two didn’t touch a drop last night,” Versavel laughed.

  “So he’s not here.”

  “I’m not expecting him before eleven.”

  “Good.”

  Van In sipped his coffee and lit a cigarette. The combination of caffeine and nicotine did him good. The old Van In was slowly beginning to surface.

  “I want you to check something for me, Guido.”

  Versavel sat on the edge of his desk. In contrast to many of the other officers, his back was perfectly straight.

  “Take a look at the hotel submissions for the last week. I’m looking for a Hollander.”

  Van In took out his notebook and read the description he had received from Mario.

  “Probably a businessman, forty-five give or take, tall, thin, gray hair, trendy dresser. Goes by the name of Adriaans or Adriaansen.”

  “Okay,” Versavel beamed. “Just my type.”

  “And a German,” Van In continued, unruffled. “Sixty-five, portly and bald.”

  “Yuck,” Versavel groaned.

  “No sun without shadow,” said Van In philosophically.

  Versavel noted the descriptions. He was happy to see Van In back in action.

  “So I’m guessing this has nothing to do with the bomb,” he ventured.

  “You guessed right, Guido. But what I’m about to say has everything to do with it.”

  Versavel held his pen at the ready. Mixing two cases together doubled the excitement.

  “I want the mayor put under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Pick a couple of reliable men and keep it plainclothes.”

  Versavel pulled a face that would have made Till Eulenspiegel jealous. This was right up his alley.

  The State Security Services were called in to deal with all sorts of odd jobs, but in reality they had little if any legal jurisdiction. Some politicians complained that they were redundant, others saw them as a necessary evil. State Security’s primary task was to gather information. The service had half a million files covering every imaginable form of subversive behavior: from citizens who happened to attend a single meeting of a radical left-wing organization, to the CCC—Communist Combatant Cells—and its big guns, the Brabant Killers, and the French revolutionary Action Directe. It was remarkable that the files in the first category often contained more pages than the files on the serious bad guys.

  With these thoughts in mind, Van In punched in the number of the Belgian Secret Service for the third time. The line had been busy on the previous two attempts. A telephone operator picked up just as he was lighting a cigarette. She quickly switched to broken Dutch when she realized the caller was a “Flamand.”

  Van In introduced himself and couldn’t believe his ears when the bilingual operator immediately transferred him to the office of director Bostoen, one of the mandarins at State Security.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Assistant Commissioner Van In, Bruges Police, head of Special Investigations.” Van In shuddered at having to spout such official bullshit. “I’m calling about a recent bomb attack.” He provided a brief report of events. “The perpetrators didn’t leave a signature, and I was wondering if—”

  “We’ve been informed,” Bostoen interrupted high-handedly.

  Van In was so taken aback by the abrupt tone that he didn’t quite know what to say.

  “Has the statue of Flanders’s greatest poet been badly damaged?”

  It was hard to tell whether Bostoen was being facetious or not. One thing was sure: he was having a difficult time disguising his West Flemish accent.

  “It could have been worse,” said Van In in a neutral tone.

  Bostoen put on his glasses and
leafed through the file on his desk. He had studied it in detail the day before. The faded letters MWR were inscribed on the front of the pale green folder.

  “Good to hear,” he said after a moment.

  Van In tried to picture Bostoen in his mind. He could smell his arrogant self-assurance over the phone. He had to be a lawyer.

  “And you had set your thoughts on some extremist organization?”

  “Everything seems to be pointing in that direction,” Van In responded cautiously.

  “Hmm, you may be on to something,” said Bostoen. “I have vague memories of a file on the Mouvement Wallon Révolutionnaire, but it’s all a long time ago.”

  Van In had a pen at the ready and waited patiently. Bostoen apparently had all the time in the world.

  “They distributed pamphlets for a couple of years, and the Service tried to pin half a dozen arson attacks on them. Their manifesto stated that they were intent on fighting Flemish imperialism with whatever means it took and that they weren’t afraid of doing things the hard way.”

  “Sounds promising,” said Van In, raising his level of enthusiasm a tone.

  “But there’s a problem. The MWR was disbanded in 1980,” said Bostoen with a hint of regret. “Which doesn’t prevent a bunch of hotheads picking up where it left off, of course.”

  Van In eagerly noted the details.

  “I can have the file delivered to you if it helps.”

  “I would be more than grateful, Mr. Bostoen.”

  Van In put down his pen and lit another cigarette. Bostoen heard the click of his lighter, but withheld comment.

  “I’ll send a note to the archives right away,” he said. “With a little luck the file should be in Bruges the day after tomorrow,” he added condescendingly.

  “Excellent,” said Van In. “And thanks for being so cooperative.”

  “My pleasure, Commissioner.”

  Bostoen hung up, hauled himself to his feet, and hobbled to the mini-refrigerator in which he kept his medication.

  Van In immediately punched in the number of the forensics laboratory.

  “I was just about to call you,” Vanmaele chirped. “Timperman faxed Fiedle’s autopsy report half an hour ago.”

  Professor Timperman was a living legend in forensic circles. The unassuming pathologist/anatomist had a considerable reputation both at home and abroad, and his students idolized him.

  “So what’s the news?” Van In insisted. He knew Vanmaele liked to test his patience.

  “Just a sec,” Vanmaele chuckled. “Nothing we didn’t know already in terms of the cause of death. Fiedle succumbed to a subdural hematoma. The massive hemorrhage killed him.”

  “Spare me the details, Leo.”

  “Okay. What about his liver, then?”

  “Leo!”

  “His stomach contents? Timperman discovered traces of trigla lucerna and stizostedion lucioperca.”

  “What was that?”

  “Tub gurnard and zander.”

  “Sounds like fish.”

  “Correct.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Yep,” said Leo dryly.

  “So Fiedle liked fish.”

  “Bouillabaisse, Pieter. Tub gurnard and zander are typically used in fish soup, Mediterranean style.”

  “That’s really going to help us,” Van In sighed. “Anything else useful?”

  Leo hesitated. “Creytens has taken personal charge of the investigation, and Croos is as silent as—”

  “A tub gurner,” Van In interrupted tersely.

  “Timperman also found a shred of tissue under the nail of Fiedle’s right forefinger,” said Leo.

  If Creytens got wind of the fact that Vanmaele had copied the autopsy, Leo could look forward to a lifetime cleaning the corridors at the courthouse.

  “Now, that’s what I wanted to hear,” said Van In, upbeat. “Have the report sent over. I owe you a Duvel.”

  “Shall I add it to the rest of the Duvels you owe me, or were you thinking of having it delivered too?” Leo sneered.

  “Come and get it yourself. I’m at home this evening. And say hello to Creytens. Cheers, Leo.”

  Van In sat for a couple of seconds with the receiver in his hand. The tissue under Fiedle’s fingernail was potential evidence that the German might have been murdered, the first so far. A simple fall now appeared to be out of the question. It was beginning to look as if whoever did it had wanted it to look like an accident, and that of course made it all the more intriguing.

  Van In broke the connection, waited for the tone, and punched in the number of the bomb-disposal squad. A friendly career soldier transferred him four times, but Lieutenant Grammens appeared to be untraceable. Van In didn’t feel that he had the right to insist on being transferred to the canteen.

  Versavel marched in at three-thirty. He was a sorry sight, covered in snow, and his moustache made him look like a walrus with a head cold.

  “I think we’re in luck,” he said, bursting with enthusiasm.

  Versavel hung his coat neatly on the coat rack and rubbed the ice from his moustache.

  “According to hotel submissions, sixty-eight Dutch visitors spent last weekend in Bruges. One of them went by the name of Adriaan Frenkel, and the description’s a perfect match.”

  “Mario must have thought that Frenkel was a Dutch first name,” Van In nodded. “I’m listening….”

  “Do you mind if I finish, Commissioner? Frenkel had reserved a room until Tuesday, but left on Sunday morning in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Is that so,” said Van In.

  “And he paid for the entire reservation without batting an eyelid,” said Versavel with a flourish.

  “Then Frenkel’s our man. Do we have an address?”

  Versavel patted his breast pocket.

  “Good, I’ll contact our Dutch colleagues later.”

  “Is that wise, Commissioner?”

  Van In clenched his fist and thumped his desk. “Jesus H. Christ. Every time we have our prey by the short-and-curlies, those dickheads from the public prosecutor’s office run off with all the glory.”

  Versavel had long given up worrying about such matters. “Shall I type up the report?” he asked obligingly.

  “Do that, Guido. But you don’t have to dispatch it today,” he said with a wink.

  “I also paid a quick visit to the Duc de Bourgogne. According to the receptionist, Fiedle’s room was booked by fax.”

  He consulted his notebook.

  “A company by the name of Kindermann, Wagnerstrasse 45 in Munich.”

  “For one or two?”

  “One. Fiedle was the only German in the hotel.” Versavel scooped an ample amount of coffee into the filter and added some water to let it swell.

  Van In got to his feet, stretched, and walked over to the window. It was snowing so heavily, the grit trucks were having a hard time staying on top of it. Bruges was slowly acquiring a rolling skyline.

  “Either Mario’s lying, or Fiedle must have run into another German on Saturday night,” he said.

  Versavel slowly poured boiling water into the filter. “Maybe that was why she called,” he said in passing.

  “Called?”

  “The whore,” said Versavel.

  “Mario was at least telling the truth when it came to the Hollander,” said Van In evasively.

  “Don’t make me laugh, Commissioner.” He poured two mugs of coffee. “You know Mario, don’t you? He gives you a perfect description of Frenkel, who probably has nothing to do with anything, but he’s vague about the company Fiedle kept that night.”

  “I’m not sure, Guido.”

  Van In took a sip of the piping hot coffee and relaxed into his chair. Then he rubbed his chest like he was in pain.

  “Is something wrong?”
Versavel asked.

  “Sorry, Guido. I’m not feeling my best today.”

  “We’re all getting older,” Versavel jested.

  Van In barely reacted. This clearly wasn’t one of his depressions, Versavel concluded. He knew the commissioner too well for that.

  A sudden scurry of officers in the corridor made Van In look up for a second.

  “Five o’clock,” said Van In cynically. “Rats deserting a sinking ship.”

  Versavel wisely held his tongue.

  “And you, Guido?”

  “Did Merlin ever desert King Arthur?”

  Van In smiled. Versavel was well-read and liked to show it.

  “Thanks, Guido. You’re an angel.”

  The pain suddenly hit home with a vengeance. Van In was sitting in an enormous bleak chamber, surrounded by people bidding greedily against one another. He looked on as an arrogant bailiff and four musclemen emptied his house. Blood pumped in irregular spurts through his aorta, and a swarm of aggressive fruit flies danced in front of his eyes. Then someone switched the light out.

  “Jesus, Van In.” Versavel’s shout sounded muffled, as if a heavy curtain was hanging between them. Van In was flat on the floor. He had banged his head against a filing cabinet on the way down. Versavel reacted in a fraction of a second. He called the incident room and held a towel under the tap.

  Van In could hear Versavel running back and forth, and he opened his eyes. To his relief, the pain was ebbing away. Four or five unfamiliar faces hovered above him, hideous faces, the type you see in horror movies. He recognized the smell of Versavel’s aftershave. The sergeant didn’t look happy at all.

  The chill of the wet towel refreshed him, and he tried to sit up.

  “Are you okay? Do you want me to call a doctor?”

  Van In felt the cold of the floor penetrate his jacket on its way to his back. He shivered. Why was he lying on the ground? “No, leave it. I’m feeling better already.” He leaned on his elbow for support. “Did I fall? Help me get up, someone.”

  Four obliging officers lifted him from the floor like a sack of potatoes.

  “Thanks.” His vision was clearing, but his chest creaked as if a truck had driven over it.

  “I still think we should call an ambulance,” one of the officers whispered in a broad Bruges accent.