Mr Verbiest was rather shocked at this lighthearted remark.
‘Nor would it really bother her. She wanted to tell her husband and would be relieved if he knew, really. She had behaved out of a fit of pique, no more. She threw her hat in a moment of emotional depression and discouragement. Her husband would forgive her and she knows it.
‘Now this boy Dickie. You heard him. He wants us to believe that he’s so scared of its coming to light that he forbids her to tell, frightens her into not telling, and he’s so scared of Bernhard that he kills him – or so angry that he hits him hard enough to kill him – neither the least in character. He doesn’t admit killing, but neither does he deny it – he’s secretly rather proud of it. Why doesn’t he admit it? – he has so many defences. If Fischer really threatened him he has a good defence.’
‘Could he have done it out of jealousy? If he was in love with that woman,’ said Verbiest in embarrassment, ‘and if Fischer made a pass at her.’
‘Nothing shows he really cared twopence for her. He went for her out of vanity, because she’s rich and pretty. Out of a sort of fellow-feeling, because she’s an underdog too. The same feeling of an ally, someone who would understand, made her turn to him. But there’s no sign of affection on his side. I conclude that since we now know of this affair, since we caught him redhanded with her, he’s playing it up. Wants us to think of nothing else. A manoeuvre, to throw dust, to stop us looking somewhere else. Where? And why?’
‘Could Mevrouw La Touche …?’
‘Yes …’ said Van der Valk, ‘the magistrate would want to hear what she had to say. We have evidence that she has things in her life she would want to keep hidden. But that this boy Dickie should spring to the defence of the La Touche family …’
‘He’s a funny boy.’
‘Self-centred boy, with a big idea of his own importance – and putting on, with that in mind, a very funny act. I want to let Janine go, too, and I don’t dare till this is cleared up.… No use sitting here. Home you go, boy. Night brings counsel.’
He was so tired, and his leg so painful, that he needed his stick to walk the ten minutes to his house, needed it as he had not in a year. Arlette was asleep.
Night did bring counsel. Or rather Verbiest, the young inspector, brought it at eight the following morning.
‘Couldn’t think of anything, Chief. Broke my head over it, too.’
‘Mistake. Never break your head. Forget about it. Sounds easy – nothing came to my head either.’
‘I kept thinking what you said – what kind of threat Fischer could have made.’
‘He wasn’t a villain,’ looking through the morning post with distaste and with a hopeful curiosity, as though there might be a lovely anonymous letter telling him exactly who had hit Bernhard and why. Perhaps it was Doctor Maartens, whose wife was deceiving him! ‘If he wanted to be vicious it was because he felt humiliated – that’s what makes people spiteful. But why feel vengeful towards the painter? What way could that boy have attacked or injured him?’
‘Might he just have felt spiteful towards everyone? Suppose he discovered his wife was pally with that other chap – you know, sir, the one Mr Rademaker found? He might have wanted to be vengeful towards anyone having a love affair that was handy – the painter and Mevrouw Zwemmer, perhaps.’
‘Oh fool and clown,’ said Van der Valk very suddenly. Mr Verbiest thought this was him, and was alarmed.
‘Quickly, boy – find me that man’s name and telephone number.’
There was a bemused hustle amongst paper.
‘Man’s an art-lover,’ said Van der Valk happily.
There were buzzes and clicks on the telephone line, the phone burred in The Hague, and Van der Valk made nervous irritable hand movements.
‘Can’t be gone to work yet; these people don’t start before nine. Must be shaving, or in the bath, or something … Ah. Hallo … Mr Matthews? Sorry to disturb you so early. Van der Valk, Commissaire of Police. No, you don’t know me. No, not from local headquarters – a matter of some importance. I would very much like to talk with you, as early as may be. No, not at your office – I can be with you in half an hour. Can you spare me fifteen minutes then before you leave? … Naturally. I would not, believe me, but this is likely to have weight. There are people in prison at this moment on this account.… No, I can’t discuss that over the phone.… That is good of you. Very well, I’ll delay you as little as may be.’ He put the phone down, went off, and turned to his puzzled subordinate.
‘Cooperative, luckily – diplomat. Get a car as quickly as you can.’
The main road from Amsterdam to The Hague is always busy, but rapid. It was the flow of people still going to work, in the government offices of The Hague, that held them up. Still, they were in the pleasant quarter of this pleasant town called the Way to the South Wood in half an hour, and that was good going for a Volkswagen.
A flat in a building constructed in the gloomy ‘style’ architecture of the nineteen twenties, a flat suitable for a middle-aged diplomatic bachelor, and an English car equally suitable – a Wolseley – standing outside. Van der Valk, in the large slow comfortable lift, realized that he was putting on his cavalry act again, with amused detachment, leaned on his stick, and prayed he was right. The door opened very promptly.
A man in a stiff dark suit, too heavy for spring, even spring in Holland. Fresh, glossy-shaved, alert face, a bit heavy, like the suit. Looking intelligent in a well-nourished, rubicund way.
‘Commissaire Van der Valk. This is Inspector Verbiest.’
‘Please come in.’
A very agreeable large sitting-room, with well polished English furniture and cabinets with what looked like a nice collection of antique china. Van der Valk had no time to look at it, because the first thing he saw was the thing he had hoped to see. He tried not to make his breath of relief too noisy. A picture of a woman on a horse.
‘I do talk English but not very well. I notice though that you speak excellent Dutch, Mr Matthews.’
‘Part of my job. Please sit down, gentlemen,’ politely. ‘I accept your assurance that this is important, naturally, but I am bound to point out that I have no time to waste. I am anxious to help you in any way I can, but your mention of people in prison is disturbing: you do understand that I am attached to a diplomatic mission, and I may have to refer your enquiries to my superiors, or to a person more competent in this matter than myself – and now please tell me, Mr Van der Valk, what it is I can do for you.’
‘A purely personal matter, Mr Matthews, in no way interesting to the Embassy or your superiors, upon which by coincidence you are well placed to throw light.’ Even in English the phrase would have sounded hopelessly pompous – but he couldn’t help it. No use telling Mr Matthews that he had been born in the Ferdinand Bol Straat! This was not Janine’s world, or Rob’s world, or the painter’s world. The nearest you got would be Francis La Touche, and even that … It had been the trouble all along. Two worlds … intertwined … not easy for a poor policeman to unravel.
‘You are acquainted, I believe, with Madame Marguerite Fischer.’
Mr Matthews was not happy.
‘I have that honour – but, really …’
‘There is no need of protest, or embarrassment. I am acting on information received, but your private life has not been intruded upon – nor will it, necessarily. This is all quite confidential.’
‘There is nothing improper about my friendship with Mevrouw Fischer.’
‘Nobody suggests there is.’
‘I have, I agree, asked her to divorce her husband.’
‘And now that her husband is dead?’
‘I hope to persuade her to do me the honour of marrying me. After, naturally, a proper lapse of time.’ Spoken well, and firmly. ‘Nothing, I need hardly add, in our acquaintance could injure her reputation, nor, I might say, my career.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I am aware that her husband died in sudden and rather tragic circumstances – is that th
e object of your interest?’
‘Quite shrewd of you, yes it is. Do not worry – it is very far from my mind to imagine that you had a hand in hurrying Mr Fischer into another world.’
‘I should certainly hope it is,’ very tartly, so that Van der Valk felt properly snubbed for a vulgar joke. ‘And may I ask what the object of this visit is, exactly?’ Suddenly he got in a great panic. ‘You mentioned people in prison – not Mevrouw Fischer, of course?’
‘No,’ mildly. ‘Should she be?’ getting his own back.
‘Please state your business in my apartment,’ nastily.
‘My interest is in art,’ in a pleasant tone. ‘There is a picture on your wall.’
‘It is,’ very stiff indeed, ‘as you perhaps notice, a portrait of Mevrouw Fischer, with a horse. She was kind enough to give it me, as a present.’
‘Was it kept a great secret?’ Mildly innocent.
Of course, Mr Matthews was embarrassed. How could he have been anything else? But he kept his end up stoutly. The English have some phrase, thought Van der Valk. A straight bat? Or is it a straight wicket? The boy stood on the burning deck Playing a game of Cricket …
‘I distinguish, Commissaire, between a natural wish to avoid any breath of indiscretion or what might be thought irregularity, and a guilty silence, or what might be so construed. I find it most unpleasant – revolting – to be compelled to keep my friendship with Mevrouw Fischer – furtive. I hope very greatly that it will not remain on that basis.’
‘Quite. Look – don’t worry so much. We were interested in knowing about all the friendships. We observe. But we keep discreet. This will do neither yourself nor your career the faintest harm. I simply ask – did you commission this picture – or did she?’
‘She did. It was to be a surprise for me.’
‘You know the artist?’
‘I have never met him. I know of him. He has, I believe, done other portraits of persons who use that manège, and is regarded as quite a good modern painter.’ This in the tone of someone who thinks Georges Braque is a poster artist, and doesn’t want to be enlightened.
Both men, by a sort of common consent, had turned to look at the picture. It was a good one, thought Van der Valk. He’s a good painter.
‘Quite a good bit of work.’
‘Quite fair,’ agreed Mr Matthews cautiously. ‘My appreciation – the value I set upon it – is high for other reasons.’
‘Just so. So Madame Fischer got this idea, perhaps, at the manège, and you knew nothing about it.’
‘I imagine so. A generous idea, designed for no purpose than to give me some pleasure – in which there is nothing illicit.’
‘Quite so. That’s all, Mr Matthews; I’ve finished. Very likely you will never be worried again. Your private life is no concern of the police – not in the Kingdom of the Netherlands at least,’ unfairly. Matthews reared slightly and he held his hand up. ‘You must bear one thing in mind. Mr Fischer died by violence, and it is my work to throw the circumstances of his death into daylight. It is conceivable that you may be mandated to appear at the Palace and asked to repeat what you have told me to the Officer of Justice. As a private opinion it is very unlikely that he will see any need, in view of your diplomatic status, to make your testimony public. That, you must understand, is for him to decide. I cannot give you any promise or assurance – I would be overstepping the bounds of my functions. Good morning, Mr Matthews, and many thanks for your frankness and lucidity.’
‘There goes a sadly worried man,’ he said in the car, laughing. ‘They’ll have all their legal experts working on it.’
Verbiest was full of admiration.
‘So that was the connection.’
‘Art. We knew he and the Fischer woman shared an interest in art. They buy china, silver, things like that. I didn’t connect that with painting – stupid of me. Especially once we knew Dickie did several portraits of customers at the manège. She took a risk, to prove her devotion. She commissioned the picture, and kept it a secret. That’s what Matthews feels guilty about – he knew she paid for it secretly, and kept it utterly dark from fat Bernhard.’
‘How did he find out?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ slowly, ‘to learn that the woman Groenveld found out – and told him out of jealousy. She may feel a certain rivalry with our friend Mr Matthews.’
‘What really happened, do you think, though? How did it come about?’
‘We’ll probably never know,’ slowly, staring out of the window at all the little whizzing tin boxes on their little silly wheelies. ‘What’s paradoxical about this job is that we’ve got to be interested in character, since otherwise we’d never understand anything at all. At the same time it’s not our work, as you learned in training school, to worry about whys and wherefores. That is usurping the function of the magistrate. What we are given is a form, which we get people to fill in, just like every other godforsaken functionary. Are you single? Are you married? Widow/Divorced? Strike out where not applicable. What’s your income, and what’s your hire-purchase debt? What’s your religion? Your hobbies and interests? What are your political views – Right, Centre, Left – strike out where not applicable. They don’t ask your fears, your anxieties, your hopes, what you trust and cling to – but the psychiatrist does, of course.
‘It’s exactly like the form for filling in your income tax, for applying for a passport, for soliciting a job. One of these forms, we are supposed to pick the one that adds up to a criminal. But the really interesting things, the things that make up a character – they are too complex, too illogical, too inconsequent. Décousu.… They follow no laws. We have to go up against people as though they were characters in a book – oversimplified. Are you in love? – not in love? Strike out where not applicable. It’s a nonsensical job.’
‘Where did the threat come in?’ asked Verbiest, who hadn’t heard a word. Van der Valk sighed. Young – too young. Wants everything explained.
‘How do I know? Fischer felt humiliated. He felt he wasn’t even in charge of his own restaurant. He felt his wife slipping away from him. He felt a big stupid clumsy farmer, and that the riding-school crowd looked down on him. It makes a dangerous man, who does sudden and bizarre things. Not unlike Janine.… But it made him spiteful. Who knows what he found out, or how? He may have felt there was something he didn’t like between his wife and the Groenveld woman. He may have been told by her that his wife was overfriendly with a fellow in The Hague. Out of jealousy – maybe. He might even have been taunted with it by the painter – out of jealousy … we’ll never know. Maybe the magistrate will.’
‘But why should the painter have killed him?’ persisted Verbiest. He got a sudden doubt, too late. ‘Did the painter kill him?’
‘Leave the door open, boy. It wasn’t a squalid crime. What Maître Floriot calls an idiot crime. There was a clash involving Janine as well as Marguerite. Janine knows nothing about it at all. It seems likely the painter used her as a mask, to fox Fischer – that he deliberately let Fischer find and pick up that bit of paper Janine threw’ – Verbiest didn’t know what he was talking about, and he went on more or less to himself. ‘Throw Fischer off the scent, maybe.… He had no emotional attachment to Janine. Whereas he might, in some obscure romanticized way of his own, have loved Marguerite. She sat for that painting – in secret …
‘Fischer might have thought Dickie was his wife’s lover – seems absurd to us – might not have seemed so to him. He rumbled the Janine camouflage in some way. He might have gone in a red rage to Dick and threatened to do him – Dick hinted as much.… He may have threatened to massacre Marguerite – how should we know? Fear, love, rage, anything, Floriot says, creates an idiot crime. One of them picked up that weight and clonked him. I wonder if Saskia knows …’
They were back. Van der Valk got out of the car briskly and fished for his stick.
‘We have the item of information we need to open the oyster,’ he was saying five minutes late
r in his office. ‘He’ll probably admit he killed Fischer, now. Five minutes’ work – a short signed statement. Doesn’t much matter if it’s true or false. I’ll take it straight over to the Palais, and the Officer will be very pleased. Get a release order in the same moment for the Zwemmer girl. A nice easy one. Anybody else and there would have been publicity. A poor little devil of a painter kills someone – that’s not news. And that’s the way magistrates like them. I sound cynical? – never mind. While I go over with a handwritten statement you’ll see about having the boy fingerprinted and photographed, Verbiest. And you’ll type up the procès verbal, afterwards. Now get the boy out of his dungeon, lad; we’ve no time to waste.’
He was right. From then on it would only be a matter of form. Have you ever been a member of the Communist Party? Strike out if not applicable. Male/Female? …
He was home with Arlette by lunchtime. Janine had been released – Rob was waiting for her with the Ferrari and an enormous bunch of roses. The magistrate’s clerk was busy issuing summonses. Marion La Touche would be asked whether Fischer had ever held information over her head she would be glad to have kept secret. Marguerite would be asked. Saskia Groenveld would be asked … The painter would be asked …
Most of it would be kept secret. It would depend on the defending lawyer. They would not get away with legitimate self-defence, but they would manage large, impressive extenuating circumstances. Nobody liked people like Bernhard, even if no money was ever demanded. They are reminded of their own little secret weaknesses, and feel uncomfortable – and pick on the handiest goat to drive into the desert. Poor Bernhard. He was dead, so he would get systematically blackened by a defence lawyer.
It was Friday. Tomorrow May the First, Fête de Travail. On the balcony of the Kremlin they would be saluting, in fur hats. In France they would be going to the races. In prison they would be thinking.
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