Intrigo

by Håkan Nesser

  A problem that can’t be resolved on a long walk with a dog is best avoided.

  It was Mr Klimke, her philosophy and religious studies teacher at grammar school, who had written these words of wisdom on the blackboard in a lesson once. He went on to explain that it was a practical illustration of another classic problem: how to pick one’s battles.

  The slow walk with Django that Saturday took nearly two hours and, had she followed her old teacher’s advice, this is one battle from which she would have withdrawn. She had no solution and consequently should have discounted the whole thing; ignored the imposter, who, for some mysterious and probably quite bizarre reason, was intent on subjecting her to this unpleasantness.

  The snag was, it was impossible to opt out of this battle. In theory perhaps, but not in practice.

  The realization that it was the waiter who was the villain of the piece meant one good thing, at least: she could extract herself from the supernatural morass. That was not where the explanation lay. It wasn’t a dead avenger she was facing, or a ghost. Whoever this irritating idiot was, and however twisted his intentions, he was a person of flesh and blood.

  That’s something at least, Judith Bendler thought as she knelt to dry Django’s paws in the same cosy, safe and welcoming hall in which she had spoken to the imposter for the third time. That’s something. Tomorrow I’ll ring Cafe Intrigo and get a name. I do actually remember very clearly what he looked like.

  She couldn’t really account for why she was procrastinating until the following day.

  It might have been because the waiter, in common with the three male customers, had been in his forties.

  And it might have been because there seemed to be – at least with the benefit of hindsight – something vaguely familiar about his face.

  A young woman’s voice answered.

  She apologized for her unusual request, but said she wanted to contact a waiter who worked at Intrigo, the reason being that he had helped with a little problem when she had visited the cafe a few days previously and she would really like to thank him personally.

  It had been Wednesday afternoon, to be more precise, at about three. A man in his forties, short dark hair, polite, considerate; and helpful, as she’d said.

  The young woman hesitated, but not for long, before asking her to wait while she looked at the rota. In thirty seconds she was back.

  ‘I think it would be best if I could take your name first.’

  ‘Of course. Judith Simmering.’

  She had been prepared for the question and had her maiden name at the ready.

  ‘Thanks. The waiter in question must have been Tom Bendler. He was working on Wednesday.’

  Bendler. She swallowed the impulse to hang up.

  ‘Thank you. Do you by any chance know how I could contact him? Or when he’ll be on next?’

  ‘He won’t be back. He finished on Friday.’

  ‘He finished on Friday? How . . . how come?’

  ‘He was only employed for a month, temporary cover. The regular waiter’s back now.’

  ‘I see. But maybe you have his telephone number? Or an address?’

  ‘Only an address, actually. 25B Armastenstraat. I have to get on with my work now, but I hope you find him.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much for your help.’

  ‘Not at all. Hope to see you here again soon.’

  The idea of hiring a private detective came to her out of the blue, and yet it was perfectly obvious. She could see it was precisely the right measure to take under . . . what was it called? . . . current circumstances. She couldn’t appeal to the police and she didn’t want to involve Robert, not yet, at any rate. Maria Rosenberg was ruled out; she was a seventy-two-year-old therapist, not a snoop. And heading off to Armastenstraat on her own in an attempt to do something struck her as the least attractive option of all.

  Forget the whole thing? Not choose this battle?

  Out of the question. In for a penny, in for a pound. She had taken the bait at Cafe Intrigo and in so doing had committed herself. To what was unclear, but in any event she felt it was high time to take the initiative. Up to now, in the two months since the whole thing started, it had been the imposter in charge, fooling with her, calling the tune. Now it was time to adjust positions somewhat. High time.

  Before the seeds of doubt could be planted she went into action, unearthing the thick business section of the telephone directory and finding eight firms listed under Private Investigators, Detective Agencies. She decided on number seven, for reasons she couldn’t explain. Maybe just because she liked the name. Her very first boyfriend had been called Herbert.

  Herbert Knoll. Private detective. Discretion a point of honour. Maardam 500221.

  She dialled the number, and although it was Sunday morning, the call was answered. He was a man of around her age, at a guess, and despite sounding rather tired and rather vacant, he assured her he was happy to listen to her summary of what she required help with. If she could take five minutes to explain the facts, he undertook to tell her whether or not he would accept the job.

  And explain the facts she did. It possibly took a little longer than the stipulated five minutes, but Herbert Knoll hmmed and listened and, judging by his short supplementary questions and interjections, he sounded increasingly interested. When she had finished, after telling him about that morning’s conversation with the waitress at Intrigo, he declared the case to be within his area of expertise. He suggested they meet as soon as possible and they arranged an appointment at his office for the following day. 6 Ruydersteeg at eleven o’clock. Would that suit her?

  Judith Bendler said it suited her perfectly.

  After putting the phone down, she was left with a feeling of triumph akin to the success she felt when finally making an appointment at the dentist’s, and for the next four hours she devoted her full concentration to Erasmus of Rotterdam.

  She hadn’t promised to pick Robert up at the airport, but decided to anyway. Maybe because she owed him something, a little gesture of goodwill to show she loved him, despite choosing not to inform him about recent developments relating to Tom.

  Since he would never be in a position to interpret or understand this gesture, it was on the face of it a muddled way of reasoning, but that didn’t bother her. A marriage was like a pair of scales, Maria Rosenberg had once suggested; it never did any harm to put good deeds into the balance, even if they were not immediately recognized or appreciated.

  These were the thoughts occupying her mind as she waited in the arrivals hall, but they melted away the moment she caught sight of her husband.

  He looked terrible.

  As though he had lost ten kilos and shrunk as many centimetres. She knew Robert didn’t like flying, even if she did sometimes feel he spent more time in the sky than he did on the ground. It was something to do with poor oxygen intake – the dry air inside the plane had a bearing on it – and the problem hadn’t improved over the years.

  But on this Sunday evening she was conscious of something more: this haggard old man, who was actually her husband, apparently wearing a suit two sizes too big, in all likelihood did not have long to live.

  In accordance with his wishes they had never spoken in great detail about his illness, but all the same it had played a part in their relationship over the last few years. A kind of invisible presence, she used to think, something you knew was there but avoided talking about, or even referring to. In several discussions with Maria Rosenberg about this approach, they had both taken issue with it, but since Robert was the one who was ill, he had a certain edge when it came to strategic choice.

  But now he was not simply ill, he was dying.

  His breathing, when he gave her his usual quick kiss, told its own story.

  It became all the more evident on the car journey back from Sechshafen.

  ‘I have to make a confession,’ he began. ‘There is no film project in Geneva. Well, there might be. But not that I’m involved
in. I’ve been to see a specialist.’

  ‘A specialist?’

  ‘A doctor. I’ve been in hospital for observation for four days. They’ve done thousands of tests and it’s led to . . . it’s led to a prognosis.’

  She didn’t answer. I know, she thought. I knew it.

  ‘Six months,’ he said. ‘A year at the outside. There are ways of prolonging the suffering a bit, but I don’t intend to go down that route.’

  He placed his left hand on her knee.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Judith. I’m going to leave you.’

  ‘Robert, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry,’ she sobbed as she stroked his hand.

  ‘You don’t need to say anything at all. I think we can celebrate one last decent Christmas together, at least. And start a new year. Dr Celan reckoned I would remain pain-free . . . relatively pain-free . . . for another two or three months. Then . . .’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Then it will probably get worse. How’s it going with Erasmus? I’m really looking forward to having the time to read your manuscript and discussing it with you.’

  How typical of Robert, she thought. He wanted to deal with the subject of his own impending death in three minutes, but would doubtless be able to sit dissecting her 600-page text for days on end. That’s how it was, and she realized that in truth she was thankful he was made that way.

  But was he also ready to talk about Tom?

  Good question, Judith Bendler thought, as she turned off towards Holtenaar. But in view of current circumstances, I’ll put that off for a few days.

  Knoll’s private detective agency occupied no more than twelve square metres.

  A desk with a swivel chair, a filing cabinet and an armchair for visitors. That was it.

  Apart from two framed diplomas on the wall to the right of the desk, dusty and illegible, and a small, dirty window facing a brick wall, letting in a minimum of sombre daylight.

  Her guess as to his age seemed accurate: the same as her own. His weight was about twice hers, and he filled up the room in a way that was rather impressive. Faintly tinted spectacles pushed up onto his forehead, bulbous nose, shaved head, unshaven cheeks and chin.

  ‘Welcome to Dr Knoll’s Think Tank,’ he began. ‘Whatever your first impressions of my spartan surroundings, I wish to inform you that I solve ninety per cent of the cases I accept. That’s more than any of my colleagues in this city can claim, considerably more, I can assure you. Please sit down.’

  Judith sat down on the unadorned leather chair. Doctor? she thought. She had a sudden impression of a scene in one of Robert’s films, in which the man in front of her was actually a famous actor, not a real private detective.

  But maybe it doesn’t matter, she thought in confusion. Maybe it’s what he always claims, that film is life condensed, as simple as that.

  ‘Let’s go through everything one more time, to make sure I haven’t missed any important detail,’ Herbert Knoll continued, opening his notebook at a new page. He clicked the end of his ballpoint pen a few times, squinting at her. ‘Please go ahead, and I’d rather have ten pieces of information too many than too few.’

  She began her account. About the three telephone calls, the visit to Cafe Intrigo, the three men and the waiter.

  That he reportedly no longer worked at the cafe, that he was masquerading under the name of Tom Bendler and his address was 25B Armastenstraat.

  And the background. Tom’s disappearance in July 1973; not in detail, obviously, she hadn’t divulged that to anyone, but the official version, the one the police followed and the one she still knew by heart after all these years and all the occasions she had repeated it.

  ‘All right,’ he said after she had finished, and he went on to ask for clarification on a number of points: the imposter’s appearance in detail; Tom’s appearance when he went missing; her opinion on what was really at issue; what her husband thought; how she wanted the investigator to handle the imposter when he had tracked him down (was he just to be kept under surveillance or had she considered other measures?); how she would like to receive the reporting; and whether she was prepared to pay for the first few days’ work immediately, and thereafter according to the tariff, subject to unforeseen expenses and complications.

  Judith answered the questions to the best of her ability, requested a report on developments whenever there was something to report, preferably daily, and paid for three days’ work in advance.

  Herbert Knoll held out his hand to her across the desk and promised to ring her within twenty-four hours, regardless of the situation.

  ‘Who is he?’ Judith said. ‘That’s clearly the most important question. And what does he want?’

  ‘I’ve understood,’ Herbert Knoll said, as she took her leave. ‘You can rest easy and count on me.’

  On the train back to Holtenaar she unexpectedly burst into tears.

  For Maria Rosenberg it would probably not have been unexpected, but for Judith it was. She never wept; she couldn’t remember the last time she had, but it must have been many years before. Maybe at the time of her second stay at Majorna, although she didn’t associate her bouts of depression in any way with tears.

  So why was she sitting on a suburban train, crying? Fortunately, there were very few other passengers so early in the afternoon; no one noticed the state she was in and she made no effort to hide it. To her surprise she felt better; something strained and tense had been released and she supposed that was the whole point of weeping. That’s why people did it.

  She didn’t really know what she expected from the private detective. He might not achieve very much of any value, but the least one could hope for was that he found the bogus Tom and uncovered a few things about him. If he could somehow establish his real identity, there was every chance she would soon be rid of the matter. Wouldn’t she?

  But in fact, her tears had little to do with Herbert Knoll or the imposter. She soon realized it was Robert at the heart of the knot that needed to be loosened. In a year’s time he wouldn’t be around. They had lived together for an awfully long time; admittedly, they had no children together and without a doubt their relationship in recent years had not been especially close. Their sex life had ceased when her periods did, but neither of them regretted it much. Sometimes she thought he might as well have been a congenial cousin she happened to share a roof with. And things could have been worse. They didn’t argue, they didn’t get on each other’s nerves, they almost always behaved with kindness and consideration to one another and they shared a dark secret.

  That was roughly how it was, and as the last phrase took shape in her head, she did wonder if she could hold her silence about the last few days’ developments with the imposter. The troublemaker, the phoney Tom, or whatever label you wanted to put on him. Didn’t Robert have the right to know, when all was said and done?

  Or should he be spared?

  When she got off the train in Holtenaar, she still hadn’t decided, but she had dried her tears and blown her nose.

  It was a glass of champagne that tipped the balance.

  Maybe not the first or the second, but probably the third. Robert had been down in the cellar that afternoon gathering samples and had found a couple of bottles he was adamant she shouldn’t have to drink alone while he was pushing up daisies and consorting with worms. Or alternatively floating around on a cushion of cloud playing the harp.

  So that led to a seafood dinner, champagne and candles, even though it was an average grey Monday in November. Damn it, was Robert’s thinking, much as I would wish to, I’m not going to die of cirrhosis.

  He also said he had refused all film assignments, every single one, awaiting the big day. He wanted to stay at home in peace and quiet for his remaining time, be it three months or ten. Reading, listening to music, drinking wine for as long as he could, and being close to his kind, beautiful, clever wife.

  Above all he wanted to immerse himself in her weighty manuscript on Erasmus of Ro
tterdam. Surely she wouldn’t deny him these simple but sublime pleasures now, in his swansong?

  Of course she wouldn’t.

  The prawns were good. The lobster was divine.

  She knew she could manage two glasses of wine, but she shouldn’t drink any more if she wanted to stay in control.

  Why should I stay in control? she thought, nodding to Robert when he plucked the bottle out of the ice bucket to top up her glass. I’ve been far too careful all my life.

  And that is how it came about that, half a glass later, when Robert wondered if anything special had happened while he was in Geneva, she told him.

  At length and in detail, the only thing she left out being Private Investigator Knoll.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he exclaimed when she had finished. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

  ‘You came home with sad news. I’m saying something now.’

  ‘It sounds completely insane.’

  ‘You thought I was imagining things. That I’d dreamt the first telephone call . . . and then, I don’t know, you were away when it happened in September and again this week. Anyway, I know it’s not my imagination. There’s someone pretending to be Tom and he’s after something.’

  Robert frowned and sat in silence for a moment. Then he knocked back what was left in his glass, rose from the table and walked over to the French windows. As he stood with his back towards her and his fists clenched, she guessed he was beset with the same frustrating thoughts she herself had been for the past few days and nights.

  She let him stand where he was and waited for him to return to the table and draw up a plan of action. But the only thing he said when he sat down again was:

  ‘God damn it, I think we’ll open the other bottle as well.’

  She nodded. If she had drunk three glasses of champagne, she might as well drink five or six.

  ‘Have you really not cottoned on to what he wants?’

  It was some time later and they had moved over to the armchairs by the fireplace. Robert had lit the fire and she felt more drunk than she had been for a long time. But she was sitting here with a husband who would die within the year, her Erasmus manuscript was to a large extent completed, so what did it matter?