Tsing-Boum (28 page)

The Belgian policeman sniggered.

‘Notifying us on the way naturally, the hypocrite. Well, you got caught,' with a relish that was not spiteful really; a little gleeful, possibly, at the spectacle of an esteemed colleague getting bellowed at by higher authority.

‘Well,' said Van der Valk defensively, ‘I wasn't to know there was any material evidence. Those two chuckleheads didn't even throw the gun in the river.'

The higher authorities were, it was true, displeased with Mr Van der Valk. No new state of affairs. They were, however, mollified by the thought that it was all going to save the state a great deal of money. They did not keep him hanging about more than three hours, and he promised to submit a fully detailed written report, together with an exact note of expenses incurred and petty cash disbursed, a confidential memo about DST, a brief historical précis about the battle of Dien Bien Phu together with remarks about the mentality of paratroops between the years 1953–8, and a footnote on Flemish-French
antagonism. The Belgians were mollified at the thought of confiscating all the late Mr Desmet's various properties both mobile and immobile pending an inquiry into various suspected income-tax irregularities, and were read a little lecture about the type of person who made a very pleasant living from collaborating with absolutely anyone, coming up like a cork to the top of whichever wave happened to be boss wave.

He still had his self-drive car; damn it, he knew that the Comptroller would notice that, and only allow his expenses as far as the Dutch frontier. Had he not the right to travel on the Dutch railway system free of charge? A lot of good it would do him to tell them that on this particular evening he didn't feel like travelling on the Netherlands Railways. He left the motorway at Utrecht and took the side road that led to the coast, passing through Alphen on the way to The Hague. He looked at his watch in Alphen. Yes, the thing was possible, especially now that the man was not in a hurry to get home to his wife. He parked outside a large café opposite the barracks, and surveyed several tables occupied by groups of quiet men talking shop.

‘A small gin for the morale, an appple juice for thirst – got any French cigarettes?'

‘You Belgian?'

‘No, but is Zomerlust here?'

‘Everybody's always asking for Zomerlust. Ja, he's over there in the corner.'

‘His wife got killed, remember?'

‘Oh that. I read about it in the paper. He won't talk about it. You a journalist?'

‘That's right.'

‘They get the chap who did it?'

‘They did, yes.'

‘That's something, anyhow.'

Sergeant Zomerlust was not a drinking man.

‘No thanks, Mr Van der Valk, two beers is my limit. Ruth behaving herself?'

‘No misgivings?'

‘No.'

‘I was going to suggest you drop into my office. It's finished. Two men were concerned. They tried to make a getaway in a plane, but crashed it. They both got killed. There'll be a spread in the papers – hopelessly garbled, of course. If you want to know more you know where to come – it's your right.'

The mild blue gaze settled on him thoughtfully. The bumpy shiny forehead, still reddened and flushed from that year's suntan, wrinkled.

‘I won't read the paper. And I won't come to see you, unless I'm ordered to, that is. I've –' he searched for a phrase ‘– put it behind me. All right. Two men. You're not going to tell me any nonsense about lovers and jealousy and such because it's bullshit, and you know it.'

‘Nothing of the sort,' placidly. ‘Just a question of the past, as I always thought – and you knew, naturally.'

‘Esther's past was her affair – and still is.' Not for the first time, Van der Valk felt admiration for this plain man, who with his simplicity and dignity had made Esther such a good husband.

‘There is nothing that you – or she – would feel ashamed of. Two men whom she once knew. Soldiers. Both had an episode in their past which they feared would come to light. They met her, quite coincidentally, and were alarmed at the realization that she recognized them and knew them. One was a man himself in the habit of any petty blackmail that came his way. The other was a hysterical fellow with no particular harm in him. They were afraid that the past would come to light.'

Zomerlust gave a short, perfectly mirthless laugh.

‘They were safe with Esther.'

‘Their tragedy was that they did not understand that.'

‘She was absolutely faithful. To herself, to her husband, to what she believed in. She's gone. You will never know what she was like.'

‘I'll be getting along then,' said Van der Valk.

‘You get a lawyer – about Ruth. I've given you my word. I won't go back on it. When I say a thing I mean it.'

‘I know.'

*

He had not had the time to phone, and nobody at home was expecting him.

‘Lightly boiled egg all round,' decided Arlette, much too pleased he was back to be cross at having no warning.

Ruth was doing her homework dutifully at the writing table. Her face lit up when she saw him, and he was touched. All that was left of Esther – he would try and give some of that fidelity.

In the kitchen, changing his shoes, he told Arlette, briefly. She began to cry quietly in front of the stove, keeping her back obstinately to him. Tears fell in the boiled-egg water. He gave her an affectionate gentle smack.

‘Now you needn't put any salt in.' He put his slippers on painfully, conscious of enormous fatigue, and limped back to the living-room – she needed to be left alone a few minutes.

‘I've got a recitation,' said Ruth. ‘It's for tomorrow.'

‘Do you know it?'

‘Nearly all, I think.'

‘Give it me here and I'll hear you.'

‘Hear me here,' said Ruth giggling. The poem was nicely written, and the page decorated in coloured pencil with apple-trees. Four spelling mistakes had been corrected in red ink, and the mark was six-and-a-half out of ten.

‘Automne malade
by Guillaume Apollinaire,' she announced importantly. ‘It's a nice poem.'

‘It's a good poem.'

‘Very good so far. Second strophe, please.'

‘Au fond …'

‘Oh yes.

‘Au fond du ciel des éperviers planent …'
He had forgotten for a moment when he was … ‘Sorry. Last strophe.'

I like this poem.'

‘I think,' said Van der Valk judiciously, ‘that you have certainly earned sixpence.'

‘Did you forget my smoked goose?' asked Arlette, bursting in violently.

Nicolas Freeling (1927–2003), born Nicolas Davidson, was a British crime novelist, best known as the author of the Van der Valk series of detective novels; a television series based on the character was produced for the British ITV network by Thames Television during the 1970s, and revived in the 1990s.

Freeling's
The King of the Rainy Country
received a 1967 Edgar Award, from the Mystery Writers of America, for Best Novel. He also won the Gold Dagger of the Crime Writers' Association.

In 1968 his novel
Love in Amsterdam
was adapted as the film
Amsterdam Affair
directed by Gerry O'Hara and starring Wolfgang Kieling as Van Der Valk.

Discover books by Nicolas Freeling published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/NicholasFreeling

A Long Silence
Criminal Conversation
Double-Barrel
Over the High Side
One Damn Think After Another
Strike Out Where Not Applicable
The King of the Rainy Country
The Widow
Tsing-Boum

For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.

This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Reader

Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,
London WC1B 3DP

First published in Great Britain in 1969 by Hamish Hamilton

Copyright © 1969 Nicolas Freeling

All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The moral right of the author is asserted.

eISBN: 9781448214587

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