Tsing-Boum (4 page)

Van der Valk opened the door. The commanding officer was sitting boyishly on the edge of the desk, on which lay an ochre-coloured file.

‘Sorry to have kept you from your desk, Colonel.'

‘You weren't long.' The voice sounded so genial that either he had phoned the War Department and been told to go easy on those civilian police, or that the office was bugged – who knew what Nato Security would get up to next? – or (likeliest,
on the whole) he was now as convinced of his man's innocence as Van der Valk was.

‘All right, Zomerlust. Just a minute, will you – I'll be needing you … Well, Commissaire?'

‘Very nice fellow. Didn't kill anyone.'

‘Yes. Likeable chap. Not always an advantage for a noncom – but he's good at his work.'

‘Got an archbishop's alibi – I have to send a man to take short statements from the men working with him. Clear him formally; I'd be grateful if you could arrange cooperation on that. I suppose you give him compassionate leave, mm?'

‘He's in the Army. We'll stand by him.'

‘I'd like to study this file if I may. I've no lingering suspicions but it may help me with background.'

‘Yes – well – it's military property – but you'll treat it as confidential matter?'

‘Sign for it if you like,' thinking of the military way with weapons.

‘No, no but uh – your eyes only.'

‘I'll ring you up, Colonel, very shortly, and in all likelihood I'll return this by messenger, tomorrow.'

‘If you would. You know your way? Sarntmajor! …'

Van der Valk's office desk was full of pencilled messages. He disliked tape-recorders.

‘Piet Hartsuiker reports all negative on intruder in flat-block Van Lennep.'

‘Rik and Gerard have neighbourhood pattern on Zomerlust/ Marx. Negative on unusual circumstance or particular friendship.'

‘Labo much interested by weapon reported Uzzi s.m.g. what the hell?'

Indeed. What the hell?

‘Get me Amsterdam, Technical Services … Lab? Ballistics there? … Sam? – Sam? What is this animal? – a Japanese motorbike?' Jewish snickers came down the line.

‘Now you've come to exactly the right shop, Mister.'

‘Huh?'

‘Israeli, very nice, extremely simple, remarkable little weapon.'

‘Sammy, sonny, don't go technical. Guns bore me. Would it go under a raincoat without being noticed?'

‘Go down your pants leg if you want it to, Mister.'

Since the only possible answer to this was an obscenity, he obliged, put the phone down, and asked himself who the fornication walked about in Holland with an Israeli army sub-machine gun. It remained a simple, neat, thoroughly professional killing, but this rococo flourish of childish melodramatics irritated, intrigued … Nobody Dutch did such things. Professionals, anywhere, used ordinary, unglamorous medium-calibre guns from national arms factories, simple to supply, maintain, exchange, or dispose of; difficult to notice, trace, or identify. Fancy guns were for musical-comedy spies. To soothe
himself he picked up Sergeant Zomerlust's dossier. He at least was a good sound Dutch boy who never did anything surprising. And to his amusement he was quite mistaken.

Forty years old. Origin Brabant. Religion, Roman Catholic. Father's profession, sheet-metal worker. Parents living. Career army man, re-engaged. Good technical man. Armourer First Class. Relatively low rank explained by a common phenomenon: promotion went largely nowadays by written examination and he was a poor examinee. Education had not gone beyond primary. His handwriting was unformed and laborious; he would always be top on practice and bottom on theory. Intelligence slowish. Turn the page. Medical history. Physicals perfect, eyesight twenty/twenty, hearing … aha, been wounded. Well well, he had served in Korea. And there was the first spark: the man had a thumping medal. Wounded by shell-fragments in the face and arm, ran the citation, had rallied section of badly-shaken infantry. Wounded again (abdominal), long stretch of hospital in rear area (Philippines). Mum-mum-mum, turn page. Service Dutch forces in New Guinea. Back to Europe, posted Nato training camp La Courtine, France. Wounded in leg and foot by grenade splinters in accident caused by nervous recruit – commended for saving said imbecile's silly skin. Six weeks in French military hospital. Van der Valk was turning pages back and forth by now, piecing together the man's life. Another flash of originality. Met – in the hospital? – and married a woman of vague antecedents.

But there was not much about Esther Marx. Jugoslav origin, nationalized French, born in the Pas de Calais, father miner. Profession nurse.

A woman who had refused to talk about her past. And the marriage had been disapproved of by Zomerlust's commanding officer. There seemed to have been some sort of incident. The episode had lain heavily on Sergeant Zomerlust; he had been punished for it. He hadn't been court-martialled or anything – clean record, wounds, a medal had helped him there. But promotion was slow, and scattered through the dossier in coded annotations and military jargon were various incomprehensible
sanctions. Not suitable for tactical atomic-weapons training. Suitable for coordination with English troops but not with French or German.

Was it all just Nato bullshit? There was a lot more stuff – posting on manoeuvres with Scandinavian elements, some work on tanks, a belated promotion to his present rank and the posting to his present unit, a mechanized infantry depot; Van der Valk's attention sagged. It was all too ambiguous. What did ‘Not recommended for advanced ops in Central European theatre' mean? A thread ran through the dossier sounding almost like politically unreliable. Had the marriage with the dubious Jugoslav antecedents anything to do with it?

Van der Valk reflected that dossiers had always an unreal quality. Dangerous to read between the lines: half of this might well be the stupidities of owlish clerks.

The technical report, with huge numbers of glossy photographs, now appeared on the desk. Discouraging. No prints of foot or finger signalled a mysterious intruder. Esther Marx had been peacefully cooking the dinner when interrupted and massacred, and that, behind reams of exhaustive analysis, was all there was. This business was uncomfortably like a nasty mess.

Knocking-off time arrived and with it the Press. The sensational aspects had attracted an unusual crowd, milling and cat-calling in the waiting-room: two or three hopeful photographers took shots of him as he arrived.

‘Statement, statement.'

‘You all know the rules. The Officer of Justice will allow no comment that may prejudice the investigation, which, I need hardly say, has barely begun and may be lengthy. We possess few valid indications.'

‘This sergeant …'

‘Has satisfied me that he could not possibly have been present.'

‘She wasn't Dutch.'

‘She was of Jugoslav origin.'

‘Has that anything to do with it?'

‘I have no idea.'

‘What about the weapon?'

‘Automatic.'

‘Of military origin?'

‘Possibly, but not Nato issue.'

‘Russian? Czech?'

He wished he could knock their silly heads together.

Neither of his children lived at home, now. The casual insolence with which schoolchildren popped off to Tunisia or Turkey had first appalled and then entertained him. Since going to their universities and vanishing from ken they had become more and more far flung, and the elder, supposed to be doing engineering at Besançon, spoke offhandedly of Leningrad and Montreal as though they were next door. Their extreme sophistication and bounding self-confidence had a charming innocence: their father, who had never been to America, was on this account treated as the most circumscribed of peasants.

Arlette was disoriented and unoccupied; her instinct for activity, described by her husband as the wish to ‘take cabs and go about', was now harnessed by outside work. Two afternoons a week she worked at the local orphanage, and three evenings at the hospital. Having no ‘diplomas' made her tetchy: other people were allowed to do things she could have done so much better!

‘Get a few diplomas then,' Van der Valk, who had dozens of the idiot things, suggested. ‘They aren't hard.'

‘I refuse. I'm like Malraux's grandfather – too old to pass examinations or change my religion.'

‘Well then, eat it and like it. Valuable lesson in humility.'

‘I try to,' said Arlette humbly. ‘But I lose my temper rather often.'

Tonight was not a hospital night. Goody – nice supper instead of something-to-warm-up. He recalled that she would not have gone anyway, because of the child. This child … was Zomerlust telling the truth, saying he had no idea who her father was? It had had the accents of truth. But why had he married Esther Marx in so uncharacteristic an outburst of
quixotic romanticism? She had been a nurse – military nurse. Had the father been some comrade, perhaps in Korea? Who had perhaps been killed or something? He decided that he was constructing a tale he could shortly offer to a women's magazine, and opened his front door upon a nice smell. Arlette, aided by Ruth, was making supper.

He was blunted by the day, and used to her talking French at home; she always did, to keep the boys bilingual. Undoing his shoelaces, he heard that the child not only understood but was replying. He rose as though he had sat on a pin and stumped into the kitchen.

‘Have you seen Mamma?' asked the child at once, but he was prepared.

‘We're both going to see her, tomorrow morning. But she may not be well enough to talk to us.' Ruth, flushed and excited, seemed to be getting on well with Arlette.

‘I'm tired, thirsty, and want a glass of vino.'

‘May I get it for you?'

‘Sure, in the fridge, and take a kitchen glass.'

‘Madame talks French.'

‘Madame is French. So do you talk French – I hear.'

‘You do too! So am I French.'

‘Are you really?'

‘Is that all right?'

‘Pour one for me too,' said Arlette. ‘You may have a small one if you like.'

‘I do like.'

The child had bad table manners and was over-excited. After supper Van der Valk conveyed by violent sign language that she must go to bed. Arlette made a teach-your-granny face and was away for a long time: a lot of noise came from the bathroom. Finally Arlette appeared, said she was mangled, and asked for a glass of port.

‘She's had a rotten time. Needs a lot of warmth, a lot of affection, a lot of spontaneous enthusiasm. Been left alone a lot. She's used to bottling it all in, and she has to learn to flood it all out. You can't do that in three days. Do you know anything about it?'

‘Very little. The woman was killed by X with what appears
to be an Israeli army sub-machine-gun. Her name was Esther Marx. Born in France of Jugoslav parents, it would seem.'

‘Israeli – Esther – Ruth – Jewish, you think?'

‘I don't know,' dully. ‘Has it importance? Did Jews shoot her?'

‘More likely Arabs – they ran away so quickly,' said Arlette frivolously. ‘I think she guesses that Mamma is dead – they're so sharpened to that. You saw the husband?'

‘A nice man. Says Esther never talked about the past and that he made a point of never asking. Now that I think about it I'm sure that it's the truth and that what's more it was damn sensible of him.'

‘No doubt, then? – something or someone out of the past?'

‘Perhaps – if only because she had so oddly little present. What did she do all day? We'll hear from Ruth – eventually.'

‘Have you plans, for tonight?'

‘I want to have a look at the flat. The technical report tells me nothing. But I won't be late.'

‘What are we going to do with the child?'

‘Keep her, for the moment. You don't mind?'

‘I think I like it. You may find me asleep – she takes a lot of concentration.'

‘The husband's family is hostile. He doesn't know what to do with her.'

‘A very lucky thing that she speaks French. Does the poor little wretch get shoved off to the orphanage? I could help there, but so little.

‘I wonder whether one could adopt her,' she went on vaguely. She looked at him, waiting for him to sort his mind out.

‘I don't know – it seems to me that we could. This Zomerlust – he's her legal guardian, of course.'

‘Think about it.'

‘Sleep on it.'

Raining again – the thin stinging rain of Holland that blows in across the North Sea in gusty draughts that go up your sleeve and down your leg, the cold fine streaks of wet slashing at his ears and eyelids: he felt old and disheartened at having even noticed. How many nights had he not spent in the open, professionally armed against cold and damp, boredom and fatigue? But now he was sick of it, and counted the years before he could retire. Ten years? – unless the doctors threw him out first. This weather hurt his bad leg and made him limp; it was a struggle to get into Arlette's deux-chevaux and even more to get out of it again in the Van Lennepweg. Ach, work kept one young.

He didn't have to run around draughty streets at night; he was the Commissaire, desk man, executive, armchair strategist, and for running about he had active healthy young men at his disposal. But there, he couldn't taste with their tongue.

The Van Lennepweg at nine thirty on a wet autumn night was deserted as an Andalusian village at two on a July afternoon; the leggy streetlamps poured their dirty orange light upon a total silence that blew to and fro in the curtains of rain; wind whistled over the tall grimy blocks of concrete but did not touch a silence as whole and heavy as the silence of the forest. He had never seen a forest until a year or so ago; Arlette had laughed at him – forty years old and never seen the forest. Well, there weren't any forests in Holland. But after his accident he had learned to walk in the forest country where Arlette had taken him. Forests of beech, of spruce and pine – now he had them in his blood. Mile after mile of silence, until one expected to come upon strange shapes in the clearing, scrape away the moss and find an Inca city unseen and untouched for seven hundred years.