One Damn Thing After Another Read online

  NICOLAS FREELING

  One Damn Thing After Another

  Contents

  Chapter 1. A Man from Somewhere

  Chapter 2. Widow, and widow-maker

  Chapter 3. The last day of the holidays

  Chapter 4. Failures

  Chapter 5. Sergeant Subleyras

  Chapter 6. Xavier

  Chapter 7. Watch the cat out of the tree

  Chapter 8. A putative father

  Chapter 9. The power of the press

  Chapter 10. Tea and small sympathy

  Chapter 11. Alarms too loud, and excursions too numerous

  Chapter 12. Up to here in cops

  Chapter 13. The gaudy coral dawn

  Chapter 14. GO-O-O-o-o-ooooal, goal por AR-gen-TI-na

  Chapter 15. Indian summer of a sociologist

  Chapter 16. Les nantis

  Chapter 17. Plainly police business

  Chapter 18. The boy who stood on the burning deck

  Chapter 19. Les marginaux

  Chapter 20. The New Village

  Chapter 21. Professional advice

  Chapter 22. Bribery and corruption

  Chapter 23. Friendly supermarket

  Chapter 24. Abidance by law

  Chapter 25. Hocus-pocus

  Chapter 26. ¡Que se las arregle!

  Chapter 27. Me las arreglé

  Chapter 28. ¡Pa que aprenda!

  Chapter 29. De la sartén, en las brasas

  Chapter 30. Don Juan’s advice to the widow

  Chapter 31. How to keep the city in peace

  Chapter 32. Que tiene capa, escapa

  A Note on the Author

  Chapter 1

  A Man from Somewhere

  Arlette van der Valk was having lunch with a commissaire of police. He addressed her as Madame Davidson, which was the name of her second husband. That is my real name? – she asked herself. Should I say my correct name?

  Her first husband had been dead for nine years. And it will soon be ten, she thought, with a small sharp pinch at the heart. She kept his name for professional use: it was what she had printed on business cards. He, too, had been a commissaire of police. Cosy; keeping things in the family, as it were.

  Arlette van der Valk, counsellor in personal problems. It was easier to define what she didn’t than what she did. Not legal, financial, or medical problems. And certainly not police problems. Whatever she was, it was not a Private Eye. The Commissaire – there are several in a town of the size and importance of Strasbourg, the capital of a region – was there to ensure that Arlette did not make police business her own. However, there are a lot of things ill-defined by the Penal Code which for excellent reasons do not interest the police. To give her an unofficial and largely spurious standing, she had a card stating that her activities were known to and had the approval of the undersigned Officer of Judicial Police. From the same authority she had a licence to possess a pistol, which she was supposed to carry, but very seldom did, when mixing with dubious company.

  All of this was the fruit of a conspiracy fomented by her husband; one Arthur Davidson, sociologist by profession, one of the numerous resident experts revolving in the orbit of the Council of Europe, which has its home in Strasbourg. He disliked the term criminology. Society, exactly like the human body, has its pathological aspect.

  These lunches were becoming a ritual: this was the second such. At six-monthly intervals, more or less, the Commissaire, who maintained a bland official disregard of her existence, would invite her out for small-talk about rain and fine weather; in reality, a shrewd little cross-examination into her states of mind. It was the end of August and the town was empty – full that is to say of tourists. Pretext for a phonecall, saying it was a relatively quiet moment for himself also and would lunch be nice? He would have seen that her little advertisement, which she placed three times a week in the local press, announced that she proposed being away on holiday for the coming month.

  He was an urbane person with formal manners, who took her to an expensive restaurant with large tables, and space between them; pink tablecloths, and real flowers in imitation-silver vases. They got an adulterous little alcove, with no neighbours hanging their ear out. The food here was elaborate, occasionally eatable. He gave her a good bottle of wine. Probably they gave him a reduction.

  With the second glass a slight vivacity crept into the polite kindliness of his questions about her affairs.

  “One chooses between idealism, at the peril of sentimentalizing, and a realism that too frequently becomes a mask for cynicism.” Very true.

  “Well, you’ve had a year. Only experience can teach you the course to steer, and it is hard-bought.”

  “Yes, indeed. A woman the other day … I’d have been ready to put my hand in the fire for her; I swallowed her whole. Turned out to be a pathological liar, and alcoholic into the bargain – no visible sign at all.”

  “What on?”

  “Cinzano.” A smile.

  “You’d be less shocked, nowadays, by a few of our professional attitudes.”

  “Less shocked, yes. More understanding – I certainly hope so. It doesn’t always have to make me more tolerant, I believe.”

  “No … no.” The bit about government service was left un said: he twiddled his glass, “This morning – it’s an anecdote – a man was brought to my notice. I know him quite well, which is to say a good deal of him, not much about him. Under different circumstances, it could have been your work; to know about him. Not much you could have done about it. The Prosecutor calls him a nasty piece of work.”

  “And what do you call him?”

  “Oh, I don’t call him anything at all. He’s a professional assassin – no, that sounds dramatic. He’s not a public enemy. He’s uninteresting, unobtrusive. Small intelligence, no character. A speciality of violence; menaces, blows and wounds. He has killed people. There exist hired hit men. They rarely go as far as assassination. It happens. They’re small squalid people. Sly; there’s never been sufficient proof, to put him on trial I mean, for anything of that sort.” Arlette wondered where he was leading her.

  “Murders, and murderers, don’t interest me much. There are so many crimes so much worse, and even more frequent.”

  “Yes, indeed. I agree … no, no pudding for me – do any of these delectable things tempt you at all, Madame? Then coffee, please. And a cigar … I don’t have a lot of interest in him. So that when I saw him, which was more or less accidental, I said, ‘My lad, that gun of yours is sticking out; I don’t want to see you any more. In fact, France doesn’t want to see you any more. In fact, if I hear of you anywhere at all in my territory I’ll make difficulties for you.’” He broke off, chose a cigar, handed it to be clipped, and leaned towards the match.

  “As with Basque terrorists,” said Arlette. “Go away. Pester somebody else. But they come back. You’d fake something against him, if necessary. Possession of drugs, something like that.” He smiled at this female naïveté and obstinacy.

  “You still find my behaviour outrageous?” Placid, tasting the cigar.

  “Of course I do, personally, but I realize that your work has very little to do with justice. Administration is what concerns you. He’s a man from nowhere: you send him back to nowhere.”

  “Not quite nowhere. His name is Henkie and he’s from Holland. He’s a cook on a river tug, on the Rhine here.”

  “Aren’t you depriving him, then, of an honest livelihood?”

  “I dare say I am. But I dare say the Dutch can afford to give him social-security payments and keep him at home.”

  A headwaiter came sidling up.

  “Forgive me, Monsieur le Commissaire – telephone.” He frow
ned at this, drew on his cigar, drank his coffee leisurely.

  “Will you excuse me an instant?” When he came back, he sat silent awhile: he accepted a second cup of coffee.

  “Would a short drive tempt you at all? If, that is, you are in no great hurry. It is not of any great interest – as you say – and what’s more, it’s none of your business. But by one of the coincidences that occur in this trade,” drawing at the cigar, “–which aren’t coincidences – it becomes, in a sense, your business as well as my own. The identical man has just been found drowned.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “As you say. It’s the concern of the River Police, really. I could send an understrapper, for liaison and information. It occurs to me now to go myself, and to suggest your accompanying me. If you’ve finished your meal – shall we?”

  “I’d be very glad to.” Her instinct had been to refuse. But it was a lesson, plainly, he wished her to learn. Furthermore, it was a privilege. The police dislike amateurs anywhere near scenes of crime. Even languid members of the English upper classes. It always did.

  She had no curiosity either, morbid or otherwise. But for Arthur’s sake – amusement at this Dickensian situation. He would be much entertained. Mr Mortimer Lightwood, he would say. In a silk top hat. The Man from Nowhere – found drowned …

  Perhaps, too, the Commissaire saw a professional moment too good to pass up. He might think, being Dickensian too, that a demd moist unpleasant body would be just the thing to cure the sentimentalities of bourgeois ladies.

  They went in his personal car, a grey Peugeot two-litre with a diesel motor, so anonymous as to be impersonal; virtually a taxi. Clean, tidy and empty: so unlike her own small Lancia full of shoes and lipsticks, the ashtrays always full of revolting debris from Arthur’s pipe.

  Lauterbourg is a small town on the Rhine on the northeastern skirt of Alsace and at the extreme limit of French territory. An unimportant frontier crossing. Various administrations are found there dealing with technical aspects of the important river traffic, and a post of the River Police. This he explained as he drove, which was the way he spoke; quietly, with prudence, and decision.

  The Rhine hereabouts is the frontier between France and Germany. Where there is a bridge, at each end will be a customs and police post. Across open water, well now, your line drawn down the middle is a legal fiction. One cannot speak hereabouts of having a foot in France and the other in the Federal Republic of Germany, can one now? Technically thus, the Rhine is considered as international waters. A nice excuse for everyone to have a good conscience about polluting it.

  The River Police comprises mostly German river patrols, since below Lauterbourg both banks are theirs. Up as far as the Swiss frontier at Basel the French maintain patrols. The two forces live in an amicable, collegiate spirit of co-operation.

  Arlette received an impression that the man from nowhere had shown bad taste in getting himself drowned upstream of Lauterbourg.

  “Suppose something happens which concerns the courts – what then?”

  “Unless things happen,” approaching a crossroads carefully, “more or less flagrantly,” shifting gear, “on the French bank it would concern – in principle – the German courts. Things happen in midstream … this waterway is a good deal more dangerous, and a great deal trickier, than people give it credit for.” He launched into a voluble anecdote, about a barge convoy and a tug – French tug, and French skipper – which ran over an unlucky, but foolish, boy – German boy – acting the goat in a kayak, and what was worse, in the dark. Tug did its best to stop and search: you can’t, you know, stop a barge convoy at all easily. Reported the accident to the River Police and continued on his way. Slightly over-zealous patrol commander pegs the skipper for failure to assist persons-in-danger. Criminal offence, as you know, under the code.

  Comes up before the tribunal in Mannheim, or somewhere. Skipper pleads with some indignation that his over-riding responsibility was the safety of his convoy and security of river traffic. Court upholds this argument. Police officer reprimanded.

  “And was there any sequel?”

  “Sequel?” sounding surprised. “Not unless you count that particular cop living in hopes ever since of catching that particular skipper with a sidelight obscured. It’s a highly-skilled affair, navigating on the Rhine. Speed limit, too, strictly enforced – too much wash and you damage the banks, moored vessels, all sorts of things. The Royal Navy got pegged for that the other day, engagingly enough.”

  “What could it possibly be doing – defending us from the Russians?”

  “Oh, courtesy visit. Coastal launch – Air-Sea Rescue or something. Lieutenant was cross; got his head washed when he reached home. But it’s quite a serious offence, you see. Bit of wash unexpectedly sets a boat rolling, and somebody might fall overboard. Something of the kind has probably happened here.”

  They entered a dingy building with a dirty flag and a large number of brass nameplates in need of polish: the usual musty smell and great numbers of files gone brown at the edges, peopled by the sort of official who has nothing whatever to do, and looks at you with indignation should you be unlucky enough to need a rubber stamp on a piece of paper. These were all now fussing slightly, for fear of some court that might be called upon to pronounce about civil damages, or whatever.

  Arlette was the subject of curious glances and pinched lips, but nothing was said: she was with a commissaire, and that is a personage.

  There was no corpse, to her relief, and the police were not perturbed either. There very often was no corpse. Might turn up several days later and a long way downstream – in Germany.

  There was, instead, lots of paper. The Police Judiciaire dealt with this deftly, with authority. Tug pulled in to carry out obligations, quite. Cause of death, accident; quite. Place and time; quite. Tug has now proceeded on its way. To be sure: immobilizing a Rhine convoy costs a thousand marks a minute. Crews have no watch on shore: they are replaced, briskly, the moment their shift ends. A reserve crewman would be driven out and picked up on the hop at Mainz.

  Good, let’s have these declarations by the crew members. There are four, since a river tug carries five. There were three, since the engineer was below and witnessed nothing. Skipper, helmsman, deckhand.

  Cookie came up to empty bucket of potato-peel. Slight drizzle at the time: the deckplates would be greasy. Visibility was reduced. It is a busy stretch, traffic was heavy, there are a lot of building works, dredging and general frigging about. Everyone had their eyes skinned, but frankly, with more to do than stare at the cookie. There was no untoward movement or disturbance of the boat. The man had been his normal self. He was certainly not drunk, and nowise appearing perturbed or depressed. A quiet personality: a competent and experienced crewman. Suffered, as far as was known (can be verified from company medical records), from no illness or incapacitating condition.

  Conclusion by skipper, a highly responsible person, whose declaration no one would query: negligence. Carrying out a routine chore, performed thousands of times – a momentary carelessness. No cry had been heard. It might be possible to stun oneself in falling.

  Certificate produced for recent routine technical inspection of boat. Nothing defective in guard-rails or safety mechanisms.

  Right, let’s have the personal papers and belongings. Dutch citizen; Dutch company – Rijnscheepsvaart-something-unpronounceable to a French mouth. Clothing, and a few oddments. Like a book of crossword puzzles, and a few pornographic magazines. Nothing untoward.

  Very well. A death in unexplained circumstances is reported to the PJ – routine. If violence is involved – say, an altercation – equally routine report is made to the Procureur, who can if he sees fit launch a judicial enquiry, an ‘instruction’. In conditions that are obscure, the matter comes under the discretion of an officer of judicial police. Every country gendarme is ex-officio a PJ officer. The deceased was known, as the saying goes, to the criminal brigade, and the Commissaire had come to se
e for himself. But there’s nothing here outside the usual administrative enquiry. We’ll just countersign these. Copies of your reports to the German and Dutch consular authorities. In the – unlikely – event of any backlash from the Federal Republic or the Kingdom of the Netherlands, advise and inform. There we are then: I’ll drive you home, Madame, shall I?

  “No comment or criticism?” he asked mildly after five minutes’ silence.

  “The glance at his belongings – might that have been a bit superficial?”

  “I knew him you see. Careful chap. Kept things in his head. Self-censorship you might call it.”

  “Then with his head gone – the man from nowhere goes somewhere. But wherever; it’s out of sight.”

  “And out of my jurisdiction. The enquiry will leave it open. Suicide or accident – they say accident, for the sake of the next of kin.”

  “If there are any.”

  “If, as you say, there are any. Rotterdam will know. And take charge of his possessions. Either he had his gun on him, or the skipper, sensibly, suppressed it.”

  “You don’t want any loose ends.”

  “It’s the trouble with your type of interest; there are always too many loose ends, first, last and foremost. To me, there’s a body. When the Germans find it, they have a disposal problem. You find me, I dare say, infernally callous.”

  “Only,” said Arlette, “if you had him pushed.”

  “There’s that,” smiling very slightly. “No, chère Madame, reassure yourself. I think, if you wish me to indulge in a thoroughly uncharacteristic indiscretion, that it’s not totally to be ruled out that someone jiggled him. But of that there’s no evidence.”

  “Nor ever will be. Well, I’ve had my lesson: I hope I’ve learned it.”

  “If there’s a lesson. I suppose there might be. That it’s ill meddling with the dead, or with the living, come to that. One thinks carefully, before judging.”

  “I must thank you, too, for a nice lunch.”

  Chapter 2