Over the High Side Read online

  She let out a short yap of hysterical laughter and killed it at once.

  ‘Quite so,’ he said calmly, ‘there’s no need to apologize – it is ludicrous. So we are faced with a criminal investigation and that is my job, my affair, and explains the notice on my door. Eventually, too, a judicial instruction or process. When we find the assassin,’ he explained bluntly. ‘So that at this point, Madame, you have a kind of choice. I am the investigating officer, and will have questions for you. We will be as discreet as possible, but these questions might be personal, embarrassing, even painful. I would go fingering through your house.’

  She gazed helplessly, not seeming quite to understand, but plainly she was in shock.

  ‘What I’m trying to explain to you is that you may feel you want advice, professional help, a kind of protection. No no, that doesn’t make you in any sense suspect or imply the slightest guilt. It’s a sort of prudence. You might feel I was taking in some way advantage of you – do you follow?’

  ‘You mean a lawyer?’

  ‘I mean a friend, who could advise you. You’re in no sense obliged to have a lawyer. You might, shall I say, decide against it.’

  ‘What difference could it make?’ with a sort of vague helplessness.

  ‘It would reduce my role, confine it to fact-finding and verifying. And it does make things more complicated, lengthier, more laborious. I would notify the Officer of Justice, because then the whole affair comes into the hands of the examining magistrate, who asks you to come and see him and – why, then he takes whatever steps he sees fit. Which can be all very wearisome. I would work in a simpler, less official, perhaps less oppressive manner. If,’ he spread his hands out, ‘you allow me to.’ Quite the little civil servant: a model of prudence.

  She smiled, very slightly, thought it over, taking her time.

  ‘I think I prefer to leave things with you, Commissaire. I don’t think I need a lawyer; as for friends …’ She thought a while more, and sighed as though tired. ‘I realize that being much younger than my husband I must look an attractive prospect – a kind of candidate, is it, for this criminal you will look for … Lawyers – magistrates – all these formalities …’ She sighed again. ‘I’m afraid it’s all going to be quite complicated enough as it is.’

  *

  He thought about her, driving back, wordlessly, to Amsterdam. Reasonable woman, balanced, not going to make his life a perfect misery. Detachment – yes, in the voice too. That phrase ‘preparing myself for the day’ – resignation, even a certain humour. She spoke of Martinez with undoubted affection and respect. ‘Vader’ – begun perhaps as a joke, and turned into genuine feeling. It did not sound the slick, simplified gloss of someone pretending. Still … ‘Women criminals are consummate actresses’ – quite so. The phrase, however classic, is nonetheless itself a little slick. He had a solid Dutch distrust of aphorisms: they tended to appeal to immature minds.

  He had not asked her any of the obvious questions yet. Not even why she wore a fur coat on a hot day.

  The Rivieren-Laan is not one of Amsterdam’s old quarters. Built after the war, but not so long after that one of the streets missed being called Stalin-Laan, an enthusiasm that later caused the municipality embarrassment. A wit had suggested ‘Stalinweg’ – ‘weg’ means a roadway in Dutch but it also means ‘gone’. He was not thought funny. It was renamed ‘Liberty-Laan’, which does betray a certain laborious lack of imagination, but there, municipalities are like that and the whole quarter is anyway drearily unimaginative too. Within these heavy blocks live many rich people; there is the thick silence which more than anything means wealth in an apartment block. Picasso lithographs, and a little safe built into the wall behind. Gilt-edged, but lots of lead within. But behind the lumping boulevards named for lumping great heroes are narrow noisy streets, full of poor people, who go to work of a morning along the busy tramlines of the Van Woustraat and the Ferdinand Bol. Van der Valk, during twenty years in the city, had mined the seams often but still never knew which of the little streets were which.

  ‘Left … second to the right … you can stop here.’ There was resignation in her voice. A big row of letterboxes showed that the flats were small and crowded. The stairway was cramped: no lift. Junior officials and undermanagers, not distinguished old men with morocco card-cases. She walked in front of him to the third floor, slipped her key in the lock, gestured him in, and slipped off the fur coat. Under it was a cotton frock, which his Arlette-trained eye could see was home-made, not very well home-made. He knew these flats all right: minute, with a little hallway, doors to broom-cupboard and bathroom, both the same size; doors to kitchen and living-room. He knew the kitchen would have a little balcony where one hung out the wash, that behind the living-room were two bedrooms, the one a scrap less cramped than the other. He needed no telling that the Martinez household was not rich.

  The living-room was furnished in the solid mahogany of the thirties now despised in Holland and sent to junk-shops. He was asked to sit down, in a fat little armchair with a chintz cover hiding the worn plush upholstery. Madame Martinez had determined upon uncompromising honesty.

  ‘I can’t offer you a drink because there isn’t one. In fact it’s a miracle the phone hasn’t been cut off. Still, he would have paid that if he possibly could – was there any money in his pocket?’

  ‘Not a great deal.’

  ‘How I’m to pay for the funeral … well, there it is. We hadn’t a penny and you may as well know it.’

  ‘Was it always like that?’

  ‘Oh no – no, often we were – how to say, we ate in expensive restaurants, the place here was full of champagne – ah, there is at least a cigar I can offer you – everything riding high, but suddenly, without any transition, one would be wondering how to pay the phone bill.’ And Van der Valk felt a little spurt of interest and admiration. In a boy of twenty-five, yes, it was commonplace, but at seventy-six! However improvident, or irresponsible, or whatnot – what vitality the old boy must have had! She read his mind from the pursed lip, the twitch of amusement and the tiny whistle. ‘He wasn’t all stiff and chalky and incapable of movement,’ warmly. ‘He had mettle.’

  ‘You loved him?’ It wasn’t really a question needing answering.

  ‘Yes. I suppose we lived squalidly – but whatever he was he wasn’t squalid.’

  ‘You didn’t work yourself?’

  ‘He was also very proud. He’d been a more than adequate breadwinner for fifty years, and wasn’t a man to live on women’s earnings.’

  ‘You didn’t get bored, with nothing to do?’

  ‘Never,’ with conviction.

  Van der Valk smoked his cigar, which was good.

  ‘He had mistresses?’ in a peaceful, tranquil tone.

  ‘Certainly not,’ indignantly, and then suddenly saw through his little deception and said, ‘And I didn’t have any lovers,’ even more indignantly.

  ‘I did warn you that I would ask this kind of embarrassing, rude question.’

  ‘That’s quite true. I beg your pardon.’ Tensing herself to a lot of desperate honesty.

  ‘Perhaps you might have been his mistress before he married you?’ She did not frown but thought it over carefully.

  ‘Well – I was his secretary – how am I to explain this? He didn’t have mistresses; that would be a most immoral thing to do.’ Suddenly a little click of intuition gave it him.

  ‘He married them instead?’ A little to the surprise of both, they found themselves laughing a little, but in a sort of admiration of Martinez.

  ‘Well, yes, I’m bound to admit he did. And – and – well, you’d find out easily enough – I’m bound to admit I’m his fifth wife. Such cows really – so often exploiting him – making so little effort – did they ever really even try to understand?’

  ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Seven years,’ with an innocent enough kind of pride. Quite an achievement.

  Van der Valk was becoming
quite attached to Martinez, who had been an engaging old rogue. Did they get killed then, the engaging old rogues?

  ‘Was he dishonest?’

  She made her mind up quickly.

  ‘Well – he’s dead, poor Vader – I suppose I can forget about oh, loyalties, and the whatdyoucallum, the necessary deceptions – it wouldn’t be a lot of use now. But one can’t really answer that simply: I suppose yes, you’d call him dishonest, but you’d have to call him honest in the same breath.’

  ‘Moral and immoral.’

  ‘He had high principles, which he would die rather than infringe,’ her warmth a scrap edged, as though stung by his indulgent tone.

  ‘Like for instance always marrying his mistresses?’

  As a match will sometimes sputter as it is struck, before flaming, she gave again a tiny flicker of laughter before regaining her gravity.

  ‘There’s a great deal more to it than that,’ severely, so that he too had to laugh a little in his turn because yes, certainly, he bet there was!

  ‘Who are the girls?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Why do you ask that?’ astonished.

  ‘I was with him in the ambulance. He was still alive, a little, for a few minutes. He spoke – that is to say he uttered. “The girls” – twice, nothing more.’

  ‘A last effort to keep his grip.’ She was crying now, but not noisily, a steady trickle of tears that did not disrupt her calm; left her calmer, in fact, because less strung up. ‘He was very attached to life: I’ve never known anyone so – difficult to kill.’ She looked dismally into the distance at the back of Van der Valk’s head. ‘He was often ill – he used to get bronchitis every winter, and very often pneumonia, but he had colossal recuperation. He was tremendous fun, you know … the girls; they all live in Belgrave Square.’

  ‘Isn’t that in London?’

  ‘I suppose so, but not that one. This one’s in Dublin. I used to live there myself once,’ with a moment of nostalgia. Another of Martinez’ little surprises.

  ‘What does it mean then, the girls?’

  ‘His daughters – there are three of them.’

  ‘And they all live there – a sort of Martinez colony?’

  The idea, and his tone of voice, as though he could not take all this altogether seriously, seemed to strike her rather as though she had never thought of it that way before.

  ‘Well there’s a sort of family bond – a strong sense of attachment – I mean they’re all married women, around my age, we were more like sisters, in a way …’ She broke off in some confusion, whether because it was embarrassing or else too complicated to explain he could not tell.

  ‘Madame, there is one question which you haven’t put to me, which surprises me a little, so I will put it to you.’

  ‘Which is?’ seeming puzzled.

  ‘Who it was that killed him.’

  This flustered her: she reddened and lost countenance, as though the main point had been forgotten, like doing an hour’s shopping in a store, and then discovering one has forgotten one’s purse.

  ‘I’ve simply no idea,’ in a great hurry to get the words out. ‘No notion; I simply can’t understand it.’ Self-possession had vanished; she was floundering.

  ‘I can’t suggest any reason at all,’ she gabbled on. ‘I mean he might have had enemies in the sense of people who disliked him, or envied him – but I can’t see – I mean one doesn’t kill people. I’m expressing myself very badly: he could be sarcastic, snubbing, very fierce sometimes, even rather cruel – but that’s all I meant. Mortal enemies, that’s the word I wanted, not mortal enemies.’

  ‘And of course you didn’t kill him yourself.’ A police remark made in a police voice, as if making in a joke a nasty suggestion that yes she had and somehow he knew all about it.

  She recovered her dignity, and smiled politely.

  ‘I don’t think you can be serious, Commissaire, or if you are I don’t quite know what you mean. If you mean actually kill him like that, with a dagger – well, I don’t know exactly when he was killed, you did say around four o’clock, I was here all afternoon. I can’t prove it because I was alone. I ironed some shirts, I pressed a suit – no, I did go out a moment to buy some eggs, and tomatoes, you can ask the shop. No – I can prove it – I was here when you rang up; I answered the phone. I suppose in a story I might have had time to do it and get back very quickly, in a helicopter or something.’

  ‘That kind of story is for laughing at,’ politely.

  ‘Then you mean you don’t believe I killed him but perhaps I wanted to kill him, did I have a reason for killing him, something like that?’

  ‘Partly,’ in the agreeable, almost joky voice. But she was now very much on her dignity.

  ‘Then apart from the idea being revolting, disgusting – you wouldn’t care about that –’ her tone said that he was no longer intelligent ‘– no, the answer is no.’ Proudly, bitterly, the pale, slightly protuberant eyes no longer so pretty but glaring with anger and pain at the infliction of a gratuitous wound. He had to break this tension.

  ‘I’m not so unimaginative as to think you a splendid suspect just because I’ve nobody else. You were closest to him, you knew him best; it’s in him I’m really interested. I want two things, essentially. I will ask you to come to my office tomorrow, to help one of my men piece together all you can recall of his doings and movements this last fortnight, shall we say? His telephone calls, letters, meetings, conversations.’

  ‘But I don’t know the half – I couldn’t remember anyway. I’d get it all wrong.’

  ‘Very likely you will, as anybody would: we’re used to that. A patient man used to such work will help you. Memory plays one tricks – just a matter of disentangling it.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can. I don’t see that it’s likely to be much use. I’ve told you nothing of his business because I know nothing – I didn’t listen when he talked on the phone, say – I had no curiosity about it, so it left no print on my mind.’

  ‘The second thing,’ disregarding all these explanations and justifications, which were common form, ‘is that I want your authorization to go through all his papers, and perhaps take some away, here and at his place of business.’

  ‘I don’t think he had one, really. He was just one man. He always worked alone.’

  ‘He had cards printed with an address in the Harbour Building. It’s true – though only on the strength of one phone call – that they don’t seem to know him there.’ She was again a scrap confused, but not disconcerted.

  ‘I told you – there were all sorts of little shifts and pretences, and some you might think a bit dishonest, whereas really they were only pathetic.’

  ‘This particular little shift seems so very easily penetrated.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand, I think. There was actually – is actually – a friend of his who works there, who took messages and things – I really don’t know his name. Oh, do try and understand. He never talked about business. When it went well it was unimportant, contemptible somehow, and when it went badly it was humiliating. I know a couple of names. The papers – well, even if I said you couldn’t have them you’d only go and get a mandate or a warrant or whatever you call it.’

  ‘Yes, probably I would.’

  ‘Then take what you like. They’re in the bureau there. It’s locked, but he carried the keys.’

  ‘We found them.’ It was the most solid piece in the room, and too large for it: a large old-fashioned ‘ministry’ bureau.

  ‘It wasn’t that he didn’t trust me,’ she went on, pathetically, ‘but he was terribly orderly, and meticulous, and couldn’t bear things being touched.’

  ‘I have everything here.’ Van der Valk opened his briefcase, and handed back the sad, luxurious contents of Mr Martinez’ pockets: the plaited straw cigar-case – empty – and the sterling cigar-cutter. A gold clip – Mexican twenty-dollar – holding so slim a fold of ten-gulden notes; a leather key-holder. Door-key, street-door, yes,
bureau. Ignition key, with a Mercedes plaque, the three-pointed star a flashy gold on silver. ‘I’ve a man looking through the town for this car which must be parked somewhere.’

  Her smile was acid. ‘Just for show, Commissaire. He used to play with it ostentatiously, or pretend to forget it on people’s desks – he hadn’t a car at all.’

  ‘I see.’ Yes, he felt sympathy, and again admiration. A man of seventy-six!

  ‘The tram stops ten metres from the door. I need hardly tell you the trains are frequent and efficient.’

  ‘Have you a suitcase, Madame, for these papers? You’ll get them back in a week or two. Any that may appear relevant to our inquiry will be photostatted, but no originals will be taken or indeed any paper used without your knowledge. I’ll give you an official receipt.’

  ‘Very well,’ in the resigned, half-dazed tone in which most people acknowledge this bureaucratic claptrap.

  ‘Are you going to stay here by yourself? You could go to friends, you know.’

  Her desolate look held courage. ‘I do have friends – but I prefer not to trouble them. I am an adult woman; I prefer to sleep in my own room and my own bed; I shan’t be frightened.’

  The bureau was apple-pie; paper classifiers, neatly labelled. One drawer, marked ‘girls’, held four bulging folders labelled ‘Lotte’, ‘Agnes’, ‘Agatha’, ‘Anastasia’.

  ‘These are the ladies of Belgrave Square?’

  ‘Three – Lotte is older, she lives in Venezuela, I hardly know her, met her once on a trip to Europe with her husband – he has some vaguely diplomatic post: they’re rich. The others I know, of course.’

  ‘You’ll come to my office then, around nine if that suits you–’

  ‘What about my husband?’

  ‘There are a few administrative details but don’t worry, that’s all quickly cleared up. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.’