Love in amsterdam, p.17
Love in Amsterdam, page 17
He said prayers. He said “Our Fathers,” slowly.
“Hold your breath, and say one; say three before you light another cigarette. And think what you are saying.” The whole day spread around him full of horrors that pressed in with nasty clammy hands. They threatened him till a dozen times that day he wept and whined; yes, he had killed her, but leave me now in peace. In his lucid moments he told himself angrily not to be such a fool. “Don’t be a fool; you’re not only a fool, sufferd, klootzak. Don’t you know any other languages? Insults, at least, in Spanish. Or in Italian. Yes. Stronzo, pirla, froggio, finocchio, osso buco, gazo, fica. Menos male; va.”
He had a need for fresh air, to feel the damp wind on his face and set his feet to a pavement with rain on it. Listen if there is a boat, there in the Amstel, tooting for the Sarphati bridge to swing for her, creeping up into the heart of the town, her gentle wake swishing against the quay by Carré. The other side of this water is the Stadhouderskade, going up toward the Leidseplein, Elsa’s favorite walk. Two minutes’ walk across that water, in the tangle of old-fashioned streets around the Vermeerplein, just before you reach the screaming traffic of the Van Baerlestraat, lies the Matthew Maris.
That evening, telling the story to Van der Valk, had opened old wounds in Martin. Of love and hate and enslavement. Like her little donkey he had been. Carrying her shopping bag. The waterway up to the Nassaukade, and the little shop by the Rozengracht bridge where she bought her cheese; the cheap butcher and the dear butcher, the wine shop in the Vermeerstraat, the cigar shop and the cleaners, the ironmonger, Albert Heijn and De Gruyter and Simon de Wit—the whole neighborhood had known what he was, running to the chemist every month for large neat anonymous packets. The things you do when young and in love, thinking that nobody else in the world feels the way you do.
Even now, ten years afterward, he would not have bought as much as a packet of cigarettes in the whole neighborhood, for fear of the little flicker of recognition in a shopkeeper’s eye. How young he had been, and how ridiculously immature, willfully doing incredible things to épater le bourgeois. Amsterdammers are not so easily scandalized. And there are so many other young men with noisy and childish tastes.
She had hated the Matthew Maris. Achterbuurt, she had called it, slummy district, quite unfairly. Dreadfully she had envied Toon, who was successful and well-off, and lived in the flossy quarter down by the Beatrix Park. She had wanted to live looking at the water. Well, she had made it. The Josef Israels might not be a dream of luxury, but at least it was in Amsterdam-Zuid, and looking at the water.
How she had cursed when the children screamed, playing in the narrow street, so that the sound echoed between the tall houses: might as well live in the Jordaan, she said. She despised the heavy, rather ugly, but solid, dignified Museumplein district. But at least through those thick walls you did not hear the neighbors scratching themselves. Just as well, he thought with a grin, remembering whimsicalities of passion. The roses he had had to pick with his teeth. Love under the shower; love on the kitchen table; love in Amsterdam. He had thought that love was like that; the memory gave him little pleasure.
Stop the goddamn stream of consciousness, idiot, think. Say more prayers. Wasn’t easy, hadn’t been to Mass for twelve years or more. Couldn’t remember further than “Judge me O God”—disconcerting—and “I will wash my hands among the innocent”—hardly helpful. Wouldn’t do. “Credo in unum Deum”; that was better, I believe in one God. Big blank, something about Pontius Pilate—whom he had always thought rather unlucky, doing his best to maneuver in a decidedly slippery situation—until one came near the end.
“Credo in unam, sanctam, catholicam ecclesiam.” Didn’t sound right. Latin adjectives, forgotten, never been any good at them anyway. Word missing, somehow, too. Try and remember. Think of Maria Laach, and the monks tossing phrases from one side of the choir to the other, a shower of golden balls. Embroidered notes like old manuscripts, blocky Gothic capitals turning into gay birds and flowers. Got it. Unam sanctam—or was it-um—came on one side, and the other chirped straight in; apostolicam ecclesiam.
And then there was something about one baptism and the remission of sins. Not a very efficient prayer.
He realized that he was in the grip of neurosis and made a considerable effort. He lit a cigarette and sat cross-legged on the floor. A slight temporary neurosis, induced by psychiatric gobbledygook, and the strain of uncertainty. Compensations, or adjustments, or whatever, had got bumped a bit loose. These were all symptoms—that feeling that people were trapping him was simply schizophrenic. And this ridiculous idea of being a blackout killer, a common delusion; the old legend of the Doppelgänger, the alternate self who did wicked things. Now get into bed and behave sensibly. You did not kill her, so don’t go running to claim punishment, just to purge a feeling of guilt.
Same old story, always wanting to add to one’s self-importance. Every time there is a murder a heap of lunatics run to the police station with elaborate, ingenious, totally imaginary confessions. He fell asleep thinking of his army chaplain, a young Belgian Jesuit who grinned when the others called him cocu, and fitted his own words out of psalms to the songs about Angeline, where every line had to rhyme with “encule.” But not even the Germans could sing like our mob.
* * *
The minibus again, the familiar mousehole, the only-too-familiar face of Mr. Molenaar, who made a smile of acquaintanceship if not pleasure. He said good morning, but like a man who is not too sure. The delightful office of Mr. Slotemaker de Bruin, rather darkened by the weather. It was a vile day with sleet in front of a high wind, and he had his reading lamp on. Today he had a dark reddish suit with faint green lines in it, and an apricot tie. He did not look in the least like a public prosecutor—was that a good omen? His eyes had a strong greenish glint. He began without preamble.
“I have had the report from the clinic, from Professor Comenius. He finds no doubt in your statements, and no reason to throw doubt upon them. He describes you as lucid and with some gift for expressing yourself. You are inclined to be diffuse and verbose, and to be overlong in coming to the point. Mm, rather like some officers of justice. However, he thinks you both an observant and an accurate witness, as they go, and that—where am I?—your view of matters is not more than normally distorted by your individual vision. For a psychiatrist, he is unusually complimentary. That’s all he says that need concern you; his report is, naturally, confidential.
“There is little to be added; I have given this matter a lot of thought. I am instructing the authorities concerned that I do not believe the interests of justice to be furthered by holding you any longer in custody.”
Martin, absurdly, was trying to recall an obscene rhyme of his childhood, chanted by dirty little boys, beginning Un jour un charcutier, en découpant de l’andouille... but he could only remember the last line: Des affaires du cul je ne m’en occupe plus. It seemed to fit the situation; he felt a childish reprieve from care.
The communicating door opened and a typist came in, a fat, middle-aged woman with a stenographer’s brisk fingers. She was considerably corseted, had a neat black suit and an unsuitable blouse, and her kind bun of a face was unpainted, creased with fine confidential wrinkles. She murmured.
“Very well,” said the magistrate. “My regrets, and I will not keep him waiting long; indeed on second thoughts he need not wait at all. Ask him to be good enough to come in.”
She waddled out comfortably, and a moment later Van der Valk’s untidy face appeared in the doorway. Martin waited with some amusement to see whether the magistrate altered his verbal style with policemen.
“My dear inspector, good morning. Do me the pleasure of sitting down. I asked for you to give me a little time; I am not satisfied that our friend here is answerable for this affair of the unfortunate de Charmoy. I have informed him that I propose to order his provisional release; he understands, naturally, that he is unreservedly available to you should the need arise, as a witness. Now I wish to benefit from your conclusions; you may indeed have made new discoveries. The investigation had better proceed on a new premise, with my confidence and support, be it added.”
Van der Valk did not look at Martin; his voice was level. “We have more than a basic premise; I am glad to say that we have a very promising line of inquiry, which I wish to report, sir.”
“That is encouraging. A moment.” He turned to Martin. “I am pleased that your confidence has been rewarded. I hope that it will not prove necessary to bring you here again. I am pleased to have made your acquaintance. Molenaar, perhaps you would let our friend wait till I can have a word with the director of the House of Keeping.”
Outside, the state policeman showed Martin a thin smile. “Slid out, then. Good luck.”
“Nice knowing you all, but I can’t say I’ll be sorry,” grinned Martin.
* * *
Three hours later, his weekend bag over his shoulder, he was struggling against a fierce gusting wind up toward the Marnixstraat. The windows of the Haarlem bus were blurred by streaming rain; scurrying passersby were whirled like leaves across the open spaces; hats went into the air like the larks ascending. A pompous woman had her umbrella blown inside out, and was rude to the conductor, who, quite likely on purpose, overshot her stop in Halfweg. The water of the Amsterdamse Vaart was shaking itself and rattling at the canal banks like a bored child in a playpen.
Another hour, and he was drinking coffee in his own living room, with Sophia fussing over him slightly.
“First I’ll go out and buy an enormous steak, and I’ll make béarnaise; is that a good idea?”
“Very good.”
He sat like a sultan reading weekly papers, ate happily through the enormous steak, went back to his papers while she washed up, and was half asleep by the time she came back, changed and bringing tea and chocolate.
“We’ve a bottle of marc; I’ll get it first, and then tell you what’s been happening to me.”
After he had seen her last, at the Palais de Justice the day he went into the House of Keeping, Sophia, rather tempted to cry, had sat a few minutes to finish her cigarette. Van der Valk had disappeared, and she was taken aback when he accosted her on the pavement outside.
“I’ll give you a lift if I may.” She got into the Volkswagen and he moved off into the traffic, but on the car park off the Marnixstraat, where the Haarlem bus waits, he stopped the car and turned the engine off.
“Look, I want to talk a little; is that allowed?”
“Go on.”
“Are you in a hurry? I can drive you to Haarlem, or I could come back this evening if you’d prefer.”
“I’m not in a hurry now, and I’ll have plenty to do this evening.”
“Very well. I’m pretty sure that your husband didn’t kill anybody. I am also pretty confident that the examining magistrate will come to the same conclusion. May take him a few days. This is quite straightforwardly a maneuver to gain time. I have no proof of anything, but I do possess at this moment a strong piece of indirect evidence. Now I don’t want you to go thinking that your husband is being victimized, and tearing off to lawyers, and imagining that I am suppressing this evidence. You had some such idea, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Would it put your mind at rest if I told you what I have?”
“I think I have a right to know, don’t you think?”
“I think you do at that, but I hesitate to show you this; it is a rather horrible business.”
“Much more horrible for me if my husband were to go on trial for a murder he did not do.”
He studied her face a moment and nodded, putting his hand in his pocket. The envelopes that Martin had seen were gone, and the twenty or so photos that he handed her had been wrapped in tissue and tucked into an old wallet. She unwrapped them slowly and studied them one by one. Van der Valk watched her wooden face with some curiosity. When she had seen them all she went through them again, before folding the tissue again and handing them back.
They were of Elsa, all of them; Elsa wearing a black mask but quite naked. The first dozen were simply a series of poses, lovely, lewd and intricate. They had been taken in her living room, carefully lit and photographed with great expertise and a good deal of artistic sense. Her hair had been skillfully arranged and her body composed to heighten the effect.
The others were different. Still highly artistic; good composition and technically extremely proficient. They had been taken by remote control. Elsa wore the mask again; her smile in close-up was almost a rictus, and sweat was showing alongside her nose. The man’s head had been masked by a black hood; Ku Klux stuff. These pictures were of a careful, studied obscenity that was most effective; the last few were staggering.
Sophia gave Van der Valk a slightly malicious smile. “They will look fine on your office wall.”
He grinned back, relieved. “I’ve shown them to no one yet but the chief inspector.”
“And what did he say?”
“Nothing. Spilt his coffee down his shirt. We get a few of these, you know, but they’re not often of this standard. Pretty talented—not hack work. And a model who knows and enjoys her work—that’s rare too.” His voice was not malicious.
“So there is a man, and that is his picture—up to a point.”
“Yes. And he must be lying very low. He can’t know whether we’ve found these. Fears it. He’ll be sweating in his socks. But so long as your husband’s in jail he will think himself safe. Get it, now? He’ll do a lot to get these back. Tricky situation, though. He may not dare try and break into the flat, for fear of failing, and letting us know he’s failed. Nothing been tried yet; he might not know where she hid them. He’s wide awake, and tense—good thing that; makes him give it away the easier. But a breath of an idea that we’re after him and he’s vanished. We don’t know his face. We might find a likely bloke, but we’d have to bring him in and say, ‘All right you, take your clothes off and try this for size; sorry, we haven’t a woman handy.’ I hope I don’t offend you.
“I’m inclined to think this is a racket; the woman’s mask is just an added excitement, common prop in pornography, but the man’s mask is a disguise; maybe he was thinking of marketing these. Makes good money; you need a safe outlet. Camera, book and antique shops, and so on.”
“This must be someone recent in her life, surely? Otherwise you’d have found a trace of some kind, I should have thought.”
“That’s it. Entirely new character. Look, if I may I’ll call on you in Haarlem tomorrow night. I hope I’ve relieved your mind. Your husband won’t come to any harm in jail, and he won’t stay there long. Like me to drive you home?”
He was as good as his word, and back the next evening. Sophia made him coffee, and gave him a large gin.
“People would say I suspected you, or was trying to make you,” with content, leaning back and crossing his legs.
She gave herself a small gin, sitting upright. “Why have you come, tell me.”
“Helps, you know, to talk to an interested person. Seldom possible. Helps thought; helps unwind.”
“What about your wife?”
“Rule number one; never talk shop at home. My wife is bored and disgusted with police work. In this case, you’re not. And you’re in a peculiar position. I pulled a fast one on your husband, maybe, and feel the need to justify myself. And you know more or less about the whole business.”
“More or less? I know nothing at all. I am not interested in Elsa de Charmoy; I detested her, but I don’t want to cross-examine my husband; what he tells me will be fragmentary. You can let him go tomorrow, without a thing against him; he will still have sat in jail, under suspicion of killing a woman he once loved. I get a slight idea that you are holding me under observation; is that so?”
“Yes, up to a point.”
“Mm. I am more likely, certainly, to have murdered her than my husband. Still, assume, for the present that I did not murder her, and know nothing about it. That I have never been in the house on the Josef Israelskade. Will you tell me the story?”
Van der Valk told the story, concise, clear and fluent. Sophia listened without interruption. She poured another cup of coffee.
“And now what?”
“Not very easy to say. Two classic methods. One is to go very quietly, putting nets down and dragging them till you get a shark inside. The other is to make a great noise, arresting people—or saying you have—all over the place, policemen poking round everywhere dressed as gas-meter men, saying how interested they’ve always been in photographs of naked women; has anyone some to spare? Idea is to make your man nervous, lose his head, run. Tips his hand. Popular method, because people do silly things and it shows them up. Not so good in this case, because I think he’s all set to run anyway. No clue to his identity; everybody carries cameras; no law against it.
“No; in this instance we sink the nets and start sweeping quietly. For instance, might be a professional photographer, huh? So far, I’ve turned up every professional between Den Helder and Amersfoort. Hell of a lot there are too. Likeliest he lives right here in Amsterdam, but it could be Noordwijk or Uitgeest for all we know.”
“But surely he lives near the Josef Israels, don’t you think?”
“Why so definite?”
“I don’t know, it was instinctive.”
“Try and see why.”
“Yes; you said that nobody had noticed a stranger in the district, first; that strikes me as queer. The old woman, the other neighbors, the police. Even if he only came at night, I should think that someone would have an impression of a strange face, a strange car, something. Isn’t it logical to suppose that he isn’t a stranger at all? Lives maybe right there in the street?”
