Gun before butter, p.2
Gun Before Butter, page 2
‘Because I’m Dutch.’
‘Nuisance, isn’t it? Often feel it myself.’
‘But I’m in Holland; I’m at home. Nobody can dictate to me who I go out with.’
‘Nobody’s trying to,’ said Van der Valk peacefully. ‘I’m only suggesting, gently, that if you are less edgy your companions will find it easier to be tactful. You are obviously intelligent; you will see that.’
She kept silence; he studied his surroundings. Several expensive pieces, and more looking like presentations. Englebert had been brilliant; more, he had been well known and an admired musician. A thought too dramatic, perhaps, a scrap too theatrical. But good. He had made lots of money, but easy come, easy go. Great chaser of women, with his handsome, flamboyant looks – how would that have affected the daughter? Would she ever realize, perhaps, that all that womanizing might have been the thing that lent Englebert’s music a tiny touch of the spurious, a hint of insincerity?
In elaborate crocodile and python mounts were many photographs of women; silver, leather, crystal everywhere. A rich, sportive, rather vulgar atmosphere.
‘Is one of those women your mother?’
‘No. They are all mistresses,’ quite casually. ‘After a short interval of official mourning, I’m going to throw the lot out. They mean nothing to me and I don’t care to look at them.’
Mm, all these women and no wife. Whose daughter was she? Who looked after the flat anyway? Who was responsible for her now that her father was dead? Had she a mother still? He wanted to know. She would think him an ignorant nosy-parker; he didn’t care. His job was to satisfy his policeman’s instincts, and something about this girl bothered them; this one was not born on her knees.
‘Where’s your mother?’ he asked, point-blank, but in a neutral voice; he disliked the bullying, disapproving intonations used by cheap policemen.
She was unperturbed. ‘In South America. In Mexico perhaps. Or in California – she has a valid United States visa, I believe. I am not myself interested where she might be.’
‘Ah. Like that.’
‘Like that,’ she agreed gravely.
‘Who does the housekeeping for you here?’
‘A daily woman my father employed, who was much devoted to him.’
‘And who pays the bills?’
‘The bank manager. A pompous bore.’
He felt some sympathy for this bank manager. ‘And what bank is that?’
‘I don’t even know its stupid name. On the Rokin.’
His mouth twitched with amusement; there was no difficulty in understanding this. She would be a headache to Papa’s assigns and executors. Some notary, no doubt, who would be inclined to give the young lady well-meant advice. Perhaps he had been so kind as to ask her to dinner; now he’d bet the poor fellow had passed a tiring evening.
‘Good. It was only that I wanted to know a little bit about you, so that I can decide how to handle the boys. I’ll see about digging them out of their concrete palace; it shouldn’t prove complicated.’
She looked at him, still a little sullenly. ‘I don’t want you to do me any favours.’
‘Who said anything about a favour? I’m only trying to keep myself a human being. If I went about doing everybody favours I’d soon be out of a job.’ This kind of tone would go down better with her than any kind words, he could see. She was still at the age when one thinks all politeness no more than hypocrisy. He got up to go. On the long wall hung a portrait of her as a child. Good portrait, he thought, good picture, not that he knew much about pictures, but he was learning. He looked from it to her; she shrugged. She had been a striking child. She would be a striking woman, any day now.
Below the portrait were bookshelves. A policeman has no scruples about this kind of curiosity, and he never passed bookshelves without scrutiny; they always told much about their owner. There were technical and professional books in rows; Englebert had been a serious artist. More rows, but of pocket-books, plastic-bound French and German and English shockers. Few serious books, though, outside music. No history, biography, literature or philosophy. He was not surprised. Musicians were often startlingly narrow-minded and uninformed. This girl was probably totally uneducated. Knowing five languages, and illiterate in all of them. Ah well, what could he do about that?
‘Good wine,’ he said appreciatively. ‘And thanks for the company.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ she said indifferently.
Back in his office he had the boys sent for. This was trivial. It could probably be cleared up in half an hour’s work, and he would promptly forget about it; these occurrences were common coin. He would not have bothered with going to see her had he not known her name. But now he was interested in her he had become interested in these three Italian boys as well. What, after all, had they done, to take up the day of an inspector of police? It was a job for a simple rechercheur to tidy up. Anywhere else, an affair like this would be practically disregarded. A good talking to and a suspended sentence. Even here, it was only the Dutch distrust that made it difficult. The double distrust. Of foreigners as a whole inside Holland – we have too many people of our own for comfort in the little space we have available – and the automatic distrust of anything imaginative, unusual, unconventional. He sighed; life was a pest, to be sure. It was a slack day; that was the trouble. The fur coats had been discovered stuffed into a baker’s delivery-tricycle; charming. Poor fellow; an instant’s temptation and now he would get hammered. All the fault of – who? Not the lorry driver, not the van man. Not really, even, of the owners. That poor baker’s roundsman, on his rotten little wage, was another who would be finding life difficult this morning.
The three boys sat in a row in front of him now; they had nice manners, these Italian boys. They refused his French cigarettes – found them too strong, they explained politely. Feeling sympathetic, he found a battered packet of Golden Fictions, which won them over. There would be no further difficulty with them; they were already much subdued by their night in jail.
Now which, at a glance, was Lucienne’s boy? Not the little Trocchio, whom they called Nino. This was the one who had pulled the knife. Even subdued he was talkative, abominably so. Short stocky boy with wavy hair. A waiter. Pleasant, unintelligent face, rather pasty. Undoubtedly did elaborate exercises to develop his muscles, knew all the song hits, and would never stop talking.
The second boy was more likely. Waiter too, but not a real one; supporting himself with it through some study. Athletic, handsome boy; sleepy movements but a quick nervous face. Tall; smooth blue-black hair that needed cutting; distinguished pallor – very good-looking; must be him. Van der Valk decided to start there, and spread out the passports that lay on his desk.
‘Valmontone, Dario, born third April thirty-nine, in Milano.’
‘Correct.’ Quiet voice; his French, soft and southern, better-sounding than Van der Valk’s hard Lillois.
‘Your father, I see, is an electrical engineer. You’re here to study something?’
‘Interpreter’s diploma. I have French and German, but not English yet.’
Excellent – this was the one. But he was wrong. Directly he mentioned Lucienne, tactfully, the third boy, the fair one, intervened.
‘Non – her friend – je le suis.’
Hesitant French; quiet voice; shy manner. Shorter and broader than the city-boy, but not like a peasant; more a mountain build. Studious, well-brought-up behaviour. Fair hair cut very short. Born in Trieste, apprenticed to a Vermouth company near Bolzano, here temporarily to work in a distillery.
‘Ah. You’re here to pick up some more tricks of – what d’you call it? Alcohol engineering?’
The boy agreed; he had a pleasant smile, with gold on two teeth.
‘Different way of putting – how to say – herbs, and flowers, in wine, or eau-de-vie. Different sorts, to make aperitif, like quinquina, or digestif, like anis. Is complex, delicate.’
Amusing, the boy had a pleasant didactic way of talking, as though he thought everybody should be interested in everything. Quite right too; he himself was interested, at once.
‘And here, what d’you learn?’
‘We work much with flowers – Alpines, you know? – la gentiane and so, but here it is all fruit. Not so interesting we think, but I must travel to learn. Other countries, other tastes. We try at home to make more exports; they finding our drinks too secco, too medicinale in flavour. So I come here to learn some things. I speak some Austrian, so speaking little Dutch, not very much.’
Fascinating.
Good heavens, the little Nino was an aggressive child; kept interrupting. Trigger-happy, of course; just the type that carried knives about with no good reason and was fatally inclined to show off by producing them. He would need a smack; too bumptious altogether. The Officer of Justice would sober him down.
The other two were plainly inoffensive quiet boys who would give no trouble. And plainly had given no trouble. Had merely tried to act like gentlemen while with Lucienne. When you are with a lady, and you have courage, you do not run away from a shower of uncouth louts who call obscenities after you. He would take pains to ensure that the said louts got held well under the cold tap.
‘And tell me: how did you come to meet Miss Englebert?’
‘I am most interested in music,’ said the studious face primly. ‘I go often to Concert-building, and was abonné for the concerts this spring. Signor Englebert was very polite – he speaked to me in Italian, and his daughter has been by him and he has introduced me. When he is unhappily dead I am writing her a letter of condoléances and she is answering.’
‘I see.’
He made out a procès-verbal, explaining that this only applied to the fracas with the knife. Consequently Trocchio would be detained; the others were free to go. They would have to make an appearance before the ‘police-court’ judge, where they might have their heads washed a little. Broad grin at this from Dario, the Milanese city-boy – not quite the first time he’s seen a street-fight, thought Van der Valk. Serious deploring face from the studious Franco, dejection from the deflated little Nino.
He wondered whether they would promptly have a celebration party, with Lucienne. Be sure they would.
A few days afterwards he again found himself with a spare hour. Wasn’t it always the same? One minute, you could not call your soul your own; the next, you were kicking your heels over paperwork. Van der Valk loathed paperwork; he made an excuse to stroll over to the Rokin. He proposed, out of idle and vulgar curiosity, to do something immoral, that all policemen do occasionally. He was going to use his official position to satisfy a personal wish for information. If somebody had asked just why he was interested in – real curious about – Lucienne Englebert, he would have been hard put to find an answer. But it should be a simple matter to find out which bank handled the Englebert affairs.
‘Is it an official enquiry?’ asked the director, with disapproval disguised as faint politeness. One had, considered Van der Valk, as a business man to admit the existence of policemen, but there seemed always to linger a faint odour of corruption after they left, in one’s nice clean office.
‘Not a bit,’ he said easily. ‘Quite unofficial, paternal interest.’
‘And in what way is my client involved with you gentlemen?’ smoothly. The director was not quite satisfied by the paternal interest.
‘No way. She was tangentially connected with an incident. We are interested officially only in learning whether she has a stable life and is provided for, in view of the recent death of her father.’
That went down all right, on consideration.
‘In such circumstances I am not bound to disclose anything. However, in view of what you tell me – she is, at the moment, reasonably provided for. As to personal circumstances, you might do better to ask the notary. If your interest extends so far,’ he added, a little dry.
‘Just so. Who is it?’
The director hesitated – not that it mattered – just that one never really wants to give the police any information. ‘Mr van ‘t Hart in the Frans van Mierisstraat.’
‘Obliged to you,’ politely.
The director inclined his head slightly, like royalty being given a totally unwanted present.
Although it was another week before circumstances brought him anywhere near the Frans van Mieris, when they did Van der Valk made the necessary time. Though his interest was challenged by many others more important, it was still unexhausted. He was a little surprised at this tenacity; it was a tiny bit unprofessional.
The Frans van Mieris is a dreary street, rather typical of the district. Quiet, ponderous buildings, full of velvet curtains and too much over-polished furniture, and yet only two minutes away from the almost Neapolitan uproar of the Albert Cuijp. It is a street quite suitable for a notary, being largely given over to dentists, obscure manufacturers’ agents, and philatelists. It is not smart enough for souteneurs, abortionists, or fashionable photographers.
Van der Valk enjoyed this gloomy dignity, as though the street were drunk and wore a wig. There were dusty trees, two or three aimless dogs, and a business man, accelerating a dusty Mercedes away from the kerb in harassed haste, and looking guilty, as though sneaking out of a hotel-by-the-hour.
However, Mr van ’t Hart was a youngish, baldish man. Not drunk, and no wig.
‘He was no business man of course. And little Lucienne. Engaging child; bit of a problem. And as you mention, no mother.’
‘You aren’t surprised, then, to see me?’
‘Never surprised at anything, Mister Uh. But I hope there’s nothing – menacing? – in your interest.’
‘Interest is incidental to quite another matter. It occurred to me that circumstances might arise in which this girl caused us anxiety.’
Pale greenish-grey eyes considered him legally. ‘But such circumstances have not arisen?’
‘By no means.’
The lawyer sighed a little. ‘Well, I can be frank with you, I suppose. There is not much I can do to control – even to advise – a wilful girl of nineteen, who was her father’s pride, but who has been, I fear, sadly spoilt. I have urged her to take steps to earn her own living. The estate will run to providing for her for some time, even to training her for some useful post, but it will not support her indefinitely. There was no insurance. And that’s all there is to be said. I have given her what advice I can – or rather what she will consent to accept, which is very little. Further, her future is in her hands.’
He had thought as much. And what good did knowing do him?
It was over a year later – May had drifted on to October; a poor summer had become unexpectedly a wonderful autumn. Everybody leaned out of their windows, to enjoy the delicious impact of warm sun on the cool clean air. Van der Valk had been on the ferry over the Ij, away to hell and gone in Amsterdam-North; dirty work among the smeary backyards of factories. He could not have enough of the sun that sparkled on the sluggish water of the inner harbours; he stopped by the Central Station, tempted, like a child, to ride back again on the ferry; it was so wonderful on the water.
Like a child too, he stopped to look at the boat leaving for Marken, and to stare at the crowd of sun-glassed tousled tourists flocking into a waterbus. When he saw Lucienne, sitting alone on the terrace next to the landing-stage, behind an empty coffee-cup, it was not so much curiosity that brought him towards her – it was a good excuse to stay sitting in the sunlight.
She looked fine. Framed against the grey and gold afternoon, she had a Sisley look with her blonde hair and grey frock. She did not recognize him, but she was changed too. For the better, he thought; she looked thinner and better-proportioned, her fine eyes bigger. Her hair was different, she wore no jewellery, and no make-up (an improvement, in his opinion). She too was admiring the sun over the dancing harbour, but lacklustre, sombre. Still, she accepted a cigarette, and a tint of warmth came around her wide mouth.
‘First in a week. Good.’
‘You’ve been giving up smoking?’
‘No; I’ve been economizing. I buy one packet, for weekends. I’m poor now, you see.’
‘And do you mind that very much?’
‘Of course I mind. Not so much being poor; one gets accustomed to that. But having no money makes one a slave – that I mind. My life is nothing but a succession of hypocrisies, because I haven’t got more than enough to exist. I don’t hanker for things – but I hanker for five thousand a year and to be a free woman.’ She rested her chin in a strong hand and looked at him gravely. ‘Can you understand that, or are you like all these peasants, who could have millions and still be slaves?’
‘Yes, I can understand.’
‘I don’t intend to go on that way, though.’
The words gave him a curious feeling of kinship with her. There was a certain physical resemblance between them; she could – just, perhaps – have been his baby sister. And at her age, he had thought the same way; hadn’t he just.
‘You work now, to earn your living?’
‘Yes. There’s a man who sells pianos – Mr Markiewics on the Sarphatistraat. He knew Father; he’s a nice old man. So I work for him, selling records, sheet music – I know it all even if I’ve never been trained. Sweet easy little mazurkas for lumping schoolgirls. But I prefer it, at least, to being a typist serf in some lousy insurance company. And I can live on it, just. This frock cost me twenty-one fifty from Vroom. I don’t mind that, though I’d give a lot for a decent lipstick. Rather than wear a cheap one I go without. What real expense has a girl? Stockings? Behind the counter I never wear any. Hairdresser? I get it done by one of the Italian boys for love. What’s left? Rent, food and shoe repairs. I can just about manage that.’
He laughed. ‘But surely your father left some money.’
It was her turn to laugh. ‘Ah, there was a big row over that. I wormed it out of them, I sold everything in the flat, and I blued the lot. I went all around Europe for six months, free as air. I had a hell of a good time, and I did all the things I never would have done. That – that was my education, call it.’
