Over the High Side (21 page)

‘Denis,' said Senator Lynch slowly past the cigar-cutter. ‘Denis,' he said again, striking a match. He blew a long symmetrical plume of smoke as though he were a bronze Renaissance fountain and said, ‘I haven't seen Denis at all.'

Van der Valk blew smoke back. We're like two old battleships, he thought, at Jutland or somewhere, firing away like mad even when there's nothing to be seen. It was important not to get flustered. He had got flustered once that day already, and was still none too sure what it mightn't lead to.

‘But I don't think you brought me here to tell me nothing but that. My wife has read Proust. She knows, too, a lot more than I do about the Common Market. And myself, when I hear of somebody's death I'm in a poor position to say that people do exaggerate so. It might be misunderstood.'

‘I haven't finished,' said Lynch. He turned suddenly to his wife. ‘You tell him,' he said abruptly.

She had been looking very good. Dark blue velvet, a
sapphire and diamond necklace, earrings and eyes to match. But as he turned towards her the sparkle went out of the sapphires.

‘He has vanished,' she said.

‘Abruptly?' asked Van der Valk with adrenalin whisking into his bloodstream.

‘Abruptly.'

‘He knew you were coming?'

‘I can't turn up,' said Lynch simply, ‘totally unannounced, even in a friend's house. I gave very little notice. I rang from the airport, saying I had unexpected business in Rome – expecting and getting an invitation to lunch.'

‘Yes of course. But then?'

‘I could hardly ask my friend not to mention my arrival, could I?' The voice had lost the mannered, pompous inflection. ‘My host – I need hardly say he is considerably upset – noticed nothing untoward. Denis received news of my coming at breakfast, apparently unperturbed, remained tranquil. Said little. Did not appear at lunch. Has been missing since.'

‘Took no clothes or luggage?'

‘No – well, there's a certain confusion. The day before, he was at the beach, and had a bag. This morning, he had beach things with him. The bag is missing. His other clothes are untouched. The inference seems to be … that he went towards the beach.'

‘The police?'

‘Have been informed,' reluctantly. ‘Have … so far … found no trace of him.'

‘And now please forgive a brutally professional question. Mrs Lynch – do you think …?'

She faced him with firmness.

‘That he drowned himself? Does one ever? I mean accept such an idea, without a fight?'

‘Go on.'

‘I mean that one says – I suppose without thinking of it – that a person is not capable of such and such an action. And then – when one comes to think of it … It's not in his character. He doesn't run away in front of difficulties. It's not like him – I can't believe it.'

No, thought Van der Valk, looking at her and at Lynch in turn: nor do I. Except that one never knows. When there is an unknown quantity, and that quantity is called Stasie … I better keep quiet, he thought.

‘You came straight back here,' to Lynch.

‘I wished in the circumstances to be with my wife,' staring into Van der Valk's face. ‘Not entirely abnormal, that. And … what could I do, anyhow?'

‘And since – no news?'

‘You understand, Commissaire, that this is being handled … diplomatically if you follow me.'

‘I'm only too aware of it,' not without bitterness.

Mrs Lynch got up suddenly, came over and sat down beside him.

‘Please, please don't be angry. We are doing our best. We will do our best. We won't try to hinder you; you must do what you think right. Try and be patient, try to believe – we haven't hidden Denis or encouraged him to hide. What ever lies behind this awful story – one faces things when one has to.'

Lynch had seen that Van der Valk was exasperated, and had understood.

‘You saw Monsieur de Coninck here tonight,' making his mind up. ‘The gentleman with the monocle. He looks an antiquated dilettante. It's a mistake to think that. Well, be that as it may, he is acting for me in this affair. He is an exdiplomat – he has great experience, and – and considerable influence,' he went on hurriedly, flustered for all his command over himself by the bleak stony eye. ‘He is acting for me in this affair. He has been in touch with Rome – with the embassy, with the Ministry of the Interior – with the police. My wife is right – I intend to see this business through. I have nothing to hide from you.'

‘Very well,' said Van der Valk abruptly. ‘What do the police say?' He suddenly realized that he was stone-cold sober and badly in need of a drink. Mrs Lynch, whether she read his thoughts or not, made no offer, but picked up the decanter and gave him a slosh.

‘Coninck heard from them tonight. They say the boy was not drowned because they would have found him by now.'

Quite so, but could one believe them? He disposed of the slosh and got another straight away. His face must have been showing his scepticism.

‘Well – they're formal: what can one say? Try and understand that if I had not contacted you earlier, it was in hope that the boy would turn up.'

Helped by the slosh, Van der Valk made an effort.

‘All right, there's been time lost, it's too late to worry about it. You realize that I have to make a report to my superiors. I hope that Monsieur de Coninck has good relations with The Hague.'

‘He has,' said Mrs Lynch with simplicity. Van der Valk did think of saying Oh Jaysus, or possibly Janey Mac, a euphemism Mr Flynn was fond of, but he was past it.

‘Why did you give this party tonight?'

‘Several reasons,' quiet and slowly, ‘not all of them bad. It was foreseen – after thought I decided to leave things as they stood. I wished to gain some distancing, some detachment, to impose a balanced frame of mind and to mature my thoughts. I wished to get a grip upon my self-command, and ridiculous though you may find the notion, these conventional patterns of civilized society are a considerable help in forming judgments. It is also true that Coninck wished for an opportunity of meeting you – for God's sake man, don't take offence,' for Van der Valk was again beginning to bristle.

‘Nobody is going to interfere with you, Commissaire,' said Mrs Lynch's soft voice. ‘You are on the spot. You will judge. You do not know yet that Monsieur de Coninck is not an interfering old busybody. He is an old, trusted, valued – proved – friend of ours – that is nothing to you and of course I understand that. But he has unusually clear judgment. He agreed at once that you must be given a free hand but what to you is of more importance is that he can be of considerable service to you.'

Van der Valk shrugged his shoulders.

‘You don't see that this affair goes beyond the little local framework – it's going to explode. The moment The Hague hears about this I will be called back for what the press calls consultations and what I call getting my orders. I won't have
any free hand. This piece of news – this disappearance – will mean a lengthy panic. After which somebody will have the exceptionally brilliant idea of sending me to Rome. I'm nothing but a goddam tourist.'

‘I think,' very gently, ‘that if Monsieur de Coninck were to have the good fortune to be taken into your confidence he could persuade your authorities – The Hague as you put it – that you were the best judge of whatever steps needed to be taken. Is it pardonable to ask what your – what's the word? – your ideas have led to? – I mean it isn't just Denis. There's a – there are other factors; isn't it so?'

He took his brandy glass and moved it from side to side so that it caught the light.

‘Perhaps,' at last, ‘you've been wondering why I ate mostly with my one hand.'

‘Not particularly,' politely. ‘Americans always do.'

‘I have a broken collarbone. My arm should be in a sling strictly speaking but I took it off because it's healing well, and because I thought it seemed a little ostentatious.'

‘And how do you come to have a broken collarbone?' asked Lynch with careful courtesy.

‘Somebody tried to hit me on the head.'

There was an appropriate silence.

‘Coninck,' said Lynch at last, ‘lives just two minutes from here – I could perhaps give him a phone call.'

‘The Irish police can hardly be left totally in the dark – perhaps you'll leave that to me to handle.' Everybody wants to get into the act, Van der Valk was thinking wryly, wondering about the old gentleman with the monocle.

‘He has your total confidence?' he went on.

‘As I assure you.'

‘And you're prepared to give me the same?'

‘Yes.'

‘You mean that?'

‘I mean that,' said Mrs Lynch.

‘Then yes, I'd like to talk to him on the phone. I suppose your line's not tapped?' Something of the old Terence Lynch reappeared around the lines of the Senator's mouth.

‘Make yourself easy. I know how to protect myself. It is
my son, apparently, whom I have failed to protect,' he added.

Monsieur de Coninck would be more than pleased to have a little talk with Monsieur le Commissaire. Yes, that little affaire; he was au courant. Why yes, he did think perhaps he could be of some use: to talk of influence … but he was fortunate in having the ear of various people … In the morning? – my dear faller, he was good for nothing in the mornings. If the Commissaire was not too tired right now there was no time like the present and he had a cigar on which he would value an opinion … Just around the corner. My dear faller, I will be expecting you.

It was only in the street, in Ailesbury Road, that Van der Valk was struck by an idea that was now of increased importance. That the gap between Senator Lynch's world and, say Eddy Flanagan, was pretty wide. Flynn had made the point; perhaps neither had given it enough weight. The Lynch house, the Lynch life – a carefully constructed machine in which standards – old-fashioned use of the word – were important, and were respected. Dinner-jackets, formal manners and place-settings, well-trained servants, silver boxes, courteous diplomacies, the elaborate code that belonged at first sight to a world of before 1939 – these had their use. Lynch had decided that this was the way to lead life. The man was far from ridiculous.

Denis had been part of this life. The boy had been trained in polite conversation to old dears like the Proust lady. He had known how to ring for the footman, had grown up with the poise and the polish, and the confidence. And then he had fallen into the world of the lovely ladies, and the table talk of Jim Collins. What effect this had had remained to be seen – but the change in his thinking would have been massive.

Monsieur de Coninck lived in a ground-floor flat in a sombre, heavy brick house with many laurel bushes masking the windows, a flat which lent a new dimension to his thought, for this was not just a world of before 'thirty-nine, but of before 'fourteen. Light from heavily shaded lamps gleamed on his own lapels and his white shirt. The old gentleman's shirt had one of the antique bosoms that had to be starched.
He had undone his tie and put on a quilted dressing-gown that had been bought from Hildritch and Key forty years ago. The monocle, on a broad ribbon of black watered silk, gleamed on the faded sage-green satin.

There was a musty smell of dapper old bachelor. The place was full of furniture and bric-à-brac; books in their shelves climbed to the ceiling, and if he wished to climb too there was a mahogany stepladder with at the top a padded leather seat. There were pieces of china, of faience, of Venetian glass, and a silver inkstand. There were things only to be seen in the Army and Navy Stores catalogue – smoking stands of great complexity and a tantalus with heavy cut-glass decanters. There were beads, bobbles and fringes; there were faded watercolour paintings of Swiss Alps made by whiskered Victorians in knickerbockers; there were framed autograph letters from heaven knew who – Bismarck and Count Metternich, probably.

The old boy was very spry. He pottered in and out of tables, cleared back numbers of the
Connoisseur
off a chair for Van der Valk to sit, produced some astonishing whisky, straight malt unblended, apparently as old as he was, lit a Balkan Sobranie, sat in a nest of manuscript notes – diplomat's memoirs, or a monograph on the hundred and sixty kinds of tobacco-ash? – and said, ‘I give you, my dear Commissaire, my closest attention.'

Van der Valk spoke for perhaps twenty minutes without any interruptions. When he did get a reaction, it was brisk.

‘An excellent synthesis. What it lacks in lucidity, here and there, is more than compensated by the little imaginative touches – illuminating, that, very. Will you permit me to add something, conceivably, to a point or so you find obscure. This man Flanagan – you are puzzled by his attitude.'

‘I don't follow his indifference – it can't be ignorance; he must have known about it.'

‘You've never read P. G. Wodehouse? – not your generation, no, but mine, my dear faller. He illustrates an attitude most useful in diplomacy. When faced with an unpleasant or embarrassing situation, merely to pretend it doesn't exist is insufficient. One must maintain firmly, positively, that it does
not and cannot exist. Most useful in matters of adultery,' with relish. ‘Attitude known as “stout denial”. I should suggest that Mr Flanagan is not such a fool as he looks – whether by the way the process of stout denial is conscious or unconscious is of small importance, n'est-ce pas?'

‘What do you make of the attack on me?'

‘I don't think I've much to add. The very frightened person – that goes without saying. The confirmation of your certainty of guilty knowledge is more dubious. Intrigue for intrigue's sake, violence – there's a certain relish – a pleasure taken in the heady mixture of violence and intrigue. Sexual satisfaction? – we mustn't look too closely. As for the astonishing stupidity, that causes me no surprise. In any kind of crisis behaviour of staggering crassness is commonplace: everyday in diplomacy, that; it flourishes most rankly in little closed groups – ministries, secretariats, all crying examples. Insufficient fresh air, insufficient contact with everyday common sense. This little family group, so oddly turned in upon itself, belongs I should say to the category … This woman coming seducing you,' chuckling with robust Edwardian glee, wishing it had happened to him – or perhaps recalling when it had, ‘she sounds great fun.'