Over the High Side (30 page)

She didn't sound in the least enthusiastic about seeing him but that was nothing new – nobody ever was!

‘Could we have supper a little early? I have to go to Amsterdam.'

‘We could but what a bore. Business?'

‘Unofficially business – the Martinez woman. With benefit of hindsight I find there are a few things I still have to ask her. The file's been hanging about and I want to tidy it up before sending it in.'

‘You don't have to make so many excuses. Why not this afternoon?'

‘No the woman's working – reasonable; her living to earn.'

‘Then there's no choice and supper can be early. Just don't take her to bed, that's all.' His mouth opened until he grasped that this was humour.

‘Don't say such things,' reprovingly, very much the government servant of upright life and severe morals.

‘No and don't think them either is what you mean. I was teasing you – if that is allowed. O.K. it's understood.'

*

He did wish rather that the administration would discover some other official transport. As prudent, cheap, and reliable as a Volkswagen beetle; just something else, that's all. He parked in the Rivierenlaan and plunged into the rabbit warren. The card in the name slot was the same: simply had ‘F.X.' crossed out and Mrs written in. He rang the bell.

Anna looked unchanged; her hair-style was altered but it was the same pleasant-looking youthful woman, quite pretty in her dairymaid style, neat small body trim in a close-fitting wool frock, who opened the door, recognized him, frowned a little, smiled a very little, said good-evening quite politely and motioned him in with not too bad a grace.

A few changes had been made inside the little flat. He didn't quite know what: subtly, it had become ‘working woman alone' instead of ‘married couple'. No sign anywhere of any man's presence. She offered him coffee; he refused and got a glass of vermouth. He disliked vermouth too after supper but didn't want to appear stiff.

‘I'm glad to see you're re-adapting with no trouble.'

She shrugged; what useful answer was there?

‘One can generally do things when one has no choice.'

Exactly; like murders, but one didn't say such things. She offered a cigarette, very formal and courteous, sat down, upright on a straight chair, legs crossed professionally as though she had a shorthand pad on her lap. Straight serious face. He leaned back, gazed vaguely about, said, ‘I suppose you're right,' vaguely.

‘You've not altered much,' with a kind of good-natured curiosity.

‘What could I afford to alter? I have met with much kindness. Several old business acquaintances of – of my husband's – made a point of offering me work – serious work, not just charity. I earn my living. Fortunately I have no children to worry about.' Poor old Martinez, thought Van der Valk. All that long active often brilliant life. So many women. He's left a trace all right, but not the one he wanted.

Anna, plainly ill at ease, propped her elbow on her knee, put her chin on her palm, and looked severe, not wanting any more beating about the bush.

‘What was it you wanted, Commissaire?'

‘Oh, I had been wondering whether in your situation you wouldn't have preferred to go back to Ireland.'

She seemed much surprised; frowned, thought about it, looking narrowly. Ireland? What was he getting at?

‘This is my town,' she said, ‘I was born here; I've lived nearly all my life here.'

‘You have family here?'

‘That is to say – I seem to remember telling you that my family disapproved of my marriage – there was a certain coldness.'

‘Which your husband's death has not altered?'

She made a grimace, giving her a school-girl look.

‘Rather the contrary if anything.'

‘You mean an attitude of, “I told you so”?'

She seemed relieved at his catching on.

‘Yes. I saw them rarely – perhaps once a year. My husband – wished to avoid quarrels – and not to cause me pain.'

‘You didn't want your family feelings to interfere with your marriage.'

She flushed, all over her high, rather bumpy forehead.

‘I just wondered whether his death impelled you to heal the breach, so to speak.'

‘No. I don't understand why you should think I might want to go back to Ireland.'

‘But it's simple surely. I recall your saying you regarded your husband's daughters almost like sisters. Which I agree is simple and natural. So that under the painful circumstances it would seem a natural thing to do. Quite an attractive solution.'

She flushed again – she was an easy flusher – and fidgeted slightly.

‘That is so, possibly. Was, I should put it. Things – alter.'

‘Oh quite. You're a young woman. Doubtless you'll marry again.'

‘That remains to be seen,' prim. ‘You're very interested in my personal life.'

‘Yes,' blandly.

‘It seems exaggerated. Surely your inquiry is finished.'

‘Not altogether.'

‘But you said yourself – the magistrate – Denis –' painfully, ‘– poor Denis – I mean – he's confessed, hasn't he?'

‘You've been wondering – like all of us – poor Denis, what could have got into him to behave like that. You'd be interested to know.'

‘I – er – I don't know. It's a very painful subject. I don't like to talk about it.'

‘And of course you never met Denis, did you?'

Her eyes were her best feature. A clear cornflower blue, unusually large in her small face. Perhaps a little too round. Another flaming great blush.

‘No.' Squeezed out.

‘But I'm afraid we have to talk about it – if only to do justice to him.'

‘I was summoned by the Officer of Justice,' with an effort. ‘He didn't tell me much – he said that Denis – had been in love with Stasie. Do we have to go on about this? – it's hateful.'

‘There are a few inconsistencies.'

‘But it can't – it isn't any longer your business. You said so. I don't like your – routing about – in my feelings like this. You haven't any right to question me.'

‘Mevrouw Martinez, as long as my file is not closed I'm afraid I do have the right to question whom I please.'

‘I'm sorry; I beg your pardon. It's – you must see that this is a wound that isn't healed. I was very much attached to my husband.'

‘Of course. You know that I spent a week or so in Ireland? I had the pleasure of meeting your sisters.'

‘Yes – I mean, I didn't know exactly; I supposed as much.'

‘Interesting woman, Stasie. Very attractive.'

‘Er – yes.'

‘Understandable that Denis should fall in love with her.'

‘Er – yes.' Scarlet all over. Hating it.

‘Sex at the bottom of our misfortunes as usual. Its place in modern society is possibly exaggerated though, would you say?'

She had assumed a look of worldly wisdom. Enlightened
people were not bothered at talking about sex. On the contrary, they discussed it with alarming fluency.

‘To understand something about Denis,' in an odious, jolly voice, ‘we have to draw a picture, mm?' I am being bastardly, he thought, but professionally so. There is a difference. ‘Denis refuses to,' he went on. ‘Another proof – if one were needed. Denis in love with Stasie, mm. One of these affairs in which a lot of excitement is generated by concealment. Secret assignations, breathless meetings at queer times in peculiar places, fear of discovery – spice of danger, hm? All unbeknown to Denis, everyone knows all about this famous love affair. Her sisters know, the excellent Mr Collins knows, and while he's good at pretending the contrary, I'm convinced Mr Flanagan knows: he can hardly not know, and he's a better judge of his wife than anyone gives him credit for.'

‘Why are you telling me all this?'

‘Why, you know your sisters, and I've too much respect for your judgement not to give weight to your opinion. Correct me if I seem unfair to them.'

She said nothing, remained sitting upright and still, quite collected.

‘A woman like Stasie – she gets satisfaction from this kind of situation. Answers various deeply rooted needs – that's no especial business of mine, wouldn't you agree?'

‘I wouldn't really know. I suppose so.'

‘But a boy,' warming to it. ‘Young romantic boy. He has of course pleasure, hm, physical pleasure, excitement a good deal. And perhaps, too, some splendid illusions. He caresses notions of giving her help and healing, understanding and devotion, sun and rain in her desert garden. He glows with sensations that are very far from wicked or vicious. I suppose,' said Van der Valk sadly, ‘that such notions sound intensely ludicrous to anyone my age or yours – but I had ideas like that too once. Didn't we all burn to change an evil world?'

She was following him all right, with an attention so close that her face and neck were rigid with strain.

‘And then there was a crisis,' in accents of classical tragedy. ‘Isn't there always? Stasie broke it off. The world is a villainous place and Othello's occupation's gone. And like many
before him our Denis goes for a big trip to the South Seas. His parents are delighted. Instead of wasting his time in Dublin, what could be better than travel – broadens the mind. They have many friends well placed to keep a benevolent eye on cherished son, smooth his path, mm? Lucky Denis. He can go to Paris or Rome – but he goes to none of these places. He goes to Holland. I wondered why. I suppose that like other young men he didn't want any of these oversmoothed and supervised paths provided. Wanted more of an adventure – somewhere he could be independent, real, courageous. So clinging to happy memories of what he thought of as his first adult adventure he came here to look you all up. You met him then – what did you think?'

‘I –.' she went scarlet. Suddenly down stage, and suddenly a spotlight and suddenly she had to open her mouth and sing. ‘I –' And not unexpectedly she dried dead.

‘You told me a lot of lies, didn't you?' said Van der Valk in the most tranquil voice imaginable.

‘I …' She didn't have anything to say at all.'

‘You were afraid. Very well. We'll leave that – bearing in mind,' still mildly, ‘that the examining magistrate will want to know. Just tell me about Denis.'

‘I spoke to him – well – yes, I did tell a lie about that – I mean, I was worried about the scandal, I mean, about Stasie … he spent an evening here,' hurriedly. ‘He had projects and notions about finding a job here and he wanted to get – my husband's advice.'

‘Quite odd. No? Don't you think so? He's had a break with Stasie – not a row, but a grand renunciation, very emotional, knowing her, with weeping and tremendous words about not ruining one another's lives. Then he comes here, where he is constantly reminded of her, where memories and reflections crowd in at every corner. Can you explain that?'

Anna's forearm was crossed tightly over her chest, her hand on the upper arm, squeezing the flesh nervously.

‘How should I explain it,' irritably. ‘You seem to make a big thing of all these psychological ins and outs – I don't know. Anyhow, it might be all supposition – you say this and
that was so but it might not be so in the least, however convincing it sounds.'

‘It doesn't sound at all convincing to me,' silkily. ‘These little casebook histories seldom do. Over-simplified. People are full of inconsistencies and contradictions.'

‘Yes,' gladly seizing on this. ‘It's a big mistake to sit theorizing in this way.'

‘That is just why I came to see you,' very bland now. ‘I had a theory, and I hoped that you would give me your opinion on its value.'

‘Well none of this, really … means much to me, I'm afraid.'

‘Perhaps this will mean more. I make a suggestion that Denis renounced the grand love, but he kept intact his portrait of women he could devote further grand loves to. The first one was fun, and he intended there should be more. The model was intact too. Stasie in a little rocky alcove in a long white nighty,' dryly, ‘like frightful statues of the Madonna. I suggest he came to Holland carrying his little alcove with him, looking for a new statue to put in it. A Stasie substitute. To whom he could transfer his affections, his warm heart and all his illusions. And I further suggest that right here he found one. You.'

Anna had not blushed for some time. Now – it was one of Arlette's phrases, that made him laugh, though he was not now laughing – ‘her blood made one jump'. She went perfectly white.

*

‘There you are,' to the Officer of Justice, who was listening for once instead of talking. ‘He fell straight heels over in love with her. Superficial, or facile? No, he was just on his second trip round. Stasie all over again. Another Martinez, same age, same situation – less encumbered. Old husband, no children, lonely all day with nothing to play with.'

‘She struck me,' said the judge, ‘as very loyal, unusually devoted. She struck you that way too. Did he seduce her? Or what?'

‘No idea. Theorizing, as she told me snubbingly. None of my business anyway,' pointedly.

‘What happened then?'

‘How the devil should I know?' crossly. ‘She had hysterics. Any of a hundred things might have happened, and ninety-nine probably did. Did he seduce her? He's quite an expert by now and she's a pushover. What did she do? Tell the old man? Or did he? – quite an expert too – see through it? Had he seen through Stasie, or did Denis tell him? He must have decided to straighten the boy out, and said or did something that had a fearful effect. He was quite a one for resounding pious platitudes and could be excruciatingly smug, but what did he do? Some threat that to Denis was intolerable, hitting him somewhere he couldn't bear touched. That picture gallery – what went on there? What was said?'