A Long Silence (4 page)

‘I thought it was junk, slung like that – I mean I felt sure you'd never tell me to throw it away if it was any good.'

‘So you slung it?' sadly.

‘Well actually I thought the strap might be worth keeping – it seemed good still.'

‘But my dear Dick – don't keep me in suspense – you've got it?'

‘Well yes, actually: I don't know why I never mentioned it, I suppose I thought it was just not possible it could be any good.'

‘But isn't that wonderful. You keep it, my dear Dick, and bloody good luck, the thing's perfect.'

‘But don't you want it back?'

‘No, no, no, as I told you, I wrote it off in the books. Couldn't resuscitate it now, haha, the tax man would wonder what was going on.'

‘I mean, you don't think I stole it or something?'

‘Come now, Dick, don't be absurd: you know perfectly well that's impossible. No, no, no false feelings I beg. I'm only too glad it wasn't wasted.'

‘You see, I wasn't feeling very happy about it. I mean – now of course I understand. But I couldn't quite make it out.'

Saint burst out laughing.

‘Dick, Dick, I do enjoy you. No, no, don't be offended, I don't mean that as sarcasm or to be patronizing – just that at your age one is so touchy and suspicious, and at the same time so innocent and transparent. I knew perfectly well you had that watch – no, don't stare like that. I'd been wondering where the hell I put it, and realized it must have got in with those junky boxes. I was ready to write it off, and then I noticed how guilty you were looking each time we were handling watches – not exactly blushing but embarrassed and fidgety.'

‘You mean you could see that?' asked Dick, startled.

‘But of course – I'm a dealer, my lad, I've learned to use my eyes. What are the things I tell you – never be tactless, never show impatience, never sarcasms or personalities. Making personal remarks thought to be funny – rather a national thing, that – terrible. Not too much servility, not smiling overmuch;
well, you're learning all that. And of course you're picking up technical stuff, recognition of china, silver, glass. But learn to use your eyes on art and you'll learn to use them on people. Study the artist: why did he do it that way? To please? To follow a fashion? Or more than that? No, no, I could see you there, bothered about that watch, wondering whether you'd stolen it, worrying whether to give it back and what I'd say. I did wonder for a moment whether if I mentioned it you'd make an act of pretending not to know what I was talking about. I'm very pleased to see I wasn't wrong. Come on, my lad, to work. Work and then play. You haven't any idea yet how to play, either – you'll learn something about that, too, one of these days.'

*

Van der Valk, coming across a couple of scribbled lines in a notebook, wondered what they were, read them with a bit of difficulty, and meditated a moment.

‘Tale about stolen watch supposed planted' it read. ‘Why come to me? R. Oddinga, Lindengracht, job peculiar hazard, nothing tangible but sensation atmos. not quite right. Seeks reassurance, comes all this distance, power of television, energy impulse sudden imaginative flare boys this age, it struck me.' As quite often happened, he was not sure at first what all this meant. He recalled the episode, but the note had been meant to link his mind to another idea altogether. Yes, of course. He reached out for another notebook, the one holding notes for his thesis, ruffled his hair, lit a cigarette, polished his glasses, and wrote rapidly.

‘The relearning of sensitivity. The professional police detective has none because he is (
a
) overworked, (
b
) over-specialized i.e. deals only with fragments of an enquiry, (c) blunted by repetition, (
d
) same as (
b
) he is part of a clumsy machine, a cog, with no interest or understanding of other cogs.

‘Contrast now the attitude of the classical fictional “private detective” – he is one man, with all the elements in his possession. Invariably his time and leisure is used in contemplative and imaginative work, aided by pipes, violins, dope, as
S. Holmes, or chess and whisky as P. Marlowe. Quite unreal because such types do not/cannot possess all elements. Consequently author cheats – imputes far more knowledge and skill than one man possesses. Hence mechanical introduction of brainwaves, produced by opium or whisky, and series of handy coincidences: he always happens to be ‘on the spot' instead of in bed or sitting on the lavatory when something exciting happens, which is legitimate and necessary in fiction, but in life …

‘Nevertheless there is a valid lesson. The sensitivity, the skills at analysis and synthesis, are indispensable and not easily acquired by police-school training. Conclusion, a criminal investigation unit should perhaps consist of no more than four or five men, each with specially sensitized skills. Cf. fictional Maigret. Lucas the elderly, careful, good at details, patience, perseverance, Janvier young, ambitious and imaginative, the “little Lapointe” sensitive and idealistic, innocent and kindly, Torrence who is muscles, and Lognon the indefatigable plodder – this is a clever formula, remaining workable for fifty books. Now postulate smallish flexible computer unit, able mechanically to perform all that timewasting checking. It can give mechanical evaluation, but cannot replace sensitive human understanding, can never replace Maigret! The “private detective” element cannot be eliminated. Take for example this boy Richard, which is perfect fictional “private” example. A Marlowe/Archer might be interested because he had nothing better at the time to do. Existing police structure would have no interest and no ability anyway. Since no complaint has been made, no administrative machinery has even been set in motion. Said ad/mach. hopelessly lumbering and cumbersome.'

He closed the notebook, pushed it away, and took another, marked ‘Experimental Psychology'.

‘Suppose we conduct an experiment' he wrote. ‘Cf. notion of difficulty insertion private detective in crim. brig-unit. This Odd, odd-ball odd boy. I would be interested in knowing, assuming I chose to handle this individually, with no official aid or backing (
a
) how far I would get with it and (
b
) whether
there's anything in it! … Administrative note: since the hypothetic “private detective” must be a highly trained and well-paid unit, how the devil do you justify this to the financial comptroller who has always the last word? Whereabouts could he be inserted in a hierarchy? Experimentally irrelevant because my time is my own. Note consequently what time I spend on it and with what result!'

Lastly he took his little pocket diary, and wrote ‘Richard A'dam, Lindengracht, watch plant fiddle, what's in it?' It would be interesting, he told himself. Suppose he tried a test case investigation on a purely personal basis of this boy's tale. There was nothing in it, so that it remained purely experimental. He wouldn't cheat, as fictional private detectives always did – when they got stuck on administrative detail, they always remembered they had a pal somewhere in an administration who ‘owed them a favour' and then rang him up to ask for information that could only be got by professional leg-work! He wouldn't do that. He would work on a strictly private basis, and only in his own time. He could start a notebook called ‘Experiment'. He looked in his drawer – no more notebooks. He got up and opened the door to Miss Wattermann.

‘What are you doing?' suspiciously eyeing a pile of paper.

‘A précis for Professor de Hartog.' Aha, his neighbour, who shared her. Nothing for him, thank heaven, in that alarming mass of print.

‘Have you any more of those exercise-books?'

‘No, I'm afraid not. I can buy you some if you give me an order. I'll have to get it receipted by the shop and then send it in to the accountant.'

‘No, no, I'll buy them myself.' He went back frustrated, and took out his notebook marked ‘English Criminal Precedents' (a very tiresome one, for not only did the English have no criminal code, so that their law depended on judicial decisions whose interpretations were very difficult to follow, but the English system was altogether different from the Scottish, and quite a few of their own experts thought the Scottish system better: long groans, and pity the poor policeman).

He turned it upside down, was aghast at finding several other notes on totally unconnected subjects because he had done this trick before, found a clean page, decided he didn't care even if it did cause muddle, and wrote a heading saying ‘Experiment' and underneath ‘At present no factual information – even the watch might have come from a different source.' After biting his ball-point and lighting another cigarette he produced the following.

‘Sole fact – the boy came to see me. Whatever there is in the tale there is some truth. Starting points otherwise nonexistent. No factual notes taken, nor even possible, Boy is 20–24, of intelligence and some training – i.e. secondary school and anyway a couple of university years. Presents himself well – carefully dressed, neat, well-spoken. Has sensitivity, intelligence and ability. Engagement by jeweller plausible. Origin Friesland, nothing known save father dead, and boy is largely independent following family conflict, but no money; job therefore imperative. That could only be checked by municipal enquiry but is plausible, thus so far acceptable. Nothing known of jeweller. Must have access to criminal file if only to confirm negative on this. Larry Saint – some personal observation: address etc. easily obtainable. L. S. – is it a pseudonym? – cf. identical initials. Observation Spui unlikely to tell anyone much, obviously, but worth an effort. Possibly the retired manager who has been mentioned, and assistant said to have been drunk.

‘Approach to old man – since we have no standing or conceivable pretext whatever we must be very cautious – the slightest complaint would start a terrible hullabaloo: I am absolutely without any defence. All it comes down to is: The boy took trouble to come and find me. It is therefore reasonable to take trouble with him. I have no earthly excuse for just letting it drop. The boy wanted reassurance, and in a sense advice, but he also wanted help. I cannot neglect possibility that he needs help. That is a very unprofessional remark, and an unprofessional attitude. Quite. Hence the experimental nature of this whole notion.' That would give him the reference he needed, and he would buy a new notebook and use it for
‘case-notes'. And now, please, it is time to do some real work…

*

Van der Valk's experiment in private detection might still never have come to anything had it not been for Inspector – now Commissaire – Kan and a rather awkward late afternoon appointment given him by his dentist. Kan, an infernally active, important, bald person, was now in charge of the Economics Squad: Van der Valk, who had been busy in the archives, met him in a corridor and was moved to ask a question.

‘Do you know anything about a jeweller called Prins?' Kan had always been fanatical about knowing absolutely everyone.

‘Prins, Prins, aha yes, I'm with you, jeweller, antiques.'

‘That's what I said.'

‘Anything known, mm, no, no, can't say there is, never been any trouble there – unless it was before my time.'

‘Archives have nothing, I already looked.'

‘Nice job you've got – with us just for the day? Nothing like a day in the city, old chap, to sharpen up that provincial mind of yours, haha, remember me to your wife, do.'

And was gone with bouncy footsteps. Always had been so tiresomely sure of himself; if Kan didn't know it, it didn't exist.

Been right in one thing; he did always feel sharpened when in Amsterdam. He had been away for several years now, but it was still his home town, different from anywhere else in Holland, and he was faithful to people and to places in an innocent way, saying things like ‘You'd never find a dentist that good in The Hague.' Handy, too, to Police Headquarters; five minutes down the road in the Keizersgracht, another devotedly loyal Amsterdammer, who moreover collected Chinese porcelain.

‘Oh that's lovely now, you can rinse that if you like. Two helpings of amalgam, Annie. Old Louis, let's see, about six months ago he got me a celadon plate, Ch'ing, rather nice: he's genuine, you can rely on him.'

‘D'you know of a nephew?'

‘One moment, we'll just polish that a bit. Nephew? – no – nice old boy there called Bosboom, never seen anyone else there. Honest? – good heavens yes, as the day. You people in The Hague suspect everybody, your professional deformation, ha, don't chew on that for an hour or two.'

He walked back towards the station; he hated bringing the car here and it was rush-hour, which made trams impossible. Floods of little typists, thousands of boys and girls piled on to bikes and scooters, running for their suburban trains, ruthless about pushing this elderly gentleman with his hat and his stick and his briefcase, what's the matter with you dad, if you want to stay still buy a hammock.

Beating up laboriously across wind and tide towards the Lindengracht Van der Valk felt sorry for all these freshfaced country children who come down to Amsterdam because that's where it's at, and find themselves in those appalling lodging-houses. Now that, he thought, really must be a potent factor in the antisocial tendencies. They may or may not be exploited at work by capitalists, but in furnished lodgings the last drop of juice is wrung from them by the pettiest and greediest of the bourgeois. A ghastly breed in general, lodging-house keepers; busybodies with lists of nasty rules, glorying in the power to make as many more as they liked, and extremely quick to put their victims on the street at the least sign of anything but meek conformity to their bullying.

Squalid windowless minds, living in squalid windowless basements to screw ten extra gulden from four square feet of glassed pane in an attic. Extortionists, and blackmailers too. Despite all his experience he had always felt an oppressive emotion of contempt for those houses where children barely out of the shell were taught the facts of life in a capital. If those rats would show a scrap of charity or just humanity – the very smallest dose of something like home. Those wretched children, getting the bleakest work, eating in the greasiest cafés, sleeping in the most threadbare shelter, trying to create warmth and happiness and the right to be an individual with the
pathetic means they had … He had reached the Linden-gracht.