The Midas Murders (9 page)

Van In sat for a couple of seconds with the receiver in his hand. The tissue under Fiedle's fingernail was potential evidence that the German might have been murdered, the first so far. A simple fall now appeared to be out of the question. It was beginning to look as if whoever did it had wanted it to look like an accident, and that of course made it all the more intriguing.

Van In broke the connection, waited for the tone, and punched in the number of the bomb-disposal squad. A friendly career soldier transferred him four times, but Lieutenant Grammens appeared to be untraceable. Van In didn't feel that he had the right to insist on being transferred to the canteen.

Versavel marched in at three-thirty. He was a sorry sight, covered in snow, and his moustache made him look like a walrus with a head cold.

“I think we're in luck,” he said, bursting with enthusiasm.

Versavel hung his coat neatly on the coat rack and rubbed the ice from his moustache.

“According to hotel submissions, sixty-eight Dutch visitors spent last weekend in Bruges. One of them went by the name of Adriaan Frenkel, and the description's a perfect match.”

“Mario must have thought that Frenkel was a Dutch first name,” Van In nodded. “I'm listening….”

“Do you mind if I finish, Commissioner? Frenkel had reserved a room until Tuesday, but left on Sunday morning in a bit of a hurry.”

“Is that so,” said Van In.

“And he paid for the entire reservation without batting an eyelid,” said Versavel with a flourish.

“Then Frenkel's our man. Do we have an address?”

Versavel patted his breast pocket.

“Good, I'll contact our Dutch colleagues later.”

“Is that wise, Commissioner?”

Van In clenched his fist and thumped his desk. “Jesus H. Christ. Every time we have our prey by the short-and-curlies, those dickheads from the public prosecutor's office run off with all the glory.”

Versavel had long given up worrying about such matters. “Shall I type up the report?” he asked obligingly.

“Do that, Guido. But you don't have to dispatch it today,” he said with a wink.

“I also paid a quick visit to the Duc de Bourgogne. According to the receptionist, Fiedle's room was booked by fax.”

He consulted his notebook.

“A company by the name of Kindermann, Wagnerstrasse 45 in Munich.”

“For one or two?”

“One. Fiedle was the only German in the hotel.” Versavel scooped an ample amount of coffee into the filter and added some water to let it swell.

Van In got to his feet, stretched, and walked over to the window. It was snowing so heavily, the grit trucks were having a hard time staying on top of it. Bruges was slowly acquiring a rolling skyline.

“Either Mario's lying, or Fiedle must have run into another German on Saturday night,” he said.

Versavel slowly poured boiling water into the filter. “Maybe that was why she called,” he said in passing.

“Called?”

“The whore,” said Versavel.

“Mario was at least telling the truth when it came to the Hollander,” said Van In evasively.

“Don't make me laugh, Commissioner.” He poured two mugs of coffee. “You know Mario, don't you? He gives you a perfect description of Frenkel, who probably has nothing to do with anything, but he's vague about the company Fiedle kept that night.”

“I'm not sure, Guido.”

Van In took a sip of the piping hot coffee and relaxed into his chair. Then he rubbed his chest like he was in pain.

“Is something wrong?” Versavel asked.

“Sorry, Guido. I'm not feeling my best today.”

“We're all getting older,” Versavel jested.

Van In barely reacted. This clearly wasn't one of his depressions, Versavel concluded. He knew the commissioner too well for that.

A sudden scurry of officers in the corridor made Van In look up for a second.

“Five o'clock,” said Van In cynically. “Rats deserting a sinking ship.”

Versavel wisely held his tongue.

“And you, Guido?”

“Did Merlin ever desert King Arthur?”

Van In smiled. Versavel was well-read and liked to show it.

“Thanks, Guido. You're an angel.”

The pain suddenly hit home with a vengeance. Van In was sitting in an enormous bleak chamber, surrounded by people bidding greedily against one another. He looked on as an arrogant bailiff and four musclemen emptied his house. Blood pumped in irregular spurts through his aorta, and a swarm of aggressive fruit flies danced in front of his eyes. Then someone switched the light out.

“Jesus, Van In.” Versavel's shout sounded muffled, as if a heavy curtain was hanging between them. Van In was flat on the floor. He had banged his head against a filing cabinet on the way down. Versavel reacted in a fraction of a second. He called the incident room and held a towel under the tap.

Van In could hear Versavel running back and forth, and he opened his eyes. To his relief, the pain was ebbing away. Four or five unfamiliar faces hovered above him, hideous faces, the type you see in horror movies. He recognized the smell of Versavel's aftershave. The sergeant didn't look happy at all.

The chill of the wet towel refreshed him, and he tried to sit up.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to call a doctor?”

Van In felt the cold of the floor penetrate his jacket on its way to his back. He shivered. Why was he lying on the ground? “No, leave it. I'm feeling better already.” He leaned on his elbow for support. “Did I fall? Help me get up, someone.”

Four obliging officers lifted him from the floor like a sack of potatoes.

“Thanks.” His vision was clearing, but his chest creaked as if a truck had driven over it.

“I still think we should call an ambulance,” one of the officers whispered in a broad Bruges accent.

“It's his heart. My father-in-law collapsed like that last week.”

Versavel hesitated. He knew Van In hated doctors and hospitals. “Let's give him a moment,” he said.

Van In grabbed his wrist and held it like a vise. “No ambulance, Guido. Everything is under control.”

Versavel was faced with a dilemma. He wasn't happy, but the begging expression in Van In's watery eyes finally won the day. “Okay, gents. Thanks for the assistance. The commissioner's feeling better. I'll take care of things from here.”

The officer who had said that his father-in-law had collapsed in much the same way the week before tried to describe the symptoms of a heart attack as best he could. The other officers left the room one by one.

“I think it was that coffee of yours, Guido. Too strong, too much.” Van In smiled gratefully.

Versavel helped him into a chair. The commissioner grinned like a spoiled Alzheimer's patient.

“Coffee, sex, and excitement. I said it already, Pieter. You're getting a bit too old for that kind of cocktail.”

Versavel rarely used first names with the commissioner, but hearing it gave Van In a warm feeling. He suddenly understood the difference between being a man's man and being gay.

“Not in that order, Guido,” Van In groaned. “Please don't let me die from coffee.”

“What about tobacco then?” asked Versavel cynically. “If I were you, I'd start paying attention to the warnings on those cigarette packs.”

“You're right, Guido. Sex is extremely dangerous for a man of my years. Especially when a whore is involved,” he jibed.

“Blowhard. I said tobacco.”

“After the sex, Guido. Always after the sex.”

“Birdbrain. You're as obstinate as a castrated pit bull.”

“Give me two minutes and I'll be chasing your tail.”

Versavel heaved a deep sigh of relief and held the towel under the tap. Van In was slowly getting his color back, and for some strange reason that made him happy.

V
ERSAVEL BOOKED OUT A CAR
and took Van In home. He ignored his friend's protests and installed him on the couch with a blanket. He then lit the fire and forced him to take a Bromo-Seltzer.

“Try to get some rest,” he said, doing his best to sound strict. “I'll do some reading.”

Van In gave in and closed his eyes. He was gasping for a cigarette, but with Versavel on his case it would be the same as asking for strychnine. He heard the sergeant turn the pages of his book at regular intervals. He tried to relax, counted backwards from 100 to 1, but when that didn't work he turned on his side and did his imitation of a mineworker clearing his lungs.

Versavel slammed his book shut and looked at Van In, compassion written all over his face.

“There's a drop of whiskey in the refrigerator, Guido. My vocal cords are like glue sticks.”

Versavel stared pensively into the flames. What harm could a drop of whiskey do? Doctors approved of it, and for some people it even had healing properties.

“All right, then, one won't kill you,” Versavel yielded.

“Don't forget yourself,” Van In shouted at his back.

The hoarseness had disappeared. He sank into the couch and followed the snowflakes whirling past the window. Such moments of intense happiness were few and far between. They made you scratch your forehead and left you tingling.

“Thanks, Guido.”

The whiskey barely colored the bottom of the glass. Van In waltzed it and inhaled the aroma. He deferred the tasting.

Versavel put on a CD of Corelli music. The room was filled with the scent of crackling logs, and the harpsichord added an indefinable sense of tranquility and refined pleasure.

“What are you reading?” Van In asked after a moment.

Versavel held up the book. Van In read the title. “
Chaos,
” he reacted with surprise. “I don't remember reading it.”

“Shame, Commissioner. It's fascinating.”

“Take it home with you, Guido. I'll manage on my own. And I'll keep out of mischief.”

It took the best part of fifteen minutes for Van In to convince Versavel that he felt fine.

“I'll be asleep in no time.”

“Okay,” said Versavel. “But you have to promise me two things.”

Van In breathed a sigh of relief and snuggled under his blanket like a spoiled infant.

“Tomorrow you see a doctor.”

Van In threw back the last drop of whiskey and nodded submissively.

“And if anything should happen during the night, you'll call me.” Versavel rubbed his moustache a couple of times, a sign that he was worried.

“It's a deal, Guido. I'm here for the rest of the night.”

Versavel seemed to believe him. He tossed another log on the fire.

“I'll lock up and slip the key under the door.”

“You're a kind man, Guido. I'll see you at the station tomorrow.”

Van In closed his eyes and waited for the sound of the key turning in the lock and being slipped under the door. It was like a factory siren at the end of a double shift. He bounced out of the sofa, went to the kitchen cupboard, and grabbed a reserve pack of cigarettes—of which Versavel was under the impression that he had taken the entire stock. Van In then lumbered down to the cellar in his bare feet and retrieved a dusty bottle of Rémy Martin.

A powerful northeast wind had picked up outside. Thousands of snowflakes died an inconspicuous death against the warm glass of the terrace doors.

Van In lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, uncorked the cognac, and poured. He blew smoke into the glass, inhaled, and took a gulp of the amber fire.

Sure as he was that bank clerks everywhere spent their artless evenings in front of the box, he punched in the number of Philippe Depuydt. The phone rang three times.

“Hello. Pieter Van In here. Is Philippe there?”

“A moment.” It was a woman's voice. “Philiiippe … telephoooone.”

Van In could hear a child bawling and could almost smell the bland odor of talcum-powdered buttocks. It took a while before someone picked up the receiver.

“Philippe Depuydt? Pieter Van In here.” There was an eerie silence at the other end of the line. “You remember me, don't you?” he said, as if they were best buddies. “We were in the same class at school. The Xavarian Brothers. You were always next to me in the study hall. We fought heroic sparring matches with our compasses.”

“Yes….” He sounded hesitant.

“I saw you Monday at the bank. I had an appointment with the manager and I saw you slink past his office.”

“I'm afraid I can't help you, Pieter Van In.” Depuydt smelled a rat. Nobody called an old school friend after twenty-five years just to say hello.

“Listen, good buddy. I know about your problem with the folks next door.” Van In sought refuge in an authoritarian police voice. “There's nothing to be ashamed of. Noisy neighbors can be a real problem. I have similar issues myself,” he lied.

“Perhaps, but….” Depuydt sputtered.

“I can help you, Philippe. I know why the authorities haven't done anything about it.”

Depuydt's heart started to pound in his chest. The dispute with Debaes, the manager at the Octopus, had been keeping him awake nights. He was begging for a solution.

“That's very kind of you, Pieter.”

“I can end the whole thing once and for all, if you'll tell me why the bank is so determined to sell my house.”

Silence. The background noise also disappeared, which meant that Depuydt had covered the mouthpiece with his hand. He was talking it over with his wife, Van In figured.

“Why should I believe you?” There was a hint of despair in Depuydt's voice. “Nothing's helped up to now, and if I violate bank secrecy I could lose my job.”

“Bank secrecy,” Van In laughed. “Let's not exaggerate. I'm just curious, that's all. My folks have lent me some money, so there's not going to be a sale.”

Further consultation. This time Depuydt wasn't careful to cover the mouthpiece. Van In heard the voice of the female who had answered the phone. Van In's comment about paying off his debts had clinched it.

“Can you really stop the noise?”

“Within the week,” said Van In without a flinch.

“Well,” Depuydt hesitated, “there was never any intention of putting your house up for sale. A real estate agent has been combing the market for the last couple of years in search of mortgage risks. They've been putting the banks under pressure to divest themselves of people in financial difficulties.”

“I'm listening, Philippe.” Van In could hardly believe his ears. Banks were supposed to be aboveboard.

“That's all I know, honestly.”

“Bullshit,” Van In sneered. “I've always had my suspicions about Lonneville. He's as corrupt as….”

“Leave Lonneville out of this,” Depuydt pleaded.

“No problem, Philippe. I'm happy with the name of the real estate agent.” He picked up his pen.

“Die Scone,” Depuydt whispered. “But you didn't hear it from me.”

“You get to sleep tonight, Philippe. That nuisance next door is history.”

“I hope you're right. In any case, thanks for the trouble.”

“I should be thanking you,” said Van In. “And call me if anything goes wrong. Okay?”

Van In returned the receiver to its cradle and drew obstinate circles around “Die Scone” with his pen.

Van In headed upstairs after the late news and took a hot shower. He put on clean underwear and wriggled into his favorite jeans. He camouflaged the rolls of fat above his belt with a brightly colored sweater, a gift from Hannelore a few months earlier.

It was only a five-minute walk from Moer Street to Jan van Eyck Square. The snow was blowing a serious blizzard. Van In waded through the sludge, trying to keep a cigarette dry in the palm of his hand. He shuffled the length of Grauwwerker Street and slalomed deftly between the collapsed, half-snowed-under piles of dog shit.

A pair of disheveled couples were holding up the bar at the Villa Italiana, staring wearily at their drinks. Mario raised a listless hand and Jacques politely helped him with his jacket.

“Wendy van Wanten fans,” the pallid waiter snorted. “They got the wrong night, of course. Should've been here yesterday.”

Van In laughed. Jacques always used the same excuse if the place was empty.

“Is Véronique here?”

“She's upstairs glamming herself. Want me to tell her you're here?”

“No need. I know the way.”

Van In made his way to the back, his heart pounding, opened the massive mirror door, and climbed the dark steep stairway. In contrast to downstairs, the upper floor looked more like a Warsaw slum. The paint flaked from the walls and colonies of black fungus festered on the ceiling like rotting seaweed. The air was stale, but nobody cared. The men who got this far usually had other things on their minds.

Véronique had the biggest room at the end of the corridor. Van In knocked and before she could say “come in,” he pushed open the door.

Like most whores, Véronique had the taste of a twelve-year-old girl: bed linen in pastel colors, a pile of fluffy toys, and a vanity table in white craquelure with gold edging.

“Pierrot. I didn't think you would make it.”

Véronique hopped from her stool like a brittle ballerina. Van In could see that she'd been using, but she made up for it with a waterfall of caresses.

“
Tu m'as manqué
… I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” he managed to squeeze in between a couple of kisses. Véronique had arrived in Belgium two years earlier without a valid visa, like so many other Eastern Bloc girls. When the police had finally picked her up, Van In took pity on her. She was twenty-two and smelled of the tundra. Her pronounced cheekbones, coral-red lips, and body that deserved the Nobel Peace Prize made his Russian seductress into an irresistible herb. He had grazed in her meadows and he was addicted to it.

“You called me,” he said awkwardly.

She threw her arms around him once again and started to smother him with kisses.

“Let me make fix you a drink first. Campari?”

“If that's all you have,” Van In sighed.

She rummaged behind a curtain, produced a bottle of Haig, and filled a couple of grimy glasses.

“Did you want to tell me something,
chou
?” he repeated in his best French.

Véronique gave him a glass and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Is it about the German?” he asked.

“Fiedle?”

“No, the other one,” he snapped.

“Pierrot, don't tell me you're in a hurry,” she pouted. “A little more?”

Véronique filled his glass. Her carelessly fastened dressing gown fell open, but she didn't mind.

“That was no German,” she said playfully.

Van In took a manly swig of whiskey and slipped off his jacket. The fake German wasn't going anywhere.

Enzo Scaglione was on a roll. He parked his slate-blue BMW in the shadow of Ghent's Saint Bavo Cathedral, popped some change into the parking meter, and headed toward the Wheat Market with a spring in his step. His expensive overcoat contained a bundle of crispy banknotes in its pocket: remuneration for blowing up Guido Gezelle.

His mother had always dreamed that her son would be a doctor or a lawyer. She had sent him to university against Scaglione senior's will. Enzo had studied in Namur, Leuven, and Ghent and kept it up for six long years until the day his mother was killed in a car accident. She'd been only forty-nine. A drunk driver had mowed her down at the front door of her house.

Three months later, Enzo had embraced the underworld. He was never going to get a university degree, but by this time he didn't give a damn. Today he had collected his fee, enough to turn even a hospital surgeon green with envy.

The Gravensteen gazed over the frozen castle moat like an alien monolith. The pristine snow on its battlements gave the aged giant an air of respectability. A tinkling tram traced parallel lines through the abandoned streets. The driving snow fuzzied the sharp yellow light of its headlamps. In contrast to Bruges, the authorities in Ghent let the snow lie, which was much safer for pedestrians. Enzo wasn't in a hurry. He savored the serene silence.

Robert Nicolai lived in a renovated apartment in the Patershol, one of Ghent's oldest neighborhoods not far from the university's cultural center, Het Pand. Enzo knew Het Pand like the back of his hand. He had regularly taken girls there for a screw when he was a student. But the dilapidated monastery had now been completely restored, and its former romantic charm had been bulldozed by the stiff respectability of the nineteen-nineties.

Nicolai was expecting him. The door swung open while his finger was still on the bell.

“Come in,” he said with a welcoming smile.

Nicolai was youngish, good-looking, short of stature, but with the appeal of a trained bodybuilder. His long hair was tied back in a ponytail and his handshake was firm and dry.

“No problems?”

Enzo shrugged his shoulders and went inside. The apartment was sparsely furnished. The IKEA furniture was a perfect match for the whitewashed walls, and a couple of salmon-pink rugs graced the hardwood floor.

“Please take a seat, sir.”

Nicolai didn't know his visitor's name, and Enzo wasn't planning to introduce himself. He chose a white beechwood rocking chair.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

Nicolai spoke Dutch with difficulty, but he did his best.

“Please,” said Enzo.

“White wine?”

“Fine.”

The awkward rhyme echoed the affected atmosphere.

“A very cozy apartment, Mr. Nicolai.”

The broad-shouldered Walloon smiled shyly. He liked it when someone showed appreciation for his taste.

“I'll get a bottle from the refrigerator. Feel free to take a look around.”