The House with Nine Locks, page 11
It was the forger. He had been standing within earshot when Jaspers had given the game away – standing there with his pockets full of counterfeit bills. It hit Toussaint that it was his fault: he had panicked, risked his cover too soon, risked everything.
There wasn’t time to think about it. He took off towards the corner of the grandstand. A bell sounded, summoning the horses to post. The crowds were moving against him, heading for the side of the track. He looked for de Smet, caught sight of him in the distance. He had no idea that the whole scheme was blown.
The main entrance to the hippodrome was forty metres away. One of the uniformed gendarmes was there, his hands behind his back. Toussaint ran over: ‘Man in a grey raincoat, dark hair. Did he come through here?’
The officer scratched his chin. ‘Could have, sir. Maybe that way.’ He pointed into the car park on the other side of the gates.
The cars were lined up at right angles to the road. Latecomers were still arriving, but it was quieter than around the track, the noise of the tannoy and the crowd muffled by the wind. Toussaint walked along the row of cars, peering through the windscreens. A couple were necking in the front seat of a convertible. At the end of one row, a family were piling out of a Renault Dauphine. The children were in short trousers. The mother wore sunglasses and a yellow sundress.
A cheer went up from the crowd. The race had begun. The voice on the tannoy became a stream of noise. Somewhere nearby an engine kicked into life.
The engine grew louder. Toussaint turned. A motorcycle was coming towards him from the far end of the car park. The rider was wearing a helmet, but there was no mistaking his face. Toussaint reached into his pocket for the Beretta, flipped off the safety, slid in the first round.
‘Stop!’
The motorcycle surged forward. It wasn’t going to stop. Toussaint took aim with two hands. The thought flashed though his mind: he had never shot a man before.
The woman in the sundress was suddenly in his line of sight, just the other side of the target. Her children were running up beside her. If he missed his man he could hit one of them.
The motorcycle made a half-swerve around him. Toussaint had one chance. He threw himself at the rider, managed to get a grip on his collar while his left hand found the handlebars. The caps of his shoes scraped across the dirt.
The machine went over. Toussaint hit the ground with a jolt, taking the impact on his hip. He opened his eyes to see that the world had tipped on its side, the asphalt on one side, the cloud-streaked sky on the other. A sharp pain lanced through his head.
He sat up. Drunkenly, the world righted itself. The motorcycle was still on its side, the engine running. Where was the rider? Somewhere behind him a woman screamed.
Toussaint looked back. The rider had picked up his pistol.
Toussaint coughed. ‘You’re under arrest,’ he said.
The rider walked over to him, raised the Beretta and struck him hard in the face.
Toussaint was still on the ground when de Smet found him a few minutes later.
‘Did you get a good look at him, at least?’ he said.
Toussaint couldn’t answer. His jaw felt like it was broken and his mouth was full of blood. The other gendarmes arrived and helped him to the first-aid station. Over the tannoy they were announcing the results of the first race. Claire de Lune had come in fourth.
SEVENTEEN
Ghent, April 1957
Every year, for the past four years, Uncle Cornelis had sent Adelais two hundred francs on her birthday, tucked inside a card. This year there was no card and no money.
During most of that time, Cornelis had been abroad. He had business in Amsterdam and that was why they had seen so little of him. In fact, if it hadn’t been for a couple of family funerals, a wedding and a cousin’s first communion, Adelais might not have seen him at all. Still, he had always remembered her birthday, and whenever she had seen him, he had made a point of sitting down with her and asking what she had been up to. What’s more, he had never been satisfied with banalities, the way most adults were. He wanted to know what she really thought about things, and people – teachers, neighbours, relatives. He would listen and laugh. ‘You’ve sharp eyes, little wolf,’ he would say. ‘And sharp ears to go with them.’
Adelais had always liked this choice of moniker. Wolves were strong and dangerous, even little ones. And they were pack animals, which Adelais liked the sound of. She was still a child when she saw the small bronze figure of a wolf at the Friday market. She knew she had found her uncle the perfect present, and gave it to him at the first opportunity. Cornelis examined the figure from all sides, before solemnly declaring that he had never received a better gift in his life.
Six months had gone by since she had seen him last, at a christening in the church of Sint-Antonius on Forelstraat. He must have arrived late because Adelais did not notice him until the ceremony was well under way. When it was over, everyone filed out onto the pavement, the baby wailing and hiccupping, his mother struggling to wind him through several generations’ worth of christening robes. Adelais found Uncle Cornelis greeting relatives with smiles and handshakes, but when it was his sister’s turn she gave him no more than a nod before moving on.
Adelais hugged him and asked if he was coming back to the house.
‘Not this time, little wolf.’
‘But you never come any more. Why don’t you come?’
Uncle Cornelis looked up and down the street. A sharp wind pulled at his hair. These days it was silver around the sides of his head. ‘It’s complicated. My work’s been … demanding. I’ve had to travel. You’ll understand about these things when you’re older.’
‘I understand already. I work for a living, you know. I have a job.’
‘You do? What kind of job?’
‘In a bar, by the docks: Aux Quatre Vents.’
‘Aux Quatre Vents, that’s an interesting name.’ Uncle Cornelis was trying to sound positive, but it was clearly an effort. To him, she was still a little girl, too young to be serving alcohol to crewmen and dockers. ‘So … you like this job, do you?’
‘I like the pay.’ Adelais shrugged. ‘It’s better than no pay.’
‘Of course.’
‘I was lucky to get anything. And it’s not so bad. I sit behind a till, taking money. There’s music.’
Adelais knew what her uncle was thinking: that his favourite niece deserved better. How often had he told her that she was special? As a child she had believed him, the way she once believed in Santa Claus. But she was grown up now.
‘All the same, you might look around for a different occupation,’ Uncle Cornelis said. ‘Something more … rewarding perhaps?’
‘I’d think about anything if it paid well,’ Adelais said. ‘That’s the main thing, isn’t it? If you’ve money, everything else can be fixed.’
‘You’ve a head on your shoulders, little wolf.’
‘Did you have something in mind? I’m not fussy.’
Uncle Cornelis did not answer. Instead, he offered Adelais his arm and led her towards the community hall where a party was under way. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘did you ever complete that challenge I set you, on the handcycle?’
‘Of course. I went further than the Devil’s House. I went all over Ghent.’
Uncle Cornelis reached inside his coat. ‘Then I owe you some money, don’t I?’
‘Never mind about that. I wasn’t thinking about the challenge. I was enjoying myself.’ Adelais would never forget the thrill of leaving Schoolstraat for the first time, making her way towards the heart of the city all on her own. Reaching the Sint-Joris Bridge in time to save Sebastian was the reward for her efforts, the hidden purpose behind it all – that was how it had seemed.
‘All the same, a deal’s a deal.’ Before Adelais could stop him, Uncle Cornelis had pressed three hundred francs into her hand. ‘Honour among thieves.’
‘What do you mean?’ Adelais tucked the money away in her pocket. She could not deny it: three hundred francs would come in handy.
‘I mean, we’re cut from the same cloth, you and I.’ Uncle Cornelis lowered his voice. ‘Your mother might not like it, but it’s true. I could tell as soon as I saw you with a baby’s bottle in your mouth. When a break comes your way, you grab it with both hands, even if you don’t know where it’ll take you. Because that’s what life’s about. That’s the adventure. It doesn’t come to you.’ He stopped and took Adelais’s hands. ‘Am I right?’
‘Right?’
‘About you, little wolf.’
‘Of course. You know me better than anyone. You always have. You gave me the handcycle because you knew I’d make the most of it.’
‘And you didn’t disappoint me.’
Uncle Cornelis accompanied Adelais into the hall, but he did not stay long at the party. After a few minutes she saw him slip away as quietly as he had arrived. She hurried to the door in time to see him climbing into his old Citroën. He gave her a sad little wave before starting the engine and pulling away.
A few weeks after her birthday Adelais was making breakfast in the kitchen. It was a Saturday and she had gone out early to buy fresh rolls and a bag of coffee. The dance at the opera house was fast approaching and she had been trying to save money for a dress, but then Saskia had said she could have one of her older sisters’ cast-offs. They weren’t the latest fashions, but better quality than anything Adelais had considered, and all that would be needed was a little alteration. When the coffee was ready, she went to fetch her father from his workshop. He had to be there, because there had been no sign of him upstairs. She knocked twice and went in.
Her father was lying slumped over on his workbench, snoring. Next to an empty glass sat an earthenware bottle with the stopper off. Adelais picked up the bottle. There was half an inch of genever in the bottom. She gave it a sniff and grimaced. That was when she noticed the letter.
It was different from the bills and notices to pay that were strewn across the bench. The paper was thick and pale blue, with an embossed coat of arms in dark blue at the top. It was the official coat of arms of Belgium. Underneath, in capitals, were the words: MINISTRY OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS.
Adelais slid the letter out from under her father’s elbow and read:
Dear Mrs de Wolf,
It is with deep regret that I write to inform you that our consular representative in Amsterdam, the Netherlands, has been notified by the Dutch authorities of the death of Cornelis Willem Mertens, to whom our records indicate you are next of kin.
According to our information, Mr Mertens was discovered at his place of lodging on the morning of 15 April. The cause of death has not yet been determined, but the circumstances are not regarded as suspicious.
We will contact you again in due course regarding the remains. I would be grateful if you would acknowledge receipt of this letter at your earliest convenience. In the meantime, please accept my deepest condolences.
Yours sincerely,
Gustaaf E. Audenaerde
CONSULAR SECTION
Adelais stood for a long time holding the letter. She looked at her father, passed out at his bench, an empty bottle in front of him. Her uncle may not have been a constant presence, but he had always been on her side, always watching, even from a distance. My little wolf. One of her earliest memories was of being carried on his shoulders along the beach at De Haan, him breaking into a run while her mother shrieked at him to be careful. She had been able to count on Uncle Cornelis and now he was gone. She hugged herself. The workshop felt cold.
Adelais’s tears dripped onto the letter. Cornelis hadn’t just been her uncle: he had been her mother’s brother and her father’s brother-in-law. She was being selfish, Adelais told herself, thinking only about what he meant to her. She wiped her nose on her sleeve and put the letter down. Her gaze fell on the date: 19 April. The letter had been written ten days earlier. Her parents had known about Cornelis’s death for at least a week.
Her mother was standing at the kitchen sink when Adelais came in. The electric lights on the Virgin Mary’s halo had been turned on.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Tell you what?’
‘About Uncle Cornelis.’
‘Have you been talking to your father?’
‘Papa’s asleep in his workshop. I think he’s been there all night.’
Adelais’s mother picked up a dishcloth to dry her hands. ‘You mustn’t worry, Ada. He’s just—’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Adelais’s mother carried on drying her hands, as if they were unusually wet. ‘I was going to. I was just waiting for the right time. I know you’ve been busy.’
‘I’m not a child any more.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Adelais’s mother put a plate of butter on the table, next to the rolls. ‘You should eat something.’
Adelais sat down and watched her mother pour her a cup of coffee. ‘What happened, Mama?’
‘I think he’d been ill for a while, and then suddenly …’
‘Was it a heart attack?’
‘I don’t think so. More like an infection. They haven’t told us yet.’
‘Will they bring him home?’
Adelais’s mother turned back to the sink. ‘He left instructions. He wanted … he wanted to stay in Holland. He must have liked it there, I suppose.’
‘Are we going there?’
Adelais’s mother shook her head. ‘It all happened very quickly, the funeral, everything. Because of his illness. Special precautions. The Dutch are very strict about those things.’
Adelais sat at the table, trying to picture Uncle Cornelis’s coffin being lowered into a Dutch grave. The Dutch were Protestants and she wasn’t even sure they did things the same way as Catholics. All the same, it seemed wrong that nobody in the family had been there.
‘I want to go,’ she said. ‘I want to say goodbye.’
Her mother sighed. ‘The best thing you can do for him now, Adelais, is pray for his soul.’
‘But I want to go. I want to say goodbye. I’ll pay my own fare to Holland.’
Her mother sat down at the table. ‘Ada, I know you were fond of your uncle. I know he was always buying you things.’
‘That’s not why—’
‘But you must believe me when I tell you that he wasn’t …’ Odilie de Wolf shook her head. Her face was flushed. ‘He turned his back on God a long time ago.’
Adelais looked into her cup. She hated it when her mother talked this way. She wanted to scream: I don’t care.
‘To tell you the truth,’ her mother went on, ‘I’m glad he hasn’t been here very much these past few years, because …’ Again, she seemed to have trouble saying what she meant.
‘Because what?’
‘Because he’s … Cornelis has always been a bad influence. I was afraid he might lead you astray, we both were. I’m sorry, but it’s true. You’re like him in some ways. He often said so, and I see it sometimes: something dauntless, no fear of judgement. It worries me.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I know Cornelis did nice things for you, but trust me, he never did anything without a reason. There was always a plan behind it, a scheme. He always knew how to get under your skin.’
Adelais stood up. Her mother should have been grieving over her lost brother, but instead she was painting him like the Devil, all because he didn’t go to confession and pray four times a day, all because he was fun. At the door, she turned. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead, Mama. Maybe you should take a long hard look at yourself.’
Later that day, Adelais took the handcycle to St Bavo’s Cathedral. In the recess to the right of the altar, she lit a candle and recited the prayer of St Francis. She said goodbye to her uncle Cornelis and told him she would see him in heaven, if there was one. She pictured him waiting there, holding in the palm of his hand the little bronze wolf she had given him. After she had watched the candle burn down for a while she went outside, sat under the statue in the square, and cried.
EIGHTEEN
Sebastian had exams to prepare for, and weeks passed without any sign of him, but then one evening he came by the bar when Adelais was finishing up. Usually he arrived on his father’s old bicycle, but he was on foot this time, and he was carrying a satchel full of books over his shoulder. He looked pale and there were dark circles under his eyes. ‘I was in the library all day,’ he said. ‘I had to take a break.’
Adelais was glad he didn’t look too good, because she herself was grubby after a day at work, and it was a while since she had washed her hair. These days she wore it in a ponytail, rather than a topknot, but she had more ambitious plans for the dance.
‘I can wait if you’re busy,’ Sebastian said.
It wasn’t yet time to go, but Mrs Claes gave Adelais a smile and nodded towards the door. She had a soft spot for Sebastian, just like the nurses at the hospital, which Adelais took as a good sign. Mrs Claes had been around. She knew a bad egg when she saw one.
They made their way down Kongostraat and over the river. In a small, dusty park they bought a bag of peanuts from a vendor and sat on a bench, shelling the peanuts and watching children play in the playground opposite. It was still light and not cold.
‘How’s your mother doing?’
Sebastian didn’t normally ask after her family. That was the kind of small talk they avoided, but then Adelais remembered Uncle Cornelis. Perhaps a death in the family was simply too momentous to be ignored.
‘She’s fine. The same, anyway.’
‘That’s good.’
‘And yours?’
‘Oh, fine. My father too.’
‘Good.’
‘Well, things have been difficult, actually, at work. Not just for his firm. The whole industry. But it’s cyclical, he says. They’ll pull through.’
