The House with Nine Locks, page 19
‘What did your uncle do? Didn’t he say?’
Adelais looked through the notebook. The notary’s name caught her eye: FRANZ A. KLYSEN, Muinkkaai 5. Klysen had been charged with handling Uncle Cornelis’s estate. He had known enough about Adelais to avoid contacting her at home. Maybe he knew where Uncle Cornelis had hidden his money. If you have any questions, you have my card. They had been his parting words. Adelais had a question now, but asking it involved taking the risk of putting herself and Saskia in his power. She did not like the idea of that.
She carried on searching. In the middle of the last page, she found a name and an address. She had been so focused on printing techniques that she had scarcely noticed them before:
M. Antoine Schiltz
Banque Pétrusse
19 Rue Notre Dame
Luxembourg
Cash deposits accepted
This was information she was looking for. There could be no doubt. Hadn’t Hendryck the barman told her exactly what the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg was for?
They decided to go together, but Adelais did not have a passport, and June had given way to July by the time they were ready to leave. On a warm, hazy morning, they wrapped a quarter of a million francs in silver paper and hid it in the false bottom of a wicker picnic basket, before heading for the station. Saskia had equipped herself with a camera. Adelais had bought a Luxembourg guidebook. Saskia wore a polka-dot sundress that barely reached her knees, and a straw hat with a blue ribbon. Adelais wore slacks that were too loose to be fashionable, but hid her leg brace. Both of them wore sunglasses.
It took six hours to reach the border outside the town of Arlon. A border guard got on the train and went from compartment to compartment, checking documents and offering customs forms, which few passengers accepted. He took no interest in the girls’ luggage, or the contents of their picnic basket, although he did take time, between turning the pages of Saskia’s passport, to appreciate the view of her legs, which she had shaved for the occasion and made no effort to cover.
The banks were closed by the time they arrived at the Gare Centrale. Adelais had expected a modest, provincial city, but Luxembourg was opulent and stately. The streets were straight and wide, the buildings stone-clad. By comparison, Ghent was gnarled and sooty. The guidebook directed them to the Grand Hotel Central Molitor, which it described as ‘historic’. It stood on a long, tree-lined boulevard a few hundred metres from the station and was capped by a dome, as if doubling as a basilica. Adelais had never stayed in a proper hotel before, not one with an oak-panelled dining room, en suite bathrooms, and towels as thick as her arm. Throwing herself on the bed, with its eiderdown pillows, breathing in the smell of fresh linen, she felt as if she had wandered into somebody else’s life, the life of someone important or famous. Their room cost a thousand francs per night, and there were fresh flowers in all the vases. It made her giddy.
After supper, they wandered up the Avenue de la Liberté to the heart of the city. Above the old, overgrown ramparts, they found the Rue Notre Dame.
‘There’s a casino around here.’ Saskia had her nose in the guidebook. ‘It was the Kaiser’s headquarters during World War I, and Franz Liszt gave his last recital there, twelve days before dying of pneumonia.’
‘We didn’t come here to gamble,’ Adelais said, but she had to admit she was curious. As a child, holidaying with her parents on the coast at Blankenberge, she had once found herself outside a casino. She had been fascinated by the bright lights and the sound of music drifting out into the night. Her father had wanted to go in, but her mother had been horrified. As far as she was concerned, casinos were the Devil’s playgrounds.
‘My father says casinos are a licence to print money,’ Saskia said. ‘We should fit right in.’ And she winked.
Inside, there were several bars and a man playing a grand piano in the lobby. The air smelled of cigar smoke and half the bulbs were dud in the electric chandeliers. Saskia headed for the nearest cage where chips were bought and sold.
‘Bonsoir,’ she said, smiling at the cashier. She had pulled a 500-franc note from the top of her dress and placed it on the counter.
It was a needless risk, especially here, where there was no easy means of escape, but it was too late for Adelais to say anything.
The cashier smiled and handed over three stacks of chips, each a different colour. ‘Tout va bien?’
‘Très bien, merci.’ Saskia took the chips. The cashier put the money in a drawer without giving it a second glance.
They tried their hands at roulette, blackjack and baccarat. The roulette tables were the busiest, and somebody had something to celebrate with every spin of the wheel. Betting on even numbered reds, they went ahead a hundred francs. The wins were thrilling. Half an hour later, they were down almost three hundred. Luck arrived and stayed with them for a while. Then it vanished and refused to return. Adelais could see why people played on and on, waiting for the heady moment when their luck would turn again.
The cashier gave them a sympathetic look as he exchanged their remaining chips for two hundred francs, but Saskia did not seem bothered. ‘That was interesting,’ she said, as they were leaving.
‘Interesting?’ Adelais said. ‘We lost three hundred francs.’
Saskia shook her head. ‘No, we didn’t, Adelais. We gained two hundred.’
She was quiet for the rest of the evening.
Monsieur Schiltz was a tidy, well-groomed man, with a strong jaw and a full head of grey hair. A bloom of colour suggested outdoor recreation: golf perhaps, or riding. Adelais could picture him in an advertisement for Scotch whisky or pipe tobacco.
She had telephoned ahead from the hotel, explaining that she was Cornelis Mertens’s niece and was interested in opening an account. Arriving at the bank, she and Saskia were greeted by men in livery, wearing white gloves. They were served coffee with cream and petit fours on a silver tray, which Adelais was too nervous to eat, but which Saskia devoured without any sign of gastric discomfort. After a few minutes, they were ushered into an office on the second floor. The windows overlooked a small square, at the centre of which stood a stone obelisk with a golden figure at the top.
Monsieur Schiltz spoke French with the faintest of German accents. ‘We were so sorry to hear about the loss of your uncle,’ he said, rising to his feet and offering his hand. ‘We should like to express our condolences, if belatedly.’
‘Thank you.’ Adelais wondered why Schiltz said we, when there was nobody else in the room. She also wondered how he knew about Cornelis’s death.
‘I hope we can offer you the same service and commitment we were pleased to offer him,’ Schiltz said.
Adelais nodded. The banker seemed to be waiting for something. She took the bundles of francs from her shopping bag, still wrapped in silver foil, and placed them on his desk.
If Monsieur Schiltz was surprised at this form of deposit, he did not show it. He unwrapped the bundles and swiftly sorted them according to denominations. ‘What have we here, a quarter-million or so?’
‘A quarter-million exactly,’ Saskia said. She had crumbs at the side of her mouth.
‘Very good.’ Schiltz made no move to count the money. Perhaps it would have seemed rude, or perhaps it was too small a sum to need counting.
‘There’ll be more soon,’ Saskia said. ‘Two or three million at least.’
Adelais gave Saskia a look. Why did she feel the need to impress this man? How did she know he could be trusted? Saskia responded with a shrug.
Monsieur Schiltz was watching them. ‘Might I suggest two accounts?’
‘Two?’
‘Joint accounts can produce …’ Schiltz smiled. ‘… difficulties, and delays. Where people are in partnership, I always recommend separate arrangements when it comes to the proceeds.’
Adelais wondered what he meant; probably that if one partner went to prison, the other could still get at the money. Or was prison not the only danger? She thought of her uncle and the report from the consul: the cause of death has not yet been determined. Had Uncle Cornelis had a partner? If so, what had become of him? She thought of asking Monsieur Schiltz, but she was certain he would not tell her.
‘Numbered accounts would suit you best, I assume?’ he said, taking papers from a drawer in his desk.
Adelais did not know. ‘Is that …? Did my uncle …?’
Schiltz hesitated for a moment, then gave a single nod of his head. ‘As the holder of a numbered account, you will be known only by a unique number. By law, the bank may not divulge to anyone the identity behind that number.’
Their accounts would cost four thousand francs per year and paid no interest. ‘I hope you will agree,’ Schiltz said, ‘that this is an acceptable price to pay for peace of mind.’
When the paperwork was done he rose to his feet and shook hands with them again. Outside the window, the gilded figure on top of the obelisk stared down at them, holding aloft a wreath.
‘We call her the Gëlle Fra,’ Schiltz said. ‘The Golden Girl. I like to think of her keeping watch over the bank, our own private guardian angel.’
That evening, a storm broke over the city of Ghent. Lennart de Wolf jumped at the first peel of thunder. He had been pouring a glass of genever at the time and most of it ended up in his lap. This made him furious, not so much because of the stain on his trousers, but because there was no more genever left in the bottle.
Lennart left his workshop and made his way to the kitchen. The genever was strong and the floor seemed to roll gently from side to side beneath his feet. The sensation was not unpleasant. With the rain coming down and thunder echoing all round, he fancied he was aboard a sailing ship on the high seas. The genever was an expensive brand – much better than he used to drink – and often left him with no hangover at all. It was quite unreasonable that he should be denied the last glass because of a summer storm.
In the kitchen he found another bottle in the refrigerator, but it was empty. This wasn’t right: there had been a good few fingers left when he had gone to bed the previous night. It could only be that Adelais had been drinking it on the sly – little Ada, already on the hard stuff! The thought depressed him. He should never have let her take work in a bar, even if the pay was good. Hard liquor was a slippery slope.
Another peel of thunder rattled the windows. He recalled that Adelais had been away the previous night with Dr Helsen’s daughter. They had gone to some festival or other and were staying the night. She could not have been at the genever. He must have finished it himself. The thought that Adelais had not yet been seduced by hard liquor cheered him up. It was something he could drink to, if he could only find something to drink. He searched the cupboards and went to the refrigerator again. It was well stocked with food – dried sausage, bread and fresh butter, vegetables, pastries – but that was all. He picked up the sausage and bit off the end. It was tasty enough, but what it needed was a glass of strong red wine to go with it. If the shops hadn’t been shut, he would have gone out and bought a bottle, possibly two.
An idea came to him: Adelais would be at the bar now. She could pick up a bottle before she left. Mrs Claes would probably sell it to her at the wholesale price. She would give her credit, if Adelais didn’t have enough money.
The telephone was in the hall. The telephone company had supplied a phone book when they carried out the installation. Lennart flicked through the pages, searching for Aux Quatre Vents. It wasn’t easy: his vision was blurred, and staring at the columns of type made him feel queasy.
He found the number in a section headed HOSPITALITY. After four rings Mrs Claes picked up the phone.
‘Yes?’ There were booming voices in the background, raucous laughter, music. It was a long time since Lennart had been inside a bar. These days, he did his drinking at home.
‘I’d like to speak to Adelais.’
‘I can’t hear you.’
‘Adelais de Wolf, please. I’d like to—’
‘Who is this?’
Lennart cleared his throat. Had he been mumbling, slurring his words? He didn’t think so, but then … ‘I’m her father. Adelais’s father. It’s important.’
Outside, the sky flashed white. There was a crackle on the line, followed by the rumble of thunder.
‘Adelais isn’t here. Hasn’t been here in months.’
‘What did you say?’
‘She’s gone. She came into some money or something. Anyway, she quit.’
Lennart hung up. His head felt clearer, as after a shock, but his body wouldn’t stop swaying. For the first time that night he wished he was sober – sober enough to make sense of it, to understand what it meant.
He looked at the telephone. Then he wandered back to the kitchen and stared at the refrigerator. The money hadn’t come from Mrs Claes – of course it hadn’t. How could he have been so stupid? The answer to that question was there on the table, in the form of an empty bottle. But why had Adelais lied to him? What didn’t she trust him to know? She came into some money. He could only think of one possible source.
He hauled himself up the stairs, rage and alcohol fizzing in his veins. It had all happened behind his back: his own daughter, cutting him out of the picture, treating him like some delinquent. Cornelis had planned it that way, no doubt about it. The man had never married, had no children, but still thought he knew more about fathering than anyone else. He as good as claimed Adelais as his own, in spirit. It used to drive him crazy. And now, in death, Adelais had taken his side.
There would be documents, papers. Where had she hidden them? He pulled open the drawers in his daughter’s room, rummaged through her clothes. He tore down the books from the shelves and rifled through the pages. He knelt down and turned over the little rug beside the bed. Nothing.
The noise of the rain was louder up here, but the storm was moving away, the thunder echoing in the distance.
He should check under the bed. With a grunt, Lennart rolled forward onto his knees and lowered his forehead towards the floor. His gaze fell on two pairs of old shoes, a box of crayons, a jigsaw puzzle of the Taj Mahal in a cardboard box. His vision began to cloud. He felt nauseous. He was about to sit up when he saw, hanging down from the wire base of the bedstead, a fold of yellow paper.
It was a legal document: a lease contract for 37 Sluizeken, Ghent. Cornelis’s name was on the document, crossed out. In its place, Adelais’s had been added in type.
A house and its contents, no mention of money. Lennart felt the blood drain from his face. How long was it since they received the news from Holland? How many months had passed?
‘No.’ He got to his feet. ‘No, no, no. Not you, Ada, not you.’
The room was turning like the arms of a windmill.
37 Sluizeken – was that where she was? Was that where he would find her? He had to get there. He set off down the stairs. A picture of his wife bloomed in his head, urging him on. But her face became Cornelis’s face, and he was laughing.
‘You won’t take her, you fiend! You won’t!’
At the top of the last flight, he caught his elbow on the banisters. The impact spun him round. He lost his footing and fell, head first, somersaulting once, before landing on the tiled floor of the hall.
Adelais found him dead two hours later. His neck was broken. The lease contract was still clutched in his hand.
Monastère Sainte Claire
Rue Wulfram Puget
Marseilles
July 1959
Dearest Adelais,
I learned the terrible news two days ago. It has taken me that time to compose myself sufficient that I can write to you, my dearest child, and offer you such comfort as I can in the light of this calamity. The Lord is our guide at all such times, and He will show the way to those who ask for it. So He has to me.
Father de Winter keeps a close watch over his flock. He has written to me about your strength, resourcefulness and maturity. Such pride, I felt – a sin, I know! – to read those words, and to learn how you cared for your father, putting him always before yourself, and leading him along the path of sobriety and purpose from which he had strayed. It must seem the cruellest of misfortunes that he should be snatched from you now, when so much had been achieved. But, my dearest one, you must believe me when I tell you that even in such misfortune, the hand of our creator is to be found if we but look for it, and with it His love – His love for you, and for me, however it may seem at this moment. At the very least, we will always have our memories of your father. These we can cherish for as long as we live, knowing that nothing can tarnish them.
The Mother Superior here is the kindest of souls. Though I have not entered her order, still she has readily agreed to the singing of a funeral mass for your father here this Friday. I have worked with the Poor Clares a good deal in Lourdes, and indeed they have asked me to undertake some work elsewhere for a while – which brings me to the matter of the funeral itself. Father de Winter will see to the arrangements. Your father will be laid to rest at the Campo Santo Cemetery, where many of the de Wolfs already lie. I would be there but for one thing: I have already promised to join a Franciscan mission in the Congo. There is a school and a hospital, and they are very short of female volunteers. It is such vital work. The people there have suffered terribly, not least at the hands of our countrymen, even if many will not acknowledge it. Still, I am certain it is God’s will that we should make amends when the opportunity presents itself, for how else will the guilt be expunged?
Dear Adelais, I have been torn between keeping my promise and breaking it. I have prayed without ceasing. I have confided in the Mother Superior. She told me to set aside my heavy heart, and leave the answer to God, for it would be given. And it has. We sail from the port of Marseilles next week. I will write to you again before then, of course.
Do not be angry with me. To be without you is part of the cross I have to bear – the hardest part of all. Open your heart to God, and you will come to understand that I have no choice in the matter. I must go where He directs me. This is my penance, and my hope.
