The House with Nine Locks, page 22
In the cage, Saskia put the Patershol francs in their own compartment. Cash came in during the course of the evening, less of it went out again. The croupiers told stories about the tricks crooked casinos could employ, but there was no need to cheat at the Astrid Christyn. The house always won in the end. As the night wore on, the gamblers who had done well, and those who had not lost everything, stopped by the cage to sell back their chips. By that time, Adelais had identified the best targets: the drunks, the heavy spenders, and the foreigners on the verge of moving on. Their chips would be repurchased using Patershol francs. The notes would disappear into their wallets, to be exchanged days or weeks later at the border or the airport or at a bank in their home town, in Amsterdam, Lille or Milan. There was no need to visit shops any more. The gamblers at the Astrid Christyn carried their counterfeit money all over Europe, where there was little or no chance of it even being recognised.
As chairman of the licensing panel, Mr Huybrechts’s endorsement had made all the difference. An overweight, avuncular man with a red face, it was lucky that he supported the city council’s embrace of tourism, and even luckier that he suffered from persistent lumbago, a condition for which he received treatment at Dr Ralf Helsen’s surgery. Saskia had often seen him come and go. He swore that her father was a miracle worker, the only man in Ghent who could alleviate his discomfort for any length of time – which, in Saskia’s opinion, made his condition sound a lot more mysterious than it really was. ‘Of course he has back trouble. With a belly like that, it’s a wonder he can stand up.’
In spite of his condition, Mr Huybrechts gave a lot of time to his work. Bars, restaurants, hotels and places of entertainment were thoroughly investigated for their suitability, and this did not stop once a licence had been granted. Mr Huybrechts made visits throughout the year, making sure the food and drink were up to scratch, that the hospitality was of a standard that did credit to the city, and would enhance its growing reputation as a travel destination.
Mr Huybrechts adored the Astrid Christyn. He adored its ambition, its elegance, its unashamed joie de vivre. He also adored dining with Miss Helsen at a table reserved for his visits, and dancing with Miss de Wolf as he used to dance with Mrs Huybrechts. Most of all, he adored the extra sessions of physiotherapy with Dr Helsen, for which he rarely, if ever, received a bill.
Adelais wanted the hotel to be viable in its own right, but it became clear within weeks of opening that it needed to be bigger. The stable block would give them six extra rooms, but completing the renovations would cost at least another million francs. They did not have another million francs, and it was unlikely anyone would lend it to them, given that they were in debt already. What they had was the gaming licence and the operation in Patershol, the two going hand in hand. They made the difference between profit and loss.
Mr Huybrechts was considerate enough to avoid the busiest nights of the week. He could usually be counted on to show up on the first Wednesday of every month, but when August came around, there was no sign of him.
‘Perhaps he’s gone on holiday,’ Adelais said, as she watched the dining room filling up. ‘It’s that time of year.’
‘I bet he’s had a heart attack,’ Saskia said. ‘One too many puddings.’
They were glad of the free table in the dining room, because the hotel was fully booked and things were busy. A steady stream of cars had driven out from the city, drivers and passengers intent on gambling. They drank heavily and lost heavily at the tables. It was one of those nights when the Astrid Christyn could have turned a tidy profit without the need for Patershol francs.
They hardly noticed the stranger at first. Adelais had been heading for the ballroom when Nadia, the youngest of the croupiers, caught her eye and nodded significantly in his direction. It meant there was something about him she didn’t like. Nadia was reliable and sharp, and had taken on all kinds of work at the hotel, including a morning shift at the front desk, and waitressing when it was required. Adelais had learned to trust her judgement.
The man wore glasses and a suit with a waistcoat. He was wandering around the tables with an unlit pipe between his teeth, as if trying to decide if it was worth placing a bet or not – which did not make a lot of sense, because he hadn’t bought any chips. As far as Adelais could tell, he was on his own.
She was still watching the stranger when Hendryck appeared at her side, holding an empty bottle of champagne in each hand. ‘What happened to Mr Huybrechts?’
‘I don’t know.’ It had not occurred to Adelais that Mr Huybrechts’s absence and the stranger’s appearance might be connected. ‘Who is that? Have you seen him before?’
‘Conradt van Ranst. He’s on the licensing panel. Says no to everything.’
Van Ranst was standing over Nadia as she raked in the chips and paid out on the wins, slowly tapping the stem of his pipe against his teeth. Nadia looked nervous.
‘What’s he doing here?’
‘Gaming licences are renewed every year. Ours is coming up, isn’t it, in a few weeks?’ Hendryck grimaced. ‘They say he trained for the priesthood when he was younger. Too much of a prig even for them.’
Van Ranst was not as neat or as perfumed as Father de Winter, but something about him did remind Adelais of her parish priest: an understated but unmistakable air of self-worth. It was as if he possessed knowledge that no one around him shared, or was fit to share.
‘He tried to shut us down once, the bar I mean,’ Hendryck said. ‘It was just before your time. Mrs Claes had to hire a lawyer.’
‘How could he shut her down? On what grounds?’
‘He claimed we were selling untaxed alcohol to the customers.’
‘Were you?’
‘Stuff comes off the boats now and again, cut-price. You can save some money if you don’t ask where it’s been. Not that he could prove anything.’ Hendryck shook his head. ‘Fact is, he just didn’t like her – Mrs Claes – that was the nub of it. Doesn’t like women in general, especially when they’re in charge.’ Hendryck caught the look on Adelais’s face. ‘Women are also the weaker sex morally, Miss Adelais, as well as physically. That’s what you have to remember.’
‘Do I?’
‘It was Eve who tempted Adam, and look what that led to.’
‘Knowledge.’
Hendryck laughed, but the laugh was short-lived. ‘I wish that bastard would clear off. I don’t fancy crawling back to Mrs Claes. She hasn’t forgiven me for leaving.’
THIRTY-FOUR
The next morning, Adelais telephoned the city council and asked for Mr Huybrechts. Saskia had guessed right: a week earlier, the chairman of the licensing panel had collapsed outside the Cour St Georges after a heavy meal and been taken to hospital. Though he was now out of danger, the doctors had recommended a sabbatical, and it was thought unlikely that he would return to his position for at least six months.
A few days later, a letter arrived at the Astrid Christyn Hotel, addressed to Adelais. She read it in her office three times, while a cup of coffee went cold on her desk.
Commercial Licensing Department
Ghent City Council
Botermarkt 1
Ghent
7 August 1961
Dear Miss de Wolf,
It is my duty to inform you that following an informal inspection of your premises, a number of egregious irregularities have come to light, which cast into doubt the suitability of your establishment as a venue for gambling as delineated in your current gaming licence (No. 2787c/60).
1. Visitors to the gaming rooms are given little or no warning that their participation in games of chance may result in financial loss.
2. The ready availability of alcohol in the vicinity of the gaming area appears calculated to impair the judgement of participants, rendering them more likely to place bets in a reckless and ill-advised manner.
3. Given that significant sums of money change hands, the predominance of female staff represents a palpable lack of security for guests and visitors. These arrangements make the hotel a conspicuous target for criminal activity.
4. The vetting of staff, which should be rigorous, appears wanting. One of your staff received a fine for disorderly conduct in the town of Blankenberge eighteen months ago. Another was a long-time employee at an establishment in the docks where contraband alcohol is believed to have been sold.
5. Insufficient paper records appear to be kept of transactions in, and adjacent to, the gaming room. This creates unacceptable opportunities for embezzlement.
As you will know, the Astrid Christyn has attracted a good number of visitors from outside Flanders and Belgium since it opened for business. While this might be welcome in itself, nothing could do more damage to our city’s moral standing than that these visitors leave Ghent feeling that the city has taken advantage of them. It is only fair to warn you therefore that it will be my recommendation to the Commercial Licences Panel that the current gaming licence is not renewed. You may wish to share this information with the relevant staff in advance so that they may seek alternative employment.
Yours sincerely,
C. VAN RANST
Senior Administrative Officer
Saskia took the letter to the window. Opposite, men were tearing broken tiles off the old roof of the stable block. The building was letting in water, and without repairs the interior structure would rot.
‘He must want a bribe. With Mr Huybrechts out the way, it’s his turn.’
Adelais had a headache, the result of several bad nights in a row. ‘Hendryck knows him. He isn’t the type to be bought off with a few free meals.’
Saskia shook her head. She wore make-up all day now. It made her look older. ‘Our city’s moral standing? What’s he talking about?’
‘He trained for the priesthood.’
‘A bribe it is then.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘So am I.’
Adelais put her head in her hands. She had been working to a plan, precarious, but feasible. All they had to do was keep going for a while. Once they had finished expanding the hotel and paid off the bank, the Astrid Christyn would be a viable business – maybe even a good business. She would not have to take risks any more, or keep secrets, she could simply work and run the hotel, and dance with the guests now and then. Now, one man was going to wreck everything. ‘We can’t offer to bribe him. It would only prove his point. Ask Hendryck.’
Saskia came over to the desk. ‘Then why send a letter? Why give us warning, if he just wants to sink us?’
‘He couldn’t resist it, the pig. I expect it gave him a thrill.’
The men on the stable block were hauling stacks of tiles up to the roof, using a pulley. Their booming voices echoed across the yard. Adelais was tempted to send them home, there and then.
‘You could grovel.’ Saskia perched on the edge of the desk. ‘Promise to address his concerns. Thank you, sir, for bringing them to our attention, et cetera. Promise to get rid of the staff he doesn’t trust.’
‘That means Hendryck, for one. We can’t do that to him. It isn’t fair.’
‘We need the gaming, Adelais. I don’t want to go back to riding around the country on scooters, even if it was fun at the time.’
It was their rule never to mention the illegal side of their affairs when in the hotel, not even when they were alone. Adelais had learned from her years working at the bar how easy it was to piece together a person’s life, even to guess their secrets, from snippets of overheard conversation. Neither of them had ever broken the rule before.
Saskia was fanning herself with the letter. It was mid-morning, the humidity building. In the gathering clouds there was the promise of rain. ‘What we need is for Mr Huybrechts to make a miraculous recovery.’
‘You want to pray for him? Light a candle at St Bavo’s?’
‘I’d try anything if I thought it would work. Although …’ When Saskia’s eyes narrowed, her whole face changed: the doll-like openness was gone. In its place was a fleeting vision of cruelty. ‘… if I had to pray for something, I’d rather pray for van Ranst to die. It’d be a lot more satisfying.’
‘I suppose.’
‘People like him, they love spoiling things. They live for it.’ Saskia dropped the letter and wandered back to the window. A burly, shaven-headed locksmith called Ingels was fixing new locks to the doors of the stable block. The previous year, he had put in most of the locks in the main building. Saskia had seen him selling cigarettes to the other workmen on the sly. She had no idea where he got them, but then, locksmiths could get in anywhere, if they put their minds to it. They could help themselves. ‘It’s a pity we can’t just … get rid of him.’
‘What?’
‘Or scare him off. It wouldn’t take much, I bet. Bullies are always cowards underneath.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You have to stand up to bullies like van Ranst. It’s a well-known fact.’
‘You want to threaten him?’
Saskia shrugged. ‘He deserves it, that’s all. And …’
‘And what?’
Saskia ran a finger along the windowsill. ‘I can’t stand to see him hurt you like this, Adelais. I won’t let him.’
‘Prison would hurt a lot more.’ Adelais shook her head. ‘I wish you could be serious. This isn’t a joke.’
‘I know.’
‘We could lose everything.’
‘I know.’
‘You’d be all right though, wouldn’t you? You’ve got a rich family, you’ve got choices, not like …’ It was a mean thing to say. Immediately Adelais wished she could take it back.
Saskia was looking at her. ‘I’ve made my choice, haven’t I?’
The silence was shattered by the crash of tiles landing in the skip.
‘What we need is a lawyer.’ Adelais’s head was throbbing. ‘That’s what Mrs Claes did: she got a lawyer. And we should tell some of our customers what’s going on, the important ones. They might have influence with the city.’
‘It’s worth a try. They might stand up for us.’ Saskia turned back to the window. The shadows around her slowly dissolved as a cloud went across the sun. ‘They love damsels in distress. And that’s what we are, both of us. It’s not like we’re a threat to anyone.’
She was trying to sound positive, but even through the fog of pain, Adelais could tell she was not convinced.
THIRTY-FIVE
On the night before the Feast of the Assumption, Conradt van Ranst attended a vigil Mass at the Sint-Niklaaskerk. On his way out, he was dismayed to find an old acquaintance beaming at him from the ranks of the congregation, as it shuffled out into the square. Years ago, he and Jens Blommen had been fellow students of theology, and generally reckoned the stars of their class. Van Ranst had taken the high road to the seminary, which a crisis of faith and the prospect of celibacy had forced him to abandon after a year. Blommen had remained in academia, rising to a senior position at the university, where he lectured in philosophy. Van Ranst, now a mere local government functionary, avoided him.
‘Conradt, so good to see you,’ Blommen said, taking van Ranst’s hand between both of his own, a gesture van Ranst found unnatural and repulsive. ‘Where have you been hiding?’
Van Ranst could think of no satisfactory answer to this question, based as it was upon the belittling assumption that he had been invisible. ‘How are you, Jens?’ was all he could manage.
‘Oh, quite well, busy, busy. Between my students and this little lot—’ – he gestured towards a handsome woman wearing a gingham raincoat, and a clutch of well-groomed children – ‘I’ve hardly time to turn around.’
The handsome woman smiled at van Ranst, but in a way that made it clear that she had no desire to join the conversation. Van Ranst had met her twice before, when she and Blommen were first married. Her name was Carolina. Clearly she had forgotten him.
‘Annet not with you tonight?’ Blommen asked.
‘Annet? No, sadly not. A summer cold. You know how they can be. She wanted to come, but I insisted she stay in bed.’
‘Rotten luck. Well, do send her my best wishes.’
‘I will, thank you,’ van Ranst said.
Blommen clapped him on the shoulder. ‘We must catch up properly sometime. We have so much to talk about. Like the old days, eh?’
Van Ranst watched Blommen take his wife’s arm and rejoin the worshippers walking towards the bridge. Carolina Blommen said something to her husband, doubtless wanting to know who he had been talking to. Blommen’s answer was a brief one, a few words at most, because a moment later he was talking to his eldest child, saying something that made the boy laugh.
Van Ranst watched them disappear before heading north across the square. He made his way through the Korenmarkt, where the gutters were still choked with detritus from the summer festival – streamers, paper flowers, food wrappers – and crossed the river on the iron footbridge, where young couples and tourists loitered in the darkness, admiring the illuminated facades of the Graslei. It wasn’t until he was halfway down Jan Breydelstraat, where the road was barely wide enough for a car to pass, that the insistent sound of footsteps planted in his mind the possibility that he was being followed.
Outside the Hotel Gravensteen, he looked back the way he had come. Fifty metres away, a man had stopped to light a cigarette. There was nobody else on the street. The man wore a flat cap and a jacket with the collar turned up. By the glow of the flame, his skin looked like wax. He took a puff and tossed the match away. Van Ranst expected him to move on, but instead, he stayed right where he was, staring into the window of an antique shop, even though, like all the shops on the street, it was dark. After a few moments his head turned and he was staring at van Ranst – staring, but not moving.
