The House with Nine Locks, page 35
‘No, I don’t,’ Toussaint said.
‘He was dressed like he was going to a party.’
‘Maybe I should come down.’
‘Maybe you should.’ Van Buel sniffed. ‘Clear up your own bloody mess.’
Colonel Delhaye reluctantly allowed Toussaint to spearhead the investigation. He left that afternoon and drove to the address in Patershol. A municipal officer was on guard outside. The whole place had been taped off. Toussaint identified himself and made his way along the narrow dock. The river slid past, fast and high, swollen by the recent rain. A picture flashed through his mind: de Smet’s body being dragged out, lifeless. Above him, a tall window on the top floor of the house showed obvious damage. Shards of glass littered the boards below.
Toussaint went straight up to the top floor. The position of Helsen’s body had been marked on the floor in chalk. The shape was an indistinct blob. Only the lower legs and feet were unmistakable. In the middle, on the bare boards, there was a large, dark stain, the size of a dinner plate. According to van Buel, the bullet had gone clean through the dead girl’s heart. It was like de Smet not to miss.
Across the room, a safe stood open. If there had been anything inside, it had been removed as evidence. Toussaint had been expecting a love nest, a hideaway, but nothing about 37 Sluizeken was romantic.
On the floor below he found the presses: lithographic, intaglio, letterpress. He did not need to see banknotes. He knew what the machines were for. De Smet had finally found the place, after eight years of searching: the heart of the Tournai Forger’s operation. It was a place he himself had imagined a thousand times, though in his mind it had always been dark, subterranean, remote. Why had de Smet kept the information to himself? Why had he come alone? It was contrary to police procedure. His superiors would want to know if de Smet had come to make an arrest, or a deal.
Down in the cellar, another officer – a new recruit, by the look of it – was at work, making a list of all the items in the boxes and labelling them one by one. He was going to be there for weeks, given the scale of the task.
‘We’re working on the assumption these are stolen goods, sir,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a business returning them all.’
Toussaint took a porcelain shepherdess from one of the shelves. The glazed face wore an anxious expression. ‘You don’t have to worry about that. They’re not stolen.’
The new recruit looked puzzled. ‘Then what are they doing here, sir?’
Toussaint put the shepherdess back. ‘It’s what my boss used to call a retail operation, for what it’s worth. It’s over now anyway.’
He left the house and drove to municipal police headquarters. Van Buel handed him a file. Among the reports inside were black-and-white photographs of de Smet’s body on a slab. Toussaint stared at the sunken eyes, the slack mouth, and it seemed to him that he was looking at a stranger, that in spite of all the years they had worked together, he had never really known de Smet at all.
‘We found out who holds the current lease,’ van Buel said.
‘I’m guessing Miss Adelais de Wolf.’
‘How did you know?’
‘She and Helsen were in business together. Have you found her?’
Van Buel shook his head. ‘No luck at the hotel. She has another address in Sint-Amandsberg.’
‘And?’
‘All we found there was a pile of wet clothes.’
Nadia arrived at the Astrid Christyn at a quarter to eight and tried her best to concentrate on sorting the post as usual. Most of the staff were still in shock, but Hendryck, who had found himself in charge, had impressed upon everyone the importance of carrying on as normally as possible. So far, they had just about managed it.
The municipal police had given them the news the day before, although they had refused to go into details. Instead they had questioned several members of staff about Miss Helsen’s movements, including where and when she had last been seen. It was obvious that foul play was suspected. They asked about an address in Patershol that nobody had ever heard of. They also asked to see Miss de Wolf, after which they asked a lot more questions about where she might have gone. It was hard keeping up appearances. Every time Nadia saw another member of staff, it took a lot of willpower not to stop and talk, to express her disbelief. It was as if she had been forced to take a vow of silence, like a nun.
The morning newspapers arrived. Nadia glanced through them, looking for the story. There was nothing in De Standaard, and nothing in Het Volk. She had just picked up a copy of Het Laatste Nieuws, when another police car pulled up outside. This time the driver was a gendarme. Nadia recognised him: he was tall, with a long face and a nasty scar along his jaw.
‘The acting manager, please,’ he said, without introducing himself.
Hendryck was fetched from the dining room, where he had been helping with breakfast.
The gendarme produced a piece of paper. ‘My name is Captain Toussaint. I have a warrant to search these premises.’
‘Search? What for?’ Hendryck said.
‘Information. In particular, we’re anxious to locate Miss Adelais de Wolf. You’ve still not heard from her?’
Hendryck slowly shook his head. Nadia could tell what he was thinking: that maybe Adelais had suffered the same fate as Miss Helsen and they just hadn’t found her body.
‘I’ll start with her office,’ Toussaint said. ‘I take it she has one?’
Hendryck led the way. The door of the office closed behind them. Renilde came downstairs and hovered by the front desk. ‘What’s happening?’
‘They’re after Miss Adelais.’
‘After her?’
Nadia hadn’t meant it to sound that way. ‘I mean, she’s missing.’
‘What happens if she’s … if she never comes back?’
‘I don’t know.’ Nadia smiled sweetly at a couple of guests coming out of the dining room. ‘Just get back to work, will you?’
Five minutes went by before Toussaint and Hendryck emerged from the office. Toussaint crossed the lobby in a hurry and went straight to his car. He had a document in his hand.
‘He made me open the safe,’ Hendryck said. ‘I told him there was only cash inside, but that didn’t stop him. He went through the lot. I watched him like a hawk, mind you.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Didn’t like the look of him, truth be told. With some people, you can just tell.’
‘He took something. What was it?’
‘A flight timetable. He seemed to think that was interesting, for some reason. God knows why.’
The gendarme’s car pulled away. Hendryck returned to the dining room. Nadia forced herself to carry on sorting the mail. She tried not to think about Miss Adelais, lying undiscovered somewhere, dead. She hadn’t just been a boss. She’d been a friend. Nadia found she had tears in her eyes. She could live to be a hundred, but she’d never work for anyone like that again.
Among the letters was a brown paper packet. There was no stamp. Nadia blinked. Her name was written on the front in capital letters.
She looked over her shoulder and opened the packet. It contained a battered paperback book. Inside the back cover was a letter in a small blue envelope. But the letter was not addressed to her.
The telephone rang. Absently, Nadia picked up the receiver. ‘Astrid Christyn Hotel.’
‘Nadia?’ She recognised the voice at once. ‘Did you find the package?’
DE STANDAARD – 10 DECEMBER 1961
GHENT: HOTELIER SLAIN
Last Tuesday night municipal police were called to the scene of a fatal shooting in the district of Patershol in Ghent. The victim was identified as 21-year-old Saskia Helsen, youngest daughter of Dr Ralf Helsen, a professor of physiotherapy and university lecturer.
Miss Helsen worked at the exclusive Astrid Christyn Hotel, a popular nightspot that opened last year in the countryside east of Ghent, and which has rapidly grown to be a favourite among visiting celebrities. Staff contacted by De Standaard were unable to suggest a possible motive for the killing.
Police are appealing for witnesses to come forward. In particular they are anxious to interview Miss Helsen’s colleague at the Astrid Christyn, Miss Adelais de Wolf, daughter of watch-mender Lennart de Wolf (deceased), previously of Sint-Amandsberg, Ghent. Miss de Wolf has not been seen since the night of the shooting, and fears are said to be growing for her safety.
FIFTY-THREE
Captain Toussaint closed his copy of De Standaard and hurled it into the bin. He had expected reports of the case to appear somewhere, somehow, but not for a few more days, and certainly not with a reference to Adelais de Wolf. The reporter hadn’t got that from the Helsen family. One of van Buel’s people must have let that particular cat out of the bag. De Wolf would go to ground now, knowing the police were actively searching for her. She would find a way to skip the country that didn’t involve handing over her passport, if she hadn’t done that already.
The best chance of catching her had always been at the airport. She had been planning to travel, had even written down some prices on the back of the flight timetable she had left on her desk. Lieutenant Masson had spent the last day on the telephone, going through passenger lists for every flight out of Belgium this side of February. But de Wolf wouldn’t risk flying now, not once she saw the newspapers. Even if she missed today’s report in De Standaard, other papers were bound to take up the story. The celebrity angle pretty much guaranteed it. Meanwhile, Colonel Delhaye wanted answers: he wanted to know what de Smet had been doing in Patershol, and how badly the reputation of the gendarmerie was going to be damaged when the facts came out. If Toussaint could prove that de Smet had sacrificed his life in the line of duty, tracking a notorious criminal operation to its source, things might not look so bad. For that, he needed an arrest, and ideally a confession.
Toussaint decided it was time for a drink, but before he could escape from the office, Lieutenant Masson came hurrying down the corridor, clutching his notebook. A day on the telephone to airlines hadn’t dimmed his enthusiasm for police work, but it had made him hoarse.
‘Sir, Miss A. de Wolf bought two tickets to Rome last Monday, one way from Zaventem. The other ticket’s in the name of a Mr S. Pieters.’
Toussaint hardly had the heart to tell him that it was too late, thanks to De Standaard and van Buel’s idiots in Ghent. ‘Rome,’ he said. ‘Very nice too.’
Masson looked confused. ‘Sir, the flight’s scheduled for eleven o’clock on December the 10th.’
‘What?’
‘December the 10th, sir. That’s today.’
Toussaint looked at his watch. It was gone ten o’clock. ‘Shit.’ He hurried back inside the office and picked up his gun. ‘Call the airport. Tell them who we’re looking for and send a couple of men after me.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Masson went straight to the telephone.
‘Tell them no sirens and no bloody ruckus. She sees us first, she’ll be gone.’
‘Understood, sir.’
Toussaint pulled on his coat. ‘Miss de Wolf may be a lot of things, but she isn’t blind.’
The traffic was heavy and Toussaint had to use the lights and the horn to make it to Zaventem in twenty-five minutes. He had never seen the airport busier. As he pulled up, several coachloads of people were crowding through the main entrance, lugging suitcases and children. Taxis were double-parked halfway along the kerb. He pulled over at the first available space and radioed back to headquarters.
‘De Wolf hasn’t checked in,’ Masson said. ‘Nor has Pieters.’
‘Damn. She’s not coming.’
‘Flight’s delayed, sir: one hour. If she rang the airport, she’d know that.’
Lieutenant Masson, looking on the bright side.
‘I guess we’ll see.’
The terminal was just a few years old: three blocks of concrete, glass and steel, with a check-in area easily twice the size of the ticket hall at Brussels-Centraal. A pair of escalators on the right led up to a mezzanine, where a crowded cafe offered a view across the runway and the check-in desks below. The Alitalia desk was halfway along, a sign that said ROME suspended above it. Flight information clattered on the boards, cutting through the hubbub of voices.
Toussaint bought a newspaper at a kiosk and loitered at the edge of the mezzanine, trying to look like a passenger killing time. The queue for Rome was down to a handful of people. It was almost lost between much bigger queues for London and Frankfurt. At the end of it stood a young man in a raincoat, carrying a suitcase. He kept looking at his watch. A businessman came hurrying towards the Alitalia desk, ticket in hand. The young man gave up his place. He wasn’t queuing, he was waiting for someone. Toussaint felt his pulse quicken. Maybe the young man was Pieters. He clearly wasn’t expecting to travel alone.
A pair of federal officers came through the doors. They spotted Toussaint and gave him a nod. One stayed by the door. The other went to the gate marked EMIGRATION. It was ten minutes to eleven. A voice came over the tannoy: a flight to Paris was boarding. The young man looked at his watch again. Whoever he was waiting for, they were late.
Just below the mezzanine, a little boy in a pushchair started wailing. His mother handed him a teddy bear. The child took the bear and hurled it across the floor. When Toussaint looked up again, he saw that the officer by the doors was signalling to him. He pointed into the crowd. Then Toussaint saw her: a blonde woman in a raincoat, making her way towards the Alitalia desk, walking purposefully, fast. The young man turned to greet her.
She should have changed her plans, Toussaint thought. Now he had her.
He dropped the newspaper and ran. At the bottom of the escalator, the toddler stopped mid-wail and stared at him, open-mouthed, as the gendarme barged his way through the crowd.
At the Astrid Christyn Hotel, Mr and Mrs Hofman were in their room, packing in readiness for an afternoon departure. Mrs Hofman’s clothes were spread out on the double bed, but she had bought too many new items for everything to fit inside her suitcase. She had been forced to take her husband’s as well. Mr Hofman’s things had gone into a laundry bag, borrowed from the hotel.
‘We’ve been here almost a fortnight and I haven’t seen anyone famous,’ Mrs Hofman said. ‘I thought there were meant to be film stars.’
‘I suppose it’s not the season,’ Mr Hofman said. ‘We’ll come back when the film festival’s on.’
‘Knowing my luck, it’ll be booked up.’
Mr Hofman placed his hands on his young wife’s shoulders. ‘That can’t happen if we own the place.’
‘Own the place? Is it for sale?’
‘I’m assured it is. And if we own the place, we’ll be the hosts, my dear.’
‘Like Miss de Wolf is now?’
‘Exactly.’
Mrs Hofman considered this for a moment. ‘I want to meet some directors. They might discover me. I’d like to be in films. I don’t think it can be all that hard, if you have the looks.’
‘And you certainly do, my dear.’
Mrs Hofman allowed her husband to massage her neck. ‘More than Miss de Wolf. She has a limp anyway. Who wants to see that?’
‘No one. Shall we buy it then? I think the Astrid Christyn would be a very tidy addition to the portfolio.’
Mrs Hofman sniffed and walked over to the bureau beside the bed. ‘All right. But you’ll have to get rid of the staff. They’re all terribly rude and lazy.’
‘Consider them sacked.’
Mrs Hofman opened the top drawer and began rummaging around inside. Then she opened the drawer beneath and rummaged around in that. ‘Where is it? Bernard?’
‘Where’s what, my dear?’
‘My passport.’ Mrs Hofman’s rummaging became more and more frantic. ‘My passport. Call the police!’ She pulled out the drawer and emptied it onto the floor.
‘The police? My dear, just—’
‘It’s not here. It’s gone, it’s gone. They’ve stolen it. I’m telling you: someone’s stolen my fucking passport!’
The other officers had already got there. One of them was holding the blonde woman by the arm, making sure she didn’t get away. The other was checking her boyfriend’s papers. He looked utterly bewildered.
Passengers on either side of them were staring. Someone took a photograph with an electric flashgun. The light burned into Toussaint’s retina, so that for a few seconds all he could see was a large brown blob.
The second officer handed over the boyfriend’s passport. ‘Sebastian Pieters, sir. Flying to Rome, he says.’
But Toussaint wasn’t looking at Sebastian Pieters. He was looking at the young blonde woman. He recognised her from his visit to the Astrid Christyn Hotel, but her name wasn’t Adelais de Wolf. She had been the croupier at the roulette table where he had lost all his money.
‘You? What are you …? What the hell’s going on?’
‘Hello again, Captain,’ Nadia said brightly and gave him a smile that, under different circumstances, he might have regarded as a very good sign.
Up on the mezzanine, a young woman in an old coat and an old woollen hat sat watching the commotion from a table in the cafe. She had been wearing sunglasses to shield her eyes from the sunlight lancing in through the glass walls, but now she took them off, so that she could get a better view of the commotion down below. She had already seen Nadia hand over the paperback book, moments before the police arrived, and seen Sebastian tuck it into his pocket before reaching for his passport. Now the two of them were being led away for questioning by Captain Toussaint, questioning that would not take very long, since neither of them had any significant information to reveal.
She got up and walked to the rail at the edge of the mezzanine. She watched Sebastian Pieters being led through the crowd, an officer following on behind with his suitcase, leaving the terminal through one of the big glass doors. She hurried to the edge of the platform, so that she could catch a last glimpse of him getting into the back of a police car. For a moment, the silhouette of his head was visible through the back window. Then the police car pulled out, blue lights turning silently, and drove away.
