Strike Out Where Not Applicable (4 page)

He decided to walk; good exercise. He dropped in on the tiny local gendarmerie bureau, looked at the measurements and photographs, gave nobody any blowing-up, and left the driver where he was, which was comfortable. He started to walk quietly up the road, using his stick.

The manège was a large farmhouse with a slated roof, a rarity which gave it a formal wealthy look; it might have been built as a country house, early in the nineteenth century. It was surrounded by trees which left a semicircular space in front where cars were parked, and showed a cheerful country-house façade: the serious
part – stables, ‘pistes', exercise courts and yards – lay behind and masked by trees. Beyond these trees were fields, in which could be glimpsed, scattered about, obstacles, brightly painted wooden hazards for horses to jump.

The front door stood open; he passed a second glassed door and found himself in a large hall, decorated with pennants and rosettes behind glass, medals, cups, and trophies in rather tarnished silver, and a great many large flourishing photographs of the clean shiny bellies of horses (photographed intentionally from very low) stretched to clear dramatically high barricades. In this large room five or six people were drinking coffee and chatting. When he appeared the chat stopped to take him in, but only for one well-bred moment. Curiosity as vulgar as any other, but covert. Arlette had told him that it was good form here, following Francis, to be rather shabby. It struck him that it was a bit overdone; several boots could have done with a good rub and he observed (he was inclined to be a bit of an old maid where clothes-brushes were concerned) the shoulders of one or two jackets with distaste.

He advanced across a floor laid out in parquet, or rather a pattern of hardwood blocks about forty centimetres square. (Yes, that showed country-house rather than farmhouse origins.) It had been recently cleaned but was smeared with mud and scarred by dashing cavaliers who would not dream of going to bed at home with their spurs on, but were quite ready to do so here, where they hadn't paid for the sheets. At the end of the hall was a kind of little bar strewn with dirty coffee-cups, and a girl behind it of about eighteen, in breeches and a sweater, was looking at him in an enquiring way. An apprentice in the business, he guessed, learning to be a ‘piqueur' – he had picked up scraps of the jargon from Arlette, who was amused at the rather mangled cavalry-school French that floated about.

‘Good afternoon. I should like to know where I might get hold of Mr La Touche.'

‘About riding lessons, was it? We can probably fix you up – you've ridden before, have you?'

He smiled. The days were past when he presented little dogeared cards. Eighteen months ago he would probably have said, ‘Oh yes, I ride anything.' Now he put his stick under his arm.

‘Van der Valk is my name. Be so good as to tell him.'

‘I'm afraid he's rather busy,' began the girl in a cheeky way, but one of the women, a thin brown thing with very splashed boots and three diamond rings, lounging sprawled over a coffee-cup, intervened.

‘Don't be dim, Elsie – it's the Commissaire of Police, from the town.'

‘Well, nobody told me,' going out of a French window at the back of the bar with something of a flounce – oh yes, one can flounce in riding breeches – and crossing two little girls in blue jeans, their brown hair held at the back with elastic bands.

‘There you are, darlings,' said the thin woman. ‘Good day?'

‘Ooh yes – Willy let me have Merman – he pulls like anything but he's terrific. Bambi's coughing so I couldn't have her today. Jane had a fall for no reason at all,' looking at her younger sister with contempt. Van der Valk put his stick under the other arm in a lieutenant-colonel's gesture and smiled austerely.

‘I knew you,' said the woman with a social brightness that had a touch of sly vulgarity.

‘Oh I'm not in disguise,' politely, ‘and there's nothing official about my visit.'

‘Your wife rides here, doesn't she? – I know her by sight. Isn't she French?' The tone seemed to imply that a respectable police-officer's wife should not really be French.

‘She is, yes, but the horse knows no frontier,' with ponderous gallantry. One had to be polite to so many people …

‘Her old general's being a bit tiresome, isn't he?' This was coat-trailing, and he was inclining towards a snub when luckily Francis chose the moment to enter, in a draught, giving the door a kick and leaving it open. He came round the bar, passed the brown woman, and gave her slouching bottom a flick with his switch, saying, ‘Hitch it up, girl, hitch it up.' He surveyed the company present with a rapid semicircular turn of the radar screen, and gave Van der Valk something between a bow and a salute in the gesture with which he drew off his glove.

‘Delighted at the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Good wind blows you our way, hey. Come on upstairs, my dear fellow. This place is very untidy, Els, get these coffee-cups away.' He put his boot on a chair and with a skilful shove sent it sliding theatrically. His eye rested on the two little girls, drinking Coca-Cola between giggles.

‘Drink that stuff and then go and burp in the car, not in my house.' Indulgent smile from mama and an ostentatious clatter of coffee-cups. All the mares had come to attention at his entrance, noticed Van der Valk with amusement, and were hoping for a lump of sugar from boss-man, but were frustrated by his throwing open a side door and starting up a flight of stairs, bawling, ‘Marion? Marion!'

‘Permit me to show you the way,' he said to Van der Valk; formal courtesy towards men, and women too no doubt, if the occasion warranted.

‘Damn this bloody prayer carpet,' kicking a rug that lay crooked on the landing. He threw open the door and flicked his hand in an invitation to precede. ‘A friend here, Marion – how about some whisky?'

‘Not for me, alas – I'm the British in colonies – only lime juice before sundown.'

‘Ha – good, that. Pity. I'm not allowed them either but it would have been a good excuse for cheating. Where is that damn woman? Sit down, do.' Handsome sofa, covered in attractive lees-of-wine colour. It was a big sitting-room, L-shaped, with a huge open fireplace piled with logs. Two large portraits: Francis, and the wife, presumably. Well-painted oils, skilful, with a certain technical flourish, and some individuality and dash about them. Over the chimney-piece was a large oil of three splendid horses standing grouped in a field, handsome and spirited as Valkyries in front of an operatic cloudspace. This attracted Van der Valk, not that he was any judge. La Touche saw him looking and nodded approval.

‘Admirable. Good horse painters very rare, you know. Dickie does those – the portraits too – amused Marion,' indulgently. ‘Ah, here she is at last.'

A thin, tallish woman, much too thin and consequently too tall, had come in at the door on the far side. She had a suntanned, painted face – about half real tan, judging by a quick look – emerald eye shadow over bright brown eyes, brown hair with blonde lights, and fuchsia lipstick to match her suit. The suit was well chosen for the thin body – shaggy mohair in a large complicated overcheck of fuchsia, havana and off-white. She had diamond earrings, a pearl rope round a throat beginning to show lines, and a brilliant smile.

‘Mr Van der Valk, my dear, our police Sherlock.'

He got the impression that this was no news to her, bowed, and kissed the outstretched hand, and was glad he had done so; a grave warm smile told him it was the right move. Francis galloped on like someone bringing the good news from Ghent to Aix.

‘And of course our Arlette's husband – charmin' woman your wife, charmin'. Get us a drink, my dear, a tonic or something; I've got to take my pill – what about you, you're not drinking but a tomato juice or something – lime juice, that was it, Kenya or Singapore or wherever the damn place is – a little polo, m'dear chap, no proper horses out here, unless you count th' racecourse.' His hand twirled an imaginary mallet skilfully. Marion was still looking at Van der Valk carefully.

‘Delighted.' Voice like the smile, like Jersey cream, gentle to marry with the jerky military gunfire from the other side of the fireplace. ‘Do make yourself comfortable.' She moved towards an ornate presentation-silver drinks tray – all the accessories in the room had that hussar-regiment anteroom look. The furniture was feminine – there was a Louis XV secretaire between the two windows – but the huge silver ashtrays, the silver cigarette-box, and the silvermounted leather boxing-glove from Hermès that turned out to be a table lighter, balanced the sexes.

Francis, now that he had his wife handy, attacked briskly.

‘So don't tell me you're worried about this death? Not a social call, I take it? Couldn't say anythin' downstairs – gossips!'

A heavy tall cutglass tumbler was put in Van der Valk's hand, with the attractive oily look that means Rose's lime juice, and the million tiny bubbles of Perrier water. Francis got a large ornate champagne glass with a hollow stem and a lemon sliver, and jerked a bottle of pink cachets out of his breeches pocket. The drink was cold, delicious, just rightly dosed – no doubt of it, Marion was an excellent hostess.

‘I've heard nothing to invite worry. I heard gossip. The doctor was in a bit of a flap – young of course; inexperienced in that kind of situation. I'm bound to pay a call – imposed on me by protocol – thought I'd like to hear the story first hand from you – I've no use at any time for shreds of garbled blither.'

‘Quite right,' large emphatic approving nods. ‘Delighted. Settle the natter of silly women – bitch downstairs – more money than sense – grocers! Canned sardines that aren't sardines, sand in the sugar, what!' Like many men who shout how much they detest
gossip, realized Van der Valk with pleasure, Francis was himself an accomplished backbiter.

‘Bernhard? – you knew him at all? No? Great mountain of a chap, typical Bavarian, overate, overdrank, no exercise, high blood pressure, physique in a shockin' state, shockin',' palming and swallowing his pink pill with relish and a gulp of tonic. ‘Cigarette?' An oval baroque case, gold for a change, with oval baroque cigarettes. Van der Valk, who indulged in Gitanes at home as in a secret vice, shook his head to avoid breaking the flow.

‘Damned idiot decides he wants a horse. Marguerite – that's his wife; charmin' woman – won't have him near hers of course, and what does he do but insist on my buyin' him one, great Belgian lump of a Hanover that will carry his weight. He comes here and bumps around solemnly a few times – shameful exhibition but I ask you, what can I do to stop it? That restaurant is very handy for us, several of our people have lunch there, we rendezvous there often, have the horses rubbed down and fed in their stableyard, Marguerite's a fine woman – damn it, I simply can't refuse. But I keep the great lump out of everybody's sight. I had nobody to waste their time on him anyway, and after he'd been taught some rudiments, how to saddle up and so on, he'd go ambling about, State Coach opening Parliament – that sort of pace and action – that sort of horse! And there, I might have known it' – irritable flap of a hand on the coffee-table – ‘fellow goes messing about with the horse instead of looking for someone who knew what he'd be doing – heavy breathing, clumsy movements, scared probably, make the horse nervous for sure. Lash out, catch him on the temple and the fellow goes over like a sack of grain, which was just what he was, god-forgive-me-for-speaking-ill.'

‘Who found him?'

‘Horse went back to the stable, reins hanging, and the boy thought of going to look see. Told me at once, naturally. Wasted half my morning. Just a stupid banal accident – I knew perfectly well what had to be done and that there was no point in any of it. Phoned young whatsisname – he's an efficient young chap, quite bright, perfectly polite – and he lost his head hawing about, so I said we'd get the gendarmerie to look at things, just to get the record straight, what? I took a dim view at first, but Marion pointed out sensibly that he was worried about taking
responsibility all alone. They came, but they saw no point in it either. Photographed footprints and so on, said it seemed likely what happened was what had been obvious from the word go, and buggered off again.'

‘Was there anything wrong with the horse?'

‘Not a thing. But a horse can stumble, or limp momentarily, without there being anything to show – they are very sensitive. That could deceive a beginner. Horse was right as rain.'

‘And the saddle – it hadn't slipped or anything?'

‘No no – harness was all properly fitted – he'd been taught that, at least. He'd got off, not fallen. Young Maartens suggested he'd been dragged, but that's impossible with modern saddlery.'

Van der Valk was amused. The whole thing had plainly happened with no more reason than to waste Francis La Touche's morning!

‘I'm very sorry, naturally. We close the manège for the day, and go to the funeral and all, and of course I'm sorry for Marguerite, but she certainly doesn't miss much! Fellow lived on his reputation; he did nothing she can't either do or get done as well or better. Admirable business woman – like my dear wife here, ha.'

The dear wife had not said a word nor taken a drink, but sat effaced, discreetly immobile, smoking a cigarette – American filtertip, king size, noticed Van der Valk automatically. Francis, carried away by his grievance, had forgotten to ‘zézayer' – the elegant cavalry dropping of the terminal ‘g'.

‘She won't miss him?'

Francis realized that he had been indiscreet and embarked on a rather hurried justification.

‘Well, he was very popular, you know, pals with everybody, that wasn't what I meant – I meant only that my wife, now, is also an excellent business woman, I'm delighted to say, but in the event of my being kicked by a horse – that'll be the day, ha – she'd have no resource but to sell the stock and an excellent property which is worth a great deal, I'm glad to say. Very technical business, this. But a restaurant – that's a simpler affair, and Marguerite knows it inside out. The butcher and the pals in the village, who sat there by the hour drinkin' and gossipin' – that's who'll miss Bernhard most.'