Tsing-Boum (2 page)

‘Not as far as we know now, sir,' said the policeman stolidly. He'd had enough to do keeping the mob quiet!

The medical examiner came in, looked briefly, and said, ‘Good God!' He straightened the body out.

‘Heaven help us. Literally shot to pieces. Died within seconds. You'd think she'd been machine-gunned.'

‘Perhaps she was.'

‘Professionally killed is all I can say.'

‘Some professional,' muttered the sergeant.

‘A professional …' said Van der Valk lumpishly. He pulled himself together.

‘Camera finished?'

‘Blanket job, chief. Top to toe – but it won't take long in a place like this.'

‘I want the keys, and all identity stuff – look in her bag. I'm going to see this neighbour.' He looked across the room at his own sergeant. ‘Half an hour. Who has seen a stranger in the building?'

‘Have you seen a man carrying a machine-gun?' muttered the technical sergeant.

‘Have you seen the fingerprints on the lavatory flush?' returned the other, stung.

‘Who gave the alarm?' asked Van der Valk.

‘Concierge.'

The plastic tiles of the passage were by now marked with so many muddy footprints as to have become very dirty. Two ambulance men passed him, wearing downtrodden looks at having to carry a dead body down four flights. He knocked at the door opposite, which was opened at once by a pale worried-looking man with a sensible artisan's face. Van der Valk showed his badge and put his finger across his lips.

‘Child here?' he said softly. ‘She know yet?' The man nodded first and shook his head after. He beckoned Van der Valk in with a relieved look: somebody who would tell him what to do.

Around the table sat a woman and three children. Two were fair-haired and one was dark, a girl of around ten. A plate of food was in front of her but she was not eating. The atmosphere stank of strain.

‘Sorry to interrupt.' He pulled up a chair and sat down. His driver appeared in the doorway.

‘I phoned for a few extra hands.'

Van der Valk nodded and turned to the man.

‘If you've finished eating be kind and tell him what he wants to know – name, where you work, that stuff.' He turned back and found the child's eyes looking squarely into his.

‘So. You're having dinner with the neighbours today because your mamma is ill. We've taken her to the hospital. And now we have to look after you, don't we? I'm a policeman, here to look after everything. Have you just come home from school?'

‘Is Mamma dead?' bluntly, in a small firm voice.

‘The doctor is busy with her and I mustn't bother him yet awhile, because she's certainly badly hurt. Have you more brothers and sisters?' The woman opened her mouth and he held up a finger.

‘One moment, Mevrouw.'

‘No. I came home from school and Mevrouw Paap told me Mamma wasn't home but I knew something had happened.'

‘We none of us know yet exactly what happened.'

‘We will work that out – that's my job. Now you eat some dinner at least because otherwise it's not polite, while I talk to Mevrouw, right?'

‘Don't play with your food,' she said sternly to her own children, ‘eat up and then show Ruth your toys; I'll give you your pudding when I'm ready.'

He followed her to the bedroom, where she turned to him in consternation.

‘It was ever so queer …' she began breathlessly.

‘A second. It's easier if I ask and you answer. Do you know who found her?'

‘I did. I heard such a crashing noise and I thought – I don't know – that somebody had fallen off a stepladder or something. Well … I hardly know her – knew her …' She broke off confused.

‘Yes. You saw her?'

‘There was nobody in the passage but I couldn't get it out of my head – I fell off the stepladder once – or down the stairs carrying a tray of crockery … So I thought I'd ring at her door in case she'd hurt herself.'

‘Who opened the door?'

‘But that's what is so queer, the door opened and there was nobody there, well one doesn't just plunge in so I called out “Mevrouw Marks” and then again louder, and there was no answer and there was such a funny smell, a bit like fireworks, and I went on into the living-room, and I saw her lying there, and I got such a turn, and I was so frightened I ran back here and locked myself in, and then I was worried …'

‘You saw nobody?'

‘Not a soul.'

‘What time was it?'

‘About quarter past twelve. Well I thought there's that child coming home from school, and mine too, and I can't let her see that, I have to catch her, and then luckily my husband came back. He works only in the next street. I told him there's
something horrible happened and he ran and told the concierge to phone the police quick and they were here quite fast. They just walked in.'

‘You'd left the door there open then?'

‘Yes, but I shut mine because of the children – she's seen nothing, thank God.'

‘You said you hardly knew Mevrouw Marks – you know her husband?'

‘Well – I'll try and explain – you see she isn't Mevrouw Marks – or at least I don't know. He's called Zomerlust – he's a soldier. He's away mostly, but he's generally back at weekends. But I remember asking the child her name when she was – when they came here, and she said “Ruth Marks” so I said, you know, Good morning Mevrouw Marks, but she never made any remark, but she didn't talk to people. Like I say I hardly knew her, just to say good morning.'

‘Was she friendly with anyone else – that you know of?'

‘I don't think she was friendly with anyone much. Very reserved. I mean she'd always smile and speak a word, not impolite, but you never got any further. Commissaire, what am I going to do with the child? I mean, I can look after her of course, but … her clothes and everything … I mean to say …'

Van der Valk had to do sums quickly in his head. This soldier would not be hard to find, but it appeared that the child was either from a previous marriage or illegitimate. Possible snags there. This woman had been shot with some kind of automatic weapon. A soldier's weapon?

One called the social assistant. Kind, brisk, experienced women. But institutions, however kind, would have one effect that was certain: the child would shut up and refuse to talk. She was ten. What might she know, and what might she be capable of telling? He made a sudden decision.

‘I'll take her.' He nearly smiled; relief showed on the good soul's face like milk spilt across her clean kitchen floor.

‘Don't think I don't know my Christian duty, Commissaire …'

‘No no, I'll take her. Right now – sooner the better … Mevrouw, I'll be coming to see you again, maybe this evening. I must warn you against something. Urgently. Solemnly. Don't
talk. Not to anyone, not your neighbours and especially not the Press. Say I've told you not to.' He had no particular right to tell her anything of the sort, but the tactic was good. ‘The Commissaire told me' – it gave her importance, and an illusion that she knew splendid secrets.

Ruth was holding a doll, quite uninterested in it but with a sage obedience to what was expected of her. He had lost the habit of talking to small children. They like it better when you are brusque than when you are slimy-avuncular. Children like to know where they stand.

‘You put your coat on, Ruth – yes, take your school things, you're coming with me.'

‘Are we going to see Mamma?'

‘Not straight away, because the doctor hasn't given us permission. We have to take charge of you. I know a place where they look after children whose mammas are in hospital but I'm going to take you to my own house. Mevrouw Paap has been very kind, but she's got a lot of work.'

‘What about my things, my clothes?'

‘We'll pick them up later, don't worry. Come on, Ruth.'

‘How do you know my name?'

‘Mevrouw Paap told me, otherwise I should have asked you. Miss Marks? I'm Mr Van der Valk. How do you do, Mademoiselle? I am very happy to make your acquaintance.' She gave a little giggle. ‘We have a car with a light on top and if you like you can make it flash.' She didn't know what he was talking about – he was used to boys.

‘Office, chief?'

‘No, my home. You've had no dinner,' to the child sitting beside him, ‘but you know something – neither have I.'

‘And neither have I,' said the driver, with feeling.

‘I'm not hungry,' said Ruth.

‘No more am I, come to think of it, but perhaps we can have a glass of milk. Look, this is where I live. I won't be more than a minute, Joe. And this is my wife. Her name is Arlette. That's a French name.'

‘I know. My name's Ruth.'

‘Arlette, this girl's mamma has had an accident and her papa is away, so she's going to stay with us for a while.'

‘He's not my papa, he's my stepfather,' calmly.

‘Good,' said Arlette. ‘I need somebody to help me very badly. Let's see – the car battery is flat and I've got to charge it, and I've got a horrible great heap of ironing, and the dinner was ruined so I've to make a nice supper – can you cook, Ruth?'

‘Yes. Not much, though.'

‘But you can help me and I will be very happy.'

‘Yes, but Mamma will be worried.'

‘I'm going off to fix that now,' said Van der Valk, getting milk out of the refrigerator like Archie Goodwin in a Nero Wolfe story. ‘I've got to look at my orchids now but I'll see your mamma isn't worried.' Arlette's eyes were flashing light signals like a DS overtaking everybody on the autoroute. He didn't know what it was but Arlette would certainly cope until he could tell her more.

‘I refuse to be like Archie Goodwin.' But he drank a second glass of milk before dashing out to the car.

In the office wheels were turning at a great rate and everyone was in a bustle. Probably, he thought, for the same reasons as himself: smelt publicity. Couldn't blame the Press if they did play it up; who would have expected to find a woman assassinated by seven bullets (could it really be a machine-gun?) in a municipal housing block in provincial Holland? Nothing so glamorous had happened to him for years. There had been the girl in the white Mercedes, but she had only stabbed her lover with a mechanic's pocketknife – though she would certainly have gone for a machine-gun had there been one handy. He grinned; dear Lucienne, whom he had himself been in love with in a half-baked sort of way. Still married to her ex-boxer? The central heating was too hot as usual; he took his jacket off.

‘
Branle-bas de combat
.' The phrase pleased him. We will now advance upon Marks in skirmishing order. And behold, she is not Marks; she is Marx. A telephone call to the town hall, a flurry in their precious files, and he heard that Esther Marx was married to Joseph Egbert Zomerlust in France (in France), and that shortly afterwards a female child registered Ruth Sabine Marx had been born – in France – to said Esther. Aforesaid Marx was not classified as alien, being married to Dutch citizen. Registered as housewife with no further profession. Zomerlust was a sergeant, professional soldier, place of work Juliana Barracks within municipal boundary.

Van der Valk phoned the technical squad and got the sergeant, whose title was in fact Wachtmeester. Very proper and appropriate.

‘Anything showing?'

‘No. We're developing prints as fast as we can, going over everything with the low-power glass. No foreign fingers. She
was in the kitchen, answered a ring at the door presumably, and probably he backed her in with the gun before giving her the works. He didn't stay long, and handled nothing. We're making you a scale plan, of course.'

‘Keep me informed … Janet, get me Ballistics in Amsterdam … Hallo, Sam? Get my message?'

‘I got your message; it came on the telex. But not the goods yet. I'll look after it as soon as I get it.' Van der Valk was slightly indignant; a lot of time seemed to have passed, but no, it was barely an hour since the messenger had left, and he had fifty kilometres to go on a motorbike.

‘Ring me straight back. Something of an oddity, I suspect.'

‘Right, Mister.' Sam called everybody Mister. He had wanted to go to Israel last year, and had been restrained with difficulty. Said he was sick of air-pistol bullets.

He had his duty inspector and two plainclothes detectives working on the building in the Van Lennepweg, but they had not rung in yet. Which meant that they had nothing to tell him.

He had Esther's handbag on his desk. It had been lying on the coffee table, had been fingerprinted, photographed, and he had told his driver to take it. A handbag could – should – tell you a lot about its owner.

Ordinary. Neither tidy nor untidy. Imitation leather but good quality, fairly expensive, label of a large store, comparatively new, whether modish or not he didn't know. Her clothes had told him nothing either; she had been in the kitchen and was wearing a nylon overall.

Usual women's things – perhaps a lot of eye make-up, but he had not noticed her eyes. Ought he to have? Purse with average amount of shopping money – forty gulden or so. A diary with shopping lists; the last read ‘Beetroot, coffee, milk, R. socks'. Ruth needed socks; he must tell Arlette. No identity papers, no papers or letters at all, not even envelopes. Had she no family? A credit card from a shoeshop – ‘Mevr. Zomerlust'. The usual seawrack of soap coupons and cash-register bills, buttons and stocking suspenders. No hairgrips – she had it cut short. His telephone rang. Van Lennepweg.

‘Nothing, chief. A few vague reports of a stranger but all the
descriptions differ. One woman thought she saw the husband – but from the back. Fair hair, sturdy build, fawn raincoat – and where does that get us? She couldn't be sure. They've lived in this building a year and a half. Nobody has much to say. Kept herself to herself. Inoffensive, quiet. No close friends known. Went out a lot by herself though. Husband away a lot, natch. You know he's a soldier?'