A Long Silence (25 page)

‘I see all that,' muttered Dick. ‘The only thing that worries me is that he should have spoken to some friend, or acquaintance – or something. I don't know what…'

‘Hedge your bet,' said Larry with his soft gleam of amusement. ‘Hedge your bet, my boy – as I do. Arm yourself against any other loose-mouthed gossiping fool as yourself – sorry, but face it honestly – who might come floating idly in your direction, carried by some eddy of fantasy or supposition or conjecture – it can never be more than that.'

And now weeks had passed. Nothing had happened. Nobody had appeared.

Why had he still this persistent temperature, this chronic low fever? As though he had really caught some infectious disease? It was enough to make one go and have a chest X-ray, to be quite sure. People simply didn't get TB, nowadays.

His reverie was interrupted – and he was grateful, because it had become unpleasant – by the prolonged silvery tinkle of the door chimes. A customer …

No, not a customer, Dick's by now trained and sharpened eye told him straight away. Nothing but an artist! He had learned not to despise them, because Louis insisted on keeping a friendly relationship with all artists, however trivial or foolish …

‘Firstly you never know when you'll need a craftsman; do them a favour and they'll do the same for you. Second, whatever you think, it's good publicity – you'd be surprised how often an artist, who has a trained eye, has put me in the way of something good. And commercial artists, who are the most tiresome because they want to borrow things free, can give one in return a commercial puff. I furnished a whole play once for the Stadschouwburg – did me a lot of good and I recouped the trouble and the damage with no bother at all.'

This was one of them, obviously. They came all shapes and sizes, wheedling for a Chinese silk screen ‘to photograph the model against', putting an antique porcelain pipe with a Delft jar and a seventeenth-century astrolabe for a whisky advertisement, asking to borrow an Empire day-bed to help sell inner-spring mattresses! This object was typical enough. Small, broad-shouldered and bow-legged like a Belgian sprint-cyclist, thatch of untidy hair behind bald forehead, those idiot steel-rimmed glasses, a huge walrus moustache. Still, as Larry said – rule number one – ‘Be courteous no matter who'.

‘Good morning; how can I help you?'

‘Prins in?' asked Danny de Vries.

‘I'm afraid he's away in the Ardennes all week. Plundering the presbyteries he calls it.'

‘How about Saint?'

‘Ah, sorry.'

‘Not in Amsterdam either?'

‘Yes, he's back, but we don't see him here much now. Friend of his?' casually. Couldn't be much of an acquaintance of Larry's, or he'd know more of his movements.

‘Not really. Recommendation from a friend. Was looking
for an Italian madonna, any at all provided it's early – quattrocento or thereabouts, something with a gold background, you know, genre Simone Martini, but Cinzano would do too, n'est-ce-pas? A motif I'm working on.'

‘Sorry, we've nothing like that in. We've an icon, but I don't think I could let that go – the insurance … it belongs really to Marianne Colin in Paris. You might try Papenheim in the Leidsestraat.'

‘He sent me to you. You Richard, by the way?'

‘Oddinga – at your service, but I don't know you do I?'

‘Do now,' with a rather impudent grin that brushed Dick up the wrong way a bit, he didn't know why.

‘How so? – that you come to know my name?'

‘Oh a friend – same fellow gave me Larry Saint's name. Suggested you might help me.'

‘Who's that then?'

‘Bit of an oddball,' said Danny, laughing. ‘Policeman – not a type you'd think knew anything about art.' Dick had stiffened up like a fresh-caught mackerel.

‘Er – what's his name then?'

‘Rather a tragedy – daresay you read about it in the paper. Got shot over in The Hague by some psychopath – bit of a professional risk I suppose. Used to be a commissaire in the criminal brigade – but you knew him, surely? Piet van der Valk.'

‘Knew him?' with stiff lips. ‘No, can't say I did. How come?'

‘Oh, well,' said Dan, laughing heartily, ‘he seems to have known you anyhow. Suggested I looked you up, when I was talking one day about antiques – funny, only just before his death. Well, actually it was Saint he mentioned – interesting man, he said, and good at his job. But since he mentioned you in the same context…'

‘Really? What context was that? I don't know why I'm curious – seemed funny, that's all.'

‘Oh I forget. Something about a watch, I think, but I can't really recall. Just about antiques; I was interested because old Piet was an absolute mine of information about all sorts of
queer things – specially here in Amsterdam. Well, I'll blow, pity about the madonna, better go and ask Peter Wilson ha, ha, ha. By the way, tell Larry when you see him, Piet was saying give his regards – bit out of date that, sorry about the joke, it's in bad taste, huh? Still, regards are regards, pass on the message just the same. Bye bye, hope to have the pleasure of meeting you again some time.'

And banged out happily, leaving Dick paralysed.

He must mention this to Larry. But where was Larry? He didn't know exactly. He was using the flat, but irregularly. He wasn't back every night. But he must know about this for certain. Who was that chap? Damn it, he hadn't given a name. Said he'd been to Papenheim – try ringing.

‘Hallo? Oh, Mr Papenheim – Oddinga here at Prins – you haven't by any chance had an enquiry about a quattrocento madonna?' Dick had been too disturbed to notice how odd this would sound.

‘What?' said the voice at the other end, not believing its ears.

‘Well, I had a rather peculiar fellow asking whether we had a…'

‘Just like that eh? What did you do – tell him to try Marks and Spencer?'

‘No, not an oleo – artist of some kind by the look, wanted maybe to copy it or something.'

‘Why'n't he go to the Rijksmuseum?'

‘Yes, I thought it odd too but maybe – '

‘What is all this?' suspiciously – was this a roundabout approach towards Louis letting it be known he'd got one, or had a client who wanted one, or – ‘- why d'you ask me such a thing?'

‘Oh, only, er, that of course I said we hadn't and I suggested he ask you and he said he had.' Dick was floundering now.

‘Had what? You think I've got one – why'n't Louis ask me himself?'

‘No no – oh hell – look, it was just the fellow seems not all there, and I was a bit puzzled, and since he said he'd asked you, I thought I'd check with you what the fellow could be
after really, since this might be just a pretext for something else.'

‘I've seen nobody, know nothing of this. Sounds cockeyed to me. You get any loonies, don't send them to me as a way of getting rid of them, my boy, I beg you.'

‘Yes, of course, sorry I troubled you.' There was a grunt and the phone clanked. Dick wiped his forehead, felt for a cigarette he needed, regretting the foolish impulse that had made him ring up without thinking – Papenheim was such a suspicious bastard. He would go on thinking for weeks that there was a real fourteenth-century picture somewhere, perhaps offered for sale, and Louis was trying to find out whether it had been offered to him! People said one thing and meant another, and in this slippery world Richard was not yet altogether always at his ease. He blew out smoke in a noisy puff, rubbed his head, and wondered what it all meant.

Dan, gleefully, was reporting that Saint was not at home, but the young man had nearly had kittens: they were on a hot trail. Trix, it was decided, would be the next attacker. She giggled self-consciously, but said she wouldn't lose her nerve, whoever else might.

Dick had not seen Larry at lunchtime, nor apparently had he been to the flat. Dick thought of leaving a message on the phone pad, but decided not to. He had had time to cool down. Don't get flustered, he told himself. He could imagine Larry's sarcastic eyes, being expressive – what, another panic? He decided to do nothing. Just a coincidence which would blow over. Recall – if anything were known he'd have heard about it long before this.

*

He was amused at this fine example of slightly over-blown Amsterdamse bourgeoisie. Successful shopkeeper a mile off! Trix, much dressed-up and heavily perfumed, had difficulty starting, which didn't bother Dick at all. This type of customer, with money to spend and a decision that antiques would increase their standing as well as prove a good investment, was familiar. Dick was young enough for them to patronize, which
gave them confidence: he had made some good sales this way, a thing which had much amused Larry.

‘Of course, Mevrouw. A piece of furniture perhaps? Now this is a striking little piece, and extremely elegant – it opens out to form a writing table, you see. A
bonheur du jour –
genuine Louis Quinze lacquer. It's not signed, but we'll give you our written guarantee. That might look very well in your salon.' Like fun it bloody would, Trix was thinking, but what she said was, ‘You see a lot of them faked.'

‘Not in this house, Mevrouw.'

‘Yes, but how would you know the difference, huh?'

‘An expert can tell, Mevrouw, and Mr Prins is recognized as a great authority.'

‘That's all very well, but – why, I remember as a child there was a cabinet-maker's shop in the quarter, and he used to make these things.'

‘Naturally. There are numerous reproductions. But both the wood and the methods used are modern.'

‘That so? Well let me tell you something, young man – this old chap, old Piet van der Valk, he used to mend chairs and such, but his shop was full of old bits of furniture and he used to say if you took a piece of old wood, and used the traditional methods and such, you could make something even an expert couldn't tell the difference.' Trix came out with it bravely. The information came from Arlette, who had been told by her husband. These reminiscences had been confirmed by Willy. ‘I remember the old boy when I was a kid in the street; ‘s true enough, he had an attic full of old wardrobes and such, used to take them to pieces.' But it was not this remark that petrified Dick.

‘Really?' he was saying in a light voice with no timbre. ‘How interesting. One would not think he had sufficient skill. What was the name again?'

‘Old Piet van der Valk. Of course you weren't born then, that was in the old days – I can only just remember them,' added Trix in haste. ‘But his son was well-known too – real Amsterdammer, nice chap, my husband went to school with him,' with perfect truth. ‘You'll know about him – he was
that commissaire of police, got assassinated in the street just the other day, a right filthy trick that was. If my husband got his hands on the one that did that, he said to me at the time … well, young man, how about it?'

‘Mr Prins will guarantee the authenticity,' Dick managed to get out from between his anaesthetized jaws.

‘He will, will he – well, perhaps I'll talk to him. I'll think it over – thank you, young man.' And out Trix flounced. She hadn't done it very well, she thought, but well enough. She'd seen that young cockerel's jaw drop!

‘Worked,' she announced triumphantly to the committee, ‘like a bloody great dose of castor oil.' Trix felt sufficiently confident in the company to have no scruples at all about lavatory humour. What was more, she was quite right.

Dick had wanted to close the shop, but was frightened of Larry coming past – even dropping in! Or even Louis – who might come back. It was true he was in Belgium, but one never knew how long he would stay away. He felt unable to give explanations. He could say he was sick – it was perfectly true. If there was one thing he wanted it was to be in bed, in peace, with nobody able to come in and worry him. Time to sleep and relax and knit himself together. Silence. Peace.

The shimmer of light on the black and scarlet lacquer of the
bonheur du jour
—the happiness of the day! – which had pleased him now had a hard and hostile look. A piece of old wood creaked suddenly, the way they sometimes did when the atmosphere was insufficiently humid. He ran to fill the containers on the radiators, and was frightened and alarmed at spilling water on the carpet.

*

‘Now if Hilary goes. Strike while the iron's hot,' said Dan, rubbing his hands together.

‘That might be extremely dangerous,' answered Bates, bluntly. ‘If a young man like that is frightened, who knows what he might do? It was agreed that I should go – I run much less risk.'

‘He was shook all right,' said Trix with satisfaction. ‘I think Willy ought to go. He's a man, and strong, and he could handle the situation. I could nip back to the shop, and he could be changed in a few minutes.'

‘I don't think it's necessary,' said Arlette. Everybody looked at her.

‘What's the matter, Let?' demanded Dan, who had the Dutch habit of abbreviating proper names. A thing which would, ordinarily, have infuriated her as much as being called ‘Love' by Willy-the-butcher.

‘I don't know. It seems like hounding people, that's all.'

‘But there's no doubt at all – this boy must have some guilty knowledge – just look how he reacts – twice – with separate people – to perfectly harmless remarks.' Bates; Arlette turned to look at her. Strange woman. So gentle, and so kind. So completely the harmless, loquacious, clacking old biddy. And yet, when it was a question of anything she felt strongly about, so very implacable. I understand that, thought Arlette. I would have said the same. A principle is a principle, and one cannot yield on that. But when a principle has a personal relevance – no, one can't yield. But surely one has to modify.