The Midas Murders (7 page)

The Villa was closed, as he had expected. It made no sense to knock, so he found the nearest telephone box and punched in the nightclub's number. It rang for more than two minutes.

“Allo, Villa Italiana,” a stifled voice said. Van In exulted in silence.

“Hello, Jacques.” He recognized the voice of the longest-serving waiter. Jacques had been born in Limburg, on the other side of the country, and in spite of more than fifteen years in West Flanders he could barely conceal his Limburg accent.

“Commissioner Van In here. Is Véronique there?”

Silence. Under normal circumstances, Jacques would already have bitten the caller's head off.

“Not at the moment, Commissioner. She's gone shopping.”

“In Bruges?”

Jacques had to think. He had no idea where she was. “I guess so.”

“So you're expecting her back.”

“Véronique has the evening shift,” he said, hoping Van In would be satisfied.

“Tell me, Jacques, what do you get up to in that place so early?”

The waiter was taken aback. This cop wasn't so easily fobbed off.

“We're organizing an erotic karaoke competition for tonight. The technical guys are installing the sound system.”

“So you're expecting a bunch of horny men?” Van In snapped.

“Why else would our Véronique be on duty?”

The “our” sounded possessive, too possessive. Van in didn't laugh and there was a painful silence. Jacques gulped.

“Do you mind if I stop by?”

“The show begins at eight, Commissioner. Everyone is welcome.”

“I mean now,” Van In insisted. “I have to work tonight and if Véronique's on duty, there's a good chance she'll show up early.”

“We're closed, Commissioner. Try to understand my position.”

“Come on, Jacques. Don't turn it into a question of conscience. It's just a favor. I know for a fact that Patrick won't mind. He still owes me one.”

The waiter was torn.

“Jesus H.” Van In wasn't in the mood to piss around any longer. “Let's agree on the following,” he suggested high-handedly: “mix me a stiff drink and make sure the door's ajar. I'll be there in two minutes.”

Jacques registered the dry click as Van In slammed down the receiver. He stared at the phone in disbelief and poked nervously at his ear.

“Mario,” he yelled. “Whiskey sour for Commissioner Van In.”

The bartender put down his screwdriver and made his way obediently to the bar.

Van In arrived two minutes later, puffing and panting like a punctured bellows. Jacques welcomed him with a thin smile and dutifully locked the door behind him.

“It could be hours before she gets back,” he said resignedly.

“No problem. I'll wait.”

Van In wheezed as he slumped onto a barstool and gulped at his whiskey sour. Jacques kept him company like a slimy chaperone.

With the exception of a skinny Moroccan in threadbare overalls, Van In couldn't see the “technical guys” Jacques had mentioned on the phone.

“You know I can't drink this rotgut, Jacques,” Van In complained when his glass was all but empty.

“You asked for a stiff drink, Commissioner,” said the poker-faced waiter.

“When I said stiff, I meant three measures of J&B and a splash of Coke for the color. Do me a favor and call Mario.”

Jacques didn't protest. He didn't even ask himself how the commissioner could know Mario was on duty.

“Mario!”

The skinny Moroccan sitting at a table next to the dance floor barely looked up.

“Mario!” Jacques made his way to the lounge and yelled again. No answer.

“Yo, Mario,” said Van In, delighted to finally see him.

The short bartender puffed, slammed the cellar door behind him, and dragged a crate of Coke behind the bar.

“Always hard at work,” said Van In.

Mario wiped a couple of beads of sweat from his brow. He had only managed four hours' sleep and he didn't feel good at all.

“Everyone has to earn his living, eh, Commissioner?”

“There you are. Jesus! Here I am screaming myself hoarse and his lordship's in the cellar.” Jacques was visibly upset, but the bartender didn't pay the least attention.

“Whiskey-cola, Commissioner?”

“Please,” said Van In.

Mario knew the recipe. Why the commissioner had ordered a whiskey sour was a mystery to him.

“Everything tip-top?”

“Excellent,” said Van In. The whiskey-cola tasted incredible.

“We solved the murdered-German case this morning,” Van In said. “The killer's already behind bars.”

“Congratulations. Who says the police can't do their job?” Mario laughed.

Jacques had turned pale and tried desperately to attract the bartender's attention.

“Excellent news, eh?” Mario said.

“Thanks to you guys,” Van In beamed.

“Goodness. Mister Patrick will be happy to hear it,” said Mario, relieved.

Jacques was on the verge of a heart attack.

“You guys are in the clear, naturally,” Van In reassured his company. “The German was on his way from his hotel when someone flattened him.”

“Thank God he wasn't on his way from here,” said Mario, filling the icebox with Coke.

“He was here, of course,” Van In guessed. “But that was much earlier in the evening.”

“They came in at about eleven,” Mario let slip thoughtlessly. For a bartender, eleven was indeed early.

“Exactly,” said Van In. “Tallies perfectly with our witness statement.”

“So that Hollander fessed up after all?” asked Mario naïvely.

Van In took a serious gulp of whiskey-cola and fished his cigarettes from his pocket. “The investigation's still under wraps,” he whispered. He took advantage of the dramatic silence to light a cigarette.

Mario grabbed his dishcloth and stared to polish glasses with his usual thoroughness.

Jacques was flushing hot and cold.

Mario continued: “He was a total weirdo, that's for sure. First he ordered a fancy cocktail, then he wanted a whiskey-cola. And now that you mention it, the Hollander left and the other two….”

Jacques turned away. His only comfort: bar work was easy to come by in Bruges.

“That other guy was the one who started the ball rolling,” Van In bluffed.

A bad move, it seemed. Even Mario found the description a bit vague. A primitive alarm bell went off in the back of his head.

“Ah, that other German,” said Mario, feigning surprise.

He looked at Jacques and realized Van In had taken him for a ride.

“They spoke German the whole time,” he said awkwardly. “But we get so many tourists in here.”

Van In realized his prey was trying to escape.

“Hollanders, Germans,” Mario sighed. “You can't tell the difference after a while.”

“Was the Dutch guy a regular?” asked Van In casually.

Mario was happy that the commissioner was interested in the Dutchman. At least he hadn't leaked Mr. Georges's identity. The Gigolo would appreciate that.

“Had you ever seen him before?” Mario asked Jacques, trying to pass the conversation over to his colleague.

“Absolutely not,” the anemic waiter answered. He cursed the idiot bartender to hell and back. “Didn't look too savvy.” The lack of response forced him to continue. “Even left his bank card in the restroom.”

“That happens a lot here, I guess,” said Van In innocently.

“You're telling me, Commissioner.”

“But.”

Mario held a glass up to the light and raised his finger. “If we find a card, we always turn it in right away.”

“That's true,” Van In conceded ostentatiously. “When it comes to bank cards, the Villa has an impeccable reputation.”

Jacques realized that the battle was lost and withdrew with dignity to the lounge.

“One more question, Mario.”

It was a gamble, but Van In sensed it was worth the risk.

“You didn't happen to see the man's name, did you?”

Mario stopped polishing. His exceptionally small brain was spinning hell for leather.

“Let me think.”

He rubbed the stubble on his chin with the palm of his hand.

“It sounded Dutch, that much I remember,” he said after a moment. “Andriessen or something. Wait. Adriaansen. That was it. Adriaansen, I'm sure of it.”

“Well done, Mario,” Van In cheered, overdoing the elation. “Mr. Patrick sure knows how to pick his staff, I have to admit. You're a credit to him. What a memory, man.”

“What do you expect, Commissioner? The trickiest customers are hard to forget.”

Mario blushed, grabbed a glass, and started to polish with enthusiasm.

“Another whiskey-cola, Commissioner?”

“If you insist,” said Van In contentedly.

Van In cursed when the thing in his pocket started to beep. Mario recognized the sound and automatically handed him a wireless telephone. Van In punched in the station's number.

“Hello. Van In here.”

“A moment, I'll transfer you.”

The switchboard operator made no effort to hide his malicious delight. After a couple of bars of
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
, the call was transferred, and Van In recognized Carton's low humming voice.

“Where the hell are you, Van In?” The chief commissioner didn't expect an answer. “There's an emergency meeting of the mayor's council this evening, and they want a report from the police.”

Van In held the receiver a distance from his ear. Carton sounded exceptionally agitated.

“I would appreciate your presence at the meeting, Van In. You're supposed to be leading the investigation, aren't you?” Carton hated having to speak in public.

“No problem, sir,” he said, self-assured. “I'll conclude my inquiries at once.”

“The meeting's at the city hall at eight,” said Carton. “If I were you, I'd go home, shower, and put on a suit.”

“A plain tie or flowers, sir?”

“And drink a couple of pots of black coffee,” Carton added as a parting shot. “I can smell your breath over the phone.”

“I'll take care of it, sir.”

Carton hated meetings as much as Van In did, but his rank allowed him the privilege of throwing his subordinate to the lions.

Véronique had her own key to the Villa. She made her appearance just as Van In was savoring his last whiskey-cola. She had carrier bags in each hand emblazoned with the logos of some very exclusive boutiques. A pale late-twenties assistant followed in her wake with the rest of her purchases. She immediately recognized Van In's well-rounded silhouette.

He barely moved when she ruffled his hair with her ice-cold fingers. He recognized her perfume, a mixture of musk and sandalwood. She stuck her nose in his ear, and it was proved to Van In then and there that there was nothing amiss with his hormone balance. Mario discreetly withdrew to let Véronique do her thing.

“Quelle surprise, Pierrot,” she cooed.

Van In submitted willingly to a shower of kisses. Remorse was for later. Véronique's coy companion withdrew into a shaded corner. Véronique glanced back at him playfully. “Go and unpack, Xavier. I'll see you later.”

The young man nodded submissively and assembled the various bags and boxes under his arms.

“He's so sweet,” she giggled.

As Xavier stumbled up the stairs, Véronique settled on Van In's lap and sipped at his ice-cold whiskey-cola. Her fur coat barely concealed her pert bosom.

“It's been more than two weeks,” she pouted.

“Seventeen days,” said Van In, and those were the last meaningful words to pass his lips for some time. Véronique lured him into the Gigolo's room. As the fur coat slipped from her shoulders, Van In realized that he was about to do something he had never done before: write a dud check.

T
HE MAYOR'S COUNCIL HAD ASSEMBLED
in a small antechamber next to the mayor's office. In contrast to what many believed, the city hall's magnificent Gothic chambers were only used for official occasions and weddings. The council chamber was cozier and easier to heat. The oak floor muffled the yackety-yack, and the Gobelin tapestries added a sense of intimacy.

“The situation is exceptionally serious.”

Mayor Moens opened the meeting in stereotypical fashion. He had only been in the job for six weeks after his surprise win in the last elections, and this unexpected crisis pissed him off. If he made any mistakes, the opposition would drive him like a lamb to the slaughter. Nor was he expecting any support from the Socialists, with whom his party had formed a coalition. They had eighteen years of experience in office behind them. If things got skewed out of whack, they would dump the blame on his party in a heartbeat. Things weren't exactly hunky-dory within his own Christian Democrat party either. The influential local business community had been on the verge of withdrawing their support prior to the elections. The least quarrel with them could result in a political landslide.

“The bomb attack on the statue of Guido Gezelle was clearly the work of extremists. Their goal was also clear. They wanted to strike Bruges where it hurts, its most vital activity: tourism.”

Moens gasped for air and took some water. His council barely reacted. Like the mayor, many of them were also new to the job.

“That's why I invited Chief Commissioner Carton and Assistant Commissioner Van In to join us this evening. They can help us take the appropriate measures.”

The councillor in charge of Finances—an old-timer—muttered disapprovingly.

“If anyone has anything to say, then let him speak up,” Moens barked.

Fernand Penninck, an appropriate name for a councillor in charge of Finances, took off his glasses and rubbed the sides of his nose with the tips of his fingers. Moens was a fellow party member and Penninck didn't want to get in his way in a crisis. But he had just missed the mayor's job himself by a hair's breadth as the business community's candidate. Penninck felt morally obliged to voice his dissatisfaction.

“I think we should work out our own measures,” he said in an affable tone. “The police don't decide, they implement. De Kee's policies are a thing of the past.”

Laughter filled the room. Everyone remembered the previous chief commissioner and his political shenanigans.

“It's a question of advice,” Moens defended himself ineptly.

Penninck was a brilliant lawyer. If he had wanted to start a debate, Moens would have been dead in the water.

“Respected colleagues,” he said. “I agree with the mayor as long as the police limit themselves to advice and we make the decisions.”

Moens heaved a silent sigh of relief. Penninck had demonstrated loyalty. In a crisis, harmony was more important than venting shallow criticism. The other Christian Democrat councillors got the hint and bit their lips.

“We have to protect tourism whatever the cost,” Moens resumed, a little more self-assured.

“Aren't we jumping the gun here, Pierre?”

Albert Cleynwerk, councillor for Monuments and Urban Renewal, made no attempt to hide his skepticism. The bearded Socialist was close to retirement and felt no obligation to grant Moens a honeymoon period.

The mayor didn't move a muscle, but his inner uncertainty churned like a pan of boiling milk.

“No one has claimed the attack, and we have no reason to believe that fresh attacks are on the way,” Cleynwerk stated dryly.

“Perhaps someone just hates Guido Gezelle,” said Marie-Jeanne Derycke, wading unexpectedly into the discussion. The handsomely coiffed head of the city's Records Office took evident pleasure in her intervention. It was the first time she had spoken at a meeting. But no one paid the slightest attention to her observation.

“If you ask me, we shouldn't be taking the situation too lightly. Vandals use spray paint, not bombs. If extremists are responsible, then it's clear to me that they're out to undermine the tourist industry. What other options do we have? We don't have embassies, or an airport, or an immigrant problem. The monuments are the Bruges Achilles' heel.” Councillor Penninck's brief apology drew a murmur of approval. “We have to face reality … unless colleague Cleynwerk knows more than he's willing to admit.”

Cleynwerk had taken his seat. He scratched his sandy beard and said nothing.

“The tourist season begins in a couple of months,” Moens continued. “I hope this is a once-only incident, but if we're dealing with extremists they'll probably strike again before Easter.”

“When is Easter this year?”

Councillor Dewilde's question was completely irrelevant, but Moens checked the date nonetheless.

“April 16,” he said affably. Moens wasn't planning to antagonize Dewilde with a condescending answer.

Dewilde, an aerodynamic copy of the Michelin man, produced a leather-bound pocket calendar. “That obliges us to have our monuments guarded day and night,” he said with the air of a future statesman.

Dewilde had given up his job as a teacher at a technical school three months earlier. He had graduated from high school with a diploma in mechanics and owed his success in politics to his father, a thriving contractor.

“Do you have any idea what that means?” asked Penninck wearily. “Bruges has a
lot
of monuments!”

“Call in all the police personnel on the payroll and bob's your uncle,” Cleynwerk sneered. “There's never a problem when the Brits are playing Club Brugge, is there?”

“Or we could drum up some neighborhood watch groups. I know plenty of people here in Bruges who would be happy to contribute free of charge,” Marie-Jeanne Derycke suggested enthusiastically. She beamed like a bashful schoolgirl, quite a feat for a woman on the wrong side of two hundred pounds.

Penninck sighed—but, unlike the mayor, not in silence.

“Do you think my suggestion is ridiculous, Councillor? I wonder if you would have the same reaction if the suggestion had been formulated by a male colleague.” She was clearly enjoying the moment.

Penninck didn't want to give the impression that he was sick to the back teeth of her inflated feminism. He smiled graciously, like a pharaoh who'd just been told that the architect working on his pyramid had passed away.

Marie-Jeanne Derycke interpreted the smile as an admission of defeat and folded her arms manfully.

“And if that doesn't work, we can always call in the paratroopers,” said councillor Suzanne Dewit of Social Services, her tongue firmly in her cheek.

The two women hated each other with a vengeance. Marie-Jeanne was fifty-five, big-boned, and none too bright. Dewit was thirty-two, elegant, and a German philology graduate. She had picked up a mere 476 votes and owed her seat entirely to the fact that the Socialists had insisted on fronting a woman, determined not to tarnish their image as a woman-friendly party.

“Ladies, gentlemen, please. This isn't the time or the place,” Moens intervened.

Dewit grinned arrogantly and Derycke lit a cigarette in a huff. She only did it to annoy Dewit … the bitch hated cigarette smoke.

“Has the investigation produced any results?” asked Cleynwerk, in an effort to get the discussion back on a respectable track.

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that why the mayor invited the commissioners?” asked Marc Decorte dryly. The councillor for Tourism had spent most of the meeting playing with his ballpoint, which he now set aside with a dramatic gesture.

Chief Commissioner Carton and Van In found the city's fathers and mothers in a dense haze of gray-blue smoke. With the exception of Dewit, everyone had followed Derycke's example. The crystal chandeliers were covered in a layer of brown nicotine, to which the previous administration had also made a serious contribution.

Van In inspected the rabble and hoped the bullshit would be kept to a minimum. He liked to compare politicians with psychopaths: they both killed without a motive, the latter people, the former time.

On the mayor's invitation, Carton took a seat at the head of the table. Van In was obliged to sit beside him.

Moens cleared his throat, and silence filled the chamber.

“Assistant Commissioner Van In, Head of Bruges's Special Investigations Unit, will now bring us up to speed on his inquiry into the bomb attack.”

It sounded terrible. The inexperienced mayor used upper-case letters when he spoke, typical of a cautious politician trying not to step on anyone's toes. Moens folded his arms on his belly, peered over the heads of the assembled councillors, and took his seat like a Tibetan lama with a winning lottery ticket in his pocket.

Van In created a dramatic silence by staring passively into space. Carton treated him to a bad-tempered kick under the table.

“Honorable Mayor, Respected Councillors,” he said reluctantly.

Van In wasn't aware that he too was speaking in capital letters.

“Today's incident is a concern for all of us. We're not used to terrorism here in Bruges.”

Everyone listened with bated breath. Van In couldn't understand why, since he had yet to say anything that might warrant their apprehension.

“I will be contacting the National Security people tomorrow for a list of extremist groups who might be capable of such an attack. I'm also expecting a report from the bomb-disposal unit in a couple of days. My assistant is coordinating the investigation in and around the scene of the attack.”

“Ridiculous,” Cleynwerk snorted. “Any one of us could make up that sort of crap.”

“Mister Cleynwerk,” Moens intervened solicitously. “At least let the commissioner finish.”

Van In thanked the mayor with a friendly nod.

“In cooperation with the appropriate services, we've put together an inventory of important monuments in the city. The Federal Police have agreed to cooperate, and the Army has provided expert personnel. The plan is to check important buildings for explosives as frequently as possible.”

“But our respected colleague Penninck claimed only a moment ago that Bruges had so many valuable buildings that efficient police surveillance wasn't a viable proposition,” councillor Dewilde whined.

Penninck rolled his Parker fountain pen between his thumb and forefinger, clearly irked. Moens had neglected to bring him up to date on police strategy. Now that sucker Dewilde had made him appear like a complete idiot.

“We're talking a selection of monuments, you understand,” Carton intervened, coming to the aid of the councillor for Finance.

Penninck had supported Carton's application for chief commissioner without condition. Carton had no other option than to step up to the line for him.

“All the buildings with an electronic alarm system are secure and are not included on the list. The Army will be checking them before they close their doors in the evening.”

Carton tried to make his reasoning sound convincing. He knew good and well that every alarm system had its weaknesses. Most had been designed to keep out burglars, not terrorists. Someone intent on planting a bomb didn't need to break in.

“This allows us to scratch all the museums, the city hall, the Belfort, and a number of churches off the list,” said Carton.

“Is there anything else worth blowing up?” Derycke scoffed. She puffed a vigorous cloud of smoke in Dewit's direction. “And if they plant a car bomb on Market Square, you'll still be looking for it years from now,” she added sarcastically.

Jesus H.
, Van In grumbled inwardly,
what gave the blond bimbo that idea?
He didn't fancy the idea of having to listen to a series of disaster scenarios late into the night. Of course the police were powerless, but try selling that to the ladies and gentlemen of the mayor's council.

As Van In had feared, the discussion was rekindled and finally degenerated into a mud-slinging match. At the end of his tether, Moens called in the booze, bottles of Straffe Hendrik—Bruges's strongest beer—and jenever. The generous servings of alcohol prematurely drained his councillors. They fell silent at one-fifteen, like a car engine with sugar in the carburetor. The situation was indeed worrying, so they agreed to the measures formulated by the commissioner and resigned themselves to the fact that little more could be done for the time being.

When everyone was about to leave, Van In noticed the mayor whispering something in Carton's ear. The chief commissioner hung back and out of necessity he did the same.

The city hall janitor, an unobtrusive man in a navy blue suit, waited docilely at the door, his keys jingling very discreetly.

“Go on up, Antoine,” said Moens. “I'll call when we're done. It shouldn't take long,” he added enthusiastically.

The man nodded and shambled resignedly down the corridor. But he didn't go upstairs. His wife had been asleep for more than an hour and there was nothing worth watching on the box. A recently opened Straffe Hendrik in the kitchen was more inviting.

The mayor's office was located at the rear of the city hall. It was a spacious room, a combination of an office and a sitting room. Visitors were treated to a magnificent view of the classically structured garden and the canals. The mayor owned his own motorboat, and a jetty had been provided.

“Take a seat, gentlemen,” said Moens in a formal tone. He pointed to the red velvet lounge suite. A handsome desk in walnut veneer monopolized attention in the middle of the room.

“Cognac or whiskey?”

Moens deliberately didn't offer beer; otherwise he would have had to bother the janitor.

Carton opted for cognac. Moens and Van In chose whiskey. When all three had taken a polite sip, Moens made his way to his desk.

Dzing.

Van In recognized the sound of a spring-loaded latch, and that suggested a secret compartment.