The Midas Murders (8 page)

“I received this letter at home this morning,” said Moens glumly. He handed Carton a pale yellow envelope.

“I didn't want to start a panic,” he said apologetically. Both Carton and Van In knew the real reason: Moens didn't trust half his councillors.

“This is an explicit threat,” Moens said before putting on his reading glasses, “another attack. And next time we shouldn't expect another ‘firecracker.' It says ‘Bruges will tremble.' ‘Les touristes should stay at home this year…. Le phénomène has already been observed in Turkey and Egypt.'”

Moens poured a good mouthful of whiskey down his throat while Carton explored the letter. He wasn't a fast reader.

“On top of that, they're threatening to liquidate me if I don't cooperate,” Moens sighed.

“What does that mean, for Christ's sake?” Van In responded incredulously. “Cooperate? With what?”

“They don't say.”

Moens had started to pace up and down. Carton peered over his glasses and asked himself why the mayor had given him the letter to read and then blabbed its contents.

“I don't think we should be too concerned, not for the moment at least,” said Van In resolutely.

Moens stopped in his tracks and Carton grabbed his forehead.

“I mean … you're not in danger as long as they haven't made known their demands,” Van In explained in response to the perplexed expression on the mayor's face.

“Is the letter signed?” Van In continued.

Carton took off his glasses and handed Van In the sheet of paper.

“Terrorists usually leave a signature,” said Van In after reading the letter. “Call me old-fashioned, but your average bomber doesn't usually have a laser printer in his arsenal.”

Moens nodded enthusiastically. So it was true what they said about Van In and his Sherlock nose.

“And why the French?”

Van In held the letter up to the light to check the watermark.

“This is the work of either a crazy person or a bunch of hot-headed Walloons,” he said flatly.

The mayor sat down and gaped at him open-mouthed. Carton folded his arms over his belly and leaned backward. “So the watermark is French.”

Van In folded the letter, making sure not to rub over the paper. “Do you have a plastic bag?” He carefully picked up the envelope by one of its corners.

Moens jumped to his feet and rummaged around in his desk. “Will a shopping bag do?”

They could immediately tell where the mayor bought his fish. Van In slipped the letter and the envelope into the bag with the greatest of care.

“I'll know by tomorrow if there's a useable fingerprint, at least if the mayor has no objection to my involving the technical boys at the judicial police lab.”

“Can you guarantee the necessary discretion, Van In?” asked Moens, still clearly unsettled.

“Leo Vanmaele is a good friend. I'd even trust him with my love letters,” said Van In nonchalantly.

Moens refreshed his whiskey and greedily emptied the glass.

The mayor is scared
, Van In thought to himself.

“Fine, Commissioner, but on the condition that the contents of the letter are not leaked.”

Moens shouldn't have repeated his condition. Van In had the impression he was shaking.

“What made you think of Walloons, Commissioner?” asked Carton out of the blue.

The crafty old dog sensed instinctively that Van In knew more than he wanted to share.

Van In lit a cigarette, self-assured and without asking permission. He filled his lungs and fired straight ahead.

“Everyone knows that the Walloon community is having a hard time. Advances in federalization are hurting them. They're afraid the Flemish are going to split social security. That would cost them more than a hundred billion, money they simply don't have. Belgium must be the only country in the world that never turned its ethnic issues into bloodshed; but if the Flemish stop the flow of money and the Walloons begin to feel the pinch, it wouldn't surprise me if certain extremists resorted to violence. The letter refers explicitly to Turkey and Egypt, where terrorists have been trying to intimidate tourists. Bruges is the most visited city in Flanders. And why do you think they chose Gezelle as their first target?”

“Jesus,” Moens muttered. “Do you think … ?”

“Your analysis is alarming to say the least, Van In,” Carton interrupted. “But I have to admit that such a scenario does sound plausible.”

Van In relished the compliment. He had invented the entire theory on the spot.

“State Security should have more news for us tomorrow. If there's an anti-Flemish movement at work, that's where we need to concentrate our efforts.”

“Excellent idea, Commissioner,” said Moens enthusiastically.

“In the meantime, I suggest we place the mayor under around-the-clock surveillance.”

“Excellent, Van In.”

“But there's one more problem.”

Carton and Moens were all ears, like children listening to a fairytale.

“Does it make sense to involve the other police services, or do we prefer to go it alone?”

Carton flushed hot and cold. Van In was playing with fire.

“I promised the Federal and judicial police that we would cooperate,” said the chief commissioner with a tone of caution.

“Of course we'll cooperate; but if we can force a breakthrough in the investigation, we're not obliged to inform them right away. Wouldn't it be good if we managed to solve the case ourselves?”

The decision was made. As mayor, Moens was also in charge of the Bruges police.

“Good, Van In. We'll do it your way,” said Moens boldly. “You've got a week.”

“I'll do my best, sir.” Van In emptied his glass in a single gulp. Moens might have been a mediocre politician, but he certainly knew his whiskey.

V
AN
I
N APPEARED AT THE
police station on Hauwer Street a good forty-five minutes late, having enjoyed a refreshing night's sleep. Nobody looked at the clock.

“Good morning,” said Versavel; “you look good.” They were in the hallway outside their office; Versavel had just made copies of a couple of police reports.

The commissioner was wearing an old-fashioned pinstriped suit under a crumpled gabardine overcoat. His tie was loud, to say the least. A ridiculous fedora defied gravity on his head. The sergeant saluted informally and tried to keep a straight face.

The commissioner proclaimed: “May I introduce secret agent Van In?”

Versavel asked himself if Van In was being serious. Van In didn't wait for an answer. He twirled on the spot and threw open his gabardine like an experienced runway model.

“Lead us not into temptation,” Versavel groaned. He brushed his moustache and treated Van In to a wolf whistle. Van In stepped back instinctively.

“Keep your hands to yourself, or I'll cuff you,” he threatened.

Versavel got the picture.

One of the officers the duo had bumped into on the stairs the previous day discreetly withdrew into his room. So it was true: Van In had a screw loose.

Versavel spotted the young officer peering through a crack in the door.

“Showtime,” he grinned, throwing his arm around his boss's shoulder.

“Parumpumpumpum, pumpum, pumpum, parumpumpum….”

Van In willingly let Versavel take the lead as they danced to the melody of the world's most famous waltz.

“You're a bloody good dancer, Commissioner,” Versavel chuckled. “Would you like my report as we dance?”

“Never mind, Guido. Before you know it, they'll be thinking we're a little … er.”

“That
you're
a little….” Versavel protested. “Everybody knows that I'm perfectly normal.”

When Van In caught sight of the young officer, he turned and gazed longingly into Versavel's eyes.

“Your place or mine?” he asked in a hoarse baritone voice.

The voyeur had been joined in the meantime by a couple of colleagues.

“We're practicing for carnival,” Van In roared. “Obligatory dance lessons for anyone caught staring for more than ten seconds, starting right now.”

The curious faces disappeared as if by magic. Van In laughed loud and hard. Versavel was concerned.

“You look cheerful this morning, Commissioner.”

Van In straightened his shirt and checked the position of his tie.

“I had a reasonably good day yesterday,” he smirked. “Police work doesn't have to be boring by definition.”

Versavel politely cleared his throat. “Did Véronique give you the special treatment?”

He sounded disapproving, and that was his intention.

Van In froze. He knew the sergeant would go through fire and water for Hannelore.

“The scrag called you half an hour ago,” said Versavel, clearly irked. “She forgot to tell you something yesterday.” He couldn't understand why Van In would drink cheap spumante when he had the best of champagne at home.

“Are you trying to say something, Sergeant?”

“Should I be, Commissioner?”

Van In pushed open the door of room 204 with his shoulder.

“The flesh is weak, Guido. I don't have to tell you that,” he muttered. “Is there coffee?”

“I made a fresh pot at eight.”

Versavel glanced knowingly at his watch.

“I said we would get back to her this afternoon,” said the sergeant as he poured his boss a cup.

“Excellent,” Van In snapped. “And don't forget the key to her chastity belt.”

Versavel handed his boss the coffee and sat down at his desk, his head held high. Van In hadn't been on form for a couple of weeks. His depressions had been more frequent than an average northern European weather system. There was no point in getting his back up any further.

“Did the people at city hall have anything to say?”

Van In shrugged his shoulders indifferently. The thought of Véronique made him horny. What was he to do? His body reacted to the bitch like a hungry baby to a juicy breast.

“They were on the verge of declaring martial law,” he sneered. “Did the door-to-door come up with anything?”

Versavel pursed his lips. “Shall I read you the reports?” he said in a tone that didn't bode well.

“Leave it. I assume everyone heard the explosion and went back to sleep.”

“How did you guess? The people who called wanted us to file complaints.”

“Of course,” Van In hooted. “As if we've got nothing better to do.”

“
Do
we have something better to do?” Versavel jested. “Take Depuydt, for example. He calls us almost every evening at nine fifty-five. The poor bastard lives next door to the Octopus, that piano bar on Wool Street.”

Van In carefully placed his cup on his desk. He had been trying for more than twenty-four hours to recover the fleeting impression that had crossed his mind in the Gezelle Inn—and suddenly there it was, the skinny guy in Lonneville's office, clear as the nose on his face.

“The piano music is driving him mad, but we're not allowed to intervene. Depuydt's tried just about everything: official noise-abatement measurements, angry letters to the press; he even complained to a justice of the peace,” Versavel chattered. “If it was up to me, I'd close the place down. There's an ambulance at the door every other night. Food poisoning. Jeez. I don't want to think about it.”

Van In was only half listening.

“Depuydt, did you say? Surely not Philippe Depuydt?”

“That's the man. Know him?”

“I went to school with a Philippe Depuydt. Is he roughly my age?”

“I think so. If you want, I can get his address.”

“Don't bother, Guido. It's not that important.”

Versavel made his way to the windowsill and poured another cup of coffee.

“Apropos, is Carton here?”

Van In held out his cup and Versavel obliged with coffee and sugar. He himself was satisfied with a drop of skimmed milk.

“You know as well as I do that Carton can't handle the drink. And don't try to tell me that you two didn't touch a drop last night,” Versavel laughed.

“So he's not here.”

“I'm not expecting him before eleven.”

“Good.”

Van In sipped his coffee and lit a cigarette. The combination of caffeine and nicotine did him good. The old Van In was slowly beginning to surface.

“I want you to check something for me, Guido.”

Versavel sat on the edge of his desk. In contrast to many of the other officers, his back was perfectly straight.

“Take a look at the hotel submissions for the last week. I'm looking for a Hollander.”

Van In took out his notebook and read the description he had received from Mario.

“Probably a businessman, forty-five give or take, tall, thin, gray hair, trendy dresser. Goes by the name of Adriaans or Adriaansen.”

“Okay,” Versavel beamed. “Just my type.”

“And a German,” Van In continued, unruffled. “Sixty-five, portly and bald.”

“Yuck,” Versavel groaned.

“No sun without shadow,” said Van In philosophically.

Versavel noted the descriptions. He was happy to see Van In back in action.

“So I'm guessing this has nothing to do with the bomb,” he ventured.

“You guessed right, Guido. But what I'm about to say has everything to do with it.”

Versavel held his pen at the ready. Mixing two cases together doubled the excitement.

“I want the mayor put under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Pick a couple of reliable men and keep it plainclothes.”

Versavel pulled a face that would have made Till Eulenspiegel jealous. This was right up his alley.

The State Security Services were called in to deal with all sorts of odd jobs, but in reality they had little if any legal jurisdiction. Some politicians complained that they were redundant, others saw them as a necessary evil. State Security's primary task was to gather information. The service had half a million files covering every imaginable form of subversive behavior: from citizens who happened to attend a single meeting of a radical left-wing organization, to the CCC—Communist Combatant Cells—and its big guns, the Brabant Killers, and the French revolutionary
Action Directe
. It was remarkable that the files in the first category often contained more pages than the files on the serious bad guys.

With these thoughts in mind, Van In punched in the number of the Belgian Secret Service for the third time. The line had been busy on the previous two attempts. A telephone operator picked up just as he was lighting a cigarette. She quickly switched to broken Dutch when she realized the caller was a “Flamand.”

Van In introduced himself and couldn't believe his ears when the bilingual operator immediately transferred him to the office of director Bostoen, one of the mandarins at State Security.

“Good afternoon, sir. Assistant Commissioner Van In, Bruges Police, head of Special Investigations.” Van In shuddered at having to spout such official bullshit. “I'm calling about a recent bomb attack.” He provided a brief report of events. “The perpetrators didn't leave a signature, and I was wondering if—”

“We've been informed,” Bostoen interrupted high-handedly.

Van In was so taken aback by the abrupt tone that he didn't quite know what to say.

“Has the statue of Flanders's greatest poet been badly damaged?”

It was hard to tell whether Bostoen was being facetious or not. One thing was sure: he was having a difficult time disguising his West Flemish accent.

“It could have been worse,” said Van In in a neutral tone.

Bostoen put on his glasses and leafed through the file on his desk. He had studied it in detail the day before. The faded letters
MWR
were inscribed on the front of the pale green folder.

“Good to hear,” he said after a moment.

Van In tried to picture Bostoen in his mind. He could smell his arrogant self-assurance over the phone. He had to be a lawyer.

“And you had set your thoughts on some extremist organization?”

“Everything seems to be pointing in that direction,” Van In responded cautiously.

“Hmm, you may be on to something,” said Bostoen. “I have vague memories of a file on the Mouvement Wallon Révolutionnaire, but it's all a long time ago.”

Van In had a pen at the ready and waited patiently. Bostoen apparently had all the time in the world.

“They distributed pamphlets for a couple of years, and the Service tried to pin half a dozen arson attacks on them. Their manifesto stated that they were intent on fighting Flemish imperialism with whatever means it took and that they weren't afraid of doing things the hard way.”

“Sounds promising,” said Van In, raising his level of enthusiasm a tone.

“But there's a problem. The MWR was disbanded in 1980,” said Bostoen with a hint of regret. “Which doesn't prevent a bunch of hotheads picking up where it left off, of course.”

Van In eagerly noted the details.

“I can have the file delivered to you if it helps.”

“I would be more than grateful, Mr. Bostoen.”

Van In put down his pen and lit another cigarette. Bostoen heard the click of his lighter, but withheld comment.

“I'll send a note to the archives right away,” he said. “With a little luck the file should be in Bruges the day after tomorrow,” he added condescendingly.

“Excellent,” said Van In. “And thanks for being so cooperative.”

“My pleasure, Commissioner.”

Bostoen hung up, hauled himself to his feet, and hobbled to the mini-refrigerator in which he kept his medication.

Van In immediately punched in the number of the forensics laboratory.

“I was just about to call you,” Vanmaele chirped. “Timperman faxed Fiedle's autopsy report half an hour ago.”

Professor Timperman was a living legend in forensic circles. The unassuming pathologist/anatomist had a considerable reputation both at home and abroad, and his students idolized him.

“So what's the news?” Van In insisted. He knew Vanmaele liked to test his patience.

“Just a sec,” Vanmaele chuckled. “Nothing we didn't know already in terms of the cause of death. Fiedle succumbed to a subdural hematoma. The massive hemorrhage killed him.”

“Spare me the details, Leo.”

“Okay. What about his liver, then?”

“Leo!”

“His stomach contents? Timperman discovered traces of
trigla lucerna
and
stizostedion lucioperca
.”

“What was that?”

“Tub gurnard and zander.”

“Sounds like fish.”

“Correct.”

“Is that it?”

“Yep,” said Leo dryly.

“So Fiedle liked fish.”

“Bouillabaisse, Pieter. Tub gurnard and zander are typically used in fish soup, Mediterranean style.”

“That's really going to help us,” Van In sighed. “Anything else useful?”

Leo hesitated. “Creytens has taken personal charge of the investigation, and Croos is as silent as—”

“A tub gurner,” Van In interrupted tersely.

“Timperman also found a shred of tissue under the nail of Fiedle's right forefinger,” said Leo.

If Creytens got wind of the fact that Vanmaele had copied the autopsy, Leo could look forward to a lifetime cleaning the corridors at the courthouse.

“Now, that's what I wanted to hear,” said Van In, upbeat. “Have the report sent over. I owe you a Duvel.”

“Shall I add it to the rest of the Duvels you owe me, or were you thinking of having it delivered too?” Leo sneered.

“Come and get it yourself. I'm at home this evening. And say hello to Creytens. Cheers, Leo.”