Read Online A Long Silence by Nicolas Freeling - Free Book Online

cost nothing to go and find out. And on the whole this seemed the best line of approach. If Saint had something on the old man, it was quite probable that in return the old man knew something about nefarious activities, assuming there were any. It was even on the cards that he had a hand in them.
    A frumpy street, and at a foggy February nightfall intensely dreary. Gloomy dreary surroundings, a sense of heavy dusty hangings and curtains and old women peering out behind them. Van der Valk was well aware that he was being ‘subjective’ again, and very unfair, and that all the arts of civilized living can flourish around the Wilhelmina Hospital as well as they can anywhere, but he had never been able quite to rid himself of an old suspicion, that around here the Stock Exchange page of the newspaper gets very thoroughly read, but precious little else.
    Van der Valk did not expect Mr Prins to be a great fan of late-night television either, but was taking no chances. On the quayside, where fog was settling heavily upon the greasy black canal, he adopted a disguise. He had two sets of reading-glasses, one with tinted lenses. The hat, the briefcase, the precise fussy manner as of Special Branch types for whom he had always had a healthy dislike. He took his hat off, and combed his damped hair down flat. Might be a risk, but not he thought much of one.
    An old woman – there are always old women – let him into a flat of such grey stillness and silence that the many objects of beauty seemed to have become dulled and stilled and lost all their sparkle. She made a great deal of fuss, and he had to be pompous. Mr Prins was not back yet, but was expected, yes, – grudgingly – any time. Van der Valk, as he always did, had abloody good peek about. Such a contrast to the bright sunniness of the little villa where Bosboom grew roses and collected Redouté prints. The wallpaper was grey, the paint grey, the fat chairs and sofa covered in faded grey velvet. Carpet an ancient Turkey thing, hearthrug dirty white. Even the gilt picture frames had lost all their lustre. Plenty of comfort for elderly widower – or was he a bachelor? Decanters with sherry, madeira, whisky (lifting the stoppers and sniffing all three), a cabinet with a complete set of Meissen monkey musicians, and some gilded stuff looking ugly to him but that was no doubt exceedingly good. Two gilded torchères going with a large ormolu mirror, an intricate round-bellied commode with fantastically elaborate marquetry in kingwood and tulip wood and lord-knew-what-wood, so that he wished his father who had been a carpenter were there to explain. Glassfronted diamond – paned bookshelves, obstinately locked. And a great many pictures, all intensely dull to the untrained eye: he could recognize nothing but two Daumier etchings which were signed anyway. And a key in the outer doorlock, and a shuffle of old women’s feet in carpet slippers, a whispered murmur. Noises of an elderly gentleman taking off his overcoat, hanging it up, and washing his hands at the little lavabo in the entrance. Door opened silently. Old gentleman with a severe, questioning face. Van der Valk had a stiff formal bow. He had no cards but his own, but was ready to gamble with one of them if called for.
    â€˜Police Commissaire van der Valk from The Hague. Just an informal call, Mr Prins. Just a friendly discussion. Documentary work as part of a large-scale survey.’ This was an easy role to play: pedantic governmental functionary worrying about his bits of paper; bothered about forms not being filled in properly.
    Prins looked solid enough, but left an impression of lassitude and fatigue. The eyes were ringed with pouched, discoloured flesh, as though by chronic liver trouble. The movements were slack and dragging; a carpet-slipper walk. Ponderous expression with a listless quality, as though he did not much care what was said to him, and was not even really listening.