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Authors: Graham Masterton
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mind straight.
I kept thinking of Mariaâs face and the more I thought about it the more it haunted me. She wasnât anything to do with me; so why was I so worried? Martin Hoete didnât exist, so she wasnât in any danger. But what if Jan believed that he was Martin Hoete? What if Jan were schizophrenic and âMartin Hoeteâ was his vengeful
alter ego.
Maybe that was why Jan had taken me to lunch and asked me to make sure that Maria wasnât alone at nine oâclock tonight. Maybe the good side of his personality was making plans to protect Maria from the bad side of his personality.
I tipped back the last of the Scotch. It was a quarter to nine, and it was dark and foggy outside, with the mournful hooting of steamers being towed up the Schelde to the docks. I went downstairs in the elevator and in the mirror I thought I looked pale and stressed. I guess I must have been working too hard lately. Too many late nights at the bank. Too much computer-time. I didnât have any real friends in Antwerp, only business friends, and most of my sightseeing I had done alone â standing in the gloom of Rubenâs house or walking around the gloomy precincts of the zoo, while Polar bears paced relentlessly up and down.
In the hotel pharmacy I bought a copy of
Time
magazine and (as a second thought) an old-fashioned straight razor. Martin Hoete didnât exist but Jan was real enough, and if there was trouble between him and Maria it was just as well to go prepared. Not that I would ever
use
a razor on anybody, but it was something to wave around in case things turned ugly.
Then I took a taxi to De Keyserlei â the broad avenue that led to Antwerp Station â and asked to be dropped off at the end of Ster Straat.
Ster Straat was narrow and cobbled and lined with lime trees, a street of heavy gray apartment buildings that had somehow survived the war. Number 6 had a wide archway, with black metal gates, and a courtyard with a mosaic floor. I tried the gates and they swung open with a low, weary groan. I hesitated for a moment and then I stepped inside. There was a sharp smell of disinfectant and that ever-present pungency of Belgian drains. I walked across the mosaic with my footsteps echoing against the archway. A moped suddenly buzzed down the street behind me and startled me.
My heart was beating hard and I didnât really know why. Jan was eccentric, but he didnât frighten me. Hoete disturbed me, with all his threats of cutting throats, but then Hoete wasnât real, was he?
I reached the black-painted door that led up to the apartments. Beside it was a row of bell-push buttons marked in neat italic handwriting:
T & V Hovenier. D van Cauwelaert. M Paulus.
That âMâ must have stood for Maria, because it was the only one. Apartment number 5.
I was tempted to push the bell and introduce myself, but then itsuddenly occurred to me how ridiculous it would appear if I said that I was here to protect her from somebody who didnât exist. Instead, I decided to wait outside for a while, to see if anybody
did
show up.
The night grew damper and colder. I was beginning to think that I must be seriously mad to be pacing up and down this courtyard like one of the Polar bears in the zoo. Eleven oâclock passed, and then I heard the chimes ring out eleven fifteen and I thought that enough was enough. I would go back to my hotel and have a hot, deep bath and finish off the rest of the whiskey from my minibar.
I was about to leave when the gates groaned open, and a thin man in a dark coat came into the courtyard, clanging the gates shut behind him. He crossed to the door, taking out a bunch of keys as he did so.
âBonsoirâ
he said, as he opened up the door.
âBonsoirâ
I replied. He didnât look like Hoete â at least, he didnât look like the Hoete that I had imagined, when Jan had described him to me. A sharp nose, metal-rimmed glasses that
I kept thinking of Mariaâs face and the more I thought about it the more it haunted me. She wasnât anything to do with me; so why was I so worried? Martin Hoete didnât exist, so she wasnât in any danger. But what if Jan believed that he was Martin Hoete? What if Jan were schizophrenic and âMartin Hoeteâ was his vengeful
alter ego.
Maybe that was why Jan had taken me to lunch and asked me to make sure that Maria wasnât alone at nine oâclock tonight. Maybe the good side of his personality was making plans to protect Maria from the bad side of his personality.
I tipped back the last of the Scotch. It was a quarter to nine, and it was dark and foggy outside, with the mournful hooting of steamers being towed up the Schelde to the docks. I went downstairs in the elevator and in the mirror I thought I looked pale and stressed. I guess I must have been working too hard lately. Too many late nights at the bank. Too much computer-time. I didnât have any real friends in Antwerp, only business friends, and most of my sightseeing I had done alone â standing in the gloom of Rubenâs house or walking around the gloomy precincts of the zoo, while Polar bears paced relentlessly up and down.
In the hotel pharmacy I bought a copy of
Time
magazine and (as a second thought) an old-fashioned straight razor. Martin Hoete didnât exist but Jan was real enough, and if there was trouble between him and Maria it was just as well to go prepared. Not that I would ever
use
a razor on anybody, but it was something to wave around in case things turned ugly.
Then I took a taxi to De Keyserlei â the broad avenue that led to Antwerp Station â and asked to be dropped off at the end of Ster Straat.
Ster Straat was narrow and cobbled and lined with lime trees, a street of heavy gray apartment buildings that had somehow survived the war. Number 6 had a wide archway, with black metal gates, and a courtyard with a mosaic floor. I tried the gates and they swung open with a low, weary groan. I hesitated for a moment and then I stepped inside. There was a sharp smell of disinfectant and that ever-present pungency of Belgian drains. I walked across the mosaic with my footsteps echoing against the archway. A moped suddenly buzzed down the street behind me and startled me.
My heart was beating hard and I didnât really know why. Jan was eccentric, but he didnât frighten me. Hoete disturbed me, with all his threats of cutting throats, but then Hoete wasnât real, was he?
I reached the black-painted door that led up to the apartments. Beside it was a row of bell-push buttons marked in neat italic handwriting:
T & V Hovenier. D van Cauwelaert. M Paulus.
That âMâ must have stood for Maria, because it was the only one. Apartment number 5.
I was tempted to push the bell and introduce myself, but then itsuddenly occurred to me how ridiculous it would appear if I said that I was here to protect her from somebody who didnât exist. Instead, I decided to wait outside for a while, to see if anybody
did
show up.
The night grew damper and colder. I was beginning to think that I must be seriously mad to be pacing up and down this courtyard like one of the Polar bears in the zoo. Eleven oâclock passed, and then I heard the chimes ring out eleven fifteen and I thought that enough was enough. I would go back to my hotel and have a hot, deep bath and finish off the rest of the whiskey from my minibar.
I was about to leave when the gates groaned open, and a thin man in a dark coat came into the courtyard, clanging the gates shut behind him. He crossed to the door, taking out a bunch of keys as he did so.
âBonsoirâ
he said, as he opened up the door.
âBonsoirâ
I replied. He didnât look like Hoete â at least, he didnât look like the Hoete that I had imagined, when Jan had described him to me. A sharp nose, metal-rimmed glasses that
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