Read Online Over the High Side by Nicolas Freeling - Free Book Online
Authors: Nicolas Freeling
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confused and bizarre and so, as the magistrate might say, what? He thought that any fluent and prolific letter-writer â Arlette for instance â would give the same impression.
There was nothing to be had out of Anna. She had never laid eyes on the mysterious car, had never heard of Mr Lynch. Yes, the ladies of Belgrave Square had sent long emotionaltelegrams and Interflora wreaths, but had not come: they couldnât get away. They were under the impression that Vader had had a heart attack; she hardly knew how to tell them he had been stabbed. What good would it do anyway? She supposed she would have to tell them sooner or later. No, none of them read the Dutch papers.
âYou wouldnât think of going back to Ireland yourself?â fishing vaguely.
âIt would be attractive in a way, I suppose,â as though she had never thought of the idea. âIt would be pleasant to be near them all again, and I enjoyed Ireland. But earning a living would be harder: thatâs what Iâve got to think of.â
âNone of â more natural to call them your sisters, isnât it? â their husbands couldnât help you to a job?â
âOh, them,â not sounding much impressed by the step-sons in-law. âI donât think any of them could help much.â Quite.
*
And at the end of it all it was Van der Valk himself who found out something, by accident arising from his own stupidity. The fact was that while in Amsterdam, to be exact while drinking blackcurrant-juice in a dismal café near the Post Office, he left his glasses behind. He had only been wearing them for a year, and then only for reading. Wasnât really even middle-aged; must be all those years of filling in forms. No disgrace anyway; half Holland wears glasses; but he had not taken to them with any great enthusiasm. Still, must have been very preoccupied: how had he come to leave them on a café table in full view? It was two hours after when he discovered his loss and rang them up. Ah â theyâd found them ⦠but with a zeal utterly infuriating, instead of hanging on to them the silly bastards had sent them to the Lost Property Office. As in all major cities, the Lost Property Office is a joke. Incredulously, he thought back but could not remember having ever been there: where was it anyway?
*
The employee nodded sadly, went away, and came back with a large cardboard box full to the brim.
âGood grief!â said Van der Valk as two or three hundred pairs were tipped out.
âYour bad luck,â with faintly spiteful satisfaction. âGot piled up. People thinks we keeps them a year. Couldnât; too many. Once in a while we has a clear-out.â
âDonât people claim these things?â asked Van der Valk, whose experience told him never to be surprised at any vagary or oddity, but a bit taken aback at seeing tape-recorders, guitars by the hundred, cameras, typewriters, cases and bags of every description, many expensive.
âReckon on them being stolen, people say. I reckons itâs just too much trouble to come and claim them. Canât think why we bother. People got too much money.â
âHere are mine anyway. Want to check them?â
âYou think we ties labels on all these? We only does that with articles of value.â
âThey are articles of value.â He had been strictly brought up.
âNobody seems to care. Easier to go buy another. Sign here. Seven hundred umbrellas, we got.â
Fascinated, Van der Valk was staring at the heap of unclaimed spectacles, wondering what was interesting about it. He did a double take, caught it, and read the gold print on the handsome green leather slipcase a second time. âMurrayâ, fresh and new. âOptician. Duke Street. Dublin.â
âYou donât tie a label. But you do have a register. You enter a description.â
âWell?â
âCan you identify
There was nothing to be had out of Anna. She had never laid eyes on the mysterious car, had never heard of Mr Lynch. Yes, the ladies of Belgrave Square had sent long emotionaltelegrams and Interflora wreaths, but had not come: they couldnât get away. They were under the impression that Vader had had a heart attack; she hardly knew how to tell them he had been stabbed. What good would it do anyway? She supposed she would have to tell them sooner or later. No, none of them read the Dutch papers.
âYou wouldnât think of going back to Ireland yourself?â fishing vaguely.
âIt would be attractive in a way, I suppose,â as though she had never thought of the idea. âIt would be pleasant to be near them all again, and I enjoyed Ireland. But earning a living would be harder: thatâs what Iâve got to think of.â
âNone of â more natural to call them your sisters, isnât it? â their husbands couldnât help you to a job?â
âOh, them,â not sounding much impressed by the step-sons in-law. âI donât think any of them could help much.â Quite.
*
And at the end of it all it was Van der Valk himself who found out something, by accident arising from his own stupidity. The fact was that while in Amsterdam, to be exact while drinking blackcurrant-juice in a dismal café near the Post Office, he left his glasses behind. He had only been wearing them for a year, and then only for reading. Wasnât really even middle-aged; must be all those years of filling in forms. No disgrace anyway; half Holland wears glasses; but he had not taken to them with any great enthusiasm. Still, must have been very preoccupied: how had he come to leave them on a café table in full view? It was two hours after when he discovered his loss and rang them up. Ah â theyâd found them ⦠but with a zeal utterly infuriating, instead of hanging on to them the silly bastards had sent them to the Lost Property Office. As in all major cities, the Lost Property Office is a joke. Incredulously, he thought back but could not remember having ever been there: where was it anyway?
*
The employee nodded sadly, went away, and came back with a large cardboard box full to the brim.
âGood grief!â said Van der Valk as two or three hundred pairs were tipped out.
âYour bad luck,â with faintly spiteful satisfaction. âGot piled up. People thinks we keeps them a year. Couldnât; too many. Once in a while we has a clear-out.â
âDonât people claim these things?â asked Van der Valk, whose experience told him never to be surprised at any vagary or oddity, but a bit taken aback at seeing tape-recorders, guitars by the hundred, cameras, typewriters, cases and bags of every description, many expensive.
âReckon on them being stolen, people say. I reckons itâs just too much trouble to come and claim them. Canât think why we bother. People got too much money.â
âHere are mine anyway. Want to check them?â
âYou think we ties labels on all these? We only does that with articles of value.â
âThey are articles of value.â He had been strictly brought up.
âNobody seems to care. Easier to go buy another. Sign here. Seven hundred umbrellas, we got.â
Fascinated, Van der Valk was staring at the heap of unclaimed spectacles, wondering what was interesting about it. He did a double take, caught it, and read the gold print on the handsome green leather slipcase a second time. âMurrayâ, fresh and new. âOptician. Duke Street. Dublin.â
âYou donât tie a label. But you do have a register. You enter a description.â
âWell?â
âCan you identify
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