Read Online The King of the Rainy Country by Nicolas Freeling - Free Book Online
Authors: Nicolas Freeling
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territory of the Federal Republic, German beer becomes immediately too proletarian for the likes of us â and I shell out four and sixpence for a gold-label Carlsberg as meek as Minnie Mouse. Indignation at this meekness had to simmer down before he could concentrate on Marschal.
Marschal must surely realize that the police hunt for persons reported missing. He might have reckoned on Anne-Marie making no fuss; she hadnât wanted any police â sheâd made that clear enough. He must, too, have thought that Canisius would be unperturbed â and there he had made an error. He had known that his absence made no difference to the business, and he had known that as the heir to the Marschal fortune he was a person of importance in everyoneâs eyes. Conclusion was, surely, that to fall into the error of supposing that Canisius would take no steps towards having him found he must have imagined that Canisius would be glad to have him gone, out of the way, forgotten even.
Not only had Canisius taken steps â he had taken very drastic steps. An inspector of the criminal brigade had been detached, with wide powers and all expenses guaranteed. As though there had been a crime. Yet there had been no crime. Yes, persuading agirl under age to run away from her home was a legal offence, but Marschal had not thought of that. Otherwise he must have known that the police would look for this girl, as well as for him. Had he thought that the girl would confuse everything, providing him with a kind of camouflage?
The beer tasted good. Van der Valk reflected that Canisius was paying for it, just as he was for the plane ticket, and cheered up.
Could Canisius have known or guessed something about this girl? That hardly seemed possible. Could he have known or guessed that Marschal might do something of the sort? Something wild, something unstable? Had they known of some secret, some inner flaw in the man? Was that why Canisius had insisted on an inspector of the criminal brigade? And if that was the case, why hadnât he been told?
Was Marschal unbalanced? Had he perhaps done something criminal in the past? Could this German girl be in any danger?
No no. He shook it off; that was worse than unsupported theorizing, that was senseless vaporizing. The Head Commissaris of Police in Amsterdam might be a nervous civil servant, but he would have satisfied himself that there was no crime. If there had been anything criminal, he would have followed the routine pattern, Interpol and all the rest, and he would not have departed from it for twenty millionaires. No, his Highness had behaved in a way that was plausible enough. A millionaire with amnesia, who must not be chased or harried, who must be looked for very quietly and discreetly by a responsible experienced officer â with all his expenses guaranteed â that magic phrase had been enough to quieten his Highnessâs conscience, no doubt!
It was a grave mistake to get himself hot and bothered about motives, thought Van der Valk. He was an inspector of the criminal brigade: very well, that simply meant that he was a policeman like any other, acting under orders, orders to look for a man, find him, and simply report his whereabouts to Canisius. These orders were not affected by anything he might not know: even if the man were a criminal, it was irrelevant. A little thread had brought him to Köln, where a friendly gesture had put a wholecountryâs police apparatus in movement for him â Van der Valk knew very well that Heinz Stössel had not, until the discovery of the second bank account with a Napoleonic name, been very convinced that Mr Marschal was responsible for the disappearance of little Dagmar Schwiewelbein. Out of goodwill he had summoned a monstrous expenditure of energy (with sufficient excuse to explain it to his superiors) and had got a positive result, a clue to Marschalâs whereabouts, inside forty-eight hours.
The next little thread,
Marschal must surely realize that the police hunt for persons reported missing. He might have reckoned on Anne-Marie making no fuss; she hadnât wanted any police â sheâd made that clear enough. He must, too, have thought that Canisius would be unperturbed â and there he had made an error. He had known that his absence made no difference to the business, and he had known that as the heir to the Marschal fortune he was a person of importance in everyoneâs eyes. Conclusion was, surely, that to fall into the error of supposing that Canisius would take no steps towards having him found he must have imagined that Canisius would be glad to have him gone, out of the way, forgotten even.
Not only had Canisius taken steps â he had taken very drastic steps. An inspector of the criminal brigade had been detached, with wide powers and all expenses guaranteed. As though there had been a crime. Yet there had been no crime. Yes, persuading agirl under age to run away from her home was a legal offence, but Marschal had not thought of that. Otherwise he must have known that the police would look for this girl, as well as for him. Had he thought that the girl would confuse everything, providing him with a kind of camouflage?
The beer tasted good. Van der Valk reflected that Canisius was paying for it, just as he was for the plane ticket, and cheered up.
Could Canisius have known or guessed something about this girl? That hardly seemed possible. Could he have known or guessed that Marschal might do something of the sort? Something wild, something unstable? Had they known of some secret, some inner flaw in the man? Was that why Canisius had insisted on an inspector of the criminal brigade? And if that was the case, why hadnât he been told?
Was Marschal unbalanced? Had he perhaps done something criminal in the past? Could this German girl be in any danger?
No no. He shook it off; that was worse than unsupported theorizing, that was senseless vaporizing. The Head Commissaris of Police in Amsterdam might be a nervous civil servant, but he would have satisfied himself that there was no crime. If there had been anything criminal, he would have followed the routine pattern, Interpol and all the rest, and he would not have departed from it for twenty millionaires. No, his Highness had behaved in a way that was plausible enough. A millionaire with amnesia, who must not be chased or harried, who must be looked for very quietly and discreetly by a responsible experienced officer â with all his expenses guaranteed â that magic phrase had been enough to quieten his Highnessâs conscience, no doubt!
It was a grave mistake to get himself hot and bothered about motives, thought Van der Valk. He was an inspector of the criminal brigade: very well, that simply meant that he was a policeman like any other, acting under orders, orders to look for a man, find him, and simply report his whereabouts to Canisius. These orders were not affected by anything he might not know: even if the man were a criminal, it was irrelevant. A little thread had brought him to Köln, where a friendly gesture had put a wholecountryâs police apparatus in movement for him â Van der Valk knew very well that Heinz Stössel had not, until the discovery of the second bank account with a Napoleonic name, been very convinced that Mr Marschal was responsible for the disappearance of little Dagmar Schwiewelbein. Out of goodwill he had summoned a monstrous expenditure of energy (with sufficient excuse to explain it to his superiors) and had got a positive result, a clue to Marschalâs whereabouts, inside forty-eight hours.
The next little thread,
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