Read Online The Widow by Nicolas Freeling - Free Book Online

your rights, and liberties, and their limits. Mm, the responsibilities have their limits, too.
    â€˜Very nice,’ studying her, apparently with approval: with pleasure or not was impossible to say. ‘It is good to meet you. We may meet from time to time, within or without definitions of my professional competence.
    â€˜There is also – here – a sort of credit card. Designed by Professor Davidson and myself. It lends a certain professionalism – not altogether spurious – to your amateur standing. You are upon the fringe of professional standing. There is nothing official about this. It carries though my stamp and my signature. A responsibility I accept. You are not upon oath; and are a purely private citizen. I should like you to carry this card. Notify me of any loss or misappropriation. Like a bank. Yes.
    â€˜It will help establish your good faith with some people. You may also from time to time be pestered with jacks-in-office. In, or out, of uniform.
    â€˜Here also is a gun permit. I know of your scruples. They do you honour.’ And that was all; a tone managing to be so flat as well as perfectly polite that there was no argument. Her mouth had opened but – well dear, try not to leave it open.
    â€˜You don’t wish to be a kind of policewoman. Quite rightly. I have a few girls in my services. Not enough. Yes.Among other things they do simple gymnastics. Come around and they’ll show you. Good for the figure. And how to use the gun; meaning not to. The Secretary will arrange it. He’s perfectly discreet. What by the way did you adopt as an advertising slogan?’
    â€˜Arlette Van der Valk.’ Odd it did sound to her, now. ‘Counsel and aid: personal and family problems.’ The Commissaire appeared to approve.
    â€˜That’s not too much. These things get around by word of mouth. Good; I can rely upon you to know police business when you see it.’ He wrote on a calling card. ‘That’s my home telephone. If you get beyond the depth of your discretion and judgment. Much like the gun. Not designed as a court of higher appeal.’ And the thin perilous smile. Getting up, to show politely that the conversation was now over. Escorting her courteously to the end of the passage.
    There was an envelope on the kitchen table at home, with a tape in it and a scribble from Arthur. ‘This is quite good now, I think.’
    Her voice, a quiet contralto, came over Arthur’s high-fidelity speakers, sounding better than it would on the phone. She had heard it innumerable times before the wording, pitch, and timing had been got right and he’d taken the tape to cut and spliçe. She’d been so concentrated on the technical exigencies that the words had become meaningless.
    â€œThis is a recorded message by Arlette Van der Valk. At the end, the line will remain open to record your message, which will be in confidence. Please give your name, a number to reach you, and the time that suits you best. This is necessary; to make an appointment without keeping you waiting. You can speak now.”
    She felt weak in the knees. It sounded serious, no longer a party game. It had all been academic yesterday: too long or too short; too businesslike, or not enough so. Detached and impersonal, and now neither. This was her, putting her finger between toothed wheels. What was she meddling with?
    A day or so ago a boy had been killed. Like Isadora Duncan.Wearing a long scarf, the end of which had caught in the back wheel of his scooter. The boy had been ripped off the bike, and slowly asphyxiated. There had been witnesses, but none with a knife. A cop had come at last, sawed through the tough thick wool, tried resuscitation but failed. The ambulance came too late.
    That appalling commissaire of police. He had not laughed or treated her contemptuously. Just … been businesslike.
    Good God, there her handbag lay on the kitchen table; a gun clanking about