Double-Barrel by Nicolas Freeling Read Free Book Online Page A

perhaps the expectation, too, of finding somebody human at last in this spot? I thought that my alias would be enough to get me into this little fortress behind the wall of the lunatic asylum. What then? I had no idea.
    It was at the point just outside the town where the bog had been halted. Pavements petered out, street-lighting stopped abruptly, and the muddy digging of foundations for new houses gave way to sodden fields and sparse, tormented trees, with uninviting drainage ditches every hundred metres. A gate in the high wall had an admonishing notice about Unauthorized Persons; I peered in.
    Nothing exciting; fields. Evidence that the lunatic asylum had cows, grew its own vegetables, and kept its own chickens. A roadway led to a ragged belt of poplars, behind which I could see bits of a vast dingy building. I went on along my road, reached after a minute a corner, and sure enough around the corner I found another gate, and could see evergreens over the walls. Gate was a rusty iron affair, backed with a sort of ‘blindage’ of galvanized metal that blocked the view between the bars. I greatly envied MrBesançon all this privacy. I found an old chain dangling among ivy tendrils, pulled, and heard a cowbell tinkle.
    Woman in apron, sturdy, shapeless. Wore spectacles, apple-cheeked, straggly brown hair; Dutch woman like five million more. She approved of my taking my hat off and tendering one of the mumbo-jumbo cards.
    â€˜He’s working, but if you’ll come in I’m sure he’ll … do you mind just waiting here?’
    Yes; door opened straight into the living-room. I admired the flower-borders, though it was February and there was little to see. Even on the shadowed, drippy side of the garden, where thick brambly undergrowth was enough to cut off the view of the asylum altogether, there were rhododendrons and azaleas.
    â€˜Will you please come in?’ She bustled off towards a nice smell of stew. I bowed, said good morning, and turned to shut the door. A thin neat man, in old trousers and a baggy jacket, had got up politely. One had a fleeting first impression of short grey hair, a face with very deep sunken wrinkles but a powerful energetic mouth and eyes that flashed still behind the dark glasses.
    â€˜Good morning.’ Voice deep and resonant.
    â€˜My name is Van der Valk; I’m from the Ministry of the Interior; my field of study includes town-planning. There is no need to trouble you, but since I was passing …’
    â€˜But please sit down; allow me to take your hat.’
    There were two shabby arm-chairs with a coffee-table between, and a standard lamp. Mr Besançon sat down again at his desk and examined his guest calmly. It was strange; I at once had the feeling that I was sitting in the wrong chair. As a policeman, it is my business to sit behind desks and look at people that way. The man was immediately impressive; he had a patient watchfulness. I launched into a gabble about possible demolition of the asylum, possible road-widening; blahblah.
    â€˜Am I scheduled for demolition?’
    â€˜That is too sweeping. In the event of such a decision, you would be notified well in advance; if you objected you would have every opportunity to put your case.’
    Mild smile; faintly raised eyebrow. ‘I am attached to this house, strangely.’
    â€˜Do not disquiet yourself; no decision has yet been made or will be made for quite a time. I really only came to sound your opinion.’
    â€˜My opinion is that I will not live very long. If these changes are postponed a year, I shall, I think, have very little to say. I am attacked, I must tell you, by a slow but mortal disease. But I should be happy if I were left in peace for what time I have left.’
    â€˜I think I can guarantee you some years without interruption.’ I sincerely hoped that no municipal busybody really did have a road-widening project; it was perfectly possible.
    Again the faint