One Damn Thing After Another by Nicolas Freeling Read Free Book Online

degree of smile.
    â€œPlease come in.” A rapid enveloping look round the little ‘waitingroom’, part of the entrance corridor really, partitioned off and pine-panelled, hung with flower prints in clean watercolour. He said nothing but “Subleyras”, holding his hand out.
    â€œArlette Davidson. Van der Valk was my former name which I use professionally.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œWell, then – sit down, do – where have I gone off the path of virtue?”
    â€œNowhere to my knowledge. In fact, there’s nothing professional about this call. My profession, that is.” And for the first time he hesitated, as though searching for words. “I rehearsed this,” he said smiling, “but not, it seems, very well.” The Strasbourg police force mostly follows the pattern of the Strasbourgeois; thick and short in morphology, running rapidly to flesh through the addiction to beer, tomato sauce, noodles and pork sausage; short, likewise, and thick in manner, voice and lifestyle. This man was not very tall and solidly boned, ribbed up with muscle; a broad face and plenty of jaw, but there was all the difference in the world. He was finely proportioned and amazingly light on his feet.
    â€œI’ve had nothing to do with you but over this last year, one way or another, I’ve heard quite a lot about you.” For a professional, and a cop at that, and a harmonious, assured man, he was ill at ease. He took a cigarette to give himself a countenance. “I announced myself with a rank – force of habit – but I’m off duty and this is in fact unofficial; personal if you will.” The only thing that really said ‘Police’ was the steady unwinking gaze. Cops and children stare: every sociologist has noticed it, and they weren’t the first. The eyes took a quick flick, from one side to the other of Arlette’s table. She was still totally in the dark, but decided to help him.
    â€œYou’re wondering just how confidential this is? If I couldn’t respect secrecy, I wouldn’t be here; I wouldn’t have lasted a week. I give some of my files to my husband for study, but with all personal data effaced, and everything withheld at request. There is a tape-recorder, but it’s not on. I don’t believe in tricks, and use none. Your own experience will have to be the judge.” He looked to be about thirty-five. A rugby player, Piet would have said, a number seven, a wing forward with fast reactions. The face a woman, and a man too, would call handsome, but had taken other people’s shoulders head-on a few times. A few scars; the nose unbroken, but the front upper teeth were false.
    â€œYou’re right, a cop is going to be suspicious, he can’t help it. I made up my mind I wouldn’t do it that way. It would have been easy to come with a phony story, try you out, see how you reacted. That would be a cop method. But it would take away the whole point. It’s true though – I get this far and I’m stalled. I don’t like what I’m going to say: it’s contrary to too many of my instincts.”
    â€œWhat I generally do,” said Arlette, opening her day book and picking up a pen, “is get the background first. The personal data mentioned. If you’d rather not, we’ll leave it at that. Or you can think it over and come again if you decide to. Either way, the story – whatever it is – can wait: there’s no hurry for it.” For it was another dirty story, that much was plain, and for a cop to come to her with it meant it must be something they didn’t want to touch, and even if the whole damn police department was ready to cover up for her, she still wouldn’t want to know, but she couldn’t refuse to listen.
    â€œSubleyras, Charles, and generally called Charley. Not born hereabouts – bit further south.”
    â€œThat’s right, there’s