Over the High Side by Nicolas Freeling Read Free Book Online Page B

can’t tell them apart, their names all begin with A.’
    â€˜Never come across any of them?’
    â€˜No, they all live abroad, Ireland, yes, wasn’t it, like I said, Vader had a factory there. I’ve seen photos. After a couple of drinks Vader would often talk of his beloved daughters – amused me like I say, sort of my sisters. He was an eccentric old boy, tremendous card. Like old Kennedy, sort of patriarch, less rich, that’s all, but more aristocratic, nothing Boston-Irishabout old Martinez. I’m awfully sorry, Commissaire, my girl’s waiting with a heap of files. If you need me I’m at your disposition, not tonight though, I’m going out. I give you my card – that’s my home telephone number.’
    Van der Valk had two or three more interviews of this kind. He took some pains over finding out whether Mr Martinez had been seeing any girls – he hadn’t. He also took pains to know whether any of these businessmen had been seeing anything of Mrs Martinez … they hadn’t. Nor was there anything fishy about her account of her movements. She seemed to spend most of her time at home. A quiet, shy woman by all accounts, and genuinely devoted to her husband in a touching, youthful way. Almost as though she had been his daughter. The name ‘Vader’ was not altogether a joke. Some people had even thought she was his daughter. She had a lot in common – age, looks – with the three lovely ladies of Belgrave Square. One kept coming back, somehow, to these ladies, the three lovely ladies … it ‘made a phrase’ such as he liked; it had an agreeable rhythm.
    He had studied their photographs with some interest. A family resemblance that was strong and came no doubt from their mother – the same fair hair and strong, slightly rawboned features with something faintly Slav in the conformation, especially in Agnes, the eldest. Agathe was heavier, rounder in the face, with a lot of bosom and a fine pair of eyes. Anastasia, the youngest, was the prettiest, but the photo was somewhat out of date, he thought: didn’t look more than twenty-three or four, with finer, more delicate features. Photographer had given her a misty, romanticized expression that was probably misleading into the bargain.
    His last visit was to Alfred, in the machine tool firm on the Weteringschans. The older generation, who had known Martinez for years – been to the University together, belonged to the same club before the war. Jovial, high-living, smooth-tongued old boy. No family connection. Had ‘been able to do dear old Xavier a good turn from time to time,’ he said. Hm. He said, thought Van der Valk remembering his letter. But it filled more gaps.
    â€˜Have a cigar, Commissaire – no no, I insist. Now how shallI say this without seeming scornful? – why, he was cleverer than me.’ Quite something that, in Alfred’s estimation. ‘A bit – a bit unstable if you follow me. Had a trick of finding trade a bit unworthy. Old-fashioned paternalistic view of commerce. Bizarre – given to sudden impulses. Over-imaginative – now, perhaps I go too far. Level-headed enough, no really harebrained schemes, but didn’t always show sufficient – what? – prudence, longsightedness – call it what you will. Or was it patience, perseverance? Perhaps. He could be notably impatient and above all with fools.
    â€˜Very talented. Marvellous palate – great judge of a drink or a cigar. Man of the world – urbane, cultivated, knew a lot about art, that sort of thing.’ It did rather sound, thought Van der Valk, as though Alfred considered knowing all about art the biggest handicap a businessman could possibly acquire.
    â€˜Made two or three fortunes in his life and lost ’em again – no, I don’t know how. Didn’t speculate, no. We’ve all made a few duff investments in our time. Yes, I