She thought she had won this particular argument, until quelled by the Commissaire of Police, a type she recognized. He did not look in the least like a cop, and she knew enough cops to know that very few, and those mostly the bad ones, resemble cinema cops. The general characteristic is that they look anything but.
He was so soft-spoken that she had to sharpen her ears. He had a nice rug on the floor of an office utterly unlike the usual police office: there were plain sunshiney curtains on the (clean) windows; attractive pictures on his walls: in fact the only thing suggesting cop was the face that old priests get, which comes from listening to a lot of confessions. It could have been the office of a Geneva private-banker: the walls had heard as many secret turpitudes. When he smiled, which was not often, it was like sun glancing off his gold-rimmed glasses. He wore a plain grey suit cut narrow to a narrow body, with a waistcoat, and it was quite impossible to imagine him carrying a gun.
‘Here is your authority,’ giving her a piece of paper. ‘Professor Davidson and I had a long talk. I have to know what agencies operate in my city. There are a number of charlatans whom our notions of liberty, and present legislation, allow to flourish. Now you know your rights, and liberties, and their limits. Mm, the responsibilities have their limits, too.
‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘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?’
‘Arlette Van der Valk.’ Odd it did sound to her, now. ‘Counsel and aid: personal and family problems.’ The Commissaire appeared to approve.
‘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.
“This 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 in it. A short-barrelled revolver of blue steel. Like a large size alarm pistol. With a permit, to show the armourer when buying ammunition. Businesslike.
She looked around, at her nice new kitchen. Stay in it? She could tell the hospital she’d changed her mind. Put it down to newly married caprice.
Arthur had left her quietly to make her own mind up. She had only to say sorry, this was absurd.
There was shopping to do. An eatable supper to produce. Female tasks, for which she was quite adequate. Arthur would understand.
‘So what changed your mind back?’ asked Arthur, professionally curious.
‘I told myself you counted on me. And your pal, that awful commissaire – he took you seriously. A gun … as though it were a box of matches. No, those are all pretexts. It seemed – unprofessional; to refuse. And idiotic to be frightened.’
‘Not idiotic.’
‘What else could I do? I have no choice, really.’
‘That’s my girl.’
‘What have I done, to deserve this fortune? I’ve lived my life; it’s been a pretty good one. I’ve brought up three children. I was left a widow: that happens, and the way it happened. I had a job here, a place to live. A pension, and in fat heavy Dutch guilders. I could feel satisfied, couldn’t I? And then a man comes running after me, with this fantastic notion. I get this flat and everything. I just haven’t earned it. Am I to be memsahib? Arrange the flowers, clap my hands for the boy? Give little parties from time to time, where the food of course will be exceptional. Bed and the kitchen; woman’s job. To learn it? – come sit here next to Nellie, she’s been on the same sewing-machine thirty years, you’ll learn it all just watching her go through the motions. Well fuck that,’ breaking into angry tears. ‘Look now: useless cow starts to cry. Cretin. What else could I do then?’
‘Hush. There is more to it. The man, too, wonders what he’s doing, in that idiot tower of babel. A social-sciences expert, dear God. And paid, my God, paid. These European bureaucracies are extremely expensive luxuries. That Palace affair is so ugly really because it looks so cheap, and so plainly wasn’t.’
‘But you don’t work there, do you?’
‘No, the University gives me house-room. But the Council has commissioned me. Still,’ said Arthur thoughtfully, ‘I do quite a lot of good work. By the way, clothes. If I can bring you to agree, you should be feminine in the office. And pretty; that’s no strain. If you happen to take your gun, one has these trouser suits, rather dashing and they suit you.’
‘The police girls are going to show me. Not that it’s any business of yours.’
‘Only offering suggestions,’ said Arthur humbly. ‘And oh, I’d nearly forgotten. Carried away as I was, in the turmoil of your emotions. I have a car for you. On the street outside. Here are the keys. What the female private operative drives. Discreetly dowdy; tweed coat and skirt. I have hopes of being allowed to borrow it from time to time.’
‘Good God,’ she said looking out of the window. ‘That almond green thing? What is it?’
‘What is it?’ pretending to be shocked. ‘A small but suitable Lancia.’ She was not a woman for raucous screams but she did, he saw with satisfaction, have her mouth open.
‘I’d try it now,’ wistful, ‘but dinner’s almost ready.’
‘You may drive me to the office, this afternoon.’ Where he began to laugh uncontrollably until it went on too long: his secretary looked at this hilarity and tapped her forehead.
‘Sorry, Sylvie. Where’s my pipe? Damn; I’ve left it at home.’
These men, thought Arlette. That policeman with his gun. ‘Do you mind showing me your hand? And pulling up your sleeve a moment? Thank you – that’ll do nicely.’ She was driving the Lancia with appropriate awe, cross with every other driver who did not give her at least thirty metres interval, the way everyone drives who has just taken possession of a new car. This part of it has rewards, all right. The Council of Europe and the United Nations put together could not be more lavish. It was like a perpetual birthday.
She bought clothes. The carpenter came: more unheard-of still, he worked. The greatest miracle, he cleaned up after himself, with a dustpan and brush. One of these days there will be a liberated male carpenter, pushing the vacuumcleaner.
The electrician came, installed things, gave her long explanations she had difficulty following. She drove the car. Really Arthur was very clever.