THIRTY-ONE
Marie-Louise began with questions about Eldritch, or Eldrish, as she pronounced his name. She’d believed, like the Meridor-Banner family, that he’d shared in Cardale’s profit from his fraud and vanished to some sunny clime. When I told her he’d spent the past thirty-six years in an Irish prison, she was incredulous and transparently moved. ‘Ireland? In prison? He would not like to be … locked in.’
‘You knew him well?’ I asked, though the answer was obvious.
‘Oh yes. Very well. When I was young. And he was young.’
‘How long have you worked here?’
‘Since when I was fifteen.’ She smiled. ‘More than forty years. I stayed on through the War, when German officers lived here, and after, when nobody did for a while, except me and Bernard and Ilse, who are both dead now. Madame Meridor came back after Esther married. She had builders to fill in the wall between the two houses. Since then we have lived only on this side. Madame Meridor used to be a strong woman. It is disappointment, I think, that has … made her like she is. The Picasso fraud. The lawsuit. Joey’s … condition. They have worn her down.’
She pressed me to tell her more about Eldritch. As much for her sake as his, I didn’t dwell on the effects of age and imprisonment she’d no doubt have been dismayed by if she’d met him. It was clear she was in some way consoled to know he hadn’t willingly stayed away so long, though whether he’d have returned if he’d been able to was quite another matter. They’d been more than mere colleagues in the Meridor household. That was obvious. But what it had amounted to, from Eldritch’s point of view, was far from obvious. He hadn’t mentioned her to me. And he hadn’t contacted her since his release.
‘Perhaps he thinks I am dead,’ she said, with pitiful generosity.
I described our efforts to find proof that Desmond Quilligan had forged the Picassos. Marie-Louise was cheered to hear of them, proving as they did to her that Eldritch was trying to do the right thing by the family. I couldn’t find it in myself to explain that he’d only embarked on the exercise in the hope of funding a comfortable dotage on the French Riviera. As for Ardal Quilligan, the discovery that his brother was the forger accounted to her mind for a great deal.
‘He came here, not long after madame returned from New York. He offered to help her, with money, with … whatever she needed. I wasn’t supposed to know, but I … listened to them talking together. He told her Cardale felt sorry for her. Cardale wouldn’t admit stealing the Picassos, but he didn’t want his old friend’s widow to live poorly, so he sent Mr Quilligan, a lawyer, to … do things for her. There was a condition. Madame must never tell the rest of the family. She agreed. Well, of course she agreed. She needed help. The times were hard. Mr Quilligan came every few years to check on her, to … arrange matters for her. I don’t know what, exactly. And madame couldn’t tell you now even if she wanted to. So, she’ll never know Mr Quilligan lied to her. He wasn’t acting for Cardale, was he? He was acting for himself. He was the one with the guilty conscience. And that conscience is what got him killed, I suppose.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘He was a nice man. Polite. Considerate. He always asked me how I was.’
‘And he came here on Sunday?’
‘Yes. He was in the house when I came home from church at about midday. He left soon after. He’d been talking to Joey. It was the first time they’d met. I was surprised to see him. He was … friendly as usual, but … flustered. In a hurry, I think. Worried … about something.’
‘What had he and Joey been discussing?’
‘Joey said Mr Quilligan was shocked by how bad madame was. She’d understood him during his last visit, some years ago. But now, of course … she didn’t even recognize him. So, maybe he wanted to tell her something, but realized he couldn’t. Alors, his visit was for nothing. Joey wouldn’t have asked him many questions. It’s not his way.’
‘That’s a pity.’
‘Who killed Mr Quilligan, Stephen?’
‘People who don’t want the truth to get out.’
‘Ah yes.’ Marie-Louise nodded solemnly, as if this confirmed a lesson of her less than idyllic life. ‘There are always such people.’
‘It’s possible Eldritch has the proof Quilligan was carrying.’
Her face lifted. ‘You think so?’
‘You knew him well. He can’t leave Belgium. Where would he hide?’
‘Here. Antwerp. It’s the city he knows.’
‘And where … in Antwerp?’
She chewed her lip for a moment, then said, ‘He could be anywhere. If Eldritch wants to hide, he will be … difficult to find.’
‘Difficult or not, I have to find him.’
She frowned thoughtfully. ‘When did they release him from prison?’
‘January.’
She nodded, satisfied on a point. ‘It wasn’t him, then.’
‘What wasn’t him?’
‘Last autumn, October or November, someone broke into the other house: number eighty-six. The Wyckxes were away. They didn’t find out until they came home. The burglar had forced open a window at the back. He hadn’t taken anything, though. Nothing belonging to the Wyckxes, anyway. But there was soot in one of the grates.’
‘Soot?’
‘I think the burglar took something that was hidden in the chimney, Stephen. From before the Wyckxes’ time.’
‘Who were the previous occupants?’
‘Professor Driessens. A bachelor. He died there.’
‘And before him?’
‘It was all one house.’
‘Well, whoever it was, it can’t have been Eldritch. What did the Wyckxes think?’
‘That maybe the burglar was disturbed and just … went away. And the soot was … because of a bird.’
‘I suppose that’s possible.’
Marie-Louise shrugged. ‘It makes them happy to believe it.’
‘What could have been hidden in the chimney?’
Another, heavier shrug. ‘Anything. Nothing. I—’ Three loud thumps interrupted her. She looked up. ‘Madame wants me. Perhaps she has spilt her coffee. Or seen another ghost. I will have to go.’
‘I must go too.’ I tore a corner off the front page of the newspaper that was lying on the kitchen table and scribbled down van Briel’s address and phone number. ‘Let me know if anything happens.’
‘If I hear from Eldritch, you mean?’
‘Anything. You can rely on me for help, Marie-Louise. OK?’
Her smile briefly reappeared. ‘Thank you, Stephen.’ As she slipped the piece of paper into her housecoat pocket, another three thumps echoed through the floor. She rolled her eyes and stood up. So did I.
‘How long will Joey spend at the Zoo?’
‘Hours. Perhaps all day.’
‘With the snakes?’
She nodded. ‘Always with the snakes.’
The tram to Centraal station was handy for the Zoo as well. The entrance was off the square in front of the grime-encrusted palace that was the station building. I grabbed a map after paying to go into the zoo and threaded my way through the school groups and wandering tourists to the reptile house.
It was dark, as all good reptiles prefer, and thinly populated with visitors, as doubtless they also prefer, happy to be outshone by bigger and more active creatures. The man who’d drawn up a camp chair in front of the python’s glazed patch of simulated jungle looked young and American enough to be Joey Banner. He was dressed in faded denims, T-shirt and baseball boots, with a yellow bandana holding his greasy, shoulder-length hair out of his eyes. He seemed to be trying to outdo the python in an immobility contest. I had to tap him several times on the shoulder to get his attention.
He turned his narrow, melancholy face to look at me. The dim lighting gave him a sallow, wraithlike appearance. ‘Yuh?’ His voice was low and husky.
‘Joey Banner?’
‘So they tell me, man.’
‘I’m Stephen Swan.’
He stood up slowly, revealing in the process that he was six inches taller than me. ‘Stephen Swan,’ he repeated.
‘That’s right. My lawyer, Bart van Briel, spoke to you yesterday. I’m the chap the police arrested along with Rachel.’
‘But you got out.’
‘They let me out.’
‘Get out. Let out. According to my dictionary, they’re the same thing.’
‘Can we talk?’
‘This is talking, man. Only kind I know.’
‘Outside, I mean.’
‘You don’t like snakes?’
‘I neither like them nor dislike them.’
He smiled. ‘Good answer. That’s just how they feel about you.’
‘Can we?’ I pointed to the exit.
‘OK.’ He carefully folded his chair and ambled out with it, blinking as we emerged into the daylight like a miner finishing a shift. ‘Same old same old out here, right?’
‘If you say so.’
‘You want to grab a snack?’
‘Hamburgers this way.’
We descended a ramp and headed past the zebra enclosure. It was obvious Joey had no need of maps to find his way around. He pulled a notepad out of his jacket pocket and began studying it as we walked. I glimpsed sketches of snakes surrounded by jottings in the minuscule hand I’d already seen on one of his postcards to Rachel. He asked me nothing: how she was; how we’d got ourselves into so much trouble; how I’d known where to find him. I decided to fill him in on that point at least.
‘Marie-Louise said you’d be here.’
‘Guessed she must have.’
‘I wanted to explain to you … what happened in Ostend.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Don’t you want to know? Your sister might be facing a murder charge.’
‘So your lawyer said. Good, is he?’
‘He seems to be.’
‘He’ll be more help to her than I could be. And Mom hits town tomorrow, so between her and him … she’ll have all the attention she needs.’
We reached the snack bar. Joey ordered himself a burger and a Coke. I followed suit. He didn’t wait for me to pay and had plonked himself down at one of the tables out front, in the lee of a sorry-looking tree, by the time I caught up with him.
We had the area to ourselves. It was no weather for alfresco snacking. Joey didn’t acknowledge my arrival. His attention was fixed on his burger, which he was munching methodically between slurps of Coke.
‘Why do snakes appeal to you, Joey?’ I heard myself ask.
‘They won’t bite you if you leave them alone.’
‘Unlike humans?’
‘You said it, man.’
‘And why did you move to Antwerp?’
‘Belgium isn’t the US of A.’
‘Did you have a bad time of it in Vietnam?’
‘Do you know what I hate?’ he countered. ‘What I really fucking hate?’
‘Tell me.’
‘People who won’t come straight out and ask what they want to know.’
‘All right. What did Ardal Quilligan say to you when he called at Zonnestralen on Sunday?’
‘The old Irishman? To me, zilch. It was Gran he wanted to talk to. But he was out of luck. Her tuner doesn’t work any more. She’s kinda between frequencies. Which isn’t a bad place to be, let me tell you. Out there, all you get is … occasional bursts of static. No words. No … voices in your ear.’
‘Rachel needs your help.’
‘No one needs my help.’
‘Didn’t Quilligan say anything to you?’
‘Hi and goodbye … was about it.’
‘You do realize he’s the man the police think Rachel murdered, don’t you?’
‘What’s the point?’
Joey’s detachment from worldly affairs had ceased to be pitiful and was verging now on the infuriating. ‘The point of what?’
‘Investigating one murder out of all those millions. It’s a murderous century, man. People live. People die. I can’t … get into it.’ He swallowed the last of his burger, screwed the paper bag into a ball and pitched it into a nearby bin. ‘Who’s to say they really die anyway? Gran still sees my grandfather. Hell, sometimes I think I see him myself. Him and … quite a few others who are supposed to be buried someplace … a long way from here.’
Where was he now, in his head? Vietnam? I supposed so. And I stood to gain nothing by following him there. ‘I think I’ll leave you to it, Joey,’ I said, getting up from my chair.
‘OK, man.’ He gazed at me with transparent indifference.
‘’Bye now.’
‘Do me a favour?’
‘Sorry?’ I was genuinely surprised by the question.
‘The lawyer. Van Briel. He visits Rache, right?’
‘Ask him to give her this.’ He pulled a postcard out of his pocket and handed it to me. The picture was a nightscape of Antwerp, with the cathedral centre stage. He’d already addressed the card to Rachel in London. He’d even put a stamp on it. The message, naturally, was eye-strainingly microscopic. ‘No sense mailing it now, I reckon. But I’d like her to get it.’
‘I’ll see what he can do.’
Joey raised his paper cup of Coke in salute. ‘Thanks, man.’