The Midas Murders by Pieter Aspe

now,” she added sarcastically.
    Jesus H. , Van In grumbled inwardly, what gave the blond bimbo that idea? He didn’t fancy the idea of having to listen to a series of disaster scenarios late into the night. Of course the police were powerless, but try selling that to the ladies and gentlemen of the mayor’s council.
    As Van In had feared, the discussion was rekindled and finally degenerated into a mud-slinging match. At the end of his tether, Moens called in the booze, bottles of Straffe Hendrik—Bruges’s strongest beer—and jenever. The generous servings of alcohol prematurely drained his councillors. They fell silent at one-fifteen, like a car engine with sugar in the carburetor. The situation was indeed worrying, so they agreed to the measures formulated by the commissioner and resigned themselves to the fact that little more could be done for the time being.
    When everyone was about to leave, Van In noticed the mayor whispering something in Carton’s ear. The chief commissioner hung back and out of necessity he did the same.
    The city hall janitor, an unobtrusive man in a navy blue suit, waited docilely at the door, his keys jingling very discreetly.
    â€œGo on up, Antoine,” said Moens. “I’ll call when we’re done. It shouldn’t take long,” he added enthusiastically.
    The man nodded and shambled resignedly down the corridor. But he didn’t go upstairs. His wife had been asleep for more than an hour and there was nothing worth watching on the box. A recently opened Straffe Hendrik in the kitchen was more inviting.
    The mayor’s office was located at the rear of the city hall. It was a spacious room, a combination of an office and a sitting room. Visitors were treated to a magnificent view of the classically structured garden and the canals. The mayor owned his own motorboat, and a jetty had been provided.
    â€œTake a seat, gentlemen,” said Moens in a formal tone. He pointed to the red velvet lounge suite. A handsome desk in walnut veneer monopolized attention in the middle of the room.
    â€œCognac or whiskey?”
    Moens deliberately didn’t offer beer; otherwise he would have had to bother the janitor.
    Carton opted for cognac. Moens and Van In chose whiskey. When all three had taken a polite sip, Moens made his way to his desk.
    Dzing.
    Van In recognized the sound of a spring-loaded latch, and that suggested a secret compartment.
    â€œI received this letter at home this morning,” said Moens glumly. He handed Carton a pale yellow envelope.
    â€œI didn’t want to start a panic,” he said apologetically. Both Carton and Van In knew the real reason: Moens didn’t trust half his councillors.
    â€œThis is an explicit threat,” Moens said before putting on his reading glasses, “another attack. And next time we shouldn’t expect another ‘firecracker.’ It says ‘Bruges will tremble.’ ‘Les touristes should stay at home this year…. Le phénomène has already been observed in Turkey and Egypt.’”
    Moens poured a good mouthful of whiskey down his throat while Carton explored the letter. He wasn’t a fast reader.
    â€œOn top of that, they’re threatening to liquidate me if I don’t cooperate,” Moens sighed.
    â€œWhat does that mean, for Christ’s sake?” Van In responded incredulously. “Cooperate? With what?”
    â€œThey don’t say.”
    Moens had started to pace up and down. Carton peered over his glasses and asked himself why the mayor had given him the letter to read and then blabbed its contents.
    â€œI don’t think we should be too concerned, not for the moment at least,” said Van In resolutely.
    Moens stopped in his tracks and Carton grabbed his forehead.
    â€œI mean … you’re not in danger as long as they haven’t made known their demands,” Van In explained in response to the perplexed expression