The Midas Murders by Pieter Aspe Page B

said the chief commissioner with a tone of caution.
    â€œOf course we’ll cooperate; but if we can force a breakthrough in the investigation, we’re not obliged to inform them right away. Wouldn’t it be good if we managed to solve the case ourselves?”
    The decision was made. As mayor, Moens was also in charge of the Bruges police.
    â€œGood, Van In. We’ll do it your way,” said Moens boldly. “You’ve got a week.”
    â€œI’ll do my best, sir.” Van In emptied his glass in a single gulp. Moens might have been a mediocre politician, but he certainly knew his whiskey.

9
    V AN I N APPEARED AT THE police station on Hauwer Street a good forty-five minutes late, having enjoyed a refreshing night’s sleep. Nobody looked at the clock.
    â€œGood morning,” said Versavel; “you look good.” They were in the hallway outside their office; Versavel had just made copies of a couple of police reports.
    The commissioner was wearing an old-fashioned pinstriped suit under a crumpled gabardine overcoat. His tie was loud, to say the least. A ridiculous fedora defied gravity on his head. The sergeant saluted informally and tried to keep a straight face.
    The commissioner proclaimed: “May I introduce secret agent Van In?”
    Versavel asked himself if Van In was being serious. Van In didn’t wait for an answer. He twirled on the spot and threw open his gabardine like an experienced runway model.
    â€œLead us not into temptation,” Versavel groaned. He brushed his moustache and treated Van In to a wolf whistle. Van In stepped back instinctively.
    â€œKeep your hands to yourself, or I’ll cuff you,” he threatened.
    Versavel got the picture.
    One of the officers the duo had bumped into on the stairs the previous day discreetly withdrew into his room. So it was true: Van In had a screw loose.
    Versavel spotted the young officer peering through a crack in the door.
    â€œShowtime,” he grinned, throwing his arm around his boss’s shoulder.
    â€œParumpumpumpum, pumpum, pumpum, parumpumpum….”
    Van In willingly let Versavel take the lead as they danced to the melody of the world’s most famous waltz.
    â€œYou’re a bloody good dancer, Commissioner,” Versavel chuckled. “Would you like my report as we dance?”
    â€œNever mind, Guido. Before you know it, they’ll be thinking we’re a little … er.”
    â€œThat you’re a little….” Versavel protested. “Everybody knows that I’m perfectly normal.”
    When Van In caught sight of the young officer, he turned and gazed longingly into Versavel’s eyes.
    â€œYour place or mine?” he asked in a hoarse baritone voice.
    The voyeur had been joined in the meantime by a couple of colleagues.
    â€œWe’re practicing for carnival,” Van In roared. “Obligatory dance lessons for anyone caught staring for more than ten seconds, starting right now.”
    The curious faces disappeared as if by magic. Van In laughed loud and hard. Versavel was concerned.
    â€œYou look cheerful this morning, Commissioner.”
    Van In straightened his shirt and checked the position of his tie.
    â€œI had a reasonably good day yesterday,” he smirked. “Police work doesn’t have to be boring by definition.”
    Versavel politely cleared his throat. “Did Véronique give you the special treatment?”
    He sounded disapproving, and that was his intention.
    Van In froze. He knew the sergeant would go through fire and water for Hannelore.
    â€œThe scrag called you half an hour ago,” said Versavel, clearly irked. “She forgot to tell you something yesterday.” He couldn’t understand why Van In would drink cheap spumante when he had the best of champagne at home.
    â€œAre you trying to say something, Sergeant?”
    â€œShould I be, Commissioner?”
    Van In pushed open the door of room 204