Tsing-Boum by Nicolas Freeling

seems to me plain. No secret army, but something there. They may not know, or be unsure, or it may simply be something they prefer not to touch. They may be using me as a stalking horse. But it appears to me crass to overlook it.’
    Fingertips were pointing at each other in too clean shiny rows like chessmen; a green onyx pen set occupied neutral ground between.
    â€˜At all costs we must avoid anything political,’ said a quiet voice. ‘If you go, the newspapers will lose interest. I can see to it that a discreetly-worded release goes out, after you leave. I tell you frankly that if I agree it is to the least of evils, possibly. The French … charming, brilliant, delightful, and diabolical – not always in that order …’
    â€˜I have a confidential tip that they may smooth my path.’
    â€˜At least you’re well placed. You’re familiar with the language, the people. If I remember aright your wife is French?’
    â€˜Quite correct, Excellency.’
    â€˜I spoke to the Procureur-Général about you. Once you were called on to undertake an inquiry in France on behalf of a family. It appears that you made a good job of it. But you got shot. We don’t want any of that.’ He reached out and drank a half-glass of milk that was on the corner of his desk. ‘Forgive me – I had no lunch.’
    â€˜I sympathize, Excellency – neither did I.’
    There was a slow wintry smile. ‘Very well, Commissaire. Your experience in these matters is perhaps a treasury. Will you be cross with me if I repeat that under no circumstances must there be conflicts and scandals with these official and unofficial French watchdogs?’ The avuncular manner did not ring false. This is a simple kindly man, thought Van der Valk, who liked to ‘be cross with me’.
    â€˜I won’t be silly,’ he promised.
    â€˜Well, well,’ sighing, ‘I’ll have a word with the Chief Commissaire. You’d better go and see the Comptroller about currency and so on. I’ll see that it’s cleared with him.’
    In a dingier office he got a sub-Comptroller, who haggled for a long time about expenses.
    â€˜Don’t come back with any notes for taxi fares or the Comptroller will take a very dim view.’
    â€˜Fancy that.’
    â€˜France is a very expensive country, you know.’
    â€˜I had no idea. I’ll try not to enjoy it.’
    â€˜Rather you than me,’ said this dogfaced baboon, stung.
    â€˜Is there a choice?’
    There was rather a nasty silence while a lot of paper got shuffled about and signed. When it was all over Van der Valk clutched a great mass of it, raised pious eyes to heaven, asked ‘Where do they get them from?’, bowed and closed the door softly behind him.
    In his own office, half an hour later, he asked for coffee, called for his senior inspector and gave him a cunning grin like Talleyrand going off on the Stock Exchange and leaving Foreign Affairs to run themselves.
    â€˜As I told you might be probable, I’m going to be away a few days. Maybe a fortnight, maybe less. Simple enough; you make a brief résumé of the daily report and shove it over by messenger.’
    â€˜What are you going to say to the press?’
    â€˜I’m going to eat the press with those lovely little baby garden peas.’
    â€˜What, at this time of year?’
    â€˜No, I’m not cockeyed – I’ve been drinking milk with the Minister of Justice.’
    â€˜A short statement,’ said Van der Valk surveying the press assembled. ‘There are a few misconceptions floating about. This machine-gun – you can enjoy yourselves with it, but don’t let’s lose sight altogether of the truth, children, however boring. I recap. Esther Marx is not Jewish, nor is she Arab. I beg your pardon – was. She was not, repeat not, a refugee, political or otherwise. Married regularly to a Dutch