Criminal Conversation by Nicolas Freeling Page A

Merckel on his private line.
    â€œSpeaking.” As though he didn’t know; that grey, guarded, neutral voice.
    â€œHere van der Valk. I’d like to see you. Before, during or after lunch – not knowing your appointments I leave it open.”
    â€œYou have something conclusive to say to me?”
    â€œI’ve a slight case of sunstroke. Say the word.”
    â€œIt does not sound as though I have much choice,” vexed.
    â€œNo,” blandly.
    â€œI have no lunch appointment. One o’clock precisely, in the Chinese restaurant opposite the Concert Building.”
    Good heavens, thought van der Valk, what extraordinary precautions to avoid being seen. He knew it well, an unpretentious place needing repainting, but the food was good; being much frequented by the musicians from over the road it had to be.
    â€œSweet and sour everything – and lots of shrimp crackers,” he told the boy in the white jacket.
    â€œWell?” said Merckel, still sounding vexed.
    â€œI’ve taken up the matter you would probably have preferred me not to take up.”
    â€œHow can you possibly know, or claim to know, what I prefer?”
    â€œWhy, I’ll admit to you that the overwhelming impression I had when we met was of someone who wishes to avoid a responsibility and who makes a criminal indictment with every effort to minimise its possible truth or even likelihood.”
    â€œYou do not know me well, I see. Enquire among those of your associates who know something of the business world whether I am afraid of responsibility.”
    â€œIf you had not considerable moral courage, I agree, you would have kept silence altogether,” lightly. “There must be many things you would not be happy to have me know.”
    â€œI distinguished, I recall, between the private, I presume discreet knowledge of a police officer under oath, and the public, uninformed insinuations of the press.”
    â€œThat is precisely the position of my new acquaintance Dr van der Post. He does not mind my asking, guessing, even knowing all sorts of things as long as it is kept inside the walls of his consulting-room. What might be said outside would be a much naughtier idea, but he knows that I have no convincing evidence. He realised, however, that however disagreeable company I may be, I am a great deal preferable to the press.”
    â€œAre you telling me that my suppositions about this man are true but that you either cannot or do not propose to do anything about it?”
    â€œSome of it is certainly true, I think. All of it even, possibly. What you suggest might easily turn out to be the case. Wouldn’t be unheard of. I might even say it happens every day,” tranquilly, with his mouth full of shrimp cracker.
    Merckel laid down his soup-spoon, wiped his mouth meticulously, and turned a cold eye on the policeman.
    â€œYou give me an impression – I have no wish to sound offensive – of being decidedly lukewarm.”
    â€œI am lukewarm. I would warm up if I knew more things that I think have been kept from me hitherto. Have I, Mr Merckel, all the information you can give me? Suppose, for instance, I imagined the likely hypothesis that your wife had received blackmail threats also. And that she had gone to her doctor, perhaps insisting that he remove the source of pressure and pain?”
    Merckel looked, surprisingly, extremely shocked, as if this had never occurred to him.
    â€œShe has a very strong sense of values,” he said sharply. “She would have come to me, knowing that I would give her every support and that I would stand by her no matter what.”
    â€œNo doubt. But in her loyalty to you, she might think that none of this must reach you. That your position – more, your integrity, your honour; you have a very strong sense of honour – must not besmeared or even touched. Assume by all means that she would not think of any violent means of