Feelings of Fear by Graham Masterton Page B

but I wasn’t at all sure what he meant. “Cheers,” I said, and clinked glasses with him.
    Jan clinked his glass with the glass that had been laid at the empty place. “Cheers,” he said. Then he waited – and when I did nothing, he nodded his head toward the glass and said, “You’re not going to—?”
    â€œWhat?” I asked him. I was totally baffled.
    â€œYou’re not going to say cheers to Hoete?”
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œNo, no. It’s my fault. I haven’t introduced you. Martin – this is Jack Scott. Jack, this is Martin Hoete.”
    I stared at the empty bentwood chair. It really was very empty. Then I looked back at Jan. I was beginning to think that this was a practical joke, but Jan’s expression was so deadly serious that my confidence began to waver. I had been the victim of practical jokes before, but there was always a give-away, always a smirk. Jan was pale-blue-eyed and totally unsmiling and there wasn’t even a twitch of insincerity on his face.
    â€œHow do you do, Martin?” I found myself saying.
    Jan suddenly beamed. “Martin says he’s very well. Very well indeed. He has a strep throat so you’ll have to forgive him. He’s bought a new flat in Berchem and he’s very happy with it. Well – if it wasn’t for that woman.”
    â€œWhat woman?”
    â€œHis ex-wife, of course. Maria.”
    â€œWhat’s the problem with Maria?”
    â€œShe keeps demanding more money. You know what ex-wives are like. Unfortunately Hoete has just lost his job with Best & Osterrieth.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that.”
    â€œYes – well, it has driven him almost to despair, hasn’t it, Hoete?Sometimes he feels like cutting his throat. Sometimes he feels like cutting Maria’s throat. What a slut she is. She went off with that Quinten Venkeler, from Atlas Shipping.”
    â€œI see.”
    I have to admit that I was close to making my excuses and leaving; but the maitre-d’ arrived at that moment to take our order. Both Jan and I asked for mussels, as a starter. Hoete, apparently, wanted chicken soup.
    â€œFor his throat,” Jan explained. “Would you care for some wine?”
    We were presented with two huge steaming bowls of mussels, a heap of fresh-cut bread, and a bottle of cold Sancerre. The waiter set a plate of thin chicken broth in Martin Hoete’s place; but even when I looked up and raised a querying eyebrow, he simply nodded to me, and said,
“Bon appetit, monsieur.”
    â€œHoete has been very hard done by,” said Jan, with mussel-juice dripping from his chin. “He came here to work – didn’t you, Martin? – thinking that his wife was going to be faithful to him. But as soon as his back was turned … well, she was flirting with every man she set eyes on. And of course, that Quinten Venkeler … he’s always been a ladies’ man. She fucked him on the very first night she met him, at an office party, on the forwarding manager’s desk, no less. You can imagine why Hoete feels so angry.”
    I tried to look both sympathetic and reasonable. “Sure … but I don’t think that violence is the answer, do you?”
    The light from the circular window was amber. The discarded mussel-shells were the color of slate. When he spoke, Jan’s mouth was a crimson gash in a face as pale as potatoes. I felt for a moment as if I had intruded into a sixteenth-century Flemish painting.
    â€œWhat other answer is there? A woman takes a man’s life away from him. What else can he do but take his revenge?”
    I had finished my mussels and looked at the plate of chicken broth. “Hoete doesn’t seem to be hungry,” I remarked.
    â€œWell, why don’t you help yourself?” Jan suggested. He glanced toward the maitre-d’. “They always get upset in here if they think that you