The Square of Revenge (11 page)

The manager’s wife—blond, elegantly dressed, forty something—manned reception. When she saw them come in, she discreetly slipped her glass of sherry behind a Rolodex.

Van In introduced himself and his colleague. “Assistant Commissioner Van In and Sergeant Versavel. We have an appointment with Mr. and Mrs. Cornuit. I presume you were informed,” he continued stiffly.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I’ll tell them you’re on your way up.”

Fortunately there was no one else in the lobby. She lifted the internal phone and punched in the room number.

“Mr. Cornuit,” she said, feigning a Dutch accent. “The gentlemen from the police are here. May I send them up?”

Van In could hear the Dutchman bellowing through the receiver. He sounded enthusiastic, to say the least. The manageress looked around nervously and signaled that they should follow her. She hoped their visit would be a once-only. There are three things a hotel doesn’t like: a corpse, food poisoning, and a police visit.

The Cornuits had rented one of the more spacious rooms on the first floor. Stan Cornuit opened the door in response to a discreet knock from the manageress. He was wearing a moss-green track suit and was a textbook example of your average Dutchman. He was tall, well-built, and well-groomed. Stan Cornuit was fifty-five but looked at least ten years younger.

Versavel was particularly impressed by the man’s moustache, which was almost as luxuriant as his own.

“Pieter Van In and Guido Versavel. Bruges Police.” He did his best to articulate.

Cornuit stepped back and invited them in with an exaggerated gesture.

“Come in, gentlemen.” He had a warm, clear voice. “Odd, don’t you think, that we happened to be in the neighborhood at that one moment. I said to Judith, didn’t I, dear: sweetheart, what are those guys up to? Back home, we would have reported it right away, but in Belgium nothing’s a surprise.”

His thunderous laugh echoed down the corridor. The manageress smiled by force of habit and then disappeared on the double. She had done her duty.

Van In and Versavel took a seat by the window at Stan Cornuit’s invitation. Each of the rooms had its own cozy sitting area.

“A drink, gentlemen?”

Without waiting for an answer, he lunged toward the fridge and produced a bottle of Bokma jenever.

“Cheaper here than back home,” he proudly trumpeted.

It was the first time Van In had drunk jenever from a paper cup.

All three took a sip. Versavel observed against the light that Cornuit had poured himself a generous measure, at least double the amount he had served the others.

Just as Van In was about to speak, Judith stormed in from the en suite bathroom.

“Hello, hello.” Her voice was loud and shrill.

She was wearing a silver streaked kimono. Judith was eight years younger than Stan and looked as if she had been plucked from a Weightwatchers commercial.

“The excitement,” she said in a schoolgirl voice. “A couple of days in Belgium and this happens. The kids will go crazy when we tell them. I was just saying to Stan last night in bed …”

“Judith, honey. The gentleman aren’t here to listen to our bedroom stories.”

“Of course you’re not. Don’t let me get in the way,” she said in an evident huff, taking a seat beside Versavel, her wings clipped, jealous. Her kimono blew open far above the knee as she sat, but she didn’t seem the least perturbed.

Here we go again, Van In thought to himself, ill at ease. He focused on a couple of etchings on the wall behind her.

Stan finally settled and launched into his story. Versavel took notes.

By four forty-five, the Cornuits were done. Versavel had filled five pages.

The younger of the two burglars was more than six feet tall, a detail on which they were in complete agreement. They figured he was twenty-five, had blond shoulder-length hair and a Vandyke beard. He was wearing glasses with thick lenses.

“Coke bottle bottoms,” said Judith, more than once.

Both men were wearing dark gray suits, white shirts, sky-blue ties, and black shoes.

“Mephistos,” Judith insisted. “And one of them stopped to put drops in his eyes. Obviously some kind of medication.” There was something sickly about him, now that she thought about it.

His older companion was the double of Einstein; another point on which they agreed completely. He must have been seventy at least, and he walked with a stoop. He couldn’t have been more than five foot six, and he had heavy bags under his watery Bambi eyes.

“Spent a lot of time outdoors,” she said. “My God, the perfect tan!”

The jenever bottle was close to empty when they parted company. The Cornuits were over the moon when Van In suggested that they extend their vacation for a couple of days. City hall would cover it. It would give him time to send a forensic artist to do a facial composite and it would give them an extra day to compensate for the inconvenience.

“City hall will cover it, eh?” Versavel sneered once they were outside. “I can see De Kee’s face right now.”

Van In shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

“The file has to be complete. Otherwise they’ll think we didn’t make the effort.”

“Would Miss Martens dare give our Van In a rap on the knuckles?”

Versavel jumped aside just in time to avoid a sharp elbow to the ribs.

“Go see what Dupon has to say, and the two neighbors who heard the explosion. I want their statements on my desk by tomorrow morning, Versavel,” Van In hissed. “Time for me to continue my investigations in l’Estaminet.”

“At your command, Commissioner.”

“Go soak your head, Versavel.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth! See you tomorrow,” Versavel waved.

“Eight A.M., on the button.”

“We’ll see,” Versavel laughed. “Good luck with your
investigation
.”

He took to his heels, turning right past the Fish Market, and disappeared into a horde of tourists worming their way along the narrow Blinde Ezel Street.

To compensate for the Duvels and the Bokma, Van In ordered a spaghetti Bolognese and settled down to eat it outside Brasserie l’Estaminet on the edge of Astrid Park. There wasn’t a barfly in Bruges who hadn’t savored the spaghetti at l’Estaminet.

Just as Van In was emptying his bowl, a canary-yellow Audi careered out of Minderbroeder Street onto Astrid Park. Leo Vanmaele was five minutes early for his appointment, and that wasn’t typical of the man.

“Hoy.”

Vanmaele looked for all the world like a blushing leprechaun: spherical upper body on a pair of short sturdy legs.

“Duvel?” asked Van In. He had two fingers at the ready in the form of a V. The bartender knew what it meant.

“Finally,” Leo sighed. “I’ve lost the feeling in my legs.”

“So your efforts weren’t in vain?” Van In inquired, hoping for a positive response.

Vanmaele picked his nose unashamedly.

“The comedians hardly left a single trace,” he said apologetically. “No prints, no hair, no splinter of fingernail. I had two of my team go through the place with a fine-tooth comb. The most relevant discovery was a jar of Vaseline in an adjoining room.”

“Adjoining room?”

“Didn’t you check it out?”

Van In shook his head.

“A fancy lounge opposite the workshop,” Leo grinned.

“Ah, that explains it,” Van In whispered. “Now I understand what the after-hours ‘clients’ are all about. We should look into it.”

“A jealous former lover in his seventies with his grandson along for the ride?” Vanmaele laughed.

“You’re right, Leo. Let me have the rest of your report.”

“Experts from the NIC are looking at the detonator, or what’s left of it. But I’m afraid the source of the Semtex can’t be traced. They smuggle the stuff in containers from Northern Ireland via Zeebrugge. Anyone with half a connection in the criminal world can get ahold of it. And without any idea of the number plates, a Mercedes station wagon is about as easy to trace as an in-focus photo of his majesty the king.”

The foolish comparison brought a smile to Van In’s face. “Don’t tell me you brought me here for a Duvel session,” he said reproachfully.

Vanmaele wiped the foam from his lips and vehemently shook his head. “I wanted to talk about that note with the Latin on it. A friend suspects it might have to do with one or other esoteric society: the Rosicrucians, for instance, or the Freemasons. Something of the sort.”

“Did your friend have any idea what it meant?”

“Negative,” said Vanmaele. “But he knows someone who should.”

“Who?” asked Van In impatiently.

“The concierge at the Holy Blood Basilica.”

Van In stared at Vanmaele in disbelief. “The concierge at the Holy Blood Basilica,” he repeated vacantly.

“The very one,” Leo nodded. “According to my friend, the man’s knowledge of magic, alchemy, and all that secret stuff is close to encyclopedic.”

“Speaking of alchemy,” Van In muttered. “Wasn’t that all about turning lead into gold?”

“Something like that,” said Leo, sticking two fingers in the air. “I’ve arranged to meet him. He’s expecting us at seven. His name’s Billen. Sounded enthusiastic over the phone.”

They settled the bill at ten to seven. The terrace was pretty full by that time. The bartender turned up the blues music a little louder.

Van In and Leo turned right and ambled toward Burg Square via Jozef Suvee Street and the Fish Market.

The southwest corner of Burg Square in Bruges houses an extraordinary shrine, a two-chapel basilica in which a relic of the blood of Christ has been preserved since the beginning of the thirteenth century. The Holy Blood Basilica welcomes no fewer than two million tourists a year. Few people are aware, however, that a nineteenth-century mansion is located at the back of the basilica, concealed behind its lofty walls. The door that gives access to the mansion is underneath the entrance to the basilica, a monumental staircase known as the “Steeghere” that leads to the upper chapel.

It took a while before anyone responded to the old-fashioned doorbell. Van In was about to tug the bell a second time when they heard sound of shuffling feet. The heavy door dragged against the floor and the young man had difficulty getting it open. He was wearing shorts and a bright multicolored T-shirt.

“Good evening, we’re from the police. Is your father at home?” asked Van In. Leo noticed the young man’s extremely curt smile.

“Frans Billen,” he said, clearly amused. “Please, come in.”

Concierges don’t look the same as they used to
, Leo thought to himself as they went inside. They followed Billen along a bare vaulted corridor, turned left and made their way up a flight of stairs to a second corridor.

“A bit of a maze,” Van In observed lightheartedly.

“Yeh, that’s what everyone says first time,” said Billen, his tone suggesting that no one ever came back for a second time. He opened one of the many doors and switched on the light.

The room was spacious and tastefully furnished. The amply proportioned mouse-gray leather lounge suite must have cost an average sixth-month salary. The walls were covered with sandy-yellow textured wallpaper, in perfect harmony with an impressive antique cabinet. But the room was dominated by an enormous bookcase. An old framed poster of the Holy Blood Procession hung above the fireplace, and a flourishing variety of indoor plants graced an assortment of side tables.

“Make yourselves at home, gentlemen, while I open a bottle of wine,” said Billen invitingly as he disappeared into the corridor. The same sound of shuffling feet as before.

“Oddball,” said Van In when they were alone. “Isn’t this kind of luxury a bit too fancy for a concierge?”

“Not a bit.” Leo caressed the sleek leather sofa. “Concierges are in great demand in the States. Officially they’re paid almost nothing, but if they’re in the right place and they use their brains they can earn a fortune in tips. If you ask me, Billen knew what he was doing when he took on the job.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Van In sighed. “Only fools work for the police … apparently.”

Leo jealously inspected the contents of the bookcase.

“They say you can get to know people by the books they read, but here it’s hard to know where to start. He seems to be interested in everything.”

The sound of glasses clinking outside in the corridor betrayed their host’s imminent return. Van In and Leo quickly settled on the sofa. Sparrows, blackbirds, and thrushes chirped in the garden outside. The sun’s oblique rays gave the room a golden glow and a unique ambiance.

“So, here we are,” said Billen.

He placed three slender wine glasses on the marble coffee table and nimbly uncorked a dusty bottle of burgundy. Leo was able to identify the wine from the shape of the bottle. Van In, who was a little closer, spotted the vintage: 1986.

Billen filled the glasses, sloshing the scarlet burgundy as he poured to give it the necessary oxygen.

“I presume I can tempt you to a glass of wine?” he asked, as if he had suddenly realized that there were people in this world who might not have been interested in the excellent Chambolle-Musigny he had fetched from the cellar.

“You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble,” said Leo. “All the same, both my colleague and myself know how to appreciate a good burgundy.”

Billen nodded approvingly. Visitors who liked their wine were always welcome.

“Hendrik told me you wanted to ask about a Latin puzzle,” he said calmly as he handed each man a glass. He spoke slowly and with an irritating nasal voice, and it was impossible to tell otherwise that he was from West Flanders.

Van In fished a copy of the puzzle from his inside pocket. Billen took the piece of paper, glanced at it quickly, and took a seat.

“Am I allowed to ask where this came from?”

Leo turned to Van In. They weren’t in the habit of discussing the details of ongoing cases with outsiders, but Van In decided not to beat around the bush and told him what had happened in a couple of short sentences.

“Intriguing,” said Billen. Two deep vertical furrows appeared on his forehead. “I think you’ve come to the right place.” It sounded blasé, but it wasn’t meant to. Frans Billen was a very modest man.