Free One Damn Thing After Another by Nicolas Freeling Page B

point of Jacques Brel’s embittered line, ‘Catholic between wars – and Nazi when they’re on.’ And here came the woman cropping up again. Ripping open scars.
    â€œYou’re going to let me handle this,” said Arlette.
    â€œI can’t say either yes or no to that yet – we’ll see how it turns out.”
    â€œYou’ve seen none of these people before?”
    â€œNo, I can’t place any of them.”
    â€œGermans, too; not Dutch or Belgian. And why on earth call you Karstens?”
    â€œAn oblique way, I suppose, of indicating that my unlamented ex has thought up some new trick from behind the unsilent tomb.” He was unhappier than he’d admit.
    â€œI’m going to drain this abscess.” So that when the street- door bell went, Arlette pressed the catch and opened her own front door. The young woman was there, with a winning smile.
    â€œHallo, Mum,” was her joyful greeting.
    â€œWrong floor. Doctor Rauschenberg is the psychiatrist – one down.”
    â€œWell, stepmother then. Only being friendly. Why keep the pretence up?”
    â€œSorry, my German and my patience are running out rapidly. The elaborate mystification is offensive; pester me no further.” She could see two pairs of feet on the stairway up, listening. “I don’t like that, either. This is a private house and I consider my neighbours.”
    â€œOh yes, of course, the neighbours”–the female understood but went on talking German. “Well, you’ve only to let me in.”
    â€œWhen you behave like that?” shutting the door, knowing the bell would ring again directly.
    â€œCome off it,” said the girl with vulgar familiarity. “You speak Dutch, too. No use saying you don’t know Jacky Karstens. Formerly an officer in the Waffen SS.”
    â€œI’ve heard of him, and so what? Is it supposed to be news? I’m not interested, so please leave.” An effort at blackmail, just as she had guessed. A poor effort, and cheap. Nathalie’s brother had been in the Charlemagne Division. And something of a warrior–hero by some accounts. Much decorated in Russia. Arthur had not met him often, since in those days they weren’t all that popular in central Europe. Lived in Spain, in, one presumed, franquist circles. Said to be an amusing fellow – engaging.
    â€œAll is now clear,” she said accepting a drink. “Since you once had an SS brother-in-law, they imagine you’d be embarrassed. Since you have an official position in the Council, the Secretary-General is presumably the target.”
    â€œThe whole administration is stuffed with ex-party members, and the old boy will be profoundly unmoved. Still, I don’t want these loonies bothering him.”
    â€œThey’ve tried this act on several Dutch politicians recently.”
    The phone went. This time the fat man, but conciliatory, with a soft voice and an effort at tact.
    â€œSorry, I don’t speak French. I know my wife was a bit over-emphatic, but why don’t you let me in, and we can speak quietly.”
    â€œAnd have you a passport, or identity-card to show me?”
    â€œNo need, no need.”
    â€œThen I shall tell you that I have your car registration, and shall not hesitate to complain to the police if you give me further cause.”
    â€œDo, do,” appearing to find this funny. “Why not the press while we’re at it?”
    â€œDon’t ring again.”
    There must be more behind this. Inspired by
Graphik
? But it was so thin. Nobody nowadays could think that Arthur, a consultant sociologist on criminal and penal questions, could seriously be embarrassed. The fellow had been in a fighting unit, not any shitty camp guard.
    Before supper she took Dog on the lead, for a pee in the Observatory bushes. The Mercedes was still standing guard. She frowned, and went fairly ostentatiously as far as the police