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England wool, very small black-and-white dogtooth. With the stick, and a hat (Arlette, giggling, insisted on his always – always – wearing the hat), he looked like a colonel in the cavalry, convalescing, perhaps, from a fall at polo. And if he detested horses she more than made up for it – she loved horses, always had. She was forty now, needing exercise if she was going to keep her figure, and twice or even three times a week she put on breeches and boots, and – carrying her little whip – went to have riding lessons at a snobbish manège out in the country near Lisse, in her little 2 CV Citroen, the ugly duckling as it is called in Holland. She had turned into quite a good horsewoman, with a firm seat, and strong hands; a bit clumsy, but a creditable jumper. And Francis, the peppery owner of the riding-school, who played the part of cavalry colonel so much better than Van der Valk ever could, approved of her too, and hardly ever shouted ‘Keep your belly in, cow that you are’.
    Francis looked like General Weygand, knew it, enjoyed it, played up to it. His boots had to be perfect and his breeches shabby; he combined disreputable Harris jackets with Lanvin scarves and pullovers: his monocle and his gold cigarette-case, his clipped sharp voice and his tremendous oaths were essential parts of his ‘Saumur’ art, which was most successful and known throughout horsy Europe. ‘That bottom of yours, dear Countess, would give even a carthorse a sore back,’ he shouted in public at his wealthiest, most snobbish client, and she loved it …
    Francis would light another Egyptian cigarette with an irritable snap of his lumpy old aluminium storm-lighter, hit his boots frenziedly with his switch, and say ‘Bitch, bitch, bitch’ on a rising scale of assumed indignation that was a joy to listen to. He had certain surefire jokes that were repeated all over Holland, such as the remark (in the hearing of at least ten wealthy bourgeois women) at the sight of the elegant Military Attaché of an Arab country: ‘Don’t give that damned Wog any mares – the moment he’s out of my sight they’ll start making love.’ Such remarks, shattering, surest death to any reputation in ordinary Dutchcircles, were tolerated and secretly enjoyed among the horses. Francis’ reputation as licensed iconoclast came perhaps from a peculiar bourgeois notion that there was something fast and raffish about a manège, and that all sorts of things were permissible there that would have caused lifted eyebrows and glacial coughing in any other Dutch circles …
    As for Arlette, she enjoyed Francis, enjoyed the horse, enjoyed even the interminable horsy talk, as well as the fresh air and the violent exercise that were so good for her waistline.
    Van der Valk, laying the stick with its chased silver band across his polished desk, tried to make the act as good as Francis but he failed. He had, though, cultivated a slow, quiet voice and an air of weary wisdom that was not without effect on subordinates and on the commissaire, his colleague, head of the municipal police, a baldish personage given to self-important dyspepsia about his administration. Had Van der Valk known it, he had brought with him a glamorous reputation; he did guess, though, that the unaccustomed respect in which he warmed himself was that accorded to Major Held, coming home on crutches from Stalingrad with the Knight’s Cross pinned to his bosom and making the girls go weak at the knees, and he enjoyed this.
    The new job was, too, very pleasant. Regular hours; no goddam weekend duty. He could pack up and go home – and did – upright and distinguished with his stick, raising his hat to people, rather ahead of closing time. No beastly evening chores, no reports to be typed, free from Friday evening till Monday morning.… There was, to be sure, responsibility. If he got a crime wave – ha, then