The Midas Murders Read Online Free PDF Page A

looks like death warmed over.”
    â€œYou look the same after six Duvels,” Leo mocked. “And your passport photo is only five years old.”
    Versavel left them to bicker. He fired up his brand-new word processor and opened the file named “Fiedle.” The screen flickered ominously, and Versavel couldn’t help thinking about his trusty old typewriter. Those had been the days.
    Bruges nightlife was limited to a handful of notorious cafés and bars. Van In presumed that the German had visited one of them before the encounter on Blinde Ezel Street. The 2.8 blood-alcohol count seemed to point in that direction, unless he’d tied one on in his hotel room before heading out for a walk in the snow.
    Two officers were still checking the hotel registers. They hadn’t managed to locate Fiedle’s hotel yet.
    At seven-fifteen, Van In and Leo Vanmaele left Versavel to get better acquainted with his word processor and headed out.
    â€œPage me if there’s news on the hotel,” Van In shouted as he closed the door behind him. His spirits had lifted.
    Armed with the photos, the two men went bar-hopping on the Egg Market. Most of the proprietors knew Van In and were happy to cooperate, or at least pretended to be. Waiters and regulars examined the photos, but no one recognized the German. Almost every café cost them a Duvel. At one-thirty they ordered their sixth in the Vuurmolen, an after-hours bar on Kraan Square. The place was packed, and hard rock music was slowly but surely ruining the expensive speakers.
    Leo ordered a double toasted sandwich; Van In finished his Duvel and switched to coffee.
    â€œHard to keep up, eh?” Leo scoffed between bites.
    Van In grudgingly sipped the hot but bitter concoction.
    â€œChrist pulled the same face when they offered him a sponge soaked in vinegar,” Leo grinned.
    â€œI remember it like yesterday,” said Van In, stony-faced. “You were on the left and you died of thirst.”
    â€œVery spiritual, Pieter. You’ll be lying next, before the cock crows a third time.”
    Van In glanced at his watch. “Jesus H. Two-fifteen.”
    â€œTired?”
    â€œOf course not,” Van In snapped. “Finish your sandwich. Whiskey-cola in the Villa. My treat.”
    â€œYour treat!” Leo grinned. “The entire force knows that you get your meds in the Villa for free.”
    â€œShout it from the rooftops. My guess is you’re not planning to cough up for that dog food you’re guzzling either. The double portion is a giveaway.”
    Leo took a final serious bite and shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll see when the bill comes.”
    Although Van In looked like a dredged-up vagrant, the bouncer at the Villa let him in with a friendly smile. An indignant young American couple—he in expensive Levis, she in $140 Nikes—watched them go inside. Jean-Luc, the bouncer, had shown them the door.
    The Villa was alive and swinging. After midnight the place was usually packed to the doors. Hot chicks writhed on the dance floor, playing with the dazzling laser beams. From a distance, and in the constantly changing light, they looked irresistible. Their miniskirts left nothing to the imagination, and the promised land rippled under their tight tops. The majority were over thirty and divorced. Van In was familiar with the genre. An overblown title or a nonchalantly flaunted bundle of banknotes was enough to get them on their backs.
    â€œHello, Mario,” Van In yelled, and the bartender read his lips. Mario gave him a thumbs-up and automatically grabbed a pair of long drink glasses. He leaned over and shouted something into the ear of a balding forty-something customer. The mature yuppie took his girlfriend by the arm and hey, presto, a couple of empty barstools.
    Van In thanked him with a wink, sat down, and slumped over the bar. He was tired. His ankles were swollen, and he had pins and needles in his