Outsider in Amsterdam, page 10
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SATURDAY MORNING, NINE O'CLOCK.
De Gier was asleep.
The alarm had gone off, as always, at six-thirty. And de Gier had got up, groaning, and fixed himself coffee and drunk the coffee on his balcony, while he looked at the large brown lawn behind the apartment building, a very neat lawn, with roses in the middle. He had listened to the many thrushes, admired the seagulls and the lone crow, and frowned at the pigeons.
"Why don't you catch yourself a couple of pigeons?" he had asked Oliver who had come out on the balcony too. "Pigeons shit too much. Look."
One of his geranium plants had been hit and showed a patch of slimy acid excrement.
De Gier went inside, got a pair of scissors, and snipped at the plant.
He looked at the lawn again, now populated by a dachshund. The dachshund couldn't make up his mind where to sit down, the lawn was too big. Acres and acres of grass and just one small dachshund.
De Gier finished his cigarette, grinned at the dachshund, patted Oliver on the head, and got into bed again. He grunted with pleasure as he pulled the blanket over his shoulder. Another hour, two hours maybe. A long pleasant day.
He dreamt.
It was a dream he had known before.
Some kind of warship sails through the bend of the Herengracht, Amsterdam's most aristocratic canal. It looks a little like one of the police vessels used to patrol the capital's waterways, a flat, smooth, powerful boat, gray and low for it must be able to pass under the bridges.
But the ship isn't manned by the bluecoated Water Police. Its crew consists of a large number of small square men, armed with old-fashioned tommyguns, dating back to the days of Al Capone, short blunt weapons with round cartridge-drums, fastened to the barrel.
De Gier is on the bridge, looking down. This is the moment when the underworld will take over. In a minute the boat will moor and send patrols into the city. The first will make for the city hall and arrest the mayor and the aldermen and the second will shoot its way into Police Headquarters and grab the chief constable.
De Gier is all by himself, and unarmed.
But he isn't nervous, he knows his power, the power of a municipal criminal investigator in a democratically governed country.
He studies the enemy and notes that all the small square men have the same face, and that every face is watching him, slyly from under the rim of its bowler hat. He sees that all these small parts, who, together, form the enemy, are dressed in striped suits, model Grijpstra, and in gray ties, model chief inspector.
But this is very logical, de Gier thinks. The enemy is the perversion of official authority, so it will have to resemble official authority.
It's very early in the morning. The city is empty. The seventeenth-century gables frame its emptiness.
The ship is moving closer, now it's underneath de Gier.
He leans over the railing. He spits.
The white fluffy flake of spittle, moved by a weak breeze, floats down slowly and finally lands on a bowler hat. There is an explosion. The ship catches fire and begins to sink, the small square men jump overboard and drown. Only one bowler hat, afloat by itself, remains.
De Gier woke up. He sighed. All's well that ends well. He had had the dream before, it didn't end well that time. That time he got caught. He was tortured. And, worse, ridiculed. The small square men had made fun of him. He had been on his knees.
"I am improving," de Gier thought happily. "I can direct my dreams. A man should be able to direct his own dreams."
"Hello, Oliver," he said to the Siamese cat who was asleep on his legs, its wide head flattened comfortably, its mouth curved into a contented half grin.
Oliver squeaked sleepily.
"Don't squeak," de Gier said. "You are a cat, you aren't a mouse."
Oliver squeaked again.
"All right, you are a mouse."
He jumped out of bed, sweeping the blanket back and Oliver, suddenly folded into an untidy ball, flew against the wall and got mixed up with the sheets.
De Gier laughed. "You are a clumsy mouse."
Oliver liberated himself and rubbed his smooth body against de Gier's legs, purring.
De Gier was on his way to the kitchen when the telephone rang.
"Morning," Grijpstra said. "I am not waking you up, I hope."
"You didn't. I have been up since six o'clock, going through the files."
"Good fellow," Grijpstra said. "I am proud of you, you know that, don't you? Sit down, will you, relax."
De Gier sat down and lit a cigarette. "I am relaxed."
"Right," Grijpstra said. "Now listen. I have a nice little job for you."
"No," de Gier said. "No. I've got the day off."
"A policeman," Grijpstra said patiently, "never has the day off. Especially not when he is working on a homicide. And this job is nice, I am telling you. Do you remember that lovely Mrs. Verboom?"
"I do," de Gier said and thought of the breasts that had been presented to him, one by one.
"You sound much better now," Grijpstra said. "I am still looking for the right motive."
De Gier sighed. "You've got a good motive. Seventy-five thousand is a good motive."
"Yes. But what do you think of this? Van Meteren and Mrs. Verboom have an affair. We know that Piet was always on the make, and with some success. So the marriage must have been a failure, which means that Mrs. Verboom must have been frustrated. Frustrated women need company. Nature doesn't like gaps, it fills them up. Black is beautiful. She grabs van Meteren."
"Black is beautiful refers to Negroes," de Gier said, "not to Papuans."
"I don't know," Grijpstra said. "If I were a woman I would prefer a Papuan. Negroes, nowadays, are too civilized, they watch TV and football and make nice conversation. They are boring. But Papuans were cannibals, one generation ago. Just one generation ago. Imagine. Long pig for dinner, and feathers on your head, and dancing in the full moon, and pointing the bone."
"Hmm," de Gier said dreamily. "We used to do it too, you know."
"We did it a hundred thousand years ago. We have forgotten."
"I think you are right again," de Gier said. "I thought you knew nothing about psychology."
"No psychology," Grijpstra said, "just dreams. Imagination. The reason she took van Meteren was because she had him in the house. He could have been a Chinese, or a man from Rotterdam."
"No," de Gier said, "not a man from Rotterdam, she wouldn't have done that. She wouldn't have."
"A frustrated woman may do anything."
"Go on," de Gier said. "You excite me."
"So she took the Papuan," Grijpstra said.
"He is only seven-eights Papuan."
"Stop interrupting me," Grijpstra said. "I have things to do. And seven-eighths of a Papuan is a complete man."
"What things to do? It's Saturday. You are free."
"Free!" Grijpstra exclaimed. "Free, ha! I have to take my children to the beach and it's late already. They are all packed, buckets, spades, sunhats, thermosflasks, the lot."
"O.K. Go on then."
"This van Meteren is a special man, have you noticed?"
"Of course I have," de Gier said. "Didn't I tell you how he rode that Harley-Davidson of his, and how he treated Oliver?"
"You have," Grijpstra said. "So he is a special man, and Mrs. Verboom is a beautiful intelligent woman. They get on well. But they have no money. Van Meteren has a minimal wage and Mrs. Verboom waits on her husband's customers and slaves in the kitchen for a penny a week. Meanwhile Piet makes a fortune, on drugs. Van Meteren knows about Piet's racket, maybe he is part of it. Perhaps he knows that Piet has seventy-five thousand ready to buy a large quantity. Heroin maybe, or cocaine. Or a big load of hash. He tells Mrs. Verboom that he will get the money. She wants to help him but van Meteren realizes the danger. If we had found Mrs. Verboom in the house at the time of Piet's death we might have discovered the affair. She had to go."
"Right," de Gier said, "so he told her to leave her husband, and to make the break complete, to leave the country as well. It would absolve her of being suspected of complicity. So what happened then?"
"I am glad you can follow me," Grijpstra said, "so early in the morning. Now the good part comes."
De Gier looked out of the window and saw Oliver, who had climbed into the geranium box and was chattering at the seagulls.
"Ho," he shouted, "hold it. Oliver is in the flowerbox again. He fell out last week and nearly broke his jaw. He bled for days. I'll have to get him out."
Grijpstra sighed.
"I got him," de Gier said, and sighed as well. "Damned cat. I should have bought a canary. Go on. What's the good part?"
"Piet becomes depressed," Grijpstra said. "He really misses his wife and child. He mentions suicide. Van Meteren eggs him on. Piet is an unbalanced type and capable of doing away with himself. Van Meteren spreads the rumor that Piet is very depressed and getting worse. Everybody in the house believes it."
"Ha," said de Gier, who had become really interested. "But Piet is full of cheer, in spite of missing his family. He is busy on the biggest deal of his life. He is buying heroin or whatever, which he can sell immediately to the drug dealers who come to his bar, and who pass themselves off as proper Hindists. But the deal misfires and Piet is dead. How did he die?"
"Well," Grijpstra said, "simple. Van Meteren waits until Piet has the money in the house. Piet is waiting for whoever will bring him the drugs. But before the man arrives van Meteren strolls into the room, knocks Piet out and hangs him. The money goes into his pocket and he hides it somewhere, outside the house perhaps. The world is large."
De Gier studied a discolored spot on his ceiling, a round spot. He remembered that he had dreamt about the spot. He had got into it and it led somewhere, but he couldn't remember where it led to when he woke up.
"Yes, yes," he said, "and van Meteren would make use of the fight Thérèse picked with Piet that day. He came in just after she had stalked out of the room, found Piet in a dazed state, holding his head after he had been hit with the dictionary, and finished the job. And when we came he was the first to notice the bruise, to stress his innocence."
"You really think the girl hit him with that book?" Grijpstra asked. "Women never hit anything. They miss. But it doesn't matter."
De Gier began to laugh. "Doesn't matter," he repeated. "You talk like a Hindist. You've been converted?"
Grijpstra laughed. "I have been converted years ago. The police may not teach much and I may have a thick head but I did notice that nothing is quite as important as it seems. But never mind, maybe it doesn't matter who the murderer is, we'll catch him all the same."
De Gier made a face at the telephone. "Just for the hell of it, what?"
"Hell, or heaven, or purgatory. Whatever you like. And if we don't succeed we'll keep on trying. And if we never succeed it'll be a pity, but not too much of a pity."
"Yes," de Gier said, "then what happened?"
"Van Meteren phones Mrs. Verboom in Paris and tells her he had made a neat job of it. She can come. She'll have to come for she has to show some interest in the inheritance."
"Why?" de Gier asked. "She might have stayed away. But she'll want to see van Meteren. But all right, maybe she should have come or we would have worried about her. Pity she came, I would have liked to have visited her in Paris. But now what do you want of me?"
"Yes," Grijpstra said, "glad you remind me. I want something of you. It's a nice day and you have nothing to do. I want you to date her. You were very impressed with her yesterday, she must have noticed. And you have thought about her all night. Tossed in your bed. Nothing wrong with that, you are a bachelor. So phone her and make a date and take her out."
"What if she refuses?"
"She won't," Grijpstra said persuasively. "You are a detective and charged with the case. She knows that and she is curious. And you are very handsome, you know. Two good reasons for her to welcome your company. And then you can listen to her. She is sure to drop her guard. Let her talk."
De Gier got up, stretched, and grunted.
"You do it," he said. "You are a great actor. Act the fatherly type. If your theory is correct I'm of no use to you. She'll be in love with van Meteren. I have a blotched pink skin, not a shining black one."
"I've got to go to the coast now," Grijpstra said. "Good luck and good hunting. Give me a ring tonight, any time, and tell me what happened."
"HEY!" de Gier shouted.
"Yes?" Grijpstra asked.
"A car. I need a car, you don't want me to take her on the luggage carrier of my old bicycle do you?"
"No," Grijpstra said. "There'll be a Mercedes waiting for you in the police garage next to Headquarters, at two o'clock this afternoon. There'll be fifty guilders in the glove compartment. The doorman will have the keys. Tell me what you have spent on Monday and give me the change, and the dockets."
He rang off.
He telephoned Mrs. Verboom. Her mother answered.
"This is Rinus de Gier. Could I speak to your daughter please?"
"A moment," the other said. He heard her call, "Con-stanze."
"Hello, Constanze," he said in his smooth sexhunt voice. "This is Rinus de Gier. We met yesterday."
"How do you know my name?" she asked, surprised.
"The police know everything," de Gier said in his normal voice.
Constanze laughed, a very natural laugh.
"Grijpstra is wrong," de Gier thought. "The poor thing isn't connected with the case at all. She is the corpse's wife, that's all. However..."
"Are you phoning me as a detective, or as a man?"
De Gier picked up a little courage. The response was free, welcoming even.
"Well," he said, and hesitated, "as a man really. I thought you might be free this weekend and I am free too. I wanted to come and pick you up this afternoon. Perhaps we can go for a drive and have dinner in town, and so on."
"So on what?" Constanze asked.
"A beer after dinner, or a glass of wine somewhere."
"All right," Constanze said. "My parents are only interested in the child anyway. And they talk about Piet's death. I'd like to get away for a bit. Come and fetch me if you like. What time?"
"This afternoon? Two thirty?"
"No," Constanze said. "I have something to do this afternoon. A little shopping. Would you like to come around seven?"
"Seven o'clock," de Gier said.
* * *
"All right, Rinus, I'll be waiting for you," her voice had dropped. There was a hint of a promise in it. She rang off.
"Ha," de Gier said and looked at Oliver. Then he picked up the cat and rubbed its head against his face. "You wouldn't know," he said soothingly. "They cut it all out of you. But I had to ask them to do it. You would have gone mad in this place, jumping about and tearing the curtains and dribbling. You've seen me jump about sometimes, haven't you? You should be glad I had you treated."
He sang while he shaved and dressed.
Oliver whined, and rolled on the carpet.
"Shut your Siamese howler," de Gier said. "We consist of lust, you and I. Different sorts of lust. When one is satisfied the other rears its ugly snout. Let's eat."
They breakfasted together, on the balcony.
"Now watch it," de Gier told the cat. "I am going to leave the balcony door open. Try and stop yourself from falling off the flowerbox. I am going to the library to get all the books I can find on Papuans and then I'll come and read them. And I'll get us some food. So watch it."
He picked up the Mercedes at 6:30. The car was almost new, with an open roof. The tank had been filled.
"A car of the Investigation Bureau," de Gier thought, "but they don't investigate. They just follow people and snoop. And then they call us and we make the arres. Why didn't I apply to join them? I would have qualified. I could have spent my life in the best bars and the b°si nightclubs. And the best brothels. All at the state's expense. All for the good cause. And what do I do? I walk around and get flat feet."
But he was grateful, and guided the car carefully through the Jacob van Lennepstraat whore Constanze stayed with her parents. The Jacob van Lennepstraat is a long, narrow, lightless ditch. There are no trees in it. The scenery consists of crumbling brick walls and dented unwashed cars.
"It wasn't my sexy voice that made her say yes," he thought. "Nobody wants to spend any time here. Not in these stuffy small rooms, full of furniture and clammy air."
The mother asked him to come in for a minute. She laughed shyly, almost submissively. A very fat woman, with moist spots under her arms. Yvette ran into him in the corridor and remembered who he was. She gave him a little kiss and called him uncle. The mother pointed at a chair, he sat down and the child climbed onto his lap. The mother laughed again and complained about the hot weather. She spoke with a marked French accent.
"Meet my husband," she said and de Gier put the child down and got up stiffly. They shook hands. The father was fat as well and the hand he shook seemed swollen and a little rotten.
"I am on sick pay," the father said. "My nerves, you know. You work for the city as well, I hear."'
"Yes sir," de Gier said. "I am with the police."
"Nice work,"the father said, "better than mine. More exciting, I am sure. I work in the Land Registration Bureau. I put files away and when I have put them away I look for them again. And every time I show anyone a file because some builder or architect or prospective buyer wants to see what's what, the city earns six guilders and fifty cents. Of that I get about ten cents. I worked it out once. It must have got on my nerves. But I don't know how it got on nerves. What has it got to do with me? Do you know?"
De Gier withdrew into a polite silence.
"My daughter will be here soon. She is painting her face and fluffing her hair and fiddling about. All unnecessary work. She is a nice doll. Of course I shouldn't know, I am her father. But I think she is a nice doll, even when she flops about in the morning with curlers in her hair. She shouldn't have married that little mangy squirrel. But he is dead now. That's better."
