Outsider in Amsterdam, page 15
"Please," de Gier said.
Beuzekom lost his temper.
"All right, I'll show it to you. But after that you can clear out. I haven't done anything, I won't do anything and I'll never do anything that would land me in jail again. I didn't get my brains for nothing. I deal in antique furniture, in Persian rugs, in odd lots, in anything that'll give me a good profit. Within a year I'll register my business. I have been at it for more than a year now and I am a hardworking and patient man. The turnover is growing. I thought you were a pleasant fellow when you came in and you have your job to do but you shouldn't make an ass of yourself."
"You can give me another drink," de Gier said and held up his glass.
"I'd like to shuffle around for a bit," Ringma said. "You like music, filthy fuzz?"
"Yes," de Gier said.
"Well, if you do, you can select your own tune," Ringma said and pointed at the lowest shelf of the bookcase that contained several feet of stacked records.
De Gier took his glass to the bookcase, sat down, and looked through the records. He took his time and Beuzekom filled his glass again. De Gier selected a Japanese record, showing a picture of a fluteplayer on its cover.
The flute was a bamboo flute and the music very delicate. It seemed as if its notes were altogether different from the notes de Gier could abstract from his own metal flute. De Gier remembered that he had read about bamboo flutes. Their insides cannot be calculated and each flute has its individual sound, depending on the uneven parts inside the naturally formed bamboo, even depending on the thin hairs and splinters waving about with each breath of air.
De Gier stretched out on the thick carpet and listened to the flute. He was drunk. He hadn't had much to eat that day, sandwiches at the police canteen and a bowl of hot noodles at a Chinese restaurant. The seven glasses of whisky had changed his perception. The flute made him tremble a little. He saw a temple and a whisp of a girl, dancing on a balcony, the night was very black behind her but some mysterious light showed up her movements. And the flute went on. The vision became so real that he surrendered completely to it, leaving the world of crime and misery in which he had plodded all day, all year, all his life it seemed. His thoughts were very quick it seemed, clicking through his brain. He switched off his thoughts and returned to the vision. A temple, a dancing girl on its balcony and he, the observer. He had to bundle what little force he could muster to return to the room of the house in Amsterdam. He was a detective again, investigating a crime, questioning two suspects in their own surroundings, only interested in information and prepared to perform a little act to get close to the source of the required information. He opened his eyes and sat up.
He saw Ringma dance. Beuzekom had switched off the lights of the room and only the light of the streetlamps filtering through the curtains lit the frail little body. Of Ringma's ratface and balding head nothing could be seen. Ringma danced, using small steps, hardly lifting his feet. Suddenly he crouched, making himself very small, and jumped. He jumped high, nearly touching the ceiling and landed elasticly. He stood still and started a movement of his arms and hands, silhouetting against the white curtains. Ringma was a doll, a bewitched doll moving mechanically, drawing life from someone else. De Gier looked around and saw Beuzekom, still standing behind the bar, staring fixedly at his little friend.
The flute broke halfway through a note, there was the metal sound of a gong suddenly struck, the record stopped and Ringma collapsed.
Beuzekom walked over to his friend and patted him softly on the head. "My little mate used to be a ballet dancer once," he said to de Gier.
"Let's have a drink," Ringma said hoarsely, "a tiny little drink, Beuz."
Beuzekom poured him a small whisky.
"That was very good," de Gier said.
After a few minutes the conversation started again.
Beuzekom had lit a thick church candle and was observing his visitor.
"How much do you make in the police?" he asked.
"Not much," de Gier answered.
"What's your rank?"
"Sergeant," de Gier said.
"So you'll be earning about fifteen hundred or two thousand a month, I expect."
"That's about right."
"You could get that anywhere," Beuzekom said. "I think an inspector of the city's cleaners gets more."
"And what do you earn?" de Gier asked.
"A lot," Beuzekom said. "More than you'll ever earn if you stay with the same boss. Why don't you work for me? I do all right but there are a lot of things I could do if I had someone working with me, someone like you. I wouldn't pay you a wage but a percentage. You could make more on one deal, a deal taking a few weeks, than you are now making in a year. Do you speak any languages?"
"English," de Gier said.
"Fluently?"
"No, but I know a lot of words. I read it well and I have taken a course. My grammar is all right."
"How long have you been with the C.I.D.?"
"Six years."
"And before that?"
"Five years on the street as a constable."
"You should have enough experience. I am quite serious, you know. I can really use you."
"And what can you use me for?" de Gier asked.
"Not drugs," Beuzekom said, "antique furniture. Paintings. Good stuff that we can sell to the American dealers. And some black-market buying and selling. Odd lots that are sold for cash to the street markets and the shops. I'll have a proper office soon, complete with a beautiful secretary."
"What do we want a beautiful secretary for?" Ringma asked petulantly. "She would be frustrated, poor thing."
"Think of others," Beuzekom said. "Our friend may like her, and our clients may like her."
De Gier got up, swaying slightly. He walked over to the window and looked at the quiet water of the canal where some ducks were floating about, fast asleep.
"The real money is in drugs," he said. "There may be money in the sort of trade you mentioned but there won't be a fortune in it."
"That's true," Beuzekom said.
"And drugs mean the end of everything," de Gier continued. "It was the end of China before the communists solved the problem. Drugs mean dry earth, dust storms, famine, slaves, bandit wars."
"Yes," Beuzekom said, "that'll be the future."
"And you want to be part of it?" de Gier asked.
"Don't be ridiculous," Beuzekom said. "You know what's coming. You can read statistics, just like I can. We can waste our time being idealists, or refuse to stare facts in the face, but it's coming all the same. It's probably a cosmic apparition, part of the destruction of this planet. But meanwhile we can make a profit out of it and live well, if we live with our circumstances, not against them. If you want to fight the general trend I would suggest that you buy an antique helmet, find yourself an old horse, and attack the windmills with a lance. There are enough windmills around, you'll be busy for the rest of your life."
"I saw the dead body of a girl today," de Gier said, "some nineteen or twenty years old perhaps. She had sticks instead of arms and legs and her face was a skull."
"Heroin?" Beuzekom asked.
De Gier didn't answer.
"O.K.," Beuzekom said, "heroin. Heroin is bad for the health. So is quicksilver poisoning. Atom bombs are even worse. And machine guns, and tanks, and guided rockets. Very unhealthy. So do you want me to cry? The world is the way it is. And we are on it. We can fly to the moon but we can't stay there."
"I hope your business is profitable," de Gier said, and closed the door behind him.
\\ 11 /////
GRIJPSTRA LEFT THE HOUSE OF THE DRUG DEALERS thoughtfully. On the gracht he paused and blew his whistle. The sound wasn't very loud, but loud enough for the two detectives to hear, and they joined him within a few minutes.
"Nothing doing, hey?" one of them asked.
"No," Grijpstra said, "but de Gier is still there and maybe he'll learn something, although I doubt it. Our friends in there aren't silly."
"That's the trouble," the detective sighed. "Criminals are cleverer than we are. They also have better equipment. Nice fast cars, for instance."
He kicked one of the tires of the small VW as he said it. Grijpstra sighed as well and got into the driver's seat. De Gier had given him the keys. He drove off, dropped the detectives at their homes, and telephoned from a public call box.
"I know it's late," he said to Constanze's mother," but I would like to drop by for a few minutes and see your daughter. She hasn't gone to bed yet, I hope?"
"It isn't ten o'clock yet," Constanze's mother said, "and my daughter is still up and about. We'll be waiting for you."
Grijpstra left the car in the courtyard of Headquarters and set out on foot. The long narrow Jacob van Lennepstraat didn't improve his mood. Its sidewalks were blocked by parked cars and he had to walk in the middle of the street, jumping aside every minute or so for gleaming motorized bicycles ridden by young mobsters taking fierce pleasure in revving their engines and missing the pedestrians by a hairbreadth.
Grijpstra gave in and walked in the one-foot-wide corridor left on the sidewalk by the parked cars. He could follow a TV program by glancing into the windows he passed. He was watching a police thriller and he saw fast cars taking hairpin corners with squeaking tires, handsome men firing pistols and shortbarreled machine pistols and one window gave him a view of a beautiful woman whose blouse was being ripped off by a bad man with a squint.
He rang the bell, the door opened immediately and Constanze's father welcomed him on the stairs.
"You are alone?" the father asked disappointedly. "Your young colleague didn't come with you?"
"No sir," Grijpstra said. "He is very busy tonight. Is your daughter at home?"
"Yes," the father said, "second door on the right. She is doing some sewing in the bedroom, she has been busy for hours. I am sure she'll welcome a break."
Grijpstra knocked, there was no answer and he opened the door.
"No," Constanze's voice yelled. "NO, please. Close that door." All Grijpstra saw was a white fluffy cloud. He couldn't understand what it was. He closed the door quickly but the movement caused a fresh draft and the cloud became even more opaque.
"What the hell," Grijpstra thought. He felt frightened. The reaction-program that his training had imprinted on his brain began to work. He was investigating a crime, dealing with suspected criminals, capable of causing violent death. His response to the sudden incomprehensible situation was automatic. The pistol was in his hand, he had loaded it as it came out of its holster.
"Oh NO," Constanze yelled again.
The cloud became transparent and he quickly holstered the pistol.
There were feathers all over the room, small white feathers.
Constanze chuckled and then began to laugh.
"You do look a sight," she said, and came close and began to pluck the little feathers off his suit. "You even have some in your mustache," she said. "Here, let me take them out. You look like a white rooster."
She laughed as she worked and Grijpstra stood very still.
"I was trying to fix mother's eiderdown but the cover was too worn so I was taking all the feathers out and I was just putting them into a bag as you opened the door. What a mess. Mother won't be pleased."
"I am sorry," Grijpstra said.
"It's all right. We better get out of here, I'll clean the room later."
The story was told in the living room and Constanze's parents laughed.
"You better not tell my partner," Grijpstra said. "He'll tell everybody at Headquarters and it'll be the story of the day."
"Don't worry," Constanze said. "I won't tell anyone. Why didn't he come with you tonight?"
"He is very busy," Grijpstra said. Constanze smiled and opened a can of beer.
"Did you want to ask me something?"
"Yes," Grijpstra said gratefully. "We were told by the police in Paris who spoke to your employer, your uncle I believe, that you didn't come to work on the day your husband died."
The question caused some disturbance in the room. Constanze's father lowered his newspaper and her mother dropped her embroidery.
The sweet expression on Constanze's face didn't change. "That's right. I wasn't feeling well that day. I took my daughter to the creche and wanted to go to work but I went home instead and spend the day by myself, in bed, until it was time to collect Yvette again. I wasn't really ill, but very tired. I was playing truant really. It means I have no alibi, doesn't it?"
"But you were in Paris, weren't you?* her father asked. "You can't be in Paris and in Amsterdam at the same time."
"There are airplanes," Grijpstra said.
"Yes," Constanze said, "but I wasn't in a plane, I was home, in bed, in Paris."
"Why didn't you tell us?" Grijpstra asked.
"You didn't ask me," Constanze said, "and I thought that perhaps you would never ask me."
The mother poured the rest of the beer can's contents into his glass. Her hand shook.
"Will you arrest me now?" Constanze asked.
"Should I?" Grijpstra asked.
"I didn't kill Piet," Constanze said.
Grijpstra sipped his beer, put it down, and plucked another feather off his trousers.
Constanze began to laugh again.
"You really looked very funny just now. What did you have in your hands? A gun?"
Grijpstra shook his head and looked at her as if he expected her to say something important.
"I really didn't kill him, you know," Constanze said. "I admit I have thought about it at times. He did annoy me, what with all the girls he tried to make and the way he treated me."
"But you didn't kill him," Grijpstra said.
"No. I thought the best punishment would be to let him live. He suffered, in spite of all his so-called pleasures. He was a nasty depressive little man and he was attracting a lot of trouble. To allow him to go through all that trouble was my best revenge. And I can't kill anyway, I couldn't even kill a mosquito."
"That's true," the father said. "When we have bugs here she would rather try to flap them out of the window using a newspaper. She is very soft-hearted."
"Soft-hearted," Grijpstra repeated, tasting the word.
"But you are a policeman," the father continued. "You know what people are like."
"I don't know anything at all," Grijpstra said, "and it's time to go home. Thank you for the beer."
"What about me?" Constanze asked. "You want me to go with you?"
"No. You get that eiderdown fixed," Grijpstra said. "But I would like you to stay in Amsterdam until we know a little more. If you have to leave let us know first, please."
Grijpstra walked home. In another part of the city de Gier was walking home as well. He walked carefully, worried that the alcohol in his blood might make him stagger. Gradually his condition improved.
That night he dreamt again. The little men in the bowler hats danced around him producing weird music by blowing into the barrels of their machine pistols. The gable houses of the inner city were leaning on each other, desperately trying to remain upright. Naked female nineteen-year-old bags of bones danced with the bowler-hatted little men and stopped every now and then to inject themselves. The canals were filled with mizo soup. Old Mrs. Verboom had joined the party as well, and she wasn't dressed, her breasts were shrunken empty bags of skin, she had stuck a rhododendron flower behind one ear. When Grijpstra waltzed past, in the arms of the directress of the mental home, de Gier woke up, squeaking with fear and disgust. He was wet through, fighting with his blankets, and Oliver, suddenly frightened and in a bad mood already because de Gier hadn't given him his evening meal, growled and attacked the feet that were kicking him. The wound bled and de Gier got up to bandage it. Oliver was clearly sorry, rolling over on his back and making endearing little sounds as if he were begging for forgiveness. De Gier tickled the animal's belly.
"Go back to sleep," he said and squeezed the cat suddenly so that Oliver grunted deeply, the air from his lungs being pushed past his vocal chords.
* * *
The next morning the two detectives were facing their officers. Neither of them felt well, and their eyes were hollow. The points of de Gier's usually so merry mustache drooped down and Grijpstra looked as if his clothes were too large for him.
The chief inspector studied his assistants one by one, pointing at each of them in turn with the small cigar he held between his lips. The commissaris was in the room as well, a small unsightly man with a wrinkled gray face.
"So what are we going to do about all this?" the commissaris suddenly said in an unexpected, deep voice.
"Go on," Grijpstra said, "what else?"
"How?" the commissaris asked.
Grijpstra didn't answer.
"What do you think of it?" the commissaris asked and looked at the chief inspector.
"Grijpstra is right, I think," the chief inspector said. "We'll shadow Beuzekom and his friend for a while and call them in for questioning from time to time. And we'll be watching the other suspects as well. Perhaps something will happen, someone is bound to become nervous. Perhaps we'll receive an anonymous tip. Perhaps the psychiatrist of the mental home will come up with something."
"Perhaps," the commissaris said. "Perhaps you need more men. We have more men. This seems to be a murder and murders have to be solved."
The chief inspector lit his small cigar again.
"I have a plan," he said and looked at Grijpstra. "You want to hear about my plan?"
"Yes sir," Grijpstra said.
"We'll start at the other end and we'll stir the pot till the broth froths," the chief inspector said.
There were question marks on the faces of the commissaris and the two detectives.
"I'll explain," the chief inspector said. "Piet Verboom dealt in hash. We can be quite sure about that now. He imported it in casks and pretended they came from Japan. We found the invoices but the mizo paste didn't come from Japan, it came from Pakistan. There is no mizo paste in Pakistan, mizo is a Japanese dish."
