Outsider in Amsterdam, page 8
"Must be a new bicycle," de Gier thought, "a Kreidler, I suppose, with a fifty cc engine. Half a dozen of them are stolen every night."
They found the Harley-Davidson under a corrugated iron roof.
De Gier stopped. He recognized the model, a 1943 Harley of the Liberator type, which he had seen for the first time when the Allied armies rushed into Holland. He had been a twelve-year-old boy, waving at the side of the road, and a large American military policeman had waved back at him, firmly in the saddle of the gorgeous monster guiding a dozen halftracks loaded with cheering troops. The motorbike seemed to be in prime condition, spotless, white, its chromium plated exhaust gleaming in the sparse light of the large dark court.
"You like her?" van Meteren asked.
"Beautiful," de Gier said, and meant it. "Where did you get her?"
"From a junkyard, for a couple of hundred guilders," van Meteren said.
"We used them in the New Guinea police and I was trained on a similar machine, many years ago now. When I bought the wreck she was in very sad shape and it took me almost two years to strip and rebuild her again. The spare parts are very expensive so I tried to use all the old parts, but it was a lot of work. The gearbox was the worst part of the job, I had to replace it in the end, after having wasted a month on the bastard. And the leather sidebags are new, of course, or rather, unused. I bought them from an army dump and the leather had dried out and begun to crack. I must have used kilos of fat to restore them."
He kicked the Harley off her standard and began to push her out of the courtyard. The machine was so heavy that it was quite an effort to push her up the slight elevation toward the street.
"A little patience now," van Meteren said. "I'll start her up."
De Gier followed the process with interest. The clutch had to be kicked down. There was no spring to the clutch so that it couldn't resume a neutral position but would have to be adjusted continuously. On the tank an air-stopper had to be unscrewed and pulled up. Choke. Regulation of the ignition by turning the left handlebar. Gas pushed back by turning the right handlebar. Kick the starter four times, giving a little gas each time, to suck petrol into the two cylinders. Turn the key on the tank. Push the choke back but not quite back.
"Now," said van Meteren.
He kicked the starter again and the engine came to life, with a soft but powerful gurgle.
"Do you have to do all that?" de Gier asked surprised.
"Yes," van Meteren said. "If you forget any of the movements you can kick the starter till your sweat fills your shoes. I can do it a lot more quickly but I saw you watching me so I went slowly. It can be done in a few seconds, and even a few seconds is a long time in New Guinea, especially when someone is firing at you with a bren gun."
He made an inviting gesture and de Gier climbed on the back part of the double saddle, van Meteren slid onto the front part and the machine took off at once. De Gier looked at the old-fashioned gear lever attached to the tank and thought of the BMW he once used to ride himself and the easy footgear that he could move with a flick of the toe. But van Meteren handled the cumbersome gear with the same ease.
De Gier was frightened. A motorcycle gives no protection. Only the skin envelops your life, the merest touch of a car or a lamppost and your leg is gone, your shoulder crushed or your skull split.
But his fear went when he realized that this was the best trip he had ever made through the city of Amsterdam. Van Meteren chose the grachts and sidegrachts and rode, without the slightest shock, through the narrow streets. He took no risks and the machine slithered through the rush-hour traffic. At every traffic light they were the first to take off and the Papuan never seemed to use his brakes, approaching the stoplights in gear and guessing the exact moment when the lights changed. A car that ignored their right of way was avoided in a supple curve and de Gier, pressed against the small body of his host, felt no irritation with the thoughtless or offensive driver who had endangered their lives. An obstacle, skillfully passed, no more.
When, at the end of the Beethovenstreet, the heavy traffic thinned out, van Meteren allowed the Harley to pick up speed and de Gier saw, when he looked over the Papuan's shoulder, that they were doing almost a hundred, but there was no danger, there were no sidestreets and de Gier watched the fat reed-plums, bordering the canal, flashing past him as a solid curtain and felt free.
The Harley slowed down and de Gier pointed at the large block of flats that contained his small apartment. Van Meteren changed into neutral and turned the key. The motorcycle approached the front door in silence. The Harley was in very good repair indeed, de Gier thought. He couldn't detect the slightest rattle or squeak anywhere in its complicated engine.
"Very nice," de Gier said. "Thanks a lot. Only the motorcops ride like that but they use BMW's and Guzzi's. I wonder if they could duplicate your performance on a Harley."
"Of course they can do that," said van Meteren. "I have ridden other makes when I was with the New Guinea police. Each brand has its secret, but you can solve them within a week and if there are any faults you can make use of them. The Harley is a little slow but makes up for it by its reliability. You can risk all sorts of maneuvers on the Harley that you shouldn't even think about on another cycle.
"Come in a moment," de Gier said. "I have some beer in the fridge and you can drink it while I feed Oliver, but be careful with the cat. He isn't to be trusted and if he can't attack you straight away he'U wait for an opportunity and while he waits he looks very innocent, as if a mouse wouldn't melt in his mouth."
He was glad he had warned van Meteren for Oliver was in a bad mood. De Gier had always kept the cat inside and Oliver had become neurotic. His twisted mind still loved de Gier but anyone else was considered as legal prey and of the few visitors de Gier had entertained lately at least two had left with bleeding ankles.
Oliver flattened himself when he saw van Meteren and began to growl, making his tail swell up at the same time. Van Meteren dropped to his haunches and scooped the cat off the floor, turning him upside down in the same movement. He caught the cat in his forearm and shook him gently, talking to the surprised animal in a gentle and smoothing voice.
"You are a sweet little cat, aren't you? A crazy silly animal? A crazy animal who hates large people, don't you?"
Oliver purred and closed his eyes.
"God, Christ Almighty," said de Gier. "He has never done that before."
"He does it to you doesn't he?" van Meteren asked.
"Yes, but he has known me since he was eight centimeters long and white all over. He needs a lot of love, that cat, and he'll bite me if I don't spend half an hour a day stroking and fondling him, but so far I have been the only person who could really touch him."
"Cats are marvelous animals," said van Meteren, who had put Oliver back on the floor, "great comedians."
Oliver tried again and attacked van Meteren's trousers, trying to gash a hole into the cloth. Van Meteren ignored him. The Siamese gave up and stalked into the kitchen, pawing the refrigerator and howling for his daily helping of chopped heart.
Grijpstra faced the chief inspector in the Hindist Society's restaurant. The chief inspector listened, while Grijpstra, limiting himself to the official language of a police report, summed up the events of the day.
"So you allowed her to go to Rotterdam?" the chief inspector asked.
"Yes sir," Grijpstra said.
"Let me see now," the chief inspector said and looked at the cast-iron ceiling of the restaurant, studying the golden garlands of stylized flowers. "She admits she hates him. She admits that she threw a heavy book at his head. You even have that in writing, nicely signed. A bruise, it could be attempted manslaughter. I'll have to look at the doctor's report again. And seventy-five thousand guilders are missing. And she is pregnant with Piet's child. And he never did anything for her and everything he gave her she had to return."
"Yes sir," Grijpstra said.
"Yes sir," the chief inspector repeated. He was still looking at the ceiling.
"Well, all right," said the chief inspector. "When we need her you'll be able to find her, I suppose. And we are short of cells. And she is pregnant."
Grijpstra said nothing.
"You still think it was murder?"
"I don't know, sir."
"There's no news from the detectives who are hunting the two drug dealers. Or rather, there is some news. One of the detectives phoned me. According to the underworld there can't be any connection between the drug fellows and the murder. Nobody has ever heard of Haarlemmer Houttuinen number five."
"But that's the address where we found them," Grijpstra said in a flat voice.
"Yes," the chief inspector said. "Perhaps they were members of the Society. There must be a list of members somewhere. Did you see it?"
"No," Grijpstra said. "I think Piet pocketed the membership fees. I'll have to check with the accountant if the fees were part of the Society's income. Probably not. I did find a tearbook with membership certificates but there are no stubs. Piet just grabbed the twenty-five guilders each time and gave the new member his bit of paper. He didn't like to pay tax."
"Who does?" the chief inspector said. "Very clever man, our Piet."
Grijpstra grinned.
"Something funny?" the chief inspector asked.
"For a clever man he made rather a stupid picture, dangling from his own beam on a piece of rope."
The chief inspector grinned as well.
"So why would he have needed all that money?" he asked. "Perhaps he wanted to get away. The accountant claims that he might have had to pay some fifty thousand in taxes and fines. And according to the two boys and the two girls, and also to van Meteren, he didn't believe in the Society anymore. Perhaps he wanted to disappear and leave the Society as an empty hull, mortgaged up to the hilt and in debt to its suppliers. With seventy-thousand he might have made a new start. He has lived in Paris so he must be adapted to living in other surroundings than Amsterdam."
"Possibly," Grijpstra said, "but he never left. He died, and the money is gone."
The chief inspector looked around the room.
"Funny atmosphere here, don't you think? Did you see the statue in the corridor downstairs? There are other statues as well. There is a proper Buddha statue somewhere upstairs."
"Very nice statues," Grijpstra said.
"A matter of taste. A chap sitting still all the time. So what? Is it recommendable to sit on your arse all day contemplating God knows what? Floating thoughts? Dirty dreams? One has enough of that, without sitting still."
He looked at his hands on the table.
"But it is a quiet pastime. Yes. Perhaps we are too busy. Perhaps we should have some of those statues in Headquarters, to teach a lesson to the colleagues who want to solve everything right away. Perhaps it is better to sit still and wait. Perhaps the right thought will bubble up. You can't trace where it comes from but it is there, right in front of you. Has it happened to you?"
Grijpstra thought and nodded, hesitatingly.
"Perhaps. A sudden spark, very fast. Too fast sometimes for it is gone before you can grab it. All you know is that you knew it, for a very short moment, but you have forgotten again."
"It'll come back later," the chief inspector said, "when you least expect it, sometimes."
"Perhaps," said Grijpstra.
"So what now, Grijpstra?"
"I am going to have dinner at a Chinese restaurant with de Gier."
"And where is de Gier?"
"Gone home to feed the cat."
The chief inspector laughed.
"Gone home to feed the cat," he repeated. "A clear motivation. I like that."
The mention of the word "dinner" made him finish the conversation. Grijpstra took him to the front door. A black Citroen was parked on the sidewalk, an impassive constable at the wheel. The chief inspector will be a commissaris soon, Grijpstra thought.
\\ 6 /////
IT WAS SEVEN-THIRTY SHARP WHEN DE GIER CAME INTO the Chinese restaurant. Grijpstra sat in one of the booths at the side, behind a glass of beer and his notebook. He was scribbling, connecting a number of circles. Each circle had a name.
"You see that I often come on time?"
Grijpstra mumbled something.
"And what conclusions is the master-mind drawing?"
Grijpstra connected two more circles.
"Well?"
"Ach," Grijpstra said, "what do I know? Bits and pieces, that's all I have. They all connect, but then anything does. I see the connections but I don't understand them. And what can I be sure of? The only fact we have so far is the book that girl of yours threw. The constables who are searching the house haven't found anything, except some dead mice. The search is still on. The detectives who are grubbing about in the underworld haven't found anything either. The theories we have come up with aren't very satisfactory. You helped me thinking today. Have you thought of anything?"
De Gier sat back and looked at the red lamps decorated with worn tassels. The owner had made use of the talents of a compatriot artist and there were some Chinese landscapes painted on the peeling plaster of the walls. One of the scenes was religious. A pagoda, or temple, inhabited by gods. Fat gods with bulging bellies, overpleasant smiles, bald heads and obscene female breasts. One of them had a thin beard. Fat tubby babies were crawling all over them.
"Well?" Grijpstra asked.
"Bah," said de Gier.
Grijpstra looked up. "I thought you liked Chinese food."
"I do," de Gier said, "but I was thinking. And I haven't come up with any good theory. The best one I have heard so far is the chief inspector's. We shouldn't think of murder straight off. Murders are rare in Amsterdam. It was suicide. A lot of the facts we have fit in, and the fact I like most is that he looked so neat."
"Ah yes," Grijpstra said. "I know what you mean. The Japanese suicide, wasn't it. You wash up and tidy yourself before you do it. You think he may have meditated a while in front of the little altar in his room, where we found traces of burnt incense?"
"Yes," said de Gier, studying the menu. "He may have been depressed for some time but he still needed a last push, and the girl throwing the dictionary at him set him off."
"And the money?" Grijpstra asked. "The seventy-five red backs. Where are they?"
"Blackmail. Or somebody stole it before he committed suicide. Another reason to do it. Or, but perhaps that's too far-fetched, he destroyed the money to put suspicion on somebody else, somebody we would suspect of having murdered him."
"Brr," Grijpstra said, "no. Let's not be too subtle."
"It could be, couldn't it?"
"No," Grijpstra said.
"Let's eat then."
De Gier had been given his beer and was blowing into the froth.
"Maybe you are right. I can't see him destroying money. Like putting it into one of these gray plastic rubbish bags we have nowadays and giving it to the garbage man. Nobody ever opens those bags. But Piet wouldn't destroy money. He liked money."
"But he may have been blackmailed."
"Severy-five thousand is a lot of blackmail. What had he done? What can anyone do in Holland nowadays that he could be blackmailed for? Even murder will give you no more than a few years in jail."
"Ha," Grijpstra said. "Weren't you telling me the other day that even twenty-four hours in jail is more punishment than any man should take?"
"True, true," de Gier said. "Forget it. Let's eat."
They ordered and de Gier started eating the moment the waiter placed the food on the table. He tore the fried meat off the thin sticks with his teeth, broke a piece of shrimp-crackers and grabbed the noodles, all at the same time.
"Easy," Grijpstra said. "You are sharing this meal with me.
"You are right," de Gier said with his mouth full.
"Easy is the word. We shouldn't rush so much. This case will solve itself, all we have to do is sit around and watch it. That's what the chief inspector told me this..."
Grijpstra didn't finish his sentence and de Gier looked up.
"What now?" de Gier asked.
Grijpstra's face had frozen.
"Look behind you," he said.
De Gier looked around and froze as well.
"Shit," de Gier said, and jumped. Grijpstra jumped at the same time. They both pulled out their pistols and they were both running toward the door but de Gier got there first. Grijpstra had run into the waiter, and the waiter and his tray were still falling when Grijpstra got into the street and saw de Gier running after their victim, a tall thin Chinese by the name of Lee Fong.
Poor Lee Fong was having very bad luck that day, the culmination of a lot of bad luck that he had had to put up with during his short stay in Holland. Ever since he had deserted his ship he had nothing but misadventure. He had lost at gambling and been arrested for pushing drugs. He had wounded a guard while escaping from jail. He had quarreled with the acquaintances who had hid him. This was the day he would leave the country. He should have stayed in hiding until the last minute but he had risked a short walk in order to buy a last good meal. And now he had run into two plainclothes policemen.
He shouldn't have hesitated when Grijpstra looked at him. There are a lot of photographs policemen have to remember and Chinese look very much alike to a Dutchman. But he had hesitated and touched his knife, a long nasty blade that he kept in a special pocket in his jeans. That one movement had caused Grijpstra to act. And now Lee Fong had de Gier after him and de Gier was gaining.
Lee took a corner and found himself in an alley, called the Ramskooi. The Ramskooi is a cul de sac. Lee thought he had no choice. He stopped, turned and pulled out his knife. De Gier stopped too and kicked. A good kick from a long leg will remove any knife. De Gier had learned at least three grips to disarm a knife fighter but they were all complicated, consisting of several movements. And he would have had to drop his pistol. He preferred holding on to the pistol. Lee Fong put up his hands as Grijpstra came panting.
