Outsider in Amsterdam, page 9
The Ramskooi is a short alley and there are three bars in it. The bars' occupants were spilling into the street.
De Gier handcuffed Lee Fong and the crowd stared, and muttered. Grijpstra entered the first bar and telephoned the central radio room. Within seconds a siren began to whine. Within two minutes a white VW turned into the alley. Within three minutes it had left again, carrying de Gier and Lee Fong. The crowd was still muttering and Grijpstra dabbed at his forehead with a large dirty handkerchief. The crowd stopped muttering and returned to the bars and the next flood of beer.
"Sir," a small voice said.
Grijpstra, on his way to the restaurant, looked down. A seven-year-old boy was walking next to him. A Negro boy, very black.
"Yes, friend?" Grijpstra said.
The boy grinned, flashing large, white teeth.
"Are you a policeman, sir?"
"I am," Grijpstra said pleasantly.
"Can I see your gun please?"
"Guns are not for showing," Grijpstra said.
"No," the boy said smiling, "they are for shooting."
"You are wrong there, you know. Guns are for keeping in leather holsters, here." Grijpstra patted the holster under his jacket.
"What had the man done, sir?"
"Fighting," Grijpstra said. "He is a bad man. He fought with a knife and he hurt somebody."
"I fight too," the boy said.
"With a knife?"
"No sir. With my hands." The boy showed his small fists. "But my brother fights with a bicycle chain. He says he will teach me. It's very difficult, he says."
Grijpstra stopped and faced the boy.
"My name is Uncle Hans," Grijpstra said. "Now you go and tell your brother that he shouldn't fight with a bicycle chain. It isn't difficult and it it isn't nice. If he wants to fight he should learn judo. You know what that is? Judo?"
"Yes sir," the boy said. "I have seen it on the TV. And my teacher at school is a judo fighter. He has a brown belt but he wants a black belt. He practices all the time."
"That's good," Grijpstra said. "Maybe you can learn from him. You know what judo fighters do before they start fighting?"
The boy thought, then he smiled.
"Yes, sir, I know. They bow to each other."
"You know why they do that?"
The boy thought again, a little longer this time. "They like each other? They've got nothing against each other?"
"Right," Grijpstra said. "Run along now."
"Goodbye, Uncle Hans," the boy said.
A minute later Grijpstra found himself cursing. The curses, strung together shaping an eight syllable malediction of some force, mildly surprised him. He had stopped in front of a small display window, part of a shop halfway between the dead end alley and the Chinese restaurant. He wondered what might have caused this sudden burst of harsh and indecent verbal violence. The objects in the small shop window? He identified the objects: three sets of dentures on a shelf, guarded by a fat cat, asleep and heavily motionless on a second shelf, placed above the first. But he knew that the unexpected appearance of false teeth would be unable to upset him. He owned a set of false teeth himself and the daily early-morning sight of them grinning from the waterglass on his washstand had never yet unnerved him, on the contrary, he thought his teeth to be both handsome and useful. The cat perhaps? But Grijpstra liked cats, even if he wouldn't admit the fact to boastful and sentimental cat-keepers like de Gier.
It was his attempt at education, he thought, and pushed his solid shape into motion again. The small boy he had lectured just now hadn't really been impressed. He had probably been frightened into agreeing. The display of firearms, the running feet, the suspect's knife, de Gier's kick, the handcuffs, the siren of the patrol car, the uniformed constables grabbing the prisoner. It's the war all over, Grijpstra thought. The kid will have his bicycle chain and join the free fight. Just give him a few more years.
Grijpstra was back in the restaurant. Their food was still on the table. The waiter smiled uneasily.
"Hey you," a fat woman said.
"Madame?" Grijpstra asked.
"You know what you did?"
"Yes," Grijpstra said. "I ran into the waiter. I am sorry."
"You a policeman?" the fat woman asked.
"Yes."
"That fellow you went after, what happened?"
"A criminal," Grijpstra said, "on the run. His photograph is in all the police stations. Dangerous. Armed with a knife. Had to grab him."
"Did you?"
"My colleague has got him. He is on his way to the cell now."
"You made a mess of my clothes, you know that?"
Grijpstra got up and looked at the woman's dress. It was stained badly.
"A whole plate of noodles. And my husband here got an egg roll on his head. And the girl over there got soup all over her. And you should have seen what you did to the waiter. He had to change his jacket."
"I am sorry," Grijpstra said again.
"You should pay something, maybe," the woman said.
"Ah, don't listen to her," the husband broke in. "She is having you on. The dress had to be dry-cleaned anyway and I got the egg roll on my hair, it's thick enough still."
"Are you all right?" Grijpstra asked the girl who had got soup over her.
The girl smiled shyly. "Yes."
"Women," the husband said. "A policeman got shot last year. Dead he was. And she is talking about her clothes. You might have been shot too."
"He only carried a knife," Grijpstra said.
"Or knifed. Maybe that's worse."
"It's O.K.," the fat woman said. "But next time run around the waiter. He's a small chap, you could easily have avoided him."
"Women," the husband said.
"Shut up," the fat woman said.
"Yes dear," the man said.
"Would you two like a beer?" Grijpstra asked.
"Yes," the woman said and smiled at him.
The waiter brought the beer and refused payment.
"On the house," he said and smiled. He still looked very nervous.
"I wonder what he is hiding," Grijpstra thought. "No papers, that's for sure. And a friend of Lee Fong." He looked at the waiter's face, trying to remember it. Perhaps he should drop a hint at the Aliens Department. Perhaps he should not.
"There's enough trouble in the world," he thought.
Ten minutes later de Gier came in. The waiter brought a fresh plate of noodles and some fried vegetables.
"So?" Grijpstra asked.
"It's O.K. They've got him in the cell. A lot of charges against him now. The fool shouldn't have drawn his knife. I phoned the chief inspector and he seemed pleased for once. He asked me to congratulate you."
"Me?" Grijpstra asked.
"Don't be modest," de Gier said. "I can't stand it. You spotted him, didn't you?"
"Ah, yes," Grijpstra said, "and then you caught him. Because I told you to."
"You never told me anything."
"I would have," Grijpstra said, "if I had had a little time."
"Well," de Gier said and smiled nastily, "you got the waiter."
"It's the little things in life that give us our pleasure," Grijpstra said. "You pay the bill."
"Is it my turn again?"
"I paid last week."
"Four rolls and two cups of coffee," de Gier said. "Six or seven guilders. This must be over twenty."
"You are the youngest," Grijpstra said, "don't argue."
"No," said de Gier, and paid the bill.
"Got anything yet?" Grijpstra asked, addressing a young constable who was moving casks in the cellar of Haarlemmer Houttuinen number 5.
"Perhaps," the young constable said. "These casks contain some sort of paste. I believe it is called mizo and they make soup with it. I ate it once in one of these health-food restaurants. The taste isn't too bad if you don't eat too much of it. Innocent stuff anyway but this is different. I picked it up on the floor."
He showed a few crumbs of a sticky dark brown substance. "It looks like mizo but it is harder. I think it is hash."
"You roll your own cigarettes?" Grijpstra asked.
"Sure," the constable said. "You want some cigarette paper?"
Grijpstra mixed a little of the substance with cigarette tobacco, cutting it up with his stiletto. De Gier lit the cigarette for him and Grijpstra took a deep puff and exhaled the smoke. They all sniffed.
"Hash," they said simultaneously.
"We'll send it to the lab to make sure," Grijpstra said, "but it's hash all right."
"Good work," de Gier said to the constable, who looked pleased, but he didn't think much of the find. A few crumbs of hash on the floor meant nothing. Of course these people would smoke hash. Johan, or Eduard, or the girls, or Piet himself, or van Meteren perhaps. And they might drop a little on the floor. Why not? To smoke hash is hardly punishable. To stock and sell it is a crime. If they could find a cask full of the stuff...
"You opened all the casks?" he asked.
"All of them. We had to cut the ropes and pry the lids open with a knife. Nothing but soup paste in there. We prodded them and took samples from the bottom and the sides. Soup, that's all."
"Anything else?"
"Nothing," the constable said, "but it's a hell of a mess here. Dirty. Dead mice and all. And they call it a restaurant. Bah."
"You are still young," Grijpstra said. "The world is held together by dirt. Don't think of it or you'll never eat again."
Before leaving the cellar he stopped and turned around. "I'll tell you something else. Female bodies can be very dirty too. Did you ever think of that? If you would only consider..."
"I don't want to know," the constable said.
De Gier laughed and climbed the stairs. A detective tapped him on the shoulder.
"You got a minute?"
De Gier followed the detective to the restaurant. "You found something?"
The detective shrugged. "Perhaps."
"So?"
"Well, you'll have to decide. You are in charge, aren't you?"
"Grijpstra is in charge."
"That's what I mean," the detective said. "You and Grijpstra, same thing."
"Oh yes?" de Gier asked irritably. "I am a separate entity, you know. We aren't a Siamese twin, you know."
"All right," the detective said. "You are separate. You want to hear what I have to tell you?"
"Please," de Gier said.
"In van Meteren's room, that Papuan gent, we found some funny things."
"I know," de Gier said. "I saw the room. A wild boar's skull, a jungle drum, a collection of twigs and shells and stones and some funny dolls."
"Exactly," the detective said, "and a Lee-Enfield rifle, well kept and wrapped in an oiled cloth, but no ammunition."
"Hey," de Gier said, "he shouldn't have that."
"Right," the detective said, "but the fellow is on the force and he had no ammunition. He told me that he used to be with the New Guinea state police and that he kept the rifle as a souvenir, when the Indonesians took over. He didn't want to surrender his weapon. A patriot. He took it apart and smuggled it in, and the customs didn't notice. Now do I grab him or not? To own a firearm is a crime nowadays. It'll cost him his job and maybe his unemployment benefits. He'll have to pay a fine and his name will be in the books forever."
"What have you done so far?" de Gier asked.
"I told him to report to the armory at Headquarters and ask them to pour aluminum into the barrel, then he can keep it. But I also said that the final decision rests with you. So I can still grab him if you give the word."
"O.K.," de Gier said, "let's do it your way. But tell him to report to the armory this week. If he hasn't been there in seven days' time we'll still grab him."
"Yes, boss."
"And write an unofficial report with a copy for the armory sergeant."
"Yes, boss."
"And don't call me boss."
"No, boss," the detective said.
Grijpstra came into the restaurant, accompanied by a young woman and a little girl.
"Allow me to introduce you."
"De Gier," de Gier said. "You must be Mrs. Verboom."
"Mrs. Verboom has come straight from the airport," Grijpstra said. "This is Yvette. Yvette is very tired, aren't you?" The little girl smiled.
"We mustn't keep you, then," de Gier said. "Can we take you anywhere? Do you have a place to sleep?"
Mrs. Verboom smiled sweetly.
"Don't worry about us," she said. "My father is downstairs with the car. He'll take Yvette home and I'll go there later. I thought you might want to see me right away."
"Yes, that would be a good idea," de Gier said. "This officer will take your daughter down to the car."
The detective took the little girl by the hand. "You want to come with me, dear?"
"Are you a policeman?" the girl asked.
"He is a very nice policeman," de Gier said. "Aren't you?"
"Yes, boss," the detective said.
Grijpstra and de Gier studied the young woman. Piet's taste must have been excellent. Th6rese was a good looking girl but this woman, although at least ten years older than her husband's mistress, and worn out by the trip and possibly tension, was a beauty. De Gier admired the long thick blond hair and the sensual, well-shaped mouth. Mrs. Verboom crossed her legs and produced a cigarette. De Gier smiled and lit it for her. She smiled back.
"I hope you don't mind if I am not sad. I didn't love Piet, not for a long time, and I am not really concerned about his death. I didn't want him to the but if he did, well, then he did."
"I understand," de Gier said.
"And I didn't kill him," she said calmly. "I couldn't have if I had wanted to for I was in Paris. I can prove it easily. I'll give you my address in Paris, so you can check it out."
She wrote the address down and de Gier copied it in his notebook. He would have to ask the chief inspector to contact the French police.
"You are now the only director of the Hindist Society," Grijpstra said.
"Some society," Mrs. Verboom said sarcastically, "some nothing. The house is empty and everybody has left, except van Meteren, I hear, and he was never part of the Society. And he is leaving as well, he tells me. And I saw through the Hindist nonsense a long time ago. Piet converted me when I married him, when I still thought he had something to teach." She looked at the policemen.
"But I am interested in the money, I have to look after my child."
"I am sorry, Mrs. Verboom," Grijpstra said, "but I don't think there is any money. Your husband mortgaged the house and I don't know what happened to the money. There's still a chance we may find it but right now there is no trace of it. Perhaps you can sell the house and make something out of it but I think you should contact Joachim de Kater, your husband's accountant."
Mrs. Verboom looked out of the window.
"The bastard," she said. "For years and years I sweated on this house. I even plastered some of the walls and did carpentry. He made me carry bricks, right up to the top floor, he was too stingy to install a proper hoist. And it wasn't just me. We were all idealists, we were going to improve the mental climate of Amsterdam and make people happy by introducing them to the 'real peace.' We were detached! Ha."
The detectives smiled understandingly.
"And now he has blown the lot. What did he do with the money?"
"I wish I knew," de Gier said. 'Then we might also know if your husband was murdered and if so, why. But we can't find anything. Would you know perhaps if your husband ever dealt in drugs?"
"Hash?" Mrs. Verboom asked.
"Hash, heroin, cocaine, speed, pills, any drug at all." Mrs. Verboom shook her lovely head and allowed her cape to slide down from her shoulders. She wore a thin cotton blouse underneath, with the three top buttons undone. She bowed down a little. De Gier saw her breasts, first one, and then, after a charming twist, the other.
"Hmmpf, hmmpf," he said slowly.
"I beg your pardon?" Mrs. Verboom asked.
"No, nothing," de Gier said. "I said hmmpf hmmpf. I have been saying that a lot lately. No specific meaning. Maybe I work too much."
"May be the warm weather," Mrs. Verboom said and laughed. "Drugs you said. Perhaps he did. He had no morals, I know all about his lack of morals. But he wasn't very courageous and drugs is a risky business... I don't know. We did have hash here, a big tin full of hash. He must have bought it wholesale for there was quite a lot in it. But he never sold any as far as I know. We used to have parties with it, he called it concentration exercises, and he would play special music on his gramophone and we had to be quiet. I enjoyed those parties. Once we had some tomatoes on the table and they were very beautiful. It was the first time I saw what a tomato really is like. Or, rather, that's what I thought at the time. The next day it was just another tomato. Hash is very relaxing, you know."
"You still use it?" de Gier asked.
"No. I gave it up when I went to Paris. Nobody offered me any and I felt no need to start rushing around to see if somebody would give me a stickie. I never smoked much of it. Perhaps we had six parties in all. Anyway, I have to work for a living now. I live a very dull life."
"Why in Paris?" Grijpstra asked.
"My mother is French and we have relatives over there. French is my second language. When I left Piet I wanted to make a complete break."
"So your husband gave people the opportunity to take drugs. But did he ever sell any?" de Gier asked.
"I am not sure," Mrs. Verboom said. "We never sold stickies over the bar or in the restaurant. But perhaps he dealt in it in a big way. Some strange types used to come and visit him and he would receive them in his room and lock the door. Perhaps they were dealers."
"We didn't find the tin you mentioned," Grijpstra said.
"Perhaps somebody took it; van Meteren told me downstairs that somebody broke in during the night after Piet's death."
The detectives went on asking but Mis. Verboom began to repeat herself. She mainly talked about Piet. Grijpstra became very sleepy.
"That'll be all Mrs. Verboom," he said. "You must be tired. I am sure you would like to go to your parents." He knew, by now, that Piet had not been the most charming person in Amsterdam.
