"A musket," the commissaris said. "Hmm. Somebody could have stood on the roof of that old houseboat opposite the house and shot him from there. But it's unlikely. The Straight Tree Ditch has been patrolled by riot police all afternoon. They would have noticed something, wouldn't they?"
"Your problem, it seems," the doctor said. "All I found was a corpse with a smashed face. Perhaps someone clobbered him with a hammer, jumped about like a madman and kept on hitting him. How about that?"
He looked at the fingerprint man. The fingerprint man was shaking his head.
"No?" the commissaris asked.
"Don't know," the fingerprint man said, "but I found funny prints. There was blood on the windowsill, not much, traces of blood really. But there was also blood on the wall above the window, small imprints of a round object, like the doctor said. Round. So the madman must have been banging away at the wall as well, and on the windowsill. With a hammer with a round head. There were imprints on the floorboards too."
"Sha," de Gier said.
"Pardon?" the commissaris asked.
"No," de Gier said, "not a hammer. But I don't know what else."
"A ball," Grijpstra said. "A little ball which bounced about. Elastic, a rubber ball."
"Studded with spikes," the fingerprint man said.
"That would explain the imprints. I photographed them and we'll have them enlarged tomorrow. There were marks, groups of red dots. Say you hammer a lot of spikes into a rubber ball, the heads of the spikes will protrude slightly. We can do a test. Leave some open places so that the rubber can still touch whatever it hits and bounce back."
"But there would have been a lot of balls, wouldn't there?" the commissaris asked. "One ball wouldn't do all that damage, so somebody would be pitching them from the roof of the houseboat, one after another, assuming Abe Rogge was standing in the window and taking them all full in the face. And we found nothing. Or did I miss anything?"
"No, sir," Grijpstra said. "There were no balls in the room."
"Silly," de Gier said. "I don't believe a word of it. Balls ha! Somebody was there, right in the room, and hit him and went on hitting him. The first blow knocked him down and the killer couldn't stop himself. Must have been in a rage. Some weapon with spikes. A good-day."
"Yes," the commissaris said thoughtfully, "a good-day. A medieval weapon, a metal ball on the end of a short stick and the ball is spiked. Sometimes the ball was attached to the handle with a short chain. Would explain the marks on the wall and the windowsill, a weapon like that covers a sizable area. The killer swung it and he hit the wall with the backward stroke. What do you say, doctor?"
The doctor nodded.
"So the killer left and took the weapon with him. Nobody saw him, nobody heard him. The riots on the Newmarket may have drowned the noise."
"His sister heard nothing," de Gier said. "She was upstairs part of the time and in the kitchen part of the time. And that young fellow was upstairs too."
"Could have been one of them," Grijpstra said.
"They both benefit by the death," the commissaris said. "His sister inherits and the young man might believe he could take over the business. And we may assume that it was murder as there seems to have been some planning. The riots may have been used as cover and the weapon is unusual."
"Not necessarily," Grijpstra said. "There may have been a good-day on the wall, as a decoration. Someone lost his temper, grabbed it and…"
"Yes, yes," the commissaris said. "We'll have to find out, but I don't want to go back now. Tomorrow. You or de Gier, or both of you. There are a lot of suspects* These hawkers lived outside the law. They don't pay much tax, sales tax or income tax. They always have more money than they can account for, put away in a tin or hidden in the mattress, or under a loose board. We may be dealing with armed robbery."
"Or a friend had a go at him," de Gier said. "His sister was telling me that he had a lot of arty friends. They would come for meals and drink and talk and he would play games with them, psychological games.
They had to admit they were fools."
"What?" the commissaris asked.
De Gier explained.
"I see, I see, I see," the commissaris said, then smiled at Nellie.
"Another glass?" Nellie asked.
"No, coffee perhaps, or would that be too much trouble?"
"Coffee," Nellie said, "yes. It would be the first cup I ever served here. I can make some upstairs and bring it down."
The commissaris looked hopeful. "Does everybody want coffee?"
The five men agreed they all wanted coffee, eagerly, like small children asking for a treat. Nellie changed with them. Her smile was motherly, she wanted to care for them. The feeling in the pink whore's hole changed; the soft-shaded lights, the chintzy chairs, the two low tables with their plastic tops decorated with frilly doilies, the sickening disharmony of pinks, mauves and bloody and fleshy reds no longer inspired the urgency of sex but softened down into an unexpected intimacy; five male disciples adoring the goddess and the goddess cares and gives and flows and oozes and goes upstairs to make coffee in a percolator. Grijpstra reached across the bar and grabbed the stone jar of jenever. The glasses were refilled.
The commissaris sipped. "Yes," he said, and looked over his glass. "Strange place this. So all we have is questions. That remark of yours interested me, de Gier."
De Gier looked up, his thoughts had been far away. "Sir?"
"About Abe Rogge trying to make fools out of his friends. A powerful personality no doubt, even the corpse looked powerful. So he humiliated his entourage. The king and his court. One of the courtiers killed the king."
"We only met one courtier," Grijpstra said, "that young anarchist. Another strong personality."
"Intelligent young man," the commissaris agreed, "and with a grudge. But a grudge against us, the police, the State."
"Against power," Grijpstra said hesitantly.
"And Abe meant power to him?" the commissaris asked. "No, I don't think so. It seemed to me he liked Abe. Did that young lady you talked to like her brother, de Gier?"
De Gier hadn't been listening. The commissaris repeated his question. "Oh yes, sir," de Gier said. "She liked him, and they weren't in each other's way. They lived separate lives, each on a separate floor. They only had an occasional meal together."
"She wasn't dependent on him?"
"No, sir, she works for the university, has a degree."
"We might check her clothes for blood spatters."
"No, no," the commissaris said. "I saw her; she isn't the type to jump about waving a good-day."
"That young fellow you were talking about?"
"No, not him either."
The fingerprint man shrugged.
The commissaris felt obliged to explain. "A man who has killed another man an hour ago will be nervous. Louis was nervous. The corpse, the crying sister, the police tramping about. He was suffering from a slight shock, but I didn't see any signs of a real mental crisis."
"You are the man who knows," the fingerprint man said.
"No," the commissaris said, and drained his glass a little too quickly. "I don't know anything. Whoever says he knows is either a fool or a saint, a blithering fool or a holy saint. But I have observed a number of killers in my life. I don't think Louis has killed a man this afternoon, but I could be wrong. In any case, he has handled the corpse, he has been in the room. There'll be some blood on his clothes, explainable blood, not enough to raise a serious suspicion. The judge won't be impressed."
Nellie came back with a full percolator and five mugs. They drank the coffee in silence.
"Thank you," the commissaris said, and wiped his mouth with his hand. "We'll go now. You have been very helpful, Nellie."
"Any time," Nellie said graciously, "but not when I have clients."
"We won't bother you. Grijpstra, would you mind asking about in the street? Perhaps the neighbors saw something. De Gier!"
"Sir."
"You com
e with me, I have another call to make tonight. I should take Grijpstra but you have more to learn.''
They shook hands with Nellie and trooped out. De Gier was last.
"You are lovely," de Gier said quickly. "I would like to come back one evening."
"A hundred and seventy-five guilders," Nellie said, and her face looked cold and closed. "That'll be for the topless service, and the same for another bottle of champagne if you want more."
"Three hundred and fifty guilders?" de Gier whispered incredulously.
"Sure."
He closed the door behind him. The commissaris was waiting for him but at some distance. Grijpstra was closer.
"Did you try?" Grijpstra asked.
"Yes."
"Any luck?"
"Three hundred and fifty guilders."
Grijpstra whistled.
"What's the matter with the woman?" de Gier asked fiercely.
Grijpstra grinned.
"Well?"
"Her husband was a handsome man. Same size as you. Thick curly hair and an air force mustache. Could have been your brother. He invented that bar for her and lived off the spoils. Until he got knifed one night, by a Canadian sailor who wasn't used to jenever."
"De Gier," the commissaris called.
"Coming, sir," de Gier said.
5
The sudden transition shocked De Gier into consciously registering his surroundings. The small bar, in spite of its cheap gaudiness, had protected him somewhat and the lush femaleness of the hostess had lulled and excited him simultaneously, but now he was outside again, exposed to the clamor of shrieks and thuds and revving engines on the Newmarket and the plaintive wail of ambulances taking battered bodies to hospitals and racing back again. The clamor was far away, and half a mile of solid buildings, gable houses and warehouses and a few churches and towers shielded him from immediate violence, but the conflict's threat was all around him. His fear surprised him because he had never disliked violence before and he had certainly never run away from a fight, so why should he be glad to be out of it now? There would be plenty of opportunity on the square to practice his judo throws, to dodge attacks and have opponents floor themselves by their own weight and strength.
Perhaps it was the intangibility of the threat that unnerved him; the Straight Tree Ditch was quiet enough, guarded as it was by leather-jacketed riot police in pairs, strolling up and down, respectfully greeting the commissaris by either saluting or lifting their long truncheons. The elm trees were heavy and peaceful, their fresh foliage lit by street lights, and the ducks were asleep, floating about slowly, propelled by subconscious movements of their webbed feet, well out of the way of flying bricks, and the human shapes which had been diving into the cold dirty water to get away from charging constables and the relentless approach of police trucks and patrol cars-a common occurrence that night in the waterways closer to the Newmarket.
Grijpstra had marched away and the doctor and the fingerprint man were already on the launch. The commissaris, limping slightly, was a hundred yards ahead when de Gier finally shook himself free from his muddled thoughts. He sprinted and caught up with the commissaris, who looked approvingly at the sergeant.
"Nice," the commissaris said.
"What's nice, sir?"
"The way you sprint. If I run I get out of breath and the nerves in my legs play up." He looked at his watch. "Ten o'clock, we haven't wasted much time so far."
The commissaris turned into a narrow alley which led to another canal. They crossed a narrow footbridge. The commissaris was now walking briskly and his limp was less noticeable. De Gier ambled along, alert because they were getting closer to the Newmarket and might stumble into trouble, but the canal led nowhere, its water lapping gently at age-old crumbling quays and supporting more ducks, sleeping heaps of feathers emitting an occasional pleasant quack. De Gier remembered having read somewhere that ducks spend some twelve or more hours a day in a dream and he envied their daze, a condition preferable to human sleep on a bed. He was trying to imagine what it would be like to be a dazed duck, bobbing about in one of the city's many harbors or canals, when the commissaris stopped and pointed at a small houseboat.
"That's the one I was looking for," the commissaris whispered. "We are going in there and I want you to grab hold of yourself. A strange person lives on that boat but she is an old friend of mine and perhaps she will be of use. She may shock you perhaps but don't laugh or make a remark, never mind what she says or does. She won't be any good to us if we upset her."
"Yes, sir," de Gier whispered, awed by the unexpected warning. There was no need to whisper, the houseboat was still thirty feet away.
De Gier waited on the quay as the commissaris stepped on the short gangway, stood on the narrow ledge of the boat and knocked on the door. The houseboat looked pretty, freshly painted and its windows decorated with red and white checked curtains, tucked up in the middle and lifted toward the sides by pieces of laced braid, and framing geraniums in Delft blue china pots. Loving care had not been limited to the boat itself but had extended to the quay. A small garden grew on each side of the gangway, hemmed in by low ligustrum hedges and consisting of miniature rock gardens, the dislodged cobblestones piled up and serving as rocks, overgrown with trailers paying homage to the delicate orange laburnum flowers which formed the centerpiece of the arrangement. The entire garden covered no more than some twelve square feet, but de Gier, a dedicated balcony gardener himself, was impressed and promised himself to find the spot again, perhaps just to stand there and gaze or perhaps to see if the designer's artfulness would inspire him to do something more imaginative with his flower boxes than he had been able to do so far.
"Who is it?" a heavy voice asked from within.
"It's me, Elizabeth," the commissaris shouted. "Me and a friend."
"Commissaris!" the voice shouted happily. "Come in! The door is open."
De Gier's eyes were round when he shook the lady's heavy hand. She was old, over seventy, he guessed, and dressed in a black gown which hung to the floor. There was a purse attached by straps to the leather belt which surrounded her ample belly, an embroidered purse with a solid silver handle. Gray hair touched her shoulders and there was a knitted cap on the large head.
"Sergeant de Gier," the commissaris said, "my assistant."
"Welcome, sergeant," Elizabeth said and giggled. "You are looking at my cap, I see. Looks funny, doesn't it? But there is a draft here and I don't want to catch another cold. I have had two already this year. Sit down, sit down. Shall I make coffee or would you prefer something a little stronger? I still have half a bottle of redberry jenever waiting for company but it may be too sweet for your taste. How nice to have visitors! I can't go for my evening walk with all this fuss on the Newmarket and I was just saying to Tabby here that there's nothing on TV tonight and he gets bored just sitting around with me, don't you, Tabby?"
Tabby sat on the floor, looking at de Gier from huge slit eyes, yellow and wicked. De Gier sat down on his haunches and scratched the cat behind the ears. Tabby immediately began to purr, imitating the sound of an outboard engine. He was twice the size of a normal cat and must have weighed between twenty-five and thirty pounds.
Elizabeth lowered her bulk into a rocking chair and pounded her thighs. "Here, Tabby." The cat turned and leaped in one movement, flopping down on his mistress's lap with a dull thud.
"There's a good cat," Elizabeth boomed, and squeezed the animal with both hands so that the air was forced out of its lungs in a full-throated yell, which made the commissaris and de Gier jump, but the cat closed its eyes with sensuous pleasure and continued its interrupted purring. "So? Berry jenever or coffee?"
"Coffee, I think, dear," the commissaris said.
"You make it, sergeant," Elizabeth said. "You'll find everything in the kitchen. I am sure you can make better coffee than I can, and while you are busy the commissaris and I can have a little chat. We haven't seen each other for months and months, have we, darting?"
De Gier busied himself in the kitchen, nearly dropping the heavy coffeepot as he thought of what he had just seen. When Elizabeth sat down he had glimpsed her feet, stuck into boots which would be size thirteen. De Gier had seen travesty before, but always in young people. Only a week ago he had helped to raid a brothel where the prostitutes were men and boys dressed up as females. When he had interrogated them, trying to find a suspect to fit the charge of robbery brought in by a hysterical client, he had been a little disgusted but not much. He knew that the human mind can twist itself into any direction. But de Gier had never met with an old man, an old big man, dressed up as a woman. Elizabeth was a man. Or was she? Was this a real case of a female mind accidentally thrown into the body of a male? The houseboat was definitely female. The small kitchen he was moving about in now showed all the signs of female hands having arranged its pots and pans, having sewed tablecloths and curtains to fit the cramped space, selected crockery in harmony with the neat array of cups on the top shelf of the cupboard and crocheted a small cloth in an attempt to make, even the refrigerator look nice and dainty. The room where Elizabeth was now chatting to the commissaris-he could hear her deep voice coming through the thin partition-could be part of a Victorian museum; its armchairs, foot warmers, tea table, framed yellowish photographs of gentlemen with waxed mustaches and high collars had been high fashion, female fashion, a very long time ago.
"Can you manage, sergeant?"
De Gier shuddered. Elizabeth was in the open door, filling it completely; she had to bend her head.
"Yes, Elizabeth." His voice faltered. She was in the kitchen now and he could see the commissaris through the open door. The commissaris was gesticulating frantically. Yes, yes, he wouldn't give the game away, what mis the silly little man worrying about?
Death of a Hawker ac-4 Page 5
