"Afternoon," de Gier said. "I am Sergeant de Gier. I phoned about a quarter of an hour ago. Are you Minette?"
"No, honey," the small girl said. "I am Alice, Minette is waiting for you inside. Come in, dear."
She put a hand on his arm and tugged gently. "My," she sighed, "aren't you handsome!"
"Yes," de Gier said. "I am a beautiful man." He looked into the smiling eyes and noted they were green. Cat's eyes. The face was triangular, like a praying mantis'. He had been looking at a color photograph of a praying mantis in a book he had found in the Public Library. The insect had looked weirdly attractive, the materialization of a subconscious fear with a lovely face but with long arms and claws. A predatory insect, the caption had said. An entity to be careful with.
The girl turned and he followed her into the small hall. A little girl, she wouldn't be much more than five feet high, but well shaped and well dressed in short velvet pants and a loose flowing blouse. Her bare feet were tiny. An imp, a prancing imp. He guessed her to be in her late twenties but the smooth face hadn't shown signs of wear and tear. Maybe she hadn't been in the game too long. He admired the round tight bottom and the black glossy hair, done up in a bun.
"Now that is Minette," Alice said, turning around and stepping back, so that he would enter the room ahead of her. "Here's your sergeant, Minette."
"Woo," Minette said. "Isn't he lovely?"
De Gier felt relieved. Minette was nothing special. A plump girl, rather wide in the hips and with a painted doll's face. Minette sat on a low settee, dressed in a wrap which slipped a little; one breast was visible. De Gier shuddered imperceptibly. The breast looked like the gelatin puddings his mother used to serve on birthdays. They came on a white plate, dripping with a thick cream sauce.
Take your coat off, sergeant," Minette said in the same voice she had used on the telephone. "You were so abrupt when you rang up. Relax, that's what this place is for. Have a drink, come and sit next to me. What would you like? Get him a beer, Alice. We have some really cold beer in the fridge.''
"No," de Gier said. "No drink. I am working. Thanks."
"Have a cigar," Minette said. "Do we still have those long thick cigars, Alice? They were in a big box, with an Indian on the lid, remember?"
Alice brought the box, opened it, put it on a low table next to the corner chair, which de Gier had chosen judging it to be the safest place in the room, and sat down on the carpet, within touching distance of his leg.
"You will have a cigar, won't you, sergeant?"
"Yes," de Gier said. "Please."
The small white hand touched the box, slid over it and picked out a cigar. She caressed it, looking at him languidly, and then rapidly peeled off its plastic skin and licked its end, darting the tip of her tongue in and out. Her small regular teeth showed when she saw that he was watching her. Her long eyelashes came down slowly and then, smiling wickedly, she stuck the cigar into her mouth, turned it around and bit off its end.
"Here you are, sergeant." She lit a match.
"Yes," de Gier said, "thanks. You two girls were with a Mr. Bezuur last night we were told."
"It's hot in here," Alice said. The air conditioner is on the blink. They keep on fiddling with it but it never works when you want it to. You should get a new one, Minette. Do you mind if I take off my blouse, sergeant?"
She took it off before he could say anything. She wore nothing underneath. The breasts were pretty, very small and firm. She stretched and untied her hair, which flowed down her shoulders, and she adjusted the strands so that her nipples were covered. De Gier stared.
"Yes," he said. "It's rather hot in here. Outside too. Putting the windows down doesn't help much either. Now how long were you two with Mr. Bezuur, yesterday? Do you remember the exact times? When did you get to his house and when did you leave?"
"Bezuur?" Alice asked. "Who is Bezuur?"
"That's Klaas, of course," Minette said. "The fat fellow. You were all over him all night, remember?"
"Oh," Alice said. "The piggy man. You were all over him, not me. I only danced about while he drank, and ate. He ate a whole ham. Bah. I am glad he wasn't pawing me. Why don't you get some of your clothes off, sergeant? I can sit on your lap, you'll hardly feel my weight."
"You don't need me in here," Minette said and pouted. "Do you want me to go into the other room?"
"No," de Gier said quickly, "no, no. Stay right here, and I am not taking my clothes off either. For God's sake, can't you two answer a simple question? When did you get to his bouse and when did you leave?"
"Now, now," Alice said, and moved closer. "Don't be uptight, sergeant. We won't make you pay, you are safe in here. Nobody will mind if you stay an hour. It isn't the right day for work, is it?"
"When…" de Gier asked, and half-rose from his chair.
"We got there about nine last night and we left early this morning. Around five o'clock it was, I think. A taxi took us home."
"And Bezuur was with you all die time?"
"Sure."
"Weren't you asleep some of the time?"
"He was there while I slept," Minette said. "Right next to me."
"Sure?"
"Yes. He put his fat leg on me, I couldn't get it off. It stopped the circulation in my ankle and I had to massage it."
De Gier looked down. Alice had been inching herself toward him and was now rubbing herself against his leg.
"Yes," she said. "He was there. I was asleep on the couch some of the time bat I saw him when I woke up. He was there just like you are here now. Sit back, sergeant, I am going to sit on your lap."
"No," de Gier said, and got up.
She followed him to the door. He was standing with his back against the wall, holding his notebook.
"I want your full name and Minette's name. I'll have to write a report."
"Is that piggy man in any sort of trouble?" Alice was standing very close again.
"Not really. We just want to know where he was last night."
She waited while he was making his notes, gave him their names and dates of birth.
"Profession?" de Gier asked.
"You know!" Alice said. "We are callguis."
"Prostitutes," de Gier wrote down. "I've got to go now. Thanks for the information."
"Come back," Alice whispered quickly. "I live two floors up, number five-seven-four. Give me a ring first.
I won't charge you."
"Sure," de Gier said and slipped through the door.
"Like hell," he said a little later, cruelly pushing the gear lever of the Volkswagen. Like bloody hell, a policeman-friend to help her out when she gets into trouble. But she made me feel randy, the little bitch. Just the sort of thing for a day like this.
He had to stop for a traffic light and gloomily watched a big Mercedes which had pulled up next to the Volkswagen. There were two middle-aged men in the back of the car, dressed in suits and ties. They were both smoking cigars. De Gier saw one of them blow out a little cloud of smoke, which disappeared immediately, sucked away by the airconditioning in the car. He looked at the soggy end of his own cigar, and tossed it out of the window, watching it spark as it hit the tarmac. The driver of the Mercedes winked at him. He had pushed his cap to the back of his head, and was loosening his tie.
"Hot, eh?" he asked.
De Gier nodded.
The two men in the back of the car were laughing about something.
"Your passengers are cool enough," de Gier said.
"They are cool," the driver said, indicating the glass partitioning with his thumb. "I am not."
The light changed and the Mercedes accelerated.
"Bounders," de Gier thought. Two bounders and one little sucker to whizz 'em around."
He was thinking about Alice again. Grijpstra had his Nellie. He forced himself to think about something else. He saw the spiked ball, trying to visualize its flight as it approached Abe Rogge's window. Someone was directing the ball, using a device. But what was it? He tried to vis
ualize the device but it blurred as he focused.
11
The Commissaris looked at the young woman who, red-eyed, perched on a highbacked chair, was studying a stain on the wallpaper. They had dispensed with courtesies and he would have to make an opening.
"We were informed that you were friendly with Abe Rogge, miss. Perhaps you can tell us something about him. Any information will help. We know a little about the way he was, but not enough. Someone went to a lot of trouble to kill him. There usually is a strong connection between killer and victim. Perhaps you can help us to find out what bound the two together."
"Yes," the woman said, and sniffled. "I understand. Poor Abe. How did he die? I didn't know until the police phoned me this morning. I didn't dare to phone Esther. She must be very upset."
Grijpstra gave her an abridged version of what the police knew. He left out the gory details.
"Horrible," the woman said.
She calmed down after a while. Her two visitors looked harmless enough and were sipping coffee and smoking cigars, careful to tip their ash into the saucers of their cups. She remembered that she hadn't put an ashtray on the table and got up to fetch one. The two men didn't look out of place in the small modern fiat on the top floor of an apartment building. The commissaris commented on the view. He identified some of the church towers and when he made a mistake, she corrected him.
"Yes," she said. "I understand now. You have come to me because I was his girlfriend, or one of his girlfriends rather. I didn't mind, not very much anyway. Abe could be charming, he knew how to flatter me, and perhaps I didn't want him all for myself. I am reasonably content with my routine. Abe would have upset it if he had moved in. It wasn't just sex either; he often came to talk, about books or about films he had seen and he took me out sometimes.''
"What was he like?" the commissaris asked.
"Crazy."
"How do you mean, miss?" Grijpstra asked.
"Crazy," she repeated.
"In what way?" the commissaris asked. "He didn't pull faces or jump about on all fours, did he?"
"No, no. How can I explain? He had an unusual idea of values. Most people have set values, or no values at all. Abe seemed to change his values all the time, but without being weak. He thought from an angle nobody could grasp. I didn't understand him either and I often tried."
The commissaris had come a little forward in his chair. "That isn't enough, miss. You have to tell us a little more. I cant see the man; we only met him as a corpse, you see. You knew him well…"
"Yes. I'll try. Well… he was courageous. Perhaps that's the word. No fear, no fear of anything. When he thought of something he did it or tried to do it and most of the things he did seemed absolutely pointless. They weren't getting him anywhere but he didn't mind. Perhaps he didn't want to get anywhere. You have heard about his business, have you?"
"Beads," the commissaris said, "and wool."
"Yes. Funny things. He could have been a big businessman, a manager of a large firm perhaps but he preferred to shout on the market, on the Albert Cuyp street market. I wouldn't believe it at first, not until I went there. A showman, hypnotizing the poor housewives, telling them they were creative, and admiring the ugly sweaters and the horrible dolls they had made out of his yarn. It was pathetic to see those inane dumpy women swarming around his stall. And he almost graduated in French. I knew him at the university; he was the best student of our year, the pride of the professors. His essays were brilliant, anything he did was original, but…"
"You make him sound as if he were a failure,'' the commissaris said, "but it seemed he was a great success. His business did well, he was a wealthy man, he traveled a great deal, and he was only in his early thirties…”
"He was a silly man,^n the woman, whom the commissaris had in his notebook as Corin Kops, said.
"It's not so silly to be successful in business," the commissaris said. "For many people it is still the optimal goal."
"I didn't mean it in that way. I mean he was wasting his talents. He could have contributed something to society. Most people just live, like toadstools. They grow and after a while they begin to die. They are living objects, but Abe was much more than that."
"Yes," the commissaris said, and slumped back. "Quite. You said you and he discussed books. What sort of books did he like?"
She pursed her lips, as if she were going to whistle. Grijpstra looked at his watch. His stomach rumbled. "Peckish," Grijpstra thought. "I am feeling a bit peckish. I hope he'll take me to one of those bistros. I could do with a rare steak and a baked potato. A large baked potato."
"Books without a moral. He read some travel books, written by adventurers. People who just roamed about and wrote down their thoughts. And he liked surrealist books."
"Surrealist?" Grijpstra stirred.
"It's a philosophy. Surrealist writers go deeper than the average novelist, by using dreams and unusual associations. They don't bother about surface logic or try to describe daily events but aim for the roots of human behavior."
"They do?" Grijpstra asked.
The commissaris brightened. "Like Nellie's bar, Grijpstra," he said and grinned. "Like what you think when you are fishing, or when you wake up in the morning."
"When I shave?" Grijpstra asked, and grinned too. "Lots of hot water and lather and a new razor blade and nobody in the bathroom and the door locked and swash, swash with the brush."
"What do you think about when you shave?" the commissaris asked. Grijpstra rubbed the short hairs on his skull energetically.
"Hard to say, sir."
The woman showed interest. She was on her way to the kitchen, carrying the dirty coffee cups, but she stopped and turned.
"Try to describe your thoughts," Corin Kops said.
"About the sea," Grijpstra said. "Mostly about the sea, and I have never been a sailor, so that's strange, I suppose. But I think about the sea when I shave. Big waves and blue sky."
"Could you give an example from Abe's life, miss?" the commissaris asked.
"Something surrealistic, you mean? But his whole life was like that. He lived a dream, even when he was being practical. He never gave expectable answers to sensible questions and he always seemed to be changing his mind. There was no set pattern in his life. The man was like a wet bar of soap."
She suddenly sounded exasperated. She looked at the commissaris in desperation. "Once he was here, at night, in the early hours of the morning. There was a gale on. The windows were rattling and I couldn't sleep. I saw him get up and told him to get back to bed. A hard wind always makes me nervous and I wanted him to be with me. But he said he was going sailing, and Louis Zilver told me later that the two of them took that small plastic yacht right out onto the big lake and they very nearly drowned."
She put down the tray. "The Germans killed his parents during the war, you know. Dragged them across the street and threw them into a cattle track and gassed them. But he didn't seem to blame the Germans; he even took German as a second language at the university."
"The Germans must have meant to get him too," Grijpstra said.
"Yes, but the SS patrol missed him. He happened to be playing at a friend's house that morning. He didn't blame the Germans, he blamed the planets."
"Planets?"
"Yes. He thought that the planets, Mercury and Neptune and especially Uranus-he was very interested in Uranus, and all the others, I forget their names-control our lives. If the planets form certain constellations there is a war on earth, and when the constellations change again war stops and there is peace for a while. He had a very low opinion of human endeavor. He thought we are witless creatures, pushed into motion by forces entirely beyond our control. He often told me that there is nothing we can do about anything except perhaps to stop fighting fate and to try and move with it."
"But he was a very active person himself," the commissaris said.
"Exactly. I would say that to him too, but he only laughed and said his activity was due to Uranu
s, which happened to be very powerful at the time of his birth. Uranus is the planet of change."
"So he was hit by a cosmic ray when he was bora and it made him the sort of person he was," the commissaris said. "I see."
"Made him jump about like a squirrel, eh?" Grijpstra asked.
She laughed. "More like an ape, a large hairy mad ape. An ape with strange gleaming eyes."
"Your friend must have been rather unreliable," the commissaris said.
She picked up the tray again but the commissaris' question seemed to sting her. "No. Not at all. He was trustworthy. He always paid his debts and kept his appointments. If he promised anything he would do it."
"Well, we've got to know him a little better," the commissaris said. "Thank you very much. We are ready now. All I would like to ask before we leave is if you remember where you were yesterday afternoon and last night."
She looked frightened. "You don't suspect me do you?"
"Not necessarily, but we'd like to know all the same."
"I was here, all afternoon and all evening. By myself. I was working on some examination papers."
"Did you see anyone? Speak to anyone? Did anyone phone you?"
"No."
"Would you have any idea who could have wanted to kill Abe Rogge?"
"No."
"Do you know what killed him?" Grijpstra asked.
"What? What do you mean?"
"Was it jealousy? Revenge? Greed?"
She shook her head.
"I am sorry," the commissaris said. "One more question has occurred to me. You have described your friend as a rather negative sort of superman. Never got upset, thought that nothing mattered, did everything well, sailed in storms and came back safely, read unusual books, and in French of all languages. Was he really that marvelous? No weaknesses at all?"
The woman's facial muscles, which had been working nervously, suddenly slacked.
"Yes," she said. "He had his weakness. He cried in my arms once, and he cursed himself while he was shaving, here in my bathroom. He had left the door open and I could hear him."
"Why?"
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