The Rattle-Rat ac-10

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "We're supposed to be in a hurry now," Grypstra said, "and the Volkswagen has to be fixed. Maybe it can still get back to Headquarters. There's a lot the matter with it these days. You think it can still be repaired?"

  "What do you mean?" de Gier asked. "Our trusted steed?"

  "The garage sergeant keeps wanting to throw the car away."

  "Never," de Gier said. "I'll have Jane work on the fellow again."

  "Jane doesn't want to know you anymore."

  "She shares our duties."

  "You're asking too much from Jane," Grijpstra said, "and you give her too little. You've got to entertain that girl in town first, and then try to get her to your apartment. Not the other way around. And don't make her pay for the entertainment."

  "The pathetic whiner hasn't been crying on your shoulder, has she?"

  "Whiner?" Grijpstra asked threateningly. "You didn't really use that expression, did you?"

  "Pathetic female," de Gier said, "and she didn't even fall for my proposition. She never went to my apartment and she never bought me dinner. It was raining that day. My apartment is nice and dry. It was the end of the month. I was short on money."

  De Gier was allowed to pay for the coffee. Grijpstra left the cafe and waited in the car. De Gier scowled as he got into the Volkswagen. "Listen," Grijpstra said, "if we want to keep this car, you have to be nice to Jane. You have to change your egocentric attitude-before we take off to Dingjum."

  "I've no idea where that could be."

  "I'll try to find out, while you prepare Jane for the garage sergeant's perverted desires. Is that understood?"

  "May your bowels swell up with smelly vapors," de Gier said.

  "Please?"

  "Don't get polite on me."

  "I'm always polite," Grijpstra said. "And when I am, I can order you around. Yes? Please?"

  "Some vehicle," de Gier said. "At what speed is the super Citroen traveling now?"

  Grijpstra glanced at the speedometer. "Maximum legal speed."

  "Might she be capable of traveling at twice the maximum legal speed?"

  "Easily. According to the numbers on the speedometer, she could get close to multiplying the restriction by three."

  "That's hard to believe," de Gier said.

  "Do you believe me now?" Grijpstra asked.

  De Gier leaned over. "You sure that gadget is accurate? I hardly hear the engine. Kick that gas pedal a little more, will you?"

  "Like this?"

  "Better," de Gier said. 'The commissaris did say that a bit of a hurry would be in order. This nice straight dike goes on forever. Scherjoen's eye sockets are still staring at me. Get me away from that terror. He'll keep disturbing my thoughts until we crack the case. We still don't know anything. The sooner we get to Friesland, the sooner we'll know. There's a killer about."

  "But why was the subject killed in Amsterdam?" Grijpstra asked. "I can understand that the corpse bought his watch there, and he might select the capital to have his teeth replaced, but why should he get himself shot in Amsterdam? Frisians are strong, pure people, from a free and clean environment. How did get our corpse get involved in the capital's mental and physical pollution? What's behind all this, eh?"

  "Aren't you Frisian yourself?" de Gier asked.

  "I am," Grijpstra said.

  "You're neither strong nor pure nor free nor clean."

  "I grew up in Amsterdam," Grijpstra said. "Only the core of my being is still untouched, but Scherjoen stayed within the freshness of a blessed country, and he still got shot and was burned as well."

  "I don't want to talk to his widow," de Gier said. "That's not my thing at all. You can talk to her."

  "I'll take care of the whole case," Grijpstra said. "I don't want you to get involved in any way at all. I don't even want you to drive this car."

  "Do you hear something?" de Gier asked.

  Grijpstra heard a siren. The siren screamed closer.

  "That's a good motorcycle," de Gier said, looking over his shoulder. "Just look at her go. A Guzzi. I used to ride BMWs. They never went that fast."

  Grijpstra slowed down and aimed for the breakdown lane. The motorcycle parked and the cop walked toward the car, slowly and at ease, pulling a notebook from the side pocket of his white leather coat.

  Grijpstra dropped a window.

  "Would you please get out?" the cop asked. "On the other side? The lane is rather narrow. Any idea how fast you were going?"

  De Gier had gotten out already. Grijpstra slid across the front seats and joined the sergeant. Together they looked down on the cop, who seemed rather slender and had painted lips, mascaraed eyelashes, and varnished fingernails.

  "You're a woman," Grijpstra said.

  The cop studied the adjutant's identification.

  "Adjutant?" the cop asked, and offered Grijpstra her hand. "Corporal Hilarius. What's your hurry?"

  Grijpstra looked out over the Inland Sea, where swans bobbed on the waves, fluffing their feathers and slowly moving their slender necks. Beyond the birds floated a fishing boat with a yellow-coated crew bending over the railing, lifting an eel trap. "How nice," Grypstra said. "I could watch this forever."

  "But we're hard at work," de Gier said helpfully. "Destination Dingjum, a most serious matter. Murder, I'll have you know. We're hot on the trail."

  "Murder in Friesland?" Corporal Hilarius asked, pulling off her helmet and freeing flowing golden curls. The helmet was orange. Grijpstra began to tremble. The yellow of the fishermen's coats, the helmet's bright orange, and the resplendent shade of the girl's hair-were they not contrasts, completing each other? The corporal's low, hoarse voice became a part of the moment. Moments sometimes inspired Grypstra. He wondered whether he would be able to show the sudden abstract harmony in one of his Sunday paintings. Can a sound be shown in color?

  "The murder was at our end," de Gier said, "but the corpse lived on yours. We follow indications that will take us to your province. We're about to interview the dead man's wife."

  Policewoman Hilarius knew about the burning dory, that was front-page news. So was cattle plague.

  "The dike is blocked farther along, you can't see it from here. There's a line of traffic, stalled for a few miles. The disease is rampant in the south, and we're trying to keep it from killing our cows. All trucks and vans are being checked to make sure they don't transport animals. You'll never get through."

  "We are in a hurry," de Gier said. "Maybe you can guide us along."

  A black dot buzzed down out of a cloud. The motorcycle's radio came alive. "Seventeen? Over."

  The corporal grabbed the microphone from the Guzzi. "Seventeen here."

  "What are you doing there?" the helicopter asked. "Give the Citroen a ticket and make your way to the north end of the dike. Maybe you can get something moving. Please?"

  "We're in a bit of a hurry," de Gier said, smiling with perfect strong white teeth. His soft brown eyes glowed pleadingly. His muscular torso bent toward the girl. "Our commissaris's instructions. He wants us to get through with this, the quicker the better."

  The commissaris," Grijpstra said, "who was interviewed " in the Police Gazette last week. The top sleuth who never fails. That's our commissaris."

  The corporal stepped aside and spoke into her microphone.

  "Understood," the loudspeaker on the Guzzi answered. "Park the Citroen against the dike, beyond the bicycle path. Over and out."

  Corporal Hilarius stopped the traffic with an imperative gesture, and de Gier drove across four lanes and parked in the manner requested from above. The helicopter grew in size. Grijpstra and de Gier ran toward the blue-and-white egg, now setting down gently. A little door slid aside, and a leather-clad arm beckoned invitingly.

  "Heights frighten me," Grijpstra said, "and we aren't really in all that much of a hurry."

  But the pilot's arm pulled, and de Gier and the corporal pushed. De Gier thanked the lovely biker. The corporal answered hoarsely that the sergeant was welcome. De Gier jumped
up, the little door snapped shut, and the chopper lifted away and cut through low clouds. The pilot pushed a handle and the machine fell through the next hole in the vapors. The pilot pointed down, shaking his head in disgust at the crawling mess below. Traffic at the end of the dike had tied itself into a snarl. "Dingjum?" the pilot yelled. Grijpstra and de Gier nodded and grinned, the adjutant fearfully, the sergeant cheerfully. The dike ended underneath them. The blues of the North and Inland seas gave way to fertile greens, changing again to the pink and brownish red of dwellings. "Franeker," the pilot yelled. "The most rusti- cally beautiful village in all of our land." The helicopter vibrated into a muddle of dark gray shreds of clouds. Grijpstra no longer looked; he felt he was dying in dirty cotton wool. He did look after a while, because even fear has its limitations. Was he reborn? He was, in the clear emptiness of an uncluttered sky, and there below-hurray!-waited the beloved earth, and the helicopter touched that earth softly with the metal tubes that protruded from its little belly, set itself down, and rested.

  The pilot saluted. De Gier was outside already, and caught his tumbling superior. The helicopter wafted away and pointed its round nose southward.

  Grijpstra expressed his liberation in a short series of jubilant curses.

  "Weren't we in a hurry?" de Gier asked. "You kept saying that, and I passed the message to the goddess on the bike to make her believe in our haste. If she hadn't, we would have a ticket now, and three times the maximum legal speed is an inexcusability that will even drag you into jail. You would have lost your license. Ever met an adjutant-detective without wheels? I saved you again."

  They were on a meadow, at the center of a circling flock of sheep. One sheep was male, and was even now veering off to attack. "Shoo!" Grijpstra yelled. The ram didn't listen. He was in charge of the meadow and aware of an opportunity to show off to his wives. Horns lowered, the ram chose Grijpstra for his target. "Help!" Grijpstra yelled.

  De Gier helped. He jumped the ram from the side, pulled a front and a hind leg, and rolled smoothly over the enemy, holding him down.

  Grijpstra climbed a fence, groaning. De Gier jumped the fence after him, one leg forward, one leg to the rear, arms stretched, head straight.

  "And now?" Grijpstra asked.

  De Gier pointed at a State Police sign displayed under two lime trees that had grown into each other, their branches cut artfully into a raised square, shielding a low building. Grijpstra gathered his thoughts, straightened his bulk, stepped through the door, and beckoned the sergeant to follow.

  A corporal welcomed his colleagues from the south. Grijpstra stated the purpose of his visit.

  "Are you in charge here?" de Gier asked.

  "Lieutenant Sudema is in charge, but the lieutenant has the day off."

  "So you're in charge."

  The corporal wasn't sure. He left a message on the telephone's tape recorder and invited his guests to join him in his Land Rover. He locked the station's door. The journey took them to a greenhouse. A tall man in faded overalls was packing large tomatoes in small plastic boxes. "Lieutenant Sudema," the corporal said.

  Grijpstra explained his presence.

  The lieutenant filled another three boxes. "Douwe Scherjoen?"

  "Yes."

  "Our Douwe. In an Amsterdam dory? Shot and burned?"

  "His skull looked at me," de Gier said. He curled his fingers around his eyes and dropped his head a little. "Like this, but worse, of course, for he was staring at me from some distance."

  "Subject wasn't known to us," Grijpstra said. "Do you have something on subject here?"

  The lieutenant stacked his boxes. "Mrs. Scherjoen is a good friend of my wife, Gyske. The tax detectives have been after Douwe for a while; they were about to bring charges, and if they had, he might have been in serious trouble."

  "Do you personally know the tax detectives who are working on subject's case?"

  "Please," Lieutenant Sudema said. His long dark eyelashes flicked up, and cold light flashed from his steely blue eyes. "Please. I don't want to know them."

  "Was Mr. Scherjoen hiding income?"

  "You understate," Lieutenant Sudema said. He guided his visitors to two chestnut trees behind the greenhouse. A small house was hidden under the trees. Gyske Sudema poured tea in the house while the lieutenant changed into a spotless uniform. Gyske was tight underneath, in leather pants, and well-filled above, in a taut white blouse. Her face was noble and her eyes sedate. De Gier was much impressed. So it was true about the beauty of Frisian women; he had heard tales, but then he had heard a lot of things.

  "Our Douwe is deaV Gyske whispered in sorrow.

  "So we may assume," Grijpstra said, and explained about the orl and the expensive teeth. De Gier wanted to comfort Gyske and tried to prove that nothing can ever be proved conclusively, that there might be an incorrect turn of deduction somewhere, that what seemed to have happened might be altogether off. "Dea or not deaV Gyske Sudema asked.

  "Dea" said de Gier.

  Gyske's sadness became anger. 'They can have the sjoelke. Douwe is a snyunt"

  "Who?" asked Grijpstra, suddenly aware of possible suspicion. "Who can have our Douwe?"

  She pointed to the floor. "The Helliche duvels"

  "Oh, those," Grijpstra said.

  Gyske talked on for a while.

  "Mrs. Sudema," Grijpstra asked, "what are you saying?"

  Gyske switched into Dutch. "I'm saying that Douwe was no good. He was a chauvinist, too. I won't miss our Douwe." Tears ran down Gyske's high cheekbones. "Now Mem will be free."

  "Mem?"

  "Mem means 'mother,'" Lieutenant Sudema said. "Mrs. Scherjoen's first name is really Krista, but she's rather motherly, you see, so everybody calls her Mem."

  "Krista, as in female 'Christ'?" de Gier asked.

  "Yes," Gyske said. "Christ suffered too, to redeem the sins of all of us. Mem suffered to redeem Douwe. Same thing. Douwe was as bad as all of us together."

  "Douwe is dea," de Gier said, glad that he could comfort the young woman after all. Gyske looked unsure. "Is Douwe punished now?"

  De Gier wasn't certain. "Is death a punishment?" He tried his best smile. "But he has been taken away from us; death did remove the subject. If the subject was bad, the removal would be all to the good."

  "Douwe has to be punished," insisted Gyske.

  "I wouldn't know," de Gier said. "Do you? What denomination do you belong to, ma'am?"

  Gyske was Dutch Reformed. "And you?"

  De Gier was nothing. "Of nothing," he added as clarification.

  Lieutenant Sudema fastened his belt and arranged his pistol. In his uniform he was even more handsome.

  "On foot, by bicycle, or by car?" the lieutenant asked. "Would you prefer to walk? A quarter of an hour? We can talk on the way. The Scherjoens live in a stately mansion just outside the village, on the most magnificent estate of the region. The landhus dates back centuries."

  Lieutenant Sudema marched next to de Gier. Both were equally tall. Grijpstra ran after them, an unacceptable situation. He pushed between the two men. "What is a sjoelke?" "An asshole," the lieutenant said. "A grabber for himself. One who never thinks of others. A sour self-spoiler. A sjoelke is a smjunt."

  De Gier looked up at the splendor of elm trees that protected the path. He pointed out a variety of natural beauty. "Great land you have here."

  "Over there is a forest of beeches," Lieutenant Sudema said. "Douwe wanted to cut the trees down. He had no need of beauty. Look there, see that oak on the meadow? That oak is dead, the cows have been ripping the bark. When there's a tree in a meadow, we take the trouble to protect it with a little fence; too much trouble for Douwe."

  Grijpstra admired a cluster of hawthorns and a moat in the shadow of alders. "Why cut beeches? Don't they hold the silence? Isn't silence healthy for the mind?"

  "You know what a foot of beech board sells for?" the lieutenant asked. "Beeches are thousand-guilder notes."

  "A little grabby?" asked de Gier. "Our
Douwe?"

  "To him it was all green," Lieutenant Sudema said sadly. "But he preferred the green of money." He grinned ferociously at his joke.

  "The tax detectives," Grijpstra said brightly, for he was now enjoying the walk; his slow-moving weight kept the others back. "Did they come up with some proof of evasion?"

  "Not yet," the lieutenant said. "Good for Douwe."

  "You've changed sides?" asked de Gier.

  "Tax"-the lieutenant spat the word-"is even worse than Douwe. I don't wish tax-hounds on the worst of us." He shivered. "The country's curse."

  "Right you are," said de Gier. "They clip my wages. Forty percent it was, last month." He shook a fist. "Must I be punished because I work? Must lazy officials in The Hague fatten on the spoils of my labor? Is it my fault that bums on welfare sneer at me through cafe windows while they swill beer at my expense?"

  "You must be Frisian," the lieutenant said with pleasure.

  "I'm Frisian," Grijpstra said. "He's a mere Dutchman. I'm in charge of this case. He's a mere tourist."

  "We detest taxes here," Lieutenant Sudema said, "and we always have. We prefer to be free of the greed of others. We pay for the foolishness of the other provinces. Are they ever grateful? Sales tax! Bah! Ever try to buy a tomato in a store? I exchange mine; barter is the only decent commerce. I swap my tomatoes for sole. My brother fishes from Midlum. We keep our profits here. Gjin sales tax, nit income tax." He blew a bubble of spittle.

  "I really like your language," said de Gier. "So you nit like us?"

  "Dutchmen have to be about, too," the lieutenant admitted, "but not at our cost."

  The sheep that had been running along with them on the other side of the moat had reached a fenced bridge and now pointed their long snouts through its boards. Grijpstra touched one of the woolly faces but pulled his hand back when a coarse tongue licked his fingers. "Filthy beast."

  "Do they belong to Douwe?" de Gier asked.

  "Douwe dealt in sheep," the lieutenant said. "He used to export cows, but all cows are registered now by computers. Sheep can't be identified, they look too much alike."

  "Look at that," Grijpstra said. The mansion was worth admiring. It stared back through large clear window-eyes, gazing over a majestic lawn protected by beeches reaching out their branches. A wide flight of stone stairs flowed easily up to freshly painted, oversized doors. Red bricks framed the large open windows, three on each side, with another row on the first floor, under a thick straw roof. Intricate latticework shielded a veranda that surrounded the house, adding color from blossoming vines. A bent-over old woman was raking the shiny gravel of a path around the lawn. She looked up.