"The more elegant solution," the commissaris said. "We don't want an inquiry by Central Detection. That's really endless trouble. It gets into the papers, too. I've been through that. My wife didn't like it, either."
"You'll be losing your way again," the chief constable said. "Would you like me to get someone to direct you? Anything at all, just specify your request."
"I'll be going with you to Bolsward," the commissaris said.
The Volvo, lead car of the convoy, sped through the quiet night. The chief constable handled the wheel in silence. His noble profile expressed powerful activity. He concentrated on the job ahead.
"I'm not saying," the commissaris said, "that my method is in any way scientific, but we do develop intuition in our line of work, and everything else having failed, I've allowed myself to listen to the inner voice. Not entirely without reason, as you may safely assume. Do I really overreact if I find a connection between Scherjoen's death and his native soil? The man's existence in Friesland was blackened by evil. I haven't been able to interview anyone who had a good word for Douwe. If I keep stumbling along in my chosen direction, I just have to trip over the killer."
"I don't like doing this," the chief constable said. "Oppenhuyzen is essentially a good man, and he's been tortured by excruciating nerve pains. There seems to be no cure for his ailment."
"Weakness," the commissaris said, "attracts evil. I do have four suspects. Three men weakened by greed, and a lady whose very lovingness may have made her slide into darkness. In a way I favor Mem, because if she committed evil she meant it for good."
"Lately I have suffered from toothache," the chief constable said. "When it hurts, I'm not myself. My poor adjutant has been in pain for years, although at times he seems to have fought it successfully. He sometimes seems at peace."
The radio came to life. "Sir, next turn off the highway and then a sharp right will take us to the new quarter. The restaurant faces the boulevard."
"What did he have to gain?" the chief constable asked. "Free cognac and expensive cigars? He paid for that trip to Singapore himself, I'm fairly sure. Or are things worse than I dare to think? A bank account in Switzerland, maybe? I hope we won't be turning up any hidden surprises."
"Sir?" the radio said. "Next block. We'll be hanging back now. There are no exits on the side. If we set ourselves up at the rear of the restaurant, we can catch them if they try to escape."
"Very well," the chief constable said. "Prepare your weapons. No hesitation while arresting the subjects. I want the crew of car number two to back me up. All others watch the rear."
"Understood," four voices answered.
The shopping center was guarded by two high apartment buildings. The Volvo parked. The commissaris got out. He waved at a passing Deux Chevaux, of a bright orange color. The occupant waved back.
De Gier got out of the Deux Chevaux. The commissaris introduced the sergeant. "A coincidence?" the chief constable said. "Will you be coming with us?"
"If you please," de Gier said.
"I was addressing your chief," the chief constable said. "I'd rather have you wait outside. You can expect Chinese suspects. The two men over there are mine, and the two over there are mine too. Please introduce yourself to them. I'm a little short of time now."
The chief constable walked into the restaurant, followed by the commissaris. There were no clients seated at the tables, but young Chinese surrounded the bar.
"Police," the chief constable said loudly. "Checking your residence permits. Your papers, please."
The Chinese in the rear backed off, and the Chinese in front approached, running around the chief constable and the commissaris. They came back again, trying to get away from the policemen now appearing at both sides of the large room. One man remained at the bar, neither young nor Chinese, a fairly heavy man with a rather red face. He wore a tweed suit. "Evening," the man said.
"Evening, Adjutant," the chief constable said. "I had hoped not to find you here. Stay where you are, never mind what goes on."
Behind the bar, an old Chinese smiled at the confusion. The commissaris slipped behind the counter. The old Chinese offered his hand. The commissaris shook it. "Wang," the Chinese said.
"A good evening to you, Mr. Wang."
The young Chinese were shouting at the policemen.
"What are they saying?" the commissaris asked.
"'Rotten egg,'" Mr. Wang said.
The young Chinese made fast beating and kicking movements, turned rapidly on their own axles, breathed sharply in and out. The policemen were quiet behind their drawn guns.
"What are they doing?" the commissaris asked.
"Gymnastics," Mr. Wang said. "Karate. Like in the movies. You know that type of movie? 'Sah! Tohl Wah!'"
"I hardly ever go to the movies," the commissaris said.
"They say that when they fight," Mr. Wang said. He blew and hummed simultaneously. "Never heard that sort of sound? They do that too, when participants close in on each other."
The young Chinese were humming and blowing.
"And where does that get them?" the commissaris asked.
"When they do it in the movies," Mr. Wang said, "they're paid."
"You're under arrest," the chief constable said loudly. "All of you, turn to the wall and put your hands behind your necks. Right away. Hop."
"Hop isn't here," Mr. Wang said.
"Your Dutch is impeccable," the commissaris said.
"I was born here," Mr. Wang said. "I don't want to be Chinese anymore. I prefer to be nothing."
"Weren't you nothing from the beginning?" the commissaris asked.
Wang reached for a bottle of cognac and two glasses. "Are you a Buddhist?"
"You're not right in the head," the commissaris said. "A Buddhist is something. Why should I be anything at all?"
Wang poured the drinks. He gave the commissaris a glass. "I beg your pardon. Your very good health."
"I beg your pardon too," the commissaris said. "Your very good health."
The chief constable was accepting the weapons found on the young Chinese. "Would you like a bag?" Mr. Wang asked. Two revolvers, a pistol, and sue knives were pushed into a white plastic sack. The chief constable put the bag on the counter and looked at Adjutant Oppenhuyzen. He put out his hand. "Your weapon, too, and your identification. Apply for leave in writing. It'll be granted, for the rest of your years, forever, amen, Adjutant."
Oppenhuyzen gave him the requested objects.
"Go," the chief constable said, "and never be seen again."
Oppenhuyzen smiled inanely, pushed himself off his stool, said "Good evening" dreamily, and wandered to the door.
De Gier came in after the suspects had been led out. Eddy rested on the sergeant's hands.
"Away," the chief constable said. De Gier turned about. "Not you," the chief constable said. "I meant the rat. What's a dead rat doing here? Did you find him outside?"
De Gier turned about again. He offered the rat to the commissaris.
"For me?" the commissaris asked.
"For Douwe, sir. Didn't Cardozo say Douwe still needed a gift to present to your suspects?"
"Would you like a bag?" Mr. Wang asked.
Eddy was shoved into white plastic.
"Friend of yours?" Mr. Wang asked.
"Yes," the commissaris said. "Sergeant de Gier. He'll go far, I keep thinking."
"I meant the rat," Mr. Wang said.
"In a way," the commissaris said. "I haven't known him U that long, and I already have a friend, a turtle, who lives in my rear garden. I rather prefer quiet friends. Eddy liked to rattle. I didn't take to the sound."
The young Chinese were shouting on the parking lot. "'Rotten egg,'" Mr. Wang said. "Their conversation is monotonous. I hope to be without it for a while."
"Coming?" the chief constable asked the commissaris.
"I should go back to Amsterdam," the commissaris said. "Rinus, you take me. Cardozo has my car. And then you can drive back to Fries
land. You'll be off tomorrow again, and can sleep late."
The commissaris thanked the chief constable for the adventure and Mr. Wang for his hospitality. He carried Eddy in his bag to the Deux Chevaux.
De Gier waited for the question that wasn't coming, for the commissaris was asleep.
"You're home, sir."
"What?" the commissaris asked. "Right." He got out. De Gier took him to the door of his house and handed him Eddy in the bag.
"Thank you," the commissaris said. "Have a good trip back, Sergeant."
\\ 24 /////
Modern science has developed a type of glass that is transparent on one side and mirrored on the other. The invention benefits detection. With a suspect on one side and a detective on the other, much that was hidden becomes instantly clear. A wall of this type of glass divides two rooms in Amsterdam Police Headquarters. On the suspect's side of the glass wall, much work was done that day, observed by curious eyes hidden behind the mirror. Cardozo and the Madame Tussaud friend didn't know that Adjutant Grypstra watched their movements. They could have known, but they were too busy creating. True creation, the Madame Tussaud friend explained, reconstructs reality. Modern reality may be of divine origin, but once the thing is done, the artist gets his chance in duplication.
Grypstra didn't hear that, or he would have frowned. The adjutant smiled, for he was listening to jazz through earphones connected to a box. He had the box because Jane wanted him to repair it. The box only needed new batteries, and a cassette that Grypstra happened to find on de Gier's desk. He now listened to a jazz mathematician on piano- nameless, for the sergeant had left the label blank. Grypstra smiled because it wasn't often that luck reached him from 264 several sides at once. The beautiful constable and the perfect music met in his mind, housed in a rhythmically wobbling head. Let it all come to me, Grypstra thought, and not by my own effort, and while it does, I can watch those two jokers. While I do nothing myself, all the mysteries are clarified, beginning with the riddle of Douwe Scherjoen's being.
"Yahoo!" and "Whee!" Cardozo and the Madame Tussaud friend shouted while they worked on their tangible expression of the dead man's dark side. Their diligent hands stapled strips of black cotton material to wooden sticks, hinged so that they would move at the pull of a string. Douwe could already sit down and get up. He also had to take a step forward while stretching out his hands, and the hands, emerging from cotton cuffs, were to give the visitor the gift. The gift, sent by the commissaris, waited in its plastic bag. As the bony thumbs kept slipping, the Madame Tussaud friend experimented with wires meant to hold joints together while Cardozo worked on the lights, which hung in the corners of the room and were able to turn and flash.
"A sudden impression," the Madame Tussaud friend said. "It has to work for only a single moment."
Grijpstra's jazz cassette had come to the end, and the adjutant now listened to the artists' dialogue, picked up by microphones and amplified on his side of the glass.
"Never mind Douwe's bright side," Cardozo said, closing the album that he had been studying before. "Let's show him at his worst, chill the visitor with pure nastiness."
'Too abstract," the Madame Tussaud friend said. "They won't believe it. We'll make Douwe beg for forgiveness. Let's give him a pathetic touch."
"Revenge?" Cardozo asked. "He's a ghost now, without peace. He's still a businessman, too. He'll suggest a fair exchange. They can have dead Eddy, and in return they find Douwe's killer."
"Who wants a dead rat?"
"Okay," Cardozo said. "He's threatening them. A dead rat is revolting."
"Death," the Madame Tussaud friend said, "that's what we have to work on. The death of Douwe's burned skull, the black holes of his eye sockets, the limp corpse of the rat, tail and feet hanging down, the end of everything."
The artists took time off, to roll cigarettes, suck smoke, reflect on their intentions. "Frighten them, okay," Cardozo said. "But they've got to feel sorry for him, too. And for themselves, that they reduced him to this state. The murderer is among them."
The Madame Tussaud friend jumped up. "Let's make him more pathetic."
Douwe sat down and got up again, stepped forward slowly. They bent his spine, slowed the movement of the arms, turned the skull to the side, flashed more sudden light.
"Please," Douwe begged, "please help me. I never killed anyone, the punishment was too cruel, fill in the gap, show your guilt, please confess."
He's asking for compassion, Grjjpstra thought, that's better. He wants help. We all want help. We're weakly human. I'm seeing myself now, I'm as damned as Douwe, I'll be damned if I don't want to help him. They're doing a good job.
"Done!" Cardozo and the Madame Tussaud friend shouted. They had pressed a flat black cap on Douwe's skull, and beyond that final touch, there was no more to be done. The skull's reconstruction had succeeded. Only the top part, with the grinning sockets, had been Douwe's property once; the wired-on lower jaw had been picked up in a forgotten corner of the police laboratory, but that the two halves didn't belong together was satisfactorily smoothed over by the shadow of the cap's visor, strengthened by pulsating light.
Cardozo amp; Co. entered Grjjpstra's room. "I didn't know you were here, Adjutant," Cardozo said. "What do you think?"
"Not bad," Grypstra said.
"You hear?" Cardozo asked.
"Who needs praise?" the Madame Tussaud friend asked.
'The adjutant never approves of me," Cardozo said.
"They weren't your efforts so much," the Madame Tussaud friend said. "All you did was hand me tools. But that's fine, you were useful in a way."
The commissaris came in. Cardozo went back to the other room and brought Douwe to life by pulling strings. Douwe got up and offered the dead Eddy. Eddy's eyes glowed a sparkling red in the suddenly switched-on light.
"Really," the commissaris said, "aren't we overdoing this a trifle? I hadn't meant to go quite this far. No. Not at all."
"Okay?" Cardozo asked, rushing into the room.
"Your chief isn't sure," the Madame Tussaud friend said. "Will you be canceling the performance, sir?"
The commissaris shook his head. "I don't want to waste your work."
The telephone near Grijpstra's hand rang. He picked it up. "The reception desk downstairs, sir. Suspects have arrived."
"Go down, Adjutant, and fetch them, one by one. Pyr, Tyark, and Yelte first. Don't go in yourself. Pull the door closed after them, and come here."
Pyr entered the room. Of all the suspects, he resembled Douwe most. Pyr was small and bent forward. What Pyr said, when Douwe offered him Eddy, wasn't Frisian, but the prehistoric scream of those who are suddenly faced with the ultimate threat that life can offer, as the commissaris explained later, yanking his own watch chain until it broke. "Pyr saw his own being," the commissaris explained.
"Trrruahahahahee," Pyr screamed, according to the tape that preserved the sounds of the interrogation room and was played back after the suspects had left.
After that scream, Pyr understood that he was in the presence of a lifeless puppet made of cloth and sticks, nothing to get upset about. Pyr wandered about the room, guiltless but shaken, as could be expected. Grijpstra fetched him and took him to another room. The commissaris casually dropped in. Pyr, angry now, swore in Dutch.
"Mr. Wydema," the commissaris interrupted. "I'm sorry we had you come all this way for this, but I wanted to save you the trouble of endless interrogation."
"You don't have any proof at all!" Pyr shouted.
"Tell me," the commissaris said, "the sheep that you export, do you know their eventual destination?"
"Turkey!" Pyr shouted.
"You collect the money over there?"
Pyr had been to Turkey.
"You ever spend any money there?"
"On what?"
"On purchases? Products? Something to bring back?"
"From Turkey?" Pyr asked. "What have they got out there? Flies? Old women? Holes in the street?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Tamminga," the commissaris said, "that we had to bring you in for this, but…"
"Douwe is in hell," Tyark said, "with a rat. I should have known."
"Why, Mr. Tamminga?"
"But I didn't want to know," Tyark said. "I never like to think about things like that. When they die, they're still somewhere. I'll be too, one day."
"In hell?" Grupstra asked. "What did you do that you deserve hell?"
Tyark shook his head.
"Do tell," the commissaris said. "Something bad?"
"Yes," Tyark said. "I'm rude to my farmhand. And Ushe's dog, he kept stealing and losing my clogs. I shot him for that, but that's years ago."
"Ushe is your wife?"
"Yes," Tyark said. "That's where I'll go, to hell, with a rat."
Tyark left for Friesland.
Yelte Pryk wasn't grateful for Douwe's gift, either, but he kept minding his manners. Yelte raised his hand to greet Douwe. The hand touched Eddy's tail. Yelte stumbled and groped about the room, illuminated by the spotlights.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Pryk," the commissaris said, "that we had you come all the way from Friesland…"
"Douwe pulled me out of the moat," Yelte said.
The commissaris nodded.
Very nice of Douwe, Yelte said. You can be most mistaken in judging others. Yelte's van had slid off the dike, and Douwe happened to come along and pulled him out. Douwe burned out his clutch, and Yelte had expected to be asked to pay, but Douwe never mentioned the expense.
"So you rather liked Douwe?" the commissaris asked.
Yelte wouldn't go as far as that. Some honesty must be held on to. But Douwe in hell, with rats, that was a bit much. Poor Douwe.
Yelte was sent home.
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