The Rattle-Rat

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "I see where you're going," Cardozo said, "but you want to push her into murder? If it were simple manslaughter, violence of the moment—but this was thought out, and executed without mercy."

  "Listen here, Cardozo. Continuous abuse, twenty, thirty years of torture..." He looked around him. "I think we should go back, this path is a dead end."

  They walked back. "It has taken me a while," the commissaris said, "to see clearly how potentially dangerous marriage can be. Applied boredom, nonsensical pursuits, may wear down the sharp points, but if the togetherness started with passionate love, passionate hatred may easily result. And you're right too, Douwe's end was obviously premeditated. No emotion that suddenly flared up, no unprepared attack that may make the killer feel sorry later. Whoever commits murder in cold blood will be able to forestall our investigation in some sly and clever manner. No, a simple confession is probably out of the question."

  "We're back at the Sudemas' house," Cardozo said. "Shall I ask for more precise directions?"

  "Don't trouble those poor people now," the commissaris said. "We'll take the car. It can't be far. Just down that road* Mrs. Sudema said."

  'The proof," the commissaris said in the car. "That might be another hassle. What happened to the weapon? The Inner Harbor is a mess, our divers won't easily find it in there. Witnesses? I don't think there were any. If Mem persists in protesting her innocence, we can't even trick her. She's Frisian, Cardozo, you have no idea how self-willed we Frisians can be. I was born in Joure."

  "So you won't give up."

  "Never."

  "And Mem Scherjoen won't give in."

  "Never."

  "I heard a Frisian joke once," Cardozo said. "Two Frisian coachmen travel from opposite directions toward a bridge that's only wide enough for one carriage. On the bridge they stop, facing each other. One coachman unfolds a newspaper and begins to read. After an hour the other coachman asks if he can have half the paper. The first coachman gives him half his paper. The second coachman begins to read too."

  "Yes?" the commissaris asked.

  "How do you mean?"

  "So what happens then?"

  "They're now both reading the paper," Cardozo said. "Nothing more happens."

  "How did we manage to reach the freeway?" the commissaris asked. "And why do all those signs point away from Dingjum?"

  A State Police Land Rover stopped behind the Citroen.

  "Now where do you chaps come from?" the commissaris asked.

  "Where would you like to go?" the sergeant asked. "Just tell us and we'll drive ahead. We just heard about you over our radio."

  "Heard what?"

  "A silver Citroen and a disabled but mobile Volkswagen. Call for assistance to colleagues from abroad who are constantly getting lost."

  "I suppose," the commissaris said, "your headquarters considers us to be retarded."

  "Not used to the ways of a country foreign to your own," the sergeant said. "Doesn't that sound better?"

  "The mansion of Mr. and Mrs. Scherjoen, Dingjum," Car* dozo said.

  The Land Rover drove off.

  "Some learn a little slower than others," the sergeant said to die corporal riding with him.

  "These may never learn," the corporal said.

  \\ 14 /////

  DE GIER, DROPPED OFF THAT MORNING, WITH HIS CASES of tomatoes, at the Military Police barracks, shook Private Sudema's hand.

  "I telephoned just now," de Gier said. "Here's a present. Tomatoes, ripe and fresh, a gift from your uncle."

  Private Sudema was taller than his uncle, and broader in the shoulders. His blue eyes sparkled in the sun. "Morning, Sergeant."

  "Shall I help you carry this load in?"

  "Not necessary," Private Sudema said. Other policemen marched about in the yard, giants topped by gleaming hats above white braid draped across their muscular shoulders and torsos, musclemen in black tailored jackets with folded-back lapels, showing off starched white shirts and collars and faultlessly arranged blue scarves.

  "Assistance!" bellowed Private Sudema.

  A still younger man turned sharply, marched up, stopped smartly, and stood to attention. "These cases," Private Sudema barked, "have to be taken to the kitchen."

  The other policeman bent his knees, stacked all four cases, picked up the lowest, and stretched his legs. He marched away at speed. "One, two," shouted Private Sudema.

  "You're both privates?" de Gier asked.

  "I'm first-class," Private Sudema said, pointing at the thin white chevron on his sleeve. "Rank. We're in the military here."

  They walked to the main building. "You wish to visit the island of Ameland?" Private Sudema asked. "In connection with the murder of Scherjoen? You wish to interview the deserter? We'll arrest him today."

  "That would be nice," de Gier said. "Just following up on information received. I'm a detective. I like to detect."

  "Would you mind repeating your purpose to our adjutant, please?"

  Hie adjutant waited behind a polished mahogany table.

  "Sergeant de Gier," Private Sudema said, "who telephoned earlier on. Municipal Police, Amsterdam, detective. Request for assistance re murder Scherjoen. The sergeant brought us four cases of tomatoes, with the compliments of my uncle."

  "The deserter," the adjutant said. "A connection? Please sit down, Sergeant. Were you tipped off? I don't quite get it. Of course, I don't have to get it. But if I did get it..."

  "We sometimes hear something," de Gier said. "Last night I happened to be in Leeuwarden. An irresponsible drunk mentioned your deserter. Nonsense, maybe, but then we never know. We like to follow up. I'm here anyway, so I thought I might check."

  "Is our deserter suspected of having killed Scherjoen?"

  "No," de Gier said. "But there might be a divergence of lines that once met. Separate causes that shared the same effect. One never knows."

  "Coffee?" the adjutant asked. "Sudema?"

  Sudema stood a little more at attention.

  "Could I have the file on the deserter?"

  Sudema marched to a cabinet and yanked open a drawer. He pulled a carton file, brought it over, and handed it to the adjutant.

  The adjutant consulted the file. "Deserter. Air Force. Air- base Leeuwarden. Gone three weeks. Plays football. Champion runner. Hm. Yes. Likes to sail. Almost arrested on three occasions. In Rotterdam. On a highway in the far south and in Dingjum. Hm. Right. Didn't Scherjoen reside in Dingjum?" He looked at Sudema. "Your uncle, now. Isn't he the lieutenant in charge of the State Police station over there?"

  "Lieutenant Sudema sent you the tomatoes," de Gier said.

  "Private Sudema," the adjutant said softly. "Does your uncle drink?"

  "He doesn't not drink, but one can't say he drinks." Private Sudema looked straight ahead. "Uncle Sjurd knows his limits."

  "Where's that coffee?" the adjutant asked loudly.

  Private Sudema marched off. He marched back again. "They're coming, Adjutant."

  They came. Eight privates.

  The private who had carried the tomatoes poured the coffee. The coffee had been waiting on the mahogany table, in a silver pot between a silver milk jug and a silver sugar bowl. The adjutant was given the first cup, de Gier the second; the others received their coffee in order of rank.

  "There you are. Thank you."

  "Why are all of you so tall?" de Gier asked.

  "Fertile Frisian soil," the adjutant said. "Pure air. I won't say that we are a super race, but we came out better. Handsome people, handsome cows."

  "Handsome sheep too?" de Gier asked.

  "Yes," the adjutant said. "When sheep originate here, they come out better." His gaze shot down the length of the table. "Has everyone been served?"

  "Yes, Adjutant," Private Sudema snapped.

  The adjutant stirred. Everybody stirred. The adjutant took a sip. Everybody sipped.

  "Scherjoen bought and sold sheep," de Gier said. "Any sheep in Ameland?"

  "Yes," the adjutant said. "Am
eland is a Frisian isle, so Ameland sheep are Frisian too. A murder motivated by sheep?"

  "I've never been to Ameland," de Gier said.

  "You'll know better," the adjutant said. "I'm only a simple guardian of frontiers, a hunter of deserters, and a protector of royalty, that's all."

  "I don't know anything better," de Gier said. "I know nothing at all. I keep busy in case my superiors might be watching. And it would be nice to spend a day on one of your beautiful islands."

  "Good," the adjutant said. "We all do what we have to do. Sudema."

  Private Sudema replaced his cup.

  "You'll be going to Ameland today."

  "Yes, Adjutant."

  "Or do you have something better to do?"

  "Not today, Adjutant."

  "Fine. The deserter is at home, we have received a report. He doesn't show himself much, but he does happen to be at home. He's been betrayed. The deserter was born in the village in the north and the informer is from the village in the south. The northerners and the southerners do not live in harmony."

  "Adjutant?" said the private who had carried the tomatoes.

  "Yes, my boy."

  "He wasn't betrayed," the private said. "I was on the island and had a drink in the pub, and the southerners were there and had been drinking too. Southerners have a habit of raising their voices. I happened to hear that the deserter would be at his home in the north."

  "You were in uniform?"

  "No, Adjutant."

  "But everybody knows you on the island. You're from the south, aren't you, my boy?"

  "I am."

  "We'll call it a coincidence," the adjutant said.

  "Adjutant?"

  "Now what, my boy?"

  The private was quiet.

  "Whatever you like. Old wives' tales. Foam on a wave. The swirl of a tea leaf. Are you busy today, my boy?"

  "Yes, Adjutant, I have to fetch my motorcycle."

  "You have motorcycles here?" de Gier asked. "What brand? I used to be a motorcycle cop. I rode a BMW."

  "My private motorcycle," the private said. "A brand-new thousand-cc Kawasaki. The dealership is closed after our hours, so I have to pick it up during the day."

  "How about you?" the adjutant asked another private. The private had to visit the doctor. The next in line had to see the dentist. The next three had to attend a party, to celebrate the transfer and simultaneous promotion of a colleague. The last two privates were available for duty.

  "So you two stay here," the adjutant said, "for otherwise there'll be no one in the barracks. Sudema, you'll go alone, but keep things quiet. Two years ago we had some trouble on the island. A Marine, remember?"

  "A deserter?" de Gier asked.

  "Subject was on holiday," the adjutant said. "Ripped a tent while camping—his own, but we don't like boisterous behavior in a military man. Sudema, you go to the subject's house, ring the bell, and ask him to accompany you. If he's unwilling, we'll see what we'll do. Report to me first. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, Adjutant."

  "Call our vessel. The vessel is available? Did the skipper get over his cold?"

  "The ferry?" de Gier asked.

  "Our own vessel," the adjutant said. "Or, rather, lent to us, for it belongs to the Army. The Wet Engineers, to be precise. The skipper is an Army sergeant. Our name has been painted on the ship, so people may think it's ours, but that isn't really the case. The sergeant is borrowed from the Engineers, but the crew are footsoldiers. We're not really in charge, but we make use of the craft."

  "Hello?" Private Sudema asked through the radio. "Barracks here. Over."

  The radio coughed.

  "Are you all right again, skipper?" Private Sudema asked.

  "Right, right. A bit better, let's say."

  "Can you take two men to Ameland?" Private Sudema asked.

  "Why not? It's a nice day."

  "We'll be there soon. Over and out."

  "Fetch the bus," the adjutant barked. "You. Before you fetch your motorcycle."

  The private drove the bus into the yard. The adjutant inspected the vehicle. The ashtray contained two butts. The private excused himself, took the ashtray inside the building, and came running back. He pushed the ashtray back into the dashboard.

  "Where did Sudema go?"

  The adjutant went back into the building. De Gier followed. "Can't find cartridges," Private Sudema said.

  The adjutant and Sudema opened and closed cupboards.

  "I emptied my last clip on the shooting range," Private Sudema said. "There should be a box here."

  The adjutant locked in a file. "Ordered a thousand rounds three weeks ago. They usually take a month. Next week, maybe?"

  "I have an extra clip," de Gier said. "Same caliber. You use twenty-two Magnum too."

  "No," the adjutant said. "Thanks all the same. You have Municipal Police cartridges, and if Sudema lost them, we'd have a week of paperwork. I'm short on clerks too."

  "Don't really need them," Private Sudema said.

  "Exactly," the adjutant said. "Just imagine that, God help us, you wounded a subject. Do you have any idea what a room in the hospital would cost us per day?"

  "But we never shoot anyone," Sudema said.

  "It could happen," the adjutant said, "if we had something to shoot with. It's simple enough. All you have to do is pull a trigger. What happens afterward may be beyond all hope."

  Sudema closed his eyes, considering possibilities.

  "It happened to me once," the adjutant said. "Long ago, but still... In Korea. I'll never forget. We had eight hundred men out there, and ten military policemen. We mostly directed traffic. I was in charge of a crossing. I was short-tempered then. Nobody ignored my orders. We were near the front line, and a carload of Koreans came at me. I motioned to them to stop. The stop sign is international, everybody is supposed to know it, but that vehicle kept coming. Some sort of jeep, of Russian manufacture, and the soldiers in it were from the north. By chance—there's always chance, you know—an American soldier stood next to me and was carrying a bazooka, complete with a rocket in the tube, but he wasn't doing anything, for I was in charge of the position. I took that bazooka and fired it at the jeep."

  "A hit?" de Gier asked.

  "Not much distance, and a big rocket. Hard to miss, Sergeant. It happened that I'd been trying out a bazooka the day before, so I knew what to do."

  "North Koreans were the enemy?" de Gier asked.

  "Let's go," Private Sudema said.

  The bus drove off, the young private at the wheel. "The adjutant is still as short-tempered as ever," Sudema said, "but that time he got a medal."

  The trip didn't take long. The ship was waiting in the port of Harlingen. It seemed in excellent order, sixty feet long, painted blue and white, a clean new flag on the after deck.

  "Nice," de Gier said.

  The skipper welcomed his passengers. "You like my boat? I do too, but she's obsolete, I'm told. There'll be a new vessel next month. Cost as much as a jet fighter, and this one will be sold for scrap."

  "A sturdy craft," de Gier said.

  The skipper caressed the railing. "She'll take you to the end of the oceans, provided you stick to the channels. She's really too deep for here." The boat, with the help of two soldiers, detached herself from the quay. The skipper showed off the engine room. "Nothing ever breaks down," he said. "Pity, really, I do like repairs. Every two weeks the boys and I take everything apart and fit it back together again, but the material is outdated, couldn't break it if we tried."

  "Look here," the skipper said. "Every part is made out of copper. Nice to polish. We do that a lot."

  "Stolen copper?" de Gier asked.

  "What's that?" the skipper asked. "Are you here because of theft? You're a detective, aren't you? I won't have thieves on board, ever. Couldn't stand it. What's this copper that was stolen?"

  "Not on your boat," de Gier said. "I heard that copper was stolen on the island—maybe a rumor. You mentioned copper,
and I thought of what I heard."

  "On Ameland they like to steal," the skipper said. "Have you heard their song?" He sang to the beat of his wrench, tapping on a tube:

  "Three good men from this isle

  Without forethought or guile

  Lifted three beams from a house

  As quiet as a mouse

  The house fell apart

  Now wasn't that smart?"

  De Gier and Sudema applauded, for the skipper had a good voice. They climbed to the bridge, where a soldier handled the wheel. Sudema lit a pipe. The skipper began to cough. "Does the smoke bother you?" Private Sudema asked.

  "The old chest, you know. Should be in bed, but it's a bit boring at home. Better to be here."

  Sudema looked for an ashtray. "Knock it outside," the skipper said. "Portside."

  "Where?"

  "Left. That side. Where the wind isn't coming from."

  De Gier observed the sea that stretched away beyond the merry bow wave, deep blue to the horizon. The flag behind him snapped in the breeze. Seagulls planed effortlessly above the thumping ship as it began to ease itself into the waves. "Lots of thieves in Ameland?" de Gier asked.

  "All residents of islands are thieves," the skipper said. "I'm from an island myself. The sea brings gifts and you pick them up, and before you know it you're picking up everything in sight. A good habit, in a way, as long as you can keep mum about it. The people of Ameland like to talk too much. They even show their thievery in their flag. You know the Ameland flag? Three beams on a blue field, and the moon in it too. Because they like to steal at night. They put in a crown as well, to make things all right again."

  "What did they want with the three beams?"

  "Sell them to a builder," the skipper said. "On the mainland. All landlubbers are fences. They leave the adventurous part to us."

  Sudema came back to the bridge. "Can I smoke down there?"

  "As long as you keep portside," the skipper said. "That's left."

  De Gier followed Private Sudema.

  "Your uncle mentioned copper," de Gier said. "Would the deserter have been lifting copper? There must be a connection to Scherjoen. Did Scherjoen like copper?"