The Rattle-Rat

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "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?"

  Pyr was sent back to Friesland. Tyark Tamminga was sent to Douwe. Tyark, a tall, wide-shouldered man, had to cry a little. He threw his cap on the floor and staggered to the door. The door was locked. Tyark pressed himself against the wall of glass and had to be pried loose by Grijpstra.

  "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.

  The commissaris went down to fetch Mem Scherjoen. He opened the door of the room and waved her in.

  "Douwe?" Mem asked softly.

  Douwe offered Eddy.

  Mem was about to accept the rat when her arms dropped down. "It'll be all right," Mem whispered. "Wait for me, dear. I'll be along and I'll get you out. We'll start all over."

  Douwe tried to give her the rat again.

  Mem turned away.

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Scherjoen," the commissaris said.

  "We'll be together again," Mem said. "Douwe'Il have to learn. I'll never give up. I'll always be with him. I wish I could help the other one, too."

  "Which other one, Mem?"

  "Douwe's killer," Mem said. "He's having a hard time now. And he's alive, maybe that's worse. Can't you make it easier for him, a little?"

  "As long as he won't come forward," the commissaris said, "I may have to wait."

  "You might go to see him."

  "Yes," the commissaris said. "I'll be doing that soon. Did you come by train? Shall I give you a ride back?"

  "That would be nice." Mem touched the commissaris's arm. "You didn't really frighten me. I dream about Douwe, and he does look strange now, very much like what you just showed me in that room. No peace for Douwe yet. Once I can take care of the retarded people, things should get better."

  "They will," the commissaris said.

  "And if you help the other one, we'll all be doing what we can."

  "Absolutely," the commissaris said. "I'll start working on that at once."

  \\ 25 /////

  DE GIER LET GO OF HIS BOOK, SWUNG HIS LEGS OFF THE couch, and grinned at Grypstra and Cardozo.

  "Dinnertime," Grypstra said. "Cardozo is hungry too."

  De Gier covered his eyes with both hands.

  "Food!" Grypstra shouted.

  "Food?" Cardozo whined.

  De Gier was back on the couch. "I'm so slow. Why didn't I understand?"

  "Go on," Grypstra said. "Serve dinner. We worked all day. We've been looking forward to dinner all the way up the dike."

  "Of course," de Gier said. He held up the book. "This woman, who calls herself Martha, also wants to kill her men, and at times she does it, too. All her stories have the same basic subject, and I kept wondering what could be at the bottom of all her troubles."

  "No sole," Grypstra said. "No noodles with tomato stew, no mussel soup. Not the same thing over and over again. An Eastern dish this time, I thought."

  "With a hot sauce," Cardozo said. "We earned a good meal. We were at it again all day while you were sitting on your butt."

  "And this Martha," de Gier said, Is considerably more intelligent than all the men she's married to in her tales, but because they only make her slave, her intelligence hardly shows. The men fart around and then they show up at home and force her to do heavy work, and whatever she comes up with isn't good enough. She has no chance of ever accomplishing anything, so she doesn't, and they aren't pleased and yell at her."

  The doorbell rang. De Gier threw the book down and went to the corridor.

  "Evening," the commissaris said. "I had a hard day. I'm sure you prepared a tasty meal. You can bring me a drink first. Why do you look so sleepy? Have you been napping all day again? The house is a mess."

  "But it wasn't Mem," de Gier said. "If I had finished Martha's stories earlier on, I might have accused Mem. These Marthas don't really kill their husbands, they escape into fantasizing. In the future they just might kill us, but under present conditions they still depend on us. Or they think they do, which comes down to the same thing. Poor souls."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," the commissaris said from the recliner, "and frankly I don't care. Can I have that drink?"

  "No drinks," de Gier said. "No dinner. The stores are closed. Anyone care for a Chinese meal?"

  Cardozo shuddered.

  "Nothing Chinese for poor Cardozo," the commissaris said. "He might be reminded. Whip something up, Sergeant, it's the very least you can do."

  "The kitchen is cleaned out, sir. I thought the case was all wrapped up."

  "You can't know that," the commissaris said.

  "De Gier has been working on the sly," Grypstra said. "I suspected that from the beginning. Against my strict orders. He's had all sorts of help, too. Hylkje couldn't do enough for him. The sergeant has been slithering in and out of the local scene and has kept all available information for himself."

  "You mean you still don't know?" de Gier asked.

  "I want dinner," Grijpstra said.

  "And you?" de Gier asked Cardozo. "You're still after your sheep-buying sheik? What was his name? Hussain bin Allah?"

  "I want dinner too," Cardozo said.

  "My treat," the commissaris said. "At the first place we find, but it can't take long, for
I still have to go somewhere."

  "It's not too hard to find," de Gier said, pulling french fries from a paper bag. "You head for Dokkum, turn at Britsum, and make sure you don't miss Ee and Metslawier."

  "You don't know where I'm going," the commissaris said.

  "What's de Gier saying?" Cardozo asked, chewing his hard-boiled egg.

  "He's speaking Frisian again," Grijpstra said, pulling plastic wrap off boiled meat. "He's linguistic."

  "I learned some good Frisian last night," de Gier said. "Poetic too. Hylkje taught me. She acted it out, too. Want to hear?"

  "Showoff," Grijpstra said, then turned to Cardozo. "I hope you see that now. He's not a good model for you. Real heroes never have to show they are special."

  "And he wouldn't even cook us a meal," Cardozo said. "How could I ever want to imitate him? He really fell through on this case. He blinded me for too long. This egg is old."

  The commissaris paid. "Got to go now."

  De Gier followed him. "You'll lose you way, sir. It'll be dark in a moment, and all those dikes look alike."

  "Come along, then," the commissaris said.

  The commissaris looked over his shoulder. "Another Land Rover." His fists hit his knees. "Ouch. No. I won't have it. Get rid of them, de Gier. You're a good driver. Let's see what you can do."

  De Gier stopped just before the village of Metslawier. The Land Rover parked ahead. "Evening," the sergeant said.

  "I know the way," de Gier said. "I swear."

  The sergeant saluted and marched off. "Well?" the corporal in the Land Rover asked.

  "A legend doesn't have to be true."

  The corporal, a man from The Hague, recently transferred but able to speak Frisian quite well by now, said that legends must be true, just because they are legends. "You're a religious type, aren't you?"

  "Like any Frisian," the sergeant said.

  "So they must be lost. Your faith supports you in believing they are. We showed them the way. We'll tell all the colleagues, and they'll all be happy."

  "I was happy before this came up," the sergeant said, "and I'm still happy. Policemen from below the dike are morons, whether they've lost the way or not."

  "I just wanted you to keep on being happy," the corporal said. "This is paradise, is it not? As soon as doubt comes up, we have to crush it."

  "You haven't lost your way here yet?" the commissaris asked in the Citroen.

  "No," de Gier said, "but then it was all made easy for me.

  "Because you weren't in on it?"

  De Gier took the turn toward Ee. "A little question, sir. Did you intentionally place me in an outside position?"

  "Now whatever makes you think that?" the commissaris asked. "Don't put me on a pedestal, how many times haven't I said that to you? You've always wanted to change me into a legend, but legends are always lies. Sane doubt, Sergeant, will serve you better than creating idols to populate your little heaven."

  "I don't believe you," de Gier said. "Whatever you do has to be intentional. You push someone out and he immediately starts to prove himself, and since he isn't part of the team, he has to approach the problem from a different angle, as you wanted him to."

  "And I'm admiring the proceedings of that free individual?" the commissaris asked. "Stop carrying on so, Sergeant. Have I, anywhere during this inquiry, asked you what you might be doing?"

  "You didn't have to," de Gier said. "You're a good observer."

  "There you go again," the commissaris said, "although it's true that we are now both headed in the right direction."

  "Before we get there," de Gier said, "you might give in. Talk to me now, and you'll be in a better position when you try to trap the man. But maybe you don't need to give your game away now. Are you still testing me?"

  The commissaris stared sadly at low houses clinging to the dike. "Who is the Frisian here? Don't be stubborn, Sergeant. I'm not testing you in any way. All I want to do is meet with the suspect and get back to Amsterdam to see if I can get some rest."

  "Ha," de Gier said. "The suspect can't be arrested. We'll be grabbing thin air. Isn't this a wasted trip, sir?"

  "Now why can't we grab Adjutant Oppenhuyzen?" The commissaris smashed a nonexistent fly between his hands. "We'll make him confess, that's easy enough, contact the Super Police in The Hague, and Central Detection will be here in a jiffy and nab him. True?"

  "Not true," de Gier said. "I think you're testing me again. This, sir, is Engwierum. The adjutant's summer shed is on the next street on the right, at the end, facing the sea. Shall we go?" He parked the car.

  "Hmm," the commissaris said.

  "You prefer me to park in front of the suspect's house?"

  "I lose," the commissaris said. "You're right. I can't arrest him."

  "So why are we visiting the poor fellow?"

  "I lose again," the commissaris said. "It might be better if you'd fill me in first. What do you know, Sergeant?"

  "After you," de Gier said. "You made me set myself up by coming along. I give in. Won't you tell me first what you found out?"

  "Very well," the commissaris said, "but let me lose a little. Answer this question. How wealthy is the adjutant?"

  "He isn't," de Gier said. "Oppenhuyzen drives an old Saab. He doesn't dress well. You've seen his house in Leeuwarden in Spanish Lane, paid for out of his wages, furniture and all. The summer house is constructed from pressed sawdust sheeting."

  "Would he be stashing money in a foreign country?"

  "Not the type, sir. Mrs. Oppenhuyzen doesn't like to travel, and the adjutant doesn't strike me as an adventurer either."

  "No money in an old sock?"

  "I don't think so, sir."

  "Suspect visits prostitutes," the commissaris said, "according to Cardozo. So he does. So what? Once in a while, maybe. It's not a costly habit."

  "Sir," de Gier said, "I'm positive Adjutant Oppenhuyzen never accepted bribes in cash. He went to Singapore at his own expense, to visit a needle doctor. He and his wife stayed in a boardinghouse. The doctor was a friend of Wang's, the restaurant owner we met last night. A good guy, I'm sure."

  "Mr. Wang impressed me," the commissaris said. "He knew what I was talking about. He must be a sage."

  "Are you a sage too, sir?"

  "Hmm," the commissaris said. "Don't get too clever, Sergeant. Attack is easy."

  "Well, maybe the suspect did accept something," de Gier said. "But I'm sure the Triads didn't pay for his Singapore cure."

  "Did the cure work?"

  "No, sir. But Oppenhuyzen did, from time to time, have periods when he suffered no pains."

  "You can switch the engine off now," the commissaris said.

  They walked the rest of the way. "At times there was no pain," the commissaris said, "so we may presume that the suspect could, on occasion, procure a strong drug. Heroin is the best painkiller known to modern medicine. Continuous and excruciating pains in the face are often diagnosed as neuralgia, perhaps an incurable disease. Morphine will do away with the pain, but our doctors don't like to prescribe the drug, and if they do, the quantities are always too small."

  "He could have used a bullet," de Gier said. "Bullets are often better."

  "You're too young," the commissaris said, "but you're excused. I would have made the same comment twenty years ago. Strange, don't you think? The more energy we have, the more suicidal we seem to be."

  "I don't know any better," de Gier said. "Sorry, sir."

  "Neither do I, Sergeant, but at my age the doubt is more subtle. To wish suicide on another seems silly to me now."

  "I said I was sorry, sir."

  "All right, all right," the commissaris said. "Oppenhuyzen accepted heroin to relieve the pain that drove him crazy, in exchange for settling papers and giving advice and general help to a foreign criminal element. Unacceptable, but very easy to understand."

  "If you'd be good enough to tell me what you plan to do now," de Gier said, "my spirits might rise. The chief constable has already se
ntenced the adjutant to official leave for the duration. I don't see how you can go any further. Interrogating an officer from another police corps is illegal, unless you are accompanied by his chief." He looked over his shoulder. "Is the chief constable of Leeuwarden about, by any chance?"

  "There's no flaw in your reasoning," the commissaris said. "But now tell me how you found the connection between Oppenhuyzen and Douwe Scherjoen."

  "Turkey," de Gier said. "I suspected Mem Scherjoen and that fellow Pyr and the other two sheepy types. In every case the motivation would be revenge. Mem was tired of being abused, and Pyr and his mates were attempting to save their business. Grijpstra was working on the cattle dealers, and you were all set to give Mrs. Scherjoen a hard time."

  "And what were you doing?" the commissaris asked.

  'Thinking of Turkish heroin," de Gier said. "Until recently, most heroin came from the Far East through the Hong Kong and Singapore Triads, brought in by so-called nephews of legal Chinese who had been here for generations. They forced their 'uncles' to put them up, hide their heroin, feed and lodge them for free. Many of the local Chinese have restaurants. Some of the restaurants are good, but Wo Hop's place in Amsterdam, where Cardozo entered in innocence, must be a Triad hangout."

  "Yes," the commissaris said, "and I wonder why that place hasn't been raided by us. Protection?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Yes," the commissaris said. "But you can't be sure."

  "Sure enough," de Gier said. "And when I'm back, and you'll be helpful enough to place me off side again, I could look into that protection."

  "A thought," the commissaris said.

  De Gier stopped and rolled a cigarette. "Now, Douwe was described to me as a most evil man, when I stumbled into an acquaintance while I sniffed around in Leeuwarden, looking for heroin. Douwe also made private loans, at killing interest."

  "That upsets you?"

  "Oh, yes," the sergeant said. "Sucking the hopelessly lost?"

  "That's bad," the commissaris said.