The Corpse on the Dike

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  “Handcuffs?” Geurts asked.

  “No,” the man said, “I’ll come quietly. I am not armed.”

  “Let me check,” de Gier said, and ran his hands along the man’s sides and trouser legs.

  “Something in your right pocket,” de Gier said. “Show it.” It was a clasp knife and de Gier transferred it to his own pocket.

  “Thanks, he is yours, Adjutant Geurts.”

  “Thanks, sergeant.”

  “Thanks, thanks,” the man said. “To you it’s work, to me it’s a year in jail.” He said it pleasantly and Grijpstra smiled.

  “Sorry.”

  “All right, adjutant,” the man said. “No hard feelings. But a year is a long time.”

  “I’ll visit you in about a week’s time. Anything you want except cigarettes?” Grijpstra said.

  The man’s eyes grew round. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course.”

  “Some cigars,” the man said. “Small cigars. I have an old friend in jail who likes to smoke them.”

  Grijpstra nodded and waved at the launch of the Water Police, which immediately began to back up, preparing for a U-turn.

  De Gier put his pistol back into its holster.

  “You always keep your gun in your armpit, sergeant?” the man asked.

  “Yes, it doesn’t make a bulge that way.”

  “Very smart,” the man said.

  “De Gier is a smart cop,” Adjutant Geurts said. “Best dressed man on the Force.”

  There was an awkward silence and Geurts put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Let’s go,” Geurts said.

  De Gier looked into the man’s eyes, smiled and touched his arm lightly before turning around. Grijpstra was waiting for him near the van that Adjutant Geurts and Sergeant Sietsema had used to spy on the man’s house and that would now transport the prisoner. Grijpstra walked away as de Gier followed him and de Gier had to run to catch up.

  “A nice job well done,” Grijpstra said heavily.

  “What the hell,” de Gier said.

  “And no fish either,” Grijpstra said grumpily. “We were in the boat for more than an hour. I had the right bait and there’s plenty of fish out there.”

  “Bad day,” de Gier said.

  Their car was parked right at the end of the dike and they had another ten minutes to go. They passed a sleazy café, hidden in a corner of the dike—a shed rather—its crumbly timber badly in need of a coat of paint. Even the metal sign advertising beer was cracked.

  “Coffee?” de Gier asked brightly.

  Grijpstra nodded. They went inside and sat down at a small table, partly covered by a dirty red and white checked cloth. A teen-age boy was watching them from behind the counter. “Two coffees,” de Gier said.

  The boy filled two mugs from an archaic machine, which hadn’t been polished for years, and spilled some of the sickly looking brownish white fluid as he banged the mugs on the table.

  “Why don’t you serve it in a bucket?” Grijpstra asked.

  The boy shrugged his shoulders and went back to the counter where he picked up a telephone. He had just finished dialing his number when a young woman came rushing into the café and ran straight up to the counter.

  “Please let me use the telephone,” she said to the boy. “It’s an emergency. I want to phone the police.”

  “Just a minute,” the boy said.

  “Please, please,” the girl shrieked.

  De Gier had jumped up. He walked over to the girl and touched her shoulder. “Can I help you, miss? I am a policeman.” He showed her his identification but the girl didn’t seem to understand.

  “Please,” she said to the boy. “Give me the telephone.”

  “What happened, miss?” de Gier asked and tried to show her his identification again but she wasn’t paying attention. Grijpstra was amused. The old act, Grijpstra thought, but it’ll misfire for once. Watch the wide shoulders, the strong teeth and the charming smile. And the nose, let’s not forget the nose. Pity he hasn’t had time to comb his hair but perhaps the hair is better in its attractive wild state. It’s curling over his ears and there are the little locks on the noble forehead, of course. Pity the lady isn’t in the right mood to appreciate it all.

  The boy finally put down the phone and the girl frantically dialed the six times two that connects any nervous citizen with the Keepers of the Peace.

  De Gier put his hand on the phone. “Miss!” de Gier shouted, “the police are standing right next to you. Detective-Sergeant de Gier, at your service. Now will you tell me what’s the matter with you?”

  The girl understood. “You are a policeman,” she said softly.

  “That’s right, miss,” de Gier said, “and at that little table over there is another policeman: Adjutant-Detective Grijpstra. Come sit with us and tell us what is wrong.”

  The young woman was pretty and her breathless way of talking and general shyness made her even prettier. She was dressed in a tight pair of faded jeans and a blouse that seemed a little too small to hold her aggressive bouncy breasts. She allowed herself to be led to the table and shook Grijpstra’s heavy hand.

  “Now,” Grijpstra said kindly, “what can we do for you, miss?”

  “It’s my neighbor,” the girl said. “He hasn’t been around for a few days and I have been worrying about him.” She began to cry.

  “Now, now,” de Gier said and gave her his handkerchief. The girl sobbed and wiped her eyes.

  “And?” Grijpstra asked.

  “He never goes out, you see,” the girl said. “Only shopping sometimes. He is always back in an hour. And he is always working in his garden. The garden next door to where I live. But I haven’t seen him in the garden either and his car is outside, where it always is. Just now I really began to worry and I climbed the fence.”

  She was sobbing again and Grijpstra patted her on the back. “Yes, miss. Tell us what happened.”

  “And the door of the kitchen was open and I went upstairs. I had never been in his house before, and there he was.”

  “He wasn’t dead was he?” de Gier asked.

  “Yes,” the girl shrieked, “he is dead. He’s been killed. They’ve killed him.”

  “Let’s go see,” Grijpstra said.

  They walked back, almost as far as the house where the escaped prisoner had been caught. The girl stopped in front of a two-storied cottage.

  “Is this the house where you found your friend?” Grijpstra asked.

  “No,” the girl said. “This is where I have a room. We can go through here and then out into the garden.”

  She opened the door with her key but the two policemen found their way blocked by a short fat woman. “What’s all this?” the short woman asked.

  “Please let them in, Mary,” the girl said. “They are policemen and they want to go next door. Tom is dead.”

  “Police?” the short woman asked suspiciously, without moving.

  De Gier produced his identification and gave it to her. “Sergeant de Gier,” the woman read to herself. “Municipal Police, Amsterdam.”

  “That’s right, madam,” de Gier said sweetly. “Can we go through your house now?”

  His charm didn’t impress the woman. She put out a hand and de Gier shook it. He didn’t like the feel of the hand. The stubby fingers had a lot of force in them.

  “Mary van Krompen,” the woman said. “I am a retired teacher and I live here. You can come through if you like, sergeant, though I don’t see why you should. Evelien is making a flap about nothing like all young girls do. The man is probably sick or something. How do you know he is dead, Evelien?”

  “I saw him,” Evelien sobbed.

  “When?” the short woman asked.

  “Just now. I have been inside his house and he’s on the floor and there’s blood on his face. There’s a hole in his face. I am a nurse, aren’t I? I know when somebody is dead.”

  “All right, all right,” the short woman said.

  “Can I come throug
h too?” Grijpstra asked.

  “You police too?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Any more?”

  “No, madam.”

  “An invasion,” Mary muttered. “Wipe your feet, men! I have been cleaning this damned house all day; don’t muck it up any more than you have to.”

  De Gier didn’t hear her and Grijpstra didn’t answer. They were in the garden and looking at the fence. “You are quite sure that you aren’t making all this up, aren’t you?” de Gier asked the girl. “If there’s nothing the matter with your friend he may be upset if he finds us trampling all over his ground. Legally it would be trespassing and could get us in a lot of trouble.”

  “Please,” the girl said.

  De Gier looked at the fence again. It was five feet high and overgrown with creepers. He put his hand on one of its poles. It felt strong enough. “Right,” he said and vaulted over. The girl, in spite of her disturbed state of mind, opened her eyes widely. The movement had been perfect, supple and seemingly effortless.

  “Wow,” the girl said.

  Grijpstra sighed and explained, “An athlete; he wins lots of prizes. Has a black belt in judo and is a crack shot too.”

  The girl, calmed somewhat by the detectives’ equanimity, had relaxed a little. “Can you do that too?” she asked, looking at Grijpstra for the first time.

  “No,” Grijpstra said. “I am bad at sports, but I fish. Unfortunately I don’t catch much these days. The water is getting too dirty I think.”

  There was a faint smile on the girl’s face. “Never mind,” she said, “I am sure you are a good policeman.”

  “Middling,” Grijpstra said, “but I learn a little every day.”

  “I am a terrible nurse,” the girl said. “I always drop things. I am too nervous.”

  “You can walk round the fence at the end, Grijpstra,” de Gier called, “near the landing, but be careful or you’ll get your feet wet.”

  Grijpstra maneuvered his heavy body round the fence.

  “The window up there is open,” de Gier said. “That must be the window of the room where she said she found the body.”

  The girl joined them.

  “Didn’t you say the kitchen door was open, miss?” de Gier asked.

  She nodded.

  “I’ll go have a look.”

  De Gier’s head appeared in the upstairs window.

  “Yes?” Grijpstra asked.

  “Yes,” de Gier said. “You’d better come up.”

  Grijpstra went into the kitchen and found a short flight of stairs at the back and climbed them. De Gier was standing near the slumped body of a young man. The body was, indeed, dead, and lying on its back with both arms stretched out.

  “I’ll never get used to it, never,” de Gier muttered. “Look, his mouth is open and there is a hole between his eyes. A black hole. Bah.”

  De Gier was very white in the face. He supported himself against the wall.

  “Go next door,” Grijpstra said, “or, rather, go back to the café There won’t be a telephone next door or the girl would have used it in the first place. I’ll wait here. Take the girl home, we don’t want too many people running about.”

  “Yes,” de Gier said. There were large wet spots under the arms of his expensive tailored suit.

  “Go on,” Grijpstra said.

  De Gier left. Grijpstra heard him talking to the girl in the garden. Then the voices faded out. Grijpstra put his hands in his pockets and looked at the dead man again. “Silly man,” Grijpstra asked, “why did you get yourself killed?”

  2

  THE THUNDERSTORM TOOK ITS TIME. OCCASIONAL FLASHES of lightning were followed by thunderclaps, but at long intervals, and the noise of a heavy truck passing on the dike behind Grijpstra and the quietly grinning corpse easily swallowed the rumble of far away thunder. The room was dark and Grijpstra looked about him. There should be a switch somewhere but he didn’t see it. There seemed to be a lot of furniture in the room. Grijpstra slowly revolved on his heels. Bookcases, cupboards, a large old-fashioned TV, several easy chairs, two round tables, a couch, a sideboard. Wherever the wall had offered space a painting had been hung, paintings with gold frames, frilly frames. The furniture was ornamental as well. There were cushions on the chairs and the couch—cushions made of thick gleaming velvet, a tassel on each corner.

  Grijpstra moved. He had to find a switch, even if he would be destroying footmarks and prints. His hands groped along the wall; he stumbled against a chair and hurt his shin. He felt cold and his hands were sweating. His neck itched. The light helped, but not much. A weak bulb illuminated the room, but there were still shadows and the corpse grinned on.

  “Silly man,” Grijpstra said again.

  He sat down on the couch. Why? he asked himself. What had happened? A fight? A disagreement about something? Had the other man threatened the occupant of this rotting, crumbling little hovel? “I’ll kill you for that!” Had he shouted? Hissed perhaps? Had he handled the pistol or revolver dramatically, waving it about? Or was this a cold, bam, you-are-dead affair?

  Grijpstra told himself to observe. First observe, then draw a conclusion perhaps. No. No conclusion. Observation. What did he observe? A dead man, undoubtedly. A man thirty years old, with thick black hair, a heavy mustache and large white teeth, protruding like a rodent’s. No, not a rodent. No mouse or rat. A rabbit. A nice animal. The man looked nice, pleasant, even in death. The grin was horrible, but it was a grin of fear. And surprise. The man had been surprised to meet his death that evening. Evening? Why evening? He might have been shot early in the morning, or in the afternoon. Some time ago now, a day, two days perhaps. Flies had been busy on the face. And the river rats too? No. Grijpstra wiped his face with his large white handkerchief. Not rats. Something strange. What? The furniture. Why would a poor little hovel consisting of a few rooms—a lean-to rather than a house—a shack tottering against the dike, have such a wealth of furniture? There was something else to support this observation. What? Yes; the sports car outside. An expensive new model. The man was a man of property, so why live in a shack? And why was everything so dusty? What else had been dirty? Right, the sports car again. The car was caked over with mud. A year-old car, never cleaned.

  He got up so that he could see the corpse better. He wanted to see its clothes. The corpse was wearing a suit: an old-fashioned suit with a waistcoat. No tie. Dirty shirt, frayed collar. He could see one of the cuffs. Frayed too. Old shoes. Grijpstra moved a little. Hole in the sole. A line of logic. Rich man who doesn’t look after himself. Yes. Look at that enormous easy chair facing the TV. Probably the only chair the man ever sat in. Watching TV. Grijpstra saw the ashtray. Filled with stubs, ash, crumpled empty cigarette packs. The ashtray had overflowed. Empty beer cans too. No glasses, just cans. How many? Grijpstra counted and stopped at fifty; there would be more. A very untidy man. No. Something didn’t click again. What was it? Yes. The garden. He took a step forward and could see the garden through the open windows. A beautiful garden. Neat rows of dahlias, daisies, asters. Shrubs at the side. The cobblestones under the tree had been swept and the garden chair looked clean as well. What had the girl said? “Always in the garden.” So—neat outside, messy inside. Crazy. Why?

  But there was something else that didn’t click. Where was de Gier?

  “Grijpstra,” de Gier said. He was standing in the open door.

  “Yes?”

  “They’ll be a while. I telephoned but I couldn’t locate anyone except the sergeant at the desk. They are all over the town. There was a corpse in the canal, and a corpse in the park, and there has been a fight in a pub somewhere. The doctor is busy and the photographers are and the fingerprint people too. We may have to wait some time. The chief inspector is off duty; his mother is very ill. The commissaris will come. He is visiting friends and they couldn’t reach him straight off.”

  “No,” Grijpstra said. “What about the famous city service? There should be two cars racing around, two cars f
ull of officers. Inspectors and subinspectors. Where are they?”

  “Busy,” de Gier said. “It’s a hot evening.”

  “Well, sit down,” Grijpstra said. “This is a funny place. Look around.”

  “Grijpstra,” de Gier said.

  “No. Let me think. I was thinking something when you came in and now it’s gone again.”

  Grijpstra closed his eyes and the heavy eyebrows came down and almost hid the sockets of his eyes. He frowned and his hands became big powerful fists. What? Ah, yes. The hole. The bullet hole. Right between the eyes. Not a scorched wound, so there had been a fair distance between gun muzzle and victim’s head. A good shot. A very good shot. An excellent shot, considering that the dead man must have been standing close to the window, looking out. And the killer was in the garden. A crack shot. Professional. That had been the thought that flitted through his slow dense brain. Nobody carries firearms in Holland. To carry a firearm is a crime. Even an unloaded gun in a man’s pocket draws a heavy fine and a stretch in jail. To threaten with a toy gun is a crime. Nobody gets a license to carry arms. For sport, yes. But only to take the gun, suitably wrapped up, directly from one’s house to the shooting club, and straight back again. And even a sporting license is hard to get. There are forms to be filled in, and memberships to be obtained, and the police want references. But here a man had been shot, from a distance, and right between the eyes. A gangster? And why, pray, would a gangster shoot a man who works in his garden during the day and who watches his TV in the evening? A man who doesn’t even work? Who only goes out to do a little shopping? Grijpstra groaned. What had they stumbled into now? Into a maniac who hides a horrible secret and another maniac comes and kills him from the garden? No. Amsterdam is a quiet town. A nice quiet town. Grijpstra had spent the afternoon reading through police reports covering nearly three full weeks of daily events. Thefts, burglaries, a few street robberies, a knife fight, suicides, plenty of fires, a house that had collapsed of old age and crushed the leg of a child. The worst that had happened during the last two months had been an Italian bankrobber trying to fire an ancient Sten gun, which had jammed after the third cartridge. The police never stopped talking about it. “Tommy guns,” the young constables had said in the canteens. “It’ll be cannon next and all we have is 7.65 pistols with six cartridges.” The officers had smiled at the constables, patted their heads and said, “Now, now, now.” And here was a man with a hole between his eyes.