The Corpse on the Dike

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  “Please sit down, ladies,” the commissaris said. Mary flopped down on the nearest chair and Evelien sat down on the edge of a couch.

  But what could I have said to the girl? de Gier thought. The boy was dead, wasn’t he? He wasn’t just dead; he was rotting. Should I have said that he had passed away, gone to a better world?

  “Who else lives here, madam?” the commissaris asked.

  “My girlfriend,” Mary said, “Ann Helders; she isn’t here now; she’s on night duty. She’s a nurse.”

  Lesbian, Grijpstra and de Gier were thinking simultaneously. It was the way Mary had said, “my girlfriend.” The words had sounded possessive and defiant. It seemed as if Mary was challenging the men. I live with a girl, so what? I am proud of it. I haven’t got a man, and I don’t want a man. Men are dirt.

  The commissaris was looking at the grim expression on the woman’s face. She hasn’t discovered yet that it’s all right to be lesbian, the commissaris was thinking. She is of my generation. To be different is to be shameful. Times have changed. But we don’t catch up anymore; some ideas have seeped in too deeply—nothing can dislodge them anymore.

  “I see,” the commissaris said. “Did any of you hear the shot? The man was shot, you see, and we think he was shot from the garden.”

  “The garden?” Mary asked. “When was he shot? Do you know that too?”

  “No,” the commissaris said. “Two days ago perhaps but we don’t know the time. We should know tomorrow when the doctor has finished his tests.”

  “I didn’t hear a shot,” Mary said, “did you, Evelien?”

  The girl was trying not to cry. She shook her head.

  “Did you know your neighbor, Miss van Krompen?” the commissaris asked.

  “Hardly. He wasn’t a talkative man. We exchanged a few words when we were both working in our gardens but that’s all. The weather, I think that’s all we ever talked about, the weather.”

  “Did he have any friends?”

  “Don’t think so. The Cat with Boots On sometimes came to see him. He lived farther down, on the dike. I don’t know his real name. We all call him Cat. He’s a crazy-looking man.”

  “Ah,” the commissaris said, “so he did have one friend at least. Where does this Cat live?”

  Mary had closed her eyes and was counting. “Seventh house on the left from here.”

  “We’ll go see him later,” the commissaris said. “Is there anything else you know that you think you should tell us?”

  “No,” Mary said.

  The commissaris looked at Evelien. “You? Miss Dapper?”

  The girl was still crying.

  “Miss Dapper?”

  She got up and rushed from the room.

  “Hmm,” the commissaris said. I’ll make some coffee,” Mary said, “powdered coffee; it’ll only take a few minutes. Do you all take milk and sugar?”

  “Please,” the three men said.

  When Mary left the room Grijpstra got up and began to look at the trophies again.

  “Are you thinking what I am thinking?” de Gier asked Grijpstra.

  “What are you thinking, de Gier?” the commissaris asked softly.

  “Just a combination of some half-observed facts, sir,” de Gier said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Mary is a lesbian,” de Gier said. “She lives with this nurse—Ann Helders, I believe the name was. But Ann brings a friend into the house who becomes a lodger. Our young pretty lady who rushed out of the room just now. Evelien. Mary falls in love with Evelien but can’t show her love because of Ann. The result is frustration. Mary is a violent woman. Her favorite sport is pistol shooting. Violent sports are usually a release for built-up tension. The love of arms points at aggression. A violent and aggressive woman. Evelien starts flirting with the neighbor, a man. Mary doesn’t like that. The flirting goes on and on. Everyday Evelien makes tea for Tom Wernekink and gives him a cup across the fence. They drink the tea together and laugh and chat and Mary watches it all from the house and boils with fury. She can’t kill Evelien because she loves her but she can remove Tom, so one day she sneaks out into the garden next door, calls Tom and shoots him, right between the eyes.”

  “As easy as that, what?” Grijpstra asked.

  “Weren’t you thinking along the same lines as you were fiddling about with that cup just now?” de Gier asked.

  Grijpstra grunted.

  They both looked at the commissaris who had lit a small cigar and was puffing away thoughtfully. “Could be,” the commissaris said slowly. “It explains the shot between the eyes. I tried to work out the distance between pistol, and wound; tomorrow we’ll have exact figures, but I would think the distance must have been some twenty-five to thirty feet. To hit a man between the eyes, with a pistol, at that distance, is a rare feat. And Mary has won a lot of cups.”

  “The psychology I put into my theory is a bit rough,” de Gier said. “There must have been more than just frustration about a few cups of tea. Maybe they aren’t being too truthful with us. Perhaps Tom Wernekink came here often and slept with the girl. Perhaps they were having a proper affair. Mary was threatening the girl and now the girl is too frightened to say anything. It could be that Mary is waving a pistol at the girl right now.”

  “Go and look,” the commissaris said. “Pretend you want to help her bring in the coffee.”

  De Gier got up and left the room. He found Mary peacefully engaged in the small kitchen in the back of the house.

  “You carry the tray,” Mary said. “Sergeant, isn’t it? Should I call you sergeant?”

  “Call me anything you like,” de Gier said.

  Mary’s voice sounded fairly pleasant but when he looked at her face he saw that the muscles were working and that she was biting her thin lips.

  “What do you do for a living, madam?” the commissaris asked.

  “I used to teach.”

  “What?”

  “Mathematics at a high school.”

  “So you have a degree,” the commissaris said.

  “I have.”

  The commissaris stirred his coffee.

  “Did you win all these trophies?” Grijpstra asked.

  “I did.”

  “So you are a crack shot,” de Gier said. “Your neighbor was shot between the eyes, from a fair distance.”

  Mary put her cup down with a bang. “Meaning what?”

  “We try to apply logic when we think, madam,” the commissaris said. “Very few people could hit a man between the eyes from a distance of twenty-five or thirty feet. I have calculated a little and I think that the distance must be about that. I would have trouble to score under such circumstances and I spend a lot of time target shooting. Very few people I know can shoot well enough to equal the performance in your neighbor’s garden. You are a crack shot. You are also a mathematician.”

  “I didn’t shoot him,” Mary said.

  “De Gier,” the commissaris said, “go next door and find out if they have succeeded in making clear plaster prints in the garden. If they have bring them here.”

  “Sir,” de Gier said, and left the room.

  “Now,” the commissaris said to the woman, “if you don’t mind we would like to see all your shoes.”

  “Don’t you need a warrant for a request like that?” Mary asked.

  “I am a commissaris; I don’t need a warrant.”

  “I see,” Mary said and looked at the two men grimly.

  “If you find that my shoes have left prints in the garden next door…” Mary said.

  “We would have another indication.”

  “Commissaris,” Mary said slowly, “I may have been in that garden quite often, for perfectly harmless reasons.”

  “No,” the commissaris said, “you, and Evelien as well, have told us that your neighbor didn’t welcome visitors. He wouldn’t even allow a nice attractive young lady who obviously liked him to join him in his garden. He drank the tea she gave him but he stayed on his side of the fence.
Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why should he allow you to go into his garden? He wouldn’t, would he?”

  “He wouldn’t,” Mary said. “You don’t have to go through the rigmarole of the shoes,” she added. “I admit that I have been in his garden.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. I was wondering what had happened to him and I wanted to shut up Evelien, who was moping about the house, worrying.”

  “And did you see him?”

  “Yes, I stood on a box and looked through the window. He was dead. Shot.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “Because they would think what they are thinking now.”

  “That you shot him?”

  Mary nodded, her square heavy head bobbed up and down. “Exactly. And I didn’t shoot him. Why should I?”

  “Jealousy, perhaps,” Grijpstra said.

  Mary laughed dryly. “Why jealousy? Ann is my girlfriend, not Evelien. If the silly girl wants to play about with men that’s her business, isn’t it? And she wasn’t even successful. He would drink her tea and that was all. What was it to me?”

  “You may have a great liking for Evelien,” the commissaris said. “She is a beautiful girl.”

  “I already have a girlfriend, and I am happy with her and she with me. Why should I run after others?”

  “I don’t know why people should do things,” the commissaris said, “the fact is that they do.”

  The commissaris made a sign to Grijpstra. “Excuse me, madam,” Grijpstra said. “I’ll go tell de Gier that the prints are no longer necessary.”

  “Tell me,” the commissaris said, looking over the rim of his coffee cup, “we are alone now and nobody will overhear us. Did you shoot that young man or didn’t you?”

  Mary got up and rearranged the trophies on the corner table. “I did not.”

  “Do you realize that we have to arrest you?” the commissaris asked pleasantly.

  “By logic, yes. I agree with you that very few people would be able to aim that accurately. One in a hundred thousand perhaps.”

  The fat woman looked desperate. The commissaris didn’t take his eyes off the square face opposite him. He was looking at her eyes, large pale blue eyes, slightly bulging behind the thick curved glasses of her spectacles. He wanted to tell her to relax, not to suffer more than she had to, but he couldn’t find any purpose in saying anything. Mary van Krompen’s situation was decidedly uncomfortable and there was very little he could do about it. She was upset, nervous, anxious and probably quite frightened. All he could do was try not to aggravate her any further. It would be awkward if de Gier and Grijpstra had to drag her into the police car.

  “The pistol,” Mary said suddenly, “surely you have a ballistics department in your Headquarters. You have, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” the commissaris said.

  “Well, they can prove that the bullet didn’t come from any of my pistols. I have two, a 7.65 and a .22. I know the bullet didn’t come from either one and your people can confirm that it didn’t.”

  “Yes,” the commissaris said. “You better give me your weapons.”

  Mary laughed, a harsh grating laugh. “Give me your weapons! Aren’t you afraid that the killer-woman will take a pop at you as well? I would wait a little, if I were you.”

  “Wait for what?” the commissaris asked, surprised.

  “For your two gorillas to arrive. That big burly fellow and the handsome charmer.”

  The commissaris grinned. “Gorillas!”

  Suddenly Mary laughed too. “A gorilla and a gibbon I should have said. The thin chappie looks quite agile, with his long arms and fine face. He could swing himself through the trees; it would be a dainty sight.”

  Mary and the commissaris were giggling together when the two detectives returned and Grijpstra raised his eyebrows at de Gier.

  “The lady wants to give us her two pistols,” the commissaris said to Grijpstra. “Go with her and collect them please, and take the ammunition as well.”

  Mary kept her pistols in the drawer of her nightstand. The arms were wrapped in flannel and looked in excellent repair. “Careful,” Mary said as Grijpstra slipped them into the pockets of his jacket, “they are precision instruments, both of them, and I have spent many hours cleaning them.”

  “Yes, miss,” Grijpstra said politely, “and the ammo please.” He was given two cartons. “Thank you, miss.”

  “Can I pack a few things in a suitcase?” Mary asked. “Your chief wants to arrest me. I am innocent of course, but I am sure you’ll keep me there for a long while. A prisoner has no rights I believe.”

  “You won’t be a prisoner, madam,” Grijpstra said. “You are a suspect and suspects have all sorts of rights. We’ll look after you as best we can.”

  “Yes,” Mary said bitterly, “you won’t let me smoke and you won’t let me read and I’ll sit in a small concrete cubbyhole for hours and hours on end. I have heard stories.”

  “You’ll be all right, miss,” Grijpstra said, and watched the woman pack pyjamas, books, cigarettes and toilet gear into a battered overnight bag.

  When Mary faced the commissaris again she stopped. “Commissaris,” she said firmly.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “I assure you I am innocent and I promise you I won’t run away. My word of honor. Don’t take me with you. If you want me you can send a message and I’ll be with you within thirty minutes. I’ll take a cab if necessary although I don’t have much money. But I don’t want to go into a police cell. Please.” Her underlip was trembling and both Grijpstra and de Gier looked away.

  The commissaris sighed and put a thin old man’s hand on the fat woman’s shoulder. “Believe me, I have to take you with me. All indications point at you. Your prints are in the garden. You failed to inform the police when you discovered the corpse. You are a crack shot and our man has been killed by a crack shot. Very few people know how to handle firearms. There may be a motive. It all adds up to grave suspicion. It is very possible that you are guilty of the most serious crime we know in our law books. If I don’t take you with me I will be guilty of negligence. It’s all very logical; surely you see what I am driving at?”

  “And there is no pity in the law?” Mary asked, her underlip still trembling.

  “Yes,” the commissaris said gravely, “there is pity in the law. There may be many faults in the way this country runs its affairs but the law is compassionate. But not at this stage of the investigation. We have to arrest you and put you into a cell…”

  “All right,” Mary said, “take me then, but you’d better tell Evelien; she’s upstairs.”

  The commissaris nodded at de Gier. Grijpstra opened the door for Mary and waved at the uniformed driver in the commissaris’ car.

  “Do you want me to come with you, sir?”

  “No, Grijpstra,” the commissaris said. “I’ll see you at nine o’clock in my office tomorrow. Wait for de Gier and go home; you can tell the two constables guarding Wernekink’s house to go home as well. The body has been removed and there is nothing else to do over there.” The commissaris stepped back and Mary got into the black Citroën. The driver saluted as he helped her into the car.

  3

  THE RED LIGHT ATTACHED TO THE COMMISSARIS’ OFFICE door was on and his telephone was, temporarily, disconnected. No one, except the chief constable—who could press a special button that engaged a buzzer near the commissaris’ desk—could disturb him now. The commissaris was facing his three visitors. “Yes,” the commissaris said, addressing the public prosecutor, a man in his late forties, conservatively dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt and gray tie, “I know this isn’t usual procedure but I asked these two detectives in because I value their insight and advice.”

  The public prosecutor nodded, Grijpstra smiled and de Gier looked noncommittal. “I appreciate the company of the two gentlemen,” the public prosecutor said slowly, “and the matter is serious enough. We are, aft
er all, trying to reach a decision about the liberty of a human being, and liberty is the greatest good.”

  “Yes,” the commissaris said quietly.

  “But there’s something about this I don’t like so much,” the public prosecutor said, and the laugh wrinkles around his eyes suddenly became very noticeable.

  “Yes?” the commissaris asked.

  “It seems that I am being asked what I think about the possible guilt of Miss Mary van Krompen,” the public prosecutor said. “Your approach should have been different. You should have tried to prove the guilt of the lady to me. You have been questioning her now for two days and you can’t hold her any longer on your own authority. All right. So now my office has to approve her remaining in custody. Fine. The police tell us about their suspicions, the various facts are outlined, we read through the reports of the interrogators, and we make up our mind.”

  “Yes?” the commissaris asked.

  “Yes. But this time you ask me what I think. Are you in doubt about what you should do?”

  The commissaris nodded gravely. “Yes, I am in doubt. Very much so.”

  “Why? The facts seem clear enough. Footprints, nice clear plaster of Paris footprints matching the lady’s shoes. The lady admits that she saw the corpse but she didn’t contact the police; that’s a crime in itself and I hope you’ll charge her with it. And on top of it all the unbelievable accuracy of the shot. A thirty-three-foot distance between weapon and wound according to the experts and the victim didn’t just stand there waiting to be shot between the eyes. He must have moved when he realized his life was in danger, the killer can’t have had more than a few seconds to pull the trigger. Wernekink wasn’t tied to a stake was he, or blindfolded?” The public prosecutor was working himself up into a rage, acting his part at court, facing the judges and the lawyer defending the accused.

  “Ah, hum,” the public prosecutor said, “excuse me, I was being carried away by the clear implications of the evidence facing us. Still, the evidence is undeniable, isn’t it? And the lady is a crack shot; she won a number of prizes and she is the champion of her club.”