“I would like to meet your husband,” de Gier said, “to ask him a few questions. We are investigating the death of Tom Wernekink and have been told that your husband used to see him now and then.”
“Husband?”
“The Cat,” de Gier said.
“The Cat isn’t my husband. I live with him, or he lives with me. My husband is in Australia; he is a silly little man and I am divorcing him.”
“Tell me,” de Gier said, and sipped his coffee.
“Tell you what?”
“Anything. About your being Russian and about Australia and your grandfather being a Russian officer and how come you speak Dutch so well, and about the Cat, and about Tom Wernekink. Anything. I don’t understand, you see.”
“Ah,” she said and stretched out on a chair, putting her bare feet on the table. “The police are curious. Or are you curious?”
“Both,” de Gier said.
“All right. My father was born in Shanghai after my grandfather had escaped from the horrible communists. My father married my mother, who is Dutch. Then they had to escape from Shanghai because the horrible communists were coming again. We went to Australia, or rather they went for I wasn’t born yet. Then I was born. I grew up in Australia and met the little man who married me. And then the Cat came on some business or other and told me about Amsterdam. It all sounded so romantic and I am half Dutch after all, so I took my passport and a suitcase and sneaked out of the house to follow the Cat. And here I am. I have been here for years now, five years I think.”
“And Herkulanovna is your own name?”
“My father’s name. I am still called Mrs. Graham, I suppose, but I am trying to forget the name. Soon I’ll be divorced, I think.”
“And then you’ll marry the Cat.”
She jumped up. “Never. I’ll never marry again.”
“You don’t like the Cat?”
She sat down and finished the last bit of cream and pineapple. “Yes. I like him. But I play the flute; I want to travel and play the flute, and I don’t want the Cat tagging along.”
“Show me the flute,” de Gier said.
“Why?”
“I play the flute too,” de Gier said.
“Do you play well?”
“No. I play some baroque but usually I improvise with my colleague, Adjutant Grijpstra. He has a set of drums in our office; he bangs away and I put in a few trills here and there.”
She laughed. “How lovely. Drums? Real drums?”
“A complete set. Somebody dumped it into our office, years ago now, and we never allowed it to be taken out again. Grijpstra used to play drums when he was a teenager and he started practicing again, very softly of course so as not to disturb the people in the rooms next door. Then I remembered that I used to play the flute; I found it again and now we play together.”
“How very nice,” Ursula said in a ladylike voice, “how very very nice. You must come play with me one evening. The Cat won’t like it but we will send him away.”
“Yes,” de Gier said; “let’s see your flute.”
She produced a black leather box and de Gier took out the flute, assembling it carefully.
“Go on. Play,” Ursula said.
“It’s much bigger than mine,” de Gier said, feeling his way on the instrument. The first note faltered but the second was much stronger.
“Can you read music?”
“Yes,” de Gier said.
'Try this.” She put a sheet of music on the table.
De Gier recognized the part. He shook his head. ‘Too intricate, especially on an instrument I don’t know.”
De Gier took out the small flute that he carried in his inside pocket. Ursula took the flute from his hands and held it in the palm of her hand.
“Beautiful,” she said. “These small flutes are expensive; I wanted to buy one the other day but the Cat didn’t have enough on him. He’ll buy me one later, he said. Let’s hear its sound.”
De Gier blew a long piercing note and then began to play the music that he read from the sheet. He almost stopped when Ursula’s flute joined in. The very first note was so round and full and perfect that he felt shy of his own piercing shrieks, but he looked up and saw the recognition in her eyes and bravely persisted, fighting the temptation to change his style. Soon his quivering song rested on an underground of flowing fluent sound until he felt as if he were a diving bird that flew above and dived through the quiet surface of Ursula’s music. They had, by then, forgotten the written notes on the sheet and were playing something of their own, keeping it simple while feeling for each other’s talent.
“Vivaldi would have liked that,” Ursula said. “You know about Vivaldi?”
“A composer,” de Gier said; “that’s about all I know. Baroque. I have played some of his pieces.”
“He was a priest,” Ursula said, “a wild priest. He taught the nuns and he had red hair. Some of the nuns’ children also had red hair.”
De Gier grinned.
“Music is very much like sex, don’t you think?” There was a light in Ursula’s eyes and de Gier stepped back.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “Pity my colleague Grijpstra isn’t here. He could have joined in. Some of his drumming is very subtle now.”
“Grijpstra,” Ursula said. “I think we can do without him and his drums today. Anyway, we have to go. Are you ready?”
“Go where?”
“Don’t you want to meet the Cat? I must pick him up and you can drive.”
“My car is at the other side of the dike,” de Gier said. “You’ll have to wait a while for me to collect it.”
“Nonsense, we can take my car; it’s parked next to the house.”
“But didn’t you say I had to drive?”
“Yes,” Ursula said. “You drive my car. I only got my license last week and I don’t much like driving.”
The car turned out to be a Morris Minor, brand-new and bright red. De Gier twisted himself behind the wheel and Ursula pushed the other chair as far back as it would go.
“Ursula, Ursula, where are you going?” piped a small voice. De Gier opened his door to see where the sound was coming from and discovered a child standing near the front wheel on his side.
“Who are you?” he asked the dirty little boy who kept on yelling, “Ursula,” at the top of his voice.
“Darling,” Ursula said and got out of the car. She picked the child up and cradled him in her arms. “My sweet, what have you been doing; you are full of mud and snot again.”
“Yours?” de Gier asked.
“No. He belongs to the people next door. Isn’t he a little darling? He isn’t four years old yet but he is an absolute genius. Aren’t you, sweet?” She kissed the child.
“Bah,” de Gier said.
Ursula got back into the car and the child clambered over her lap and began to play with the gearshift. De Gier started the engine and pushed the gearshift into first. The child pulled it out of his hand.
“Put that child in the back, please,” de Gier said in a strained voice, and Ursula picked the boy up. By the time the car joined the traffic on the dike the child was at the shift again, forcing de Gier to hold on to it. The child, finding that the lever wouldn’t budge, began to fiddle with whatever he could so that the car’s lights and blinkers were flashing on and off.
“Shit,” de Gier said.
“Don’t be miserable,” Ursula said; “he’s a little dear. I’ll hold on to him. You just drive.”
“Where are we going?”
She gave an address on the other side of the city and de Gier checked the dashboard. “We are almost out of petrol. Look at that red light going on and off—must be a warning light of some sort.”
“Nonsense. I’m sure the Cat filled the tank yesterday; these indicators never work on new cars.”
They ran out of petrol in the tunnel and de Gier sweated as the tunnel’s warning lights went on. A siren began to howl and a salvage truck came screaming down.
“Out of petrol,” de Gier said to the truck driver.
“Stupid, aren’t you?” the driver said. “That’ll cost you forty guilders. Pay in advance please.”
De Gier showed his police identification.
The driver bent down and whispered into de Gier’s ear. “Listen,” he said, “you have your wife and child in the car so you are not on duty. We have been told that we should report cases like this. I haven’t seen your card; pay, and I’ll forget it.”
“I am on duty,” de Gier said fiercely.
The man sighed and brought out a notebook and a ballpoint. “Name, rank and police station,” he said.
“De Gier, sergeant, Headquarters.”
“Boy, oh boy,” the driver said, “all that trouble for forty guilders. I’m glad I’m not in your shoes. You’re sure you don’t want to pay? If you haven’t got any cash I’ll take a check or any piece of paper and you can pay later.”
De Gier shook his head.
“Right,” die driver said, scowled and attached a hook to the front of the Morris. They were dumped at the parking lot at the end of the tunnel. The truck driver detached the hook and walked back to his truck.
“Hey,” de Gier shouted, “I am out of petrol; don’t leave me here. Tow me to the petrol station over there.”
The man never turned around.
“He’s stupid, isn’t he?” the child said to Ursula.
“Hush.”
“Why can’t he drive? You can drive this car, can’t you?”
“Hush.”
“Do you have a jerrican in the car?” de Gier asked, righting to keep his voice under control.
“No.”
“I’ll be back soon.”
De Gier walked. The station was farther than he thought and when he got there, the attendants were busy and he had to wait.
“Yes?” an attendant asked finally.
“I am out of petrol,” de Gier said. “Can you lend me a can and sell me five or six liters?”
“Mate,” the attendant said. “Please! We have no cans and we’re busy. There are three cars waiting for me now— this is peak hour.”
“Please,” de Gier said.
“Sorry.”
“Look,” de Gier said and put a hand on the man’s shoulder, “look over there. See that small red car with the lady and child standing next to it? That’s my car and my wife and my child. We are stuck. The child has to go home to eat. He’s howling. You have to help me.”
“I have a can without a handle,” the man said.
“Anything.”
“Let me serve those three cars first.”
De Gier waited. The second car wanted oil as well. The third car wanted oil, its screen wiped and the pressure of the tires checked. The attendant got a big tip in advance and spent a full seven minutes. The can was an awkward size and de Gier had trouble carrying it. It was hot and his jacket stuck to his back. He carried the can on his shoulder and the petrol slopped out.
“You are slow, aren’t you?” the child asked.
“Be nice to uncle,” Ursula said. “He’s helping us.”
“He can’t drive.”
“I can’t drive,” de Gier said.
“Your father had a long walk, didn’t he?” the attendant said to the child as they stopped to return the can and fill the tank.
“He is not my father,” the child said. “He is my uncle and he can’t drive.”
The attendant raised an eyebrow at de Gier, who shrugged. “Would your wife like a pair of free sunglasses?” the attendant asked. “We are giving them away today. Every tenth car gets a pair.”
“Wife?” Ursula asked.
“No thanks,” de Gier said and looked at Ursula. “The bill came to twenty-five guilders.”
“I didn’t bring my bag,” Ursula whispered.
De Gier paid.
The traffic was very thick and a number of accidents had clogged the city. They waited at lights that changed color without causing any movement in the interminable rows of cars, buses and trucks that had formed at the crossroads. It was getting hot in the car and the child complained. He wanted a drink and he wanted to go to the toilet. De Gier freed the Morris from the queue and parked the car on the sidewalk. He gave Ursula some money and she took the child to a café A uniformed constable stopped and began to fill in a ticket. De Gier showed his identification.
“Are you on duty, sergeant?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
Ursula came back with the child. As the constable opened the door for her, he bent down and whispered over to de Gier, “You are quite sure, aren’t you, sergeant?”
“Yes.”
“That wouldn’t be your wife and child?”
“No.”
“Suspects in a murder case?”
“Yes.”
“We have been asked to write reports about things like this, sergeant.”
“Do that.”
“I won’t,” the constable said and wandered off.
De Gier was sweating. He was still sweating when they reached the speedway and were coasting toward the south. The child had fallen asleep on the back seat and Ursula’s hand was resting on de Gier’s thigh.
“Sergeant,” Ursula’s low voice said, “I am unhappy.”
De Gier didn’t answer. He tired to concentrate on the traffic and his hands, holding the diminutive steering wheel, were wet.
“Do you know why?”
He shook his head.
“The Cat is boring me. The house is getting smaller every day. I want to get out; I want to fly away. Where do you live, sergeant?”
“Not far away,” de Gier said, pointing vaguely ahead.
“Let’s go there.”
“With the child?”
“We can give him a toy. He is a nice little boy.”
“No, no,” de Gier said.
Ursula looked out the window. She was talking to herself. “Another scared little man. Like the milkman last week. You asked him and he didn’t dare. Scared little men can’t do anything for you. You’ll have to wait. One day it will come.”
“What will come?” de Gier asked.
“Were you listening?”
“You were talking at the top of your voice.”
“The boom-boom,” Ursula said, “the great boom-boom orgasm. I have heard about it but I have never had it. The Cat is too busy; he’s an adventurer, not a lover. I want a lover. You haven’t got a ring on your hand; are you married, sergeant?”
“No,” de Gier said.
“You have girls of course,” Ursula said sadly.
“No,” de Gier said, “it isn’t that.”
“Boys?”
“For God’s sake,” de Gier said.
“So?”
“The Cat,” de Gier said. “You are living with the man, aren’t you?”
“Are you frightened of the Cat?” Ursula asked. “You don’t even know him. He isn’t jealous. He’s busy. Sometimes I don’t see him for a week.”
“No,” de Gier said. The petrol on his shoulder had dried but the smell was still hovering in the car and he felt bilious. The child had begun to snore and some spittle was dribbling down his chin. Ursula had adjusted her hair and he had seen the wet spot under her armpit. The woman was still beautiful—he could see that—but all he wanted now was a bath and the company of his cat, Oliver, and a glass of iced coffee perhaps. No. The thought of coffee aggravated the sick feeling in his stomach. Just a bath, and Oliver stretched out next to him. The cat would have sense enough to be quiet. Ursula was still talking.
“Boom-boom orgasms. You think that’s silly talk, don’t you? You think I am a frustrated girl living in the body of a woman. Perhaps you are right. But surely I have a right…”
“Yes,” de Gier said, “you have your rights. Here’s the address.” They had arrived at a large modern warehouse. The sign at the entrance said “Sharif Electric.”
The Cat was waiting for them
in the lobby. Ursula introduced the two men.
“De Gier. Municipal Police. Ursula asked me to drive her here. I have some questions to ask.”
The Cat looked as he had been described by Evelien. He was smiling and shaking de Gier’s hand.
“Diets is my name,” the Cat said, “but call me Cat, everybody calls me Cat. I have to think of my real name sometimes.”
“Listen,” de Gier said, “I am running behind schedule and have to leave. Would it be convenient for you to come see me at Headquarters this afternoon at four-thirty?”
“Sure,” the Cat said; “I’ll be there. What is it about? Tom’s death?”
“Yes,” de Gier said.
“Poor fellow. I don’t know if I can tell you anything but I’ll help as much as I can. Tom was a friend of mine.”
“Good. Good-bye, Ursula; thanks for the coffee and the ride.”
“And the cream?” Ursula asked.
“And the cream.”
“And the pineapple?” Ursula asked.
“And the pineapple.”
“Goodbye, uncle,” the child said.
De Gier left. He stopped a police car and asked them to drop him at a taxi stand. He took a taxi to the dike, collected the VW and drove home. He had an hour to wash and lie on his bed.
Oliver greeted him at the door by standing up against his leg. The cat’s nails were out but his gesture was so slow and gentle that de Gier only felt a vague scratch. Oliver’s eyes were half-closed and he was growling. De Gier scooped him up, turning him upside down, and the cat’s face touched his cheek. The growl changed into a deep purr. Oliver stretched his front paw, spreading his toes, each toe ending in a long razor-sharp claw, and touched de Gier’s nose with the furry underneath. “Careful,” de Gier said and shook the cat. The paw stayed on his nose but the nails were only touching air.
“Oliver,” de Gier said, “would you like a boom-boom orgasm?” The cat purred.
“You wouldn’t know, would you, since I had you castrated? Remember? Fours years ago now? How you got your injection and you fell asleep and when you woke up the balls were gone and the little bag sewn up?”
The cat stopped purring, stretched and twisted himself free, landing on the floor with a soft thud.
“No, it didn’t hurt,” de Gier said. “You were sleepy, that was all. I’m sorry I had it done to you, believe me. Very sorry. A horrible thing. But you were tearing about the flat all the time and hanging on the curtains and yelling and yowling. I couldn’t have kept you like that. Maybe I should never have bought you. Maybe you would have gone to people with a garden and trees and other cats, and birds to chase.”
The Corpse on the Dike Page 6
