The Corpse on the Dike

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  “A quarter.”

  “He was being straight with you, wasn’t he?”

  “Certainly,” the Mouse said indignantly.

  “Did he take part in the actual theft?”

  “No. He told us from the beginning that he would never do any stealing. He only sold the stuff, and only if the job had been properly planned by himself.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, that gave us some self-respect, just what we needed. And we went on from there. We got a few truckloads of lumber and some roof tiles. We even got tools, lovely tools. The only thing we paid for was cement, since we didn’t want to steal a cement truck; they’re too obvious with their turning tanks.”

  “And nobody talked?” de Gier asked.

  “No. Never. I didn’t talk either. The Cat was giving me a bad conscience.”

  “Did he know you are an informer?” Grijpstra asked.

  “No. Nobody knows. My wife doesn’t know. I don’t even know myself. I don’t want to know. And I won’t inform again.”

  “You turned that old friend of yours in,” Grijpstra said; “that wasn’t so long ago. And you told us about the escaped burglar.”

  “I know, I know,” the Mouse squeaked. “I had to do something every once in a while, but it’s all over now. Never again. And they had nothing to do with us or the Cat. You would have caught them anyway.”

  “The Cat is caught,” the commissaris said.

  “Yes. Something went wrong. He warned them, you know.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “The boasting. It never stopped. The Cat couldn’t kill it. We got our self-respect back and we were doing real proper jobs but it wasn’t enough. Not all of us, mind you; some of us knew how to handle the new situation. But some couldn’t. They wanted to be real gangsters and were going to town all the time to watch the pictures. All these old French gangster movies. The silent types with the guns. Pistols and tommy guns, fast cars and nice women with short skirts and a lot of tit on them. They thought they had to be like that. All silly imagination and film nonsense. There are no such people. The Cat told them and I told them too, but they wouldn’t believe it. They were stealing truckloads, big truckloads by then. Containers. Expensive stuff. Color TVs and electrical household goods. Freezers and big stereo radio combinations and stoves and washing machines. The lot. The Cat was selling it for real money, and handing it out as fast as he got it. They would all meet in somebody’s house—like a party—and he would say, ‘You did this so I think you get so much,’ ‘you did that so I think you get so much.’ He would look around and if everybody said OK he handed over the money.”

  “Anybody ever put up a stink?” Grijpstra asked.

  “No. The Cat’s propositions were good. They wanted him to ask them for their opinions. That’s all they wanted, and he did.”

  “What did you do?” the commissaris asked.

  “I studied the truck drivers, followed them about, found out where they stopped on the way. I also got their keys and had them copied. One of the men used to be a locksmith. We would go in my car and follow the truck; I would lift the keys, rush them back to the car, and he would copy them. I would put them back again. But I never did the heavy work.”

  “Ever get into trouble?”

  “No, sir,” the Mouse said proudly. “I have an ordinary car and I look ordinary. Nobody notices me much.”

  “Have a drink.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The four glasses were lined up and the landlord filled them. They raised their glasses and drank.

  “So tell us about what went wrong.”

  “Yes, sir. The boasting as I said. Acting big. Some of them began to swagger about. The houses were all refurnished with wall-to-wall carpets, color TVs, new curtains and furniture and so on. And the gardens were fixed up. And then they bought clothes. And cars, nice cars. Then they began to buy guns. Somebody went to Belgium and came back with an automatic pistol. He showed it around and then some others wanted arms as well. We had been working on an old cruiser, putting in a new engine, and they thought they might do some thieving off ships; that’s why they got the tommy gun. Frightened of the tough sailors, I suppose. The Cat was dead against it. His plans never called for firearms. No violence. Not even when I couldn’t get the keys off one particular truck driver. The Cat used a girl that time. I found out that the driver liked to pick up girls on the way, so the Cat found a nice prostitute in town, made up to her and offered her a good share. She got herself in the way of the driver and he took her; then she suggested parking the truck in a convenient place and going into the bushes. While they were busy out there we emptied the truck.”

  “We?” the commissaris asked.

  “No, not me. I was driving behind the truck in my own car but I only hung about, in case something went wrong. But nothing went wrong. He came back with the girl and didn’t even know he’d lost his cargo; I picked up the girl at the next stop, while he was in the toilet. Ha, he must have pulled a funny face when he realized the girl was gone and his lovely load of washing machines as well. Forty washing machines. The Cat had his full crew working that time.”

  “And the Cat wasn’t there?”

  “No, sir. Never. He thought it out at home, working with the information we brought in. We didn’t mind. He was giving us something to do and paying well. We didn’t want him to stick his neck out.”

  “And he didn’t approve of the firearms, did he?”

  “No. But I don’t think he was too worried. His plans never called for firearms and there were enough older and stable people to keep the others in check. It was only when your silly motorcops blundered into us that it all went wrong.”

  “You people wounded two constables,” the commissaris said.

  “Yes,” the Mouse said, “how are they? The constables?”

  “One is all right; his shoulder is hurt but it isn’t serious—he’ll be on duty again in a few weeks—but the other is bad. Some of the bones in his foot are smashed. He’ll limp for the rest of his life and he’ll have to leave the Force.”

  “Shame,” the Mouse said and looked as if he meant it.

  “But why did they start shooting?” de Gier asked. “Bloody silly, wasn’t it? Theft is a crime, of course, but you people never threatened anyone or hurt anyone or committed any serious offense. If they had surrendered to those motorcops they would only have been charged with theft. Why use firearms? Bloody idiotic! The public prosecutor will make mincemeat of them; they’ll be in jail for years and years now.”

  “Yes, I know,” the Mouse said sadly; “they wouldn’t listen. Boasting. I told you before. They were saying that they would never surrender to the fuzz. The young ones—you see—were talking about getting away and taking the money to some foreign country and living the life. All nonsense. It’s the movies; they shouldn’t show movies like that. Some people can’t take it.”

  “Tommy gun, indeed,” Grijpstra said.

  The Mouse suddenly smiled.

  “Why do you smile, Mouse?”

  “I was thinking about that gun, sir,” the Mouse said. “Very dramatic, that was. I remember the man who brought it from Belgium coming in with it. He was wearing a suit and a hat, just like those French gangsters do, and he had the tommy gun in two parts. He stood in the middle of the room and stuck the clip into the gun. It clicked, a heavy sort of click. And suddenly everybody shut up and looked at him. Very impressive, you know. Even I was impressed.”

  “I am glad he never hit anyone with that tool,” the commissaris said.

  “He only fired once, sir, and he aimed high. He just wanted to make a noise.”

  “Did he tell you?”

  “I heard,” the Mouse said modestly. “I heard.”

  “How much money went through the Cat’s hands?” Grijpstra asked.

  The Mouse looked careful. “I worked it out once, about two million, I think. But he had other things going as well. He was talking of retiring next year and wanted us to
retire as well. He wanted to go abroad.”

  “Hey,” de Gier said, “that girl you were telling us about—the one who seduced the truck driver and kept him in the bushes for a while—that wasn’t Ursula, was it?”

  “No, no,” the Mouse said, “not Ursula. A prostitute from town, didn’t I tell you?”

  “Yes,” de Gier said, “but you might have been mixed up a little.”

  “No. I wasn’t mixed up. I only get mixed up when you all sit and stare at me as if I’m some silly animal in the zoo or a fish in an aquarium. Ursula wouldn’t do, you see; she is too tall. The truck driver would see her in town and remember.”

  De Gier looked relieved and the Mouse saw it and grinned.

  “You like her, do you? Careful, sergeant.” The Mouse wagged a finger.

  “Careful of what?”

  “She is very big. She’ll open up and whoosh, there’ll be nothing left of you.”

  Grijpstra and the commissaris laughed and the Mouse, happy with his success, jumped up and doubled over with mirth.

  “OK, OK, OK,” de Gier said.

  “Never mind, sergeant,” the Mouse said; “I was only joking. She is a nice girl. You should try, you know, maybe you’ll be lucky. She isn’t faithful and the Cat doesn’t mind.”

  “He’ll be away for a while,” Grijpstra said thoughtfully and looked at de Gier.

  The commissaris waved a small hand.

  “All right, we know about the sergeant’s weaknesses. Thank you, Mouse; we know a little more now. You didn’t tell us what your information is worth to you.”

  “No, sir,” the Mouse said nervously, “no money. I am through. If ever you want some friendly advice let me know, but, if I give it, it’ll be free. For nothing. And I’ll only give it to you, or to the adjutant or the sergeant. No one else.”

  “What are you going to do now, Mouse?” Grijpstra asked.

  “Fish,” the Mouse said. “You fish too, I know. I have found some good spots; we can go together sometime. Not on the dike. I don’t want to be seen with the police.”

  “What else?”

  “Nothing,” the Mouse said. “I’m getting old. I’ll be seventy in two years’ time.”

  The Mouse looked happy now and his small beady eyes were glinting. He called for a round and put a note on the counter. “You too,” he said to the skeleton and the skeleton poured an extra glass and raised it solemnly.

  “You feel better now, Mouse?” Grijpstra asked, his voice sounding almost tender. That’s the way he talks to his small son, de Gier thought. Grijpstra was fond of his small son who often came to Headquarters as he and de Gier were about to leave their office for the day. He’d pull Grijpstra’s jacket and force him to leave his papers alone and go home.

  “There’s one little last question, Mouse,” the commissaris said.

  “I know,” the Mouse said. “I was wondering about it. Thought you would have mentioned it at the beginning, when you had me in a comer.”

  “Wernekink,” the commissaris said.

  The Mouse was shaking his head. “Don’t know, sir. Told you before, didn’t I. Nobody on the dike knew him well, except the Cat, and the Cat doesn’t kill.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. The Cat was upset about Wernekink’s death. Really upset. I went to see him, since I was curious too. I thought some of the fast lads might be suspects—the lads with the suits and the hats and the firearms—but they couldn’t have done it. I know them all and they don’t shoot well. No practice. None of them had even been in the army. Army didn’t want them. Misfits, all of them. They can pull a trigger but they can’t hit anyone between the eyes.”

  “They got the constables all right,” Grijpstra said.

  “Pure luck. They were emptying one clip after another and that way you’ll always hit something; the dike was blue with uniforms.”

  “Yes,” the commissaris said, “the ballistics man was telling me the constables were hit by bullets that had hit something else first.”

  “You see,” the Mouse said.

  “What’s your theory about Wernekink’s death?” de Gier asked.

  The Mouse was shaking his head again. “Don’t know. No idea. I have thought about it and thought about it but there was no reason. No motive. Who would kill a man who knew nobody and who wanted nothing. He didn’t even want the girl next door and she was pretty enough.”

  “You don’t think that lesbian lady did it?”

  “No, no,” the Mouse said. “Mary is all right. She’s a nice pleasant soul who cares for people. And she is happy with that other woman; they are always together, shopping together, going for drives together. They even go rowing together on the river.” The Mouse shuddered.

  “You got the shakes?” Grijpstra asked. “You aren’t drinking too much, are you?”

  “No. It’s these lesbians. They upset me. I can’t understand it. Unnatural, isn’t it?”

  De Gier laughed at the Mouse’s discomfort. “I think five percent of all people on earth have homosexual tendencies,” he said. “That’s five in a hundred, a lot of people. Too many to be unnatural.”

  “I don’t like it,” the Mouse said.

  “Why?”

  “Makes me feel silly. I am a man, and women need men. But these women don’t need men.”

  “You are close to seventy,” the commissaris said. “Aren’t you getting a little too old for that sort of thing now, Mouse?”

  “Yes, sir,” the Mouse said, “but it’s the idea.”

  The commissaris clambered down from his stool and they had a last drink, standing in a little group near the counter. The Mouse put his glass down and pointed at the botter lying outside in the canal. He told an interesting story about the vessel and asked them to look at the ornament on the rudder, a reclining lion, stretched out with its head on its paws. Bits of gold paint were still visible on the sculpture. De Gier said something about the lion and the commissaris and Grijpstra were listening to him. When they looked around the Mouse was gone. They hadn’t heard the door. The old landlord hadn’t seen him leave either.

  “That’s the way he always goes,” Grijpstra said, “sneaky little fellow.”

  “Not a bad chap,” de Gier said.

  “No,” the commissaris said, “but he should have warned us about the firearms. He could have done it in some delicate way and we could have organized a small raid and confiscated the pistols and the tommy gun. That constable may lose the use of his foot. I wish I’d known about the firearms.”

  “You don’t mind about the paint and the TVs and the washing machines, do you, sir?” Grijpstra asked. “I mean, you don’t mind very much.”

  The commissaris grunted.

  9

  THE COMMISSARIS GRUNTED. HIS HEAD THROBBED AND HE was thirsty. His legs hurt but the pain in his head was worse, much worse. There were ants in his head, digging narrow tunnels through his brain. He could feel them scratching the inside of his skull and turning round to dig fresh tunnels. He had already emptied a liter bottle of orange juice but the dry grating feeling in his mouth hadn’t changed. He hadn’t spoken yet that morning and he wasn’t quite sure whether he could.

  Grijpstra and de Gier were seated. They had stood around at first but when the commissaris had waved and nodded, they had each taken a chair. They had said good morning and were waiting. It was the commissaris’ turn to speak but he still had a few seconds’ grace. He used the few seconds to criticize himself. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to get drunk. But he had. It had been a bad day, of course—a day of pain—but he should be used to pain by now.

  He had gone home after the meeting with the Mouse, arriving by eight o’clock, still in time for a late dinner and the company of his wife’s two sisters. There had been wine on the table and the commissaris had served himself the best part of two bottles. The ladies had talked so much that his drunkenness wasn’t noticed. And brandy with the coffee, a quarter bottle? Or half a bottle perhaps? He had reached his bed by hi
mself but his wife must have undressed him. He couldn’t remember. But he did remember that he hadn’t undressed himself.

  It didn’t happen very often, once or twice a year. But it shouldn’t happen at all, the commissaris thought. But there was the pain, of course. The eternal pain in his legs. Alcohol stops the pain; it never fails. Perhaps he could excuse himself.

  “De Gier,” the commissaris croaked.

  “Sir,” de Gier said pleasantly.

  “Some orange juice,” the commissaris croaked. “In the fridge over there. Pour it for me, please, and get me some coffee too.”

  De Gier poured the orange juice and Grijpstra left the room. He returned with a tray and three paper cups.

  The commissaris felt a little better. “Now,” he said, “one of the inspectors on duty last night phoned me this morning. It seems you made two arrests. I thought you had gone home. Tell me about it.”

  He was looking at Grijpstra and Grijpstra sat up. “Nothing to do with the death on the dike, sir.”

  “No?” the commissaris asked. “But that’s the case we are working on.”

  “I know, sir, but we didn’t go home. We came back here.”

  “Played drums?” the commissaris asked and managed to smile. He had finished the orange juice and looked helplessly at de Gier, who got up and refilled the glass.

  “Yes, sir,” Grijpstra said. “De Gier played his flute and I banged about for a while. We also read the reports of the day.”

  “Yes, yes. So what happened.”

  “Remember the old lady who was found in the canal, sir?”

  “Yes, I read about it, but I didn’t see the corpse.”

  “I saw the corpse,” de Gier said.

  The commissaris shook his head.

  “I know, sir,” de Gier said. “I don’t like corpses but when I read through the report the name of the dead woman seemed familiar and I finally remembered that I knew her.”

  The commissaris looked interested.

  “She made a complaint about the man she lived with,” de Gier said. “About six months ago. I dealt with the case. She said he had been threatening her.”