“Commissaris,” de Gier said.
“Aw, shit!” The boss said. “A commissaris. What the hell does a commissaris want to see me for?”
“You have a bad conscience?” de Gier asked.
“No!” The boss stamped his foot. De Gier looked at the foot. It was protected by a shiny orange boot, fastened by two zips. The boot stamped again on the marble floor.
“Don’t tap-dance,” de Gier said. “It makes me nervous.”
“No,” the man almost shrieked. “I am telling you, nothing happens here that shouldn’t happen. We never have complaints.”
“The commissaris is waiting,” de Gier said.
The boss rushed at the door.
“What’s the trouble?” the doorman asked. “You can tell me, you know. I won’t tap-dance. And he is right anyway. We never have complaints.”
De Gier shrugged.
“A drink,” the doorman suggested, “a nice long drink. Behind the bar is a black man from Jamaica who can mix drinks, long drinks. A tall glass with a bit of rum, some fruit juice and nice tinkling ice cubes. You can drink his concoctions all night and feel pleasant all the time. No headache in the morning. No sudden weakness if you happen to fall up the stairs. Here.”
De Gier felt a chip in his hand. Green plastic, an inch square. It had the figure twenty-five printed into it, a silver twenty-five on a fond of pale green.
“Will buy you five hooplas,” the doorman said, “and I’ll give you another one when it runs out.”
“Five guilders a drink?” de Gier asked.
“Drinks are cheap,” the doorman explained, “and the girls don’t make you drink. You can buy them a drink if you really want to but they’ll never ask for it. The bar will give them free lemonades or Cokes or sodas.”
“And if you want the girls?”
“I don’t want the girls,” the doorman corrected. “You do. And if you do, you come to me and you buy a golden chip. A golden chip says one hundred. One hundred says a girl. And if you want the girl to cater to your special wishes you ask me for two golden chips. For two they’ll satisfy your strangest desires, your craziest dreams. And if you can’t find any because your subconscious is all clogged up by hard work and sad thoughts they’ll suggest something. They’ll act it for you and you’ll never know that they’re acting. Oh boy! Two chips will take you to heaven, and not to the part where harps are played on clouds. There are harps and clouds, of course, but that’s for the ordinary. This place is for the extraordinary. This place is for you, sergeant.”
The doorman had spoken softly and had bent down so that his face was level with de Gier’s. It expressed an intense goodness. His deep voice reverberated in de Gier’s resisting brain. The doorman’s arms were spread out and his huge hands were open, about a foot away from de Gier’s shoulders. De Gier felt the hands were protecting him, and vitalizing all his body juices at the same time.
De Gier stepped back and shook himself. “Stop that,” he said. His voice was hoarse.
The doorman laughed. “Not bad, was it? It’s my gimmick for the shy guest. Have done it a hundred thousand times but it still works. They say I should go on the stage but there’s no money on the stage.”
“There’s plenty of money here!”
“Yes, sergeant,” the doorman said. “There is. But what’s money? You guys always think we pimps work for money. But after a while money changes into paper. How many meals can I eat? How many cars can I drive? And how many suits can I wear?”
De Gier was looking at the doorman. He felt much better now that he had been released.
“No, I don’t work for money anymore. Perhaps I never have.”
“What do you work for?”
The doorman made a wide gesture, without pointing at anything in particular or indicating a certain direction. “Who knows? For this place perhaps. It’s a great place and I enjoy being here. The boss owns most of it; he has brains— businessman’s brains. But I own a bit of Villa Marshview myself, and it has a lot of my ideas. I don’t know what’s better, brains or ideas. And I like bringing in the women. We prefer them to be married, part-time, you know. They enjoy themselves more that way and the clients enjoy their enjoyment. They come here to earn themselves some pocket money, or a nice bright little motorcar, or a holiday, or a leather settee and matching chairs. We never try to hold them when they have had enough. There are always others.”
“How do you get your women?”
“We advertise, or we used to advertise. Asked for hostesses. That’s a good word: ‘hostess.'” The doorman smacked his lips. “Makes them think they have class. Hostesses to the rich, to the famous. And they are, of course. We don’t have poor clients. They come by themselves now. Some girlfriend tells them; they have tea together in a cozy place and natter away, and the next thing is that they come here. I open the door and there’s a silly dumpy thing at the door, stuttering away. I bring her in and take her to a nice room. The Jamaican brings a little drink and we chat. Usually she is all right, just a little change here or there. Another dress, another way of walking, or perhaps she shouldn’t wear a dress but velours jeans, or wide flowing trousers, or a gown, or something short and frilly. We don’t want her to prance about naked.”
“No striptease?” de Gier asked, sucking on his cigar.
“Sure. Must have a bit of striptease. They all strip. There’s a little stage. On the stage they have to be sexy, show it all, loosen all the brakes. I encourage them; I train them even. I sit on a big chair and we go through the act, bit by bit. I get other girls to show them and if they happen to do something right I clap and shout and kiss them on the cheek, or pat their bottoms—depends on what sort of girl they are. But when the act is over they have to be demure again and wander around, talking and listening to the clients. Listening, that’s very important.”
“Information?” de Gier asked. “You want information.”
“You’re a proper policeman, aren’t you?” the doorman asked. “No, no. We don’t want information. What do you mink we are? Blackmailers? We just want them to listen to the clients. Show interest, you know. The client is buying chips, isn’t he? Lovely plastic chips. Go spend your chip, sergeant. There’s your boss, and mine.”
The commissaris was coming through the door that the boss was holding for him. The little man was still very nervous.
“Certainly, sir,” he was saying. “Come right in, sir. I know what you want now. You really had me worried, you know. I am so glad I know what you want now.”
“What does the commissaris want, boss?” the doorman asked.
“Ssh,” the little man said. “Lock the door, we aren’t opening until nine-thirty anyway. Lock it and we’ll go into my office. I’ll explain it all to you.”
“I think the sergeant wants a drink,” the doorman said.
The commissaris looked at de Gier. “Do you want a drink, de Gier? What’s that cigar?”
“No sir,” de Gier said. “I don’t want a drink. And the cigar is very nice; the doorman gave it to me.”
The doorman offered the box to the commissaris, who selected the smallest cigar he could find. The doorman stood on one foot again and held a long match.
“Here we are,” the little man said. “We’ll go through the thing again. Make sure there is no mistake.”
They were in a small office. It looked like any other office: a gray filing cabinet, a desk, gray low metal and plastic chairs for visitors, a typewriter, an electronic bookkeeping machine. The little man was behind his desk, looking somewhat taller now, and the visitors were trying to find comfortable positions. The doorman leaned against the wall. He was too large to fit into the low chairs.
“It’s about Mr. Sharif, Joop,” the boss explained. “Mr. Sharif and his friends, or his staff I should say. You know them: four gentlemen who run his most important stores.”
He was looking at the commissaris now. “They come here once a week, commissaris. We have a room upstairs where people can talk. A lot o
f business is done in that room. I don’t know what goes on of course, but I have an idea sometimes. Just an idea, mind you. There are African gentlemen who want to equip armies—they buy tanks and airplanes—and there are businesses that want to join other businesses. The directors have a quiet chat here, feeling each other’s propositions. Big deals. They talk, and we send up drinks. When they come down for the girls it’s all fixed up. The deals, I mean. But I never know what goes on exactly. Joop and I provide the background, the entourage, the atmosphere.”
“I see,” the commissaris said. “And Mr. Sharif? What does he do here?”
The doorman laughed. “He fucks,” he said.
“No, no, Joop,” the boss said. “I wish you could forget that word. Sexual intercourse if you must describe it. Not that nasty word. Grow up, Joop.”
“Puberty is in all of us,” the doorman said.
“Yes, yes. Not in Mr. Sharif. I am surprised that he is in trouble, by the way. He has been coming here for years and years and I have never seen him lose his temper or heard him curse or even say a nasty word. He is a very dignified and cultured gentleman. And an important businessman. He meets his assistants here—once a week—but he has brought us other guests. I have seen the photographs of these other guests in the papers. No names, of course. I won’t mention names. But Mr. Sharif’s guests aren’t nobodies.”
“Right,” the commissaris said. “He’ll come at ten, won’t he?”
“Yes, commissaris.”
“And his assistants will arrive a little later, or a little earlier. Then they’ll meet in your room. Do they stay long?”
“An hour at the most.”
“I want to be able to hear them, and see them if possible. Can it be arranged?”
The boss was looking at the doorman.
“Yes,” the doorman said. “My room is next to the conference room. I have a nice drill, bought it last week. I can drill two sets of holes.”
“All right, so we can see. What about hearing them?”
“I don’t like this,” the boss said. “If Mr. Sharif finds out he won’t be pleased.”
“Leave Mr. Sharif to us,” the commissaris said quietly. De Gier looked up, startled. There was a note of deadly venom in the commissaris’ voice and the small body of the old man imperceptibly shuddered. De Gier, in the five years he had worked under the commissaris, had never seen this part of his character.
The doorman had looked up too. His quiet large eyes under their heavy brows studied the little figure in the corner of the office.
“You can handle Mr. Sharif, commissaris?” the doorman asked.
“Yes,” the commissaris said, very softly, but the word penetrated into every corner of the room.
“A microphone,” the boss said. “You’re clever with electric things. Can you help out, Joop?”
“The combo has a spare microphone downstairs,” the doorman said. “And there’s plenty of flex, but we don’t want to show any of it. I’ll see what I can do. Do you want a tape recorder connected to it?”
“Yes,” de Gier said. “We’ll have a look at the room together. I can help you, I think, and I have a good tape recorder in the car.”
“You two had better start,” the commissaris said.
The boss jumped up from behind his desk. “We can go to the bar, commissaris. It’s more comfortable down there.”
“Don’t call me ‘commissaris.'”
“No, sir, sorry, sir. I’ll call you ‘sir.'”
“That’ll be better.”
“What about Mr. Sharif and his men, sir? You won’t arrest them on the premises, will you?”
“No,” the commissaris said, “not if we can help it. They don’t know the sergeant and they don’t know me. We just want to listen in for a while. Afterward we can watch them in the bar, while they’re enjoying themselves.”
The boss tried to laugh. “Yes. I’ll give you some chips. Money is never spent in the house. Joop will give you as many chips as you like.”
“We’ll buy the chips,” the commissaris said.
“Very well, sir. So there will be no trouble for the house, will there, sir?”
“Do as you’re told,” the commissaris said.
“Yes, sir.”
15
“GENTLEMEN,” SHARIF SAID, “I WELCOME YOU.”
There was a murmur from the table. Four men, dressed in suits, white shirts and ties, were watching him with attention. They looked neat enough but their appearance contrasted sharply with the elegant figure at the head of the table. The Arab was wearing a light suit, impeccably tailored. His handsome face with the aquiline nose and slightly slanting dark brown eyes was calm. His black hair, which he wore fairly long, shone with a natural gloss. His long brown hands were on the table, lying absolutely still as if they weren’t part of him. He looked at the four men one by one.
“Allow me to come to the point immediately. We come here for business and pleasure, and we don’t want to make the pleasure wait too long.” The four men smiled.
Sharif smiled too, but there was no eagerness in his face. “Well then. There has been a disturbance. An unfortunate disturbance. Our most important supplier of reasonably prices goods is out of business. For good, I am afraid. His organization is shattered, which is a pity. It was an organization that worked and that I had hoped to fuse into ours, making one of you its director. We were making some headway and now this.”
He paused. “I have picked you personally, each one of you. You have worked for our business for a number of years. Each one of you has a history that has qualified him for his place in our organization. You have brains; you are cool. You must stay cool.”
Sharif inclined his head. “You, my friend, are a fighting man. You fought in the Far East; you’re a brave man, a warrior. And you, my friend, have crossed a sea in a small boat, a great adventure, which you brought to a successful ending. And you, my friend, spent many years in my country. You speak my language. We can read each other’s thoughts. And you, my friend, have connections that you have never misused and who have never failed us. We must combine our talents and weather this little storm. Each one of you runs one of our main stores. The police detectives have visited your stores. Did they find any traces of moved merchandise?”
Two men said, “No.” Two hesitated.
“What happened?” Sharif asked.
The man he was looking at lit a cigarette.
“They didn’t say anything, Sharif, but they may have seen something. I didn’t like the way they left. Perhaps they spoke to one of the employees who helped me shift the merchandise. I had to work quickly and I couldn’t get it all into the truck by myself.”
“And you. What happened in your store?”
“There was some confusion in my store, Sharif,” the man said slowly. “A wrong TV set stayed behind; a right one was moved out. The detectives took the numbers of all the sets in the store. If they check your books in the head office they may stumble into an irregularity.”
“I see,” Sharif said, and folded his hands. “I see; I am glad you’re telling me. Mistakes will be made. It’s a condition we humans must always take into account. There are detectives going through our books now, comparing invoices with lists of numbers. The TV sets and the other merchandise came from containers that our supplier secured. There must be lists of the numbers of missing TV sets. Yes. It’s bad. But perhaps it will not be noticed. Did anything else go wrong?”
He looked at his men one by one. Nobody said anything.
“The Cat,” one of the men said.
“He is in jail. I believe he won’t stay there. His connection with us was never proved. The Cat is a wily animal, proud and free. He will be sleeping on his bunk, smiling at the policemen who try to talk to him.”
“Half his mustache is gone.”
“Yes,” Sharif said, “so I heard. He will look slightly ridiculous but in Amsterdam half a mustache is not as strange as it would be in other places.” Sharif laughed, a gentl
e deep-throated laugh.
“Someone died on the dike, I heard,” one of the men said.
“That was planned,” another man said and chuckled. “The Flyer did well. There’s no trace, only a bullet.”
Sharif raised a hand. “This is a meeting, gentlemen, a business meeting. We must abide by our rules. Let me direct the meeting and let no one talk out of place.”
Sharif was looking at the ceiling. When his eyes came down the four men were staring straight ahead. “There has been death on the dike,” Sharif said. “Unplanned stupid death. A man was shot in the stomach by the police and he is now dead in hospital. Another man has died but the shot was directed and fired quietly; it came from the dark of night and a jinni slipped away and was never seen again. The jinni has no name. If the jinni is named, a person is created and a person has habits, leaves tracks, lives in a house. The police can put a hand on his shoulder. We must allow the jinni to be.”
“So what now?” a man asked.
“We wait,” Sharif said. “The Cat will be free one day but we must not talk to him again. We will play the Cat’s game ourselves now and our warrior will train some men to master the tricks that are necessary. The men will be reliable. There will be some Arabs and there will be some local men. And a woman perhaps—a good woman—who we will find in the house we are in now. But first we wait. We may have to wait six months or a year, but we can afford to wait. Gentlemen?” Sharif asked.
He looked at them one by one for agreement. “Excellent. We will end the meeting. I will see you downstairs in a minute. I thank you for your presence.”
The men stood as Sharif left the room.
He looked regal.
A sheik sweeping out of his tent, de Gier thought. There’ll be a white racing camel outside and he’ll be far away soon, swallowed by the desert.
16
THE DOORMAN LED DE GIER BACK TO THE CAR WHERE HE handed the tape recorder to the constable at the wheel. Neither the doorman, nor de Gier, nor the sleepy-eyed constable saw the small dark man who had been standing in the garden opposite for some time now. The man stood next to the heavy trunk of a larix, his body hidden by the tree’s low branches.
The Corpse on the Dike Page 17
