The Streetbird

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  De Gier unfolded the towel carefully.

  "You walked through my pile," Cardozo said. "Why don't you go away, the two of you, so that I can finish what I started."

  Grijpstra grabbed Cardozo's collar and yanked him to his feet. "Look at this."

  "Our murder weapon?" Cardozo asked.

  "Just another Schmeisser," de Gier said. "Not the one we are looking for. An example, according to the handbook of automatic weaponry, of the improved model MP 40. The Germans manufactured at least a million of them before the war was over."

  Cardozo picked the weapon up. "Loaded?"

  "Not anymore."

  "Pow-pow-pow." Cardozo shot enemies of the state. He replaced the weapon. "But if this isn't the one we need, we don't need it, right?"

  "I thought you might be interested," de Gier said. "The weapon we're after is similar. Look at this gun and think. Maybe you'll have some useful associations. Besides, the previous owner of this thing isn't right in the head, and by taking it out of his slightly insane hands I'm helping to maintain order. I'm an all around policeman, not restricted to the particular case at hand."

  "I wish you would be somewhat restricted," Grijpstra said. "Stop gadding about, sergeant. How come you had the time to hunt for illegal arms when you're assigned to the Obrian murder?"

  De Gier rewrapped the machine pistol. Grijpstra pulled his sleeve. "Where did you get it?"

  "You're my superior, so your reasoning should be superior too. Where was I when you left me?"

  "You found it in the morgue?" Grijpstra asked.

  "In the morgue keeper's private quarters."

  "Explain."

  Grijpstra listened.

  "A coincidence," Cardozo said. "We happen to be looking for a Schmeisser and you happen to find one. Without even looking for it. I found something too. Can I tell him, adjutant?"

  "What?" de Gier asked.

  "A yellow pot with a metal handle."

  De Gier sat down, rolled a cigarette, clipped the superfluous tobacco strands with his nails, and flicked his lighter. "I'm pleased, not only because you found a yellow pot with a metal handle but because you're actually telling me that you did."

  "There was some spaghetti in the pot," Cardozo said, "and just a few drops of tomato sauce."

  "Thank you again. For adding details."

  "You're not really that stupid, are you?" Cardozo asked. "Isn't it true that earlier on today you were hit on the head with some hard object?"

  De Gier jumped up.

  "In my pile again," Cardozo said, "but I won't complain, because police training teaches endless patience."

  De Gier tried to tear tobacco out of his mustache.

  "The neighbor," Cardozo said, "A black woman who, due tp circumstances beyond her control, has become addicted to alcohol."

  "Tell him the rest of it," Grijpstra said, "before he tears off his lip."

  Cardozo reported.

  "Well done," de Gier said. "I had a question, and you, of all people, promptly provide me with the answer. Thank you, although your successful sleuthing won't get us anywhere. I'm hardly damaged, and the woman made a mistake. By arresting her, we won't achieve much. Therefore we won't bother her. But we will bother the suspect who poured lead into the Olofsalley last night, because if we don't, he'll do it again and we won't have any pimps left in the city. No pimps, no whores, and no whores is not what the population wants. We must not forget that we serve the citizens."

  "Could I make a suggestion?" Cardozo asked.

  "That I refrain from philosophizing and do some work?"

  "Yes, but the station here has a shooting range. Can't we take the Schmeisser and fire it there?"

  "What for?"

  "Fun?"

  "Good idea," Sergeant Jurriaans said. "I've never fired an automatic weapon either. Let me get Adjutant Adèle, she's in charge of the shooting range."

  Grijpstra, de Gier, and Cardozo faced the station's counter, Jurriaans defended it. He opened its little door while he telephoned. He put the phone down. "She's coming. Follow me."

  "Adjutant Adèle can shoot first," de Gier said.

  She watched while de Gier charged the clip. He pressed a button. "Here you are, set for rapid fire. Just touch the trigger and be careful the gun doesn't jump out of your hands."

  The Schmeisser fired. Jurriaans peered through his binoculars. "Good, but a little too high."

  "How many cartridges did I use?" asked Adjutant Adèle.

  Jurriaans counted. "Six hits and there were thirty-two in the clip."

  "Your turn," de Gier said to Cardozo.

  "A little too far to the right," Jurriaans said. "Can I try now?" He gave his binoculars to Grijpstra.

  "Too low," Grijpstra said, "but close together."

  "Let's see how good you are."

  Grijpstra also fired too low. He passed the weapon to de Gier. "Now for our very own champion."

  "Perfect," Adjutant Adèle said. "All in the heart. Splendid show, sergeant, and with a weapon you're not familiar with."

  "Sergeant de Gier is a bit of a show-off," Cardozo said. "He doesn't know about modesty being customary between colleagues. We aimed badly on purpose."

  Adjutant Adèle smiled at de Gier. Her smile accentuated her beauty. De Gier noticed her attractive shape outlined by the well-tailored uniform, and suspected the presence of available but prohibited pleasure. She has a good mouth, de Gier thought, subtly curved under a delicate nose, and her eyes are moist and alluring also because they are partly hidden under lovely lashes.

  "A joke," Cardozo said. "The sergeant is an excellent shot and I'm jealous." His apology raised no comments either. Cardozo shrugged and walked to the other end of the range, to dig in a sand-filled box.

  "Coming?" Adjutant Adèle called. "I've got to lock the door."

  Cardozo ran toward her. "What's going to happen to the weapon?"

  "Take it to headquarters," Grijpstra said. "The arms sergeant can add it to his collection."

  "And what do I tell him when he asks where it came from?"

  Grijpstra looked at de Gier.

  "Tell him I found it in the street," de Gier said, "after a little boy, who immediately ran away, pointed it out to me under a tree. Keep it as vague as you can. Found, that'll do. Headquarters won't care anyway, all they want to do is put it away."

  "I don't know," Grijpstra said. "Why not tell him the truth? Jacobs is well-liked and won't be charged, everybody knows what happened to him during the war."

  "I don't want a form on the public prosecutor's desk," de Gier said. "Found, I say."

  "Found, it is." Grijpstra followed Jurriaans and de Gier to the counter.

  "Your Adjutant Adèle is a most beautiful lady," de Gier said. "Married, I suppose?"

  "Recently divorced," Jurriaans said, "but she's got a friend now, one of us, a black reserve sergeant, rather a special somebody. A sociologist on his own time and an assistant professor."

  "A serious relationship?"

  "He's got a wife, and our adjutant on the side."

  "Why," Grijpstra asked, "is everything always so complicated? I don't approve. A man with his wife, and the kids belong to both, and all in the same house, that's what I like to see. The man goes to his work, the wife keeps the house, the kids go to school. General contentment during the weekends and holidays. If we could keep it that way, even our job would be a pleasure."

  "You didn't really say all that?" de Gier asked.

  Grijpstra grunted. "My case is rather different."

  "Everybody's case is rather different," Jurriaans said. "My wife left too, but I don't have any kids. After years of joyful togetherness. I'm sure it was all my fault."

  "She went to another?"

  "She didn't say," Jurriaans said.

  "Irresponsible behavior," Grijpstra said. "I'm against it all, of course, but I've been looking for a black policeman. The reserve is hardly professional because they can't become experienced if they only dabble at our job during their hour
s off, but something is better than nothing. Our corpse is black. A black colleague could maybe explain the situation a little."

  "This man works from your station?" de Gier asked. "How good is he?"

  "He's excellent," Jurriaans said. "Works here most evenings."

  "A sociologist," Grijpstra said. "All long-haired nonsense, but if he is a professor, he might be intelligent."

  "Very," Jurriaans said, "and he's got short hair. Been in the reserve for six years. They pass the same examinations as we do. I've been told that reserve cops are in a better position than we are—not stuck in a routine, better able to see what goes on."

  "Name?" Grijpstra asked.

  "John Varé."

  "I'd like to meet him."

  "You will." Jurriaans leaned against the counter. "You think the killer is black too?"

  "We don't think much," de Gier said.

  Grijpstra grinned. "We try not to think, but sometimes we can't help ourselves. I don't think the killer is black."

  "I'm sure he isn't," Jurriaans said. "Obrian was admired by his race. The blacks here regret his death. In their eyes he was a demigod who could turn the white law inside out. Since Obrian staged that show on the bridge, where the most beautiful woman of the quarter went down on her knees for him and—"

  "Quite," Grijpstra said. "We have been told. Let's keep it simple, shall we? The man was black and the man was killed. He had a black soul, and I can't look into it. Now, if you can find me this John Varé and he will guide us, we might see something. All I want to know is how Obrian provoked his own death."

  "Varé'll be here," Jurriaans said. "Tonight probably, but tonight you two are otherwise engaged. I understand that you wish to visit Hotel Hadde to watch pimps, and for tomorrow night I'm planning a little raid on Lennie's brothel boat. Don't breathe a word about that yet, because it's my experience that our plans are public property a minute after they are conceived. I think I will only take Ketchup and Karate, who hate Lennie's guts for a variety of reasons, and if I need more force, I'll find it just before we leave."

  "How about us?" Grijpstra asked. "De Gier and I could be clients and be inside the boat, make a little fuss maybe."

  "Yes," de Gier said, "and you're outside and wonder what's going on, so you come inside too."

  Jurriaans became pensive. "Could be trouble. Provoking is outside the law. Judges are known to disapprove."

  "We go in anyway," de Gier said. "We keep quiet, but we take a friend and he doesn't."

  "What sort of friend?"

  "A colleague."

  Jurriaans arranged a stack of forms on the counter. "If he's a cop, we're still in trouble."

  "An outside cop."

  "From where?"

  "From across a border."

  "Ah," Jurriaans said. "That's better. He won't be a cop here. You have anybody in mind?"

  "Sublieutenant Röder," de Gier said. "Hamburg Municipal Police. He was clacking his heels here not so long ago. Profusely thanking us. Begging to be allowed to return the favor."

  "Sounds better and better."

  De Gier looked in his notebook. Jurriaans pushed the telephone to the sergeant. De Gier dialed. "What will this Roder do?" Jurriaans asked.

  "Fight the bouncer," Grijpstra said. "Spill his drink. Use bad language. He'll do whatever one shouldn't do on that boat."

  Jurriaans nodded. "They do have a bouncer. Ape by the name of Baf. Muscly gent, weighs a ton, used to be a professional boxer, but he's been hit on the head too much."

  "I know Baf," Grijpstra said, "but he doesn't know me. Wasn't he a bouncer in a champagne bar once? Mashed a customer? Got three months?"

  "The very man."

  "I'm surprised Lennie hired him. I thought Lennie was smart."

  "He is," Jurriaans said, "and Baf has a better temper now. So have Lennie's brothel customers. You forget that Lennie's place is a whorehouse. When the clients leave, they've had it all. Makes them quiet and polite. Champagne-bar clients only get champagne and a peck on the cheek. Makes them agitated. So they bounce the bouncer. Brothel customers tip the bouncer."

  "Herr Roder?" de Gier asked.

  Jurriaans and Grijpstra listened to their side of the conversation. De Gier put his hand over the phone. "He wants to know who pays."

  "Really," Grijpstra said. "What sort of a favor is this? We invite him to misbehave in our great city's most exotic brothel and he expects us to foot the bill? What about the suspect we gave him the other day?"

  De Gier waited.

  "Why are you looking at me?" Grijpstra asked.

  "You're in charge."

  "Of wasting money?"

  "No money, no Roder."

  Grijpstra nodded. "We'll pay," de Gier said. "Herr Lieutenant. Griisz Gott."

  "SKMieutenant," Grijpstra said. "And why should he greet God?"

  "A higher rank is a polite way of addressing somebody, and God won't mind, even if Roder does greet him."

  Jurriaans fetched coffee and passed cups. "He may mind if Baf reverts to type and kills your Kraut, but if we've paid, maybe he won't. Provided he's the God of Justice."

  "There are others?"

  "I do believe so, adjutant."

  "And John Varé? Will I get him or not?" Grijpstra asked.

  "What do you want with Varé again?"

  "Ethnic information," Grijpstra said. "What's a lukuman, for instance?"

  "What do you think?"

  "I think," Grijpstra said, "that a lukuman must be someone adept in the dark forces."

  "Give me a break," Jurriaans said, "and Varé too. Of course a lukuman fights for the enemy. You don't suppose that an ordinary silly woods nigger would have been able to cause such havoc as our deceased prince of the quarter managed to bring about?"

  De Gier replaced the phone. "Roder'll be here tomorrow afternoon."

  Cardozo came to the counter, the rolled-up towel under his arm and a small carton in his hand. "I want coffee too."

  "Later," Grijpstra said. "We're off."

  Cardozo walked along with his superiors to the front door. "Why did Sergeant Jurriaans look so upset?"

  "Because he's jealous," Grijpstra said. "He's hopelessly in love with adjutant Adèle but she already has a friend, who's black besides."

  "I want to know everything," Cardozo said. "And without having to beg for information. If you want to make use of my intelligence and devotion, it won't do to keep valuable facts back."

  "Don't pay any attention to Adjutant Grijpstra," de Gier said. "Jurriaans is jealous of me because I've just arranged to spend the night with Adjutant Adèle. What else would you like to know?"

  "Does Adjutant Adèle really have a black friend?"

  "Yes, a colleague."

  "There are no black cops in Amsterdam, except three students who're much too young for such a full-blown woman."

  "A reserve sergeant."

  "More."

  "More what?"

  Cardozo jabbed at de Gier's stomach with his box. "More information."

  "Watch it. That thing isn't loaded, I hope."

  "You drive me crazy, sergeant. What about that black imitation cop?"

  "John Var6," Grijpstra said. "Sociologist. Native of Surinam. Volunteer in the reserve. Assistant professor at the university here. Intimate with our Adjutant Adèle, occasionally, for he's also married."

  "Thank you."

  "And a little less rambam, please," Grijpstra said. "You're tiring me. I also found out what a lukuman is. A lukuman is a magician, flipped over to the wrong side."

  "And dead," Cardozo said. "That's what the alcoholic lady said who attacked de Gier with her dinner. So now what? We already knew that Obrian wasn't your average victim, in view of that scene on the bridge. Remember? With that beautiful lady whore who gave Obrian a—"

  "I don't want to hear anything more about it," Grijpstra said.

  "But that's what it was. Oral sex, if you can't stand plain language. We're still not getting anywhere. I need real news, not information t
hat merely confirms our serious suspicions."

  "Good advice?" de Gier asked. "Can I give you some of that?"

  "Yes, sergeant?"

  "You're too eager. Don't push like that."

  Cardozo looked hurt.

  "And here are the car keys," de Gier said. "Take it easy, now."

  "Our own little fierce ferret," Grijpstra said as the Volkswagen left the curb on squealing tires. "When he gets hyper like that, I always have to hold back. Needs his ears tweaked." "Cardozo provokes," de Gier said. "An illegal activity in our line of work. Look who we have here."

  Grijpstra nodded at the black cat that, gleaming tail neatly tucked around bottom and feet, was watching them from the sidewalk on the other side. Grijpstra craned his neck. De Gier grinned. "I did that too, but the vulture went home for his nap. Don't you have the impression that we are spied upon?"

  They walked back to the station. "What would there have been in that little box Cardozo was carrying?" Grijpstra said. "The towel held the weapon. I hope he hasn't tried to pull the Schmeisser into parts and had a few leftovers."

  Jurriaans waved at them from behind his counter. "A telephone call for you. Mr. Ober of headquarters. He's waiting for you in the police garage, something about a new Mercedes that has been confiscated at your request."

  \\ 13 ////

  "COME IN," THE COMMISSARIS SAID.

  Nellie showed him a bottle filled with a thick green fluid. "Your obeah. Uncle Wisi made it for you."

  The commissaris studied the bottle. "Nice and fresh. What's the foam?"

  "I shook it when I came up the stairs. You have to rub it into your skin, Uncle Wisi said, and then I'll have to pour a little into your bath."

  "Would you put it on the night table?" He opened his wallet. "And could you give this to Uncle Wisi?"

  "Isn't that rather a lot of money?"

  "There are no free lunches," the commissaris said. "He did his best, I presume. And he said he would pass the money on." "You're not being sarcastic, I hope," Nellie said. "Uncle Wisi is very honest. I'll have you know. He gives things away and treats people for free and all. But the rich have to pay, because they've got the dough. You can't shave a snake, Uncle Wisi always says."

  "I wasn't putting him down," the commissaris said, and glanced at the bottle. "You really think that'll work? I don't want to get a rash. I can handle the pain somewhat, but a skin disease won't improve my condition."