"That's around the corner."
"Yes. But you've lost the accent."
"Been here too long."
She took cigarettes from her bag, hesitated, but extended the packet to the sergeant. "You smoke?"
"Please."
"And you?"
"No, thank you," Slanozzel said. "I'm fighting a cough."
She lit de Gier's cigarette. "That Jurriaans has a good reputation. The women here say so. He always helps, when there's trouble with the customers or with the sharks who rent us our rooms."
De Gier put out his hand. "The wallet, please?"
She studied a broken fingernail. "There'll be a charge?"
De Gier looked at Slanozzel.
Slanozzel adjusted the golden clasp of his silk tie. "If the wallet comes back, I'll forget I ever missed it."
"Ma'am?" de Gier asked.
The woman got up. "I threw it away."
De Gier got up too. "Over a wall?"
"Yes. You'll have to climb it."
De Gier returned with the woman. "Here you are, sir." He looked at the woman. "The money is in your bag?"
"Here you are," the woman said.
"I wish there was something I could do to show my gratitude," Slanozzel said back in the station.
"There's no need," Sergeant Jurriaans said. "Our services are funded by the taxpayers."
"I don't pay any tax, since officially I have no fixed abode. There are times that I'm proud of my clever evasions, but an occasion like this clouds my conscience."
"We all feel guilty," Jurriaans said. "To live with guilt strengthens character."
De Gier looked at his watch. "I'll have to go."
Slanozzel walked with the sergeant. "Are you doing well with the Obrian case?"
"We have some ideas, sir. Too vague for definition at this point."
"I have an ear for languages," Slanozzel said, "and I often go to Surinam. I can't say I'm fluent in their lingo, but I can understand most of what they say. I had a beer this afternoon in a bar frequented by blacks."
"You heard something?"
"Obrian's death was exhaustively discussed."
"Were any names mentioned?"
"Lennie?" Slanozzel asked. "Gustav? Two other pimps. I've met them both."
"You think they are capable of machine gunning Obrian?"
"Certainly," Slanozzel said, "but pimps are sneaky lads. A knife in the back, and the corpse slowly floating in a canal, a little more likely than a volley of automatic bullets within reach of a police station."
"What else did the blacks say?"
"They were discussing rules," Slanozzel said, "that Obrian would have broken—broken in two ways, an older man said."
"This is an unruly neighborhood, Mr. Slanozzel."
"Even chaos is subject to certain laws, sergeant. I'll turn left here. I think I'll have a nightcap on the Eastern Canal before I go to bed."
De Gier looked down. "Again?"
Slanozzel looked about his feet. "Did you see anything, sergeant?"
"Over there in the shadow," de Gier said. "A black cat. That's the umpteenth time we've met today, and she keeps staring at me."
De Gier squatted next to the cat. The cat pushed herself against the wall and crept along it. The sergeant put out a finger. The cat sniffed at its tip. "Hellish sprite," de Gier said lovingly. "Mean, aren't you? With your nasty yellow sliteyes?"
The cat closed her eyes and rubbed her head against his hand.
"A real woman," Slanozzel said. "I take it you are good with women?"
"On rare occasions," de Gier said, "I am still successful." He pushed his hand under the cat's chest, lifted the animal, and made her turn over in his arm.
"I'll be off," Slanozzel said. "I'm glad I leave you in good company."
The cat purred and sighed. De Gier put her down again. Her long legs gave way so that she fell on her side. She meowed softly.
"Aren't quite done yet?"
The cat meowed louder.
"Some other time," de Gier said. "I have work to do, if you'll excuse me."
\\ 1 6 ////
"RIGHT," GRIJPSTRA SAID, "THAT'S WHAT I LIKE TO SEE. A nonrestored gable leaning against another. This ruin is the goal of our search?"
"Hotel Hadde," de Gier said. "Dilapidated and dirty. A festering hole of the netherworld wherein evil leers nastily. But what is evil?"
Grijpstra scratched his bottom.
"You do that too?" de Gier asked.
"At times," Grijpstra said. "When I'm bothered by my own ignorance, as you are so often. How can I, a good man, be fascinated by evil?"
"You're a good man?"
Grijpstra's heavy head fell forward a little. "You think I'm bad?"
"Bad? No."
"You think I'm kind of colorless? Neither the one nor the other?"
"You're active on the good side," de Gier said, "which might have influenced your general character."
"And in my private life? What about the way in which I deal with others? With my superiors, equals, subordinates? My wife, children? Suspects?"
"We're on duty right now."
"Don't evade the well-meant question."
"Let's see," de Gier said. "I don't think you're bad. No. Not bad, I would say."
"So I must be good," Grijpstra said. "But I could be better, which isn't what we are getting into now. But I still liked that little tale you told me a minute ago, about the tanks rumbling through the south of the city. Great green machines of death, grinding the tarmac. The image is bad, however. Tanks are symbols of wicked power. A deluge of violence which I find fascinating."
"And the mashed Pekingese?"
"Another delightful picture. Horrifying of course, but almost subtly beautiful, I would dare to say."
"Yes," de Gier said. "Pulverized Pekingese. Yecch."
"I shouldn't admit to my perverted taste. Where's Cardozo?"
"Wasn't he with you?"
Grijpstra looked at his watch. "He's supposed to meet us here. I do believe I made him angry again. He kept turning around me, and I sent him to the kitchen to wash dishes."
"Something torments him," De Gier said.
"Yes, and I didn't want to know what. That boy does talk too much. He's also too noisy, banging about in the kitchen. I shouted at him and he ran out of the house."
Grijpstra climbed the crumbling and moss-grown steps leading to the old house. "Pity you're not in uniform, sergeant. You look smart when you're officially dressed. I'll mention it to Propaganda, maybe they'll put you on a poster."
De Gier pushed the rickety door of the establishment. "Belligerent but sympathetic? So how come I always feel like a fool when I'm in uniform?"
Grijpstra looked about suspiciously in the smoky room before pushing his way through clustered customers.
"Senores?" asked a morose hunchback. Grijpstra looked into the tired eyes under the bedraggled mustache. "Spanish?"
"Si senor, a sus ordenes."
"Cerveza, por favor."
"Y listed?" said the hunchback, addressing de Gier.
"Speak Spanish," Grijpstra said, "like I did just now. Spanish is easy and it'll make him feel better."
"Un wiski americano," said de Gier, "pero un poco de calma con el hielo. El wiski de la marca Pavo Salvaje."
"Comono, senor?"
"Don't overdo it," Grijpstra said.
"I thought you wanted me to speak Spanish," de Gier said. "Wasn't it you who sent me to the class Jurriaans taught? Languages are useful in our profession."
"You don't have to be fluent."
"Jurriaans is fluent."
"Jurriaans is a genius," Grijpstra said. "Besides, his wife is Spanish."
"Was," de Gier said.
"Because she left him? She must still be around somewhere. Hello, Cardozo, you're late."
Cardozo tried out a chair. He put it aside and took another. "Do you know there's war in the south of the city? Tanks versus squatters?"
"Ignore it," de Gier said. "We're
working on pimps."
"Senor?" the waiter asked.
"Un martini," Cardozo said, "con ginebrapura inglesa y un poquitiquitito de vermouth."
"What is the pokeeteekeeteeto?" Grijpstra asked.
"The merest dash," Cardozo said. "You've got to say that or they'll kill your drink by sugaring it and drowning the olive. Did you see Gustav?"
"I recognized him," de Gier said. "Man with the bangs. I saw him driving about earlier on in his spiffy sleigh, and now he's at the bar."
"Did you go out to watch the war?" Grijpstra asked. "How were the tanks doing?"
"Very well. Crunching the barricades. A sight for sore eyes. And our own helmeted robots bashing away."
"You like that, do you?"
"Not at all," Cardozo said. "Isn't Gustav an oily specimen? An expert at changing innocent country girls into mangy sluts. Feeds them on cut heroin. Who is the tropical squire sitting next to him?"
"A certain Slanozzel," de Gier said. "I've just found some of his money. He left it with a whore and Jurriaans made me recover the loot."
"So why is he ignoring you?" Grijpstra asked. "He saw you just now but he looked away again."
"So as not to interfere with my work."
"More," Cardozo said. De Gier explained.
"That Jurriaans," Grijpstra said, "is worth more than I gave him credit for. The man keeps amazing me. The ideal cop."
"Who lets things go?" de Gier asked. "That whore stole quite a package from Slanozzel, but I didn't even charge her. Maybe she'll do it again tomorrow."
"So why didn't you arrest her? You were the officer taking care of the incident."
"I didn't think an arrest would please Jurriaans," de Gier said. "I might have charged her if I'd been on my own, but I was trying to fit in with the local way of keeping order."
Grijpstra grunted.
"What would you have done, adjutant?" Cardozo asked.
"Please, Simon."
Cardozo chewed his olive. "Yes?"
Grijpstra scowled.
"Yes, adjutant?"
Grijpstra sighed. "Do I have to spell it out again? Why cause more trouble when we're trying to do away with trouble? Why fill up the jails? Whores are necessary, they absorb male aggression. Why close the gate?"
"The female gate," de Gier said. "I'll take you to the Municipal Museum when this case is done. There's an exhibit there that will clarify the adjutant's statement. An enormous statue of a naked woman, naked and with her legs apart. There's a door between her legs, which is always open. You can walk into her, out of your own misery. Don't you think that's nice?"
"I'll have to think about it," Cardozo said. "Hello."
"Hello," said the young man who had taken a seat between Grijpstra and Cardozo. He smiled at Grijpstra, nodding subserviently. A golden ornament dangled from his ear. "Hello, adjutant."
"Have we met?" Grijpstra asked. "I don't remember the arrest."
De Gier leaned forward and studied the young man's eyes, accentuated by mascara, and his mouth, painted beyond its true size. "Are you Karate's sister?"
"I'm Karate himself," Karate said. "But I'm known here, so I've changed myself."
"For shame," Grijpstra said. "I'll tell your chief."
Karate pouted. "Sergeant Jurriaans painted me up himself, and the wig came from his very own box of tricks. Have you seen Gustav? He who hunts elephants twice a year with a cannon?"
"We did," de Gier said. "He doesn't look happy."
Karate grinned."He'll be unhappier tomorrow."
"I say," Cardozo said, and was interrupted by the waiter, who smiled at Karate.
"Tenga la bondad," Karate said. "Un destomillador con mas vodka quejugo de naranja."
"By the way . . . " Cardozo said.
"He really hunts elephants?" Grijpstra asked. "Is that a pimpish pastime? I thought they flew small planes or played polo mostly."
"Elephants are more expensive," de Gier said.
"Can I say something?" Cardozo asked.
"There's Crazy Chris," Karate said, "working on a triple genever."
"I thought Crazy Chris drank methylated spirits," de Gier said.
"Not since social security," Karate said.
"I would rather think—" Cardozo shouted.
"Shsh," said Karate.
"—that we should discuss our procedure," whispered Cardozo. "We are engaged in looking for the killer of Luku Obrian, isn't that right?"
His audience stared.
"And we have decided, after much deliberation, that the murderer must be Gustav."
"There's no obligation," de Gier said.
"Because if Gustav fails us, we still have Lennie?"
"Right again," Karate said.
"And we choose to ignore that perhaps, maybe, somewhere on a far horizon, a possibility tends to exist that another suspect could be involved?"
"Do go on," Grijpstra said.
"Perhaps I went too far already," Cardozo said. "Maybe I'm being busy again, as I shouldn't, as I'm always told. I'm only an assistant in the brigade and not supposed to dabble in theories. I'm to ascertain facts only. But the facts do seem to raise a small question."
"Which is?" de Gier asked.
"You see Crazy Chris over there?"
"I do."
"Now, isn't he the same Crazy Chris who ventured to inform the staff of the local station that he saw no one flee from the burned-out corner building after Luku Obrian had been separated from his black soul?"
"Why black?" Grijpstra asked.
"Because that was the actual color, adjutant. Because the color matters in this case. And the suspect who Crazy Chris did see after all was of the same shade—clothes-wise, that is."
"Hold it," Karate said. "Crazy Chris isn't called crazy because he is sane. He will tell you whatever you like to hear. When he ran into our station, he hadn't seen a suspect. We rushed out at once. We means every cop available at that moment, which was about eight of us. We ran about everywhere and we alarmed the patrol cars. Everybody who happened to be in the neighborhood was questioned thoroughly."
"Including three roller-skating gentlemen?" de Gier asked.
"Tell me again about the suspect seen by Crazy Chris," Grijpstra said.
"Dressed in a black cape," Cardozo said. "Face hidden under a floppy black hat. Walked strangely because of oversized shoes."
"The phantom went where?" de Gier asked.
"Turned right after leaving the Olofs-alley, then followed the Seadike. Crazy Chris didn't follow the suspect because he isn't crazy enough to invite machine-gun fire."
"And why," asked Karate, "would Chris, who is crazy, I stress that fact to make sure that it will penetrate"—Karate tapped his wig—"hoohoo in the head, now why would Chris tell you a different story than he told us?"
"Crazy Chris belongs to the other side, not to our side," Cardozo said.
"Aren't you on our side?" de Gier asked. "Why would Crazy Chris tell you?"
"He's also Jewish, and so am I," said Cardozo.
"Don't look so angry," de Gier said. "We're all good friends, sharing a drink in this cozy establishment."
"Last question," Cardozo said. "Tomorrow we plan to catch Gustav. Right? Karate?"
"That's right."
"But now, respected colleague, do tell me how you can be so sure. Does Gustav misbehave so consistently that he can be arrested at any time we choose?"
"You forget," Karate said, "that the quarter is mine. I can feel the undercurrents so well that I can sometimes predict what will happen."
"How good of you," Grijpstra said, "that you allow us to be of some assistance."
"No," Karate said. "I didn't mean it that way. This is another type of district, different from the rest of the city. Just look out of the window please, adjutant. What do you see? Three whores showing themselves off under a street-light. That's strictly illegal, for the law says that prostitutes may not solicit within a hundred yards of the entrance to a bar. Now, look at the bar where we happen to be, an
d check your watch. After hours. They shouldn't be serving here, but they are. Do you know how many gambling joints you passed on your way here? And how many drug dealers and junkies? Does the law permit drugs to be sold? Is it legal for the addicted to inject themselves in public?"
His audience drank.
"It is not," Karate said.
"It is in-between," Grijpstra said. "Those who govern us know that not only we, but that they themselves are not what humanity pretends to be. They therefore allow the unpermitted under special circumstances and they do so at our own request, for this is a free country and we choose the executors of our own laws ourselves and whisper into their ears how we would like the rules to be applied."
"And Gustav?" asked Cardozo.
Grijpstra lit a cigar. "Gustav goes too far."
"In the Argentine . . . " said Cardozo.
"Tabaco," said the waiter, pointing at Grijpstra's cigar. Grijpstra looked at his cigar and raised his eyebrows. "Que no," said the waiter, and pointed at the ashtray.
"You're not supposed to smoke cigars in here," Karate said. "Maybe you should put it out."
"Why?" asked Grijpstra. "What could be wrong with this splendid cigar?" He pulled the tin out of his pocket and read the text printed on the inside of its lid. "Empregando liga de legitimo Junto do Brasil, des melhores procedencias."
The waiter leaned on Grijpstra's shoulder. He put up a finger and waved it in front of the adjutant's face. "Aqui no. La senora no lo permite."
"The waiter only speaks Spanish," Karate said, "and what you were reading was Portugese. He doesn't understand Portuguese."
"Que no, que no, que no," the waiter shouted in Grijpstra's ear.
"The poor fellow is having a fit," de Gier said. "There's enough going on already. Why don't you put out that cigar?"
Grijpstra screwed his cigar into the ashtray.
"Thank you," Karate said.
Grijpstra pointed at Karate's cigarette. "What are you complaining about? That's pretty strong tobacco you're burning there."
"It's cigars Mrs. Hadde objects to," Karate said. "And if you hadn't done as you were told, we would have been out on our ear. In which case my wig would have come off and I would have been shown up as an idiot again."
"And who would have thrown us out?" Cardozo asked. "The hunchbacked dwarf?"
"Mr. Hadde."
The Streetbird Page 13
