Hard Rain

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  Grijpstra pounded his desk with more force. "Dead junkies on a boat. Dead banker in a house across from the boat. Dead junkie, when still alive, comes here to gab about murder. Adjutant Guldemeester says there's no connection. Chief Inspector Halba diagnoses one case as suicide and the other as an overdose. Bah!"

  "Constable?" de Gier said. "Why didn't we get to hear about Jimmy?"

  "I forgot," Cardozo said. "We were working on the Frisian case. Lots of odd birds drop in here from time to time. Odd crazy birds. We chase them away. You're lucky I made a note. He was in here two minutes before he fell off his chair. Wanted heroin in exchange for information."

  "But subject mentioned murder. Did he mention anything else?"

  Cardozo shrugged. "A murder that was planned. He would tell me all about it in exchange for junk. The informer was ill. A scarecrow, a sight. If this Jimmy turns out to be the dead James T. Floyd, I won't be surprised."

  "What happened after the subject fell off his chair?" Grijpstra asked.

  "I picked him up," Cardozo said, "walked him down the stairs, and pushed him into the street. Standard instructions. Sick junkies aren't taken to hospitals anymore, since treatment is usually refused by the medical staff. Waste of time and trouble."

  "He must have said something more," de Gier said. "A lot of words fit into two minutes."

  Cardozo read from his notes. "Subject claims to study Chinese literature at the University of California in Berkeley. He had taken a year off to visit magical Amsterdam."

  De Gier gestured enthusiastically. "We could check, you know. There are enough details. I could send a teletype message to all stations. Most junkies are known to some cop or other. Jimmy probably dealt junk, too. The Alien Department might know of him as well. You think he really was a student, Cardozo?"

  "Maybe," Cardozo said. "Subject must be intelligent, for he spoke passably good Dutch, learned within a year. He could have been well off once, a refined-looking wreck."

  "Missing teeth," de Gier said. "A fight?"

  "Junk does that to them." Cardozo shifted his papers around absentmindedly. "Pity I didn't follow up."

  "You could have reported subject to Narcotics," de Gier said.

  "Waste of time, Sergeant. Narcotics used to be Chief Inspector Halba's show. At Narcotics, nobody has time to listen."

  "Halba had already been transferred to the Murder Brigade by then."

  "And he hadn't been replaced," Cardozo said. "That department wasn't functioning. It functions a little bit now. Chief Inspector Rood is supposed to be in charge again."

  Grijpstra sighed. "Nothing much has changed. Isn't it great to be back at work? Sergeant, it's your turn to buy me coffee at the café of my choice. The commissaris isn't back yet, I take it. You didn't answer my question just now."

  De Gier dialed. "Miss Antoinette? It's me. Has the chief shown up yet, or is he still in his Austrian sulfur bath? Miss Antoinette? Remember my suggestion? I'm sorry if I made my intentions too clear, perhaps, but if I don't we'll never get anywhere together. Since you're so shy, I mean, and since I'm shy, too. This afternoon? Thank you very much."

  "During working hours?" Cardozo asked. "Are you out of your mind? That's all we need. You'll be suspended for sure. There's a whole list of complaints against you as it is."

  "The commissaris is due back this afternoon," de Gier said. "I know about the complaints. Halba was waving the list at me. Dangerous driving and Lord knows what. Balderdash, mostly. Adjutant? Did you read what the file says about the German terrorist? There's more trouble there."

  "Colleagues killed the fellow, didn't they?" Cardozo asked. "In a telephone booth. I saw it in the paper on the way back from Spain. Chief Inspector Halba was in charge of the hunt."

  "He wasn't really," de Gier said. "Chief Inspector Rood prepared the case, traced the suspect, did everything. Halba stepped in at the last moment. There's news value in such an arrest. Halba is a fool. He placed detectives around the booth. When suspect started shooting, colleagues had to return his fire, and since there were cops on all sides, someone was bound to get hurt."

  Grijpstra groaned.

  "See what happens if we aren't around?" Cardozo asked. "By the way, I heard some talk in the canteen just now. Informers tell us that both Halba and Guldemeester seem to be having a good time at local night spots."

  "I know," de Gier said. "Small town. Bad news travels fast."

  "You heard about the chief constable as well?"

  "Out on the tiles too?" de Gier asked.

  "Extramarital trouble. A blonde photo model he shows off in his Porsche."

  "Forget the coffee," Grijpstra said, and stomped over to the door. He yanked his knife out of the wood. "I'm going out alone."

  Cardozo looked up when the door banged behind Grijpstra. "What's with him?"

  "Holidays never agree with the adjutant," de Gier said. "He probably feels he's been missing out. He turns his back a moment, and four corpses are strewn about in the same location." De Gier picked up a pair of drumsticks from Grijpstra's desk and stroked a cymbal that formed part of a set of battered percussion instruments wedged between a filing cabinet and the window. "What do you think, colleague? Something smelly about the banker's death, maybe?"

  Cardozo pouted. "I never trust you when you call me 'colleague.' "

  De Gier tried a roll on the big drum. "Answer the question."

  "Maybe," Cardozo said. "Suicide is pretty easy to prove."

  "Easy to disprove, too." De Gier scratched the snare drum with both sticks. "Pity Grijpstra hasn't been playing lately. Too much on his mind. All our troubles are getting him down. Silly, really. Troubles are exciting."

  "You haven't been playing either," Cardozo said. "You two let me down. I only joined the department to listen to your compositions. Variations on a Bach theme adapted for snare drum and piccolo. That used to make me happy."

  De Gier hit the side of the drum, alternating sharp raps with more scratching of cymbals. He whistled some high notes. "Was that the theme?"

  "Yeh," Cardozo said, "it gets sad later. First you build up a good strong rhythm and then suddenly there are all these moody notes."

  "Better wait for Grijpstra to come back, then." De Gier dropped the sticks. "I'm much too cheerful on my own. Come along, colleague." He opened the door. "After you."

  "Where to?"

  "There's a shortage of officers this morning," de Gier said. "Lead me to a café of my choice. It's your turn to pay. I won't do any work until the commissaris returns this afternoon and hands out orders."

  \\ 4 /////

  THE COMMISSARIS, LIMPING THROUGH AN ENDLESS corridor on the top floor of the Police Headquarters Building, wondered whether anyone remembered that he could have been chief constable himself. When honors are turned down, they're usually forgotten. Many of the officers he had gotten close to in some way had retired during the last few years. The previous chief constable was a good older friend who was asked by the mayor to sound out the commissaris about the offered promotion. The commissaris hadn't given a reason for his refusal then, for he was talking to an officer he was asked to replace. To say that the job wasn't interesting enough might have sounded impolite. A chief constable doesn't hunt; a chief of detectives does. The commissaris preferred to remain out in the open. He found the door he was looking for, and knocked. A green light flashed on.

  "Had a good holiday?" the chief constable asked. "Care to sit down? Coffee, perhaps?"

  "No, thank you, sir, I haven't been to my office yet."

  The commissaris looked at his superior, finding the man hard to define. Polite, smooth, well-dressed, of course, no characteristics that stood out. Maybe that was why he had climbed so high in little time. "To float upward because of lack of weight," the commissaris's father had been fond of saying when he discussed the careers of others. Perhaps. He had to be careful, the commissaris told himself. Jealousy always makes judgment murky.

  "Whatever happened during your absence has been properly
taken care of," the chief constable said. "Did you hear about the terrorist? That came off rather well."

  "There was a victim on our side?" the commissaris asked.

  "Unfortunately." The chief constable nodded sadly. "Not a life-threatening wound, but in the face, I'm afraid. Plastic surgery will be required."

  "Anyone I know?"

  "I forget his name. A young detective."

  "Ah," the commissaris said. "See you later, sir."

  He undertook the long walk back to the elevator, thinking that he should perhaps be using his cane again. The cane was too conspicuous, however. It might alert the authorities to his infirmity. The rheumatism was improving somewhat lately. The Austrian baths didn't help, of course, but his wife always had such a good time in Bad Gastein. She liked fashionable resorts. And the commissaris was supposed to like calling on his retired brother who lived peacefully in a luxurious chalet in the Austrian Alps. They would invariably discuss old times. The commissaris preferred discussing new times, but there weren't any for his older brother. Reminiscences. The commissaris scowled. Would he be analyzing the past too, soon? His retirement crept closer every day. He still enjoyed the present.

  A uniformed officer walked by, saluting politely. "Glad to have you back, sir."

  "Yes," said the commissaris. He stopped and turned. "Halba?"

  The officer stopped and turned.

  "I was reading the paper in the plane this morning. Seems you've been quite busy. Do you have time to see me later this afternoon? Bring me up to date?"

  "Certainly, sir," Chief Inspector Halba said. "Will sometime around five be in order? The mayor wants to see me this afternoon, about the terrorists. Bit of a celebration. That's why I'm in uniform. The press is invited. Perhaps you might care to come, too."

  "Awfully kind," the commissaris mumbled. "But not really, I think. Haven't seen my men yet, you know. Are they all back now?"

  Halba's eyes glinted behind his rimless glasses. "Haven't seen them sir. They don't like to report to my office. I was meaning to mention that to you. Sergeant de Gier especially seems to be rather, ah, 'self-willed' is the word? I realize I'm new to the brigade, but a bit of respect for rank ..."

  "Quite," the commissaris said. "See you at five then, Halba. My regards to the mayor."

  In the elevator down, the commissaris realized who Halba reminded him of. Memories of the war had flashed back. The commissaris, then a junior police officer unwilling to cooperate with the German occupation forces, had been jailed for a good while. He was rightly suspected of being a member of the resistance. Being somewhat skilled in the art of interrogation himself, he had managed to plead innocence, but one of the Gestapo officers didn't give up. Hen Leutnant visited his prey daily in a dank cell. The German officer had all furniture removed from his prisoner's quarters and the floor flooded with an inch of dirty water. The prisoner was given a bit of bread each day and nothing to drink, so he drank from the floor. He also lay on the floor. His rheumatism started up during that painful period. Physically, the German from the past and the chief inspector from the present had little in common, but there was something about the way they both talked, showing their front teeth when they smiled. Yes, the commissaris thought grimly, two smart rodents, each from a different species.

  He reached his office. His secretary was already there and put herself in his way. Surprised, the commissaris extended a hand. She pecked him on the cheek.

  "Miss Antoinette," the commissaris exclaimed, feeling the small moist spot her lips had left.

  She smiled. "You can kiss me too." She bent down.

  "Modern times," the commissaris grumbled.

  "Mere politeness," Miss Antoinette said. "Working relationships have changed, you know. Go on, sir, it doesn't hurt."

  He kissed her cheek quickly and escaped behind his desk.

  "You don't find me distasteful?" Miss Antoinette asked.

  The commissaris shook his head energetically.

  "Don't I look like your wife?"

  The commissaris thought.

  "I do," Miss Antoinette said. "When she came here and when we walked downstairs together, the doorman thought I was her daughter."

  "You're the same size," the commissaris agreed. He gave in and smiled. "I like your new outfit. Very businesslike, yet charming."

  She turned around. "I bought it because I wanted to fit in. You have such a distinguished office. Did you notice I polished your desk and the cupboard? Don't the lions that support your table shine? All your furniture is sixteenth-century oak, isn't it?"

  "The plants look good too," the commissaris said. "You must have taken good care of them. Have you seen Adjutant Grijpstra and the sergeant?"

  "They were inquiring after you, sir. The sergeant is a nuisance."

  The commissaris reached for the silver thermos flask on his desk. Miss Antoinette was quicker. "I'll pour your coffee, sir, It's special. I bought beans and ground them myself."

  "Delicious," the commissaris said. "You're spoiling me, dear. The sergeant is after you?"

  "He makes advances."

  "You want me to speak to him? I thought he was still enamored of Constable First Class Jane."

  "Jane says he's good," Miss Antoinette said. "Aren't you going to Chief Inspector Halba's press party this afternoon?"

  The commissaris shook his head. "How's the wounded detective doing?"

  She filled his cup again. "The poor man's jawbone is completely smashed. There's a lot of talk about the incident, sir. The men say Chief Inspector Rood should have been allowed to finish the case, and that Halba botched the arrest. He put in so many men that the suspect became suspicious."

  The commissaris grinned. "A suspicious suspect?"

  She blushed. "Am I not saying it right? I was only trying to phrase my report correctly, but I'm not really a policewoman, of course. I only type."

  "I'm sorry," the commissaris said. "Go on, dear. I'm very interested. Suspect opened fire?"

  "With a fully automatic weapon," Miss Antoinette said. "An Uzi, I believe. He had hidden it under his jacket. Then we—well, the cops I mean—started shooting back and a police bullet hit a detective behind the telephone booth. Sloppy strategy, the men are saying."

  "So it seems," the commissaris said. "Halba, eh?"

  "Nasty man," Miss Antoinette said. "He keeps bothering me too. I'm complaining now, sir. The sergeant I don't really mind."

  "Yes," the commissaris sighed. "Halba is a present I think I could do without. I wish he had stayed with Narcotics. He was doing well there, I hear. Murder requires a different approach altogether."

  "You should hear what the girls at Narcotics have to say about Halba, sir."

  The commissaris waved a small hand. "Yes, dear, but that's just talk. I heard something too. Narcotics is slippery ground, a lot of money is involved. There are informers to be paid off, rival gangs to be played against each other. Halba would fit well into that scene. What interests me is why he would apply for a transfer to my deparment."

  "Yes," Miss Antoinette said briskly.

  "You're interested too?"

  "Maybe I know."

  "You do?" the commissaris asked. "Well, then, tell me."

  "He's after your job, sir. Commissaris ranks higher than chief inspector, doesn't it?"

  The commissaris sipped his coffee. "Well, he'll have to wait."

  "Maybe he won't, sir." Miss Antoinette walked to the door. "Anything else? Can I send in Grijpstra and de Gier?"

  "Yes. Please do."

  The commissaris thought Miss Antoinette had attractive hips, and an even more attractive way of swinging them when she suddenly turned. He opened the file she had placed next to his cup, and grunted irritably as he read.

  There was a knock on the door. "Yes?" His assistants walked in, in order of rank.

  "Well," the commissaris said twenty minutes later, when the three of them were looking at a map that de Gier had unrolled on the paneled wall. "Reopen two closed cases? Are you sure now,
Adjutant? Won't we be stepping on long toes?"

  "But you are interested, sir," Grijpstra said. "Especially as you're sort of personally involved."

  "You knew the dead banker," de Gier said. "How was that now? Martin IJsbreker's father and your father were partners?"

  "I don't think Martin was born then," the commissaris said. "All this goes back a long way, Sergeant. There were four partners in the Banque du Credit, but my father backed out. That left three. IJsbreker Senior, Baron de la Faille, and old Mr. Fernandus. I knew them all, since we moved in the same circles. Willem, old Mr. Fernandus's son, went to school with me.

  "But you aren't friends with Willem Fernandus, the bank's current president, anymore?"

  "Please," the commissaris said. "I don't even greet Willem when we meet in the street. That bank's reputation has gone down even further, Sergeant. Fernandus has been in a lot of scandals. His practice as an attorney is infamous, as you know if you've been reading the papers."

  "The Society for Help Abroad?" Grijpstra asked.

  "Started by Willem Fernandus," the commissaris said, "and very likely linked with his bank. That bank has never had a good aura about it; that's why my father got rid of his shares. It only has one office, situated fairly close to the prostitution quarter. The bank reputedly helped the German occupation. Fernandus was a double agent who somehow managed to jump clear when the war was over."

  "Willem Fernandus," Grijsptra said, "not his dad."

  "Yes, Willem," the commissaris said. "Let me see now. I think my father and the others all had equal shares. My father sold out, and old Fernandus may then have had half. Willem inherited half of that, so he only got a quarter, but his brother Ernst was never interested in business, so Willem may effectively control Ernst's shares as well. Then Willem married the Baroness de la Faille, whom I also know; she's an old lady now, and divorced. Fleur's share probably went to Willem. But Fleur only inherited half of her father's stake, for he married again and had a son. The son I met once, when he was still a child. I wonder how young Bart fits in now."

  "And then there was IJsbreker Senior," Grijpstra said. "Father of the subject who shot himself. The report says IJsbreker Senior was a banker, so maybe he ran the bank. Willem Fernandus doesn't run the Banque du Credit, sir?"