"Give me your hands, Adjutant." Guldemeester wasn't heavy, and the commissaris dragged him up without too much trouble.
"See that shed?" Guldemeester asked as he staggered to the house. "Built it myshelf. For the goatsh. My little friendsh. I'd let them out when I came home and they'd gambol about."
"I've got a turtle," the commissaris said.
"Good." Guldemeester patted the commissaris's arm. "Good."
"To the couch?" the commissaris asked.
They passed the staircase. Guldemeester pointed at empty bottles lying on the steps. "AH ashleep, the little fellers."
"The bottles are your friends?"
"Yes," Guldemeester said clearly again. "The goats are dead."
The adjutant, steered along by the commissaris, flopped down on the couch. The commissaris picked up Guldemeester1 s legs and lifted them onto the couch too. "Comfortable? Maybe you can have goats again in Spain."
"Don't know," Guldemeester said. "Should have asked him."
"Who?" the commissaris asked.
"Fernandush," Guldemeester said sleepily, turning on his side.
The chief constable was waiting at the elevator when the commissaris walked through the lobby. "Morning," the commissaris said. He looked at his watch. "Afternoon, rather." He turned away. "Maybe I should get something to eat."
"Why don't you come up to my office for a minute?" the chief constable asked. "I missed you at the meeting."
The door slid open and they both got in. Two constables stepped into the elevator too, pointing at their caps, pushed to the backs of their heads. "Good day, gentlemen." The chief constable smiled. The commissaris mentioned the unusually good weather lately. He mentioned it again when they walked through the long corridor to the chief constable's office. "Very pleasant spring, good time of the year to be about."
The chief constable indicated a chair. "You were out all morning, I couldn't reach you on the phone. Working on something?"
"The IJsbreker case," the commissaris said, shaking immaculate white cuffs from his shantung sleeves. "I think I'm getting somewhere."
"That case has been taken care of." The chief constable pushed a box of cigars across the top of his desk.
"No, thank you," the commissaris said. "Closed?"
The chief constable nodded. "We discussed the matter again this morning. There's sufficient evidence to believe that Martin IJsbreker shot himself in a despondent mood. All conditions point to a conclusive supposition."
"Maybe I will have a cigar," the commissaris said.
The chief constable waited until the commissaris's cigar burned properly. "I think the missing gun and that nonsense about a second bullet can be ignored. Powder burns on the corpse's face, the letter, testimony by employees of the Banque du Credit—we have more than enough to stop wasting time and turn to something else."
"To what, sir?" the commissaris asked.
"To the terrorists. There may be others about."
"Halba can work on the terrorists," the commissaris said airily. "He already had one shot. You approved of his method, I hear."
The chief constable's fingers drummed on his desk. "I'm serious. The IJsbreker case is closed."
The commissaris got up. "Well, that's that, then. I'll be off to lunch." He walked to the door.
"Commissaris?"
"Sir?" The commissaris looked over his shoulder.
"What will you work on now?"
The commissaris stopped and turned. "Oh, there's always something. The old lady, I think."
"Which old lady would that be?"
"The old lady who is being drummed out of her cozy apartment, sir."
"I'm not familiar with that complaint," the chief constable said, waving cigar smoke away.
"It's in the daily file, sir, several times in fact." "I thought you were in charge of Homicide?" "A drumstick," the commissaris said, "could be a dangerous weapon."
The chief constable nodded. "I didn't know." He smiled. "But then I've never been a member of the Murder Brigade. By the way, my name is Henri, I should have mentioned that before."
"I know, sir," the commissaris said. "Chief Inspector Halba told me so the other day." He hesitated. "Am I excused?" The chief constable looked away. "Yes."
\\ 9 /////
"YES, MRS. JONGS," DE GIER SAID INTO HIS PHONE, "this is the police . . . about your complaint. . . No, dear, this is Headquarters, not your local station."
He listened. "No, dear, I'm not kidding."
He listened for quite a while. "Terrible. Absolutely, Mrs. Jongs. Tell me . . . just a minute now . . . yes . . . Would you perhaps keep a bucket around the kitchen?"
"Couldn't this be arranged a little more simply?" Grijpstra asked when de Gier finally hung up.
"No," de Gier said. "You didn't want to phone, so we'll do it my way. She wouldn't believe me at first. Listen carefully now, this is the plan. We meet in the garage here tonight at seven sharp. I'll come earlier to make sure that the van, overalls, tools, and whatnot are ready. You arrange the availability of a couple of cells."
"There are never any cells available," Grijpstra said. "The new jails we keep hearing about will be ready within five years. Can't we put this off till then?"
"Get cells, Adjutant." De Gier pounded his desk. "I don't care how you do it. Grant a rapist an all-night walk through the park. It's Thursday, so the stores will be open until ten. Let a few shoplifters off so that they can keep in practice."
Grijpstra had cleaned his pistol and was trying to insert the clip.
"Other way around?" de Gier asked.
"Right." Grijpstra frowned as the clip clicked into place. "Thank you. I'll never get used to the new model."
"Please remember that the Walther P5 has no safety device."
"Really?" Grijpstra slid the clip out again and pushed cartridges into its open end.
"You'll kill someone," de Gier said. "Nontechnical types like you shouldn't be issued guns."
Grijpstra slipped the pistol into his shoulder holster.
"You'll shoot me" de Gier said, "But it doesn't matter. Death is the final and greatest adventure of them all. May it come swiftly, by the hand of a friend."
"I'm not really your friend," Grijpstra said gently. "Fate has pushed us together. I've never cared for your company much. You're everything I detest. Your slightest action irritates me intensely. Even if you don't do anything at all, I can't stand having you around." He sighed. "I'll be much better off without you."
De Gier sat at the edge of his desk, smiling down on Grijpstra. "So why did you pick me up just now? I could still be on my bed, enjoying the final vapors of the forbidden weed, twirling my toes, listening to the meaningful purr of Tabriz, upside down in my arm, rowing her legs, assuring me of her love by a tickle of her tail."
"Sergeant?" Grijpstra asked pleasantly.
"Yes?" De Gier crossed his long legs and turned his head a little so that he could see his profile in the mirror across the room. He adjusted his silk scarf.
"Why don't you smoke dope all the time?" Grijpstra asked. "You never buy it. You never take any home when it comes your way. You like dope, don't you?"
"Hmmm?" de Gier asked, still looking into the mirror.
"Won't you please tell me?" Grypstra asked kindly.
"No," de Gier said pleasantly. "No, I most definitely won't. Why should I explain my inconsistencies to you? You would never understand. You don't see the beauty of deliberate, exceptional behavior. You're programmed to blindly follow whatever common sense prescribes. You're common, Adjutant. You're the average personified. You obediently trot along your predestined path. I detest you too, you and everything you stand for . . ."He looked at the door.
Cardozo came running in and froze in his tracks. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Grijpstra asked.
"For interrupting," Cardozo said. "I'll go. I hate it when the two of you go into this lovey-smiley act. It makes me feel left out. I know I'm the odd man out here, and that you only to
lerate me because I'm handy for running errands, but usually I can put up with being abused. Not when you're like this."
"You're too sensitive," de Gier said. "What makes you think we were being harmonious just now?"
"My sensitivity." Cardozo brought out his dogeared notebook. "I'll be quick and leave. I checked with the Registry of Deeds. The house IJsbreker died in belongs to the Society for Help Abroad. I checked with the Registry's computer and got a list of all Society property. Binnenkant numbers 18, 20, and 22 belong to the Society too. Number 20, the middle building, was only purchased last month. That side of the street is still rent-controlled, so Mrs. Jongs can only be thrown out if she doesn't send in her monthly check; even then the process might take a year."
"So she has to go voluntarily," Grijpstra said.
"And she won't," Cardozo said. "The Society might offer her money, of course, but drumming is cheaper."
"Good," de Gier said, "but that isn't all you did today. What else can you tell us?"
"I met Miss Antoinette in the corridor just now," Cardozo said. "She's all worried. The commissaris had her look up the registration number of a Corvette. It belongs to State Detection."
"Driven by men in leather jackets?" de Gier asked.
"I don't know."
"Driven by men in leather jackets," Grijpstra said. "Does that surprise us?"
"What else, Constable?" De Gier asked. "Come out with it. You were having coffee with a clerk. Why?"
"This is what else," Cardozo said, emptying the contents of a small paper bag on his table. Two plastic beetles, each two inches long, sprawled on their backs. He picked them up and wound their mechanisms by turning tiny plastic knobs on their bellies. He placed the beetles facing each other and watched their slow approach. The beetles whirred as they walked; as soon as their front legs touched, they stood up and began to maul each other with toothed jaws. Cardozo pulled his toys apart and made them repeat the performance. "So the investigation has started up," Cardozo said pensively, "and the State is concentrating on the commissaris first. What does that mean?"
"More misery," Grijpstra said.
"Joy," de Gier said. "Pure joy. Ultimate liberty. I always suspected that evil would one day try to catch us from all sides. We're the only good guys left and no longer restricted by what others may think of us. Any decent cop we ever knew has either left the force or gotten himself transferred well away from Amsterdam. Even the old chief constable bowed bis patriarchal head when the bad guys started shoving. Only the commissaris ..."
"And Chief Inspector Rood," Grijpstra said. "Don't exaggerate."
"And Constable-Detectives Ketchup and Karate, maybe," de Gier said.
"Ketchup and Karate mean well?" Cardozo asked. "I've been wondering lately. I saw them just now driving a punky Camaro, with eyeshadow up to their ears."
"They're crazy," Grijpstra said. "Which makes them useful. They don't think very constructively, either, which is an asset again."
"Muddled," de Gier said. "They haven't developed enough yet to be crazy. The commissaris is truly crazy." He made his swivel chair go through a full turn. "Do you know that that is my main fear? That the commissaris isn't really crazy, but merely another good guy? A multiplied Grijpstra?"
"I don't think so," Grijpstra said. "I think he's truly crazy. I've never liked the commissaris either. He isn't serious, he has that funny way of darting around, you can't grab hold of his motives."
"So the leather jackets are trailing the chief?" Cardozo asked. "Would they go after me too? They'd have to do it on roller skates. I'm riding a bicycle again. The garage took my car back, some restriction in the budget."
"So who is the clerk?" Grijpstra asked.
"I won't tell." Cardozo rewound his beetles. "I haven't worked this out yet. All in due time."
De Gier walked to the door. Grijpstra got up heavily and approached Cardozo by sidling along the wall. "Hey," Cardozo said.
"I've been rightfully accused of being an emergency ," de Gier said. "Whoever said that saw deep into my soul. That I've restrained myself a little so far was because normality still threatened me somewhat."
"Cardozo," growled Grijpstra. "Who is that clerk?"
De Gier moved closer to Cardozo too. "But the situation has changed. Even the State is against us now. I can forget my last scruples. I can finally have a good time. I could, for instance"—he quickly grabbed Cardozo by the throat—"kill someone."
"Cardozo," growled Grijpstra, pulling back his fist.
"Okay," Cardozo said.
"There's a good chap," de Gier said, stepping back. "Tell you what, I'll get the coffee, even if it is your turn again. Don't say anything until I'm back."
Grijpstra dialed. "Miss Antoinette? Did the commissaris see who was driving the Corvette that bothered him?"
"Thugs?" Grjjpstra asked. "A description, please?"
He nodded. "That's what I wanted to hear. Leather jackets. Could I speak to the commissaris himself now?"
"A visitor? . . . Who? . . . thank you." Grijpstra hung up.
"Who?" Cardozo asked.
De Gier came back with the coffee on a tray.
"Willem Fernandus," Grijpstra said, "the infamous attorney, the evil genius behind the society that fouls up the city, is in the commissaris's office right now."
"Great," de Gier said. "I hope he's there at our invitation. We have the enemy on a string." De Gier dangled an invisible string from his free hand. He suddenly jerked it, forcing a diminutive Fernandus to face him at eye level. "Hop. There you are. Hello."
"The commissaris has no enemies," Grijpstra said. "I like to think that he's too essentially polite ever to become angry with anyone."
"He doesn't care enough to be concerned," de Gier said. He smiled at Cardozo. "Enough sugar? Not too much milk? I stirred twice. To your liking, I hope?"
"A little too sweet," Cardozo said. "Could do with more milk. Otherwise it's just right."
"Too strong." Grijpstra put down his cup. "You'll never learn. Didn't the commissaris tell us that he and Fernandus go back a long way?"
"And that they don't talk to each other anymore," de Gier said. "Surprising. Very. Do we have a hint of humanity here? I'm not sure I like that."
"My brother Samuel got me a free ticket to this play the other day," Cardozo said. "Being eternally unemployed, Samuel finds things to do. It's amateur theatrics now. The play was about Tibetan holy men, calling themselves 'mountain lions,' who have been chased off their mountaintops by Chinese economists. It was called The Mangy Dog. The point seemed to be that when a mountain lion comes down to the village, the common people take him to be some other kind of stray dog."
"Is that so?" Grijpstra asked. "I'm glad you told us."
"I get it," de Gier said, "but nobody ever chased the commissaris into our lowly spheres. If he is here, he'll be here by his own choice."
"Would you care to light the incense, Cardozo?" Grijpstra asked. "And dust the floor, perhaps? It's time for us to prostrate ourselves."
"Go ahead," de Gier said. "Ridicule what you can't understand as yet. See if you can drag us mountain lions through the mud."
"Us," Grijpstra said.
"Got to go now," Cardozo said, tiptoeing away from his desk. "I'm busy. 'Bye."
De Gier jumped up and rushed to the door. Grijpstra drank his coffee. De Gier came back. "Couldn't catch him, eh?" Grijpstra asked. "You're getting old. Go home and take another nap. I'll see you in the courtyard at seven sharp."
\\ 10 /////
"BUT I'M NOT," FERNANDUS SAID, WAVING HIS small fat hands excitedly. "No, I'm not at all what you imply. What has gotten into you? Look at me. I'm Willem. Wimpy, to you. We went to kindergarten together. We looked at goddamn mice. We were pals."
"No," the commissaris said.
Fernandus, dressed in a well-made but inconspicuous suit that was, to the trained observer of status symbols, easily discernible as very high-priced, flashed a golden smile, highlighted by his perfectly repaired canines. H
is recently permanented silver curls waved as his hands gestured more eloquently. "Jan. Why keep carrying all this old anger? I came here with pleasure. I was looking forward to meeting you after all these years."
"You came here," the commissaris said, "because you were told to come by a uniformed constable. If you hadn't come, I would have signed a warrant. You're a material witness in a murder case."
Fernandus held on to his smile. "You look neat, you look like the very symbol of authority. Do you know you would make an impressive judge?"
The commissaris smiled noncommitally.
"Yes," Fernandus said, "I can see it now. You developed well. As was to be expected, of course. Just look at you." He sketched the commissaris's outline in the air. "A neat little old aristocrat, framed by flowering begonias, looking innocent enough behind that impressively sculptured desk. But don't"—Fernandus raised a hand—"let anyone underestimate your ferocious power when you suspect injustice in the land. Now what murder might you be referring to, Jan?"
The commissaris took his time, lighting a cigar. "You're here to receive fair warning."
Fernandus's hand shot out. "I'll have a cigar too."
"Fair warning," the commissaris said. "You chose the evil path, Willem. How do you find it? Easy?"
Fernandus slumped back. "There we go again. Our last discussion was over thirty years ago. I didn't agree with you then and I disagree with you now. I chose the convenient, realistic path."
The commissaris, with a delicate old-mannish gesture, tipped ash off his cigar. "I chose the good path. I don't find it easy, that's why I ask."
"I stopped smoking a year ago." Fernandus said. "I've just decided I will break my habit of nonindulgence. You did that to me. You're the tempter. How can you be good?"
The commissaris bent forward. "No, really, tell me, are you having an easy time at being bad?"
"Cigar," Fernandus said.
The commissaris shook his head. "No friendliness. I became your enemy when you were killing Jacqueline by putting poison in her porridge. You can buy cigars in our canteen. One floor down."
"Fuck you," Willem said quietly.
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