"Mr. Wang," Grijpstra said. "There's a Chinese for you. He owns a restaurant in Bolsward. The commissaris likes Mr. Wang. They meet from time to time. Tell Voort to see Wang."
"Thanks," Sergeant Biersma said. "That's good. We finally came up with something. How do we know about Wang?"
"Because I told you," Grijpstra said. "You tricked me. I'm stodgy and stupid. I've got that reputation in the force."
"More eel?" Sergeant Biersma asked.
Grijpstra burped.
"No more eel," Constable Ramsau said. "A dessert? Two pounds of fat eel slithering around in half a gallon of whipped cream, and a heavy pie crust to press the mixture down?"
"No, thanks." Grijpstra stood up. "I may have a little job for you. Sergeant de Gier and I had an accident a little farther along on this dike, and we vaguely remember a woman who called an ambulance. I'd like to see her, but I don't know what house she came from. There are several houses in the area where we got hurt. We also vaguely recall a truck loaded with tarpaper stuck halfway on the dike's shoulder. We hit a heavy green car that got away, with a bearded type at the wheel, wearing a duckbilled cap. Would you help me by going from door to door? Anything you turn up will be of value."
"You will join us, of course," Sergeant Biersma said.
The waiter brought the bill. Grjjpstra passed it along. "I'm on sick leave. I thought you two wanted a change. Perhaps you should take off your makeup first."
Sergeant Biersma woke Grijpstra more than an hour later. "Adjutant?"
"Yes?" Grijpstra said, struggling upright in the Citroen's backseat. "Any luck?"
The sergeant and the constable got into the car. They both held up papers. "Signed and sealed," Constable Ramsau said. "Two witnesses. Your lady and another one who lives at the corner opposite. Here you are. Nice statements."
"Read them to me," Grijpstra said. "Only the relevant parts, if you please."
" 'I saw,' " Constable Ramsau read, " 'a large, low, green car parked in front of my house. A young man in a duckbilled cap got out. He had a beard. He walked over to a truck loaded with tarpaper that was stuck in the mud. He took a sheet of tarpaper off the truck and placed it on the tarmac at the intersection of my road and the dike. I found the sheet of tarpaper the next day in the bushes at the side of the road, torn up and crumpled. It must have been swept up by the white compact that hit the large green car that afternoon and was busted up. The large green vehicle had been waiting in front of my house and started to move when the small white car came out of my road. The green car was driven by another young man with a beard and a duckbilled cap. This man was tubby; the other, the one who put the tarpaper down, was thin. I didn't understand what those two young men were doing.' "
"Not so clever, this lady," Sergeant Biersma said. "The one I found in the house opposite hers, a woman with her hair done up in a bun, wasn't too smart, either. She phoned for the ambulance and this is her statement: " 'I saw a young man with a beard and a duckbilled cap wandering around at the intersection. I couldn't see what he was doing. I wasn't paying much attention, as I was busy keeping house. I did see him bend over, doing something or other in the street, and his hat fell off. He had orange hair, cut in the shape of a narrow brush. Then he put on his hat again.' "
"Thank you," Grijpstra said.
"Suspect covered the stop sign on the road with a sheet of tarpaper," Sergeant Biersma said. "You therefore didn't see the marks, and since you were coming from the right, you assumed you had the right-of-way. The green car placed itself in your way deliberately. The punk who dragged the tarpaper about knew you would be hitting the green car from the right, so he stayed out of the vehicle to avoid getting hurt himself. The punk must have been picked up by his mate later on. That's an attempted-murder charge. Do you recognize suspects from these witnesses' descriptions?"
"The paper-dragger is called Heul," Grijpstra said. "The driver of the car is probably Huip Fernandus. The car, a Daimler, belongs to his father, Willem Fernandus. Sergeant de Gier and I arrested young Fernandus and Heul on a charge of harassing a helpless old lady, and they must have taken their revenge."
Sergeant Biersma whistled. "Isn't Willem Fernandus the attorney who runs the Society the papers have been going on about?"
"The very same man."
"Some shit," Constable Ramsau said. "Tell us more."
Grijpstra explained.
"And you're working on that IJsbreker case now?" Sergeant Biersma asked. "Sick leave and all? Your commissaris too, even if he is relieved of his duties, and this Sergeant de Gier who got suspended without pay?"
"We could be," Grijpstra said. "So could a few others. But you wouldn't be too interested in our attempt to clean up this city. You're working against us."
"I think we could be interested," Constable Ramsau said. "Don't you think so, Sergeant?"
"Hoohoo."
The sergeant and the constable ducked.
"Why are you so nervous?" Grijpstra asked. "I just laughed a little. You? You would be interested in bothering dangerous criminals? You might get hurt. You're slick, sleazy government types from The Hague." He gave Sergeant Biersma the Citroen's keys. "You can drive back, I'm still a little tired. You have no idea who we're up against. Remember IJsbreker? He got shot. Remember the junkies I told you about? They got injected to death. We have two witnesses staying in the commissaris's house, where they can be protected." He pointed at the bandage on his forehead. "See what happened to me? Sergeant de Gier has two cracked ribs."
"So?" Sergeant Biersma asked.
"So you want to stay out of this," Grijpstra said, settling back in the luxurious upholstery of the Citroen. He closed his eyes.
The Citroen turned quietly and followed the dike back to Amsterdam, gliding easily through tight curves on its wide radial tires. Downy clouds hugged hazy fields. A windmill turned slowly, pushed by a soft breeze. A heavily loaded barge trailed lazily behind a tugboat, hardly turning its engine because of the current pushing it along. Ducks, quacking contentedly, glided by.
"Adjutant?" Sergeant Biersma asked. "How could we be of help?"
Constable Ramsau looked around, waiting for an answer. Grijpstra slept peacefully, burbling moistly through parted fat lips.
\\ 20 /////
DE GIER, AHEAD OF HIS ARRIVAL TIME, WALKED slowly to the adjacent gabled mansions that housed the Society's club for prominent members and their affluent guests. There were still a number of blocks ahead. Pleasant spring weather, crisp and clear under a starry sky, did not improve the sergeant's mood. The elegance of Gelder Quay, a long, quiet backwater in the inner city, lined on both sides by silver-colored buildings and partly shrouded by majestic elm trees, didn't soothe him either.
"Sergeant?"
"Now what?" de Gier asked the young man in the maroon velvet suit and the flamboyant necktie, stepping under a streetlight ahead. The young man wore a hat, which he took off. "Like my haircut? The barber must still be sweeping his floor. I lost kilos of hair. The suit belongs to my brother Samuel." He pulled de Gier's sleeve. "Where the hell were you? I've been in and out of the club three times, looking for you. Celine is in the roulette room. I had to keep ducking away, she might recognize me even in this outfit."
"The others haven't arrived?"
"They'll be here soon, I came early. Are you going in now?"
"Sure," de Gier said. "I'll do my part. Leave it to the gigolo, that's all I'm good for."
Cardozo ran alongside de Gier, keeping up with the sergeant's long strides. "Do you know that IJsbreker's paintings are in the club's hallway? They didn't bother to sell the loot. There's a million's worth of art inside—Mondrians, Eschers, Appels, anything. Great shit. They just kept it."
"How do you know it's IJsbreker's stuff?" de Gier asked. "We never saw it."
"Got to be," Cardozo panted. "The Peruvian vases are there too, lined up on a long shelf in the hall. I asked the manager. He says the display only came in a few weeks ago. He doesn't know where from. He says the owners
put it up."
"Who are the owners?"
"He didn't say, and I couldn't ask too much. Got to be Fernandus, and that baron, de la Faille, the guy who took IJsbreker's place at the bank."
"Hardly conclusive evidence."
"Good enough, Sergeant. We don't work by the book anymore. Shall we take the art too? That would be fun."
De Gier stopped and admired the three tall mansions ahead, reaching up into the sky from the narrow quaysides and the canal in between. He checked his watch. "I'm still early."
"I'm nervous," Cardozo said. "This is different. Nothing to back us up. You think we can do this?"
"Sure," de Gier said. "You can do it. I'll be upstairs holding Celine's hand. Smothering her with my charm. May be I should knock her down."
"No," Cardozo said.
"Got to knock somebody down," de Gier said. "Where's my black knight? Now the final moment is close. The last goodbye."
"To what?" Cardozo asked.
"To this part of the quest," de Gier said. "I now need to perform a symbolic act. In style. Fight my man. Myself maybe, some form of suicide."
"I'm going crazy too," Cardozo said. "There's quite a crowd inside. City councilmen, that Ronnie Ryder character that the commissaris mentioned, with his dogs and sycophants. Stacks of cash on the table, gambling everywhere, associated hoodlums in suede leather and cowboy boots, a nice selection of lovely ladies. Some show. Posh. A lot of jewels on the ladies. Do we rip them off too?"
"Just take the money," de Gier said. "Do as you're told. We've been through all this, there's a plan. Why are you going crazy?"
Cardozo adjusted his tie. "It's too new for me. There's only the commissaris behind us."
"Maybe that's still too much," de Gier said. "I'm going in."
A Mercedes load of well-dressed, elderly men swooshed through the club's glass revolving doors. De Gier followed.
"Sir?" an athletic black man in an old-fashioned naval officer's uniform asked.
"New member," de Gier said. He was taken to an antique solid-oak table to pay his fee. The hall, with a floor of red and white flagstones, had an Old Masters flavor, with a touch of baroque. The baroque item was a life-size stone angel, dangling from cables under the hallway's arched ceiling. The club's manager, a blond, long-haired gent in a frock coat and striped pants, smoothly accepted de Gier's three new notes.
"Drinks and snacks on the house, sir. If you feel an urge to be connected to a lady, a waiter will take your fee. Feel free to have a good time."
"Oh, yes," de Gier said, "I'll see what I can do for you."
The manager smiled. "All gambling is for cash. In case of trouble, the waiters will take care of things."
"No trouble," de Gier said.
The manager's gold fillings sparkled. "That's good."
De Gier wandered through rooms and corridors, admiring interior decorations. Cream-colored drapes set off niches in the white plaster walls, each niche holding some treasure: a delicate Buddhist statue; a modern sculpture consisting of a bizarre three-dimensional collage of skulls and driftwood; a single semiprecious stone, artfully framed. Oriental rugs graced marble floors. A fountain rained down on a basin where large goldfish with flowing tailfins swam leisurely between waving water plants. Mahogany wainscoting lined gambling rooms where croupiers sang their mantras in French. A tall woman, with black hair cascading down her naked shoulders above a trim satin blue dress, had changed herself to a cherishable object, standing very still with raised arms, one hand holding a tumbler of wine, the other a slice of caviared toast, breathing "Hello" when he passed.
"How're you doing?" de Gier asked. "Seen Celine anywhere?"
The woman unfroze. Her perfume wafted around de Gier. "I could give you a more intense experience. Like to try me out?"
"I would just love to," de Gier said, "but I have to find Celine." The satin woman drifted off, rustling her dress.
"Not helpful," de Gier said. He tried another twisting corridor that ended in a large mirror. De Gier checked his appearance. Good. Perhaps his silk scarf needed adjusting. He did that, but then the image doubled. A tall man, as tall as de Gier, stood next to him, leenng into the mirror too. The double adjusted his tie. De Gier smoothed down his curls. The neighbor did likewise.
"Very nice," the double said softly. "Are you me? Am I you? Do we reflect? Is your name Baron Bart de la Faille too? Did I split and re-form twice, perhaps? A cloned vision? Was it the better brand of cocaine I just tried, or are we, in bare fact, the other way around, and is what I so fondly consider to be myself a mere projection of another phenomenon I haven't as yet met? Are we frightened or overjoyed?"
"Aha," de Gier said. "There you are. You took your time, but I haven't any right now. Where is Celine?"
"Who," the baron asked, "are you?"
"My name?" de Gier asked. "I'll let you know. I'm busy just now."
"We could penetrate each other's bodies," the baron asked. "Turn each other inside out together." He giggled. "Like gloves. Ever try that? Make a left glove out of a right and vice versa?"
De Gier walked off. He tried another door. Slender arms twined around his neck from behind. "That's the ladies', dear, are you drunk?"
"No," de Gier said, trying to twist free.
"You know who I am?" the female voice whispered.
"Celine?"
"What are you doing here?"
She let go, and he turned around. "I came to see you." She pulled his head down and kissed him full on the mouth. "Hmmm."
"Let's go upstairs," de Gier said.
She kissed him again.
He put his hands on her shoulders. "Upstairs? Let me go and I'll pay the waiter."
"No charge," Celine said. "Be my guest. I'll take care of this." She looked into his eyes. "But can we do it a bit later, please? Let me show you around first. Is this the first time you've been here?"
"Yes," de Gier said, pushing her firmly to a staircase. "Never mind the tour. I can't wait."
"But, Rinus . . ." She half-turned. "What is this? I didn't even know you remembered me. You're always so cool."
"Up, up, up." He grabbed her waist, propelled her up the stairs.
"Let go." She leaned back.
"No," de Gier said.
"I'll yell."
He swung her off her feet and held a hand over her mouth. A door swung open, pushed by his foot. He put her down on the bed.
Celine sat up. "Why the passion? What's the hurry? We don't close until four A.M., we have all night."
"Take off your clothes." De Gier smiled. "Please."
"Let's do this later. Why the rush?"
"Because I want you now." De Gier's large brown eyes shone. "Ever since that party at your house. I keep dreaming of you. Take off your clothes."
Celine's face hardened. "I dreamed of you too, but not like this." She reached for the telephone next to the bed. De Gier caught her wrist. "Don't." His arm pulled back.
"Are you going to hit me?"
"I'll have to," de Gier said. "There's no time to be nice. I'm needed downstairs. Don't worry, this will be quick."
"No!" She talked through her hands.
He sat down next to her. "There's a raid planned for a little later on. The colleagues may need my help."
She shook her head.
"I don't want to mess you up." He caressed her shoulder. "I know just where to hit you, not too hard. It won't hurt much. Please let me."
She edged away from him. He put an arm around her and pulled her back. "Stay away from the phone."
She leaned into his arm and dropped her hands. "Please don't. I won't yell." Celine looked up. "There can't be a raid, you're suspended."
"Who told you?"
"De la Faille. I heard that yesterday. There was a special party here to celebrate the commissaris's downfall."
"The baron doesn't know me."
"He knows of you. Fernandus threw the party. So how can there be a raid? Were Fernandus and the baron just showing off?"
"No," de Gier said. "I just met the baron. The baron is my man."
"Your man?"
"Bad guy," de Gier said. "I need a bad guy. Do you think the baron looks like me?"
"Bart has piggy eyes." She touched his cheek. "You have beautiful eyes, so warm."
"Same size," de Gier said. "Same mustache. Same type of hair. Does he do judo?"
"Fencing," Celine said. "Bart is good at fencing. All-around sportsman, that's what he says he is. Golf, polo, flies a glider."
"Good. Good." De Gier grinned.
"What do you want to do with him, Rinus? You aren't gay."
De Gier sighed. "Please, Celine, let me put you out."
She turned away. "Undo my zipper."
"No, not that."
"You don't want to?"
"No time."
She looked at her watch. "Isn't it early for a raid? The real stuff happens later, that's when all the big gamblers come in. Tonight there may be a special event. Here, I'll do it myself." She got up and stepped out of her dress. "Want a bath? Shall we push bubbles at each other? We've got nice soap here." She pulled him over to a sunken marble tub in the far corner of the room.
"Later?" de Gier said. "What event?"
"They're going to get Ronnie Ryder for all he's still worth," Celine said. "Ronnie likes me. I've been bringing him luck. If I don't show, he'll probably want to leave. They may come looking for me, but we've still got a few hours. They won't really push him until he's good and drunk. It usually takes a while."
"Aha," de Gier said. "So we wait?"
She nodded. "Yes. Let's have a bath. Would you care for a drink first? You drank bourbon that night. The night I stripped? When you wouldn't look at me?"
De Gier thought.
"Don't you remember? I did it just for you."
"Sure," de Gier said. "That was very nice. Great party."
"Can I phone for a drink?"
He reached for the phone. "Let me do it. What's the number of this room?"
"Seven."
"Room seven," de Gier said. "A bottle of bourbon, two glasses, and ice."
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