Tumbleweed ac-2

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  He had seen the chief constable that morning, to ask for an introduction to the director of the Secret Service. The introduction had been arranged within a few minutes. And now he was on his way. He knew the address, had known it for some years but there had never been a reason to penetrate into this seat of mystery.

  He stumbled on a cobblestone and supported himself against the cast-iron railing of a bridge. He cursed, a long full-blooded curse, venomously pronounced, each syllable stressed. The pain was now a little worse and he waited until he had regulated his breathing again.

  He wished he could have avoided this visit but had to agree with himself that he couldn't have. The Secret Service had alerted the police, an unignorable fact. They had, in some so far unexplained way, discovered that Mrs. Maria van Buren was not the simple lone woman living on a houseboat she might have pretended to be.

  The commissaris shook his head and grumbled. They still didn't know much about the dead woman.

  He had arrived and looked at the dilapidated narrow gable house. He checked the number and smiled. He knew the house. He smiled again. He knew the house well. He had visited it several times, but long ago. Thirty-five years ago, before the war it had been. The house had looked better in those days. It had been a great house, quiet and dignified, furnished with dark red velours drapes and thick semitransparent lace and a wealth of Victorian furniture. It had catered to the weird tastes of some of the richest men of the capital. His suddenly activated memory produced a series of fairly sharp color photographs. He remembered the fat oily face of Madame and the luscious body of Mimi, a Javanese girl who could only be rented for short periods at an exorbitant rate for she was first choice. She had her own large room on die second floor, a room full of minors. The commissaris had spent several hours with the mirrors, enervated by the reflection of his own body shown from every possible angle. It had been on the day that old Mr. de V. had been found in that room and old Mr. de V. hadn't been a pretty sight with all the lights switched on, looking rather bulbous, like an overgrown white mushroom. He had died, of a stroke, but the doctor wasn't sure and the police were invited. The commissaris was an inspector at the time. An evening which made an impression on his inexperienced mind.

  Madame dropped a heavy hint that evening and the hint had made him return, about a week later. Madame had been very good to him, giving him his choice of four ravishing girls and the use of the mirror room and she opened the bottle of champagne herself, with her pudgy bejeweled hands. He had paid for the second bottle himself but was only charged a quarter of the usual price.

  The small oilcloth-covered figure on the steps of the old house straightened itself as the memories flooded its brain. A very memorable evening indeed. The girl was French, genuinely French and he had practiced his knowledge of the language on her and she had corrected his mistakes and giggled beautifully and done far more than he had expected her to do.

  He had visited the house once more. A client, a foreigner fortunately, had, in a frenzy of rage and frustration, wounded a girl with a small fork. The wound wasn't serious but the client was arrested nevertheless. Client and girl had been eating small pieces of buttered toast, thickly covered with caviar, and the minute black eggs were mixed up with blood on the alabaster body of the girl. A horrible but also rather interesting sight. And now he was visiting the house again, for the fourth time. He rang the bell.

  Would the present occupants know about the history of the house? They probably would not, the commissaris thought. As he waited for somebody to open the door he became more certain that they wouldn't know.

  They didn't even know that he was ringing the bell. He rang again.

  A slow shuffling sound approached and the door creaked open. An old man, in the city's uniform, the collar of his jacket decorated with the three crosses of the arms of Amsterdam, faced the commissaris, although "faced" was, perhaps, an exaggeration. The old man didn't really have a face. The commissaris found himself confronted with a mask, made of old yellowed putty and, again, he was reminded of the brothel of a past now so far away that it seemed dated in the dream time, which also had an aged doorman who would stare at the customers as if he didn't know why they had taken the trouble of ringing the bell.

  "I have an appointment with your director," the commissaris said, and the doorman forced his back into a slight bow, and stepped back.

  Perhaps the old man was dumb but his attitude indicated servility and the commissaris felt grateful, his presence had been acknowledged.

  The door closed behind him and he was led up a flight of stairs toward the mirror room. He tittered and half-expected his guide to stop and ask for an explanation but their slow procedure was uninterrupted and another door opened.

  The mirrors had gone.

  But some of the furniture was still there and the commissaris sat down on a chair upholstered in red velours, an old chair, a chair he had sat on before, but the mood had changed. He was neither breathless nor excited. Now, he dryly stated to himself, he was bored. No other word for it. Bored.

  His host had helped him out of his coat and hung it on a heavy copper hook; his hat crowned the coat. He had shaken his host's hand and they had agreed on the weather. He also knew his host's name, and his rank. A naval commander. So that's what happened to the navy, he told himself. The ships are tied up in the river, and here is their last man, an old man, for the commander was old, close to retirement, like himself.

  He noted, without any surprise, that his host's feet were covered by slippers, worn and shabby. He also noted that the commander's face reminded him of the face of a turtle, a dried-out face with patient eyes embedded in heavy folds. The commissaris liked turtles and kept one in his garden. He called it ''Turtle" but it would never come when he called it by its name. He approved of his turtle's supreme indifference and fed it well, with fresh lettuce leaves, put out on the center of the small lawn of his garden, every night without fail.

  "Yes," the turtle was saying now, "the van Buren case. Poor woman has been murdered, I hear."

  "So she has," the commissaris agreed.

  "Sad," the turtle replied.

  "Very," the commissaris answered.

  They didn't stare at each other. The turtle's look had turned inward and the commissaris had closed his eyes. His legs hurt him very badly now and all his energy was directed toward the rhythm of his breathing.

  A clock ticked slowly on the wall. The door opened and closed. A pot of coffee, a sugar bowl, a jug of cream, and two cups and saucers had appeared on the turtle's desk, all dating back to the days of the brothel but the commissaris was no longer amused; he had accepted the fuse of past and

  The turtle inhaled, waited, and began to speak.

  "We would like to be of help."

  The commissaris breathed, very quietly, counting to himself, up to four for inhaling, up to six for exhaling.

  "But I am afraid there is little we can do."

  The commissaris continued counting.

  "You see, we don't know much."

  The pain was under control now, and the commissaris fumbled in his pockets.

  "A cigar?"

  "Please."

  The cigar was lit.

  The turtle spoke without any prompting, eager to share his knowledge.

  "Mrs. van Buren was friendly with several men. The American intelligence people informed us about her possible importance; it seemed she had befriended an officer, an expert on atomic warfare. We were asked to keep her under observation."

  "Yes," the commissaris said.

  "But we get many requests like that and we don't always do as we are told."

  "No."

  "But then Brussels also pulled the bell. The same Mrs. van Buren had entered into a relationship with one of their men, a diplomat charged with security, security of the state."

  "So you thought there was something in it," the commissaris said.

  The turtle smiled. The commissaris didn't feel obliged to say anything.

&nb
sp; "We don't think much," the turtle ventured.

  "No."

  "No," the turtle said. "We don't. But we do our job."

  "So you contacted us."

  "Yes," the turtle said.

  The silence lasted and the commissaris got up. "That was all?" he asked, feeling that he was committed to make sure.

  "Yes," the turtle said.

  "It may be that Mrs. van Buren's death had nothing to do with secrets," the commissaris said feebly, feeling somewhat caught.

  "It may be," the turtle said. "Have some more coffee before you go. The weather is still awful."

  The commissaris emptied his second cup and shook hands. The turtle's hand felt as it should feel, dry and leathery.

  The commissaris felt that he should ask the question. "Have you been here long? In this house I mean?"

  "Ten years," the turtle said.

  "Property of the state, is it?"

  "Of course," the turtle said. "Why?"

  "Just wondered. I wonder how she got it?"

  "Bought it, I imagine," the turtle replied kindly.

  The turtle had been right, the weather was still awful. The commissaris rang the bell again and asked the doorman to phone for a taxi. He waited in the corridor but the taxi didn't arrive.

  "Never mind," he said in the end. "I suppose they are busy, everybody wants a cab with this rain. Tell the driver, if he does arrive, that I couldn't wait."

  The doorman saluted and the door opened and closed again.

  ***

  "I am getting a lot of information," the commissaris told himself as he walked back to Headquarters, "and all of it is negative. We are getting nowhere."

  The conclusion cheered him; he had been wishing for a difficult case.

  He thought of his time limit. The chief inspector would be back within ten days. It would be awkward to have to tell his assistant that a murderer was still wandering about. But he shrugged the thought off. He would proceed as dictated by the rules. No hurry. Hurry is a fundamental error. Where did I get that? the commissaris asked himself. He remembered, he had got it from a Chinese story, a wise story. He had begun to read books about ancient China at about the same time that his rheumatism had started to fire the nerves of his legs. "Pain and wisdom," he thought. "Perhaps there is some connection."

  The idea occurred to him that perhaps he should be grateful for his pain, it was leading him to discoveries, but, as he slowly turned the next corner and began to follow another canal, he rejected the conclusion. He would rather have no wisdom and no pain. He walked for another quarter of an hour thinking of the days when he had no wisdom. He saw himself entering the brothel again, on an evening in September of 1938, a young man, freshly bathed and filled with anticipation. The night of the room with the mirrors, the champagne, and the girl with the narrow hips and the full breasts.

  "Morning, sir," a uniformed sergeant at Headquarters said. "How are you feeling this morning?"

  "Fine," the commissaris said. "Lovely day."

  "For frogs and officers," the sergeant said softly.

  ***

  "Try the police again," the commissaris said to the girl at the switchboard. "Chief Inspector da Silva in Willemstad."

  Within ten minutes the phone rang.

  The connection was bad and the commissaris had to shout a good deal. The chief inspector was very helpful. Yes, he had gone into the matter. Yes, Mrs. van Buren was a daughter of Mr. de Sousa of . Yes, Mr. de Sousa was an important citizen. No, nothing was known on the island, nothing that could be a cause of Mrs. van Buren's untimely death in Amsterdam. Chief Inspector da Silva was sorry but that was all he could say.

  The commissaris sighed and dialed a two-digit number. "The chief constable, please," he said politely.

  He waited. "Morning, sir. The Secret Service knows nothing."

  "It never does," the chief constable said.

  "I think I should go to ."

  There was a short silence and the commissaris found himself staring hard at his telephone.

  "Well, if you think it is necessary."

  Janwillem Van De Wetering

  Tumbleweed

  9

  "Button up your shirt, " Grijpstra said. "I can see your undershirt. Your orange undershirt."

  He sounded surprised.

  "Have you never seen an orange undershirt?" de Gier asked.

  "No. Don't want to either."

  De Gier fumbled with his shirt.

  "The button is gone," Grijpstra said, leaning closer. "Ha!"

  "Ha what?"

  "You are getting fat," Grijpstra said triumphantly.

  De Gier jumped up and left the room. Grijpstra ran after him. He found de Gier staring at himself in the large mirror which had been placed in the corridor by a chief constable who wanted his men to look neat.

  "Stand normally," Grijpstra said. "Breathe out! You'll choke if you breathe in only."

  "Fat," de Gier said.

  "A little fat," Grijpstra said. "It's your age. The muscles go soft and gradually the stomach begins to pop out. Don't worry."

  "No."

  "But it may get worse. I had an uncle who had a figure a little like yours. He had to wear a corset in the end."

  "What happened to your uncle?" de Gier asked.

  "Oh, he died, why?"

  "What age?"

  "Forty-eight, forty-nine, I believe."

  "What of?"

  "Vanity," Grijpstra said. "Plain vanity. Looking in the mirror. He got fatter and fatter and he kept on buying stronger corsets and one day the veins in his neck burst. But what do you care about my uncle? Did you read the commissaris' note on my desk?"

  "Yes," de Gier said. "I read all the notes on your desk. He has gone to Curacao and he won't be back for a few days and we are to continue our investigations."

  Grijpstra nodded.

  "So what do you plan to do?"

  "Follow me."

  De Gier followed and they landed up near the coffee machine where Grijpstra waited until de Gier had found the right coins. The machine worked.

  "I have followed you," de Gier said. "Now what?"

  "I don't know," Grijpstra said. "We could telephone Mr. Holman again and ask him to come to see us."

  "We did that yesterday."

  "And the day before yesterday."

  "If he comes today he'll cry again."

  "He hasn't done it," de Gier said.

  Grijpstra leaned against the whitewashed wall and sipped his coffee. "Why hasn't he done it? He has admitted that he has seen Mrs. van Buren by himself, hasn't he? First he said that he always took his little son but later he admitted mat he has been to the houseboat by himself."

  "On Sunday mornings only."

  "So he says but why shouldn't he have made love to her on Sunday mornings. What's wrong with Sunday mornings?"

  "That fat fellow?"

  "Come off it," Grijpstra said. "He isn't so fat, no fatter man you will be in a few years' time. And he has a nice pleasant face. Perhaps he gave her a feeling of security. Perhaps she cuddled him. She could never have cuddled her paying lovers. The colonel, the diplomat, and our friend Drachtsma are all over six feet and wide-shouldered and dynamic and handsome. Perhaps she got tired of their profiles and muscles. So jolly Mr. Holman became her true lover. On Sunday mornings.

  "Right," de Gier said. "Wonderful. Romantic. They had coffee or hot cocoa or milk with honey and nutmeg and they made warm cozy love to each other and then he bounced home again."

  "Yes. But he got tired of her and she threatened to tell his wife so he sweated for a day or two and made up his mind and practiced with his darts. And then he found that lovely wicked knife in a second-hand store in the inner city and he took it home and threw it for an hour or so and then he went to see her last Saturday night and threw it right into her back. Swish. Plop."

  "No," de Gier said.

  "Why not? He is a violent man. Some little boy steps on a plant in his garden and he gives the little fellow such a wall
op that he lands up in hospital with a cracked skull. And he is untrustworthy. His boss trusted him and he stole a couple of thousand guilders when he thought nobody was looking. You have read his file, haven't you?"

  "I have read his file."

  "So?"

  De Gier walked over to the window and looked down into the courtyard where four stolen cars, found by the night patrol, were waiting for their rightful owners. He thoughtfully scratched his bottom.

  "So?"

  "Maybe. But I don't think so. Perhaps you are right. He is in a terrible state. Every time we ask him a question he wipes his face with that large handkerchief and he gets tears in his eyes and finally he cries. He hasn't got an alibi. But he threw that stiletto of yours into the commissaris' cigar box. That was really silly, wasn't it?"

  "Yes," Grijpstra said, "that was silly. But we would have found out about his darts anyway. He knew we would, so perhaps it was very clever to play along with us."

  "A lover and a genius," de Gier said.

  "He deals in nuts, remember? He set himself up in business after he had been in jail twice. He runs his own business so well that he owns a nice house in a good area and a brand-new red Rover. A Rover is a pretty posh car. I have spoken to two of his clients pretending I wanted some information about his commercial reliability. They spoke very highly of him. He does all his own selling and buying and he has only one employee, an old spinster who answers his phone when he isn't there. I am convinced that he is an intelligent man; to build up a good business in a few years' time takes brains. And discipline."

  "You think we should arrest him?"

  "No," Grijpstra said, "we can only hold him for a few days. There is no evidence at all. We'll have to make him confess."

  "Play cat and mouse? Make him come every day, and men give him a break, and then make him come every day again? Phone him at his house with odd questions?"

  Grijpstra didn't answer.

  "It's a nasty game, you know. Last time we did it the man had a nervous breakdown and his wife nearly divorced him and he was innocent."

  "Yes," Grijpstra said, "I won't forget that case."