The Sergeant's Cat

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  Grijpstra nodded.

  “You heard about the missing sum? There is nothing miss­ing and nothing is amiss. This store flourishes and makes a sizable daily profit. The administration has gone mad. Please sit down, Adjutant.”

  This is a suspect? Grijpstra thought. This kindly fellow with the name of the company embroidered on his uniform? This friendly compatriot with his open face? His close-cropped hair? His blushing cheeks? His clear blue eyes? This trustworthy soul running a spic-and-span store? Why am I wasting my time?

  “Mr. Vries says . . .” Grijpstra said coolly.

  “I know, I know.” Jansen pointed at his forehead. “An idiot, with permission. I make profit and he makes trouble. It’s been like that for months. But there’s nothing wrong. The goods come into the store in trailers, and the goods leave the store in brown paper bags. The money the clients give us flows into the registers, and the total is banked at the end of each day. Whatever the computer says is checked by me: Okay, there may be a difference, the ladies who work the registers are human. Half a percent too little today, half a percent too much tomor­row.”

  “Two-point-eight million,” Grijpstra said coolly, “is not half a percent this way or that.”

  “Nah,” Jansen said cheerfully.

  “You’ve worked here long?”

  “Thirty years.”

  “Five times six?”

  “Beg pardon?” Jansen asked.

  “The figure six? Does six mean anything to you?” “What?”

  “A sixth of your turnover is lost, it seems.”

  “Nah,” Jansen said. “Is craziness catching? Mr. Vries is nuts, but you still seem sane.”

  “Can I look around?” Grijpstra asked.

  The adjutant counted the girls who arranged packages on shelves. There were six girls, but they were joined by a seventh. He counted the boys who were opening cartons. Three boys. He counted the shelves and the counters, the tables and the cupboards. Too many. The store was busy and getting busier. Pressed by customers from all sides, he counted the registers. There were five registers. Ladies pushed carts against his shins, toddlers climbed over his feet, a passing baby drooled on his sleeve. He looked down into the blouse of a lady who had bent over. Two. He was stabbed by a loaf of French bread. One. A lady grabbed eight bottles of hot sauce. A fat gent swept two candy bars off a shelf. Whoever buys three cans of bean soup gets a fourth as a present. What am I counting here? the adjutant thought. I’m too stupid for this type of job. I have never been able to solve puzzles with figures. Six this, six that? There are no sixes in this store.

  Mr. Jansen came by. “Found anything, Adjutant?”

  “I’m leaving,” Grijpstra said.

  “I’ll take you through the back way,” Jansen said. “Too much of a crowd up front today. Can’t get through in a hurry. Only one set of doors and six streams of clients converge at that point.”

  “Whoa,” Grijpstra shouted.

  Jansen stopped in his tracks.

  “Six?” Grijpstra asked.

  “Sure, Adjutant, look for yourself—six registers, right?”

  “I just counted five,” Grijpstra said. “I didn’t see the sixth because it was blocked by that stack of cartons.”

  “We’ve got six registers,” Jansen said.

  “Can I have a minute with you, in your office?”

  Adjutant and store manager faced each other in the office. “You know,” Grijpstra said, “I do believe you were lying to me just now.”

  “Me?”

  “You.” Grijpstra tore a cigar from its plastic envelope. He tried to blow a ring, in vain. The ragged cloud made Jansen cough.

  “Me? Why should I lie?”

  “I may seem clever,” Grijpstra said cheerfully, “but I had help, professional help from a professor. Did you tell me just now that nothing could be wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong,” said Jansen.

  “Five times right, once wrong,” Grijpstra said triumphantly. “Ha-ha. How simple.”

  “I don’t follow, Adjutant.”

  Grijpstra observed the moist end of his cigar. “Yes.”

  “You claim I’m a crook, Adjutant?”

  “Only a suspicion,” Grijpstra said. “I suspect you of mur­der. You’re under arrest. Don’t say anything from here on if you don’t want to say anything from here on. Whatever you say now may be used as evidence against you. You can phone your lawyer later on from my office. Take off your dustcoat and put on your jacket. We’ll be going.”

  “Murder?” Jansen whispered.

  “I’m sorry,” Grijpstra said. “I suspect you of embezzle­ment, too, of course. I forgot that for a moment because em­bezzlement is something else. I work for Murder. You see, there are six registers here, but only five connect to your computer. That will be proved in due course, by an expert, an electrician, I suppose.”

  Jansen smiled. “What nonsense, Adjutant.”

  “You have another solution?” Grijpstra asked. “One-sixth of your turnover never reaches the terminal. What does it reach, if not your pocket? It has to go somewhere and you’re in charge.”

  “And the murder?” Jansen asked.

  “In May,” Grijpstra said, “you were on holiday.”

  “Correct.”

  “Mallorca?”

  “No,” Jansen said, “hiking, here in Holland.”

  “Alone?” Grijpstra asked. “With a backpack? Surrounded by nature? You slept in a tent? A trip we can’t check on?”

  “Indeed.”

  “You were in Mallorca,” Grijpstra said, “with your accom­plice, a man by the name of Gennep. The very same Gennep who didn’t file his invoices properly. The very same Gennep who bought too many registers for this store. He bought six, but connected five.”

  Jansen was silent.

  “Just a minute,” Grijpstra said. “You were the accomplice. Gennep invented the trick. You were a mere pawn. But he needed you, of course, for you had to empty out that sixth register at the end of every working day. Without you the plan couldn’t work. So you got your share. Half, isn’t that right?”

  “Really,” Jansen said.

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Neither was Mr. Gennep,” Grijpstra said.

  “So?”

  “I can see it clearly now,” Grijpstra said. “Two bachelors, unfettered by family chains, stealing together. And one glorious day you would both take off. Each with half the loot. It wasn’t enough for you, was it now? So you kicked your friend Gennep off that cliff. You pointed out the view, Gennep turned away, and you actually kicked his ass.”

  “Homemade riddles,” Jansen said, “homemade answers.”

  Grijpstra got up. “Not at all. The Spanish police made an accident report. I plan to go to Mallorca myself. You two must have been camping somewhere; there’ll be a record. Camps keep names. I’ll prove you and Gennep were there together. What did you do with the money?”

  “What money?”

  “Two-point-eight million guilders,” Grijpstra said patiently, “and a lot more has been added to that meanwhile. Three million by now? There’ll be papers in your home. You must have bought dollars and made wire transfers to foreign banks. There’ll be receipts. Maybe you keep accounts on tax-free islands.”

  “Sit down,” Jansen said.

  Wasn’t he quick, Grijpstra thought. Never saw him take that gun from his drawer. “Put that down,” Grijpstra said firmly. “You’re making things worse. Threatening a police officer who’s in the exercise of his duty.”

  Jansen got up and locked the door. The lower part of the door was plywood, the upper part glass. Jansen’s pistol was still aimed at Grijpstra. “Into the cupboard, Adjutant. I’m going to bind and gag you now. We’ll be closing soon, and you won’t be found until the cleaners arrive tomorrow mor
ning. Can I have your gun and handcuffs, please?”

  “You cannot,” Grijpstra said. “You’re under arrest and you stay under arrest. Are you quite right in the head?”

  Jansen tapped his temple. “Quite sane, thank you. People do underestimate me, however. Take Gennep now, he wanted to go on until we had a total of five million, but that would have taken too long. I have more than half that now, for we both paid into the same account. I can sign alone and I’ll be doing that tomorrow. The true criminal works alone. Once I’m across the border, which will take a few hours, I’ll be as free as a bird. Let’s have your pistol and your handcuffs now.”

  “Shall I tell you something?” Grijpstra asked. “You may pretend what you like, but you really wanted to be arrested.”

  Jansen stared.

  “You don’t even know that yourself, do you now?”

  Jansen kept staring.

  “Listen. Didn’t you draw my attention to the sixth register yourself? Hadn’t I told you already that I was fascinated by the figure six?”

  Jansen gaped.

  “Subconscious guilt feelings,” Grijpstra said. “We see it all the time. Suspects propel themselves straight into our hands. Now put that pistol down and follow me.”

  “I’ll have to kill you,” Jansen whispered. “You leave me no choice. I’d rather not, but if I do, there’s no risk. The pistol doesn’t make too much of a bang and it’s noisy in the store now; no one will notice. Last chance, Adjutant. Your weapon and your cuffs. I’m not going to fight you; I can kill you from behind my desk.”

  “No,” Grijpstra said.

  Jansen released the safety on his pistol and closed one eye.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Not now,” Jansen shouted.

  Someone rattled the handle of the door.

  “Go away,” Jansen shouted.

  De Gier came through the door, following his raised foot, which had splintered glass and plywood.

  “Careful,” Grijpstra shouted.

  De Gier wasn’t careful. He jumped on top of Jansen. The sergeant’s left arm knocked up Jansen’s right. The pistol fired at the ceiling. De Gier grabbed Jansen’s arms and twisted them together. Handcuffs clicked. “You’re under arrest.”

  “He’s been under arrest for a while now,” Grijpstra said. “What kept you so long?”

  De Gier picked up the gun, shook out the clip, and dropped both parts into his pocket. He picked up the suspect and put him on a chair. “Complications delayed me. The bum in the harbor had been beaten up by other bums. I had to find the others. There were witnesses, but they kept wandering off. All tied up and taken care of now. Sorry, Adjutant.”

  “Bah,” Grijpstra said. “I counted on you.”

  “You can’t count on anything,” de Gier said. “You should know that by now.”

  “Aren’t we great?” de Gier asked, leaning against the counter of a bar in the inner city. “Complaint received in the morning, suspect arrested in the late afternoon. Unheard of these days, but we took it in our stride.”

  “No,” Grijpstra said. “That’ll be two more jenevers, bar­tender, please.”

  “I’m closing,” the bartender said, “and as you are what you are, you’ll be taking your time. Two more and that’s it.”

  “How do you mean, ‘no’?” asked de Gier.

  Grijpstra drank and ordered two more. “Armed and threat­ening suspects should be talked at, not jumped. A quiet con­versation usually leads to a complete confession.”

  “I was just in time,” de Gier said.

  “They never shoot at me,” Grijpstra said. “I’m too nice. The professor thought so, too—I’m having dinner with her to­morrow.”

  “Tell me about the professor.”

  Grijpstra explained.

  “Wow,” de Gier said sadly. “Then what will you do? After dinner, I mean.”

  “Coffee?” Grijpstra asked. “Cognac perhaps? Help her wash up? Help her keep her distance?”

  “You’ll be chaotic again,” de Gier said enviously, later that night. “You can do that so well. If you keep that up, you’ll dance away from your own fate. True existence is true illusion, and you’re the only one I know who has learned to ignore what circumstances seem to be offering for free, or am I idealizing you again?”

  “You better not drive home,” the bartender said.

  “But don’t you see?” the drunken sergeant asked. “If we can undo logic, like the adjutant will do when he refuses the beautiful professor, we free ourselves from self-inflicted chains and . . .”

  “I’ll have one, too,” the bartender said, checking his watch. “Just let me lock the door.”

  “The wise,” the sergeant said, “only seem to behave un­wisely, but . . .”

  “I’m truly unwise,” Grijpstra said sadly. “We’ll have three more.”

  De Gier was mumbling. “To undo logic . . . to refuse fate’s gifts . . . to accept chance . . . if only we dared . . .”

  “Three more,” the bartender said.

  “Common sense,” Grijpstra said, “is my only motivation. To see what’s what. The professor is so beautiful. I will not drag her down to my level.”

  “Poor Grijpstra.”

  “No, no, you see that wrong. On the contrary. When I’m alone, I’m safe. Strengthened by common sense, following the line of logic, adhering to the law, reasoning clearly, moving in a straight direction reaching B from A . . .”

  “You really think you’re doing that?”

  “I do.” Grijpstra smiled modestly. “But I do need help from time to time, from people with more sense, like that graceful professor—from you even, for you’re so quick.” Grijpstra sighed. “She presented me with the figure six.”

  They stumbled home together. It was early in the morning. There was no one about. “To be certain is good,” Grijpstra said. “I’m certain at times. Like now. Nothing can happen to us now. When emptiness surrounds me, there can be no threat. I so like to be sure. To go home in a void. Can you follow me so far?”

  “No,” de Gier said. “And I don’t agree either. Chaos is all around us. Anything can happen and it will, as you’ll see.”

  Grijpstra pulled his arm out of de Gier’s. It was time to say good-bye. He stumbled and embraced a lamppost. His feet slid away and he pulled the lamppost toward him. The lamppost fell, on top of Grijpstra.

  “What?” the commissaris asked the next morning.

  “The lamppost fell on top of Grijpstra, sir,” de Gier said. “The adjutant was drunk and failed to step aside. The lamppost was quite heavy. Grijpstra suffered three bruised ribs. The am­bulance picked him up.”

  “And?”

  “He’s in the hospital, sir, doing fairly well.”

  “Lampposts don’t fall over,” the commissaris said.

  “This one did, sir. Dogs, you know?”

  “Hm?” the commissaris asked.

  “Urinated,” de Gier said.

  “Are you withholding information?” the commissaris asked.

  “I do believe in the unexpected,” the sergeant said, “al­though there’s always a reason afterward. Factors combine in an unpredictable pattern, but there will be a connection if you fol­low the pattern in reverse. There are a lot of dogs in that par­ticular part of the city and they all seem to prefer that particular post. Urine contains acid, and enough acid will eat through the heaviest metal. It can take a while, in this case a hundred years perhaps, but once the adjutant grabbed that particular post at that particular moment, he had to bruise three ribs.”

  “So?” the commissaris asked.

  De Gier spread his hands.

  The commissaris began to smile. “I see your point. Our very own Grijpstra comes along, believing only in the obvious, but behind the obvious hides the nonobvious, and it’s just as true?”
r />   The commissaris laughed.

  De Gier frowned furiously.

  “Poor Grijpstra,” the commissaris said, “but he did solve his case.”

  “By chance,” de Gier said.

  “And choice,” said the commissaris. “But what else can we choose but chance?

  The Sergeant’s Cat

  “A shot in the night,” Sergeant de Gier of the Amsterdam Municipal Police was saying as he put on his jacket, “does break the routine rather pleasantly.” He faced the mirror next to the door and arranged his silk scarf. Adjutant Grijpstra agreed and pushed the sergeant aside. The adjutant held up his left arm and attempted to smooth the fold under his armpit. De Gier raised his arm as well. “My bulge is worse. The new gun is too large.”

  In the elevator, Grijpstra smiled. It had been a quiet eve­ning, with coffee in the canteen and friendly conversation with colleagues. De Gier complained contentedly next to him, still on the subject of the new oversize gun. Grijpstra acknowledged his assistant’s objections, repeating them in part. The new service handgun was the Walther P-5, and although it was lightweight and aimed well—very well, up to two hundred meters, so Grijpstra stated—the weapon suited the plainclothes detective badly, for it was too long.

  “And too wide,” said de Gier. “All right for the uniformed branch—they show the gun—but we’re supposed to hide it.”

  The elevator door opened, offering a view of a sterile cor­ridor wherein neatly dressed constables marched to and fro. Their bright blue tunics contrasted sharply with the light grey corridors. A lady cop came along on long slender legs, her bosom gently bouncing. Her hair was long and blond, curling from under her small round hat. Grijpstra observed her approvingly. He was working on a painting at home in his spare time. The painting had been sketched in outline and now needed color. The policewoman had lilac-colored lips. Grijpstra had chosen the shade for one of the flowers in the foreground of the paint­ing.

  She nodded at Grijpstra and greeted de Gier. “Hi, Rinus.”

  “Hi, Jane,” said the sergeant.

  “Jane?” Grijpstra asked when they crossed the inner court­yard of Police Headquarters. “Isn’t Jane a somewhat prosaic name for such a luscious woman? Where are we going?”