The Sergeant's Cat

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  •

  “You weren’t really angry?” Grijpstra asked.

  “He was,” de Gier said.

  “Yes,” Grijpstra agreed. “And I believe you’re right. I don’t particularly care for bluffing, but we sometimes have to do it. How could you know that Freddie is the motorbike rider.”

  De Gier shrugged. “I sensed evil in the man and checked our files. The undercover branch sent in a snapshot of Freddie once. We’ve got nothing on him, but we know he works for Wever. He doesn’t go to cemeteries because he likes looking at tombstones. He’s an artist in a way. He follows up on his work. Or maybe he’s horribly crazy. Perhaps this was a special job for him, because Cora was such a beautiful woman. She was naked, remember? He had her, then he killed her. He felt a link that pulled him right to the cemetery—to me, the avenger. I’m an angel of light; he’s a demon of darkness.”

  “A farfetched conclusion.”

  “Wasn’t I right?” de Gier said. “Didn’t you say so just now?”

  Grijpstra murdered his half-smoked cigar with a spark-whirling stump in the ashtray. “I never went in for mysticism. It doesn’t get anybody anywhere. You were right, certainly, but we’re where we’ve been so often—nowhere. Wever wasn’t home, he really wasn’t. And Freddie will say that he wasn’t in Ouborg either. There’ll be witnesses in Noordwijk claiming that they were playing cards with him all night. And the silver-colored car was borrowed for the occasion, or stolen, or the license plates weren’t right. No.”

  “Coffee and cake?” de Gier asked.

  “Hello, Jane,” he said in the canteen.

  “Can I join you?” the female officer asked.

  Grijpstra jumped up. De Gier fetched a chair. “You know,” he said, “it wasn’t wrong what I did. I got him rattled. I made waves in his soul. Didn’t Newton say that action pro­vokes reaction? I made him angry. Wever has lost his cool—he’s got to slip up now.”

  “What are you two talking about?” Jane asked. “Don’t I get any coffee and cake?”

  “You’re a sweetheart,” de Gier said. “You’re actually ask­ing. Feminists get their own coffee. You’re a real woman and a beautiful woman, too. I can hardly believe your beauty. You instill tender and protective feelings in my deepest mind.”

  “The sergeant,” Grijpstra said, “likes to work on people’s feelings.”

  “I love it,” Jane said. She pushed back her chair and crossed her legs.

  “You have good legs,” Grijpstra said. “It’s a pity I never paint human figures. If I did, I’d ask you to model for me.”

  “Model,” de Gier said, returning with Jane’s coffee. “Cora was a model. It seems that the universe is unlimited in its man­ifestations, but deeper reflection might show that everything is a variation on a single theme.”

  “What was that?” Jane asked.

  “You look like Cora,” Grijpstra said.

  Four hours later de Gier’s apartment buzzer buzzed. The sergeant put his cat on the floor, placed his book on the table, and opened the door.

  “Evening,” his visitor said. “My name is Freddie.”

  Freddie sat down. The cat jumped from the chair.

  “My cat was sitting there,” de Gier said.

  “Stupid cat.”

  “Yes?”

  “Listen here,” Freddie said. “I’ve come to bring you money. Here you are.” He put an envelope on de Gier’s book.

  “What’s in that?”

  “Ten thousand. There’ll be more later, but then we will require your services. This is a present. You don’t even have to not do something because you can’t do anything anyway. You have no proof.”

  “You’re not providing me with news,” de Gier said.

  “You’re fuzz,” Freddie said, “and fuzz is for sale. Because you’re good fuzz, I bring you money straightaway. The fuzz we have so far is little fuzz. They’re okay for a bit of information now and then, like so that we won’t be there when you’re pre­paring a raid. But it would be nice to have some big fuzz on the payroll, too.”

  “Yes?”

  Freddie smiled. “Yes.”

  De Gier lit a cigarette.

  “You’re not offering anything?” Freddie asked.

  “No,” de Gier said. “You’re unwelcome company. Maybe I don’t want your money either. Maybe I’ll shoot you in a min­ute or so. I don’t want to fight you. This is a small apartment and we’ll break the furniture.”

  “Once we start fighting,” Freddie said, “I’ll break you, too. The boss has lost his temper. You’ve been rude to him. The boss likes people to be polite and helpful. So he’s not giving you a choice. You’ve got to work for us and you’ve got to take our money. If you refuse, we’ll be nasty.”

  “Like what?” de Gier asked.

  The cat walked past Freddie’s leg. Freddie picked up the cat and turned it over. He slid a stiletto from his pocket. The point of the stiletto scratched the cat’s chin. The cat purred. “Stupid cat,” Freddie said. “I can open him up, like they opened up Cora today. But I won’t sew him up again. I’ll leave him here, open.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t do that,” de Gier said.

  Freddie pushed the cat from his lap. “Not yet, but I might later on if you happen to be disobedient. I’ll kill your cat and your old mother and anybody else you care for. If I happen to be busy, someone else will do it. The boss is rich, unbelievably rich. He can buy anybody. And whoever he buys makes more money for him.”

  “Yes?”

  Freddie grinned, slowly and completely. “Cocaine and her­oin prices are going up again, and the customers carry the money in without the slightest prodding. There’s no end to it. Money is good. It buys good cars and good trips. Look at my color.”

  “Nice tan,” de Gier acknowledged.

  “Bermuda. I was there last week. I’ll go again. I’ve been in the Seychelles too and in Indonesia. You can take nice trips, too. You can use this money.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  “I’m glad you agree.” Freddie got up.

  “Good-bye,” de Gier said, and closed the door behind Freddie. He waited until he heard the elevator going down and sprinted down the staircase. He was outside before Freddie got out of the elevator.

  “Psst,” de Gier said.

  Freddie approached him with his legs astride and his fists up.

  “Not here,” de Gier said. “We don’t want to make a spec­tacle of ourselves. Over there, in the park.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Freddie said.

  They crossed the street together. It was late. The sky held few clouds. The moon cast delicate shadows on the lawns. Ducks in the pond woke for a moment and murmured sleepily. A swan bobbed, propelled by one foot. De Gier walked next to Freddie, his hand on his back. De Gier was tall, but he wasn’t a giant. He exercised regularly, one evening a week, sometimes two. He had a black belt in judo.

  Freddie was a giant. He also exercised regularly and he had a high grade in karate. He could split bricks. Freddie drank heav­ily, de Gier moderately. They both smoked.

  “I’ll take you apart,” Freddie said. “But not altogether. The boss likes things to develop slowly. He warns first.”

  De Gier smiled. They passed a tree, and a thrush opened an eye and tried a slow trill.

  “What’s funny?” Freddie asked.

  “That I don’t give warning,” de Gier said. He kicked and hit simultaneously. His foot hit Freddie’s shin and his hand made contact with his belly button. Freddie almost fell. De Gier half circled him and extended an arm, holding his waist in a friendly manner. He shuffled sideways until his foot touched Freddie’s, then he swung swiftly.

  “Hey,” Freddie shouted as he fell.

  “Here you are,” de Gier said, and closed Freddie’s eyes with his fist. Then he hit him on the chin.


  “Yes?” the lady in charge of ambulance dispatch asked.

  “In the Southern Park,” de Gier said, “just north of the larger pond, there’s a man on the gravel. He’s been knocked down and he’s unconscious.”

  “Did you phone the police?”

  De Gier replaced the hook. “No,” he said to the quiet telephone. “They know my voice.”

  He picked up the phone again.

  “Yes?” Detective-Constable-First-Class Simon Cardozo, temporarily attached to the Criminal Investigation Department of the Amsterdam Municipal Police, said.

  “Listen,” de Gier said. “My cat has been threatened.”

  “Tabriz?” asked Cardozo.

  “I have only one cat. Can she stay with you?”

  “For long?” Cardozo asked.

  “I’ll bring her over now.”

  “I’ll fetch her,” Cardozo said. “You don’t have a car. Give me five minutes.”

  A burglar cycled into suburban Ouborg about two hours later. The burglar broke into the mansion where Cora Fischer had lived such a luxurious life. Nobody was home, and the bur­glar found a suitcase and filled it with clothes and jewelry. He cycled away again and was spotted by a cruising patrol car. The car didn’t stop.

  “Three o’clock in the morning?” the constable next to the driver asked. “A cyclist with a suitcase?”

  “His lights were in order,” the driving constable said. “You don’t see that very often. A cyclist with working lights is okay.”

  “Well, what do you know?” Wever said about nineteen hours later. “Bit of a fool, aren’t you, Sergeant? Do you know that Freddie has been admitted to the hospital?”

  De Gier sat on a low leather chair. He drank beer. “Nice place you’ve got here, but too expensive, I would think.”

  “Join us,” Grijpstra said. “You interfere with my view of the musicians.”

  Wever sat down. He snapped his fingers. A girl brought drinks. She was a nice-looking girl in a miniskirt and high heels. She wasn’t wearing anything else. “To think,” Grijpstra said, “that Noordwijk was a rustic little port once and that there were sailors and fishermen in the cafés, smoking stone pipes through their beards. To think,” Grijpstra said dreamily, “that their wives and girlfriends wore blue calico underwear right down to the knees.”

  “Listen,” Wever said, “Freddie tells me he forgot an en­velope in the sergeant’s apartment.”

  “One of the reasons for our visit,” de Gier said, and put the envelope on the table. Wever picked it up. A combo con­sisting of a pianist, a drummer, and a bass player played a Eu­ropean version of “This Here.”

  “Is your paneling rosewood?” Grijpstra asked.

  De Gier observed the suspect. He saw that Wever had a soft face, not soft as in sensitive, but soft as in weak. He had been doing too well for too long, de Gier thought. His spine is dissolving. He was a tough guy once but now his muscles are yellow fat.

  “Don’t get up,” de Gier said.

  Wever’s big fingers, flashing with diamonds, clamped onto the side of his chair. His buttocks rose off his cushion. “Why not? This is my place—I can do what I like.”

  “You’re under arrest.” De Gier sat. “Sit down.”

  Wever’s body flopped back onto the cushion. “Arrest for what?”

  “For serious suspicions. I suspect that you’re dealing in drugs, that you make money out of prostitution, and that you allow your customers to engage in illegal gambling.”

  Wever’s cheeks rippled. He gestured. Grijpstra watched the moist spots on the armrests of Wever’s chair.

  “Are you crazy?” Wever asked. “This is today. Today any­thing goes. What’s wrong with keeping whores? I have a sex club here, not a brothel. Brothels are out. And so is the law!” He looked about him. He pointed at guests. “And why did you bring all these cops? Do you think I can’t smell cops even when they dress up like real people?” He began to get up again.

  “Down, boy,” Grijpstra said. “Didn’t the sergeant just tell you that you’re under arrest?”

  “I’ve got to go to the restroom.”

  “Need a sniff, do you?” Grijpstra said. “That won’t help you now. Those days are gone. You’ve done too much. You even tried to bribe my colleague.”

  “Why not?” Wever asked. “Aren’t you all corrupt these days? Even a commissaris can be bought. Corruption has become a way of life.”

  “Not quite,” Grijpstra said. “The ten thousand is back in your pocket. Cat-threatening is bad, too—we’ll have you for that as well.”

  “And,” de Gier said, “you had your girlfriend killed. That’s really going too far.”

  “Proof?” Wever asked.

  “Quiet,” de Gier said. “That piano player is good. Let me listen for a while. I’d like another drink, too . . . Miss?”

  Wever didn’t look happy, but the general atmosphere im­proved. The topless waitress brought a round of drinks, and then more. Wever was allowed a visit to the restroom under Grijps­tra’s supervision. The adjutant frisked his suspect and confiscated one gram of cocaine and a stiletto. The combo, encouraged by applause from the plainclothesmen and the other guests, im­proved. The pianist played meticulously, although he increased his speed. The drummer was also a percussionist, doing well on cowbells and wooden gongs. The bass remained steady, provid­ing a strong beat.

  “Some flute maybe?” Grijpstra asked.

  De Gier produced a piccolo from his inside pocket, deftly joining its parts. He got up and repeated the main theme of the song. The audience cheered. De Gier tried an arpeggio, then improvised freely. The combo adjusted easily.

  Grijpstra studied Wever. He’s afraid. Grijpstra thought. Things are going well. De Gier has set up the scene properly and we’re getting close. But now . . . but now . . .

  The moment came. The revolving door introduced a tall but slender woman, a lady in the full glory of her beauty. Her hair had been elaborately arranged. She was dressed charmingly in a linen gown hand-painted with Chinese designs. Jewels be­decked her hands and neck. She sat down in the rear of the establishment.

  De Gier still played his flute, encouraged by the musicians and the audience. Grijpstra waited. Wever looked about. He finally saw the woman. The light was dim—he could see the lady’s general appearance but no fine details. “Cora,” he whis­pered.

  De Gier bowed and put his flute down. Grijpstra sucked on his cigar. He waved with his free hand. A young man with unruly curly hair and dressed in a threadbare corduroy suit got up and walked toward him. “Cardozo,” Grijpstra said, “it’s time.” He produced a document, unfolded it, and handed it to Wever. “This is our permit to search the premises. You stay here.”

  Wever sweated, cursed, and muttered four-letter words.

  Grijpstra waved again. Two men jumped up. “Sit here,” Grijpstra told them, “and make sure the suspect doesn’t move.”

  He and de Gier left the table as the two men sat down.

  “You know,” de Gier said a quarter of an hour later, “if we don’t find anything, we’ve wasted our time.”

  “No negativity now,” Grijpstra said. “We found the rou­lette, didn’t we? Roulette is illegal. We have a charge.”

  “Nah,” de Gier said. “The roulette wasn’t being used. Wever’ll provide some excuse. He can afford the best lawyers. Even the corruption charge won’t stick. I want him for dealing in heroin—and for murder, of course.”

  They were in a large room, leaning against exotic wain­scoting, their hands in their pockets, their chins on their chests. Plainclothes cops wandered about, picking up objects and put­ting them down again. “Adjutant?” Cardozo asked. “Detective-Constable-First-Class?” Grijpstra asked.

  “Look,” Cardozo said, pointing at an oak shelf above the open fire. “I noticed it,” Grijpstra said, “That’s a small statue of a r
eclining Eastern goddess. We’ve seen the type before. They’re hollow and contain heroin when they cross the border, but by the time we see them, they’re always empty.”

  “They’re usually hollow,” Cardozo agreed, “but that one is solid.”

  De Gier walked over and picked up the statuette. He showed it to the adjutant. “Cardozo is right—it’s solid.”

  “Exactly the same type as the ones we’ve found before,” Cardozo said, “in Chinese restaurants and junk stores and so forth. They’ve always been hollow, but we’ve found traces of heroin inside. This one is solid.” He weighed it on his hand. “A litde over two pounds, I would say.”

  “Odd,” said de Gier, scratching the statue.

  “Careful,” said Cardozo, “I tried that, too. The stuff flakes easily.”

  “Gypsum doesn’t flake so easily,” Grijpstra said.

  “It isn’t gypsum,” Cardozo said.

  “If you’re right,” de Gier said, “you have a fortune in your hands. A million maybe—at street level, that is.”

  “I am right,” Cardozo said. “And we are in a retail outlet.”

  Grijpstra whistled—and the room filled up with cops.

  “The treasure has been found,” Grijpstra said. “Have all employees arrested and have extra staff alerted at Headquarters.”

  “The suspect downstairs,” one of the men said, “seems to be suffering a mental breakdown. He’s accusing himself of com­mitting the murder of a certain Cora Fischer, and keeps pointing at our Jane.”

  Sergeant de Gier, about ten hours later, admitted that the course he had taken, and subsequently helped to direct, could be defined as irregular. He made his statement in the commissaris’s office. The commissaris was facing him from behind his imposing desk. Grijpstra stood near the window, admiring a geranium in bloom.

  “Yes,” the commissaris said, “but that fellow Freddie had been threatening your cat, which is an extenuating circumstance. The results are excellent, fortunately. I hear that Wever has not retracted his confession.”

  “Freddie has confessed, too,” Grijpstra told the geranium. “It seems that he’s been under some stress that has weakened his nerves. He also objects to being called the murder weapon by his boss.”