The Sergeant's Cat

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  “Your cat is not too disgruntled?” the commissaris asked.

  “She’s doing well, sir,” de Gier said. “Cardozo took good care of her and she’s home again.”

  There Goes Ravelaar

  It was a late-summer day, crisp un­der a pale sun suspended within a circle of lifting fog. An old-model Volkswagen, fat and round, purred happily through the Amstel Dike’s curves, headed for the city’s limits. The driver, a tall, lean man with an angular face adorned by curly hair and a huge handlebar mustache, admired a flock of ducks, coming in low above the river. As the car accelerated, the passenger, an older, heavy man, flapped his large hands while he woke up.

  “Are we going anywhere?”

  “The radio is talking about a fire and a corpse.”

  “Far away?”

  “Close by.”

  Sergeant de Gier, assigned to the Homicide Department of the Amsterdam Municipal Police, slowed the car and pointed. A wild goose floated quietly between the cattails, its neck bent back sleepily, about to insert its head between warm wings. “Look, Adjutant, isn’t that a nice inspiration for you? That bird has swum right out of one of your favorite Hondecoeter paint­ings.”

  “Not now,” Detective-Adjutant Grijpstra said. “My mind is on duty.” The adjutant stared ahead, focused on a large, spheric, pitch-black cloud, billowing slowly from behind tall trees. “You say that pollution ahead hides a corpse?”

  De Gier swerved abruptly to the right. A fire truck clanging and hooting, passed them rudely. The Volkswagen maneuvered around a sloppily parked patrol car. It stopped. A constable, legs wide apart, had posted himself in front of imposing cast-iron gates. The sergeant got out. “It’s us, your very own detectives. What’s up?”

  The constable scowled.

  “Accident?” the sergeant asked kindly.

  “Murder!” the constable shouted.

  “Hear, hear,” Grijpstra said, treading heavily on the drive­way’s gravel. “I urge you to keep calm, colleague.” The adjutant beheld the large flames ahead with awe. “A most stately man­sion.”

  “Not for much longer,” the constable said.

  “It’ll be magnificently restored,” de Gier said. “The city’s architects are good at that sort of thing now; ancient square sixteenth-century merchants’ palaces are all in vogue.”

  “Hop along,” a fireman’s bullhorn roared, “there are more fire engines on the way. Be off with your rust bucket at once, you hear?”

  De Gier drove the car through the gates that the constable was now willing to open. Two big red trucks thundered by on either side. Firemen, red-faced under gleaming helmets, un­rolled hoses.

  “Why murder?” the adjutant asked, pulling the constable to the side.

  “Whammo!” the constable shouted. “That’s what we heard, me and my mate. Over there we were driving, quietly on patrol on the dike, and all of a sudden, kerboom, all the windows popped out, flashing sparks, flames, what have you. We shot right down the drive, looking for what’s what. Got into the place to see if anyone could be saved but the little lady was quite done for—bits of her all over the place . . .”

  “In the kitchen?” Grijpstra asked.

  The constable’s arms pointed vaguely. “Over there. In the house. Disgusting, I tell you.”

  “The gas range,” the adjutant said. “Seen it many times before. Missus tries to light the stove, but the pilots are off. She never notices, the kitchen fills up with gas, she’s doing some­thing else now, comes back, lights a cigarette and . . .” The ad­jutant nodded at the flames licking out of the mansion’s windows, mocking the pressurized water aimed at them from three trucks at once.

  “Faulty pilots,” de Gier said, shaking his head. “I’m chang­ing over to electric.”

  “No, no, no,” the constable shouted. “She was in a room, over there, up front. A bomb exploded. I heard it myself.”

  “You heard a bang,” the adjutant corrected. “What else did you notice?”

  “A bomb,” the constable said. “Aren’t people bad?”

  “Oh, there I agree,” Grijpstra said. “But all we have here is a bang that disturbs and an innocent corpse to follow. Anything else to report?”

  “A fat, furry, short-tailed cat,” the constable said. “The fire was getting worse but we could still be heroic, so me and my mate rushed about for a bit. There was a fireplace with a cat up the chimney, blown right out of its basket. We heard him holler. I pulled his bit of a tail, but he was stuck in too far.”

  Another constable became visible. He was talking to a lady. The lady ran along. De Gier ran along, too.

  “Who was that?” Grijpstra asked, grabbing hold of the other constable. “The neighbor woman,” the policeman said. “She was alerted by the bang. She’s going home now to phone Mr. Ravelaar. The corpse inside would be Mr. Ravelaar’s wife.”

  “A bomb,” the first constable said. “Bad people killing good ones. How can they do it, Adjutant? Won’t it come back to them in dreams?”

  Grijpstra wandered off, away from the smoke and into the park. De Gier came running back. “Got any wiser, Sergeant?” Grijpstra asked.

  “The cat blown up the chimney was called Max,” de Gier panted. “Tubby little fellow, well equipped with brains. Sense of humor, philosophically gifted, like all good felines. Mr. Rav­elaar, the fellow who lives here, has been contacted and is on his way in a two-horse Citröen. He’s a lawyer.”

  “Does a baby Citröen go with this opulent elegance?” Grijpstra asked.

  “According to the lady next door, Adjutant, we’re dealing with crazy folks again. Missus inhabited the mansion while es­tranged Mister had to live in the servants’ quarters. Missus is qualified as ‘disturbed,’ Mister as ‘most definitely rather odd.’”

  “A leisurely walk,” Grijpstra suggested, “will provide clar­ity of mind.”

  The wind was pushing most of the smoke toward the river. De Gier stroked the bark of a huge tree. “This poplar must date back a hundred years, and those oaks over there could be older still; imagine dwelling in the midst of all this ancient splendor. What is that graceful little building ahead? The servants’ villa?”

  Grijpstra opened a door. “One garage—contents: one late-model Mercedes-Benz.”

  De Gier opened another door. “One steep staircase with a mahogany railing. Leads to an apartment? Maybe Mister’s digs?”

  They were walking again. “Artful arrangements of rocks overgrown with assorted mosses,” de Gier said. “A rose garden, a greenhouse filled with a complete collection of orchids; more wealth, more beauty. Over there—an antique gazebo with a mushroom roof topped by a giant hardwood cherry. Our couple would take tea there, with cream cakes on the side.”

  “Cream cakes,” Grijpstra said, “turn sour when harmony is lacking. However”—his arm swept around—“someone took loving good care of all this. Acres of high-class lawn. All sorts of herbs in splendid condition. Greek statues surrounded by neatly clipped hedges. No weeds.”

  “Wah,” de Gier said.

  “Wah what?”

  De Gier frowned. “Filth ahead. Yecch. One muddy pond under a broken-down bridge.” He held his nose. “Extreme de­cay.”

  Grijpstra rubbed his chin.

  “Thinking?” de Gier asked.

  Grijpstra smiled. “I often do.”

  “In the car you often sleep.”

  “Deep concentration is often mistaken for slumber.” Grijpstra looked around. “Why this contrasting mess all of a sudden? A forgotten and dying nook in an immaculately kept park? Nobody has been near this filth in years. But why, eh, Sergeant? Ponds go very well with parks. If this were mine, I’d keep rare fowl.”

  “There were birds here once,” de Gier said. “Over there: rotten coops and cages, and broken little ducks’ houses on posts.” He moved his hand dreamily. “Scarlet-beaked Mongo­l
ian geese, long-legged whooping cranes, multicolored gooney birds, a flamingo here and there.” He slapped Grijpstra’s shoul­der. “The magnificence of our national Golden Age preserved in the here and now. Here is where your cherished Hondecoeter pulls up his silk stockings above his silver-clipped boots before knocking together another of those priceless pictures of his. Just like you pull up your sixty-five percent polyester socks before getting into the acrylic paints.”

  “Please,” Grijpstra said.

  De Gier patted his superior’s ample back. “I’m serious, Henk. Your talent leaves me breathless. Remember the coot cock look-alike you whipped up on your last day of??”

  The first constable came running. “The fire chief wants to see you two.”

  The constable brought along the stench of thick smoke, and flakes of ashes that attached themselves to Grijpstra’s dark blue suit. He rubbed them into sooty stains.

  “Report on the proceedings,” Grijpstra ordered.

  “The fire is under control. There’s limited damage. But the lady is still dead.”

  “How’s Max doing?” de Gier asked.

  The constable shivered. “He finally popped out of the chimney.”

  “He’s okay?”

  “Not okay.” The constable dropped his half-smoked cig­arette and stamped it into the path. “They sprayed him full of foam, but the poor fur ball was fried solid.” The constable snarled. “You better get the perpetrator. The neighbor lady showed again and analyzed what must have been going on here for years and years.” The constable held up both hands. He shook one. “I now know what”—he shook the other hand— “is what.”

  “You do, eh?” Grijpstra asked. “That’s not your business. Now refer your knowledge to proper quarters. Describe both sides of this equation.”

  The constable talked. De Gier summed up. “Prolonged domestic conflict on the left—premeditated violent death on the right.”

  “It’s the prolonging that always does it,” Grijpstra said. “I was married myself. Couldn’t I imagine what would have hap­pened if the connection hadn’t been cut?” He mopped his cheeks.

  “Could be self-defense?” de Gier suggested. “Missus pushes Mister into poverty, the servants’ quarters. He has to do all the hard work. She lords it in the castle. He drives the second car.”

  The constable was observing another half-smoked cigarette. “I see,” he mumbled.

  “Changing sides?” de Gier asked. “What about the cat?”

  The constable stamped on the stub. “Right. Right. So what does the despicable demon of a husband come up with? With a bomb. Planted inside. We saw the windows blown out. What did he care? There must be insurance.”

  “A bomb with a long fuse?” Grijpstra asked. “All the way to his city office?”

  “Please,” the constable said. “We have technology now. A mechanism?”

  De Gier’s head swayed rhythmically. “Ticktock, ticktock, ticktock.”

  “Or a radio device?” the constable asked, imitating an an­tenna with his raised arm. “Can’t you see it? I see pure pre­meditation. Ravelaar must have listened to the weather forecast, too. Today the wind changed. It has been blowing the other way for weeks. With the wind the wrong way, he would have destroyed some good trees maybe, and risked the fire spreading to his own quarters.

  De Gier pointed at something dark and dirty left out on the lawn.

  “Yeah. Max.” The constable nodded. “Wow, did that an­imal ever howl!”

  De Gier leaned against a fence.

  Grijpstra looked away. “A lawyer?” he asked. “An attor­ney? A master of our people-pleasing laws? A gentleman playing perverted criminal?”

  “Gents are the worst,” the constable whispered loudly. “They have to be real bad to stay on top. For us it’s different; we’ve learned to be comfortable down below.”

  “Easy now,” Grijpstra said. “As a noncommissioned officer, I’m half agent myself, and the sergeant here is an autodidact, intellectually inclined. Asphalt bunnies like you should not try to understand their betters.”

  The constable apologized. De Gier let go of the fence.

  Adjutant and sergeant walked into the ravaged house.

  “So what kept you?” the fire chief asked. “I come up with something interesting at long last and there’s nobody around to see it. Oops. Bah.”

  Grijpstra stepped aside from something moist that had dropped from the room’s high ceiling.

  “Bit of Missus,” the fire chief said. “The larger part has been scraped into the ambulance just now.”

  De Gier stumbled away.

  “Can’t stand it?” the fire chief asked.

  “Tag along anyway,” Grijpstra said. “I don’t like to be lonely.”

  The fire chief displayed a small object.

  Grijpstra peered. “Shard of grey metal?”

  “Also known as a bit of deadly shrapnel,” the fire chief said. “You have no idea how hard it is to prove intent when there’s a fire. This may be my first chance.”

  “Shrapnel,” Grijpstra said. “What does that call to mind? War? Grenades?”

  De Gier came in again, holding a hand over his mouth.

  The fire chief picked up another small object and gave it to de Gier. De Gier dropped it. The fire chief picked it up. “Too hot for you? It’s just mildly warm.”

  “What is?” de Gier asked.

  “Bit of brass, a piece of shrapnel. From a brass shell casing designed for a cannon. Brass is close to copper. Missus here must have been a great copper collector, for there are torn-up plates, jugs, pails all over the place. Came off those ripped-out shelves there.”

  “A shell casing?” de Gier asked. “From a big gun?”

  “Now I see,” Grijpstra said. “Someone shot up the house with a fully automatic cannon.”

  “Close,” the fire chief said, “but not quite. The shell casing exploded, meaning the whole thing blew up, not in a gun’s chamber, more likely on a shelf.”

  “How?” de Gier asked.

  “Dunno,” the fire chief said.

  “By accident?” Grijpstra asked.

  “Of course,” the number one constable said. “An accident, what else? I’ll tell you what happened. Missus sort of accidentally hit the shell with a hammer. No, listen here: she happened to find a nail, tucked it into the shell’s detonator cap, then got it with the hammer. All by accident, like, just to see what would happen.”

  Grijpstra applauded.

  “It’s my hobby,” the constable explained. “I sometimes like to figure things out a bit, when I have an odd moment.”

  “And would anyone by any chance know what sort of shell we are dealing with here?” Grijpstra asked.

  “I’m not sure, of course,” the fire chief said, “for I’m never sure of anything ever, but I’m somewhat sure that this here was part of an Oerlikon shell, for I was a soldier once and carried cannon shells around in cases.”

  De Gier nodded. “I found some once, in a terrorist’s apart­ment. This long? This thick?” He made indications.

  The constable nodded too. “About my size. No wonder it caused utter devastation.”

  “And why did this phallic object explode?” Grijpstra asked. “Did the fire set it off? So what set off the fire? Which is the chicken? Which the egg? Or shall we never know the se­quence?”

  “There he is,” the constable said. “That must be Ravelaar, the suspect, who just sneaked out of the compact Citröen that just sneaked in.”

  “You take him, Chief,” Grijpstra said. “When he has seen the victims, you can pass him along. We’ll be in the gazebo.”

  “Mr. Ravelaar,” Grijpstra said twenty minutes later, “meet Sergeant de Gier. I’m Adjutant Grijpstra.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “Beg pardon?” De Gier asked.

  “I la
ughed,” Ravelaar said. “Very sorry. Delighted to meet you both.” He laughed louder. “There goes Max!”

  “You’re saying?”

  Tears of joy ran down Ravelaar’s puffy cheeks. He clapped himself on the polished skull. He leaned against the gazebo’s wall and patted his round belly. The detectives waited. Ravelaar managed to master his emotions. “I do beg your pardon, but this is really very funny. Would you care for a drink? Follow me to my humble quarters?”

  “Are you suffering from shock?” De Gier asked.

  “Not at all,” Ravelaar said, “but a pick-me-up will do us all good.”

  De Gier sat on a wobbly Gothic stool, Grijpstra rocked in the remains of a Victorian armchair, Ravelaar’s weight made the springs of a reject Empire couch creak. “Throw-outs from the mansion,” Ravelaar said. “Alicia kindly let me have them. Now they can be sent to the dump.”

  Grijpstra chose a lemon soda; de Gier selected a glass of water. Ravelaar poured into chipped mustard jars, filling his own with cheap jenever. “To an end,” Ravelaar said, raising his drink, “to a beginning.”

  “There goes Max?” De Gier asked.

  “Ho-ho,” Ravelaar laughed. “Oh, dear. Not again.”

  “I don’t quite believe we folly follow your line of reason­ing,” Grijpstra said.

  “Alice in Wonderland,” Ravelaar said. “English literature, an obscure quote.”

  “Tell us more?” Grijpstra asked.

  Ravelaar smiled. “My wife, Alicia, also lived in a most dif­ferent world.”

  His audience smiled, too. There was a long silence. Ravelaar got up and pulled a book off a shelf. “Here, let me find the pas­sage.” He flipped pages. “Alice is growing quickly and becomes stuck in a house. Curious animals come along; they’re outside. A lizard is nominated as their scout, and the poor fellow is pushed down the house’s chimney. Alice kicks it up again.” Ravelaar wiped his eyes with a large handkerchief, “Oh, dear. Hee-hee. Here we are. The animals outside see Bill rocket into the sky and shout: ‘There goes Bill!’” He dropped the book. “Hee-hee!”