The Sergeant's Cat

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

“Suspected of what?”

  De Gier sounded angry. “Of drunk driving, littering, dis­orderly behavior, pollution, refusal to show some ID, showing disrespect to an officer of the law—want more?”

  The microphones clicked. “You hear that?” Uncle asked me through the telephone.

  “Yes,” I said. “Would you mind calling Detective-Adjutant Grijpstra and asking him to arrest you too, while he’s at it?”

  “Suspected of what?”

  “Of provoking a fellow citizen to commit crimes.”

  “Please,” Uncle Franz said. “No proof. And there is my age, Walter. Dr. Portier would never permit my arrest. My heart condition . . .”

  The microphones were activated again.

  Freddie was holding forth. “I do admit that you may have a few points there, but you’ll have to admit that it’s thin stuff. You never saw me drive this vehicle. Arlette . . . first of all, say ‘Good morning’ to these nice policemen, please.”

  “Good morning, Officers,” the delicious voice said.

  “So Arlette drove my Porsche into his picturesque little alley,” Freddie said. “Please scratch your drunk driving charge. What else? Littering? You never saw me drop these cans. If they offend you I’ll have Arlette pick them up and put them in the car, and then she’ll fold her lovely long legs behind the driving wheel and I’ll get in nicely on the passenger side, and off we go. Nothing ever happened. Okay?”

  I heard his footsteps on the cobblestones.

  “Not okay,” Grijpstra said. “Open the hood of the Porsche now.”

  “Never,” Freddie said.

  “Last chance,” de Gier said.

  Freddie laughed. “You can’t make that case either. You know a judge said that opening the hood of a vehicle equals emptying out one’s pockets, and that neither can be ordered in our free country, unless there is proof that there is a connection to a criminal act.”

  “We do have a complaint,” Grijpstra said, “about your operating an illegal siren, hidden under the hood of that vehi­cle.”

  Freddie was laughing. “Excuse me, Officer Overweight. Are you referring to Old Alzheimer on the roof up there? Who was getting jealous of me and Arlette schmoozing down here in the alley. Now what would a harmless citizen like me be doing with a siren?”

  I began to worry. Freddie could be dead right. Circum­stances might not warrant either an arrest or the opening of the Porsche’s hood. The detectives definitely needed more weight on their side of the seesaw.

  “The siren is hidden under the Porsche’s hood,” Arlette said.

  Freddie lost it. “What? Arlette, have you gone crazy on me now?”

  “Sergeant,” Grijpstra said, “you see that metal bar leaning against the garbage can over there? Would you please force the hood?”

  Freddie preferred to open the hood himself. “There you go,” he said. “And what do we see here? Yes, indeedy, one siren. So what, eh? A toy that my sweet girlfriend gave me for my birthday and that we were trying out here. Sirens sound nice across water. And then my sweet girlfriend got pissed off with me, and now she is causing a bit of trouble, but we are at the end of it. Right, Arlette? My darling? Look, I am on my knees. Please forgive me my trespasses, yes, my angel of justice?”

  “Adjutant?” Arlette asked. “Please look at my cheeks for a moment.”

  Grijpstra must have seen that Arlette’s face was badly swol­len. We were definitely into crime now. Playing with a siren is one thing, beating on a woman’s face is something altogether different. Freddie’s tone of voice had changed. “Adjutant, this isn’t what it looks like. I’m sorry to have to tell you but Arlette is a masochist. She can’t, eh, well, how to say that nicely . . . she can’t get to where she would like to go unless she gets beaten up a bit.”

  “Is that right, ma’am?” Grijpstra asked quietly.

  “No, Adjutant,” Arlette said quietly.

  “You are sure about this?” Grijpstra asked.

  “I am sure,” Arlette said.

  Freddie was apologizing seriously now. He swore that he would never touch her again. He was close to tears. Arlette was not. Her voice was cool and even. “I hate it when you abuse me, Fred.” Freddie (Grijpstra told me later) was moving around her on his knees now, touching the cobblestones with his fore­head. “Please, please, please, Arlette. Let’s go home. Please?”

  “This man,” Arlette said, “has beaten my back with his belt.”

  “The belt that he is wearing now?” de Gier asked. “With that metal clasp in the shape of a skull and bones?”

  “Yes,” Arlette said.

  “Sergeant,” Freddie pleaded, “you know that this kind of complaint is always withdrawn later. Don’t get yourself in a mess here. You are wasting time and energy. You’re getting into a terrible hassle.”

  “Miss Arlette . . .” Grijpstra said.

  “Arlette Sanders.”

  “Miss Sanders. Unfortunately the suspect is right. Com­plaints regarding physical abuse in a sexual relationship are usu­ally withdrawn. Are you sure you will stick to your complaint?”

  “I am sure,” Arlette said.

  “Your name, Suspect?” Grijpstra asked in his most official tone of voice.

  Fastbuck Freddie sounded tired. “Frederic Ruyter.”

  Suspect Ruyter was ordered to turn around, put his hands on the Porsche’s roof, and spread his legs.

  I could hear Dizzy start on a song of victory. Uncle whis­pered in my ear, “Isn’t this fun, Nephew? Pimps are always psychologically unbalanced. And therefore uncommonly dan­gerous. Did you know that? Isn’t my research paying off?”

  De Gier was yelling at Suspect. “Hands on the roof. Now!”

  “Freddie is armed,” Arlette said.

  “Now!” Grijpstra yelled.

  “Careful,” Arlette said. “He has shot people before.”

  “Pay attention,” Freddie said. “You think you can intim­idate me but I have nothing to lose. I am the wonderful warrior. I am completely vulnerable, and therefore invulnerable. Can you follow that, nitwits?”

  What happened afterward was reported to me by Grijpstra. Freddie pulled a gun, a small revolver that was clasped to his belt. In a case like that we officers of the law don’t have to fire a warning shot. De Gier aimed his huge Walther P-5 at Freddie’s chest and shot him through the heart. Freddie must have left his body instantly. Our new “stopping” bullets are effective.

  After the sound of the gunshot, it became quiet in the alley. Uncle Franz whispered that things had gone well, hadn’t they? “So I’ll see you tonight, Nephew?”

  I walked home, made a mushroom omelet, served it with a balcony-grown salad, made a pot of strong coffee, took a shower, and slept until late in the afternoon. I shaved with a new blade, put on my ironed jeans and the Indian cotton shirt I had found at the thrift shop, put on the necktie with the turtle design that Uncle had given me for my previous birthday, bought a box of gift-wrapped mint-liqueur-filled bonbons at the boutique across the street, found a dozen golden tulips, and rode my bike to Uncle’s harborside mansion.

  I rang the doorbell. There was no reaction. The door was ajar. I thought I should have brought my service pistol. Now what? An intruder maybe? But the lock hadn’t been forced. I tiptoed into the corridor. There was a tantalizing fragrance of freshly baked sole.

  I shouted my “Happy Birthday” through the closed door.

  “Please come in, Walter,” Arlette answered.

  She was everything I had been dreaming of recently, but better. I blushed, stuttered, and trembled behind my tulips. She said she knew me. “Franz” had showed her photographs in the family album.

  In spite of a painful attack of acute jealousy, I looked about the kitchen happily, rubbing my hands. The table had been pret­tily set, just like in the old days, when Uncle and I celebrated something. But weren�
�t we supposed to be three for dinner? Why had Arlette only put down two plates?

  She pointed. “Sit over there, Walter, please.”

  “Aren’t you having dinner, Arlette?”

  She said we were to drink some jenever first, Uncle’s fa­vorite brand. Arlette poured me a glass but gave herself some dry white wine. We toasted each other. I thought this was a great idea, just Arlette and me, but what had happened to Uncle Franz? Had he gone for a walk around the block? Or was he out buying vanilla ice cream with ginger sprinkles?

  Arlette said Uncle had died. She suggested that I sit down. No, not on the easy chair, that’s where he had just died. She said she had seen the ambulance drive off that afternoon, when she came to visit. Dr. Portier was still at the house. He said Uncle had telephoned him urgently, because of heart trouble.

  I sat down. Arlette said that this had to be a bad shock to me, since he and I had always been so close. She also said that she didn’t just know me from photographs but that she had seen me in the music store, listening to a Chet Baker CD. She smiled. Let’s Get Lost. And, of course, in the park early Sunday morning where I had fed bread to the giant carp.

  I didn’t get that. “Why were you there, Arlette?”

  She said Franz knew my routines. He had wanted her to observe me, as I was to be his successor.

  “He planned it?” A stupid question again. Of course Franz had planned it. Including his precious heart attack, taking all his pills in one gulp, so they would bring on the attack instead of preventing it. Arlette quoted a note Uncle had pinned to his jacket. “This body is getting too old, dear people. And the brain is slowing. I am going to recuperate for a short while in the inspiration spheres. I’ll no doubt see you again. Avoid babies for the next few years. One of them just could be me, haha.”

  “The police came to check?”

  Yes. Everything was in order. “Letter present,” the con­stables wrote in their notebook.

  “What else did the note say, Arlette?”

  “Thanks,” Arlette said.

  “For what?”

  “Franz didn’t say. Everybody, for everything?” She smiled again.

  That was the sort of thing I had heard Uncle say often. I hated his wise utterances. There was too much wisdom in them. I asked Arlette if she knew Uncle would do away with himself.

  “Just with his body.” Arlette’s slender hand was stroking my hair. “All he told me was that there would be dinner tonight and that everything would be ready so that I could start cooking when I came in.” And he had left her a note, in the peppermint jar. Uncle knew she would always go for the peppermint jar when she got to his kitchen.

  “So what was in the letter, Arlette?”

  “Instructions.”

  First we had to eat: his famous fish soup, the freshly baked bread, the fresh farm butter. In spite of, or because of, the ten­sion, I was quite hungry. We ate quietly until she asked whether I thought she resembled Marlene Dietrich. I nodded but said I had no interest in resemblances really. She was Arlette, she had her own inimitable beauty. Unique. New. New and everlasting. I told her “Arlette” meant “renewal forever.” In what language, she asked. In Sanskrit. Uncle, most likely, stood behind me, prompting me. Normally I’m not much of a raconteur.

  Arlette arranged the tulips in a crystal vase and opened the box of chocolates.

  We talked of birthday presents. The tulips were my present to Uncle, the chocolates my present to Arlette, the meal was Arlette’s present to me. What would Uncle give Arlette and me?

  She smiled suggestively.

  Well, of course, there was the house, the money, the stocks and bonds, but I wasn’t sure any of that would make me happy. I didn’t need to be loaded. I had everything I wanted in the Marnix Street apartment. I was a happy man. I had a sign on my door that said “No thanks.”

  “You didn’t look too happy when I saw you in the park and the music store,” Arlette said. “You mostly looked lonely.”

  That could be, I had to admit.

  “You don’t mind being lonely?”

  Well, perhaps, I did mind, some.

  Because if I didn’t mind, Arlette said, I might not be in need of the present Uncle Franz had thought up for me, and she wouldn’t get Uncle’s present to her either.

  Right, I said, for I was beginning to understand the final phase of Uncle Franz’s plan. Arlette took me by the hand and guided me up the stairs, to the roof garden where Dizzy was waiting next to the automatic coffee maker, with a time mech­anism, that had been set by Uncle Franz. The coffee started to perk as we sat down on the garden chairs and Dizzy started to crow. “You sure all these steps were mentioned in the letter in the peppermint jar?” I asked.

  She laughed. “Yes. And we have to kiss.”

  I got up and stretched my arms toward her. She shook her head. “The note says we should have coffee first.”

  Java mocha, with my mint chocolates on the side. Dizzy was strutting around proudly, showing off how perfectly he fit­ted into this optimal situation.

  This was good. A good universe. Thanks to me. The universe needs me to be. It was the first time that I was content with the universe I had created. Maybe Dizzy was a little loud but oth­erwise everything was pretty perfect.

  Arlette showed me the letter from the peppermint jar. It had taken Uncle several sheets to list all his instructions. The final note said, “Put tea warmer on Dizzy, press button I installed under the coffee table.”

  Arlette hooded Dizzy, I pressed the button.

  The microphones below in the alley clicked on and am­plified the thrush’s evening cantata. Arlette slipped onto my lap. She whispered, “You know that all this is because I thought it up, don’t you?”

  I knew that.

  We kissed.

  Heron Island

  “You want me to confess?” Pro­fessor Suzuki asked through his interpreter, Toshiko. “I wasn’t here in Amsterdam, Holland, when it happened, commissaris-san, I was in Kyoto. And confess to what? To a crime? But the crime is the murder of my own son, my only child, and it was the French couple that did that, the skinheads, arrr . . . Ninette, and arrrr . . . Pierre, yes, yes, commissaris-san?”

  “Mere instruments?” the chief of detectives, a neat little old man, asked politely enough.

  He was at an advantage, of course, entrenched behind his huge antique desk. He was at home, so to speak, at Amsterdam’s Police Headquarters, a far cry from his visitor’s Kyoto, the exotic temple city, the pure heart of Japan; although, Suzuki had told him just now, industry was polluting even Kyoto, darkening the sky above perfect copies of Tang Dynasty Buddhist buildings, extinct in China since the Cultural Revolution, but duplicated perfectly in the land of the Rising Sun.

  “Saaah,” Suzuki said, admiring a giant blue heron, preening blue-and-silver wings on a branch of a century-old elm tree outside the commissaris’s open window, stretching its snake-like neck, croaking musically. “A rare bird.”

  “Herons aren’t rare,” the commissaris said. “In fact, they’re a pest. All over the city. They get so bad that we put up signs to warn our good people not to walk under their trees. A good splat ruins clothes. It’s the canals that attract our thousands of herons, and the recession, of course. You see, we have all the unemployed now, who like to fish, so Amsterdam stocks her canals with minnows and the unemployed yank the fish out and feed them to the herons.”

  “So desu ka?” the motherly young Toshiko twittered, too surprised to translate. “Is that so? Herons are very rare in Japan.”

  “I thank you, commissaris-san,” Suzuki said, “for solving my son’s murder. It is terrible indeed when a man’s sole biolog­ical successor is killed criminally, and his body is cut up, and found in a trunk, floating in . . . arrrr . . . Brewer’s Canal, was it?”

  “Yes,” the commissaris said, sharing a relaxed coffee cere­mony
with his guests, handling the heavy silverware deftly: pot, jug, bowl and handing out cookies.

  “Oishiiii,” Suzuki and Toshiko said, “tasty.”

  “Brewer’s Canal,” Suzuki said. “It may be fitting that my son departed life there. He did like beer.”

  “You drink alcohol yourself?” the commissaris asked.

  “What?” Suzuki stared over the rim of his coffee cup. “Oh . . . no, don’t care for drink . . . but Koichi had the bad gene, his mother’s. You know”—the professor spoke in an ex­aggeratedly youthful voice, which Toshiko immediately imitated in English—“Out of beer, out of luck . . . All beer is good beer.”’ He spoke in his own voice again. “My son’s favorite sayings.”

  The commissaris glanced at Polaroids on his desk. Some were of a dismembered corpse, one showed Koichi alive, stand­ing on an Amsterdam gabled house’s stone steps, between sculp­tured granite lions, squinting awkwardly. The commissaris thought the young man’s sullen looks might be due to more than being hungover. Koichi looked disturbed—the way his head was held to the side, as if someone was about to slap him—with defensively raised hands, a too eager smile. The underdog, the commissaris thought, the pathetic creature rolling over on its back signaling: “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “What should I confess to?” Suzuki asked. “Please, commissaris-san, tell me what happened, from the beginning, if you please . . . oh . . . Koichi, my son . . .”

  “I told you,” the commissaris said.

  The heron in the elm tree half raised his huge wings, as if intending to float down easily to cool its feet in Moose Canal below, then croaked musingly. The elm tree offered shade. The summer day was hot. He could claim his fish later.

  “I tell you, yes?” Suzuki said. “Koichi didn’t like to travel, he just drank, in bad bars, so I wanted him to expand his mind, to travel. I sent Tadao with him, Tadao, youngest son of my colleague Sakai . . . arrrr . . . Sakai and I are professors, medical men.”

  “You paid for the trip for both your son, Koichi, and your colleague’s son, Tadao,” the commissaris said.

  Suzuki shrugged. “I am well off. I invested and locked in my profits a long time ago.” He stared at the heron, folded his hands, bowed to the creature.