Blond Baboon ac-6
Page 20
Cardozo had woken and had pushed himself up against the bookcase.
“A most reasonable offer. The intimate pleasures Gabrielle can dispense plus a firm that, if properly managed, should yield half a million profit a year over and above a director’s salary.”
The commissaris coughed as if he had said too much. His eyes strayed back to the balcony. De Gier had replaced the plants that had been either torn or swept right out by the gale. A profusion of begonias covered the balcony’s cast-iron railing and their top leaves shimmered in the moonlight like small, succulent, live coins.
“Another brandy, sir?”
“Just a nip, a small nip, I must really be on my way.”
The crystal decanter appeared once more, and the commissaris sniffed the fragrance of the thick liquid pouring into his glass.
“Your health, sergeant. Yes, the baboon was worm meeting. We won’t meet him again. He was sucked into the case by a lonely woman’s desires, a woman he might not have liked very much once he got to know her too well. I didn’t like Elaine Camet either. Fortunately I didn’t have to, she was dead when we began. Bergen was worse. I should have liked him for he needed our help, but I couldn’t make the effort. A fool, sergeant, of the worst variety.” He looked into his glass. “Perhaps because he lived on the surface, doing what he thought was proper, following the stream without ever bothering to consider where it was taking him. Well…”
“Has Mr. Pullini gone back to Italy, sir?”
The commissaris brightened up again. “Oh, yes, I took him to the airport this morning, after we had breakfast in the Pulitzer, a very enjoyable breakfast. You haven’t met him, sergeant, have you?”
“No, sir.”
“Pity. A dangerous man in a way but good to be with. We had a marvelous time in his hometown together. Papa Pullini visited Francesco in jail last night. Francesco isn’t comfortable but he is reasonably contented. Nobody in Italy should ever find out what happened to him here. He is supposed to have gone on an extended business trip and will be back at the end of the year.”
“He will only get a few months, sir?”
The commissaris nodded. “Yes, the prosecutor wasn’t too impressed with our charges, fortunately. The charges will stick, of course, they are well documented. Mr. de Bree’s statement, Gabrielle’s statement, Francesco’s own confession, Cardozo’s report about the cigars. The defense hasn’t got a chance, but even so, just a few months, I would say, and we’ll be able to escort Francesco to the airport before the year is over. A beautiful case in a way, a textbook example of provoked manslaughter. It will probably be known as ‘the Italian furniture dealer’s case’ and will be used in examinations.”
“And Dr. Havink, sir?”
“Dr. Havink? I thought you would ask me about Mr. de Bree. I would think mat de Bree’s crime was worse than Dr. Havink’s. I find it very difficult to feel compassion for a man who tries to kill an animal by poisoning. But he did it out of love for another animal, our good friend Tobias. Interesting, very. I hope the judge will probe the case deeply and I’ll be in the court listening. Yes, that would be most interesting. I hope he’ll get that elderly female judge, she has a brilliant mind.”
“I would like to hear more about Dr. Havink, sir,” de Gier said slowly. “I read your reports, but you didn’t waste too many words and you made the arrest on your own.”
The commissaris drained the rest of his brandy and smacked bis lips. De Gier reached for the flask. “No, sergeant, very kind of you, but no more. Well, what can I tell you? A greedy man. It’s amazing mat medical specialists with high incomes can be mat greedy and also that stupid. They can’t see their own motivation in spite of all the intelligence they are undoubtedly equipped with. He told me mat he practiced his little tricks because he had to pay for his equipment, all mat computerized electronic gear he needs for his brain tests. He assured me that the equipment was benefiting humanity. Nonsense. The city doesn’t need Dr. Havink’s gadgets, our hospitals ate over-equipped already, and our crippling taxes are partly due to our paranoid fear of death. Why should we have private clinics where already available equipment is duplicated?”
“Yes, sir, but how did you get him?”
The commissaris waved at the begonias. “Ah, the good doctor was so easy to trap. I couldn’t use Bergen’s skull anymore, it was too badly damaged, so I used my own. I have a friend who is a neurologist and I asked him to arrange for an X-ray of my head. Easy as pie, sergeant, easy as pie. My skull showed no calcifications. Oh, sure, it showed some, but nothing abnormal. Nothing behind which a nasty little tumor could hide. Then I went to Dr. Havink, who had never met me, and registered as a patient suffering from intolerable and chronic headaches. He hemmed and hawed and told me mat he would need to photograph my skull. Very well. He did and showed me the photograph. Sure enough, a white spot. And the whole rigamarole about the tumor. Of course it might be nothing, and if it was something it might be harmless, but still, one never knows. Better to be on the safe side. Surely. So would I undergo further tests? Yes, yes, yes. Please. The results of the tests were negative and I was sent on my way again. No mention of money, for I had told him I worked for the municipality and had given him my insurance policy’s number. No trouble there.”
“And then you asked him for the photograph with the white spot?”
“Yes. And I whipped it off his desk and ran off with it He was shouting at me, but by that time I was out the door. My neurologist friend compared the two photographs, which were altogether different, of course.”
“Falsification and embezzlement.”
“Yes, sergeant. And I went back the next day to arrest him. You read my charges, I’m throwing everything at him. He, and some of his colleagues, are manipulating the ignorant by playing on their fears. An old game of the medical profession, it’s been with us since the first medicine man went into his trance. They used to charge two pigs and a goat. Now they clean out the insurance companies and the insurance companies grin and raise their premiums. A very old game, sergeant. Cardozo! Rise and shine.”
De Cher telephoned for a taxi, which arrived within minutes, and walked his guests to the elevator.
Grijpstra was on the balcony when de Gier came back.
“Closed,” de Gier said as he began to gather the debris of the little party.
“What? The bar?’
“Never. No, the Carnet case.”
“I’ll have a brandy. I saw where you hid that decanter, mere’s still a good deal left.”
“But, of course. But first you can help me wash up and I’ll vacuum mis room. Cardozo has been sitting on his cheese and crackers and you must have walked mat sausage into die carpet.”
“You know,” Grijpstra said half an hour later when the decanter had appeared again, “that case will still give us a lot of work. Paper shifting. Court sessions. The bloody thing has managed to split itself into three and Bergen’s suicide is another inquiry. We’ll be running about like ants.”
De Gier looked at Grijpstra through the top of his glass. “Yes. And we’ll probably be having our skulls photographed. I mink the commissaris is all set to attack die doctors, that’ll be fun. I wonder how many X-rays my head can stand.”
Grijpstra had taken off his jacket and was loosening his tie. “Perhaps. The commissaris seemed very pleased with himself, but I hope the Havink business didn’t go the way he described it. He was provoking the doctor, and the judge will throw the case out of court.”
De Gier sat up. “Hey. You aren’t planning to stay here, are you?”
“Of course. I’m drunk. I’ll sleep in that nice big bed of yours and you can bring out the old sleeping bag. Athletes shouldn’t sleep in beds anyway.”
De Gier poured the rest of the brandy into his glass. “O.K., stay if you like, as long as you fix breakfast in the morning. It’s a strange night, I can’t get drunk, I’m as sober as when we started. And the commissaris isn’t silly. I mink I know exactly what he did. He had another X-ray
taken after he had been to see Dr. Havink, by a third neurologist. He won’t mention the first photograph in court. He’ll say that he really suffered from headaches and that he went to Dr. Havink for a diagnosis and, if possible, treatment. But somehow he became suspicious of Dr. Havink’s methods and had the results of the tests checked. That first photograph was only to assure himself that there was nothing wrong with his head to start with. He is clever, our chief ant.”
The conversation flowed on in bursts and spurts while they had their showers and coffee. De Gier had arranged his sleeping bag so that he could see Grijpstra’s face through the open bedroom door.
“Didn’t you mink the commissaris was rather callous about that Bergen fellow?”
Grijpstra was talking to Tabriz, who had jumped on the bed, and de Gier had to ask again.
“No. He didn’t like Bergen, why should he? I didn’t like him either. But the slob was dealt with correctly. Shit, we took a hell of a risk in mat cemetery when we were drawing his fire, especially you with your thousand-guilder weed.”
“I took some home,” de Gier said. ‘It’s in a pot on die balcony now. I wonder if it will take; weeds are hard to transplant sometimes, especially rare weeds.”
“Bah. You’re a detective, not a botanist. You’re getting worse all the time. But Bergen can’t complain. The commissaris lost all interest once he was dead, but there isn’t much we can do for a corpse, especially in the case of suicide. We can’t avenge his own stupidity.”
“So the commissaris didn’t like Bergen,” de Gier said.
“Sure.”
“So there are people he doesn’t like.”
Tabriz had put a furry paw into Grijpstra’s hand and the adjutant was scratching the cat’s chin with the other.
“Sure, sergeant. The commissaris doesn’t like fools, certain types of fools. Especially fools who never try. There was a time when he didn’t like me and he made my life so hard that I was tempted to ask for a transfer, but that is a little while back now.”
“You didn’t ask for a transfer, what happened?”
“I started trying again.”
Grijpstra switched the light in the bedroom off. They woke up a few hours later with a start.
“What was that?” Grijpstra asked sleepily.
“Tabriz. She has got at the marmalade jar again. It broke and there’ll be a mess on the kitchen floor. You better watch your step tomorrow or you’ll have ten bleeding toes.”
“Why does she do it?”
But de Gier had sunk away again, far beyond the boundaries of his sleeping bag, which curved on the living room floor like a gigantic banana.
“Why?” Grijpstra asked the ceiling. “Why, why, why?
There’ll never be an end to it, and even when you find the answers they invariably lead to more questions.”
He sighed. Tabriz came out of the kitchen, jumped over the sleeping bag, and leaped onto the bed. Grijpstra’s hand reached out and the cat put her paw into it. It was sticky.
“Yagh,” Grijpstra said.
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Document creation date: 13.06.2011
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