Tumbleweed

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "Shall I hit you in the face?" de Gier asked.

  "Won't help. I only stay awake when somebody talks to me. Tell me a story, sergeant."

  "A story?" de Gier asked. "What sort of story?"

  "Anything," the constable said, "but try and make it a good story. You investigate crimes, don't you? You should know lots of good stories. Or you can talk football to me. I am serious, you know. I am falling asleep; I have been on duty since seven o'clock this morning."

  "Some driver," de Gier said.

  "I told you I shouldn't be a driver. Now will you tell me a story or do you prefer me to smash up the car? We are doing exactly a hundred kilometers an hour and it is a heavy car. She'll probably bounce off the steel rail on our left and turn over a few times. The passenger on the front seat always gets hurt worst."

  "Why didn't you sleep in the car while you were waiting for us at the embassy?"

  "I tried, but I can't sleep when the car is stationary. It's the combination of movement and the sound of the engine that gets me. Look at my eyelids, they are half down. I can't control the muscles."

  De Gier sighed. "Once upon a time, some ten years ago, two years after I had become a uniformed constable doing street duty, we had a murderer in the inner city."

  "That's it," the constable said, "go on. I am listening."

  "We never saw him but we found his tracks and there were witnesses and gradually we built up a picture of what the murderer was supposed to look like, but it was difficult for he only killed late at night, in dark narrow alleys where nobody lives. The alleys are only alive during the day when the merchants move their stocks in and out of their warehouses; at night nobody goes there except cheap prostitutes and their clients. The few people who claimed to have caught a glimpse of the killer gave strange descriptions. This murderer didn't have teeth like you or me but fangs. He didn't walk, he bounced, with great leaping strides, and he had long black hair and a thick curly beard and bloodshot small eyes, and he dressed in a long black duffelcoat with a hood. Are you listening?"

  "Sure, sure," the constable at the wheel said. "Go on, sergeant."

  "He only killed women and we used to find the corpses in the morning. He had torn them apart and their limbs were scattered all over the alleys. We found out that he would climb the gables of the warehouses and flatten himself on a windowsill so that he would be no more than a black blob and when the women walked underneath him he would jump them. Sometimes he would throttle them and sometimes he would bite right through their necks, tearing the veins and the muscles."

  "Jesus," the constable muttered.

  "Yes," de Gier said, speaking in a very low whisper, almost hissing the words, "in those days we had real crimes. But it got too bad, one night the murderer killed two women and the commissaris decided to go all out and catch him."

  "You said you found his tracks," the constable whispered. "What did you find? Footprints? Fingerprints?"

  "He wore gloves," de Gier said, "but we did find his footprints where he had walked through the blood of his victims. We decided that he was a very big man, well over six feet tall and powerfully built. And we always found peanut shells."

  "Peanut shells?"

  "Yes. We also found the empty paper bags. It seemed he lived on peanuts for we would find as many as six bags in one spot where he would have been waiting for some time. The bags were traced to the Chinese quarter, where there were a lot of unemployed people at that time. The Chinese bought cheap peanuts in bulk and roasted them and then sold them on the street for next to nothing."

  "So the commissaris decided to catch him, hey?" the constable said. "Which commissaris? Our commissaris?"

  "The very man," de Gier said, turning around to look at the back seat where the commissaris was snoring gently, supported by Grijpstra's arm.

  "What did he do?" the constable asked.

  "He mobilized the entire police force. We had some six hundred men in the old city that night. Everybody had to come, even useless types like clerks and subinspectors and drivers. We had been properly armed for the occasion and all the constables had carbines. The sergeants and adjutants carried submachine guns and hand grenades and I was in charge of three men who knew how to fight with a flame thrower. The mounted men came with us and their horses were snorting all around. Behind us we could hear the motor cops, they still had Harley Davidsons in those days, and the engines, in first gear, growled. The armored cars of the military police had come out as well and their metal tracks grinding over the cobblestones caused sparks which lit up the alleys; the half-tracks looked very spectacular and the moonlight made the helmets of the drivers glint. We had a general warrant and had been given keys to all the ware-houses and the detectives who were following us searched every building, every house. The boats of the State Water Police had joined us too, they were blocking the canals in case the killer should try to escape us in the water. We could hear their diesel engines idling as we were sneaking through the narrow streets on our thick rubber soles."

  "So?" the constable whispered.

  "It was the biggest operation I have been part of," de Gier said, "and it went on all night but we never had a glance of him. He must have stayed in his lair, sharpening his fangs with a file and doing physical exercises to keep fit."

  "Some story," the constable said in a loud voice.

  "Shhh, you'll wake up the commissaris," de Gier whispered. "I haven't finished yet. The commissaris was frustrated of course, but he didn't give in. He never does. He locked himself into his room for two days and thought and nobody was allowed to disturb him, not even his pet driver whom he was very fond of. And after two days he came out with a plan."

  "A plan," the constable repeated.

  "A psychological plan. He called Grijpstra and myself and three other men and told Grijpstra that he would have to go into the inner city by himself that night. Grijpstra did. We followed him, of course, but at a distance. Grijpstra had been given a large paper bag of the very best freshly roasted peanuts and we were all carrying bags as well, to give to Grijpstra in case he shouldn't have enough. The commissaris had told him that he should be eating peanuts all the time and talk to himself. He had to say, 'marvelous peanuts these' and 'very fresh, these peanuts, nice and crackly' and 'boy! I have never eaten such delicious peanuts in all my life.'"

  "Peanuts," the constable repeated in a suspicious voice.

  "Peanuts. Grijpstra had eaten four bags of peanuts and just started on his fifth when the killer rushed him. All we saw was a dark shadow flashing past. He tried to hit Grijpstra in the neck and to grab the bag at the same time but Grijpstra was alert and sidestepped and tripped him up. We were all on him at the same time and we threw a net over him, a special net which the commissaris had ordered from a firm which makes nets for catching sharks. It was a terrible fight and he nearly got away but we did manage to subdue him. Even Grijpstra helped although he was suffering from shock and full of peanuts and finally we overpowered the killer."

  "Who was he?" the constable asked.

  "I'll tell you some other time," de Gier said, changing his voice to normal. "You can drop me off here, I live in this street. You actually managed to reach Amsterdam. Congratulations."

  The car stopped and the commissaris woke up. "Are you getting out, de Gier?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir. I live here."

  "Why don't you come home with me, you and Grijpstra. I live close by and you can walk home afterwards and Grijpstra can take a taxi. We'll have a drop of brandy and discuss what we should do tomorrow."

  "Sir," de Gier said and got back in the car.

  His mood improved when the commissaris raised his glass. The brandy smelled good, very good, and the commissaris was charming. He had apologized for keeping them so late and had flattered the two detectives by saying that he was enjoying working with them. He had gone to the kitchen and filled two bowls with chips and he had given Grijpstra the best chair in the room.

  "Now," the commissaris said, "we don't s
eem to have achieved much tonight. It was clear that Mr. Wauters, our Belgian diplomat friend, wasn't prepared to tell us more than he had to. It was also clear that he didn't have an alibi."

  De Gier took another sip and made the brandy roll on his tongue. He saw the noncommittal face of the diplomat again. The diplomat had been very polite. He had spent Saturday night in his bachelor flat, by himself. He had watched a little TV and gone to sleep early. He hadn't left his flat, he hadn't gone to Amsterdam, and he hadn't killed Mrs. van Buren.

  "He admitted that Maria van Buren was his mistress," the commissaris said, "and he admitted that he paid her a monthly sum. He wouldn't say how much. He knew, he said, that she had other friends but he had always pretended not to know. An arrangement between her and him. Very convenient. Live and let live. Avoid costly confrontations. A true diplomat."

  "He didn't seem sorry she had died," de Gier said.

  "Yes," the commissaris said, "that's an important observation. I noted the same reaction when I saw the American colonel this morning. The colonel was relieved, and so was Mr. Wauters. They saw the woman regularly, they went there to see her on their own accord, they spent money on her, a lot of money in the colonel's case and possibly also in the diplomat's case, but they were relieved to hear that they wouldn't have to go to see her again."

  "Strange," Grijpstra said.

  "A witch," de Gier said.

  "Beg pardon?" the commissaris asked.

  "A witch, sir. She cultivated funny plants, we mentioned it in our report and the doctor confirmed that the plants we found in her houseboat were poisonous. Belladonna and nightshade and something else, I forgot the name."

  "Ah yes," the commissaris said, "I saw the report. Herbs. The third was thorn apple. Herbs are a craze nowadays, everybody cultivates them. But people cultivate them for their kitchens and for medicinal purposes. Nobody would cultivate poisonous plants."

  "Mrs. van Buren did," Grijpstra said.

  "You are suggesting that she was brewing poisons?" the commissaris said, looking at de Gier, "brews which she made her victims drink and which paralyzed their will power in some way so that they were forced to come back to her?"

  De Gier didn't answer.

  "Could be," the commissaris said. "Maybe she cast a spell on them. Perhaps the spell consisted of her own sexual power and whatever she made them drink or eat or smoke. Or perhaps she burned a powder and they inhaled the poison.

  The one force would enhance the other and they would only be satisfied if they got the two together. But it is far-fetched. It's romantic, of course."

  "De Gier is very romantic," Grijpstra said.

  The commissaris chuckled and refilled their glasses. "Your health, gentlemen." They drank.

  "Nostalgic is the word," the commissaris said. "We are being taken back to the Middle Ages, the dark times when people lived in small communities in great forests. It's a time we have forgotten but it's still in the memory of the people, hidden, but alive. Lately it is coming up again, I have seen it in the hippies. Some of them must look exactly like wizards' disciples, pure fourteenth century. Do you ever go to bookshops?"

  "No, sir," Grijpstra said, "not very often."

  "Yes, sir," de Gier said.

  "You must have noticed that books on herbs are very popular. I have read some of them. Collected rubbish I would say, stuff you can find in the encyclopedia, but then bunched together and with a couple of drawings thrown in. The real books are not for sale. The old hermits had books but you could only use them if the hermit was prepared to train you, and you had to live with him for years and he would really teach you about plants. One could also find out by oneself I daresay, by trying to grow herbs and by studying them. I spend some time in my garden every day, it's amazing what you can learn. Do you have a garden?"

  "I have some plants on my balcony, sir," de Gier said.

  "What do you have?" the commissaris asked, looking very interested.

  "Geraniums," de Gier said, "and something called asylum, a small plant with lots of little white flowers, it smells of honey."

  "Alyssum," the commissaris said. "Do you ever look at your plants?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And what do you see?"

  "They are beautiful."

  "Yes," the commissaris said slowly. "They are beautiful. Even geraniums are beautiful, almost everybody has them and they are beautiful. It's the first lesson to learn."

  He had spoken with some emotion and the silence had come back into the room. It was a pleasant silence and Grijpstra suddenly felt very peaceful. De Gier was sitting on the edge of his chair, the brandy glass in his hand, waiting for the commissaris to speak.

  "But I am not prepared to believe that Mrs. van Buren was a witch. She may have had the plants for some other reason. Maybe she liked the look of them. She had lots of other plants as well. She had the colonel in her power and I am sure she had our Mr. Wauters under her spell. But she was a beautiful sexy woman. Women have power, a passive power. All they have to do is smile a little and men run to them. Men don't want to be manipulated but they are, by women and their own uncontrolled desires. Perhaps the colonel and Mr. Wauters are pleased now, because they can go and hunt for fresh game. And perhaps she was blackmailing them. Our friends wouldn't admit that they were being blackmailed. That's understandable. The blackmailer is dead and the secret has gone with her. Three detectives have gone through the houseboat today; tomorrow morning we'll know what they have found. Nobody has taken anything out of the ship for I had it guarded all night and this morning until the detectives arrived. Perhaps we'll find something."

  "What did you think of the colonel, sir?"Grijpstra asked.

  "An intelligent man," the commissaris said. "He admitted a lot which was good strategy if he had anything to hide. He even admitted having spent a fortune on her during the last three years, but a fortune he could afford to spend. Colonels have a good income, especially in the American army. He has an alibi and I am sure it's a good alibi. The American military police will be checking it now but it will hold. But the colonel said something which may support your theory, de Gier."

  "Did he say she was a witch?" de Gier asked.

  The commissaris smiled. "No. But he said that she was very attractive and that I would have been interested in her if I had ever met her. I said that I am an old man and suffering from rheumatism. And then he said that Mrs. van Buren would perhaps have cured me. Rheumatism is hard to cure."

  "Did you ask him if Mrs. van Buren had been interested in plants?" de Gier asked.

  "No," the commissaris said. "I didn't think of it. The remark only sunk in later."

  "You can contact the American military police and they can ask him," Grijpstra said.

  "I may. And I may not."

  "You don't think it matters?" de Gier asked.

  "Perhaps not. She was killed by a man who didn't like her. He didn't like her because she was blackmailing him, or because she had humiliated him. She may also have been killed because she knew something. The Secret Service is interested in her and has been interested for some time. Perhaps some professional killer paid by an embassy has thrown the dagger. The fact that she is a witch, which isn't a fact so far, may have nothing to do with her death. We may have to consider her sorcery as a hobby."

  The commissaris got up. "It's late, gentlemen, and you will want to go to bed. Tomorrow is another day and we'll see what it brings. I'll get hold of IJsbrand Drachtsma and make an appointment with him for the afternoon. You should be there as well and we can ask all the questions we want to ask without military policemen and diplomats hovering around us. Phone me at one o'clock tomorrow and I'll tell you when he is coming. Tomorrow morning you should try and find the man with the Edam cheese face, the fellow who wears a red waistcoat and who has a small son who plays with a ball. You can ask everybody in the area and show your sketch. While you find the red waistcoat I'll be contacting the police in and find out as much as I can about Maria van Buren's background. G
ood night."

  "Sleep well, sir," de Gier said.

  "Wait," the commissaris said. "I still have to phone a taxi for Grijpstra."

  "It's all right, sir," Grijpstra said. "I'll walk to the taxi stand; it's a nice evening."

  "As you wish."

  The commissaris walked them to his front door and smiled as he shook hands. He looked very friendly.

  "I hope that Belgian fellow hasn't done it," de Gier said when they were walking toward the taxi stand.

  "Why not?"

  "Because he is a diplomat, we can't arrest him."

  "You want to punish somebody?" Grijpstra asked. "I thought you didn't believe in punishment. Didn't you tell me the other day that it would be much more fun catching criminals if you could be sure they would be taken to a nice place with a large park where they could relax and eat good food and play games and become healthy again?"

  "Yes," de Gier said. "Criminals are sick people and should be cured in pleasant surroundings. But there are exceptions. This murderer killed a beautiful woman and beautiful women are scarce. A man like that should wear a ball and chain. And Mrs. van Buren was a witch as well. I would have liked to meet her."

  "Ach," Grijpstra said.

  "You don't agree?"

  "I agree," Grijpstra said, and patted de Gier on the back. "Now you go home and go to sleep and dream dreams."

  "Life is a dream," de Gier said.

  "That's enough. Good night."

  The taxi door slammed and the car took off.

  De Gier waved.

  Grijpstra didn't look around.

  6

  IT WAS TEN O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING AND IT WAS RAINING. De Gier had just knocked on the door of a houseboat and was waiting for the door to open. He had put up the collar of his stylish raincoat and was muttering a string of curses, directed at himself who had bought the raincoat and the manufacturer of the raincoat who had forgotten to waterproof it.

  The door opened and a fat woman, dressed in a torn peignoir and with her hair hanging down her face, looked at him with bleary eyes. "No, thank you," she said, and slammed the door.