The Hollow-Eyed Angel ac-13

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "How is Whatshername doing?" Grijpstra asked when de Gier pushed tea, anchovy toast and napkins, tastefully arranged on a dented silver tray, across the table.

  "I don't understand Whatshername," de Gier said.

  "I do understand Nellie," Grijpstra said, feeding fish to de Gier's cat, Tabriz. "Nellie wants me to move in but her hotel is too noisy." He brushed crumbs off his pinstripe suit. "I still prefer Living Apart Together."

  "I prefer Nothing At All," de Gier said.

  Grijpstra had heard inactivity proclaimed as solution, mere hours ago, by the junkie-burglar. But the junkie allowed for exceptions. There was the needle of course. "There could also be," the junkie had suggested respectfully, "direct divine connection via pussy."

  "You dare to do away with your sexual quest?"

  Grijpstra asked.

  "Man may dream," de Gier said.

  "Of liberty?"

  "Yes, by means of doing nothing. Don't you believe in total negation?"

  "I believe," Grijpstra said, "and he who believes is not sure and therefore condemned to keep trying."

  Both detectives, in the continuing dialogues, brought up the commissaris as their ultimate authority. The commissaris kept trying to approach the mystery via activity, useful work.

  Serving the common good.

  Why else would the commissaris go to America now?

  Grijpstra sang "When the Saints Go Marching In."

  De Gier reached for his trumpet and played the phrase on his instrument. He put the trumpet back.

  Grijpstra explained what he knew of the case so far.

  "Jo Termeer mentioned that tune?" De Gier stretched his foot toward the cat who rolled over on her back expecting a massage. "How did Jo know the Saints were marching while Uncle Bert was dying? Jo wasn't there, he was here, cutting hair in this very suburb, in Outfield."

  Tabriz meowed pleasurably, but loudly, while her master's toes kneaded her bare belly. De Gier kneeled next to the cat. He circled Tabriz's mouth with thumb and index finger, and tightened his grip rhythmically. Tabriz meowing became structured into a musical "wah-wah-wah."

  "I spent most of the afternoon questioning Jo Termeer," de Gier said. "If I am collaborating on this case I would like to be properly briefed. I wasn't told about the Saints. I could have caught Termeer in a contradiction."

  He frowned at Grijpstra.

  "Termeer's information is based on double hearsay," Grijpstra said. "Uncle Bert's neighbor, landlord and part-time help, Charlie, told Jo that the song was being played when Uncle Bert was seen last. Charlie was told by passersby who were there at the time. Charlie is no witness either."

  "Did neighbor Charlie interview possible witnesses to Uncle's death?" de Gier asked.

  "Musical saints supposedly marched," Grijpstra said. "Not only that, an elderly couple was seen-foreign tourists-pointing out an alleged corpse to a mounted policeman." Grijpstra shook his head. "A policewoman, I should say."

  "Aha aha," de Gier said, "all news to me, friend. So you kept the information hidden so as to hear from me what Jo would come up with when I questioned him."

  "Jo Termeer didn't mention an elderly tourist couple? Middle class? Foreign?"

  "No," de Gier said. "Young Termeer reported he called at the Central Park Precinct and saw the desk-sergeant. The cop only knew about a dead derelict, found under a filthy blanket, a homeless person dressed in rags, and told complainant that an investigation was in progress."

  "Embarrassment of corpses?" Grijpstra asked. "America the violent? Dead bodies galore?"

  "Same body," de Gier said. "Charlie had identified the corpse as his dead neighbor. Termeer also saw a Sergeant Hurrell at Central Park Precinct. There 'was the language barrier again. Hurrell may have said that he would keep Termeer informed."

  "No sense," Grijpstra said sadly. "It never makes sense. It never will either, unless we attempt to put it there. Show me your flimsy construction of how the facts we have determined might possibly connect."

  "I don't construct in my free time," de Gier said. "It should be your free time too. Why bother me? Bother Nellie. Paint dead ducks in your empty apartment. Go home and play your drums."

  In order to placate de Gier, Grijpstra recited his newly found, improved, partly stolen and combined poetry.

  "Pure emptiness illuminated by the void's divine glow, or is it a cold absence of necessities lit meaninglessly by a dim bulb suspended from a peeling ceiling?

  I flee either choice and wait, in wet slashing darkness, at an alien bus stop, where my soul glows red in sinful flashes."

  De Gier made Tabriz do more "wah-wah-wah." After that he applauded.

  "I wasn't going to the whores," Grijpstra said.

  "You were coming to me," de Gier said. "To try and fill your void with meaningless work." He smiled forgivingly. "Okay. I will humor you."

  While making his report de Gier used the singsong of his native Rotterdam dialect which never failed to make Grijpstra crack up. "Please," sobbed Grijpstra. "Cut it out. Can't you speak like real people?"

  Tabriz got hiccups and had to be picked up, turned over and shaken gently.

  Seriousness returned.

  De Gier reported, using the proper Amsterdam dialect, that Reserve Constable-First-Class Jo Termeer, during the course of an in-depth interrogation ordered by the commissaris, had made a good impression.

  "Define good," Grijpstra told de Gier.

  De Gier explained that Termeer seemed modest, polite, reliable, concise in stating his complaint. Not a dumb fellow by any definition. Perhaps lacking in education. "Like yourself," de Gier said. "Talented, diligent, but not somebody who questions reality."

  Grijpstra recognized the type. "No quest. Energy spent on artful hobbies. Termeer is into Sunday painting? Dabbles in music perhaps?"

  De Gier found and consulted his notebook. "Critical viewing of movies."

  "Ah," Grijpstra said. "What kind of movies?"

  "Action and bizarre."

  "What kind of action?" Grijpstra asked.

  "Fighting movies."

  "What kind of bizarre?"

  "Don't know," de Gier said.

  "You didn't pursue that query?"

  De Gier shook his head. "Jo likes movies set in Australia."

  "Bizarre Australian movies?"

  De Gier nodded. "And futuristic."

  "Bizarre Australian futuristic action movies,"

  Grijp-stra summarized.

  "That's it," de Gier said.

  "Sexual preference?"

  "Movie?"

  "Termeer," Grijpstra said.

  "Right, homosexual, lives with a colleague called Peter."

  "Did you meet with Peter?"

  De Gier, after the interrogation of complainant Jo Termeer at police headquarters, had driven over to Outfield, picked up Peter at the hair-care salon and interviewed Jo's partner in a nearby cafe.

  "Direction of interview?" Grijpstra asked.

  "Straightforward," de Gier said. "I told Peter that we were analyzing a complaint and checking some background."

  "Showed your police I.D.?"

  "Sure. Of course."

  "Describe subject."

  De Gier described Peter as a slender, active, intelligent forty-year-old black male. Fashionably dressed.

  "Overdressed?"

  "No."

  "Mannerisms?"

  "Effeminate?" de Gier asked. "No."

  "How black?"

  "Midnight black."

  "Made a good impression?" Grijpstra said. "Right?

  You liked Peter."

  "Yes," de Gier said. "Sure."

  "Believable?"

  "That's right."

  "You discussed your admiration for black jazz with Peter?"

  "I did not," de Gier said.

  "And friend Peter thinks that Termeer is right to consult the Amsterdam Murder Brigade re the possible criminal nature of his uncle's death?"

  "Yes," de Gier said. "I really liked that Peter."

&
nbsp; "Biased," Grijpstra said. "You are biased, Rinus. You like midnight-black-skinned men because they remind you of Miles Davis, who plays trumpet the 'way you want to play trumpet but can't."

  De Gier shrugged.

  Grijpstra looked critical. "Unacceptable associations. Preconceived ideas, the wrong way round. Peter could still be unreliable. You agree, don't you?"

  "Cut it out," de Gier said. "The opposite isn't true either. Although I dislike most pink-skinned folks who don't play the trumpet the way I would like to but can't, I can still appreciate reliability in you."

  Grijpstra blinked.

  "Sentence too complicated?" de Gier asked.

  "Okay," Grijpstra said. "Complainant's partner, Peter, checks out. So does Termeer." Grijpstra paused. "Workwise too?"

  "As a hairdresser, you mean?"

  "Please," Grijpstra said. "As a cop."

  De Gier read his notes, made that afternoon at Warmoes Street Police Precinct, in Amsterdam's Red Light District. Termeer, as auxiliary, had served there for some years now, doing evening duty and also working weekends. Two Warmoes Street Precinct uniformed sergeants, interviewed separately, stated that Termeer would show up two or three times per week. Such zeal, they declared, was unusual for voluntary policemen, who aren't expected to put in that much time on active duty.

  "Did you hear about his participation in the arrest of a Yugoslav gangster?" Grijpstra asked.

  De Gier found the note. Firearms were used. Termeer jumped the suspect after a professional cop had been wounded and brought down. Suspect struggled free. Termeer ran Suspect down after a long chase along alleys and canal quays. The spectacular arrest earned the reserve constable-first-class a special mention for bravery beyond the call of duty.

  "Outperformed the professionals, yes?" Grijpstra asked.

  "Yes," de Gier said.

  "What do you know," Grijpstra said. "A disciple of mine, Rinus. It's me who guided this good man for years. By my example, experience, expertise…"

  De Gier read on. On another occasion Termeer arrested an armed and violent whoremonger.

  "Details?"

  Seventy-year-old German suspected of abusing a prostitute. Suspect, flashing a handgun, resisted arrest but was disarmed by Termeer using judo.

  "Gestapo Untergruppenfuehrer on weekend leave from a federal prison in Bonn, Germany, nostalgically reenacting World War II atrocity," Grijpstra said. "And you were home, watching a video of cannibals from New Guinea. Wasn't Herr Muller lucky? You would have pulled out his toenails."

  "Yeah," de Gier said. "Hurting an old man with a personality problem." He scratched behind Tabriz's ears. "What was Termeer like as a police school student?"

  "Good," Grijpstra said. "Passed the final exam summa cum laude."

  "Any fawning? Bending over backwards?"

  Grijpstra nodded. "Some. Sure."

  "Tough guy syndrome? Bought special equipment and clothes in the police store? Nazi boots? Leather coat? Expressed interest in arresting young sailor types on bicycles without proper rear lights?"

  Grijpstra shook his head.

  "Negative observations?"

  Grijpstra recalled a neatly dressed soft-spoken student who paid attention, made neat notes, didn't ask silly questions, arrived on time, didn't miss lessons, drove a clean and undented Volkswagen Golf.

  "Not a nutcase?" de Gier asked.

  "No."

  De Gier's head moved closer to Grijpstra's. "Why," de Gier asked, "would, if you please, a non-nutcase desire to voluntarily join the Amsterdam Police to serve without pay?" De Gier dropped his voice dramatically. "Henk, listen. Isn't that, in itself, suspicious behavior? What we policemen are dealing with is human filth, misery any decent being would want to stay away from. And this good guy volunteers?"

  Grijpstra grinned. "You mean that the very idea of wanting to be a cop is despicable in essence?"

  "You disagree?" de Gier asked.

  "Ask complainant," Grijpstra said. "I'm not being investigated here, okay?"

  "I did ask complainant."

  "You got a clear answer?"

  "Termeer said he liked our type of work."

  The detectives had more tea. Tabriz was turned upside down and kneaded by Grijpstra this time. The cat purred dutifully.

  "Why," de Gier asked, "did you join the police yourself?"

  Grijpstra cited stupidity, ignorance of choices, a slavish desire to serve the ruling class, a sadistic inclination. Uniform, badge, the right to carry arms are ways to indulge power.

  He stared into de Gier's eyes. "And you, my dear?"

  De Gier said that he wanted to serve the queen and that one could see the queen, or her symbol, the crown, as a kind of opening, a tunnel through which the aware and diligent disciple could approach divinity, even here on earth.

  "That's nice," Grijpstra said.

  De Gier poured boiling water into his teapot. "So what else do we know?" de Gier asked. "The commissaris mentioned that Termeer, according to Antoinette, appeared to be a 'young fellow of forty."'

  "Some young fellow," Grijpstra said. "Six foot two, a sporting type, physically not unlike yourself but mentally more pure. Less cynical, I mean."

  De Gier had the same impression. Termeer could be described as childlike. As "nice."

  "You told that to the commissaris?" Grijpstra asked.

  De Gier said he had but that, in spite of the possibly authentic complaint, now sustained by a profile drawn up by an experienced criminal investigator…

  ("Meaning you?"

  "You too somewhat," de Gier said.)

  …he didn't think it was fair that because of Grijpstra, via his pushy introduction of his star student, complainant Jo Termeer, the commissaris was now more or less forced to jump into a risky set of circumstances. In a dangerous city like New York of all places. Right before the rheumatic little old gentleman was to be retired.

  Grijpstra felt bad.

  Chapter 3

  "Grijpstra should feel bad," Katrien said.

  The commissaris was having breakfast-a Sunday morning ritual comprising a choice of three cheeses, fruit juices in antique tumblers, perking coffee, which set him up for the day.

  Since Katrien no longer smoked she had done away with breakfast. Her sudden gain in weight distressed Katrien. The commissaris kept saying he liked her "ladylike figure."

  "You like nothing better than being a hero in America," Katrien said, "another ruse that you hope will make your image live forever."

  The commissaris, squeezing a fresh roll, spilled crumbs.

  "Or would this case be somehow special?" Katrien asked. "A nasty twisted puzzle requiring your exclusive genius perhaps?"

  The commissaris butchered a new piece of Gruyere.

  "What is so peculiar about an Amsterdam book dealer found dead in Central Park, New York?"

  The commissaris got up, walked over to his cylinder desk and came back carrying a fax that he handed over.

  Katrien read that the commissaris's colleague Hugh O'Neill (a high-ranking detective with the New York Police Department, the commissaris explained) was nominally in charge of investigating the case of Bert Termeer, deceased, this fourth of June, in Central Park. The dead body had been found dressed in rags and covered with a filthy blanket. The autopsy indicated a fatal heart condition aggravated by trauma, an injury caused to Termeer's chest. A fallen branch was found near the corpse. Termeer's case was about to be defined as death due to natural causes, or caused accidentally, without intent. A sport-related incident hadn't been ruled out.

  "The book dealer was struck by an unidentified implement, possibly propelled or wielded by an unknown party?" Katrien asked. She had been to New York and tried to recall a visit to Manhattan's Central Park. "Don't people play ball there?"

  "This case is about to be closed," the commissaris said. He sipped apple cider. "A piece of cake, Katrien. Mere routine. I'm only looking into it in order to help out a nephew of the deceased, a policeman known to Grijpstra."

 
; "Do book dealers wear rags in New York?" Katrien asked. "Do they sleep in parks under filthy blankets?"

  The commissaris said he planned to look into those controversial aspects.

  "Maybe golf," Katrien said. "Or baseball, or something. Victim was hit, collapsed, crawled into the bushes?"

  The commissaris nodded.

  Katrien was still thinking. "No. Wouldn't he be more likely to stay in the open, where help would be forthcoming?"

  The commissaris fetched more fresh rolls from the kitchen.

  "A busy park within the metropolis," Katrien said. "A man has a heart attack. Wouldn't people notice?"

  The commissaris agreed.

  "What age was Grijpstra's pal's dead uncle?" Katrien asked.

  "Seventy, Katrien."

  "Enjoying good health, apart from the heart condition?"

  The commissaris said he would inquire.

  "Not a drunk? Or an addict? So why would he wear rags?"

  The commissaris planned to find out.

  Katrien, frustrated, ate something after all-thinly sliced cheese-and drank coffee, no cream, no sugar.

  The commissaris played with his roll, then handed the rest to her.

  "Looks like it is all over," Katrien was saying. "What do you expect to come up with, Jan? Old people don't respond well to shock. They tend to just keel over. Remember my father?"

  "Uncle Bert wasn't married," the commissaris said.

  Katrien interrupted her eating. "Meaning what, my sweet?"

  The commissaris meant that when Katrien's father died, he hadn't just switched off. He had been gradually worn down by seventy years of irritation caused by life's vicissitudes. That he was also hit by a truck was because, exhausted, he was paying no attention.

  Katrien stared at her husband.

  "I don't mean that you irritate me," the commissaris said. "Don't worry, Katrien. I'm sure the case is simple, even if it seems puzzling when we look at it from here. I'll check the details, ask around a little bit, study the location, go into this Uncle Bert's background. I'm sure my final report will put complainant's mind at rest."

  "You'll be mugged," Katrien said. "You've been very sickly lately. You hardly sleep at night. You don't even enjoy napping. You keep taking pain pills. And I can't go with you because of our daughter's due date. I won't let you go."