The Hollow-Eyed Angel ac-13

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  Soon, the commissaris said, he would be retired. All the rest a man could ask for. He would wallow in nondoing.

  "I'll go with you," Katrien decided.

  "You promised to be here for the grandchildren's birth."

  There was that-twins were about to be born to Katrien and Jan's youngest daughter. The birth was predicted to entail some complications. Katrien had promised support.

  "I'll be fine," the commissaris said.

  Katrien wanted to do something. The police convention accommodations consisted of a room in a Holiday Inn. Katrien had inherited a small fortune in tax-free jewels from a tax-evading aunt who had left her the key and authorization to enter a Swiss bank's safety deposit box. Katrien never wore "trinkets." She had sold the stashed rubies.

  "I'll get you a nice hotel room. Right on the park. That will be pleasant. Maybe that place near that enormous museum. The Cavendish? I'll get you a suite. You can rest and enjoy room service."

  The commissaris didn't hear her.

  "You are thinking of something," Katrien said.

  His attitude didn't change.

  "Stop stirring your coffee, dear." She took away his spoon.

  He looked at her over the rim of his cup.

  "You don't have a premonition, do you?" Katrien asked. "I have one myself. Or was it that dream you were going to finish telling me about this morning? About the driver of a Number Two streetcar? You did tell me something but I kept dozing off."

  "The Angel of Death," the commissaris said. "The driver was an angel. The message had to do with death, but not mine, I don't think."

  "Good," Katrien said. She worried-about his frail health, the strenuous journey he was about to undertake, his coming retirement.

  He helped his wife wash up.

  "Will you tell me about that dream now?"

  The commissaris busied himself stacking plates in the cupboard.

  "Don't put that funny look on," Katrien said. "I know that look. That streetcar driver was a woman, wasn't she now? I know the one you mean."

  "Which one?" he asked.

  "That blonde? Long legs in the glass driver's cabin, glass all the way down to the street. On the new type of streetcar. You forget we were together when you noticed that lady driver. You were all eyes. You wouldn't talk much afterward."

  The commissaris admitted that the driver had made an impression, had set off an erotic fantasy. The new model Amsterdam electric streetcars had all glass fronts, enabling the drivers to see in every direction. The drivers were therefore visible themselves. A long-legged female driver on a Number Two streetcar had made an impression. The woman displayed her body well. She wore a miniskirt and had a magnificent hairdo. She sat there like a prostitute in a window in the inner city, proud of her qualities, pretending not to notice men leering, possibly drooling. As a tram driver in uniform she was unapproachable, of course-the tram's radio connected to all police cars. This unapproachable status made the fantasy even stronger. "But the dream wasn't really all that sexy, Katrien. I mean, nothing happened."

  Katrien smiled sincerely. "Enjoy your naughty dreams, Jan."

  "It was more like a mystical dream," he insisted. "There was an extra meaning. More like divine, Katrien." He looked up. "One doesn't have sex with angels."

  "Yes, right," she said kindly.

  He was arranging the silver, forks with forks, knives with knives, neatly lined up in their drawer.

  "Jan," Katrien said sternly, "is that why you use public transport nowadays? You want to be near that long-legged blond driver again, have her take you where she wants to?" She patted his cheek. "And you have such a nice car."

  "I don't use the Citroen anymore because there is no more parking in town, Katrien." He sighed. "Not unless one tolerates the exorbitant charges. Last time I tried I was delayed and they put a boot on one of my tires. Another enormous hassle. A fine. I had to stand around while they took the boot off."

  "It's all right," she said kindly. "When was the last time you saw that angel driver? In reality, I mean."

  It was the day he had received the auxiliary policeman. "They don't issue miniskirts to tram drivers," Katrien said. "That beauty you and I saw had the garment cut short herself."

  "Yes, Katrien."

  "Bah." She glared at him. "I used to have nice legs too, but you never noticed."

  "I did, Katrien." He smiled. "They still are very nice."

  "You're not going to be a dirty old man, are you?"

  He said he didn't think so.

  She laughed. "You look worried."

  He thought he looked more frightened than worried. He had just remembered that the dream driver had no eyes.

  "A hollow gaze, Katrien."

  Katrien liked to understand dreams. She tried to analyze his. Did he feel encouraged by the seductive angel? Was she urging him to cross the Atlantic? Was there any connection between the mystical presence and his future retirement? Very often male retired high officials couldn't bear to lose their sense of importance, respect, their self-esteem. They withered away or met with accidents or took heroic risks while they still could. Like the commissaris, at the end of his career, reaching out into a region where he would have no protection.

  He didn't know what to answer.

  "You're really going on this wild goose chase, aren't you?" Katrien asked.

  The commissaris nodded.

  She shook her head. "You'll get bashed yourself. Parks in big cities aren't the safest of places. You'll be another corpse in the azalea bushes."

  Later that day she waved a travel guide, borrowed from a neighbor, at him. "It says right here: Central Park should be avoided after dark. Even during daylight solitary hiking is not encouraged on paths that seem deserted." She banged the book on his desk. "Isn't that terrible? Guidebooks are supposed to promote travel and even so they warn you off."

  He said he'd be all right.

  She showed him a folder advertising the Cavendish Hotel. "Nouvelle cuisine, Jan, you might like that. Here, look at this spread." He admired the displays of mini-helpings on maxi-plates. The plates were surrounded by dishes filled with gleaming fruit, jars of shiny candied foodstuffs, flasks filled with glowing wines or juices. There were elaborate flower arrangements too. He also studied a photograph of a Cavendish suite: a complete apartment- air-conditioning, every luxury provided. "You can watch nice movies."

  Australian movies, the commissaris thought. He had read de Gier's report, specifying what Jo Termeer liked. The commissaris didn't care for action movies himself but liked simple drama. He remembered an Aussie film featuring a drunken party. Each guest had to bring his own pornographic object. One guest brought an attractive woman, who set out to seduce the host. The party didn't end well. There were arguments and disappointments. Sunrise found the host watching his car being driven into a tree by guests.

  She pointed out furniture to him: a four-poster bed, Chippendale couches. Yes, he would be able to lie down there.

  "And a view of Central Park. You'll be looking down on all your suspects."

  He looked at the rates. "But so much money, Katrien."

  "Aunt Koba's present."

  The inheritance, of course, he thought.

  "And you won't stay long, will you?"

  Not at those prices.

  "Kiss me," she said.

  They embraced.

  Later that Sunday the commissaris walked in the rear garden of his house at Queens Avenue, between three-foot-tall weeds. His pet turtle, waiting for lettuce leaves, made swaying movements on his private rock.

  "Let's hope we face no evil out there," the commis-saris told Turtle. "Katrien is probably right. A showdown in Central Park could be bloody. Hooliganism, gang-t related. And I would be alone. This Detective Hurrell doesn't appear very alert."

  Turtle chewed more lettuce.

  "Never mind?" the commissaris asked. "Jo Termeer insists that God is Good and Justice will be Achieved and who am I to argue with Positive Thinking?"

&nb
sp; Turtle, sarcastically, closed one eye.

  "I'm doing this because I am getting very feeble now?" the commissaris asked. "My last chance to win medals?"

  Turtle started one of his slow dances.

  "Katrien is right?" the commissaris asked. "Realizing I am entering my Final Agony now I plan a last fling? I will be all set to lose my life there spectacularly after setting things right?"

  Turtle gummed more lettuce.

  "I don't have any teeth either," the commissaris said, baring his long dentures, fair enough copies of what had once been real, craftily shaded a pale ivory hue. "Pure plastic, my dear."

  Turtle swallowed, looked up expectantly.

  "Or is this one of these instances that calls for detachment?" The commissaris winked. "We do this for Nothing? We don't walk the way that can be called a way? No, Turtle, we surrender." The commissaris smiled down on the reptile. "We are merely aware, we meditate, we gain ultimate insight."

  Turtle heightened the rhythm of his dancing feet and shaking shield.

  "Too Zen for me perhaps," the commissaris said. "Even now, when my working life is almost over. Who am I fooling? Career does matter to me. I'm in this to win. I insist on being admired." He bent down to the dancing reptile. "We're Dutch, my dear. The Dutch are basic traders. Nothing is for free. And there has to be some profit."

  Turtle slipped down his rock and waddled underneath a thorn bush.

  "Not that I would mind being free of all that," the commissaris told the moving bush.

  "And what was the oracle's advice today?" Katrien asked when the commissaris limped back into her kitchen.

  The commissaris grinned. "I think he's holding out for more lettuce."

  Chapter 4

  New York received the commissaris pleasantly enough, after a first-class ride on the roomy top deck of a large airplane. He had eaten, dozed and dreamed about the hollow-eyed tram driver/angel. The dream was probably caused by the stewardess who served him, a tall woman with blond hair. There were many of these in Holland now: a new archetype.

  Immigration and Customs waved him through. He didn't have to join the long line for cabs; a large burly man in a red waistcoat guided the commissaris to a brand-new minivan. It was illegal, of course. No husding for rides at Kennedy Airport. He had seen posters in the airport's waiting areas, warning passengers.

  "Isn't this illegal?" the commissaris asked the man shooing him along.

  "Been doing it for years now," the soft-spoken driver said pleasantly enough. "Mind if I rustle up a few other passengers? It'll make the ride worthwhile. Some music while you wait? I'll give you the seat of honor."

  The driver switched on his radio, tuning to a classical music station, determining his choice after a glance at the little old gentleman sitting quietly in the high passenger seat. A well-modulated male voice announced a piano concerto by Albeniz, after suggesting that listeners avail themselves of the services of an investment broker. The commissaris didn't catch the sponsor's name. The announcer interrupted after the first movement. "By the way, Gillette is a good buy today. A free tip from your favorite station. Gillette. A debt-free company about to launch an important new product. When the product sells, shares will go up." Music again, remarkably clear, piping in through speakers in the minivan's four corners. It died away briefly.

  The announcer spoke gendy: "Remember now, never wager your wad."

  The commissaris thought he would like to wager his wad now. Go for broke. All or nothing. As there was little or nothing he would be able to do with All now, victory would amount to nothing anyway. He would solve the case, retire and be forgotten. All = Zero. He thought of the reptile oracle in his Queens Avenue garden, back in Amsterdam. Turtle would agree with such radical thinking. The commissaris, feeling he was on the verge of true insight, smiled happily. Euphoric feelings floated on the lovely Albeniz composition. But he might just be ill. Flu was going around, especially within the enclosed air circulation of airplanes. He was probably infected. An oncoming fever would alter his perception.

  The commissaris, shivering, paged through the police convention brochure while he laid out his plans. He would spend the rest of today in his Cavendish suite, looking down on the magnificent trees of Central Park for comfort and entertainment. Tomorrow he would attend a lecture on modes of death by Dr. Steve Russo, pathologist and assistant chief of the NYPD's Crime Laboratory, and make an appointment to meet with Detective-Sergeant Hurrell of the Central Park Precinct. For now all he had to do was lean back and listen to the music.

  The driver, when he came back, herding two thirty-year-old businesswomen in suits and lace blouses, talked golf while he drove his catch into town. The commissaris watched the Manhattan skyline against an expanse of glistening blue marked by just a few little white clouds. The music was Bach now, the Italian Concerto. The announcer mentioned Gillette again.

  "Make a bundle, play golf in Florida for the rest of your life," the driver was saying. He had done that for some years: long fairway shots between unusual water hazards, lagoons filled with alligators, Key West. Those were the days. But the trick was not to listen to the jokers interrupting the classical music. The driver nodded disdainfully toward his door's speaker, where the announcer had just made a suggestion.

  "What does he know? Shit-eating wiseass… Oh dear, ladies present. Sorry, ladies."

  The ladies were talking. They might not have heard.

  "No more golf, eh?" the commissaris said.

  The driver said no more golf. A bad investment on margin, lost his wad, back to a leased van, back to the merry-go-round of collecting fares to make the payments, I-owe-I-owe-ofF-to-the-airport-I-go, Kennedy-Manhattan-Kennedy forever.

  The commissaris rembered that Katrien had mentioned a golf ball. He didn't know about sports. Of all the balls he could visualize, only the golf ball might be a weapon.

  "So are you a good golf player?"

  He wasn't bad, the driver said. He missed winning money and drinks at the club house. There were golf courses around New York too, but play on them was not so relaxed as in Key West, and-except for the few crowded public courses-a lot more expensive.

  "Public? In parks?"

  The driver, bad-tempered now, reflecting on his greed and stupidity, turned nasty although he didn't show it. He smiled at his client. "Sure, sir. In some parks."

  "Now," the commissaris said, "suppose I were to be in a park, not paying attention, and I got hit with a golf ball, a good long fairway shot, as you said just now, Would there be some force there? Say I got hit in the chest, for instance?"

  "Kill you stone dead," the burly driver said.

  So far, not so good. The commissaris felt worse when he was taken to his hotel suite. He telephoned Room Service for a pot of tea and plain cookies. He arranged his medicines: aspirins and codeine pain pills. His thermometer showed he had a fever, not too high yet. His rheumatism was definitely acting up; red-hot worms crawled about in his hipbones. The shower relaxed his body somewhat but he ended up dizzy. His throat was sore. There seemed to be crushed glass in his lungs, moving slowly every time he breathed.

  He took multiple medications. While he wandered about his spacious sitting room in a cotton bathrobe, nicely ironed by Katrien, the codeine took effect. Generic acetaminophen might lower his temperature and also give pain relief. He sucked an antiseptic lozenge to reduce the sandpaper feeling in his throat, while he looked down on the tops of ash and maple and chestnut trees, admiring their full foliage. He followed birds in flight, bending sideways so he could peek at the roof of the Metropolitan Museum. He planned to visit there. De Gier had been talking about the Rockefeller wing, with its Papuan artifacts imported from New Guinea. The commissaris himself was interested in New Guinea, mainly because it seemed to be the furthest place on earth, an enormous, hardly inhabited island surrounded by exotic archipelagos.

  Papua New Guinea is an island second in size only to Greenland. Much of the interior is still a vast unknown. De Gier wanted to go there
"to experience primitive insights." The commissaris wouldn't mind joining the sergeant's quest. He also fantasized about trying the other side of things, even engaging in soul-testing head hunting, or ritual cannibalism perhaps. Too old, too feeble now, he dreamed about using de Gier's effort as a projection. Get the dear boy to report regularly, to write from his mystical summer camp, to provide vicarious entertainment for sickly stay-at-homes.

  His phone rang. "Had a good flight, sir?"

  "Yes?" the commissaris asked. "Who is this?"

  "Hugh O'Neill. We're down in the lobby. Can we come up and talk about your Central Park case? I have Sergeant Hurrell with me."

  The commissaris said he wasn't dressed, bit if his colleagues didn't mind…

  They didn't, the hearty American voice said. But if the commissaris preferred to rest first, they could come back later.

  "No, please come up."

  The New York policemen seemed impressed by the luxury of the commissaris's quarters. The commissaris tried to explain. His wife was paying. He hadn't been feeling well. A present.

  "But doesn't the convention take care of hotel expenses for all invitees?" Hurrell asked.

  "They wouldn't pay for this," O'Neill said, noting crystal chandeliers, satin drapes, an Oriental rug on the floor, large-screen TVs and VCRs in both rooms. "Nice present. Your wife must love you." He harrumphed. "How do you want to be addressed? By rank? As Mister?" He smiled. "I'm afraid I won't be able to do your last name justice."

  "Use my first name," the commissaris said. "J-a-n."

  "You pronounce that as 'Yan'?"

  "Any way you like. May I call you Hugh?"

  "Please," O'Neill said. "First names are easy. Hurrell here is…" He seemed puzzled. "Is what?"

  "Earl," Hurrell said. "Funny name. Hardly ever use it."

  "Hurrell has brought his reports with him," O'Neill said.

  Hurrell was a nondescript man, except for blotched cheeks and a heavily veined nose. A skin condition, the commissaris thought, or alcoholism. O'Neill was boisterous, handsome, with a full head of cropped curly auburn hair. The chief looked athletic. An American football player, the commissaris thought. Better give him the ball when he wants it before he tears you to pieces.