"You are an excitable fellow," the commissaris said. "Haven't you ever stepped into dog turds before, adjutant?"
"Often," Grijpstra said irritably. "Every day of my life, I think. I attract dogshit. If there's one turd in a street I plow right through it. Some people think it's funny. I amuse them."
"I don't think it's funny," the commissaris said, "and neither does the constable."
"De Gier thinks it's funny. Yesterday, when we went to fetch the car in the police yard, I stepped into a turd and I was running so I slithered all over the pavement. He laughed, the bastard laughed! Tears in his eyes! Slapping his thighs! But dogshit is the same to me as a bleeding corpse to him. / don't laugh when he is leaning against walls and fainting and carrying on!^M
"Hmm," the commissaris said, "but you are clean now. Thank you, constable. Let's get into that boat before anything else happens."
The girl was waiting for them in the doorway.
"Anything wrong?" she asked the adjutant. "Why were you jumping about?"
"Stepped in some dog droppings, miss."
"The German shepherd next door did that. He hasn't been feeling well lately. I meant to clean it up today but I forgot. Take your shoes off, my boat is all spick and span for once."
Grijpstra knelt down obediently. The commissaris slipped past him, found a comfortable-looking chair and sat down. The girl stayed with Grijpstra until both shoes, upside down, were placed in a corner near the door.
"Are you police officers?" the girl asked. "I always thought they wore raincoats and felt hats."
"You've been watching old movies," the commissaris said.
"Coffee?" the girl asked.
"No, thanks, miss."
The commissaris approved of the girl. Large lively eyes in a freckled face. Stiff pigtails with blue ribbons to keep them together. A dress, reaching her ankles, made out of gaily printed cotton. Irregular but very white teeth, a strong mouth. A ray of sunshine, the commissaris thought happily, just what we need to finish off a day's work.
"You've come about Abe?" the girl asked and looked at Grijpstra, who was standing about forlornly. "Why don't you sit down?"
"Where?" Grijpstra asked.
"Right here." She pointed at a shapeless leather bag next to the commissaris' chair, got down on her haunches and thumped the bag. "It's quite comfortable, it's filled with pebbles. I bought it in Spain. Try it." Grijpstra sat down. "You see?"
"Yes, miss," Grijpstra said and screwed his wide bottom into the bag. Its back came up and supported his bulk; the pebbles were crunching inside.
"Yes," the commissaris said. "We've come about Abe. He was killed yesterday, as you know. We were told you were friendly with Mr. Rogge."
"Yes," the girl said. "Very friendly. We slept together."
"Yes, yes," the commissaris said.
"I like to be exact," the girl said brightly.
Why is she so damned cheerful? Grijpstra thought. The man is dead, isn't he? Can't she be upset? He moved and the pebbles crunched again.
"Don't look so worried. That bag won't break. Hundreds of people have sat on it."
"So Abe was your lover, eh?" he asked.
"He was my lover but I wasn't his mistress."
"I see," Grijpstra said doubtfully.
"I don't," the commissaris said. "If Mr. Rogge was your lover you were his mistress. Surely that's the right way of describing the relationship, isn't it?"
"No," the girl said, and smiled. "No, not at all. Abe slept with lots of girls; they came to him when he flicked his fingers-and wagged their tails. He didn't even have to seduce them, they just expected him to take his pants off and do the job. Not me. He came when / wanted him to come and he left me when / wanted him to leave and he had to talk to me and to listen to me. I never tried to fit into his schedule. I am a busy girl, I've got my own schedule. I study and the State is paying me to study; they gave me a nice grant. I intend to finish my studies in time, ahead of time preferably. I don't play around."
It was a long speech and she delivered it almost vehemently, standing in the middle of the small room. Grijpstra was impressed. The commissaris appeared not to be listening. He had been looking around him. The interior of the boat looked as neat as its outside. She hadn't cluttered the room; everything which it contained seemed to fulfill a function. A large low table, stacked with books and paper and a typewriter. A few plants and a vase filled with freshly cut flowers.
He got up, and walked to the end of the room, stopping at a work bench. "Are you working on something, miss?"
Tilda," the girl said. "Tilda van Andringa de Kempenaar. Just call me Tilda. That's a bird feeder, or, rather, it will be one day. I am having a little trouble with it."
"Van Andringa de Kempenaar," the commissaris said, and narrowed his eyes. The puckered forehead showed that he was thinking, trying to remember. "A noble name, it shows in our history books, doesn't it?"
"Yes," she said briskly, "a noble name, a noble family."
"I should address you as freule' perhaps."
"Not really," she said. "Tilda will do." She picked up her long dress, bent her knees and straightened up again. "We had estates once, and influence at court, and I don't think we paid taxes in those days, but my great-great-grandfather blew it all in Paris and ever since then we've been like the rest and worked for a living."
"I see," the commissaris said and bared his teeth mechanically. "A bird feeder, you said?"
"Yes. I like making things but this is more work than I anticipated. It still has to be covered with sheet metal and glass but I've got to get the inside right first. It's supposed to be ingenious you see. The bird has to sit on this little rod and then some feed will flow into that tray over there. There's a small trapdoor here connected to the rod. But it isn't working properly. There should be just enough feed going into the tray; I don't want to keep refilling the container. The whole thing will be hung outside when it's ready and the only way I can get at it will be via the roof. The windows on that side don't open."
"I see, I see," the commissaris said, replacing the structure. "Very clever. Did you design it yourself?"
"I had some help but not much. 1 like inventing. I was always making soap box carts when I was a child. One of them got a prize at school. I won a race in it Want to see it?"
"Please," the commissaris and Grijpstra said.
She brought it in and went into a long technical explanation. "Very clever," the commissaris said again.
"What do you study, Tilda?" Grijpstra asked.
"Medicine. I am in my third year. I want to be a surgeon."
"But you are still very young," Grijpstra said in an awed voice.
Twenty-one."
"You'll have your degree in four years' time." Grijpstra was almost whispering. He couldn't imagine the girl as a graduate in medicine. He suddenly saw himself tied to a table in a white room. The girl was bending over him. She had a knife, the knife would cut into his skin, slicing a deep wound. Her fingers were touching exposed muscles, nerves, vital organs. A shiver touched the hairs on his neck.
"Nothing special," the girl said. She had seen Grijpstra's reaction and grinned wickedly. "Anybody who isn't downright stupid and who is willing to work hard for eight or ten hours a day can become a doctor."
"But you want to be a surgeon," Grijpstra said.
"Yes. I'll have to work in a hospital somewhere for another seven years or so. But it'll be worth it."
"Yes," the commissaris said. "Do you have any idea who killed your friend, Tilda?"
The grin froze on her face. She suddenly seemed to become aware of herself, standing halfway between her interrogators. "No. No, I have no idea. He was always so happy and full of life. I am sure nobody disliked him. Esther said that he was killed in some mysterious way? Is that right?"
"That's right," the commissaris said. "You wouldn't have any photographs, would you? We only saw him dead."
Her eyes were moist now. "Yes, holiday snapshots. I'll get them."
They looked at the album. Abe Rogge at the helm of his boat, and running in the surf, and leaning over the railing of a ferry, and at the wheel of an antique motorcar. Louis Zilver was in some of the photographs, and Tilda herself, looking healthy and attractive.
"Fishing," the commissaris said. "Did he fish a lot?" He pointed at a photo showing Abe struggling with a fishing rod, bent backward, pulling with all his might.
"That was in North Africa," the girl said, "last year. Just the two of us went. He had some gamefish on the hook, took him all afternoon to bring it in. It was such a lovely fish that I made him throw it back. It must have weighed a hundred kilos."
"Where were you yesterday afternoon and last night?" Grijpstra asked.
"Here."
"Anyone with you?"
"No, several people knocked on the door and the telephone rang but I didn't answer. I am working on a test. I should be working at it now too. They didn't give me much time and it's an important credit."
"Yes," the commissaris said. "We must be going."
"Hard boiled little thing," Grijpstra said in the car. "It won't be easy to shake her. She almost broke down when you asked her to show the photographs but that was the only time she weakened. I bet she is the local chairman of some red women's organization."
"Yes, and a proper freule too," the commissaris said. "I think one of her ancestors was a general who fought Napoleon. I forget what he did now but it was something brave and original. She'll be a good surgeon. Maybe she'll invent a way to cut hemorrhoids painlessly."
Grijpstra looked up. "Do you have hemorrhoids, sir?"
"Not anymore, but it hurt when they took them out. Did you see that bird feeder?"
"Yes, sir. A well-designed construction. Do you think she could manufacture a deadly weapon, sir? Something which can shoot a spiked ball?"
"I am sure she can," the commissaris said. "It would work with a powerful spring. I counted six springs in her bird thing."
"It's a thought," Grijpstra said, "but that's all it is. Whatever she had going with Rogge must have been going well, so why would she go to a lot of trouble to kill him?"
"The female mind," the commissaris said. "A great mystery. My wife went to a lot of trouble because she didn't like the man who delivered oil for our central heating. She phoned his boss and said that if they couldn't send someone else she would close the account. I was never able to find out what she had against the man; he seemed a pleasant rather witless fellow to me. But now we are buying oil from some other company. And my wife hardly ever gets upset. This girl would fly into a rage at the slightest provocation. Made that great hulking fellow throw back a fish he had fought with for hours. Made you take off your shoes. Knows exactly what she wants. Studies like mad. Builds involved gadgets just for fun. Has her sex life arranged all her way."
"A nasty bundle of energy," Grijpstra said. "Perhaps we should go back tomorrow, sir, take her to the morgue and confront her with the corpse. Interrogate her for a few hours. She has no alibi, she could easily have sneaked out to the Rogge house. She is a small girl. The riot police would have let her through. Maybe she was carrying a parcel containing the device that shot the ball. She climbed onto the roof of that old ship lying opposite her house, called Abe…"
"Could be," the commissaris said, "but I am taking you home now. We'll see tomorrow. Maybe de Gier and Cardozo will pick up a clue at the street market. You and I can sit and think for a day, or you can go out to the market too."
The car stopped in front of Grijpstra's house. The constable looked back as he drove away.
"He isn't going home, sir," the constable said. "He hesitated at the door and walked away."
"Really?" the commissaris asked.
"Well, he's right, I think," the constable said. "Some wife the adjutant has. Did you see that woman popping her head out of the window this morning, sir?"
"I did," the commissaris said.
14
When De Grier turned the key he could hear Oliver's nails scratching the inside of the door. He also heard the telephone.
"It never stops," he said to Esther, stepping aside so that she could enter first, and bending down. Oliver ran straight into his hand, pressed low to the floor, intent on escape. "Here," de Gier said and caught him. "Don't run away, there's nothing outside there. Just a lot of fast cars and a hot street. Here! And don't scratch."
The telephone was still ringing. "Yes, yes, yes," de Gier said, and picked it up. Esther had taken the cat out of his arms and was nuzzling it, whispering into its ear. Oliver closed his eyes, went limp and purred. The nails slid back and his paws became soft playthings of fur. He pushed a paw against her nose, and kept it there.
"That's nice," de Gier said. "I have never seen him do that to anyone except myself. Silly cat loves you."
"Is it silly to love me?" Esther asked, and before he had time to think of an answer, "Who was that on the telephone? You look all grumpy."
"The commissaris."
"I thought he was a very pleasant man."
"He is not," de Gier said, "and he shouldn't phone me. He is fussing. Did I get the schedule for tomorrow organized? Did I speak to Cardozo about it? Did I do this? Did I do that? Of course I did it all. I always do everything he tells me. Why doesn't he fuss with Grijpstra? But he had Grijpstra with him all day, they had dinner together, while I was sent on an inane errand."
"What errand?"
"Never mind," de Gier said. "Take your coat off and I'll make tea. Or I can open a can of shrimp soup, I have had it in the fridge for ages, waiting for the right occasion. We can have a drop of Madeira in it and eat some hot buttered toast and a salad. And we can look at the geraniums while we eat. The one in the middle is doing very well. I've been feeding it expensive drops and it is responding. See?"
"You like your balcony, don't you?"
"It's better than a garden. I don't have to wear myself out in it. I am growing some cabbage seed now, in that pot in the corner. The little boy in the fiat upstairs gave me the seeds and they came up in a few weeks, just as he said. They are in flower too now. I used to study the buds through a magnifying glass; I could almost see them swell."
"I thought you would be more interested in fingerprints."
"No," de Gier said. "Fingerprints don't grow, they are just there, left by a fool who didn't mind what he was doing. We hardly ever find fingerprints anyway and if we find them they belong to a sweet innocent."
She was helping him in the kitchen and sent him out, once she knew where everything was. He sat down on his bed and talked to her through the open door. She didn't take long and served the meal on a detachable board, which he pulled from the wall and which came down to about a foot from the bed's surface, suspended by hinges on one side and a chain on the other.
"Very ingenious," she said. "This is a very small apartment but it looks quite spacious somehow."
"Because I have no furniture," he said. "Just the bed, and the chair in the other room. I don't really like having people here, they make the place overflow. Grijpstra is O.K., he doesn't move. And you, of course. It's marvelous having you here."
She leaned over and kissed his cheek. The telephone rang again.
"It never stops," de Gier said. "It. The whole thing. It's still moving and I want to be out of it. There should be a way of dropping out of activity. Smashing tihe telephone would be a good start."
"Answer it," she said, "and then come back to me. And to the toast, it's still hot."
"Cardozo?" de Gier asked.
"Yes," Cardozo said, "your faithful assistant is reporting. I am about to start organizing the truck and the merchandise and the permit for the street market and everything, but I thought I'd better run through all the details with you once more before I started."
De Gier sighed. "Cardozo?"
"Yes."
"Cardozo, it's all yours. I want you to prove yourself. Get the whole rigmarole going, Cardozo. Do more than we are asking you to do. Find out what
the textiles are worth. We have to sell them at the right price tomorrow. We can't give state property away, can we?"
"No," Cardozo said.
"Right. Besides we don't want the other hawkers to be suspicious. We have to be just right. Think about this business. Try and become a hawker. Think yourself into it. Get the thought into your subconscious. Try and dream about it tonight."
"What are you going to do?" Cardozo asked.
"I am going to be here, right here in my flat and think with you. Don't feel alone, I am with you, right behind you, Cardozo. Every step of the way."
"When I am carrying those heavy bales out of the police store?"
"Yes."
"Heaving them into the van?"
"Yes."
"That'll be nice."
"Yes. And if there's any problem you can't solve-I don't think there will be any, for you are competent and well trained and an asset to the force-then grab the nearest telephone and dial my number. I'll advise you."
"About how to cany those heavy bales into the van?"
"Yes. Take a deep breath before you lift them. Then stop your breath while you move your arms. Get your shoulder and stomach muscles to help. Heave-ho! You'll find it easy if you go about it the right way."
"I am glad you have faith in me," Cardozo said. "Maybe I will tell the commissaris about your faith in me, sometime when I happen to run into him and we'll be chatting about this and that."
"Oh, no, you won't," de Gier said. "I read the report in your file. The character report. You were picked for the murder squad because you have all the right qualities. Initiative for instance. And an inquisitive and secretive mind. And you are ambitious. You can be trusted to react properly when in a difficult spot. And you are reliable. Did you know all those things about yourself?''
"No," Cardozo said, "and I don't believe that report. It must have been made up by the psychologist who interviewed me. A rat-faced long-haired nervous wreck. I thought he was a suspect when I met him and I was watching him very carefully.''
"Psychology is a new science, a long-haired rat-faced science. They all look like that. They have to, or they are no good. And please stop arguing, Cardozo. Haven't you learned by now that nothing is gained by arguing?"
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