"Blood," de Gier said, "and rats. Rats I can stand now. I saw one the other night when we were chasing someone near the river and I didn't mind so much. A big brown brute, he jumped into the water as I was almost on top of him. I wasn't really afraid then, but blood always gets me, I don't know why."
"You'll grow out of it," Zilver said and smiled at a girl who passed them to go to the toilet. "I am scared of things I can't define. I dream of them but I can't remember them when I wake up. I think I'll go back in there and chase a few girls."
"Switch the TV off," de Gier said. "They have some horror movie on. I would switch it off myself but I don't want to be rude. You know Uncle Bert better than I do."
"I will. I'll change the record too. We want some rock music if we are going to chase the girls. Some pretty ones came in just now. You want me to introduce you?"
"No, thanks. I am here to work."
"Good luck. Got any ideas yet?"
"Lots of ideas," de Gier said, "but I want more than ideas."
Zilver smiled and closed the door behind him.
The girl had come out of the toilet and de Gier nipped in, locking the door with exaggerated care. He washed his hands carefully and combed his hair. He adjusted the silk scarf which was just the right color to go with his shirt. He sat down on the toilet seat and took out his pistol from its shoulder holster. He pulled out the clip and checked the cartridges. Six. He put the clip back and loaded, checking the breech. He could see the cartridge gleaming inside the steel of the barrel. He pulled the breech back and made the cartridge jump free. What am I doing this for? he thought. I never do this. He put the cartridge into the clip, replaced the clip and stuck the pistol back into its holster, washed his face, sat down again and lit a cigarette. Two corpses in two days. Three, counting the lawyer. But the lawyer had died because he had died. The others had been robbed of their lives. Robbery is a crime. Theft of the greatest good. The greatest good is life. And here he was in a house filled with people thumping the floor with their great ungainly feet to the beat of doped long-haired young men, tearing at the atmosphere with their electric sound boxes and magnified drums. The killer might be in the room, thumping the floor too, drinking high-powered jenever and sucking a fat cigar, with his red hand on some woman's eagerly trembling bottom. Or would he be somewhere else in town, grinning to himself? Or herself? He hadn't seen the two women whom Grijpstra and the commissaris had interviewed. He had asked Grijpstra about them but he had only been given the gist of the conversation and a description of the women. He had a feeling that Grijpstra was following some other line of thinking and getting nowhere, for he was saying even less than usual. De Gier got back into his own line of thought. A ball, attached to a string. And the string attached to what? How could the ball have found its mark with such deadly precision?
And the commissaris? Did he know anything yet? The case was only a few days old. No need to rush. Work along the rules. Follow each possibility as far as it will go. Turn back if there is no result.
Someone knocked on the door.
"Coming," de Gier shouted and opened the door.
It was the middle-aged lady who had been talking to him before.
"Are you all right?" the woman asked, touching his shoulder. Her eyelashes shot up and came down slowly. "I was missing you in there."
"I am fine," de Gier said quickly. "Go ahead, dear. The toilet is all yours." He ran back into the room.
Zilver was talking to Grijpstra. Grijpstra's face was flushed and there was a full glass of beer in his hand.
"Rinus," roared Grijpstra, "how are you my boy? Jolly party this. Eat some of the nuts. Delicious nuts."
Zilver wandered off.
"I'll be going soon," de Gier said. "Will you be staying long?"
"Yes. I don't have anything else to do tonight and this isn't a bad way to spend the time."
"You are getting drunk."
"Yes." Grijpstra nodded gravely. "Drunk as a coot. Maybe I'd better go too. How is Cardozo?"
"Drinking lemonade and watching the parrots."
"Disgusting birds," Grijpstra said solemnly. "That red one is throwing up all the time."
"I know. What happened to the girl who was being throttled by the bad man?"
"Police came. Just in time. They always come just in time. To catch the bad man."
"Yes. We don't. Poor Elizabeth."
"Elizabeth?"
"The policeman who was an old lady."
"Oh, him. Transsexual fellow." Grijpstra had some trouble with the word. "Trans-sexual." He tried again.
"I met her," de Gier said, grabbing a glass of jenever from the table without being aware of it. "Nice person. Great friend of the commissaris. She had just finished a bellpull in half cross-stitch."
"Really?" Grijpstra's eyes were round and kind. "Half cross-stitch?"
"You are drunk," de Gier said. "Let's get out of here. I'll tip off Cardozo as we leave."
"Right," Grijpstra said, putting his glass down with such force that it broke. "Home. Or maybe I'll go to Nellie."
"Phone first. She may have a customer."
Grijpstra phoned twice. Nellie was free and a taxi was on its way. He came back looking so happy that de Gier ruffled his superior's short graying hair.
"Nice," Grijpstra said. "Very nishe. Nice, I mean."
Cardozo nodded when de Gier had finished whispering. "What are you going to do?" Cardozo asked.
"Home. To bed."
"And the adjutant?"
"To bed."
"It's always me," Cardozo said. "Always. I spent an hour hanging all that money on the clothesline. My mother is furious with me for she's got to sit in the kitchen watching it dry. She thinks someone will come and steal it."
De Gier grinned
"Not funny, sergeant. How long do you want me to stay here?"
"Till it's all over."
"Can I drink?"
"If you are careful. Don't blab. Just listen."
The red parrot had begun to throw up again. Cardozo closed his eyes.
"You'll be a sergeant one day, Cardozo, and then you can push another constable around."
"I will," Cardozo said. "Oh, I will!"
18
"Tell me," the Commissaris said.
The commissaris looked fresh, almost jolly, and surprisingly elegant, for he had finally given in to his wife's constant urging and put on his new linen suit to go with the warm weather. It was specially cut for him by a very old tailor who, in his young days, had designed suits for the great merchants who made their wealth in what was once called the Dutch East Indies. The suit fitted him perfectly, somehow managing to look loose and soft, and the thick golden watch chain spanning his waistcoat added to his general aura of luxury. The commissaris had spent an evening, two nights and a full day in bed, leaving it only to soak in a scaldingly hot bath; and his wife had fussed over him continuously, supplying him with coffee and orange juice and at least five different soups, served in bowls with a plate of hot toast on the side, and lighting his cigars for him (even biting off the ends and spitting them out with a look of gentle disgust); and the pain had finally left him so that he could now sit in his oversized office and stretch out his legs without having to worry about sudden stabs and pricks and cramps, and take care of whatever came his way. De Gier had come his way that morning, at nine sharp, the earliest anybody could bother the commissaris in his secluded room. De Gier was upset, pale in the face, and unusually nervous.
"What happened, de Gier?" the commissaris asked again.
"A rat," de Gier said. "A large dead white rat. Its belly was ripped open and its inside hung out and it was covered in blood, and it was lying on my doormat when I wanted to leave this morning. I would have stepped on it if Oliver hadn't warned me. Oliver went out of his mind when he saw the rat. His fur was all up. He was twice his ordinary size. Like this."
De Gier indicated the size of Oliver. His hand was about four feet off the floor.
"Really?" the co
mmissaris asked. "That's very big for a cat. Was he jumping up and down perhaps?"
"No. Neither was the rat. It just lay there. It had been put there to annoy me. We don't have rats in the building and if we did have rats they would be brown. This was a white rat, the kind they use in laboratories. I've got it with me, in a shoebox. Shall I show it to you?"
"Later," the commissaris said.
The commissaris picked up his phone, dialed two numbers and ordered coffee. He also offered de Gier a cigarette and lit it for him. De Gier didn't thank the commissaris; he was staring at the floor
"Right," the commissaris said cheerfully. "So why would anyone put a dead rat on your doormat, and kill it first, and rip its entrails out? Do you have any disturbed friends who would play a prank on you? Only your friends know that you are upset by the sight of blood and corpses. Is there anyone in the police who would do that to you? Think."
"Yes, sir."
"Perhaps you irritated someone."
"Cardozo," de Gier said. "I annoyed him yesterday. Twice I annoyed him. I made him take the money from the market home because he had spilled coffee over it. It had to be dried, and last night at the party I made him stay after Grijpstra and I left."
The commissaris picked up the phone again. "Cardozo? Good morning, Cardozo, would you care to step into my room a minute?"
"No," Cardozo said, sitting on the edge of his chair. "Never. I wouldn't do that. I have never killed anything. I shot a man in the legs three years ago and I still have dreams about it. Bad dreams. I wouldn't kill an animal. And I like the sergeant."
De Gier looked up. "You do?" he asked in a tired voice. Cardozo didn't look at him.
"I am frightened of rats," de Gier said. "Blood upsets me, and rats too. A bloody rat is about the worst thing I can imagine. And there it was, right on my doormat. I only bought that doormat a few days ago. The old one was getting tatty. I can throw this one away too now."
"Yes," the commissaris called, answering a knock on the door.
"Morning, sir." Grijpstra closed the door carefully behind him and ambled into the room, waiting for the commissaris to ask him to sit down. The commissaris indicated a chair. Grijpstra didn't sit down, he fell into the chair. The chair creaked.
"Shit," Grijpstra said.
The commissaris looked up irritably.
"I beg your pardon," he asked sharply.
"Shit, sir," Grijpstra said, "all over my doorstep this morning. Dogshit. Somebody must have gone to a lot of trouble collecting dogshit, with a little spade I suppose, and a bucket. Very early this morning when nobody was about. It was heaped in front of my doorstep. I was in it up to my ankles before I knew what I was doing. They had even pushed it under the door but my corridor is very dark and I didn't notice it as I left the house. Whoever did that must hate my guts."
"De Gier had a bloody rat on his doorstep," the commissaris said. Grijpstra looked at de Gier who was smiling faintly.
"Shit?" de Gier asked.
"You think that's funny, don't you?" Grijpstra asked and half rose from his chair. "You're an idiot, de Gier. You are always laughing and rolling about with mirth when I step into it. Do you remember when the sea gulls shat all over me some months ago? You were laughing so much you nearly fell over. I have never laughed when you went into your tantrums because there was a drop of blood somewhere. Never!"
The commissaris got up and stood between them. "Now, now, gentlemen, let's not get more nervous than we are already. The day hasn't even started yet. Who do you think could have done this to you, Grijpstra? Who knows that a dog's droppings will upset you and, mind you, whoever it is has a reason to shake de Gier as well, for he had a similar occurrence this morning. It must be somebody who knows you both very well and who has a good reason to get even with you."
Grijpstra had turned around and was looking at Cardozo. Grijpstra's brows had sunk low and there was an angry glint in his otherwise quiet and harmless blue eyes.
"No," Cardozo said. "Not me, adjutant. I wouldn't be scraping the street to collect dogshit. This is not like me at all. I assure you." Cardozo was on his feet too, gesturing wildly.
"Right. It wasn't you, Cardozo,'' the commissaris said pleasantly. "Why don't you order some coffee for the adjutant and yourself. Use the phone. My coffee machine is out of order."
It took the commissaris twenty minutes of patient questioning before they connected blood, rat and dog droppings to Louis Zilver and the party the previous night. De Gier, who had been fairly drunk, had to force his memory before he recalled Zilver's questions in the corridor of Uncle Bert's house, and Grijpstra was only prepared to admit a similar conversation with Louis Zilver after de Gier had mentioned his incident.
"Yes," Grijpstra said reluctantly. "I was in my cups a bit. Shouldn't have been but I was. That jenever knocked me off straightaway. He must have gotten it from an illegal distillery somewhere, pure alcohol with a bit of a taste, nearly burned my guts out. And that young fellow seemed harmless. We were talking about the horror movie which was on the TV and about what scares people and I said that I can't bear shit. He laughed, the silly bastard laughed, and he said that it would be unlikely that they would ever show a shitfilmon TV."
"And then you said that that's all they show on the telly," de Gier said. De Gier was looking much better.
"How do you know? You weren't there when Zilver was talking to me."
"It's the obvious thing to say."
"Oh, so I only say the obvious, hey? You have exclusive rights to intellectual conversation?"
"That'll be enough of that," the commissaris said, and selected a cigar from the small tin on his desk. He bent down so that Grijpstra had to search his pockets for his lighter.
"Thank you, Grijpstra. So our idea to have a sniff at the street market paid off. I am glad you got yourselves invited to that party. Zilver must have underestimated your drunkenness last night. Obviously he thought you would have forgotten what you said to him. This is a direct link. We may as well try to follow it up."
"Not much to charge the man with, sir," Grijpstra said, "if we can ever prove it was he. Dirtying the public thoroughfare is a minor offense. We can't even arrest him if we do prove the charge. He must have done it in the early hours, after he went home from the party."
"He wanted to shake you," the commissaris said. "He knows you and de Gier are charged with the Rogge case, and poor Elizabeth's death as well. The two cases go together, of course. If he can shake the hounds the fox will get away."
"He must be the fox himself," de Gier said.
"Possibly," the commissaris said, "but not necessarily. Louis Zilver dislikes the police. He told me that his grandparents were taken from their house by the Dutch police, during the war. The police must have handed them over to the Germans and the Germans put them on transport to Germany and eventually killed them. But he blames us, the Amsterdam Municipal Police, and rightly so. If he can get at you and the adjutant, he repays some of the debt he thinks he has to his grandparents."
"I was a boy at the time, sir."
"Yes, but your personal guilt has nothing to do with it. Hatred is never rational, especially a deep hatred such as Zilver must be suffering from. I was jailed and tortured by the Germans during the war and I have to force myself now to give directions to young German students who have lost their way. I associate the way they speak and behave with the young SS soldiers who once knocked six of my teeth out. That was over thirty years ago; the students weren't even born then."
"But we are trying to solve the murder of his friend," Grijpstra said. "If he bothers us it must be because he has killed Abe himself."
The commissaris shook his head and raised a finger. "He was in the house when Abe died, wasn't he? Esther Rogge said so. And Zilver said Esther was in the house. If Zilver killed Abe Rogge, Esther, the victim's sister, must have been his associate. I think we all agree by now that the killer was outside, most probably on the roof of that wrecked houseboat opposite the Rogge house."
/> "Zilver could have nipped out, sir," de Gier said, "and nipped in again afterward. I would like your permission to arrest him and hold him for questioning. We have a serious reason to suspect him now. We can hold him for six hours if you give the word."
"Yes," Grijpstra said. "I agree, sir."
"Just because of the droppings and the bloody rat?"
"I have another reason, sir," Grijpstra said slowly. They all looked at the adjutant, who had stood up and was staring out of the window, his hands deep in his pockets.
"You can tell us, Grijpstra," the commissaris said.
"The painting in Abe Rogge's room, sir. Perhaps you remember the painting. It shows two men in a boat, a small boat surrounded by foamy water. It must have been late at night, the sky is nearly as blue as the sea, a blackish blue. Maybe there was a moon-sky and sea almost merge and the boat is the central point in the painting."
"Yes, yes," the commissaris said. "Go on, and look at us when you are talking."
"Sorry sir." Grijpstra turned around. "But the main point of that painting not the boat or the sea or the light, but the feeling of friendship. Those two men are very close, as close as people can be. They are drawn as two lines, but the lines join."
"So?"
"I don't mean a homosexual relationship."
"No," the commissaris said. "I know what you mean, and you are right, I think. I saw that painting too."
"Bezuur told us that the two men were himself and Rogge. He got all blubbery about it. Do you remember, sir?"
"Yes. Yes, he was obviously suffering. Quite genuinely I thought."
"Yes, sir. Rogge had dropped him or fought with him or broken the relationship in some other way. I believe Esther told de Gier that her brother just stopped seeing him. But Bezuur didn't crack up, for he had other interests, his father's business, which he inherited, and great wealth. But Zilver would have had nothing if Rogge had dropped him."
"Yes," the commissaris said. "True. A mentally disturbed young man who relied completely on his stronger partner. But did we have any suggestion that Rogge was going to, or had already, broken his relationship with Zilver?"
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