Blond Baboon

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  While de Gier’s head nodded Grijpstra’s head shook. “Bad. A poisoned dog and a lady with a broken neck. Same address. We’ll be busy.”

  They waited while they thought. Police reasoning. Something small happens, then something big happens. Same place. There would be a connection. They waited until a respectful gloved hand tapped on the windshield.

  De Gier got out and the health officer saluted.

  “Evening, sergeant. Haven’t met for a while, have we? Different routes. My mate is waiting for you inside. The lady’s daughter is a bit upset, he is keeping her quiet. The two ladies live by themselves, no man in the house. And there is something with a dog. Poisoned, so the young lady says.”

  “The wind,” Grijpstra said hopefully, “the bloody gale. Sure the gale didn’t grab your lady?”

  “No, adjutant.” The health officer’s face showed helpfulness and apology neatly blended. “The gale can’t reach into the gardens here. The houses are high, you see. The wind may be getting at the tops of the trees but it can’t reach down to the garden stairs. I’ve been out in die garden awhile, nice and quiet. But maybe she slipped. It had been raining earlier on and the stairs are wet and she was wearing high-heeled shoes and a long dress.”

  “A party?”

  “Could be. There’s a smell of alcohol and an empty bottle. The daughter says there was no party. Lady liked to drink by herself.”

  “Wasn’t she with her mother when it happened?”

  “No. The young lady has her own apartment, top floor. She said she came down to check if everything was all right before going to bed. The garden door was open and her mother … Well, you’ll see.”

  De Gier was looking at the closed door. A good-quality door with simple dignified ornamentation. Varnished oak with a garland of leaves. Two nameplates and two bells. Elaine Camet. Gabrielle Carnet. Hand-painted nameplates, white on green. Polished brass bells. A polished brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head.

  The door moved as his hand reached for the lower bell.

  This is a bad night, de Gier thought, and he waited for die door to open altogether. A very bad night. I should be home to safeguard the balcony’s plants and to comfort Tabriz and to have a hot shower and several mugs of strong tea. It wouldn’t be a bad night if I were home. But I am not, and this is a killing.

  He couldn’t be sure, of course, but he was. As sure as Grijpstra, who was standing just behind him. Each profession develops its devotees. The detectives of Amsterdam’s murder brigade are trained to be suspicious, but that doesn’t mean much more than that they are always suspicious. They ask mild questions and they look at faces and dig about in the endless chain of cause and event, but their eyes are quiet and their voices soft and their manners mild. Not always. There are moments when the detectives quiver, when little fiery stabs touch their spines, when they sweat slightly, and when their eyes open and stare fiercely.

  Gabrielle Carnet stepped back quickly and nearly stumbled. De Gier’s long arm shot out and steadied her.

  “Evening, miss,” he said, forcing himself to keep his voice down to the prescribed level of politeness. “We are the police.”

  Grijpstra had walked past the sergeant. He followed the other health officer through a long corridor, a central hall, into an enclosed porch, to the garden door.

  Elaine Camet, a soaked sad shape, lay crumpled at die bottom of the steps. The health officer pulled the blanket away. The head had snapped back at a most unnatural angle. The woman’s dead eyes stared out of a messy arrangement of sodden make-up smears. Her double chin was stretched tight by the position of the head. The hair, neatly puffed up into fluffy curls only a few hours before, clung to the wet scalp. The wide mouth was smiling, and the gold fillings of two canines sparkled in the light filtering from the porch windows. The smile seemed genuine, a joyous surrender to an unexpected but welcome visitor.

  Grijpstra stepped over the corpse and squatted. The light fell differently now and the smile had become a snarl. The sudden change upset him and he went back to the steps. A smile again, definitely.

  It was only later that he remembered a common feature of the two facial expressions. The common denominator was victory. Something had pleased Elaine Camet, some event had elated her seconds before she died. The thought sparkled through his brain but didn’t ripen just then. He had already settled down in his routine. He was observing his surroundings.

  “Leave her here?” the health officer asked.

  “Sure. I’ll get the experts. We want some photographs.”

  There was a phone on the porch and he dialed. “Commissaris?”

  “Yes,” a soft voice answered.

  “I know you are ill, sir, but I thought I would phone you all the same. We’ve run into something, Mierisstraat Fifty-three. It’s a bad night, sir. Shall I phone the inspector?”

  “No. I’m feeling better. Send de Gier to fetch me—there’s a tree blocking my garage and there won’t be any taxis tonight. What have you got, adjutant?”

  “A poisoned dog, sir, and a dead lady.” Grijpstra moved to the window and looked out. Big raindrops were clattering down on the corpse. “A very dead lady, sir.”

  *The ranks of the Amsterdam municipal police are: constable, constable first class, sergeant, adjutant, inspector, chief inspector, commissaris. An adjutant is a noa-commissioned officers.

  *Criminal tovertgatioii Department.

  \\ 2 /////

  “MISS?” DE GIER ASKED AS HE STEADIED THE GIRL. “ARE you all right?”

  “Yes. Gabrielle, that’s my name, Gabrielle Carnet. You are the police?”

  He showed his card but she wasn’t interested. She looked at it, and he put it back into the breast pocket of his tailored denim jacket. The rain had gotten into his silk scarf, and he pulled it free and refolded it before tucking it back into his open shirt. The scarf was a very light shade of blue. The denim jacket and the matching tight trousers were dark blue. She followed his movements dreamily. Her eyes came up to his face, noting the full brushed-up mustache and the high cheekbones and the large glowing brown eyes.

  “Are you really a policeman?”

  “Yes. I showed you my card just now. Detective-Sergeant de Gier. Rinus de Gier. We answered the health officer’s call. Was it you who phoned the ambulance service?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was low. It had an interesting quality. He tried to determine what it was. Silky? No. Something with texture. Velvety. A purring voice. The voice she would use on men, not on women. She would have a different voice for women.

  “What happened, miss? Would you tell me, please?”

  She still seemed unsteady on her legs, and he looked around for a place to sit down. The corridor was bare except for a carpet and a small table next to the coat rack. He put a hand under her elbow and guided her to the stairs.

  “Sit down, miss. You’ll feel better.”

  He automatically noted her particulars. Small, five foot perhaps, a little over, but that was due to the high heels of her stylish soft leather boots. Dungarees tucked into the boots. Tight dungarees hiding slightly bowed legs. A very short blouse that showed skin at both ends. A narrow waist with a little bellybutton and the shine of a gold chain. A fashionable girl. The blouse’s top button was open, he could see the curve of her breasts. Long, dark brown hair, glossy. No jewelry. A pointed small face, uninteresting if it hadn’t been for the eyes, but the eyes were cleverly made up, they weren’t as large as they seemed. The color was startling, a shiny green. Metallic bright eyes. The possibility of drugs immediately presented itself but he could see her arms. No pricks. Perhaps she sniffed cocaine or took pills. But the feverish shine of her eyes could be just due to anguish. The young lady’s mother had died.

  When she began to speak he noticed the purr again. It couldn’t be natural. She was acting, showing off, so the shock of her mother’s death had already worn thin. She had taken time to adjust her make-up. The thin penciled lines around the eyes weren’t ten minutes old.r />
  “I live upstairs,” Gabrielle Carnet was saying, “in my own apartment. Mother and I split up last year. The house was remodeled. My apartment is self-contained.”

  “Can you hear your mother’s doorbell, miss?”

  “Not when I am in my kitchen or bathroom.”

  “Do you know whether your mother had a visitor?”

  “I don’t know.” She sobbed in between the words and her hands twitched. Her hair had fallen over her eyes and she pushed it away, smearing the mascara. A genuine rection. But genuine about what? Was she sorry she pushed or kicked her mother down die stairs?

  “Go on,” he said gently, trying to tune his voice and mood to hers.

  “I came down about an hour ago, I always check before I go to sleep. Mother drinks a bit and sometimes she falls asleep in front of the TV and I have to wake her up and take her upstairs.”

  “I am sorry, I have to ask questions. You know that don’t you, Miss Carnet?” She nodded. She was trying to get a handkerchief from her pocket but it stuck and she got up. He got up too. “Do you want to go upstairs, miss?”

  “No. It’s all right here.”

  They sat down again. She was sitting very close; he could feel the warmth of her thigh.

  “Was your mother an alcoholic, miss?”

  “Yes. No.”

  “How much did she drink, a day, I mean. Did she drink everyday?”

  “Most days, but only wine. Good wine. A bottle a day perhaps, but I think she was drinking more lately. I didn’t see very much of her anymore, we were living separately.”

  “Because of some trouble? Did you fight?” He kept his voice as low as he could to take the sting out of the key words. Alcoholic. Fight. They weren’t good words but hie had to use them.

  “No, we didn’t fight, we just didn’t get on. I’m nearly thirty now. I should have a place of my own but I didn’t want to live somewhere else, she needed care. Oh, my God.”

  She was crying and he waited. Her thigh was still pressing against him. He didn’t like the girl, but why didn’t he? She wasn’t pretty but she was certainly attractive. An attractive pushover. He could hear Grijpstra’s booming voice dominating the health officers farther down the house. If they weren’t around he could make the girl right on the stairs, dead mother or no dead mother. He could feel his lips stretching into a sneer. A most unbecoming thought. A policeman is a public servant. But the fact was mat the girl wakened nothing in him, nothing at all. And he was sure she was lying. Gabrielle should have heard her mother scream as she fell down the stairs. But there was the gale. Perhaps its noise had drowned the scream. The gale seemed to have found the street at that very moment, and he could hear its deep, menacing, sonorous whoosh and the rattle of parked cars being pushed into each other.

  “Sergeant?”

  De Gier looked up. “Yes, Grijpstra?”

  “Would you go and fetch the commissaris? I phoned the experts, they’ll come down as soon as they get their gear together. The doctor is on his way too.”

  “Sure.”

  “And get Cardozo too if you can. He’s off duty tonight, he’s visiting friends, but his mother gave me the address, it’s on the way. He knows you’re coming.”

  The girl was still crying and hiding her face. Grijpstra’s eyebrows arched. De Gier shook his head silently. His mouth formed the word “lying.” Grijpstra nodded. De Gier got up and gestured invitingly. Grijpstra lowered his body slowly. The girl felt his bulk on the step and edged away.

  “You can tell me what you told the sergeant, miss. Do you know what happened?”

  The front door clicked behind de Gier. The health officers came and said good-bye. Grijpstra could hear the engines of the Volkswagen and the ambulance start as the gale breathed in for a second only to roar away at full strength.

  “Miss?”

  “She must have fallen down the stairs,” Gabrielle said.

  “I think she worried about her azaleas and opened the garden door, and then the wind pulled the door out of her hands and she lost her balance.”

  “Come with me, miss, please.”

  He pulled her to her feet and she followed him down the corridor and into the large sitting room. He glanced at the room’s wall. A bookcase holding a beautifully bound encyclopedia, brand-new and never used. A row of artbooks, just as new. A flower arrangement. A modern painting. There was a thick wall-to-wall carpet under his feet, off-white to set off the darker furniture. A showroom designed by an interior decorator. The porch was more personal, with a battered old TV on a cane table and some easy chairs that looked ugly and comfortable.

  “Your mother liked to sit on the porch miss?”

  “Yes. She had it glassed in when she moved here, some ten years ago, I think. She was always here, it’s the only part of the house that wasn’t redecorated. And my apartment, of course. I did that myself after the carpenters were done.”

  Grijpstra had opened the garden door. “There’s no wind here, miss. These gardens are well protected. The houses won’t let the gale in. See?”

  “Yes.”

  “So how did your mother fall down the stairs?” Grijpstra’s voice was kind and puzzled. He looked solid, trustworthy, fatherly. He was very concerned. “Now how could such an awful accident have happened? Your mother knew these stairs well, didn’t she? Did she like gardening?”

  “Yes.”

  “She planted those bushes over there, didn’t she? Those are nice azaleas. Did she plant the hedge in the back as well?”

  “Yes.”

  Gabrielle wandered around the room dreamily. She reached for the wineglass on a low table near the TV. Grijpstra touched her arm. “Don’t touch anything, please, miss. We’ll have mat glass checked for fingerprints. Is mis your mother’s ring, miss?” He showed her a smooth gold wedding ring that was lying on a bare board near the garden door. She stooped.

  “Don’t pick it up please, miss.”

  “Yes, that’s my mother’s ring.”

  “Did she play with it? Put it on and take it off when she was nervous?”

  “No.”

  “Did it fit tightly?”

  She was crying, fighting the tears, biting on her handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry, miss.”

  The girl had sat down, and he sat down opposite her and rubbed his cheeks. He could do with a shave again, there hadn’t been much time mat morning. His wife had come into the bathroom and he wanted to get away, so he had done a sloppy job. He would do better later on, she would be asleep by then. The thought of scalding hot water soaking into the stubby folds and the neat strokes of a new razor blade cheered him up somewhat. He didn’t like cornering the girl. De Gier thought she was lying, and she very likely was. But there could be extenuating circumstances. A drunken, nagging mother, wailing, screaming. A family fight. A push. Most anything can be explained and understood, if not accepted. But if mere had been a struggle it would be better for the girl to admit to it, now, when everything was still fresh. It would look better in court. But he wasn’t going to feed her a confession. Perhaps the commissaris would. He would wait.

  The girl looked up. “I don’t want to cry.”

  “No, miss, I understand. Perhaps we can have some coffee. I’ll make it if you tell me where everything is.”

  “No. I can do it.”

  He followed her to the kitchen and stood around while she worked. Her movements were organized, efficient.

  The percolator began to gurgle, then throb. She was staring out at the garden when he began to look for the garbage container. He found it fitted into a cupboard under the sink, attached to the cupboard door. There was another wineglass in die plastic bag protecting the container. The glass had broken at the stem. It was of the same type as the glass he had seen on the table near the TV. He took a long-handled fork lying on the kitchen counter and poked around in the bag. There were several cigar stubs, each stub connected to a plastic mouthpiece, and some cigar ash. The ashtray stood on the counter. It had been cleane
d.

  A visitor after all. There was no lipstick on the mouthpieces and both Gabrielle and her mother used lipstick. Women smoked cigars these days, and the cigars would have been long and very thin. De Gier sometimes smoked cigars like that; de Gier was vain. A vain male visitor. But who isn’t vain?

  I am not vain, Grijpstra thought, looking down at his crumpled suit. The suit was made of excellent British material, pure wool, dark blue with a fine white stripe. He was vain enough to buy expensive suits, always of the same type, but he treated them badly. All right, he would admit to some vanity. Still, he wouldn’t smoke sissy cigars with imitation mouthpieces. No, perhaps he would. If he could afford them. They would go with his suit. He breathed heavily so that the air burbled past bis pressed lips. Nothing was ever easy. Suspects lie and hide their emotions. Clues aren’t seen or get lost. De Gier thought the girl was lying and he was following the sergeant, but why should he? The sergeant’s impressions were sieved through the sergeant’s own perceptions, forced into shapes, twisted out of truth perhaps.

  A man visits Elaine Carnet. Elaine is all dressed up in a long flowered dress. A summer evening. She has done everything possible to doll herself up. She is a woman and she won’t admit to getting old. How old would she be? Early fifties? Yes, most likely. She waits for the man in the intimacy of her porch. She gets up, walks around carefully, her dress rustles. A whiff of perfume pervades the room. The azaleas are blooming behind her. The setting sun touches the tops of the poplars and elms and drooping willows. That’s what she had anticipated but instead there is a storm, a horrible oppressive atmosphere that creeps into everything, into her very soul, into the mind of the man. They drink wine together, a strong Beaujolais, and die storm gets into the wine too and turns it into a violent brew that seeps into their thoughts. She talks to him. Her voice is raw and cutting. She talks about the past. She twists off her wedding ring and flings it on the floor. A sudden accusation hurts the man to the quick, and he throws his cigar into the ashtray and jumps up and grabs her by the neck and shakes her. The garden door is open and he sees it and pushes her and lets go. And then he leaves.