Blond Baboon

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  But, where could he go if he didn’t go home? He was spending afterhours’ time in his room at headquarters, he was eating out as much as he could, but he still had to go home to sleep. He cursed slowly, articulating the syllables. But then he promised himself he wouldn’t think of the little black cloud; it would come on its own, without him thinking about it. His hand reached out slowly and pressed the bell.

  The door opened at once.

  “Mr. Wertheym?”

  “Yes, I don’t…”

  “I am a police detective, sir, here is my card. Just a few questions, may I come in?”

  “Certainly, certainly, I thought you wanted your portrait painted. I don’t do men, you see, only women. I was going to tell you that, saves a lot of chatter. Come in.”

  The man could only be a painter. His appearance was a perfect combination of the number of attributes that make up the idea “painter” in the average perceptive mind. A small goatee, high forehead, bright eyes, a beret on the gray locks, an apron smeared with assorted colors—Wertheym was undoubtedly an artist. But there was nothing artistic about his house. The furniture had been taken straight from the showroom of a lower-middle-class store. The imitation fireplace with its licking gas flames creeping over iron birch logs complete with bark was in the worst possible taste. A calendar showing a plump girl in a glued-on flowery miniskirt that could be lifted up hung next to a triangular arrangement of plastic and tin replicas of Spanish swords. Different types of paper flowers had been matched into a bouquet that had lost both color and resilience.

  Grijpstra’s lips parted in a thin snarl. He also mumbled, “Home sweet home.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I was just thinking that my wife would like this room.”

  “Would she now?” Wertheym offered a chair, one of a set of four, chrome framed and upholstered with strips of shiny green vinyl. “Not too hot for you here? This house is on the cold side of the street, never gets any sun. I keep the fire going but people say it’s stuffy in here, don’t notice it myself.”

  “Quite all right, thank you.”

  Grijpstra didn’t open the conversation. He almost never did anymore. Deliberate silences formed a new trick that had crept into his arsenal. He was practicing the trick now. He had done the necessary, shown his identification. The other parry should be a little rattled by now. He waited. Something might come up and, then again, it might not.

  Wertheym had read the wording on Grijpstra’s card and remembered his rank. “Cup of tea, adjutant? Or coffee? I was just going to have coffee myself.”

  “Please.”

  “Police,” Wertheym said slowly. “Po-lice. First time I’ve been visited by a police officer, I mink, doesn’t happen in my trade. I just paint portraits, a harmless occupation. I’ve had the taxhounds after me but never the police. The taxman thought I hadn’t been declaring my true income. Maybe I hadn’t, but he couldn’t prove it so he went away again. So what have I done, adjutant?”

  Grijpstra didn’t have to answer. Wertheym had darted off but he came back again, carrying a tray with two flowered glasses. “Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess in the kitchen. No cups today, but the coffee’ll taste the same. Instant coffee, hope you don’t mind, adjutant.”

  Grijpstra did mind.

  “Mrs. Elaine Carnet,” he said and sipped from the glass. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “Yes. She is dead. Was in the paper this morning. And I painted her portrait, last year. She didn’t model. I painted it from a poster, hell of a job it was. The poster was old and torn, a tear right through the face. A French poster. She used to sing in Paris, she said. I did the portraits and she paid cash and she left. Never saw her again. Nice woman, didn’t quibble about the price—they often do, you know. Amazing, their vanity gets in the way of their greed, but I’m greedy too and I never drop my price. The hell with ‘em, I always say. And if they argue, they’ll pay in advance, all of it, or I won’t touch the job.”

  “Portraits?” Grijpstra had moved and some coffee had spilled on his trousers. It was seeping through to his skin. He put the glass down and rubbed the stain. “Portraits, you said? More than one, you mean?”

  'Two portraits, identical—well, they differed a little, they were handmade, after all. She wanted two so I made two. Silly work, I mass-produced them. Little blob of blue on the one canvas, little blob of blue on the second canvas. I had never done that before, it was amusing in a way. It gave me ideas but nothing came of them. I specialize in female faces, you see, never do buildings or anything like that. If I could do buildings I could pick a particularly good one and do a whole series of them, just line up a lot of canvases and dance around, fill in the browns, then the reds, and so forth.”

  “Yes.” Grijpstra hadn’t listened. “So you did two portraits? Why?”

  “I never ask why, adjutant. Why should I? Why should they want their portraits done anyway? There isn’t one portrait I have done in the last ten years that I would want on my own wall. The ladies are all ugly as sin. I beautify them, of course, or I would have no business. In a way Mrs. Camet’s portrait was the best of them all: the poster showed her as a young woman. Young women aren’t as ugly as old women.”

  “Thank you,” Grijpstra said. He left his almost full glass on the table. He had only taken two sips but the taste of the vile brew hung on in his mouth. He remembered that he had promised himself that this would be a good day. Fine, so he would find some real coffee somewhere. There were some pleasant sidewalk cafés in the vicinity. He would locate one and sit around for an hour and rid himself of the portrait painter’s sickening fumes. There was plenty of time. Cardozo couldn’t possibly be finished yet, he had been given a sizable job. He would make contact with Cardozo later and they could have more coffee while they thought of the right approach. They had to question Gabrielle Carnet again, and he didn’t know what the suspect had answered to the commissaris’s questions. Cardozo would have to fill him in. It would all take time. No hurry today.

  His face looked placid as he ambled in the direction of the old city, careful not to hurt his toes against the uneven cobblestones and walking as close to the water of a narrow canal as the parked cars would permit. There had been a squall of rain, but the sun had come out again and now lit up a formation of seagulls patrolling the water for spoils and conversing raucously. A small boy was steering a homemade raft that was bumping crazily on the choppy waves in the wake of a barge.

  He passed several cafes until he found one with the right conditions. It had a view of the canal, the waiter was an old man with a kind face, there was a fresh smell of coffee, and its terrace had already attracted several beautiful women. Fate seemed intent to disprove the portrait painter’s harsh remark, for more beautiful women came just after Grijpstra had sat down. He looked around approvingly. An Oriental girl with a small finely chiseled face, long straight legs, and a tight bosom had draped her self in the opposite corner. Two blond girls, of that very light blond that originates in Scandinavian countries, were exposing their faces and a good portion of their bodies to die wanning sun, and three black women, so stunningly well-shaped that they had to be models or ballet dancers, were talking to each other in the throaty melodious voices that he knew from de Gier’s jazz records. He took in as much as he could stand and closed his eyes. The vision started almost immediately and he concentrated to hold it.

  The six women were in a pond, set in a luscious tropical landscape. They were naked, of course. The Scandinavian and the Oriental girls were swimming, turning their lovely bodies through the clear water, the black ladies were climbing out, drops glistening on their ebony skin. There were rosebushes on the banks of the pond and beyond, a forest of fruit trees. The fruit trees didn’t look right and changed into huge palms, their leaves rather similar to the commissaris’s fern. Grijpstra himself was in the vision too, both as an objective substantial form and as an observer. He was riding a camel, circling the pond. The camel ride gave the adjutant the doubl
e pleasure of being able to look down into the pool and participating in the animal’s sensuous sway. There was a close-up of the earners feet sinking into high grass and lifting up again. A beautiful beast, incongruous to the scene but fitting all the same. The vision became more involved and less lusty. He noted many details in the girls’ bodies, but they were of color and shape only and abstracted into a line play that got caught in the earners slow dance. He smilingly drifted away into sleep when the commissaris entered the vision, running through the tall grass and waving.

  The adjutant awoke and grunted. He left some change on the table and went into die cafe” proper. There was a telephone.

  “Ah, adjutant,” the commissaris’s secretary said in her grating voice. “I was waiting for your call. Cardozo has reported. He found witnesses to the attempt of dog poisoning and obtained statements. As we hadn’t heard from you I told him to report for patrol duty, and he is with Sergeant Sietsema in a car now.”

  “No,” Grijpstra said.

  “Well, we can’t let him hang around, can we? But I just had a message from the radio room. It appears that Cardozo forgot to check out a ring, he said you would know about it. The ring is on his desk and you’ll have to go to the morgue with it.” Grijpstra looked at the phone.

  “Adjutant?”

  He growled.

  “And the commissaris and the sergeant have gone to the Pulitzer Hotel to talk with a Mr. Pullini, they will visit a Mr. Vleuten later today.”

  “Everything topsy-turvy as usual,” Grijpstra said. “I need Cardozo to go and talk with Miss Camet.”

  “Shall I get him back to headquarters, adjutant?”

  “No. I’ll take care of that damned ring first. I’ll call you later.” He slammed the phone down before remembering that this was going to be a good day.

  \\ 8 /////

  YOU CAN GO BACK TO BED IF YOU LIKE.” THERE WAS A fatherly note of concern in the commissaris’s voice. Francesco Pullini’s almond-shaped dark eyes stared at the little old man unbelievingly.

  “Police?”

  “Yes, sir. Sergeant de Gier and I are police officers investigating the death of Elaine Carnet. May we sit down?”

  Francesco gestured dumbly. He undid the knot of the tasseled belt around his dressing gown and tied it again. The commissaris and de Gier had sat down. The room in the Pulitzer Hotel was well furnished—it should be, at the price Pullini was paying. The room was quiet and spacious, high enough not to be bothered by the traffic murmuring below on the canal’s narrow quay. An enormous double bed showed a slight dent where Francesco’s slim body had been resting.

  Francesco had had time to line up some thoughts. “Police, what for you come here?”

  The commissaris didn’t answer. He was observing the young man. His glasses reflected the sun so that a bright spot danced on Francesco’s long, wavy, ink black hair.

  De Gier was watching his suspect too. A female man, he had thought at first, but he remembered that Francesco was Italian and that Italians are daintier than the northern European male. There was some strength in the suspect’s face, a well-shaped wide mouth and a good nose, straight and firm. The daintiness was mostly in the eyes, partly hidden by long lashes, and in the wave of the hair that touched the striped shoulders of the dressing gown. The door to the bathroom was open, and de Gier saw an array of jars and bottles and several leather cases, one of them would contain a hair dryer.

  Francesco sat down. “What for you come see me, yes?” His naked feet crossed, high-arched dancer’s feet; a thick mat of dark hair showed on his calves as he moved his legs.

  “Mrs. Carnet’s death,” the commissaris said softly. “You must have heard, you visited the Carnet firm this morning, didn’t you?”

  Francesco’s head came forward so that his hair fell and joined the carefully clipped beard, then shot up again. “Yes, I heard. Everybody very sad. Me, I also sad but, me, I don’t know Madame Carnet well. My business always with Franco Bergen. Franco and me, us good friends. Madame Carnet, she somebody I say hello-how-are-you to. Kiss hand, give flowers, that all. What for police come see me?”

  The commissaris’s hands came up slowly and dropped back by their own weight. “Routine, Mr. Pullini. We are seeing everybody who knew Mrs. Carnet. You knew her.”

  “I knew her.” Francesco jumped up from the bed and stood in the middle of the room with his arms spread, a miniature biblical prophet addressing the erring faithful. “So what? So does milkman, yes? Greengrocerman, yes? Man who cleans street?” He pushed an imaginary broom.

  “Morning, Madame Camet. Nice day, Madame Carnet. You go and see cleaning man too? What is this, yes? Maybe you should leave this room, this my room.”

  Francesco was still pushing the broom. De Gier laughed and Francesco swung around, eyeballing the sergeant, poking the broom at him.

  “Ha,” de Gier said, and Francesco laughed too.

  “You think I funny, yes?”

  “Very funny, Mr. Pullini. Why don’t you lie down? Are you ill?”

  Francesco coughed, held his chest, and coughed again. “Yes, cold, the storm yesterday. Make me cough, so today I rest. Today I see Franco Bergen, maybe tomorrow I leave. In Milano much to do, I cannot wait forever for Bergen to change mind. Bah.”

  “The business isn’t going well, Mr. Pullini?”

  Francesco turned to face the commissaris. His right hand came up, balled, and made a turning movement. “Ehhhhh. Business, it always the same. Sometimes I screw Franco, sometimes Franco he screw me. Doesn’t matter, we still friends. Same name, same character. His name Franciscus, my name Francesco.”

  “So you didn’t know the Carnet family very well, did you Mr. Pullini?”

  Francesco was reading the card the commissaris had given him. “Commissaire, eh? You big shot?”

  There was a friendly light in the Italian’s liquid eyes and the commissaris responded. He balled his hand, turned it, and pulled up the corner of his mouth. “Ehhhhhhh.”

  Francesco smiled. “A drink!” There was a sly smile on the noble face. He reached for the telephone. “Gin, yes?”

  “Orange juice,” the commissaris said.

  “One orange juice, two gin?”

  “One gin, two orange juice.”

  The drinks came almost at once and Francesco squatted on the bed, toasting his guests.

  “You were out last night and caught a cold?” The commissaris had gone back to his original concern. De Gier’s eyes swept over the old man’s face. An act again, of course, but he never knew how far the commissaris acted. What was an Italian’s cold to the chief of Amsterdam’s CID? But the commissaris was always concerned with the health of others and would regularly check the cell block at headquarters and sometimes made sure that prisoners were moved to one of the city’s hospitals.

  “I walk around, visit some bars, eat something, but then I come back, storm very bad. Cough.”

  “Did anyone see you come back, Mr. Pullini? The desk clerk? Do you remember who gave you your key? And the time of your return, perhaps?”

  “I come back ten, ten-thirty, but I no ask for key. Key he in my pocket, forget to leave at desk, always forget.” He pointed at the key on his night table. It was connected to a plastic bar that was only three inches long, it would fit into a pocket.

  “Do you know Gabrielle Carnet, Mr. Pullini?”

  “Sure.” The sly smile moved the clipped beard again. “She nice girl, yes? I take her out once, twice maybe, not now, before. Now I married. Gabrielle, she know. Also bad business. Gabrielle, she daughter of Madame Carnet; Madame Carnet, she own Carnet and Company. Franco Bergen, he only owns little bit. He my friend, but he not say yes or no in end. Madame Carnet, she is God, yes? Maybe I better not play around with daughter of God.”

  “Really? I thought Madame Carnet wasn’t very interested in her business anymore, that she was retired.”

  “Retired?”

  “Yes, not work anymore?”

  “I know word. Me, I know many word
s but I forget when I speak, I know when I hear. Madame Carnet, she not retired. She work, she chooses furniture, new models, she says to Franco Bergen ‘not buy now, yes buy now.’ She sometimes cut order in half. Me, I always get shits when Madame come in. First big order than … pfff!” He blew something off his hand. “Then nothing. I go back Milano and tell Papa ‘no order,’ then maybe order comes later but price is wrong. Low price. Madame Carnet, she clever.”

  “I believe Carnet and Company owes you some money, Mr. Pullini. Do you think you will get it before you go home?”

  A slight tremor moved from the eyes and disappeared into Francesco’s beard. “Money? You know, yes? Franco Bergen he tell you, yes?”

  “We saw Mr. Bergen this moming. We have to ask questions, Mr. Pullini. A cigar?”

  The commissaris got up and presented his flat tin. Francesco’s hand moved to the tin but he pulled it back. “No, thank you, bad for cough. I bought cigarettes this morning, low tar, no taste, but something.”

  He lit a cigarette and puffed. “So you know about money. Yes. Franco Bergen, he no pay. He promise, but he no pay. This time Franco, he cat, me mouse. Little mouse, jump this way jump that way. Still no money.”

  “How much is involved, Mr. Pullini?”

  Francesco held his hands about a meter apart. “In Italian so much.” He brought his hands closer together “In Dutch so much.”

  “How much exactly?”

  “Eighty thousand guilders. Sixteen million lire.”

  The sergeant whistled and Francesco imitated the whistle. He looked into de Gier’s eyes but this time he didn’t laugh.