Asta stopped smiling at de Gier. "Taken away, adjutant, there were too many people around, it was causing an obstruction. It has been photographed, and the doctor was here. The ambulance took it to the morgue. The doctor thought the man may have died of natural causes. He suspected a stomach ulcer that broke and caused a bleeding."
"See?" Grijpstra asked. "See!" Grijpstra shouted. "Isn't that what I said just now? Let's go, sergeant. We'll visit the morgue, meet with the doctor, and have a meal. I won't waste one unnecessary minute on this routine accident."
"Let's see the car," de Gier said.
"The lid of the baggage compartment was closed," Karate said, "but not quite. The lock had been forced, you see. We have the car on the stolen list, it disappeared sometime during the night. It had been parked in front of Hotel Oberon. The owner of the car stays there. I met him this morning before we went out on patrol. A fat German, wheezing and bubbling. He told us the car cost a lot of money and that we had to drop everything and look for it."
De Gier turned to Asta. "Were you there too?"
"Yes," Asta said, "he was the same man who wouldn't pay his bill at Beelema's. Didn't we do that little job well, sergeant? There can't have been more than two minutes between your telephone call and our arrival. Wasn't it great?"
"No," Grijpstra said.
"What was wrong with the way we handled that incident, adjutant?" Asta asked.
"What? Oh, nothing. You're paid to do your job well, aren't you? I don't want this case, sergeant. It's the same thing again. I got away from it and now we're back. Beelema, I don't want to hear that name again. And that German was obnoxious, he'll still be obnoxious. I'm glad his car was stolen." He hit the trunk with his flat hand. "Is this the only damage, constable? Just a broken lock?"
"Yes."
"Pity. Thieves took the car and forced the baggage compartment. They left, either finding nothing or taking what they found. The car remained. Our fellow staggers along and falls into it. He dies."
"Who closed the lid?"
Grijpstra shrugged.
"Who cares? Some person who passed the car and didn't like the gaping rear end. He pulled the lid down without looking at the possible contents of the baggage compartment. He saw something that shouldn't be and corrected the situation. I'm like that too. Last night, on my way home, I saw the wheel of a bicycle lying in the street. Shouldn't be there, might cause an accident. I picked it up and left it with some garbage cans so that it could be picked up this morning by the collectors. There are many people like me. A passer-by who closed the lid. It was dark, the streetlights are at some distance. Did the lock work when the lid was closed?"
"It held," Karate said, "but it had been tampered with."
"How did the car get here? Did the thieves have a key?"
"No, they hot-wired the engine."
"How did you find the corpse?"
Karate took off his cap and scratched his head.
"Well?"
"I don't want to upset you, adjutant."
De Gier pushed Grijpstra gently aside. "Tell me, Karate. I'm all right this morning. It's a beautiful day. This is a nice case. I'm glad we're working together again. Tell me all you know, Karate."
Karate replaced his cap. "Very well, sergeant. Mrs. Cabbage-Tonto checked in with us this morning. She has a small dog, very small, a Chihuahua, I believe it's called. Looks like the wrong sort of mouse. The dog had to pee, she was taking it for a walk on a leash. The dog pulled her to the Mercedes, peed for a bit and started yelling or squeaking. That kind of dog doesn't bark, I believe. She dragged it away and it went on peeing and it did the other thing too, maybe it even threw up, it was in a proper state, sergeant. It wanted to get back to the car and had another fit. Mrs. Cabbage-Tonto, she claimed to know the adjutant—Sergeant Jurriaans didn't want to listen to her at first—said that she knew somebody really high up in the force and would complain, and she described the adjutant, fat man in a pinstripe suit and big cheeks, she said, so we knew it was Adjutant Grijpstra..."
"Ho!" Grijpstra said.
"Yes?" Karate asked.
"Never mind."
"Right," Karate said. "So Mrs. Cabbage-Tonto said she found the dead man. She looked into the baggage compartment. The lock closed but didn't lock, if you see what I mean, because it had been forced. The witness ran all the way to the station, dragging the dog. It had sore paws when it arrived and sort of cried. It had to stand in a tray filled with water for a while to cool its feet."
"Go on."
"The lady didn't strike us as a reliable witness, but as she knew the adjutant and our station has had trouble with the adjutant before, Sergeant Jurriaans thought we might have a look. We found the corpse all right. It looked peaceful, folded into itself, but it was covered with blood."
"Could you ascertain its identity?"
"Yes, sergeant. The doctor gave us the wallet he found in its jacket. The man is called Jim Boronski."
"A foreigner," Grijpstra said, "we don't want that, a foreign corpse isn't easy to deal with."
Karate smiled helpfully. "He was Dutch, adjutant. The wallet contained a passport. Born in Rotterdam, now residing in Colombia, South America. A businessman. He also carried a hotel key, from Hotel Oberon."
Grijpstra groaned.
"Beautiful," de Gier said. "As I thought. We can link facts already. So our man drops dead into the car of a fellow hotel guest. Continue, constable."
Karate spread bis small hands. "That's about it, sergeant. The corpse was dressed in a well-made suit of good material. Apart from the blood, it looked well-cared for. I don't recall seeing the man in this district."
Grijpstra crossed the quay, studied the green water of the canal for a while, and came back. "Very well, we'll look into this. When did you find the corpse?"
Karate produced his notebook and flipped the pages. "Here, adjutant, 10:04 this morning. The doctor took it away at 10:30, it's 12:30 now, we waited for you."
Grijpstra scribbled in his notebook. De Gier looked at Asta. He remembered Sergeant Jurriaans's tale relayed by Grijpstra. He tried to visualize her as she must have been during that adventurous night but could only see a neatly dressed constable with inordinately sparkly eyes, now smiling politely. "I wish I were a detective," she was saying. "This job is boring, bah, smelly."
De Gier peeked at the bloodstained baggage compartment of the Mercedes. "Smelly? But this is fresh."
Asta peeked too. "The corpse was fine. I meant the chicken remains earlier on. Another complaint we took care of this morning. There's a Chinese in that sidestreet over there who slaughters poultry and dumps the leftovers in the street. The garbage collectors won't pick it up and the stuff rots. The Chinese won't bag it for he says bags are too expensive. Or so he seems to say. I don't speak Chinese."
"Yes," de Gier said.
The girl stood closer. "What will you do now, sergeant? Is this a murder? Is there a killer around? Will you find him?"
"Maybe."
"You will, won't you? I hear you always find the killer."
De Gier returned her smile. "Your informants exaggerated." He looked at Grijpstra. "We've been known to fail." He touched his breast, then patted his other pockets.
The girl took a packet of cigarettes from her bag. "Would you like one?"
"No thank you. I don't smoke."
They had to step aside. Municipal workers were trying to park some road machinery and a sooty tank on wheels approached dangerously. An unmuffied engine started up and heavy drills bit into the tarmac.
Grijpstra shouted into de Gier's ear. "Let's go to the morgue and raise Cardozo. If there's any work he can do it."
De Gier shouted back. "Cardozo is sick, didn't you see the note on your desk just now?"
Grijpstra walked to the car, but had to come back to release de Gier from Asta's smile. He pushed the sergeant into a slow walk. "How sick is Cardozo?"
"Flu, may take a few days."
"Useless fellow. Who'll do the routine? That Bor
onski has no address here, he probably doesn't even have relatives in the city. If he had he wouldn't be staying in a hotel. We'll have to circulate his photograph, see what we can find out about him. We may have some time-consuming sleuthing to do."
"Yes," de Gier said, "but there's no hope of help in the brigade; it's holiday time and we're short-staffed."
"Get help."
"Yes, adjutant. Do you care where I get it?"
"No."
"Wait for me in the car."
Grijpstra smiled as he saw de Gier walk into a tobacconist's store. It took a while before the sergeant came back, but he wasn't smoking.
"What did you do in there?"
"I phoned, of course. I spoke with Sergeant Jurriaans. We have help. He's lending us Asta. He will order her to go home and change into civilian clothes. We are to pick her up later; I have the address."
Grijpstra snorted. "You pick her up. You're an idiot, Rinus, I warned you. That girl can't be more than twenty-five years old and Jurriaans is my age, in his fifties. She isn't right in the head, neither are you at this particular time. You sure you didn't buy cigarettes in that store?"
"Yes. To the morgue?"
"To the morgue," Grijpstra said cheerfully and grinned at his thoughts. They were in color and three-dimensional. His jealousy evaporated as he contemplated his vision. The central part of it was Asta without any clothes on, kneeling, her left hand held by Grijpstra who was dressed in a long silk robe. His free hand blessed the girl, who, with downcast eyes, demurely accepted the benediction. Her right hand was stretched out in the direction of a reclining naked male body, peacefully asleep on a well-kept lawn. The body carried a noble face with a full mustache and shiny curly hair.
I'm giving her to him, Grijpstra thought, as he took in more details of the vision. The little group was surrounded by orange trees close to a pond where interesting hard-to-define animals cavorted in pure water. The sky was cloudy, but had opened to frame a mysterious faraway figure shrouded in light. That must be God, Grijpstra thought. That's good, that makes me an angel. I don't want to be God, but to be an angel must be all right. They get to do things.
Like giving away, he thought a little later as the Volkswagen found a place in the small courtyard next to the city's morgue, a low building built out of glowing red bricks that belied the cold finality of its contents. It's better to give than to receive. Besides, he thought as he wrung himself out of the compact, I don't want to be hassled by females, no matter how superior they may be. De Gier still likes it. All I want is ...
Not quite knowing what he wanted, he didn't finish the thought.
2
"Gentlemen," the small man said, "your client is waiting for you. He hasn't been in storage for more than five minutes. The doctor is done with him and is now washing his hands."
He restrained Grijpstra who was about to light a cigar. Grijpstra frowned.
The attendant raised his hands in helpless defense.
"Regulations, adjutant. They still apply to the living. The dead are free, they may do as they like in peace. You're welcome to smoke in my office." He opened a door and pointed at a table where a collection of pipes surrounded a full ashtray.
De Gier looked at the neatly labeled drawers of the massive refrigerator in the back of the room.
"Boronski. Here we are." He pulled. The drawer came faster than he expected and the corpse's face, slightly twisted to the side, looked up at him with an expression of furious surrender.
"Easy," Grijpstra said and put an arm around the sergeant's shoulders. "You should remember that nicotine no longer dulls your fears." He swiveled the sergeant's body and walked him away from the extended drawer.
"Can't stand it, can he?" the attendant asked. "I don't blame him. Took me a while to get used to them too, and I've lived with them for a long time. But they're not here, of course. A few will linger for a while. I can feel that, but I talk to them, polite-like, and they go away. There's nothing here for them and most should have better places to go to. I tell them that I'm just a crazy guy who works here, that I mean no harm. They're frightened, you know, whatever they were used to is no longer there. Alive yesterday, dead today, must be a bit of a change."
De Gier's nausea slipped away as he listened to the attendant's quiet voice. The man's beady eyes behind round little glasses seemed unfocused, his trousers were so short that they showed white skin above the crumpled socks, his green coat was partly unbuttoned. He wore a skull cap.
"Jacobs is the name," the small man said. "You won't remember me, sergeant, but I've seen you here before. Don't feel shy about showing your weakness. There's something wrong with the man who has to show his self-control at all times. If you want to know what your corpse died of you better see the doctor before he gets away."
They were ushered into another room where the doctor was looking at his notebook, circling words with a pencil.
"You're here for Boronski? Interesting case in a way, and so is the other, the one your colleagues brought in yesterday. Have a look at her before you leave. Attractive young gal, also found in the trunk of a car. Had been there a while, but not long enough for the heroin traces to disappear. The white stuff in the corners of her mouth are maggot eggs, by the way. I thought it was spittle at first, but it wasn't. Maggots breed fast in this kind of hot weather."
"Murdered?" Grijpstra asked.
The doctor laughed. "No, no, that's all you chaps think about. Murder. Manslaughter. Violence. Most people die by accident, you know, out of stupidity. I believe there was a party in a villa somewhere; young people amusing themselves. This gal took an overdose, heroin has to be measured carefully, but she was a young girl, there were people about, dancing, making love. She didn't pay attention, injected herself in a hurry and croaked. Nobody noticed her death for a while, then they found her. Nobody knew who she was either. She was picked up, taken to the party, and there she was, dead. They meant to dump her, put her in a car, and forgot all about the matter. Body started to smell after a few days, the car was parked in the sun. Somebody noticed and stopped a patrol car. The owner of the car was found, and he said he didn't know at first. Later he remembered, vaguely. It all checked out. Your colleagues were upset because they didn't have a case, not even death through negligence. The girl is over twenty-one, she injected herself, she was put in the car without the owner's proper consent, he didn't know what was asked of him, being stoned himself. And then he forgot. Drove her around for days in his brand new supercar. Pleasant young fellow apparently. Bit of an addict. Won't live long himself. Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?"
"Boronski, sir," Grijpstra said.
"Boronski. What can I tell you? He died around midnight. My original diagnosis was confirmed by the subsequent tests. Man was suffering of a really bad duodenal ulcer, enormous. Must have formed quickly, came to a head, the stomach perforated, and the flow of blood and pus upset his insides. He sort of choked internally. Severe cramps, must have doubled up, literally vomited his guts out and collapsed, I imagine. An extreme case indeed. He might have been saved if he had been taken to hospital immediately. Still a fairly young fellow too and no trace of other ulcers, his first and his last. You chaps know anything about ulcers?"
"No," Grijpstra said.
"Really? Had one myself once, long time ago now. I'm only a corpse cutter, but I'm not altogether out of touch with what the other branches of the profession come up with. Ulcers are psychosomatic, they say. You know what that means?"
"Caused by a malfunctioning of the mind, sir?" de Gier asked.
"Yes. Emotional malfunction. The mind is emotional, so is the rest of the body. I'd have to find the book again, but I think I remember that ulcers, particularly duodenal ulcers, are caused by a sudden loss of faith, in another person or maybe in an idea, a comforting idea that falls away and is no longer comforting. Some frightening insight, caused by something not being there that should be there. Would be true in my case. I thought I had a wife and I didn't; she wa
s still around at that time but not in the way I thought that she should be. She had a lover." He chuckled. "I was young then and thought I had rights. Nobody has rights. We've got what's coming to us. However, I, in my innocence, or ignorance, that's a better word, ignorance, insisted on things to be otherwise than they were. So I was punished by an ulcer. A little one, but it hurt, and I had to eat porridge for a while, yak, porridge, and pudding. The puddings weren't so bad. My wife made them and put cherries on top. Very nice of her. Then she left me altogether. There was another female for a while who comforted me and the ulcer healed. Hasn't bothered me again."
"About Boronski, sir."
"Yes?"
"Any bruises on the body?"
"No. The hands are scratched; he must have toppled over and scratched them on the cobblestones. I found traces of street dirt; it'll be in my report"
"But he wasn't found on the street, he was in the baggage compartment of a car."
The doctor dropped his notebook into his briefcase.
The tiny lock of the case snapped in place.
"Really? Now how did he get there? Well, I've done my job, good luck to you. Have a look at that girl before you leave. Just out of interest. Maggot eggs, amazing."
The doctor left and the attendant came in and presented Grijpstra with a carefully typed list.
"The actual stuff is at Headquarters, adjutant, but this is what we found on him. Wallet, pocketknife, clean handkerchief, and so forth."
"Any money in the wallet?"
"Oh yes, plenty. Notes, cash, credit cards, checkbook, a foreign checkbook, I believe."
Grijpstra nodded at de Gier. "You hear, sergeant?
Money. He wasn't even robbed. I tell you, he fell into that car. Nobody interfered with him."
"Yes," de Gier said tonelessly.
"You don't agree?"
"No. Look at the corpse again, closely."
Grijpstra walked back into the refrigerated room. The attendant pulled out the large metal drawer. Grijpstra shivered.
The Mind-Murders Page 10