Outsider in Amsterdam ac-1

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "Yes," the man said.

  "Another three beers," Grijpstra said, and sat down, smiling pleasantly.

  "Must be heavy work," Grijpstra said.

  "Yes," the man said. "First it's this and then it's that. I should really spend a thousand on her and do good thorough job but I haven't been saving lately. You know how it goes, wife wants a new dress, children go to holiday camps. I am working overtime as it is, almost every night."

  "What's she worth now you think," de Gier asked.

  The man smacked his lips. "A lot of money. You wouldn't think so but that model is antique. Even a wreck would cost you close to a thousand and then you have to spend a few thousand to get the wreck onto the road. A clever man would buy himself one of these small motorized bicycles, you can buy very good ones for just over a thousand and they'll be twice as fast in the city traffic. These Harleys are slow on the uptake. You can do over a hundred kilometers on the highroad of course but they are slow in town."

  "That's a lot of money," de Gier said, "but suppose you wanted an old machine like this in top condition, how much would you have to spend?"

  "Six thousand at least," the man said. "It would be worth the money. I have often thought about it. The dealers still have all the parts. For about four thousand you could buy a complete set, and then you'd have to pay a man another two thousand to put them together. I could do it myself perhaps, but I couldn't do all of it. You need a real expert."

  "Are there still any Harley experts around?" Grijpstra asked.

  De Gier was glad Grijpstra asked the question for the blood was throbbing in his veins and he might have sounded too eager if he had asked the question himself.

  "Not many," the man said.

  "I have a friend," Grijpstra said, "who likes old motorcycles and he has some money as well. He was telling me he would like to have a Harley. I wonder where he should go."

  "Seket," the man said. "He is the best man I know. And he is in Amsterdam. There's another fellow in Rotterdam and there's one in Gouda I believe but maybe this man is better. Lou Seket. His workshop is on the Bloemgracht, you can't miss it. It has a big sign on the door and he has a nice poster in his shopwindow, two naked girls sitting on a green Harley. I wouldn't know the street number but it is close to the end of the gracht, near the Marnixstraat."

  "Thanks," Grijpstra said. "I'll remember it. We'll have to be on our way now."

  He asked for the bill.

  "No, no," the man said. "You police fellows can't make a guilder on the sly. Let me pay. I've just done a nice little job, built a kitchen for somebody I know. Couple of hundred tax free."

  He winked and paid. The detectives thanked him.

  "Doesn't declare his full income," de Gier said in the street.

  "Who cares?" Grijpstra said. "Let's go and see this Seket. Right now."

  "I have to go to the station first to write a report on the fight."

  "Never mind that report. I'll phone. If they want a report they can have it tomorrow. They may not even need one. Come."

  "This Seket fellow's probably spending the weekend in the country somewhere," de Gier said.

  "Doa'tfiiss," Grijpstra said. "He'll be somewhere and we'll find him. We only want to ask him one question. Just one."

  It didn't take long to find the shop. De Gier admired the poster. Two attractive girls, both naked, faced each other. Their legs straddled the heavy frame of an old Harley. One girl was leaning back on the handlebars, the other leered lustfully at her inviting friend.

  "Nice," de Gier said. "Two lesbians taking a sharp corner."

  "They aren't lesbians," Grijpstra said, "they are just trying to do what the dirty photographer tells them to do. Stop ogling."

  The shop was closed.

  "You see," said de Gier, "he is spending the weekend in the country. On an island in the North I bet."

  "If he is we'll go there."

  "There's only one ferry a day."

  "We'll get a helicopter from the air force," Grijpstra said.

  "Ah here," de Gier said, "look. He is living above his shop. There's his name on the door."

  He pressed the bell and the door opened.

  A short fat man, in his early sixties, with a mane of white hair, was looking at them from the staircase.

  "Mr. Seket?" Grijpstra asked.

  "I am. But if you want anything done to a motorbike you'll have to come back on Monday. I have locked up for the day."

  "Police," Grijpstra said. "Can we see you a minute?"

  "I have nothing to do with the police," Seket said and came down the stairs. He stopped in front of the detectives and glared at them.

  "Well, what is it? Not a stolen Harley-Davidson I am sure. Nobody steals a Harley."

  "Why not?" de Gier asked.

  "Too hard to start."

  Grijpstra didn't understand.

  "Too hard to start? But what if you know how to start a Harley, then you could steal one couldn't you?"

  Seket smiled, showing broken dirty teeth, as dirty as his overalls.

  "No mate, I see you don't know about Harleys. If you know how to start one you would be a member of the brotherhood. Harley owners stick together, they would never steal from each other."

  "How nice," de Gier said.

  "So what do you want to know, friend?" Seket asked and glared again.

  "All I want to know," de Gier said, "is if you ever built a motorcycle for a man called van Meteren."

  "I did," Seket said promptly, "the best I ever built. Brand new parts, new accessories, the lot. A riding advertisement. A beauty. About a year and a half ago. I still service the machine, there's nothing, absolutely nothing, wrong with her. But that van Meteren fellow knows how to look after her. Polishes her up like a baby."

  "One more question," Grijpstra said. "How much did he pay?"

  "A lot of money. A hell of a lot of money. Close to seven thousand it was, but she is worth it. I didn't overcharge him, in fact I undercharged him for I liked the man."

  "Cash? de Gier asked.

  "With me everything is cash. I wouldn't even take a bank check."

  "No bookkeeping, hey?" Grijpstra asked.

  "You aren't from the Tax Department?" Seket asked and stepped back.

  "No," Grijpstra said. "Don't worry."

  "Shit," Seket said. "I shouldn't have told you nothing. Fuzz. Bah. Now van Meteren will be in trouble, I suppose. I was wondering where he got the money, but I didn't ask. I never ask."

  "He is in trouble," Grijpstra said, "and so you will be if you warn him."

  Seket closed the door in his face.

  "Let's go," de Gier said.

  "We need a car," Grijpstra said.

  "What for?"

  "We need a car," Grijpstra said stubbornly. "Headquarters is close. We'll get it and then we'll go and see him."

  \\ 14 /////

  "What's Van Meteren's new address?" Grijpstra asked as they were getting into their car in the courtyard of Headquarters.

  "Don't know," de Gier said.

  "What do you mean 'don't know'? You should know. It's in your notebook."

  "Yes," de Gier said, "but my notebook is in my other jacket. It's Saturday today."

  "What," Grijpstra asked, "has Saturday got to do with it?"

  "On Saturday," de Gier explained, "I often wear another jacket. This jacket. My old corduroy jacket. And its pocket is too small for the notebook, so I leave the notebook behind, in my other jacket, at home."

  "Ach no," Grijpstra said, "now what?"

  "You look in your notebook," de Gier said, "simple."

  Nothing happened for a while. They sat in the car. De Gier had started the engine. The engine turned over, quietly.

  "Well?" de Gier asked.

  "My notebook," Grijpstra said, "is at home. In my other jacket. I was fishing this morning. When I go fishing I put on this windbreaker. It hasn't got an inside pocket."

  De Gier switched the engine off.

  "I'll be right back,"
he said.

  Constanze answered the phone herself.

  "It's you! she said. "I was hoping you would call."

  "Yes," de Gier said nervously. "I mean no."

  "What do you mean?" Constanze asked.

  "I don't know what I mean," de Gier said nervously, "but do you have van Meteren's new address? He gave it to us by telephone some time ago and I wrote it down in my notebook but I left my notebook at home. I remember that it was Brouwersgracht but I can't remember the number. I thought maybe he had told you?"

  "Why should he tell me?" Constanze asked, an icy note creeping into her voice. "Are you cross-questioning me again? I have told you that there is nothing between him and me."

  "No, no," de Gier said. "I am not cross-questioning you. Sorry I bothered you."

  "Just a minute," Constanze said quickly, "you aren't ringing off are you? Don't you want to see me tonight? Shall I come to your flat?"

  "No," de Gier said, "no, not tonight. I am busy. Work, you know."

  "You don't have to see me," Constanze said, her voice now definitely icy.

  "No," de Gier said. "I mean yes. Later maybe. Next week. Yes?"

  "Find out what you mean first," Constanze said and hung up.

  "Please…" de Gier said but the telephone gave its two-toned note.

  He slammed down the phone.

  He ran back to the car.

  "You know it?" Grijpstra asked.

  "No. Let's go to your house."

  "So now we know the address," Grijpstra said. "Anything else we need? You have your pistol?"

  "Yes," de Gier said, "but we won't need it."

  Grijpstra didn't agree but he didn't say so. He remembered the Papuans who had fought in his unit in Java. They would never have surrendered without a fight. He shook his head. He thought of the evening they had played their jungle song together. Perhaps the personal relationship between them… Perhaps not.

  "Do you know how a Papuan thinks?" he asked de Gier.

  "No," de Gier said, "do you know how Japanese think?"

  The car had stopped. They were on the Keizergracht and the road was blocked by a gigantic luxury bus that had stopped in front of a hotel, Japanese were pouring out of the bus. Very neat Japanese, the men dressed dressed in blue blazers and gray slacks and strapped into their cameras and light meters, the women dressed in many-colored kimonos with wide belts made of cloth.

  De Gier's face reddened.

  "A hundred thousand Japanese. Did you ever see so many Japanese in Amsterdam? They couldn't all have been in that bus, there must be a machine near the door, manufacturing them. Look at it now. Another one, and another one, and another two."

  Grijpstra looked.

  "Switch the engine off," he said. "You'll stink up the canal with your exhaust. We'll be here for hours."

  A very pretty girl came out of the bus. De Gier smiled at her, a nasty smile, little more than a display of teeth. The girl smiled back and bowed slightly.

  "That's nice," Grijpstra said, "a nice polite girl. If they are like that I don't mind waiting."

  "Yes, she is nice," de Gier said.

  "A kind smile, wasn't it?" Grijpstra asked.

  De Gier agreed. "There is no defense against kindness."

  Another five minutes and the bus had left.

  They crossed a bridge and waited at a traffic light. They crossed another bridge and waited at another traffic light.

  Then they were stuck again. A taxi driver had run into the back of a delivery van.

  Grijpstra got out and argued with the two drivers.

  They wouldn't listen to him.

  He showed his police card.

  "Ah," the cabdriver said, "then you can write a report. Write your report and we'll move."

  Grijpstra wrote a report. It took six minutes.

  De Gier had switched the engine off. He felt very calm. He lit a cigarette and watched the seagulls.

  "Who was right?" de Gier asked when Grijpstra got back into the car.

  "Don't know," Grijpstra said. "The van driver says the van cab smashed into him and the cab driver says the van backed into him. I wrote it all down."

  "But what do you think?" de Gier asked.

  "What's got into you?" Grijpstra asked. "Since when do the police think? The public prosecutor thinks and the judge thinks, all we ever do is report."

  "All right," de Gier said, "but what are we going to report on van Meteren when we arrest him?"

  "Depends on what he says, doesn't it?"

  "He won't admit anything," said de Gier. "He has been with the police a long time. I don't think he'll say anything at all. He'll come with us and let himself be locked into a good cell, he knows we owe him a good cell at least, and that'll be the end of it."

  "How is he going to explain the money he spent on the motorcycle?" Grijpstra said. "And the lie he told you about it? A few hundred guilders he had spent on it, didn't he say that? But he spent seven thousand. Where did he get it?"

  "He found it," de Gier said.

  "Yes. He found it in his pocket where Verboom had put it. They must have been dealing in drugs together."

  "That's our suspicion, and that's all it is."

  "Yes," Grijpstra said, "but the prosecutor will let us keep him in custody for a long time. And while van Meteren is in custody we'll go on searching. We are bound to find out that he has money somewhere, a lot of money."

  "Seventy-five thousand?" de Gier asked.

  "Brouwersgracht," Grijpstra said. "Number fifty-seven. Park the car."

  They parked the car behind van Meteren's motorcycle, which gleamed quietly in the light of a street lamp.

  Grijpstra looked up.

  "It's a very high house," he said, "and our friend lives on the seventh floor. I remember he said so when he phoned. His light is on."

  "Did you suspect him?" de Gier asked.

  "I did, at first. But then I didn't know because there didn't seem to be any motive. And I liked him, I still like him. He must have been a good policeman. Very trustworthy, and efficient. I think the chief inspector suspected him as well. Did you?"

  "Yes," de Gier said. "That girl Therese suggested that Verboom might have committed a Japanese style suicide but he was no Japanese Samurai, he was a Dutchman, with Dutch ideas. It wasn't suicide at all. He looked too neat. Combed hair, beautiful mustache. Clean. New shirt. A man who commits suicide has lost his routine. He stops shaving, doesn't look after himself. They live in a mess for a bit and then they kill themselves. The room was clean. Everything about Verboom was very neat."

  "And you thought van Meteren had killed him?"

  "You remember the noose?" de Gier asked.

  "Yes, the noose," Grijpstra said thoughtfully. 'That noose gave him away. A very professional knot, made by a soldier or a sailor. And he had told us how he had tied up his prisoners, in New Guinea. Remember?"

  "Yes," de Gier said. "He told us that story because he thought we were with him. Three policemen. And in a way I am with him. I don't really want to arrest van Meteren."

  "I wonder how many Indonesian soldiers he has killed in New Guinea," Grijpstra said.

  "He was exercising his duty, lawfully exercising his duty."

  "Yes," Grijpstra said, "we have some marvelous laws. Let's go."

  They stood on the narrow Brouwersgracht and looked up at the house again.

  "Pretty shaky house," de Gier said. "We better go easy on the stairs. It may come down any minute."

  De Gier slid a cartridge into the barrel of his pistol and Grijpstra, after some hesitation, followed his example.

  He was muttering to himself.

  "You ring the bell," he said.

  "Like that time at the Haarlemmer Houttuinen?" de Gier asked.

  "Yes. I am getting superstitious."

  De Gier rang the bell and read the nameplates screwed into the mouldered doorpost. They were six nameplates, only van Meteren's looked tidy, the others were handwritten or typed, some of them stuck behind little piec
es of cracked plastic. "Student couples," de Gier thought, "and some people, living on old-age pensions and waiting to go into homes. It'll be smelly in there."

  It was. The door opened and they began to climb. Grijpstra rested on the fourth floor. They had attacked the fifth staircase when van Meteren met them.

  "Ah, it's you two," he said pleasantly. "That's nice. You are in luck. I have plenty of cold beer. It's a hot evening for patrol duty."

  "Evening," de Gier said. "Just thought we'd drop in a minute when we saw your light."

  "Are you on duty?" van Meteren asked.

  "Well," Grijpstra said, "no. Not really."

  "Then I can offer you beer. Follow me, just two more flights."

  Van Meteren pointed at a chair and Grijpstra sank into it immediately.

  "Careful," van Meteren said, "that chair is old. It came with the place; it's comfortable all right. I prefer these rooms to the Haarlemmer Houttuinen really, I have a good view here, but seven floors is a lot of stairs."

  "You ever forget anything?" de Gier asked. "Climb all the stairs, I mean, and then you find you have left something downstairs?"

  Van Meteren smiled.

  "Yes. This afternoon. I bought a pack of tobacco but I forgot to buy cigarette paper. I went all the way down, walked to the shop and bought some. And then, when I was here again, I found I had no matches."

  They all laughed. Van Meteren looked very pleased. He wouldn't have too many visitors in his new quarters.

  "Beer," he said. "Just a minute. I'll get it from the fridge. Should be nice and cold by now; I bought it this afternoon."

  They looked around the large room which, like the room van Meteren occupied at Piet Verboom's house, had been white-washed and hung with a number of strange objects. De Gier recognized the large animal skull, the map of the great inland lake, the strangely shaped stones. One of the walls featured a large slice of an old tree trunk. The grain of the wood stood out; it had been dabbed with red paint that contrasted with the white of the wall behind it. De Gier shuddered involuntarily. The wood looked natural enough but the red paint, sunk deeply into the grain, reminded him of blood, of a cannibal's feast, of the deep vibrations of van Meteren's wooden jungle drum. The drum stood in the corner.

  "I must ask him if he still has his rifle," de Gier asked, and remembered that he hadn't checked with the armory. Van Meteren should have had the barrel filled with aluminum.