"He may still have the rifle," he said to Grijpstra.
"That's all right," Grijpstra said. "He can't use it here."
"What if he comes back with the rifle instead of the beer?"
"He won't," Grijpstra said.
De Gier moved toward the front door of the apartment. They would arrest him in a little while, after the beer. The front door was the only way out. He had already looked into the small bedroom. It had one door only, he had also been able to get a look at the kitchen as van Meteren went into it. The kitchen didn't have another door either.
"Can I help you?" Grijpstra asked and went into the kitchen where he found their host cutting slices of cheese.
"You take the tray," van Meteren said.
"Your health."
They raised their glasses.
Grijpstra put his glass down first. Van Meteren filled the glasses again. He had brought his glass to his lips when Grijpstra spoke.
"I am sorry, van Meteren," Grijpstra said. Perhaps I should have refused the beer but I was very thirsty. We haven't come as friends, you see, we have come to arrest you."
De Gier had moved a little closer to the door and his hand was under his jacket, an inch from his pistol's butt.
"Arrest me?" van Meteren asked, still smiling pleasantly but with the corners of his mouth sagging as an immense sadness seemed to overcome him.
"Yes," Grijpstra said. "We suspect you of having committed a murder."
"Why?" van Meteren asked softly.
"Seket," de Gier said.
"Ah," van Meteren said.
De Gier jumped aside but it was too late. He couldn't see anymore, the beer from van Meteren's glass had hit him in the eyes.
At the same moment Grijpstra's chair collapsed, due to a kick in its weakest spot. Grijpstra's hand, which was on its way to his pistol, now had to support his suddenly falling body.
When de Gier had wiped the beer out of his eyes and could, vaguely, see again, he was alone in the room with Grijpstra.
Grijpstra was looking out of the window. "Come and see," Grijpstra shouted.
De Gier pushed him aside and looked down. Van Meteren was three stories down, holding on to a thick rope.
"Your knife," de Gier shouted.
"No use," Grijpstra said. "I can't reach the rope. It was attached to the hoist above us, out of reach. He must have planned it all carefully. A perfect escape."
De Gier looked down again and saw van Meteren veering off the gable, very close to the street mow. "He is back in New Guinea," de Gier thought, "getting away from the Indonesian commandos."
But he was thinking it on the stairs. He was falling down the stairs, rather than running, and when he reached the street Grijpstra was still on the fifth floor.
De Gier reached the street in time to see the Harley ride off the sidewalk. Van Meteren didn't appear to be in a hurry.
De Gier didn't use his pistol. There were bicycles in the street and several cars. Students were coming from the pub opposite and a boat full of tourists was moving into the canal, having successfully maneuvered itself from underneath a bridge. The chance that he would have hit van Meteren or the Harley was small, the chance that he would have hit something else much larger.
He ran to the car. The key stuck in the lock. When the door finally opened the Harley had turned a corner. He switched the radio on and heard Sientje's voice giving instructions to a patrol car. He had to wait for her to pause.
"One-three to Headquarters," de Gier said.
"One-three come in."
"A white Harley Davidson, just turned off the Brouwersgracht toward the Haarlemmer Houttuinen. Going east by the sound of her, toward the new Single bridge and Central Station. The rider is suspected of murder. Dangerous, probably armed. Small man, colored. Registration Victory Ferdinand seventeen-seventy-two. Over."
"Understood. Out." Sientje's voice was very calm, and still slightly hoarse."
"Lovely voice," de Gier thought.
He heard her pass the message to all cars, and called her again.
"One-three come in."
"How many cars do you have to help us?" de Gier asked.
"One right now," Sientje said, "on the Prins Hendrikkade. All the other cars are busy but we have called the station on the other side of the river and they should have two cars on standby. We are also calling the motorcycles, they should be able to send two men at least, but that's all we have, I think."
"Maybe you should let the State Police know in case he leaves the city."
"We are letting them know now," Sientje said reproachfully. "It's standard procedure. "Out."
De Gier blushed.
Grijpstra had got into the car.
"Well?" Grijpstra asked.
"We are moving, aren't we?" de Gier snapped. "I think I heard him turn east. At least one car should be close to him and others are being alerted. But he may have turned back through the Haarlemmerstraat."
"No," Grijpstra said, "the Haarlemmerstraat is being taken apart by public works. New drains or something. He might be able to ride on the sidewalk. Is he in a panic?"
"Never," de Gier said. "He is a proper policeman. You should have seen him ride off, as if he was going to work."
"No panic," Grijpstra said to himself. "So he won't hit anything," he thought.
"Ha," he said aloud.
"What shall we do?" de Gier asked. "Go east or check the canals? He may be on a merry-go-round, trying to shake us off, or park the motorbike in a quiet place and have a beer."
"Go east," Grijpstra said. "He must leave the city. He knows everyone is watching for a white motorbike now. And he knows the country. He has been spending all his weekends riding around. If he leaves town he must either keep on going east or he must go through the tunnel. He'll take the tunnel, Amsterdam North isn't being patrolled as heavily as Amsterdam East."
De Gier shook his head.
"I wonder if they'll see him. He'll be riding slowly. I bet he is even stopping for orange traffic lights."
"No," Grijpstra said, "don't exaggerate. He knows how to handle himself under stress but he shouldn't be riding that motorbike. A white Harley is a white elephant, even in Amsterdam. Patrol cars aren't blind. They might have trouble spotting a white Volkswagen or a blue Fiat, but they are bound to spot a Harley."
Sientje's voice came through.
"Your motorcycle has just emerged at the other side of the tunnel. A patrol car is after him and its siren is going."
"You see?" Grijpstra asked.
"Pity we have no siren," de Gier said and put his foot down. The VW went through a red light. Two cars honked at them and a man on a bicycle shouted something and tapped a finger on his forehead.
"No race," Grijpstra said, "I have a lot of children."
"I have a cat," de Gier said.
"The VW dived into the tunnel and Grijpstra closed his eyes. De Gier was zigzagging through the tunnel's traffic. The radio had stopped crackling.
"You can open your eyes," de Gier said. "Sientje is calling us."
"One-three," Grijpstra croaked.
"Were you in the tunnel?" Sientje asked.
"Yes. Did they catch up with him?"
"No," Sientje said, "they've lost him."
"Where?"
"In that new housing development where all the streets have bird names," Sientje said. "They saw him last in the Hawkstreet and think he is riding about close by now. The patrol car is still looking for him, but I think they have run into a little trouble. They have dented a mudguard."
"We'll go there as well," Grijpstra said, and held on as de Gier made the little car scream through a corner.
"Ha," de Gier said. "Probably ran into something, got their mudguard right into a tire, had to stop, get out and pull the mudguard free, and meanwhile van Meteren smiled and got lost."
"He won't be lost," Grijpstra said. "This is the Gold-finchstreet."
De Gier stopped and switched the engine off.
"No use driving arou
nd in circles," he said. "Listen! Can you hear the Harley anywhere? It's quiet here and that motorbike has a very remarkable sound, a deep gurgle."
"No," Grijpstra said.
"The map," Grijpstra said suddenly, "that map in his room!"
"Map," de Gier repeated, "map in his room. The map of the Ussei-lake. You think he has a boat?"
"Yes," Grijpstra said.
"A boat," de Gier shouted, "of course! That map is a proper maritime map, indicating depths and so on. Only a sailor would have a map like that. A boat somewhere. But where is the boat?"
"Close by," Grijpstra said.
"So we hope." De Gier lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and coughed.
"In Monnikendam," Grijpstra said, "closest IJssellake's port to Amsterdam."
De Gier shrugged. "Could be Horn as well, or Enkhuizen, or Medemblik."
"No," Grijpstra said, "too far. We have a. lot of rain here and it must be damn uncomfortable on that motorcycle. He bought it because it satisfied some need, made him think of his New Guinea days. But this is a cold wet country. He had plenty of money, so he bought a boat and kept it in a harbor close to Amsterdam. He would ride out there, park the Harley, and get on his boat. A nice comfortable boat with a cabin and a little stove. Could make himself a hot cup of coffee and soup and stew, much nicer than going into a restaurant and being stared at. New Guinea is an island, he may have had a boat out there as well. I think the boat is in Monnikendam."
"We can ask Sientje," de Gier said. "She can phone the chief inspector's house. The chief inspector had van Meteren shadowed for a while."
"No use," Grijpstra said and shivered. "Let's get back into the car."
De Gier got into the car.
"No use perhaps. Van Meteren knew he was being followed, ever since Verboom died. So he wouldn't have gone near his boat. You are probably right. His boat was his escape, he wouldn't show us where he kept her. In any case, he couldn't let us know that he owned a boat. He wasn't supposed to have any money. If we could have proved that he had money we would have arrested him on suspicion of murder. He jumped out of the window when I mentioned the name of Seket."
Grijpstra nodded thoughtfully.
"But where is that boat? He must be on her now and the IJssel-lake is big. If he had stuck to the Harley we would catch him easily enough. Every policeman in Holland will be watching for that Harley by tomorrow. He may stick to his boat now, he may have enough food on her to last him for months and we don't know what the boat looks like."
De Gier called Sientje.
"Headquarters," Sientje said, "come in, one-three."
"We think he has a boat and may be on the IJssel-lake by now. We will be leaving the city soon in the direction of Monnikendam. Please alert the State Water Police."
"I will," Sientje said. "Have a pleasant time. Out."
"And that," Grijpstra said, "is the end of Sientje. Another few minutes and she won't be able to hear us."
'Two little men in a biscuit tin," de Gier thought, "and the biscuit tin is going into nowhere." He started the car.
They found nothing in Monnikendam's little port. They left the small city and followed the dikes, keeping close to the lake. Half an hour passed. They met no one.
"There's somebody," Grijpstra said and pointed into the direction of the lake. A small yacht was moored to a jetty.
De Gier put his pistol back into its holster when he got close to the man. The man was tall and had very blond hair.
"Evening."
"Evening," the man said.
"We are policemen," said De Gier, "and we are looking for a small colored man who rides a big white motorcycle. A Harley-Davidson. We thought you might have seen him."
"I have," the man said. "The motorbike is over there, parked behind that hedge. And your man is on the lake, in his boat, a flat-bottom, a hotter with brown sails. But he isn't sailing, he is using his diesel engine. He left about an hour ago."
"Beautiful," Grijpstra said.
"Did he know you were after him?" the man asked.
"He did," de Gier said.
The man shook his head.
"Strange. He seemed quite calm. He even talked to me for a minute. Said he couldn't sleep and was going to spend the night on the water."
"Do you know him at all?" Grijpstra asked.
"Not very well, but his boat has been here for about a year now, we share the jetty, it belongs to a retired fisherman. I have often talked to your man, he is a Papuan isn't he? I always thought he was a very likable fellow, I even asked him to come to dinner once but he refused and I didn't try again."
"Oh, he is a likable fellow all right," de Gier said, "but he is suspected of having committed a murder. We'll have to go after him. Can we use your boat?"
The man smiled.
"Why ask?" he said. "I couldn't refuse anyway. A civilian has to assist a policeman at the first request. That's the law, isn't it?"
Grijpstra smiled as well.
"That's the law. But a civilian can refuse if there is any risk to the safety of his person. So we are only asking for the boat. You don't have to come with us. Just explain to us how we should handle your yacht."
"That's all right," the man said, "I'll come with you. I may be of use. I can handle the boat and I used to be an officer in the commandos. My name is Runau."
They shook hands.
De Gier had gone back to the car, grinning to himself. He brought out the carbine and its six spare magazines, the searchlight and a rope with a heavy metal hook attached to one end.
He had to make another trip to fetch the large tin marked with a Red Cross.
"I hope we won't have to use the tin," he thought.
"You didn't have to bring all that," Runau said when de Gier clambered aboard. "I've got everything on this boat. Everything except the carbine of course." He took the weapon from de Gier and handled it lovingly. "Long time since I've had one in my hands. Much nicer than a rifle but not as deadly. I used to be pretty good with a carbine."
"Give it here," de Gier said. "We shouldn't lead you into temptation."
Runau laughed. "You aren't tempting me. I wouldn't aim it at a man, not even at a bird. I may have been a commando but I respect life."
"So do we," Grijpstra said. "You wouldn't have any coffee aboard, would you?"
"Plenty of coffee," Runau said, and started the yacht's engine. De Gier untied the mooring rope and the slender vessel nosed its way toward the lake.
"Were you going to spend the night on the water as well?" Grijpstra asked.
"Yes," Runau said grimly. "My wife and I don't get on very well lately. I don't always go home after work. It's peaceful out here."
"I see," Grijpstra said.
They watched de Gier rummaging about on the yacht's deck. De Gier was still grinning to himself.
"Your colleague seems to be enjoying himself," Runau said.
"He does. He is an adventurer. This is different to patrolling the streets. He is still a little boy at heart and he reads too many books."
Runau moved the throttle and the yacht increased her speed noticeably. "We all are little boys at heart," he said.
"Hmm," Grijpstra said. "Will you be divorcing your wife?"
Runau was looking straight ahead. He looked suddenly tired.
"I think so."
"Any children?"
"No," Runau said. "We haven't been married very long. She is very young, we were going to wait."
"I see," Grijpstra said.
"Nice night, isn't it?" de Gier asked, sticking his head into the cabin. He was rubbing his hands. "Show me where the coffee is and I'll make it."
De Gier busied herself with the small paraffin burner. When the coffee was ready Runau switched the engine off and they listened.
"Can't hear anything," Runau said. "He must have gone the other way. His engine is noisy and the sound carries far on the lake. We'll bear north for a while, he won't have gone south toward Amsterdam, not if he wants to get away. Has he reall
y murdered somebody?"
"We think he has," de Gier said. "He may have been dealing in drugs and we think he has killed his partner. Hung him, making it look like suicide."
"Hung him?" Runau asked. "That's a nasty way to kill somebody. I thought a Papuan would prefer a knife, or a bow and arrows, or a blowpipe."
"He stunned him before he hung him," Grijpstra said.
"That hotter he is sailing, is she fast?" de Gier asked.
Runau shook his head.
"Not very fast. This boat is much faster, but the botter is nicer. She has a lot of character, that boat. Must have cost him money too. A restored boat, some sixty or eighty years old, but the engine is brand new."
"This is a nice boat too," Grijpstra said.
"She is all right," Runau said, "but I would prefer the botter. This is just a little thing for pleasure. I work for the municipality and I don't earn very much. I had to save for years to buy this one but I should have bought a bigger boat. "I'd like to cross the ocean one day; this boat will never make it. The botter could make it, if her deck is sealed properly."
Grijpstra laughed. "Van Meteren may be on his way to New Guinea. We better warn the Water Police to watch the locks in the dike."
"He won't make the dike," Runau said. "We'll find him before he does. Pity I don't have a radio on board."
"That's all right," de Gier said. "The Water Police have been alerted. We'll catch him on the lake, unless, of course, he makes for another port and gets off his boat."
"He won't," Grijpstra said.
Runau had switched the engine off again and raised a finger. They listened.
"You hear?"
"Yes," they said. The heavy plof plof plof of the diesel engine was clearly audible.
"Bah," Grijpstra said, "we need a radio now. The Water Police are watching but they don't know what they are watching."
"There she is," Runau said.
The boat was no more than a black dot on the horizon. Runau got his binoculars and the dot became a little bigger.
"He has a rifle," de Gier said suddenly.
"A what?"
"A rifle," de Gier repeated, "a Lee Enfield rifle. He must be a crack shot with it and I am sure he has hundreds of cartridges."
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