The Mind-Murders ac-8

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  But he can't be trusted, he thought, for he is without his drug. Perhaps Asta would look after him. He remembered that Asta couldn't be trusted either. He forgot his fears while he watched young girls crossing the street, with sharply outlined bodies dressed in tight jeans or in narrow frocks, not quite narrow enough for the wind not to play with.

  The adjutant had either picked the wrong place or the wrong time, for suddenly the crossing girls were all fat. He looked at the surrounding buildings and didn't like them either, they were square and gray. The sky was gray too. He sipped his coffee, put the cup down, and closed his eyes. Once again he saw himself bestowing the divine gift on de Crier. He wondered how the sergeant would react to his new companion.

  The vision faded, and he got up and found canals and narrow streets lined with old and stately gable houses that rested his mind. He stopped to scratch a cat, spoke to a dog which changed its snarl into a pathetic grin, and picked up a shopping bag dropped by an old lady. While he listened to her complaint about rising prices, he saw the dead face of Jim Boronski again. It hadn't been a pleasant face, although the man was undoubtedly handsome. A villain, Grijpstra thought, and forgot the definition as he had to jump for his life to avoid a careening truck.

  3

  The address where Asta lived turned out to be a boarding house. The landlady directed the sergeant to the top floor, but when he got there, he had forgotten on which door he should knock. The second, he thought. There was no answer, and he opened the door. He was in a large bathroom and Asta was in the bath on her knees adjusting the faucets, her small, round bottom faced him. She looked over her shoulder.

  "Excuse me," de Gier said, "I'll wait downstairs."

  He went down and waited awhile, constructing theories to pass the time. None of the possibilities would hold. Why would the fat German kill expatriate Boronski, temporarily back in the old country? Were they businessmen fighting over a deal? What sort of a deal warrants violent death? Were they lovers of the same woman? Why would the German dump his enemy's body in his own Mercedes and then report the car as stolen? The ulcer seemed to rule out all thought of murder, but there were still mysterious and accusing facts. He left the building, bought chewing gum, chewed for a while, spat the gum out, and rang the bell again.

  "Third door on the left, sir, but the ladies in this house are not supposed to have male visitors."

  "Yes," de Gier said and ran up the stairs. The painful need of nicotine made him forget to knock. He saw Asta in the middle of the room. She still had no clothes on. She was on her knees again, looking over her shoulder into a mirror.

  "Excuse me," de Gier said.

  The girl jumped up, snatched a towel from the bed, and wrapped her slight body in it.

  "For heaven's sake, don't you ever knock?"

  "I did the first time, but the water of the bath was running."

  "Are you wondering about my strange position?"

  "Yes."

  "I wanted to know what I look like when I'm on my hands and knees and somebody looks at me from the rear."

  "Oh."

  "What do I look like from the rear?"

  "Nice."

  She sighed. "Nice? Is that all?"

  "Very nice," de Gier said patiently. "Appetizing. Irresistible. Please dress. The adjutant is waiting at Headquarters for his new detective and we have to see that German. I'll wait outside."

  "You'll wait right here. You've seen everything already, but I would prefer you to look out of the window while I dress. What should I put on? I've never worked out of uniform. A dress? Jeans and a blouse?"

  "A dress, Hotel Oberon is a classy place."

  "Shouldn't you be wearing a tie then?"

  "I never wear a tie. Hurry up."

  "I like the way you wear your clothes," Asta said while her cotton dress rustled. "A scarf is elegant, you're an elegant man; they are rare in the police, I've never seen one except you. Even Sergeant Jurriaans isn't elegant."

  "You like him, do you?"

  "Yes."

  "Is it true that the two of you went out one night and got drunk and that you stripped on a table and played on an Oriental rug with a girlfriend?"

  "What?"

  "Is it true?"

  "Who told you that?"

  "I heard," de Gier said.

  "Me and Sergeant Jurriaans?"

  "That's right."

  "I had a drink with him once; he came into Beelema's and was distraught. He had a fight with his wife. I know his wife, she's charming. Jurriaans can be grumpy at times. He shouldn't talk about his private life to another woman, but I didn't mind."

  "You didn't go anywhere with him?"

  "No."

  "Would you have liked to?"

  She held his shoulders and pushed him round. "Of course. I love him. I would do anything for him. Even dance on tables and play on rugs."

  "With another lady?"

  "If he wanted me to. Shall we go? I'm ready."

  De Gier was uncomfortable, but the ride didn't take long. The German wasn't in the hotel but pushed his bulk through the revolving glass door as they were ready to leave an invitation for him to come to Headquarters.

  "Police? I don't want to speak to the police. Or is it about my car? Did you find my car?"

  De Gier's German was slow and painful; the fat man didn't understand until Asta helped out. Her German wasn't much better than the sergeant's, but her pronunciation was better.

  "We found the car, but we have to speak with you. Take us to your room."

  The room was spacious and well furnished. The German didn't offer them chairs, although he sat down himself. He opened a thermos flask and filled its cup with lemonade.

  "You found my car, where is it?"

  "Do you know Mr. Boronski, Jim Boronski?"

  "Yes. No. What is that to you?"

  "What is your name? Show us your passport." De Gier found it impossible to be polite to the man. He caught the passport the German threw at him and opened it. "Karl Muller. What is your profession?"

  "My firm imports wood. I buy from Mr. Boronski. He ships me wood from Colombia and Peru. We are men who do business together, no more."

  "Mr. Boronski was found dead in your car this morning."

  "What?"

  De Gier looked at Asta.

  "Tot," Asta said, "in your car."

  Herr Miiller's pudgy red hands trembled. He replaced the flask and cup on a side table.

  "Tot, Herr Boronski tot?"

  "Quite dead."

  "How did he die? Was he murdered?"

  "We don't know yet. We came to ask you if you knew anything."

  Miiller's cheeks trembled. Sweat ran down his face. He tried to say something but the words stuck in his throat. De Gier pushed his chair closer.

  "He died during the night. Where were you last night?"

  "I was out. In a bar and a club. I came home late."

  "How late?"

  "Two o'clock maybe, or a little later."

  "You remember where you were?"

  "Yes."

  "Write down the names of the establishments and the times you were there."

  While Mtiller wrote, de Gier considered the next move. The man's answers were acceptable so far. There was no charge, for if the doctor was right, Boronski wasn't murdered. Muller's passport seemed to be in order. To attempt to arrest the man might cause all sorts of unpleasantness. He looked at the passport again. The man originated in Hamburg. They might check with the Hamburg police.

  He took the slip of paper from the table and read the names of the bar and the club. He knew the bar, a fairly respectable place. The club was a sex club, expensive and supposedly high-class. He had never been there and couldn't remember if the place had ever figured in police reports. If Muller said that he'd been there, he was probably speaking the truth.

  "I'll have to hold your passport, and I must ask you not to leave this hotel until you hear from us. Tell us all you know about Mr. Boronski."

  "Shall I m
ake notes?" Asta asked.

  "Please do."

  The girl crossed her legs and pointed her ball pen at a new notebook. De Gier smiled and looked away. She had slender legs and slim ankles.

  Muller seemed to have come through his crisis and talked easily. He had corresponded with Boronski's firm in Bogotd, Colombia, for years and done regular business with him ever since he began importing wood from that part of the world. Gradually the shipments had grown to sizable proportions, and as even larger deals were envisaged, he had thought that he should meet his supplier. Boronski said that he would go to Amsterdam and they had agreed to stay at the same hotel.

  "So you came here specially to meet him?"

  No, Miiller also had other business in Amsterdam.

  "What do you know about Boronski's private life?"

  Not much. Boronski wasn't married, had no relatives in Holland, and hadn't been to Holland for many years. He drove a Porsche that he had just bought and meant to take back to Colombia.

  Was there anything wrong with him physically?

  Yes, he complained about stomachaches.

  Did he drink a lot?

  Yes, but not to the point of getting very drunk.

  Girlfriends?

  Not that Muller knew of.

  Visiting sex clubs?

  Yes.

  Had he been seeing a doctor?

  Muller didn't know.

  Could Muller show any correspondence with Boronski's firm?

  No, not here. Muller claimed that the correspondence was on file in his office in Hamburg.

  "Where is my car?" Muller asked.

  De Gier explained where the car was. "You can have it back. It was shorted and the lock of the trunk was forced, but the door lock wasn't. Did you forget?"

  Muller nodded. "I forgot to lock the door. In Amsterdam they steal everything. Bad city, bad food, too expensive."

  "You should have stayed home."

  "Can I go and pick up my car?"

  "Yes, you can move within the city as long as you leave a note at the hotel desk to say where we can find you."

  "When do I get my passport back?"

  "Soon."

  "I was planning to leave. You'll have to pay for any extra time I have to stay at the hotel."

  "Let's go," de Gier said and held the door open for Asta. He left without saying goodbye, closing the door behind him with a little too much force.

  "A pig," Asta said. "Shall we make inquiries about Boronski at the desk?"

  The hotel manager let them into his private office and ordered coffee. He was both polite and precise.

  "Mr. Boronski? Dead? How unfortunate."

  "Very. He lived in Colombia and had no relatives. It may be difficult for you to collect his bill."

  "Perhaps, but it's a risk of the trade."

  "Did he do anything that caused special notice?"

  "Yes," the manager said, "on several occasions, he bothered us and I contemplated asking him to leave. There was that business with the girl and the trouble about his car. He seemed very upset, and in pain too. I suggested he should see a doctor. There was something wrong with his stomach."

  De Gier sat up. "Trouble with a lady. Would you explain?"

  "Of course. When was it? Last Thursday, I believe, or Wednesday. It'll be in the register. A lady checked in. I was at the desk that night, I remember her well, a rather lovely lady. She just wanted to stay the night, well dressed, good-quality suitcase, demure, didn't say much, didn't have a credit card, so she paid cash in advance. That night I wasn't on duty, I left shortly after she arrived. The night staff reported in the morning that there had been trouble with Mr. Boronski. A strange tale indeed. It seemed that he tried to get into her room, did get into her room, in fact, and somehow bothered her."

  "Attempted rape?" de Gier asked.

  "No, no. I tell you, it's a strange tale. He claimed that she was in his room, that he knew her, that he had arranged with her that she would stay the night with him, and the lady claimed that she had never set eyes on the man. She phoned the desk, my assistant went up. Boronski had lost all self-control, man was foaming at the mouth, I believe, and then my assistant discovered that Boronski's room was next door. Quite an upheaval. The lady was so upset that she packed her bag and left. My assistant tried to reassure her and offered excuses, free breakfast and so forth, drinks, anything she liked, but she insisted."

  "Did she get her money back?"

  "Oh yes."

  "And Boronski?"

  "He came to see me the next morning and stated that his room had been switched in some devilish manner, for all his belongings were arranged precisely as he had left them, but they were in the other room. I didn't believe him, of course. I even showed him the register. He had room 14, not 12, he had room 14 from the start. Boronski also told me that the lady had been in his room that afternoon. He had met her in the street somewhere, she was a prostitute. The, eh, meeting was most satisfactory and she had promised to come back in the evening at ten. He went to his room before ten and she was there all right but she didn't know him."

  "Wouldn't somebody here have noticed her in the company of Mr. Boronski?"

  The manager hid a yawn behind a dainty hand. De Gier noticed that he had polished fingernails.

  "Excuse me, no, nobody noticed; we have sixty-four rooms here, there's a lot of coming and going."

  "How could she have got into his room? Boronski had the key, didn't he?"

  The manager yawned again. "Do excuse me, I haven't had much sleep lately. I wouldn't know."

  "Amazing," de Gier said. "You also mentioned other trouble, something about a car?"

  "Yes, another tall tale. He came to see me and said that his car, a brand new Porsche that he had just bought, tax-free, to take with him to South America suddenly had the steering wheel on the wrong side. I ask you. Fortunately, I knew by then that the man wasn't in his right mind; this was after the business with the lady, you see. I didn't want to listen to him, but he practically dragged me into the street. The car was there, a lovely job, silver color, red leather upholstery, must have cost him a fortune. The registration plates were special, Colombian, must have got them through the local consulate. The steering wheel was on the right side, and he said it was on the left when he bought the car the day before. Quite impossible. To change a steering wheel is a major operation, not the sort of thing somebody does with a screwdriver and a couple of wrenches in a few minutes. This was in the morning. He said he had parked the car in front of the hotel, had worked in his room for an hour, come out, and noticed the change. He had phoned the agent where he bought the car and the agent confirmed that the wheel was on the left side. So Boronski said he wanted me to phone the agent but I refused. I didn't want to listen to him. It was his car and his mind. We only provide rooms and meals." The manager laughed. "Anyway, the next day the wheel was back in its correct position so the mishap was taken care of."

  De Gier gaped. Asta stopped writing.

  "Did I hear you correctly?" de Gier asked. "Or am I going mad too?"

  "You heard me correctly, but the man was mad."

  "Did you see the car again?"

  "No. He wanted to show it to me, but I refused to leave the desk. Damn it all, I'm not a psychiatrist, I'm a hotel manager. There had been all the other nonsense too. His watch disappeared from his bathroom and turned up an hour later in the spot where it should have been all the time. He sent his clothes for dry cleaning and the wrong clothes came back to his room. One of the girls checked, but by that time they had changed into the right clothes again. Mr. Boronski was suffering from some form of paranoia. He hallucinated. He was physically ill too, he complained of stomach cramps and we had to serve him porridge for dinner; he exhausted the room service waiter by phoning for milk every half hour. I'm glad he has left us."

  "Yes," de Gier said.

  "I'm sorry he is dead, of course, sergeant. Now if there is anything else I can help you with." The manager looked at his watch. "I'm af
raid I…"

  De Gier got up. "Thank you."

  Asta stumbled in the corridor, the sergeant stooped to catch her arm, and she turned and kissed him on the mouth.

  "Hey!"

  "I've been wanting to do that, do you mind?"

  "No."

  "Kiss me again."

  "You kissed me. I don't kiss colleagues during working hours. Would you like coffee?"

  They sat in the coffee shop of the hotel for a while. Asta served the sergeant, she even stirred his coffee for him. He grinned.

  "You're a slave. I thought that young ladies don't do that sort of thing anymore."

  "What sort of thing?"

  "Be servile."

  "I love to be servile," Asta whispered. "I'm old-fashioned. I like to be on my back and the man to be on me. I like to oblige. It's a pity you have nothing to carry, I would carry it for you, even if it was very heavy."

  "Have you had many men?"

  She pursed her thick lower lip and a tiny frown appeared on her smooth forehead. She blew at a curl that hung in her eyes.

  "Hmm. Not too many. I tried some young men but they weren't any good, too quick. The older men are usually married, and when they embrace me, I know that they're looking at their watch behind my neck. I can see it in their eyes. They're slow and polite, but they go away when it's over. You wouldn't be like that, would you?"

  "I might be. Who did you believe, the manager or Boronski?"

  "Boronski."

  "Why?"

  "I saw his corpse, remember," Asta said. "I didn't like him at all, not with that low forehead and the eyes too close together. I've known men with low foreheads and close eyes that I liked, but Boronski had something nasty about him. But he wouldn't lie like that. And that manager didn't really exist, did you notice that?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "He was just like the hotel. It looks all right, but once you're in it you can see that it's all hollow. They have tried to recapture the dignity of the past; they've got the right architecture and the right trimmings, but there's nothing in it. Everything is hollow, filled with air. He was too. He's like a doll I once had. I threw it away. Even when I scratched its face and tore its clothes, it wasn't there."