"Nice and quiet," de Gier asked.*The law lives here?"
"We don't care for being told what to do," Hylkje said. "We have better ideas ourselves; the law knows that and hardly interferes. The result is peace, not the clamor you're used to in the nether parts."
"Do you ever visit the other end of the dike?"
"I've been there. I was a cop in Amsterdam for a year. Some police like to swagger down there, and it invites reaction. Some motorcyclists rode me down one night. Hurt my leg, couldn't wear a dress for years. Scar tissue-the cylinder of my own bike burned my shin. They pushed me over from the side and were off again."
"Revenge burns in your gentle soul?"
"A little less every day. A beer, Sergeant?"
The pub spread out under low, heavy beams. Hylkje was greeted by an aged bartender, hopping about spryly behind the weathered shelves and counters in the back. The glasses were foaming already, waiting to be beheaded by the wooden skimmer in the old man's bony hand.
"Working for the same boss?" the bartender asked, pointing his scraggly beard and gleaming sharp nose at de Gier.
"He's ours," Hylkje said. "But from down below. Maybe you can trust him, Doris."
"Rinus," de Gier said. "All yours, forever after."
"Don't stay long," Doris cackled. "Keep the bad elements down on your end. We've got it good here, and it may still last for a while." The wrinkles around his eyes folded in and out. The dark beady eyes glinted. "Meanwhile, enjoy what we can offer. Have her and strong beer."
"He's here to work," Hylkje said.
"I can recommend her," Doris said loudly.
"That's enough," Hylkje said, "or we'll go to another pub."
"Still have your cold?" Doris asked.
"It's my voice," Hylkje said. "If you weren't so decrepit and a little more male, you might find the low pitch exciting. Do your job, Doris, there are customers waiting."
Doris was off, carrying a tray, shouting insults at clients in the rear. "I quite like your voice," de Gier said.
"You too? It isn't nice to criticize the voice of your hostess. People used to say I lowed."
"Like a cow."
"A what?"
"Don't keep taking what I say the wrong way," de Gier said. "Here in Friesland, the sound is romantic. Yesterday, in Dingjum, I heard how lovely the sound can be. We landed in a meadow, and once the chopper was gone, the silence was audible and the cow chanted through it, softly. She sang, the way you do when you talk."
"A cow," Hylkje said, "swinging her udders. I don't do that. A cow chews, burps, and chews again-I don't do that either. A cow digests everything five times. A cow is gross. A cow has diarrhea."
"I didn't get a good look at her," de Gier said. "She was behind us and we had to go ahead, but she was, of course, a small good-tempered beast, on slender legs, with a dainty body and tender eyes."
"You should watch your approach," Hylkje said. "You won't get far with me this way."
De Gier asked for more beer.
"Closing time," Doris shouted. "Away with you. I don't care for your company. Out. Maybe I'll fill you up tomorrow again. There's the door. Go on. The police are due any second now."
He passed Hylkje and de Gier their beers. "You're doing okay, son. Keep pushing now, you hear? Or are you planning to be around for a while and hoping for something better?"
The police entered, but there was only one of them. He moved next to Hylkje. "Meet my friend," Hylkje said. "This is Officer First-Class Eldor Janssen. Sergeant de Gier. Colleagues and subjects of the same queen."
Customers squeezed out through the door, harassed by Doris's shouts and waving fists. The constable had finished his coffee and moved along. Here and there a customer still slumped behind a table. Doris closed the curtains. "Right, now what will it be?" He filled the slurred orders. The door opened. "All closed up," Doris shouted. "Out, or I'll call the cops."
The trespassing customer aimed for the bar. "So open up again. I work for the boss. Hi, Hylkje." Lieutenant Sudema covered one eye with an unsteady hand. "Hi, you too."
De Gier straightened. "Evening, sir."
Doris locked the door and supported the lieutenant simultaneously, for Sudema was losing ground. "Whoa!" Then he was back on his feet, flapping both hands. Doris withdrew behind the counter. The lieutenant slipped again, swinging his arms in desperation. Hylkje pushed, de Gier pulled, and the lieutenant found a stool.
"Now what?" Hylkje asked. "Got yourself sozzled?"
"Completely and helplessly intoxicated," the lieutenant said. "Been everywhere already. Mixed the local brew with all available imports. I'm still not quite where I'd like to be. Does anyone know why?" He held on to the bartop while Doris poured beer. Lieutenant Sudema raised his glass. "Your very good health. Nobody knows why? Because tomorrow I have to take my kitchen cupboard down. My wife fucks in there. Not with me, you know. I sleep in my father's antique bed." The lieutenant closed both eyes and drank to his father's image, mumbling devoutly. "There you go, old boy. Thanks indeed. I don't want this life at all. A lot of hard work and I'm busy already. Insufficient staff and a station deluged with complaints and charges. Tons of tomatoes in die greenhouse. Will it ever end? When I destroy that cupboard, the wall will fall out of the house. I'll have to place posts." He opened an eye and tried to wipe the foam off his mouth. "One more." He looked about in triumph. "For everyone."
Doris filled glasses and delivered. The officials shouted toasts.
"Why does your wife copulate in a cupboard?" Hylkje asked.
"So that she may debauch herself in secret." One of the lieutenant's eyes focused on de Gier, the other wandered. "You have a wife?"
"No," de Gier said.
"Help yourself to Hylkje," Lieutenant Sudema said. "She's all yours." He lurched toward Hylkje, kept back by de Gier's suddenly extended arm. "You like cupboards too?"
"I don't mind where I do it," Hylkje said.
"Didn't even know it could be done," Lieutenant Sudema said. "Stupid, eh?" He nodded upward while he sucked more foam. "Couldn't you tell me, Sir? Why don't You ever fill in gaps?"
"He guides us into suffering," Doris said softly.
"Doris," Hylkje said softly.
"Doesn't He?" Doris unfolded both his beady eyes. "And don't only drunks know what He is up to?" He snarled. "Enough of this, I'll sweep you out." The broom swishing in Doris's hands drove protesting customers to the door.
"I'll do some fancy driving now," Lieutenant Sudema said cheerfully. "To the neighbor lady. She has a cupboard too."
"He can't drive," Hylkje said to de Gier.
"Amazing," de Gier said. "Yesterday I was at his house. I thought he was everything that I should have been. My mother's dream for my future that kept missing me. An upstanding gentleman, sane in body and mind, completed by just the right sort of spouse. When I saw them together I was almost ready to change my ideas. And now look at this."
The lieutenant had fallen off his stool and knelt toward the counter. He talked. Doris hung over the bartop. "A devout social worker qualified in psychiatry?" Doris asked.
"In the cupboard," Lieutenant Sudema said. 'They shared their togetherness in there, and their joy, and inner longings."
"On a shelf?" Doris asked.
"I'm not going to drive all the way to Dingjum now," Hylkje said. "I'm working early tomorrow."
"Dump him in a motel."
"In his condition? They'll never accept him," Hylkje decided. She knelt next to the lieutenant. "Darling?"
"Beloved?" Lieutenant Sudema asked.
"Doris is closing up. Are you coming with me?"
The lieutenant sneered. "You stock no liquor."
"But I do, I do. A choice. Anything you care to name."
"I'm going all the way, do you have communist vodka?"
"With the label that falls off?"
"That and no other."
"I have it," Hylkje said. "The worst kind. All yours."
"The foulest," Lieutenant Sudema said. "Th
e wickedest. The shortest path to hell. You sure you have that now?"
"A cupboardful," Hylkje said, narrowing her eyes.
"But that's where they did it." The lieutenant began to cry.
"No, not in a cupboard, on a shelf under my sink. Come along, my dearest."
De Gier pulled the lieutenant up. "You don't have to join us," Lieutenant Sudema said.
"Never. I'm just taking you there. I'll say good-bye at the door. She loves you. I swear."
"He'll rape you," de Gier whispered into Hylkje's ear.
"Promise?" Hylkje asked.
"I don't really mind you," Lieutenant Sudema said to de Gier. "I'll make sure you get more tomatoes. Come fetch them tomorrow." He grabbed hold of de Gier's arm. "And then you should plan a trip to the island of Ameland. Just the place for you. Speak to the Military Police and ask for my nephew. Same name. Hey-ho!" He didn't have to find his legs again, for de Gier's hold was firm.
"Nephew?" de Gier asked.
"Private Sudema. The copper deal. The AWOL fellow. Hey-ho!"
Lieutenant Sudema was lowered into the back seat of Hylkje's car.
"In exchange for sole," the lieutenant said. "Don't forget now. Bring the sole back. The Water Police or whoever is around, no need for the ferry. You got all that now?"
Halfway up the stairs to Hylkje's apartment, the lieutenant fell asleep. When he woke up on her bed, he wasn't feeling too well. He wondered if there might be a bucket around. De Gier greeted a passing rabbit. He picked it up. "Don't," Hylkje said. "That rabbit is loaded."
Small hard pellets ricocheted off the floor and twanged against the lieutenant's bucket. "Messy," de Gier said, "both of them. Yachf He swept up the pellets while Hylkje mopped the floor.
"Never shake Durk," Hylkje said. "He manufactures them so fast, and his tube is always full. If you touch him they'll shake free."
Lieutenant Sudema sat on the bed. "Coming, darling?" He dropped backward and stretched, rumbling into a snore. "You undress him," Hylkje said. "I don't know about suspenders and such."
De Gier tucked the stripped lieutenant in.
"I'll take the couch," Hylkje said. "Consider yourself thanked."
"Am I welcome some other time?" de Gier asked, putting the broom away in the cupboard where Hylkje arranged her mop. Hylkje pushed him away.
"No kiss?"
"Whatever for?" Hylkje asked. "Why did I get into this mess? Let's try again, call me tomorrow."
\\ 10 /////
" Are you giving it to me or not?" Cardozo asked.
"Never," his brother said. "Buy your own bicycle. Everybody has a bicycle except our Symie. So what does Symie have? A bound edition of the collected adventures of Tintin, the child detective. Sell that bundled nonsense and take the train tomorrow. At the comic-book store they'll give you the price of the ticket."
"Mother?" Cardozo asked.
"Samuel!" Mrs. Cardozo said loudly.
"He wrecked my boat, complete with outboard," Samuel said, "also to restore public order, and now the bicycle will go, to be demolished on the dike. Never. Not again."
"If we all only think of ourselves…" Mrs. Cardozo said.
"He only thinks of himself," Cardozo said. He walked along the rampart of the Old Fortress, in the direction of the Inner Harbor. A detective is irrevocably attracted to where the crime was accomplished. Now where would that be, exactly? Scherjoen could have been shot through the head in any location, and dragged afterward to the slow-moving water of the Inner Harbor. Had there been a mere unfortunate coincidence of negative powers resulting in impromptu manslaughter? Or had the intention been there all the time and had the guilty party simply waited for an opportune moment? Cardozo stopped, weighing and comparing definitions, under the Montelbaen Tower, which pointed at low clouds with its elegant peak, between tall, slender mansions that, leaning forward in an interested manner, observed the contemplator. Murder, to a detective working on Amsterdam's most serious crimes, might be the ideal solution, but the verdict hardly mattered at this time. Who had been manipulated by self-willed fate? This was the way it went: Scherjoen was forever grabbing the competition's loot, and his victims had decided to minimize future adversity. When and where had they acted? At a time and place that suited them best. Armed, they had lurked on Scherjoen's path.
Now here we have Scherjoen, weakened by alcohol and unsteadily pointed in the direction of his Citroen, parked halfway on the pavement. The avengers touch elbows. It's late, the street is theirs. A shot rings out on the deserted quayside. Scherjoen stumbles and Ms. Is that it? No, Douwe has to be done away with altogether. No corpse, no pursuit. Whatever disappears completely has never been. Who will miss Douwe? Only Douwe's wife, but Mem had no idea where Douwe could have gone. Where, then, would Douwe's body be looked for? And when? The later the better.
Clever rural types from the far north. What are they doing now? They leer innocently from under their flat caps. They pick up Scherjoen from two sides and walk on. Three rural types from a distant province, the one in the middle heavily under the weather.
Where is a body best disposed of in Amsterdam? In the water. The harbor's current will most likely push it out to sea. But wait, there's a dory over there. A much better plan indeed. Gasoline is poured on the remains, and a match is scratched to life.
But where, Cardozo thought, did the gasoline come from? A gun fits into a pocket, but the pedestrian cannot easily lug a gasoline can. Did they have one ready in a car? Did the empty can then go back into the vehicle?
Cardozo looked at the smooth movement of the Inner Harbor's surface. The swell broke up in whitecapped waves. He walked along the water's edge, found an old broomstick, and moved it slowly through floating debris.
"Got him!"
The detective, jumped from both sides, waved helplessly with his stick.
"In the name of the law," two rough voices growled. "What's this here? You're behaving in a suspicious manner. What are you digging in the filth for?"
"Hi, Karate. Hi, Ketchup."
"The Frisian corpse?" The uniformed officers helped in the search, Karate with a branch, Ketchup with a broken fishing rod found on the spot.
"Can I guess?" Karate asked. "You've got the corpse. A gun doesn't float. A gas can, maybe?"
"I know the report on the Frisian corpse by heart," Ketchup said. "I read everything that's around. Nothing else to do anyway. We can't bring in muggers for a while, all the cells are filled, in the city and all municipalities of this province. At the station we read, and out here we pass the time."
"Like now," Karate said "No can in sight," Ketchup said.
"No can in sight," Ketchup said. "Here, a piece of mattress. Here, a cleaning product jar."
"You really do not work now?" Cardozo asked.
"There are always the Chinese," Karate said brightly.
"You've got cells for them, then?"
"There's the large cage at Headquarters," Ketchup said. "Every time it fills up, the Military Police fly a load to the Far East. Chinese without proper papers, we can catch some if we insist, provided we take them straight to the cage and don't bother our own station."
"It's fun," Karate said, "because they keep coming back so that our work may never end. Our sergeant likes us to keep active. Take Ping Hop, I've had him three times already. I even remember his face. 'Hi, Ping,' I say. Does that fellow put in a lot of flying hours! There…"
"… and back," sang Ketchup.
"How about a break?" Karate said. "Dinnertime. We can have it close by. Fried noodles and shrimp?"
Wo Hop was about to close, but because the police came in and inquired about the present address of his nephew Ping Hop, he would be still open for a short while. "No know," Wo Hop said kindly.
'This Wo Hop has papers?" Cardozo asked.
"He has a restaurant," Karate said. "Good grub and reasonable prices. We do have to eat."
"Papers?" Cardozo asked.
"Papers, who cares?" Karate and Ketchup were reading the men
u.
A gent came in, with a red round face above a well-worn but clean tweed suit. "Evening," the gent said.
"Adjutant," Karate and Ketchup said.
"He's learning the language," said Karate. "Doing pretty well. You can hardly hear his Frisian accent."
"What," Cardozo asked, "would a Frisian police officer be doing in our city?"
"Adjutant Oppenhuyzen, Alien Department, trying to block the route to the north," Karate said. "He doesn't want them there, he wants to keep them here."
"You tolerate Frisian interference?"
Wo Hop brought bowls heaped with fried noodles, and a glass of cognac for Cardozo. Cardozo refused. "On the house," Wo Hop said.
"We tolerate just about anything," Karate said. "We can't be helpful to the illegal Chinese, for if we are, the newspapers will accuse us of taking bribes. We still assume that some of the Chinese visitors are okay people. Not too clever, maybe, for they don't understand Dutch red tape. It would be nice if someone could help them fill in their forms. If the Frisian adjutant wants to help, we'll wish him well."
"And he doesn't take bribes?"
Ketchup and Karate ate.
"Hello?" asked Cardozo.
"You don't know what goes on here," Ketchup said. "When we overhunt the Chinese, they slide up the dike and hang out in Friesland. We recognize two types of suspects, from Singapore and from Hong Kong. They also hunt each other. Let's call it sport. They practice a little karate, some sharpshooting, stick-swinging, artistry with rope. Adjutant Oppenhuyzen is against all sport. He wants them to train here, where there's so much sport already."
"Take last year," Karate said. 'Ten dead Chinese in the city. Who notices ten corpses in a town the size of Amsterdam? The reports have been filed away a long time ago."
In the back of the restaurant, nervous young Chinese men had been arguing loudly. The presence of the burly adjutant seemed to restore their ruffled tempers. "Laid back, isn't he?" Cardozo asked. "Same type as our very own Grijpstra. Would the rank of adjutant be a common denominator?"
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