The Rattle-Rat

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  The motorcycle cut off the Citroen. A corporal got off and saluted.

  "We're headed for Leeuwarden," the commissaris said.

  The motorcycle showed them the way. It stopped again."Can't take you any farther, sir," the corporal said. "I'm State, and we're getting into the territory of the city. If you have a moment I'll radio for assistance." He detached the microphone from his radio. "Municipal Headquarters? Over."

  The corporal spoke Frisian. He seemed to have trouble making himself understood.

  "Don't they all speak the language here?" the commissaris asked.

  "Some don't," the corporal said. "We have our traitors. They insist on using Dutch. Some of us believe there are too many languages in the world. They'll have us all speaking Russian soon." He bellowed into the microphone again.

  "Now what?" the radio asked in Dutch.

  The corporal sighed. "Very well. The silver Citroen. On the ringway, milepost twelve. Send out a car and pick up colleagues from the Netherlands."

  "You are in the Netherlands," the radio said curtly.

  "Will you send a car?" the corporal shouted, getting red in the face.

  "Understood," the radio said, and chuckled.

  \\ 16 /////

  "I OFTEN SURPRISE MYSELF," DE GlER SAID. "OUT ALL DAY and I still come up with a good meal. Look at this spread. Fresh-fried sole, smoked eel on bread that I'm about to toast, personally whipped cream, and hand-cleaned strawberries. Maybe I'll still have time to toss a salad. And you just bumble about. The complete nonachiever. You could help, maybe."

  "Lay the table?" Grijpstra asked. He pulled open a drawer in his search for a cloth. But he used too much force, and the detached drawer, filled with kitchen tools, fell on his toes. Grypstra hopped out of the kitchen, uttering a string of four-letter words.

  De Gier followed. "You sure you're Frisian? Frisians are not supposed to let themselves go like that."

  Grijpstra sat down and took off his shoe.

  De Gier lay on the couch and picked up his novel.

  Grypstra breathed heavily.

  "'You're an asshole,'" de Gier read. "Not you, but the male hero in this book. He's addressed by his wife. She's called Martha again. I would say that their relationship is troubled because she'll never let him have his say. If she did, she might see what he doesn't understand about her attitude. If she did, the book could end well, but maybe that's bad literature." De Gier struggled free of the cushions on the couch. "Why can't anybody ever be happy? It's the same here in this province that's so superior to die rest of the country. Mem and Douwe, Gyske and Sjurd, and Sjurd's nephew's girlfriend just broke the engagement. The disharmony between spouses and lovers is about as bad as what we're used to at our end. Misery all over."

  Grijpstra had put his shoe on again and was on his way to the kitchen. "Happiness," the adjutant said, "is maybe not what we should be after."

  "Happiness," de Gier said, "is a white toy rabbit with a red ribbon around its fluffy neck. I never liked the idea either. How did you fare with Pyr, Tyark, and what's-his-name?"

  "Yelte," Grypstra said miserably.

  "What a deadpan face you have," de Gier said. "I've always admired you for the way you never let on. The suspects have quite normal names, I'm sure. You made up those weird names to make sure I wouldn't interfere."

  "Real names," Grijpstra said. "And you," Grijpstra shouted, "why don't you keep out of this, eh?"

  "I'm your friend," de Gier said. "We're living together. I'm being sympathetic. I worry about your welfare. You're doing too much, and you should learn to relax. Why are you so busy?"

  "Shouldn't I be busy?" Grijpstra asked. "In my Frisian jersey? Under my Frisian cap? Shouldn't I be visiting those human sheep? That bleat up front and rattle in the rear? Because their shit is never wiped and dries out in their ass hairs. Yellow-eyed, brainless throwbacks, happily hiding in their inbred stupidity."

  "Rattle?" De Gier jumped up. "I'll be back in a moment."

  He came back with the rat. Eddy had collapsed on de Gier's hands; his tail and legs hung down.

  Grijpstra had found the tablecloth and was shaking it out of its folds. "Hi, Eddy."

  Eddy's pink nose trembled.

  "Listen." De Gier's nose pointed toward Eddy's chest. Grijpstra bent down. "You hear it?"

  "Rattling again," Grijpstra said. "Cats purr. Maybe it's okay, but he looks sick to me."

  Eddy was carefully dropped on the couch. Grijpstra stroked the rat's back. De Gier brought cheese. Eddy struggled up and grabbed the cheese.

  "Back to my role," de Gier said, "of loving sharer of whatever you're not getting together these days. What did Pyr, Tyark, and Yelte tell you today?"

  "They called me amtner. They accused me of rabberij. And they claimed to know nothing."

  "Your terminology is not quite clear."

  "I thought you had mastered the lingo." Grijpstra raised his voice. "I thought you were the scholar."

  De Gier checked his dictionary. "Amtner merely stands for 'official' but rabberij means slander."

  "And belestingT

  "Ah," de Gier said, "that'll be 'tax.' It's clear to me now. Were you trying to upset the suspects, hoping that they might give themselves away in anger?" De Gier put the little book away. "The usual technique? If you were accusing them of tax-free and therefore illegal transactions, you may have scared them." De Gier shook his finger. "But you didn't apply your method right, for you still know nothing."

  "FYUU," Grijpstra shouted.

  "You'll hyperventilate," de Gier said kindly. "Control your breathing."

  Grijpstra's face became redder.

  "Fyuu?" de Gier echoed angrily. "I'm only trying to help, and you just make sounds." He picked up his novel. "Here. She—Martha again—is complaining that she's out of the regular world." He dropped the book. "What is she telling us? That she can no longer make contact with the others. The unhappy woman doesn't know that others are just as helpless as she is. What have others ever done for anyone? Where is my Hylkje? She should be here. Didn't she promise to be here for dinner? Last night she stimulated me sexually for hours, and then when the moment came, she took some drunken bum to her bed."

  " 'The Man, the Marionette,'" Grijpstra said triumphantly. 'Title of a play on TV. You remind me of the hero."

  De Gier's mouth opened slightly.

  "Watch some TV sometimes," Grijpstra said, "then you won't have to gape at me. The play showed what it will be like once men have lost, seen from the winning female point of view. Swedish, of course. Subtitled and tragic. Everybody goes gay!"

  Eddy rattled softly. "Not now, Eddy." De Gier caressed the rat.

  "My wife liked that play," Grijpstra said. "I liked it too, for I finally saw how we are humiliated. And once I got that—it was quite transparent, really—I began to behave in an opposite way from what she expected. She eventually left me, and I was free."

  "Hylkje is not gay," de Gier said, "and neither is your wife."

  "No?" Grijpstra asked triumphantly. "So why does Hylkje go about dressed in leather? Any why does she subdue the male image of the motorcycle?"

  "So every woman choosing a heretofore male profession is homosexual?"

  "Funny voice, too."

  "Watch it now," de Gier said. "But you're right, she does have a funny voice. Bisexual, perhaps?"

  "I don't care what they are," Grijpstra said. "They can pervert the codes to the hilt. The law allows for aberrations, and we don't have to bother. But there is one taboo left," Grijpstra shouted. "Murder! And we're the Murder Brigade."

  "They should be careful with fire, too," de Gier said. "Arson is another taboo. Arson is worse, for the country is short of homes. There are far too many people. If murder were allowed, the population would decrease, a healthy balance would be found, and..."

  "So unhappiness is our fault," Grijpstra said sadly.

  The doorbell rang.

  "You open up and apologize," de Gier said. "Such a wellmannered girl, arrived righ
t on time, unaware of your slander. Hylkje is normal, healthy, attractive, and under the spell of my charm. Why don't you ever use charm? No wonder Pyr, Tyark, and Yelte didn't respond."

  "Evening, sir," Grijpstra said in the corridor. "You're just in time for dinner. And who may you be?"

  "It's me," Cardozo said.

  "Are there local festivities?" de Gier asked when Cardozo came in. "Are we required to dress up in Frisian garb?"

  "A pox on you," Cardozo said, and turned to leave.

  The commissaris's small hand grabbed Cardozo's wrist. "Stay here." Cardozo pulled a little. "I don't want te be laughed at, sir."

  Grijpstra and de Gier were pointing at Cardozo, laughing and slapping each other's shoulders.

  "Enough," the commissaris said. "It's time for an official meeting. And dinner meanwhile. We brought the alcohol." He produced small bottles, wrapped in linen, out of his pocket. "Present from Chief Constable Lasius of Burmania, a most helpful nobleman who gives them out to tourists."

  De Gier tore the linen bags containing the bottles, and Grijpstra unscrewed the caps. Cardozo found glasses. The commissaris raised his. "To Cardozo, who can report first."

  Cardozo talked.

  "Are you done now?" de Gier asked. "The business with the herons is clear, but how did the Chinese in front know about the Chinese to the rear?"

  "Sir?" Cardozo asked.

  The commissaris laid out his theory for them. "I can't prove any of this," he added, 'for all parties are dead. Whether I'm right or wrong, I suggest that Wo Hop, provided his papers are not in order, leave the country forthwith. We can see what happens later. We just might have some peace."

  "But how could they presume that the police are corrupt?" Grijpstra asked. "That if one of us cycles on a dike, he carries heroin in his lunch box?"

  "The papers keep accusing us," de Gier said, "so the public believes the lies."

  "Your turn," the commissaris said.

  "I'm not in on this," de Gier said. "Not being Frisian, sir."

  "Grijpstra?"

  Grijpstra reported.

  "Same with my investigation, so far," the commissaris said. "Mem Scherjoen is a first-class suspect. She won't admit that fact. Neither do your sheep dealers. They shouldn't volunteer information at this point, for they know we have no tangible evidence. All we can do is inquire politely."

  "While Cardozo cycles through death and damnation," de Gier said.

  "Shouldn't you keep out of this?" Cardozo asked.

  "Sir?" Grijpstra asked. "How did the Arrest Team know that Cardozo would be cycling through death and damnation?"

  "They didn't," the commissaris said. "Remember the Indonesian revolutionary immigrants who ran berserk in the east of the country one pleasant Sunday not so long ago? The local State Police came marching by, on their way to some festival. Luck favors us at times. Fate won't let us lose forever, for if it did, we would give up and there would be nothing for Fate to watch. You should have seen the aggressive exhibition on the dike today. Supermen in combat clothes firing their futuristic weapons. If I dared to tell my wife, she'd never let me out again. War in a galaxy of a parallel universe. A commander knocking off foreign peons without the slightest emotion. A machine-man, an inhuman computer. Automatic horror released by secret training camps spawned by our own organization. A most effective and interesting show." The commissaris held up his glass. "Not that I liked it."

  "No," de Gier said, his voice muted by enthusiasm barely controlled.

  "Doesn't the idea 'proportion' figure largely in our laws?" the commissaris asked, emptying his glass again. "What will Bald Ary and Fritz with the Tuft be thinking when they're jumped by mechanical humanoid destruction from all sides at once? Their successors will adapt to the situation we are creating and attack in army strength, supported by missiles. When the punks attack in Amsterdam again, they'll be in armored vehicles."

  "Really?" de Gier asked, slowly rubbing his hands.

  "Get away," Grijpstra said. "You, of all people. One drop of blood and you faint away."

  "Me?" de Gier asked, jumping from the couch, grabbing a machine gun from the air, and mowing down all available criminal elements. "Me? I'm a warrior. Aggression is in my genes. Times have been too soft for a long while now. The knight, the samurai, the mercenary are in me. Tanks in the streets. Submarines in the canals. Howling crowds attacking Headquarters. The last fight, with my back to the last crumbling wall. The life of the hero."

  The doorbell rang, and de Gier answered it.

  "Hello, Hylkje," de Gier said. Hylkje thought that Car-dozo looked funny too. She sobbed with pleasure in de Gier's arms. She doubled up when he stepped back. She dried her eyes.

  "I'm off," Cardozo said. Grypstra's hand dived down. Cardozo fought in Grijpstra's grip.

  "I'm sorry I had to laugh," Hylkje said. "Wherever did you get that suit?"

  "Mem Scherjoen gave it to him," the commissaris said. "From Douwe's legacy."

  Cardozo had to explain about the herons again. Hylkje blew her nose furiously. Her eyes sparkled above her hand- kerchief. 'Think of something else," de Gier said. "It'll probably pass."

  "I just came from Dingjum," Hylkje said. "After riding the dike on patrol. Lieutenant Sudema has demolished a good part of his house. Gyske came back from visiting Mrs. Scherjoen." She looked at the commissaris. "You don't seriously suspect Mem?"

  "A mere formality," the commissaris said. "A technical possibility, however slight."

  "Gyske says," Hylkje said, "that it would be absolutely impossible for Mem to hurt anyone at all."

  "So says Gyske," the commissaris said. "But Mem's motivation might be just fine. Perhaps Mem would be interested in protecting the world against the type of evil that someone like her husband is likely to commit. In our literature such cases are known, in studies on extenuating circumstances. I remember the case of the American father of a psychopathic small daughter who—in Massachusetts, I believe— was killing off her teachers. The child was, unfortunately, a genius in evil. Only her father knew she was the killer, and he murdered his own child to prevent further trouble."

  "Didn't he give himself up?" de Gier asked. "Is Mem Scherjoen giving herself up?"

  Grypstra kept coughing. "Sorry," de Gier said. "I'm out of this, but I couldn't help being curious. Sorry, Adjutant."

  "Gyske says," Hylkje said, "that Mem loved Douwe dearly. You're all men, you cannot possibly identify with a woman in such a relationship."

  "The female attitude is changing," the commissaris said.

  "Only lately, sir. Mem is from the past."

  "Dinner?" the commissaris asked.

  De Gier fried the soles, flipping them over with smart flicks of his fork. The crunchy fish were served in a ring of fresh lettuce. There was a tomato salad, with a dressing flavored with herbs from the garden. The commissaris ate the last golden fried potato. Cold beer foamed.

  De Gier brought out strawberries, under a cloud of whipped cream.

  "You're good," Hylkje said.

  "The sergeant lives alone," the commissaris said helpfully.

  "In contrast," Grypstra said, "to all of us who fail in marriage or are manipulated in other unfortunate relationships, de Gier lives well. He may not be a Frisian, but he's still an example."

  "Exactly," sneered Cardozo. "Who needs women, anyway?" "Because I laughed?" Hylkje said. "Because you looked funny?"

  "Yes," Cardozo said, "for I had been laughed at already, and I wouldn't expect a woman to sink that low. Maybe I'm an exception too. I began by adoring all women. I'm still young, my views could change again. I'm not saying you're all bad. No, I won't go that far yet."

  "He's weakening," Grypstra said. "Keep it up, Cardozo."

  "So how far would you like to go?" Hylkje asked, adjusting a golden lock. Her eyes had grown larger. Her lips were moist. She sat up straight. Her bosom pointed at Cardozo.

  "To get back to our subject..." the commissaris said.

  "Yes, what shall we do now?" Grijps
tra asked.

  "Please tell me," Hylkje said. "Soon I'll be too old for the motorcycle brigade, and I'm planning to apply for a position as a detective. Do you have a plan, sir?"

  De Gier brought the coffee in.

  "Patience," the commissaris said. "Perseverance. No loss of enthusiasm now. Arrange our facts. Connect all causes and effects and study the points where the lines meet. Ignore what doesn't make sense, and keep working on what will hold under scrutiny. I see only four connections so far. We have one abused spouse and three conflicts of commercial interest. What else can be observed? The bizarre aspects of the murder? Why did the killer go to so much trouble once the opponent was destroyed? Would an older lady like Mem Scherjoen drag her husband's corpse through winding alleys? Does mere loss of cash provoke sadistic hatred? Are we right in paying so much attention to three rustic types who smoke pipes under chestnut trees after their work is done? Let's have your opinion, Sergeant."

  De Gier shrugged in defense.

  The commissaris looked at Hylkje. "Would Frisians be likely to misbehave in such a flagrant manner? Why the urge to totally destroy the enemy? How do you see your own people? As noble, straight, honest, industrious, moral, God-fearing?"

  "Oh, yes, sir."

  "There's much clear light here," the commissaris said, "so the shadows will be dark. Darkness is part of our being. The part that we hide in shame is always active too."

  Hylkje supported her chin with clasped hands. Her long eyelashes protected her staring eyes. "You put things so well."

  "Well..." the commissaris said shyly.

  "And then?"

  "Darkness," the commissaris said, "is tolerated in Amsterdam. Tolerance makes evil show itself. Once our bad sides can be seen, we may learn to live with them, up to a point. I postulate that Frisians tend to hide their shadows. When the shameful aspect is masked and repressed, we may expect considerable tension. Our evil will do everything to break out of our discipline, and then, suddenly..."

  Hylkje looked at de Gier. He placed empty cups on a tray. His shoulder muscles bulged easily under the thin cotton of his tight shirt, which tapered down to his narrow waist. His long, supple fingers grasped the ear of a teacup tenderly. As he carried the tray away, his arm brushed past Hylkje's hair.