The Rattle-Rat

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "Looking for those sirens."

  The officer listened too. "Would be close to the railway station. Take the next alley to the right, and never mind from then on. Just go straight, can you do that?"

  De Gier made the Volkswagen bounce along the pavement and took the first right. The alley was marked as a bicycle route. Ignoring further signs, de Gier took a one-way bridge from the wrong side, broke through a red and white check- ered partition that bordered a parking lot, and roamed about between long lines of silent cars. A Mercedes sports car appeared, and the car's pursuers, racing along in two sleek Ford convertibles. The Volkswagen jumped ahead and tried to follow the chase.

  Around and around and around.

  Monotonous, de Gier thought. The Volkswagen began to weaken. De Gier noticed an open parking space, and filled it. The Mercedes aimed for the bridge, but a Ford tried to cut it off. The military policeman in the rear seat emptied a clip from his Uzi. The weapon spat rapid fire just before Mercedes and Ford ripped off each other's fenders, went out of control, and began to destroy parked cars. De Gier approached the final scene on foot. The Ford's driver rested his bleeding head on the steering wheel. The Ford's horn howled tragically. "Yayhay" the other policemen, jumping from the Ford, were shouting while they leaped at the stalled and silent Mercedes from three sides. The Uzi chattered again. De Gier reached the Mercedes too.

  "Huh?" the military policemen asked each other.

  De Gier looked into the car. "You took his head off," he said quietly. "No head." De Gier sat down, for he was tired now. He preferred to lie down, and stretched himself on the tarmac.

  "Everything is fine," a kind voice said.

  De Gier thought he might want to sit up now for a bit, but he couldn't, for he was strapped down.

  "Won't be long now," a kind voice said.

  Isn't the world a friendly place? de Gier thought.

  He woke up a few minutes later and heard Grijpstra's voice.

  "Can I have him now?" Grijpstra asked.

  De Gier noticed a sour taste in his mouth.

  "He threw up in the ambulance just now," Grijpstra said. "Otherwise he's fine. Truly. I've known him for maybe twenty years. The sergeant can't stand blood. If he sees blood he throws up."

  De Gier stumbled against Grijpstra's arm. "Fritz had no head." He burped.

  "So they were saying," Grijpstra said. "But it isn't too bad. Sprayed fire, they call it. The bullets spread, formed a cloud, cut down everything in their way. And that Fritz was no good."

  The Volkswagen waited in the hospital's driveway, with a bashed-in front end.

  "Did I do that?" de Gier asked.

  "It was me this time," Grijpstra said, "but it's all right. Bit of confusion out there. I found the car, and you had left the key. I wanted to save our faithful companion, but one of the Arrest Team's vehicles was still tearing about, and the ambulance came for you. Not a clear situation. You know a colleague by the name of Eldor Janssen?"

  "A great man," de Gier said. "An example to us all. A true Viking, Adjutant, they still have some here, I believe. If only there were more of them."

  "Sure," Grijpstra said. "Well now, that Eldor has a wife and she also wrecked a Volkswagen, her own, but the front end is okay. She's giving it to us."

  "When I looked in on Fritz," de Gier said, "there was still some movement in there. Maybe Fritz wanted to tell me something, but he was short of his head."

  "What were you doing there, anyway?" Grijpstra asked. "The confrontation was planned for next week. Here I am, doing everything possible to keep you free of what's going on, and you're out there in a hail of bullets."

  De Gier had been bedded down on the couch. Grijpstra brought tea.

  "Was I out a long time?"

  "The doctor said you were asleep," Grijpstra said. "He thought you'd been overdoing things a bit."

  "I fainted."

  "You did not, you know," Grijpstra said. "First you ran about all day on a tourist island, and then you spent a hectic night with Hylkje. A visit to the cattle market after that. You had worn yourself out."

  "I'm tired now," de Gier said.

  "Rinus?"

  De Gier mumbled.

  "You're not doing something sneaky, are you now? Remember our arrangement? This is my project. Rinus, are you with me?"

  "So tired," mumbled de Gier.

  \\ 18 /////

  "I NEVER THOUGHT OTHERWISE," SAMUEL CARDOZO SAID, "and it couldn't have gone any other way."

  Simon Cardozo was trying to carry the bicycle's remains up the steep and narrow stairs.

  "You wouldn't be expecting any help, would you?" Samuel asked. "Why bring up this mess, anyway? Leave it outside with the other garbage."

  "Shh," Cardozo said. "I'm not alone.

  "Evening, sir," Samuel said to the commissaris. "Didn't see you. Sorry about that. A bit dark on the staircase." The commissaris pushed, Simon pulled, Samuel pulled a little too.

  "Not in my kitchen, that scrap," Mrs. Cardozo shouted. "Oh, hello, sir. Nice of you to visit us. Would you like some coffee?"

  Samuel had a friend with him. "Are you the famous com-missaris?" the friend asked. "I read about you. About the bribes and so forth, but that wasn't your department, that's what you said to the journalist."

  "How are your legs these days?" Mrs. Cardozo asked.

  "Better," the commissaris said. 'Thank you. I've been given exotic herbs for my bath. Samuel, I'm sorry about your bicycle. We brought in what's left because your brother says you're handy. You think the bike can be fixed?"

  Samuel bowed over what had been put against the kitchen table. "The frame is gone, and the wheels are beyond repair too, buckled, very buckled, and the pedals—these must be the pedals—and the handlebars, where are the handlebars? Maybe I could do something with what's left. The chain seems okay—no, the chain is broken."

  "I'm sorry," the commissaris said. "The police are thrifty these days, but I would be delighted to buy you the new bicycle of your choice."

  "Sir," Samuel said, holding up his hands. "Sir. Please."

  "Don't do it, sir," Simon said. "My brother is a member of the Socialist Party. The purpose of his life is to serve others, right? Samuel?"

  "Mrs. Cardozo," the commissaris said, "your Simon has been a true hero again, I came to tell you that. You should be proud of him."

  "Is that right?" Mrs. Cardozo asked. "Oh, sir, I was so pleased when my Symie was able to become a detective. When he was still in uniform, I always worried so. When he's in regular clothes he can always get away. I keep telling him that. 'Simon,' I say, 'I'm telling you, me, your mother, for one heroic deed and one guilder and seventy-five cents, no respectable caf6 will serve you a cup of coffee.'"

  "I wasn't heroic," Cardozo said. "I was hiding in a ditch and out of reach. Nothing could possibly have happened to me. The commissaris was around, and the Military Police, and all the bad guys were mowed down in the end."

  "You were shooting?" Samuel's friend asked. "I thought a commissaris never used a gun. They just like to travel a lot. I read that in the paper. It said that commissarises travel to the ends of the earth, using special funds. Tax money well spent."

  "I had forgotten my pistol again," the commissaris said. "The new model is too large for me. I don't want to keep leaving it at home, but unconsciously I never seem to take it along." He scratched his chin. "What do you do for a living?"

  The friend made manikins.

  'To play with?"

  No, the friend was employed by Madame Tussaud's Museum of Wax Manikins.

  "Mother," Samuel said, ''why is Simon wearing that weird suit?"

  "Now he notices," Simon said. "I could paint myself green and he would notice next week."

  "I think you look cute," Mrs. Cardozo said. "When you were little, I made you a suit out of corduroy once. You were such a little darling, and I always washed your hair. It used to shine, just like it does now. Oh, my little Symie."

  "A mishap," the commissaris said. "He
was covered with the stuff."

  Mrs. Cardozo's eyes grew round. "Blood? Was he bleeding?"

  "Shit," Simon said. "Frisian."

  "What were you doing in Friesland?" Mrs. Cardozo asked angrily. "You should stay away from the country. I raised you in the city. The country smells. Stay here where you belong."

  "And who do the cute clothes belong to?" Samuel asked.

  "To a corpse," Cardozo said angrily.

  "A corpse's suit," the commissaris said thoughtfully to Samuel's friend. "Tell me, young sir, are you good at making those wax figures that Madame Tussaud's exhibits?"

  "I'm gifted that way," Samuel's friend said. "I've just finished the Libyan colonel, and our prime minister, but I'm not happy with our top official. He's a good guy, and I prefer to make the other kind, I'm good at showing up evil."

  "Good at evil," the commissaris said thoughtfully.

  "I'm working part-time," Samuel's friend said. "Madame Tussaud's thinks that there's enough horror about nowadays."

  "And you're an idealist too?" the commissaris asked, "like your friend Samuel, I mean?"

  "Certainly," the friend said. "Labor Party, that's me, but I don't labor much these days. Through no fault of the party. It's the reactionaries again."

  "Yes," the commissaris said. He got up and shook the friend's hand. He sat down again. "I do admire idealism."

  "How do you mean that?" Samuel's friend asked.

  "I mean," the commissaris said, "that in these difficult times we are short of funds. The funds you kindly mentioned just now have all been spent. If we upholders of public order ask for help these days, we cannot pay for such service."

  "I gathered you were aiming that way," Samuel's friend said. "What can I do for you? I would like to perform some labor."

  "Cardozo," the commissaris said, "let's see that album with the snapshots of Scherjoen."

  Cardozo brought the album and opened it on the table.

  "Nice old bird," Samuel's friend said. "Much too nice for what I'm gifted for."

  "Not so nice," the commissaris said. "Look a little closer. What we have here is an evader of taxes and a usurer at thirty-percent interest. If you " The commissaris smiled warmly and went on, "But this may be quite a tricky project— if you feel you can't do it, you can say so at once—if you could distill the evil from these images and dress them in the suit that Simon is wearing right now, and if you used, instead of a proper head, a burned skull that we'll provide you with, and if you found some skeleton hands that could extend from the jacket's sleeves, and if you made those hands hold something—what, I don't rightly know now, but we may think of a suitable object..." The commissaris felt his chin.

  "Yes," Samuel's friend said. "Absolutely. The very thing. I can do it. I want to do it. You have some goal in mind?"

  The commissaris asked if he could smoke. Mrs. Cardozo nodded and shivered. "How terrible, sir."

  "It has to be terrible," the commissaris said. "You see," he pointed at the album, "this man may not have been a likable gent, but he was cruelly murdered, and we have four suspects, but nobody is talking. I'm not saying that the suspects are not as innocent as they profess to be, but I would like to be sure. If they escape from our grasp, we'll look for something else, but at the point where we are now, the four suspects are in my way."

  "You plan to shock them loose?" the friend asked.

  "I don't like the method," the commissaris said, "but I don't like any method in our branch. Threats, manipulation, interference with liberty, all our tricks are the same, in essence. A quick shock might be best."

  "So my manikin has to be nasty," the friend said. "I can use lights? Some movement? I do have some skills. Do I have some time? Can I do a good job?"

  The commissaris looked at his watch. "No hurry. Can you deliver by tomorrow?"

  The friend shook his head sadly.

  "Don't put yourself out," the commissaris said. "All we need is an impression, a glimpse, nothing fancy."

  'Tomorrow," the friend mumbled.

  "You can come with us now," the commissaris said and got up. 'The skull is at Headquarters. Cardozo will give you the suit, and I'll make sure you have a room in the building where you won't be disturbed. Tomorrow afternoon I'll bring in my suspects. Four little meetings, and we're all done."

  "I need help," Samuel's friend said. "And we need something bad that our creation can hold out to the audience. Can you think of something? Simon?"

  Cardozo leered and rubbed his hands.

  "My Symie," Mrs. Cardozo said. "Did I bring you up for this?"

  "Hen heh," laughed Cardozo.

  \\ 19 /////

  "Miss TERPSTRA," THE COMMISSARIS SAID, "I'M TRULY sorry to disturb you, but it's sometimes necessary to inconvenience people when we're facing a horrid crime. I hear your sister stayed with you during that ghastly night. Was I informed correctly?"

  Miss Terpstra did look a little like Mem Scherjoen, but she had to be less intelligent, the commissaris thought. The cause would be in the arrangement of the Terpstra genes, in the way the microscopic seeds of father and mother had embraced each other a long time ago. He thought of his brother, who looked rather like him, and had grown from the same genes as his own, but in quite a different combination. My brother is very intelligent too, the commissaris thought, but he makes a different use of his brilliant mind and merely became rich so that he could retire in Austria, buy himself a chalet, and pour rare wines for his friends. In my case the genes mixed in a more useful manner, for I serve humanity and pay no attention to personal comfort. Intelligence can be applied stupidly too. It's all so tricky, and no one, perhaps, can be blamed. Human development is probably terminally determined at the moment of conception. But my brother and I share the same arrogance, the com-missaris thought, for we both assume that we really matter, a basic mistake that's not simplifying our lives.

  Miss Terpstra's face was sharper than her sister's, and her attitude decidedly stiffen Her apartment in the dignified eastern suburb of Amsterdam was furnished with a straight simplicity at odds with two pairs of porcelain dogs that faced each other on the windowsills. The dogs mirrored each other. "Lovely little dogs," the commissaris said, for Miss Terpstra said nothing.

  "You think so?" Miss Terpstra asked coldly.

  "In excellent taste," the commissaris said. "You collect porcelain dogs?"

  "I brought them from Ameland," Miss Terpstra said. "My great-grandfather started the collection, the whoremonger."

  The commissaris let that go for the moment. He meant no harm, as his servile attitude showed. His wife had dressed him extra carefully that morning, because she was sorry. She knew that her worrying did not ease his life. "I do have to work," the commissaris had said that night, in his sleep. "What else can I do?" he had asked while asleep. She had kissed him, for of course there was enough else for him to do. Couldn't he play with his turtle in the garden? Or pick up garbage in the park? Or go on a journey with her? Did he have to protect society against itself? Miss Terpstra was softening too, for she hadn't had a male visitor in several months, and this one looked exceptionally neat, in his tasteful light gray summer suit, with the antique watch chain spanning the slight bulge of his stomach, and die well-arranged hair, the neat, sensitive hands folded in his narrow lap, and the cultured way in which he expressed himself. Could she possibly like this man? Miss Terpstra asked herself.

  "Tea?" Miss Terpstra asked the commissaris.

  He was given a cup. "What is the connection," the com-missaris asked, "between porcelain dogs and whores?"

  "They were captains in the whaling fleet," Miss Terpstra said, "those grandfathers and great-grandfathers of mine, and they had the best houses on the island, with specially designed gables made of imported bricks, so that everybody could see how important and wealthy they were."

  "On Ameland," the commissaris said.

  Miss Terpstra nodded. "And they all abused their wives. Women accepted that in those days. They don't now, as you must know."<
br />
  "Yes," the commissaris said softly.

  Miss Terpstra slapped the TV next to her. "I see it in there. Last night again. Did you watch the program? The lesbian communist and her forward ideas?"

  "What?" the commissaris asked.

  "Yes," Miss Terpstra said happily. "We women are taking over. They can't bed us anymore, those men, they've lost our greatest gift." She spoke faster. "You know what my forefathers used to do?"

  "They visited whores in those long-gone days?"

  Miss Terpstra's face hardened. "The habit still goes on."

  "No," the commissaris said. "Maybe a long time ago. I never planned it, but it was made so easy."

  "Bah," Miss Terpstra said. "To make use of the weakness of a humble minority."

  "And the dogs?" the commissaris asked.

  "A despicable minor habit of the time," Miss Terpstra said. "The whalers used to visit London, before returning to our island. And afterwards the whores would give them those dogs."

  "Ha," the commissaris said. He slapped his hand over his mouth. "I beg your pardon, Miss Terpstra; as a sentimental reminder, you mean?"

  "Yes, so that they would come again and fetch the dog's twin. You had that type"—she pointed at the larger variety, with a golden neckband—"and there was one size smaller, the one over*there, and the tiny little ones, in case my forefathers insisted on discounts. And then they would bring the miserable little beasts home and give them as presents to their wives. Well? What do you think of that?"

  "Disgusting," the commissaris said.

  "Men," Miss Terpstra snarled. "Douwe was no exception— poor Mem—but now we're nicely rid of him."

  "And Mem spent the evening with you? The night as well?"

  Miss Terpstra understood. Her voice cut through the small room. "You're thinking...?"

  The commissaris retreated into an expressive silence.

  "You're really thinking...?"

  The commissaris smiled.

  "Do you think"—Miss Terpstra's sharp icy voice became a dagger that penetrated between the commissaris's eyes— "that I—I—would tell on my own dear sister, even if she had happened to leave my apartment for a single second? That I, the doormat on which uncouth types like you have been rubbing their soiled boots for generations—that I, the abandoned, uncared-for, ignored, insulted..."