The Rattle-Rat

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  She rose slowly. One of her hands held on to her Adam's apple, the other stretched toward the door. "Leave!" Miss Terpstra shouted.

  "Good-bye, Miss Terpstra," the commissaris said.

  \\ 20 /////

  "How DID IT GO WITH MY SISTER?" MEM SCHERIOEN ASKED.

  The commissaris mentioned the porcelain dogs. "Yes," Mem said, "I inherited half of those mongrels, but I didn't like them much." She giggled. "Poor Jenny. Do you know that she's always cutting Playgirl pictures?"

  "What does she cut?" Cardozo asked.

  'There are photographs of gentlemen," Mem said. "Jenny likes to remove their equipment."

  Cardozo's eyes grew, and his mouth shrank.

  "She doesn't mean badly," Mem said. "She only thinks she does. Jenny hasn't developed much in her relationships with men. Men are just a little different—the same in a way, but turned around, I think." She led her visitors to the sitting room downstairs. "Are we going to have our search now, at last? I'm so glad you want to help me. I kept planning to look around myself, but it seemed like such an effort."

  Cardozo apologized for not having returned Douwe's corduroy suit yet, but he told her he had dirtied it a bit and it was now at the cleaner's. Never mind, Mem said, he could keep it if he liked—although maybe not, for later, when the retarded men would appear, one of them might need it "Some small-sized fellow," Mem said kindly.

  Cardozo wandered about the large room. Above a window filled with flowering vines, leatherbound books were arranged on a shelf.

  "Antiques," Mem said. "Religious works. My forefathers used to read from them on Sundays. Douwe wanted to sell them. He didn't like God, because God kept loving him, but I said the books were increasing in value, so he let me keep them."

  Mem fetched a small stepladder from a cupboard, and Cardozo climbed it. He picked up a book and read the title. Divine Quarterly, Part III. He turned leaves and read, Release us, dear Lord, from the slavery of adoring images ofheathen. Save us from the foreign tyranny, let peace and unity amongst us last forever.

  Cardozo put the book back and took another. "Aha."

  "Aha," the commissaris said.

  "Aha?" asked Mem.

  "We're always finding things in books," the commissaris said. "They're fashionable hiding places today. Widely advertised so that all burglars may know. They're hollowed out and made to contain jewelry, money, small firearms, dirty pictures."

  "And slabs of gold," Cardozo said.

  "Pass me all the heavier books," the commissaris said. Mem opened the books. "Really," Mem said. "That Douwe. Cut holes in the pages. And these books were supposed to be mine."

  "But you knew, didn't you?" the commissaris said, watching Mem take the gold out and stack it neatly.

  "In a way," Mem said. "I heard him doing things here at night, when he thought I was asleep. He'd take out the stepladder and hit chairs with it. I get dizzy when I stand on heights."

  "So you asked us to climb the stepladder."

  "I thought you wanted to do that," Mem said.

  "Here," Cardozo said. "The administration of his money-lending business, on loose sheets stuck between the pages of this picture Bible. All the amounts are ticked off, so they must have been paid."

  "Yes," Mem said, "I put a stop to that. I couldn't stand it, bothering poor people like that."

  "And Douwe obeyed you?" the commissaris asked.

  "I would have left him," Mem said firmly. "It was the only time I said I would. Douwe would have had to hire a housekeeper, and they're expensive these days."

  The commissaris read the title page of a picture Bible aloud. " 'The wicked will be carried off by death, but he who loves his neighbor continues to live, even in death.'"

  "Douwe never read," Mem said. She sighed. "It's so clear, why didn't he ever understand?"

  "I'm not religious, Mem," the commissaris said. "I can never follow spiritual literature. What do you think the text means?"

  "Look at the illustration," Mem said. "Here. See? This is death in life."

  "Those little fellows must be devils," the commissaris said, adjusting his spectacles. "My, what are they doing to that unfortunate fellow? They're pumping him full of some fluid, through the navel, oh, the poor man."

  "They're pouring something into his anus too," Cardozo said.

  "Using a runnel. Boiling oil, I suppose. And here, look at this, Cardozo, worms with sharp scales that are crawling into the unlucky chap's ears."

  "Douwe had all that in life," Mem said. "Eczema in his ears, it itched and made them swell up inside, and he always complained about food thumping his stomach and his hemorrhoids. Terrible. They'd get infected and he'd bleed through his pants."

  The doorbell rang loudly. Cardozo peeked through the vines. "The enemy, sir, ready to pounce."

  Mem peeked too. "Mr. Verhulst. He telephoned earlier. I'd forgotten all about it."

  "Keep him talking outside," the commissaris said. "Car-dozo, replace those books."

  Verhulst lumbered into the room. The commissaris reclined in an easy chair. He held up a limp hand. "Glad to see you, I'm sure," Verhulst said. "Are you getting somewhere?"

  The commissaris pursed his lips.

  "Restored to your previous form, I see," Verhulst said to Cardozo. "Boy, did you look a mess. Those herons are a plague. Feathered varmints, what do we need them for?"

  Cardozo pursed his lips.

  "Mrs. Scherjoen," Verhulst said, "I'll be brief and to the point. Your husband embezzled a fortune from the State, which is a sin and prohibited by law."

  Mrs. Scherjoen put up her hands in consternation.

  "Some laws need changing," the commissaris said.

  "I need your professional help here," Verhulst said. "This is no time for moralizing." He turned back to Mrs. Scherjoen. "That fortune needs to be returned. To me." He tapped his case. "I'll give you a receipt and you may hear from us. There should be fines, but if you cooperate now, I'll see what I can do."

  "We're working on a murder here," the commissaris said, "and you're in my way. Why don't you leave? You'll hear from me once my inquiry has ended."

  "Sir," Verhulst said.

  "Sir," the commissaris said.

  Cardozo held up his police identification. "Mr. Verhulst, I order you to leave this house at once. If you stay, you're trespassing, and I'll reluctantly arrest you."

  Gravel flew from the tires of Verhulst's car. The commissaris peeked through the vines. "Now," Cardozo said.

  "What happened to the gold?" Mem Scherjoen asked. The commissaris pointed at his chair. He rubbed his bottom. "I'm glad he left. Good work, Cardozo."

  "Will you confiscate it now?" Mem Scherjoen asked.

  "No. I think you should remove it. Although..." The commissaris thought. "Maybe you should wait a day or two. Let's say the day after tomorrow, once we've closed this stage of our investigation. Yes, that'll be best."

  "I'll have to wait for Gyske, to help me change the gold into money in Switzerland," Mem Scherjoen said. "She can't leave just now, for the lieutenant is still wrecking their house, and his mind isn't clear. Alcohol and Valium, and he has a need to talk."

  "What do you think about their problem?" the commissaris asked.

  "It isn't serious," Mem said. "Everybody knows it and the lieutenant will find out in time."

  "So it'll be all right again?" the commissaris asked.

  "Better than ever before," Mem said. "I'm doing what I can. Gyske isn't too patient, and she works half-days, and the kids and all. She's too busy to put up with his rambling. I don't mind listening to Sjurd at all. He keeps holding forth about the shelf in the cupboard." Mem tittered. "Wouldn't it have been nicer if Gyske had used a bed? There's too much guilt here; I think sometimes it prevents us from enjoying ourselves."

  "Well?" Cardozo asked in the car.

  "No," the commissaris said. "Or yes, maybe. I wish I were a woman at times. It's about time we hired some female detectives. What do you think, Cardozo?"

  "What
do you think of my mother?" Cardozo asked. "Tell me the truth. I can take it, I think."

  "I think she is a dear, caring soul."

  "And a good cook," Cardozo said. "Very patient with Dad and us. We had rats in a cupboard. Dad was going to kill them, but he didn't in the end. Samuel volunteered. He spent some time in the cupboard. Everything was very quiet and then he came out. I went in too. The rats were looking at me. Then my mother grabbed a poker, and wham, wham, wham."

  "Ferocious, eh?" the commissaris asked.

  "Ferocious," Cardozo said. "Mem is a mother, but she has no children of her own. All people are her children. And now this big filthy rat turns up and harms her kids."

  "Yes," the commissaris said. "Listen here, Cardozo, that rat was Mem's own husband. She took snapshots of dear Douwe and pasted them in her secret album. Douwe was her child."

  "You asked what I was thinking," Cardozo said. "So there is this big nasty kid and he harms all the other kids."

  "When she told him to stop lending money at thirty percent, he stopped."

  'The sly bastard," Cardozo said. "He thought of something worse and was about to try it out. Mem found out. Wham."

  "Possibly," the commissaris said. "But there are other explanations that might fit the facts. Let's start by frightening Mem. If she's playing a part, she'll have to drop her mask. You know, Cardozo..."

  Cardozo looked over his shoulder. "Do you know that a Land Rover is following us? Blinking his lights?"

  The commissaris checked his mirror. "So he is."

  "His flashing lights are on too," Cardozo said. "I think he's ordering us to pull over."

  "Not now," the commissaris said. "Hold on, Cardozo." The Citroen suddenly lurched forward.

  "They only want to help us," Cardozo said. "We've lost our way again. We're going west instead of north."

  The Citroen screamed through a curve, then unexpectedly swerved off the highway, followed a dirt track, swerved again, and went through some shrubs. The Land Rover sped on, swishing its lights stupidly, crying sadly with its siren.

  "You know, Cardozo," the commissaris said, "it's all a matter of conscience. The law that we have been inventing tries to standardize our conscience, but it hasn't been doing too well. There are all sorts of consciences. Some rise above the average measure."

  The Citroen drove back to the highway. The Land Rover, hidden behind a hedge, suddenly reappeared.

  "Aren't they clever?" the commissaris asked. The Citroen changed into a hazy silver line streaking past dark green meadows.

  "Suppose," the commissaris said, "that I have a higher conscience. If I had one I might, from my dizzy level, decide to leave Mem alone. Practically, it would be easy. I could withdraw, claiming lack of proof, or I could write an ambiguous report that the public prosecutor would lose at once. But"—the commissaris thumped the steering wheel—"I first have to know what has been going on."

  "Irrational female goodness," Cardozo said. "You should have seen my mother exterminate those rats. Complete, utter destruction, and only because she assumed that rats spread disease and that we might get sick."

  "Not that she might get sick?" the commissaris asked.

  "My mother never gets sick," Cardozo said.

  The Citroen found the speedway leading to Leeuwarden. The commissaris blew his horn at road hogs who got in his way. The speedometer needle hung right over. "A dilemma," the commissaris said. "Not uninteresting. Look, there's the capital of this fair land."

  "Now what?" Cardozo asked, for the Citroen had pulled up on the shoulder.

  "I always lose my way in the city."

  "That Land Rover gave up on us, sir."

  "We're Frisians," the commissaris said. "Don't tell me what we will or won't do. I was born in Joure."

  They waited for a while.

  "Cardozo," the commissaris said. "Have you considered Mem's guilt, whether she killed Douwe or not?"

  "I don't think I'm following you now," Cardozo said.

  "Am I expecting too much again?" the commissaris asked. "Are you too young to comprehend? Maybe you're unaware that men live by the power granted them by women. Now suppose that power is deliberately withheld. Say that one particular woman tells her man that he's gone too far, that she'll have no more, that he'll have to live without her love. What happens then? Wouldn't the man stumble and no longer be capable of defending himself against normal hostilities aimed at him by his environment? Mem told Douwe to go it alone, and he immediately fell down? Oh, hello, Sergeant."

  "At your service," the state policeman said, bending down to the commissaris's window. "Just for the record—or off the record, rather—you shouldn't park here."

  "I'm sorry," the commissaris said, "but I wonder if you'd mind directing us to the headquarters of the Municipal Police?"

  The sergeant got back into the Land Rover and drove off slowly.

  "I'm tired," the corporal next to the sergeant said. "You've no idea how these Amsterdam colleagues are tiring me. I do hope they crack their case, for I can't put up with them much longer."

  The sergeant drove the Land Rover.

  "Don't you speak Frisian anymore?" the corporal asked.

  "You're disturbing my thoughts," the sergeant said. "I am thinking in Dutch. Just like they're doing. To try to follow them. Maybe, if I think with them, I can figure out what they're doing and why."

  "Shouldn't you have turned off here?" the corporal asked. "We've passed the cube."

  "We'll keep going," the sergeant said. "This highway circles the city. We'll have another chance."

  "Sir?" Cardozo asked half an hour later. "Please turn off now, or we'll miss police headquarters again."

  The Citroen turned off. The Land Rover drove on.

  "Did I do it again?" the sergeant asked.

  "Thanks," the corporal said. "I hate to go crazy alone."

  \\ 21 /////

  "Do YOU KEEP LOSING THE WAY HERE TOO?" CARDOZO asked de Gier in the house in Spanish Lane.

  "Where's the commissaris?" Grijpstra asked.

  "At local headquarters," Cardozo said. "He gave me the car, for I have to return to Amsterdam. He'll be taking the train later. I just dropped in to hear whether anything's going on with you. Any information I can use?"

  Grijpstra stretched on the couch under the flowered wallpaper, stared at a ceiling tile that was coming loose. "Cardozo works according to plan. He's ticking off moves. He's following a line of action." He pushed himself up. "What will you do in Amsterdam?"

  "Make a manikin," Cardozo said, "or rather, I'll help. Reconstruction of the corpse and then bringing it to life. Ah, Adjutant?"

  "I haven't lost the way here yet," de Gier said, sipping tea, flanked by fuchsias, legs crossed, little finger raised. "I think the adjutant and the commissaris are suffering from the past. Their roots are here, and they keep tripping over them. You and I don't have to carry memories. Our innocence keeps us right on course."

  Grijpstra grunted.

  "Adjutant?" Cardozo said.

  "If only they had said something," Grypstra said. "This Pyr, Tyark, and Yelte. Never mind what. Any sort of statement. I would have checked it, found it to be untrue, and I'd have seen them again, clobbered them with my clout. Their fear would have delivered them into the hands of justice. But if they say nothing..."

  "You could have made an effort," de Gier said. "The language is easy enough. I have a dictionary. 'Dead' is dea in Frisian. You could have started at the end. 'Not' is net. You keep saying net, and they may come up with the truth."

  "Net dea?" Grypstra asked. "But Douwe Is dead."

  De Gier looked at Grypstra over the edge of his cup. "Do try and follow me on the intellectual level. Go on, you can do it."

  Grypstra got up slowly. He was lowering his head.

  "Adjutant?" Cardozo said. "I'm glad you mentioned Pyr and the other two. I almost forgot. The commissaris wants you to visit them again and invite them to visit Headquarters in Amsterdam tomorrow at five P.M. There'll be a confr
ontation. Can you make sure they'll be there?"

  Grypstra fell back on the couch. "Not again? Again the narrow dikes? The silence? No, I won't."

  "Of course you will," de Gier said. "You'll enjoy it, too. You'll be working toward the subtle solution of another tricky case. Patience and perseverance. You've seen it before. We're ready to give up, but we keep pressing, and then over they go. The suspect's knees wobble, his head sags to the side, spittle drools out of the side of his mouth, his hands fall down, and the truth drops out. Crime and punishment, the balance we fight for, and there you are, holding the flaming sword."

  "Yes," Grypstra said. "Maybe. But do they admit guilt? Are they ever sorry?"

  "Of course," de Gier said. "Have you ever met anyone who really liked evil? Or committed it on purpose?"

  "Yes," Grypstra said. "All suspects are evil by nature."

  "Come off it. Did they have a choice? Weren't circumstances forcing them? Did they ever plan? Dragged by fate, they were, and you'll be dragging them to prison. And we're dragged too. We splash about in the current and we think that we swim, unless you accept that we're all quite helpless."

  "Except for yourself."

  "Me included," de Gier shouted, splashing tea on his trousers. "Everything's included. Think back, think ahead, you'll never get out."

  "You don't belong in the police."

  "I don't want to belong anywhere," de Gier said. "That's why I'm enjoying this case. For once I'm supposed to be excluded."

  "I don't think you are," Cardozo said.

  De Gier sat down and stared at the floor. Grypstra stared at Cardozo. Cardozo stared at Eddy. The rat had been asleep on a chair, lying limply on his side. He now struggled up and looked over the edge of the seat. Cardozo helped him down to the carpet. Eddy dragged himself along, trailing his tail. "Is he sick?" Cardozo asked.

  "Showing off again," Grypstra said.