De Gier began to undress. “I’ll take a shower, get the smell off my body. Petrol, bah. Petrol and sweat and car fumes and the fumes of Ursula and the stink of that child. Horrible child. Are you angry, Oliver, that you don’t know about orgasms?” The cat rolled over on his back and squeaked.
“Can’t you make a normal cat’s noise? Or are you too extraordinary? Because you are Siamese? Because your grandfather came from the Far East? Go on, make a normal noise.” Oliver squeaked again.
“Don’t then. I’ll have a shower; come with me and talk to me.” The cat sat on the threshold and looked at de Gier standing under the shower. The hot water was hitting him in the neck and he was singing to himself. A song about Ursula and Ursula’s beauty.
What would have happened, de Gier thought, if I had brought her home? Oliver would have murdered that horrible child for sure, but suppose the child hadn’t come? Would she have stripped and raped me? Or would she have sunk on the bed and looked at me languorously? Shall I try it sometime? He imagined and got excited. The excitement annoyed him and he twisted the shower’s dial so that the water suddenly changed into a whip of ice. He jumped out of reach of the whip but went back to it and shouted and jumped up and down. He twisted the tap and began to rub himself dry.
The cat snuggled next to him on the bed. There were thirty minutes to go; he set the alarm and fell asleep at once.
5
“SO YOU ARE THE CAT WITH BOOTS ON,” THE COMMISSARIS said. “We’ve heard a little about you. Just die way you dress and that you used to visit Tom Wernekink.”
“Evelien Dapper told you, I suppose,” the Cat said, “the girl who lives next door to Tom. I have spoken to her but I don’t know her really.”
The Cat was in the commissaris’ office at Headquarters, sitting in the chair reserved for important visitors. Although Headquarters of the Amsterdam Municipal Police was a fairly modern building, the commissaris had managed to create a seventeenth-century atmosphere in the large high-ceilinged room. The antique furniture was his private property but the large Golden Age portraits decorating the walls belonged to the police. He had offered his visitor a cigar and the two men were puffing away, facing each other, with de Gier at a respectable distance, slouched in a chair in the corner, smoking a self-made cigarette. The Cat had arrived on time. He turned toward de Gier. “I hope Ursula didn’t cause you any undue trouble? She is a strange woman. She could have driven the car herself; she has a license.”
“I wasn’t familiar with the car,” de Gier said, “and the child didn’t help much.”
“The child!” the Cat said and laughed. “I gave him a clout on the ear and he was all right after that.”
“Good.”
“What’s all this?” the commissaris asked.
“My cat is being serviced,” the Cat said, “and I asked Ursula, my girlfriend, to pick me up in town where I had some business to take care of. Your sergeant came to find me, and Ursula made him drive the car.”
“And the child?”
“Not mine. Some nasty brat who lives on the dike. His parents don’t look after him and he is always in the street. If he sees anyone he usually tries to go with them.”
“Isn’t he a nice child?”
“No,” the Cat exclaimed, “he is a proper bastard with the brain of a full-grown genius. He learns a lot in the street. He’s four years old now but I think he knows more than most children of fourteen. And the damned thing is that he is destructive. He breaks windows and takes hubcaps off cars and throws them into the river; he trips people up and if he can’t do anything physical, he teases. Didn’t he tease you, sergeant?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” the commissaris asked, amused. “And what did he do?”
“There was no petrol in the tank so we got stuck in the middle of the tunnel under the river. He told me I couldn’t drive.”
“Ah,” the commissaris said. “There was a telephone call about that, I meant to tell you. The chief of the tunnel phoned to ask whether you were on duty today.”
“I hope you told him I was,” de Gier said sulkily.
“I did. What was the trouble?”
“They wouldn’t believe me, thought that the Cat’s girlfriend was my wife and the child our child.”
“New regulations,” the commissaris said. “Apparently somebody has been waving his police card around too often and there have been complaints to the chief constable; you didn’t have to pay, did you?”
“No, sir.”
“Just as I thought,” the Cat said sadly, “so she did get you into trouble. She didn’t have any money I’m sure and made you pay for the petrol. How much was it, sergeant?”
“Twenty-five.”
The Cat brought out a fat wallet and peeled a note out of one of its compartments.
“What is your business, Mr. Cat?” the commissaris asked.
“Call me Cat, commissaris, everybody does.” The Cat put the wallet back and turned the ends of his large mustache. “I am a buyer and seller. Odd lots mostly, anything people want to get rid of. I have a warehouse in town that is full of carpet tiles right now—bought them from Sharif Electric where the sergeant found me today. They had an exhibition and had to buy a few square miles of carpet but now it’s of no use to them so they sold it to me.”
“For cash?”
“Always for cash. It’s the only way to buy. Nobody resists bank notes. The wallet and this costume are tricks of the trade.”
“Costume?”
“Yes,” the Cat said. “I know I dress crazy but it gives me the right image. Nobody forgets me, once they have seen me. I give them my card with my photograph, address and phone number, and if there’s anything to sell I usually get first chance. I joke and wave the wallet about and I get the goods.”
“You look funny,” the commissaris said, “but you don’t look like a hippie or a provo or a bird-of-protest.”
“No. I have no quarrel with the world. The world is wrong, of course; anybody who can see and think knows it is wrong. The wrong place and we do the wrong thing. But I don’t mind. I’m not a fighter; I’m a buyer and seller. I make a profit and I spend some of it.”
“Who do you sell to?”
“People come to me. The merchants from the street markets, and the secondhand shops, and the discount stores. I have a lady in the warehouse and she knows the prices. Usually I’m there as well, if I’m not on holiday. I often go away—I’ll go anywhere and usually I manage to buy there as well. The world is full of merchandise; it’s amazing it’s still turning with all that weight attached to it.”
“And Ursula is your girlfriend?”
The Cat nodded. “Yes. I found her in Australia and she wanted to come to Amsterdam; she is half-Dutch, half-Russian.”
“And she is beautiful,” de Gier said.
The Cat smiled. “She is, isn’t she? But she is crazy too. Did she try to make you?”
De Gier looked silly and the commissaris smiled.
“I hope she didn’t succeed, de Gier,” the commissaris said.
“No, sir.”
“There’s a good fellow.”
“She always says she is going to leave me,” the Cat said, “but she hasn’t so far. She is free to do as she likes. I don’t collect anything. My house is like my warehouse: its contents come and go.”
“You want to get rid of her?” de Gier asked.
“No. If she stays, she stays. I like her, and she isn’t a useless type. She’s a good musician and she sometimes plays in town. Maybe she’ll be invited to travel and then, perhaps, she’ll go. She needs to meet other men, men who can handle her. Maybe you could handle her.” He looked at de Gier as if he was weighing him. De Gier didn’t feel comfortable, the large brown eyes seemed to be piercing through his skull. The man’s personality was definitely powerful. The Cat looked majestic sitting straight up now, the wide shoulders sloping slightly, the massive head erect with its mane of hair, the fierce nose pointed at de Gier’s forehead
. And he wasn’t dressed so funny after all. The velvet gold-colored suit sat very well on the large body and the boots were elegant and shiny. De Gier noticed a thick, gold earring on the Cat’s left earlobe. A few hundred years back in time and the Cat would have been easy to place: a gentleman-pirate or highwayman, sporting a sword with a jeweled handle. A courageous man, a gallant man.
An immoral man, the commissaris was thinking. A profiteer, but perhaps with a code of honor. Not a man who would betray a friend, or his own people, to an enemy, but still… “Do you have an officially registered business, Mr. Cat?” the commissaris asked.
The Cat took his eyes off de Gier and fixed them on the commissaris; they were pleasant now and the voice drawled. “Yes, sir. Diets Trading Company, registered since 1945. My father started the business; he dealt in hair creams and wigs and combs—things like that. I still have a small trade in that line but my talent is different: I like buying anything that looks cheap.”
“Tom Wernekink,” the commissaris said. “We can have some coffee while you tell us about your friend. De Gier, you can pour the coffee; it’s on the tray over there.”
“Just a friend,” the Cat said in the same drawling voice. “I saw him arrive on the dike and helped to unload the furniture. He interested me. We drank some beer after we had shifted the lot into his house and I kept coming back. He was a strange man, you know. I am really sorry they got him; I like strange people; there aren’t too many around, not even in Amsterdam, which is the lunatic asylum of Holland.”
“They got him?” the commissaris asked.
The Cat shrugged. “Somebody did, didn’t he? Or she? Didn’t you lock that van Krompen woman up? She hasn’t confessed, has she, or I wouldn’t be here now.”
“You don’t think she did it?”
“I don’t know. According to the newspaper, Tom was shot between the eyes from a distance. Mary is a crack shot, so she could have done it. The people on the dike don’t think so. They want her back by the way; she’s popular. We had a street party some months ago and she organized it all. I think she has helped a few people who needed something. Yes, they want her back. They have been sending things to the police station, cakes and newspapers and cigarettes. You let them through, didn’t you?”
“Certainly,” the commissaris said, “but it wasn’t necessary; we’re looking after her. But it is nice to have friends, of course; she appreciates the gifts.”
“Are you any good with a gun, Cat?” de Gier asked.
“No,” the Cat grinned, or rather, showed his teeth. The thick beard separated from the mustache and there was a white gleaming line. The Cat looked ferocious for a few seconds, like a tiger crouching under a tree, not meaning to attack but asserting its presence.
“No,” the Cat said, “I wasn’t even in the army. There is something wrong with my left eye and I have to wear glasses when I drive or read. The eyes don’t focus properly, I believe. The only time I ever handled a firearm was in Australia when I shot at clay pigeons with a shotgun; I didn’t hit them.”
“Tell me more about Tom Wernekink,” the commissaris said, pushing a cup of coffee toward the Cat. “Help yourself to sugar and milk.”
The Cat sipped his coffee and smacked his lips. “Not much to tell. Tom never said more than he had to. He came from Rotterdam. He’d worked in an office over there, silly work, filling in forms for export orders. I have to do that too at times—drives you crazy—every country is different and if you make a slight mistake you get the lot back and have to start all over again. Officials hate businessmen; it’s the old story. Jealousy.”
“Yes,” said the commissaris.
“Sorry. You are an official too, I forgot. But the police are different; they have a sense of adventure too. I didn’t mean the police. Tom Wernekink. Yes. His father died and left him a lot of money and all that furniture and paintings and stuff. I think he planned never to work again. I saw him in the evening once; it was a mistake. He just sat and watched TV and drank beer. It was better during the day, for he would be in his garden. We used to sit under that big chestnut tree and drink tea and talk; he didn’t drink alcohol during the day.”
“A man without ambition,” the commissaris said.
The Cat got up, stretched and sat down again. “Yes, no ambition. Worse perhaps. I think he suffered. A very morose man, not the sort of man who complains all day. Tom had passed that stage. He wanted nothing to do with anything; he thought life was absolutely ridiculous, absurd. A joke. A bad joke.”
“Don’t you think the same?’
“Yes, but I laugh a lot; Tom didn’t laugh. I told him to use some of his money to travel and he went to England a couple of times but I don’t think he enjoyed the trips. He didn’t like leaving his garden. He fished but when he caught anything he would throw it back. He caught a big pike once—gave him a good fight—but the pike is back in the river; he wouldn’t even show it to boast. I happened to see him catch it or I would never have known. If anyone catches a big fish on the dike there is a party, but Tom didn’t want anybody around him.”
“But he watched TV?’
“Not really. He saw objects and shapes move but I don’t think he knew what was going on. He didn’t care.”
“And you don’t know whether he had enemies?”
“No enemies,” the Cat said, “I am sure of it. Who would want to harm him? Nobody even knew him except me, and perhaps the girl next door, Evelien.”
“What about her?”
The Cat made a wide gesture. “Just a girl. Nice girl. Pretty girl. She liked him, or loved him, or I don’t-know-whated him. Wanted to have him, I think. Women always want to have things, and keep them.”
“Ursula,” de Gier said suddenly.
The Cat turned round and de Gier felt the impact of the large brown eyes again. “Yes, sergeant, Ursula is an exception, but she is sick; she is under psychiatric treatment. Did she tell you?”
“No.”
The Cat laughed. “Don’t worry; she isn’t dangerous. She switches off sometimes and sits and stares and doesn’t function. I have to feed and bathe her; it’s a job I tell you, for she is a big woman. The psychiatrist is helping but it takes time. She is much better now. She wants more out of life than life is prepared to give just now. She has to grow up and create something that will hold wisdom; so far she is still a foolish little girl.”
“She plays the flute very well,” de Gier said.
“Did she play for you?”
“We played together.”
The Cat jumped up and clapped his hands. “Boy,” he shouted, “I would like to hear that. Crazy Russian Ursula playing with a police sergeant. What did you play?”
“Something we made up.”
“Better and better. Promise me you’ll come one evening and play with her. What do you play?”
De Gier took the flute out of his inside pocket and showed it to the Cat, who treated the instrument with respect.
“Nice flute. They cost a lot of money—nine hundred I think. I wanted to buy one for her but I didn’t have that much cash on me. Isn’t the sound rather shrill?”
“Very,” the commissaris said. “If he plays in his office I can hear him, and his office is a long way from mine.”
The Cat was shaking his head.
The commissaris smiled.
“Not a bad day today,” the Cat said. “I’m discovering things. So the police are a little crazy too, now what? It’s spreading. We are not alone anymore.”
“We?”
“I am not the only Cat,” he said; “there are others. Sometimes we meet.”
“Well,” the commissaris said, “leave us one of your visiting cards and I think we’re through for today. We won’t detain you any longer; you must be a busy man. If we need you again we’ll telephone.”
“So?” the commissaris asked de Gier.
De Gier didn’t answer.
“No conclusions? No combinations? Suspicions?”
“Why?” de Gier asked
, “would a man as mad as the March Hare and the Mad Hatter combined ever kill a harmless recluse like Tom Wernekink. Or are we misinformed about Tom?”
“It all fits in so far,” the commissaris said, rubbing his legs.
“I saw the house, you saw the house. We both saw the body. If Tom was engaged in any activity apart from gardening, a bit of pike catching and the beer and TV combination, we would have found indications of it, but there was nothing there. The man was obviously rotting away quietly and not even the garden was helping him much. Aggression is always connected with desire. He didn’t want anything, did he? So why would anyone else want anything from him?”
“He was rich,” de Gier said.
“Yes, but the killer didn’t take anything. The money was still in his wallet.”
“Perhaps a painting,” de Gier said, “a Vermeer or a Rembrandt. There was such a lot of stuff in the house, we couldn’t see if there was anything missing.”
The commissaris scratched his thin hair. “Yes. Perhaps. But I saw the paintings on the wall and they were family portraits. Two hundred years old perhaps and worth something but nothing much, a few thousand guilders. And the walls were covered with paintings. If he had owned a really valuable work of art he would have hung it with the others. Or not?”
“I don’t know, sir, he wasn’t a normal man. He might have put it against a wall and the murderer took it.”
The commissaris thumped the table. “Why didn’t anyone see the murderer? That dike is always full of people. They should notice a stranger.”
“They knew the murderer and are trying to protect him,” de Gier said.
“Could be. But we have the approximate time of death. About eleven o’clock in the evening the doctor said, with a margin of two hours each way. They may be all drunk or asleep by that time.”
The Corpse on the Dike Page 7