The Corpse on the Dike

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  “Pain in your legs, Grijpstra?” the commissaris asked, his voice betraying a more than usual interest.

  “Hurt my shin, sir.”

  “But you weren’t in the fight last night, were you?”

  “No, sir. Door of the night table.”

  De Gier grinned. “How was the birthday parry, Grijpstra?”

  Grijpstra glared.

  “Went to a party, Grijpstra?” the commissaris asked.

  “Yes, sir, my sister-in-law’s.”

  “Nice party?”

  “No, sir.”

  The commissaris nodded. He had stopped going to parties ten years ago, when his rheumatism had begun to change from an occasional twitch of pain to a worsening and continuous feeling of hot needle pricks. He had never regretted his decision.

  “I never go to birthday parties,” de Gier said. ‘To hell with their birthdays and whipped cream cakes and lukewarm jenever. I’d rather have a quiet evening with Oliver.”

  “And you, Cardozo?” the commissaris asked.

  “I’m from a big family, sir, and we are very close. I can’t stay away.”

  “Do you ever want to stay away?”

  “No, sir, not really. I get bored sometimes but I like my family and the food is always excellent.”

  “Good,” the commissaris said. “The family is the core of our society. A happy family makes for a quiet country.”

  De Gier was looking at the old man’s face. The commissaris looked sincere but de Gier didn’t trust the innocent and genial expression on his superior’s face.

  “Well, let’s have it,” the commissaris said, rubbing his hands energetically. “What happened last night, de Gier?” De Gier reported fully and left out nothing except the confusion of the Northern and Southern Lions. The commissaris was leaning forward in his chair. “Good,” he said at the end, “but we are going to have a little trouble with the chief inspector of the old city. I am sure he doesn’t like us hunting in his territory. I’d better phone him before he phones me. I hope we didn’t upset any of his plans. I know they are meaning to raid some of their trouble spots. Public Works should do something about that house, brick it up or get the restoration people on to it. Once it is repaired it can be let to decent people.”

  “Decent people don’t like that area much, sir,” Cardozo said.

  “Yes. Maybe we should put some pressure on the city government. They have plans for a big state sex center somewhere, but so far they are only talking about it. It would make our job a lot easier. Put a high wall round it and post police at the entrances. Keep a lid on the kettle. But it’s still too early for that.”

  “Would be a pity,” Grijpstra said heavily.

  “You like the whores’ quarter, don’t you?”

  “It’s been in the city for seven hundred years, sir. So far we have always been able to control it reasonably well.”

  “They do look pretty behind their windows,” said de Gier. “I can’t imagine half-naked women in a concrete box, and behind barbed wire. Would be horrible.”

  “Yes, perhaps. Anyway, we’ll wait and see. The police always wait and see. We are seeing something now. What are your plans, gentlemen?”

  He was looking at Grijpstra.

  Grijpstra cleared his throat and felt his pockets for his tin of cigars. The commissaris offered him one from the box on his desk. De Gier, with a show of servility, lit a match and Cardozo’s young face brightened with a flashing smile as he concentrated on Grijpstra.

  Grijpstra looked suspicious.

  “Grrm, grrm, let’s not overdo it,” he muttered.

  “Overdo what, adjutant?” de Gier asked. “We are listening.”

  “Yes,” Grijpstra said. “Well, I think two of us should go to the brothel tonight, or one of us, while the other waits in the car. He should go to the doorman, show his police card and stay with him while he phones or calls the boss. Then he should take the boss to the car and tell him that we are after Sharif and that we know he will be there tonight. We can put in a bit about the illegal gambling and other illegal activities of the place so that the boss is quiet and helpful. Then we go in, pretending to be clients. We should be carrying money; the place won’t be cheap and we don’t want to be served free drinks.”

  “Yes,” the commissaris said. “Who goes?”

  “Not me,” Grijpstra said. “Sharif knows me. And he may remember Cardozo’s face since Cardozo went to see him last year about that burglary in his house. So I would suggest Geurts or Sietsema and de Gier.”

  “I think I would like to go,” the commissaris said.

  “That would be even better, sir. The clients of the place won’t be young men; there’ll be older gentlemen and you would be just right.”

  “Thanks,” the commissaris said. “Thank you kindly. I look like an old whoremonger, do I? Now that’s really charming of you.”

  Grijpstra blushed and de Gier and Cardozo looked amused.

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean that at all, sir.”

  The commissaris smiled. “Never mind, Grijpstra; I’m only joking. I think you’re right. A place like that will attract people who look like me. Go on.”

  “So you and de Gier, sir. You’ll be at the bar and you can look about. The boss will let you know when Sharif gets to the special room where he meets his men. Then you will have to find a place where you can listen in. Perhaps there is a peephole. Whorehouses always have peepholes, I believe. And you could use a tape recorder.”

  “Yes. We’ll have to check that with the boss. Perhaps we can hide in a cupboard.”

  “What next, Grijpstra?”

  “Depends on what they say. You may find Wernekink’s killer too.”

  “That’s de Gier’s thought, isn’t it? Didn’t you tell me on the phone this morning that de Gier was thinking that Sharif or one of his men killed Wernekink?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The commissaris got up and walked around his desk. He leaned against the front of the desk and watched his assistants.

  “I think de Gier is right. Wernekink’s death must have been a silly mistake. But understandable perhaps. It’s hard to understand that there are men who live for nothing, who have no goals, no ideas, no purpose. I had some suspicions about Tom Wernekink but the letter you brought from Rotterdam convinced me. Did you all read the letter?’

  “Yes, sir,” de Gier and Cardozo replied at the same time.

  “A strange document. What did you think about it, de Gier?”

  De Gier laughed. “I thought it was a good letter, sir.”

  “Why?”

  De Gier was looking out the window.

  “Why?” asked the commissaris again.

  “A good letter,” de Gier repeated.

  “And you, Cardozo?”

  “It irritated me a bit, sir. Man had a lot of chances, didn’t he? Intelligent, a father with money, and yet he did nothing with his life. It was a suicide note in a way, an invitation to the Angel of Death. I believe life is worth living.”

  “He predicted his own death,” the commissaris said slowly, “and probably very exactly. The details may have been right. A man in a dark suit with pointed shoes who killed him with a pistol shot. How could he have known?”

  Grijpstra sat up. “That worried me too, sir, really worried me. I suspected that he might have known his killer but when I read the letter again I hesitated. What’s your thought, sir?”

  The commissaris waited a while before he answered.

  “Just my thought,” he said in the end. “Don’t hold me to it. I think the man suffered, and suffered consciously. It may be possible to have very clear visions when you steer yourself into a situation like that. Most of us just live. We do what the current of our life steers us into. We think we make decisions but we don’t really. Wernekink made a decision—he refused to conform and he kept on refusing. That letter proves it, I think, and also the way he lived. He refused to invite that girl into his house and she was throwing herself at him. He refuse
d to be sensible.”

  “You think that’s admirable?” Cardozo asked de Gier.

  De Gier didn’t reply.

  “Don’t be too sensible, Cardozo,” the commissaris said softly. “If you do you’ll never get further than the surface. In our work we have to go deeper sometimes. I think Wernekink was a very unusual man and I wouldn’t be surprised if he had developed some unusual qualities.”

  De Gier was looking at Cardozo, smiling faintly.

  14

  AT EIGHT-THIRTY THAT EVENING THE COMMISSARIS’ BLACK Citroën parked at sixty-three Prince Alexander Street, right in front of a large dignified-looking mansion surrounded by a garden with larixes and pine trees. The car gracefully bobbed, first in front and then in the rear, as the tension of its suspension system hissed away in a long almost passionate sigh.

  De Gier was irritated by the supercilious smile under the heavy mustache of the sleepy-eyed young constable at the wheel.

  “You’ve done it again, hey?” de Gier asked.

  “Yes, sergeant. When I need a parking space I find it.”

  It was true, of course. The commissaris’ driver always did manage to find parking space close to or exactly where the commissaris wanted to go.

  “Yes, yes,” de Gier said. “I’m glad you didn’t fall asleep this time. I hear you nearly scraped off the side of the car some weeks ago. The police garage mechanics were telling me about it.”

  “An unfortunate accident,” the constable said, “but not my fault. The other car should never have wigwagged in traffic. The other driver’s insurance company will pay. I asked them yesterday. I’m in the clear.”

  “A responsible driver would have been able to avoid the smash,” de Gier said. “It’s a matter of refusing to take risks.”

  “Yes, de Gier,” the commissaris said and put a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. The constable was looking straight ahead.

  “Constable,” the commissaris said, “I don’t expect any problems but if we do run into trouble we’ll blow a whistle. When you hear the whistle you can call for assistance on the radio. And don’t go in by yourself; wait for a patrol car to arrive.”

  “Yes, do be careful,” de Gier said and patted the constable on the shoulder. “And don’t fall asleep,” he hissed when the commissaris was opening the gate.

  The constable wasn’t in uniform that evening but he managed to look just as neat in a dark suit, white shirt and black tie.

  “Have you got your pistol?” de Gier asked.

  The constable patted his jacket. “Right here, sergeant.”

  “Don’t use it,” de Gier said, “whatever happens. You have an orange judo belt, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can practice some throws.”

  The constable took a deep breath as de Gier followed the commissaris through the gate.

  “Lovely place,” the commissaris said as they walked up the short driveway. Two white Mercedeses were parked under an enormous pine tree on the right. “A real old-fashioned villa. This house must date back to the time when this part of Amsterdam was still open country. The merchants built their summer homes here. It’s seventeenth century, I think.”

  “It hasn’t changed its purpose either,” de Gier said. “The merchants of the Golden Age liked to have their parties where they wouldn’t be disturbed. And this area is still quiet, far from the canals and the bustle of town. I don’t think our friends will run into unexpected acquaintances in Prince Alexander Street. It’s all homes for the elderly and private hospitals here. Nobody can afford to live in palaces like this now.”

  “Yes,” the commissaris said. He was thinking of the note he had received from the tax collector that day. More to pay, always more to pay. The collector had never made a refund, not as far back as the commissaris could remember.

  “Only Norway pays more tax than we do,” he said to de Gier. “Did you know that?”

  “I don’t want to go to Norway,” de Gier said. “I want to go to New Guinea. I had a post card from New Guinea yesterday. It was postmarked in Japen Island. It just said, “Greetings” there was no signature.”

  The commissaris chuckled. “Was it addressed to Headquarters, de Gier?”

  “Yes, sir; he doesn’t remember my private address. He had been there once but has probably forgotten the number.”

  “Good luck to him,” the commissaris said.

  “This is as far as I go now,” the commissaris said. “You ring the bell and show your card. I am going back to the car. Grijpstra’s plan was all right. Tell the doorman to send his boss to the car and wait here.”

  De Gier rang the bell. It took some time before the door opened. There was no name on the door. Nobody, not even a suspicious and cynical policeman like de Gier, would expect the mansion to be a brothel. He had time to look around, to admire the magnificent oak doors, the fresh paint on the window frames, the perfect layout of the garden. There was even a pond and he saw the dim shapes of golden carp flitting around among the large lily leaves.

  “Sir?” a quiet voice asked.

  He recognized the type immediately. A pimp, but a pimp of the solid variety. A large, still handsome man in spite of his years. The man would be close to sixty but his shoulders hardly sagged. The sort of man who would never lose his temper and who could pacify the screaming whore and the obstreperous client and keep the whore’s love and the client’s respect. There are all sorts of pimps. The flashy young pimps never last long. They drink and get into fights and a few years of the happy life turn them into crippled alcoholics. There are also criminal pimps, who land up in jail. But the quiet powerful pimp lasts. This was a quiet powerful pimp.

  De Gier had to look up when he spoke to the man. He showed his card and the man took it from his hand and kept it at arm’s length.

  “My eyes aren’t what they used to be, sergeant.” He was speaking very softly.

  “Get your boss,” de Gier whispered back. “Tell him to go outside. There is a black Citroën at the curb, and in it your boss will find my boss. They are going to have a little talk.”

  “Wait here, sergeant; I’ll get him.”

  “No,” de Gier said. “I am going with you.”

  The pimp smiled slowly. “Don’t worry, sergeant. I’ll phone him. There’s a phone in the hall.”

  The hall was vast, with a Persian carpet on the marble tiles and full-length statues of Greek nymphs, their stone robes falling down. The telephone stood on a brass Turkish table, next to an ornamental box cut out of mahogany.

  “What’s in the box,” de Gier asked. He had noticed it was locked.

  The pimp-doorman patted his stomach. “I have a key here that fits the lock. There are chips in the box. We don’t believe in money blowing about the house. If you want anything I give you a chip.”

  “What do I give you?”

  The doorman laughed. “Money, sergeant. You give me money and I give you chips. With chips you can amuse yourself in Villa Marshview. You can drink, you can take the ladies upstairs and you can gamble. And if you want a cigar I give it to you. Cigars are free.”

  “Give,” de Gier said.

  The doorman opened a drawer, hidden among the copper garlands of his table, and produced an enormous box of cigars. He opened it with a flourish. There were very thin delicate cigars in the box, and middle-sized cigars, and short fat cigars, and big cigars—big enough for the large toad-mouths of bankowners and shipbuilders.

  “A big one,” de Gier said. “One of those.”

  “But certainly, sir,” the doorman said, and pulled at the thick golden chain that spanned his stomach. There was a key on the end of the chain, and a cigar cutter. He cut the cigar with a cruel twist and gave it to de Gier, who held the cigar between his teeth. The doorman reached into his waistcoat pocket and brought out a long match. He stood on one leg and scraped the match to life on the sole of his shoe.

  “There you are, sir.”

  De Gier didn’t thank him. He felt silly. The doo
rman had a strong personality and he could feel it ooze around him. He was glad he wasn’t a woman. Women would collapse if this minor god deigned to bow down and pay attention to them.

  “Boss,” the doorman said. “Grand Alarm, boss. The police are here. They want you to come down immediately. In the hall. There’s a car waiting for you.”

  He put the phone down and grinned. “That’ll knock the shit out of him, sergeant. He scares easy, you know. He’ll be falling down the stairs in a minute.”

  The doorman folded his hands on his back and watched the stairs. De Gier watched too. A small man just over five-feet tall and dressed in a striped suit, striped shirt and striped tie came running down. The stripes didn’t match.

  “What’s this, Joop?” the man asked in a loud excited whisper. “Police? You aren’t joking again are you?”

  “No, boss. This is Sergeant de Gier, a detective. He showed me his card; it’s a real card. And he wants you to go outside. There’s a Citroën parked beyond the gate. Inside there’s an officer who wants to talk to you.”

  “No,” the boss whispered, “no, no. What’s this? No trouble, surely! There’s never any trouble here. A members’ only club, sergeant, and you can’t buy your membership at the door. We don’t want any new members; we want it to be nice and cozy here. And the girls are all over twenty-one—married—most of them. No drugs. And the gambling is for laughs only. What’s up, sergeant?”

  De Gier made an inviting gesture toward the door.

  “You saw the card, eh, Joop?” The doorman nodded, his face showed nothing, no matter how hard the boss stared. No help. No peaceful reassurance. “A police card, eh, Joop? We have no business with private detectives here.”

  “A police card, boss. Detective-sergeant the gentleman is. And the officer outside will be a chief inspector.”