The Corpse on the Dike

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  De Gier and the doorman went back into the house. The commissaris was at the bar, sipping from a drink that the smiling fat bartender had prepared in a most professional manner. He handled the silver shaker as if he were welcoming a royal personage who had the right to an extravagant show of pure joy. A young lady was sitting next to the commissaris. De Gier stopped to admire her. She was dressed in a long black gown, buttoned up to her small chin and enclosing a long slender neck. Her face was innocence itself and the little red mouth pouted. Her leg on the commissaris’ side was bare and she moved it every few seconds. The naked thigh made de Gier gasp. The slit in the gown closed as de Gier joined the commissaris.

  “Evening, sir,” de Gier said. “I didn’t expect you to be here tonight. I thought you were still in France.”

  “Hello, Rinus,” the commissaris said, smiling delightedly. “I was hoping to meet you here. How are things at the office? Meet our charming hostess. Her name is Charlotte. Charlotte meet Rinus, my right hand in the firm. You two are very well suited, I think.”

  The girl jumped down from her stool and bowed low. Then she lifted her face and offered her mouth. De Gier kissed her lightly while the commissaris tittered.

  “Excellent,” he said. “You two are suited, I see. I was right.”

  “Of course,” the girl said.

  “Can I buy you a drink, Charlotte,” de Gier asked.

  “No, thanks. I still have some in my glass, but we can dance if you like. Let me introduce you both to Ella. We can’t leave our friend at the bar by himself, can we.”

  “Who is Ella?” the commissaris asked.

  Charlotte pointed to a redheaded girl sitting by herself at the other side of the bar.

  “She is beautiful,” the commissaris said, “but I would prefer that lovely Chinese girl who just came in. If you don’t mind, of course. It’s no reflection on your taste at all; it’s just that I am charmed by the wisdom of the Far East.”

  “You are a dear,” Charlotte said and brushed her hair past the commissaris’ cheek. “Just a minute, please.”

  “Everything all right?” the commissaris asked.

  “Yes, sir. The recorder is back in the car and the doorman has cleaned up the conference room.”

  “This is Thsien-niu,” Charlotte said. “Did I pronounce your name right, Thsien-niu?”

  The girl smiled and bowed, a tiny bow that didn’t do much more than acknowledge the presence of the two men.

  Tricks, de Gier thought. Tricks that they learn from the podgy pimp. He saw Joop, the doorman, in the classroom upstairs, his huge body slumped on a couch while the girls performed. He inspired them with his warm deep voice that slurred and caressed its words and he made the girls glow with pleasure, obedience and humility.

  “Sit next to me, Thsien-niu,” the commissaris said, trying to pronounce the foreign sounds properly.

  “Please,” the girl said in English while she jumped lightly onto the high stool.

  “Thsien-niu doesn’t speak Dutch yet,” Charlotte said, “but she is learning quickly and her English is wonderful. She comes from Hong Kong. She is very popular here.”

  De Gier was on the small dance floor with Charlotte’s gowned body pressed against him. The combo, consisting of three young men—all dressed in dark suits with narrow trousers and white fluffy open-necked shirts with dark blue scarves—played a slow shuffle, very easy to get into. They often stopped, letting four bars go by. The pianist’s right hand played a simple combination of high notes with a loose touch. The left hand, drums and double bass came in together, stressing the combination and making it run up de Gier’s spine. He had his hands on the girl’s shoulders and pulled her against his chest but she wriggled free and began a dance on her own, four feet away from him. She stuck to the same place, hardly moving her feet but making her body shiver and de Gier, led by the piano’s high notes, improvised a merry-go-round without overdoing it. He was using a proper pattern for his feet, which he remembered from dance lessons twenty years ago. But he had never been taught by the old lady of the school to use his shoulders, his arms and his hands. It had been kind of the old lady not to teach him, for now he could do as he liked and he was doing well. The commissaris approved, studying him from the bar, and the Chinese girl smiled vaguely as she saw the tall athletic man change into a little boy and then gradually begin to find his own strength again. De Gier had no thoughts while he danced; he was aware of a feeling of well-being. He had become part of the music.

  “Beautiful man,” the Chinese girl said to the commissaris.

  “Yes,” the commissaris said. “Don’t tell him; it makes him feel silly.”

  “That’s good,” the girl said. “You want to dance too?”

  “No. Let’s drink.”

  The barman came before he was called. The crushed ice in his silver flask moved with the rhythm of the shuffle and the commissaris’ and the girl’s glasses were filled.

  Sharif came into the bar, followed by his four men, who were grinning with pleasure in anticipation. There were more girls in the bar now and some twelve men. Other couples had joined de Gier and Charlotte on the dance floor and the combo, feeling that the shuffle had caught on, allowed some exuberance to glide into the music. The pianist’s right hand was now rather complicated and the double bass had a chance to exert itself; it was good enough to play by itself and the pianist sat back, smiling at the drummer, who only stressed the vibrations of the giant violin by softly hitting a cymbal.

  Sharif separated from his companions and came to the bar. The commissaris smiled at him and Sharif stopped.

  “Virgins as fair as corals and rubies,” Sharif said. “Which of your Lord’s blessings would you deny?”

  “This is hardly the place I would come to deny myself anything,” the commissaris said. “Can I offer you a drink?”

  “You can,” Sharif said, “but there should not be alcohol in it. And there’s nothing right now I can offer in return, except perhaps my company.”

  The barman, who had seen Sharif join the commissaris from the other end of the bar, was hovering around them already and poured a glass of an almost black liquid.

  “The juice of blackberries,” Sharif said, raising the glass. “A rare delicacy but I have noticed nobody here likes it. I always find the contents of the bottle at the same level as I left it on my last visit. Yet it mixes with alcohol, I think, although I have never tried it.”

  “You don’t drink at all?” the commissaris asked.

  “Never. I am an Arab.”

  “Which of your Lord’s blessings would you deny?” the commissaris asked.

  “Ah,” said Sharif, “you remembered. A sentence from the Koran: Noah, one of its first chapters. Perhaps you think I was blaspheming?”

  There was no glimmer of amusement in Sharif’s large dark eyes as he scrutinized the commissaris’ face.

  “No,” the commissaris said. “To blaspheme is to be childish and you do not strike me as a childish man. But to be able to drink is a blessing and you have asked me whether I would deny it?”

  “I was referring to other pleasures,” Sharif said. “And I do not agree with you that alcohol is a blessing. When I was younger and sillier I tasted alcohol. And I have been very drunk. It took weeks to forget the imbecilities I uttered during those few hours. I woke up in a large building where streetcars are parked during the night. I was lying with my head on a rail. I could never remember how I got into that building but waking up was waking up in hell, and even now I have a fear of streetcars, especially at night. I have never drunk again.”

  “I see,” the commissaris said. “Please meet my companion; her name is Thsien-niu.”

  “We are acquainted. How are you this evening, vision from heaven?”

  The girl smiled.

  “You are in business?” Sharif asked, sipping his blackberry juice.

  The commissaris laughed and immediately excused himself. “When I was a child,” the commissaris said, “I suffered from co
nstipation. My mother would prepare porridge for me, a porridge of gray cement with lumps moving about in it. To give it flavor, and to mask the taste of the olive oil that she poured into it when she thought I wasn’t looking, she would add half a glass of blackberry juice.”

  “Haha,” Sharif said and there was real amusement on his face now. His eyes were slanting more than usual and there was a glitter of gold between his lips. “Perhaps the juice is to you what the streetcars in the evening are to me. Every man has his fears. Are you in business?”

  “Construction,” the commissaris said, “and you?”

  “Secondhand clothes,” Sharif said. “A small but profitable line, and a trade reserved for my race. The Jews are my competitors but we are all of the same family although they deny the truth. It’s a pity. Acceptance of the truth would lead to harmony, harmony would lead to prosperity, prosperity would make more people discard their clothes quicker and my business would grow.”

  The commissaris leaned back against the bar and extended an arm. Thsien-niu snuggled into the arm and the commissaris’ right hand rested lightly on her shoulder. She had an unlit cigarette in her mouth and as Sharif’s hand shot out, his heavy golden lighter spat a small flame.

  “Construction is big business,” Sharif said modestly. “I imagine your company is responsible for the growth of this city and the large buildings that are rising in the south and that I admire from my window sometimes.”

  “Construction is a big business,” the commissaris agreed, “but not always profitable. It makes for being busy and running about and…”

  “And talk,” Sharif said. “Much talk. Here at the bar. They talk to one another and they drop their voices but the catchwords sound up. Mumble, mumble, mumble—one million guilders—mumble, mumble, mumble, mumble— one hundred thousand guilders.”

  “There is no money in the secondhand clothes trade?” the commissaris asked.

  Sharif laughed and made a gesture so that the barman unscrewed the top of his silver flask and the commissaris’ glass filled up again.

  “No,” Sharif said. “Secondhand clothes are best kept in quietness.”

  De Gier came back from the dance floor.

  “Where’s Charlotte?” the commissaris asked.

  “She is going to take her clothes off,” de Gier said and looked at Sharif. “She’ll be on stage soon.”

  “Mehemed el Sharif,” Sharif said.

  “Schol,” de Gier said. “Rinus Schol; glad to meet you, sir.”

  “A schol,” Sharif said slowly. “A fish, I believe. A flat fish that swims about and suddenly, quicker than it knows the reason why, flaps its tail, dives and ducks into the sand. The pursuer goes on and never sees.”

  “My assistant,” the commissaris said. “My right hand in the office. Schol has learned more about the construction business in ten years than I have learned in thirty.”

  “The modest guide the clever,” Sharif said.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the doorman said. “I have a call for you; will you take it in the hall?”

  Sharif moved to the hall.

  “Trouble,” the doorman said to the commissaris. “Watch it.”

  The commissaris looked up. “How?”

  “First door to the left. Turn right, go through the corridor and out through the garden door. Run to the car. You have a man in your car. Maybe he knows what’s going on. Sharif is talking to another Arab in the hall now, his driver. You talk to your driver.”

  De Gier ran through the garden and swung himself over the stone wall. He dived into the back of the black Citroën.

  “What did you see?” he asked the constable.

  “That was quick,” the driver said. “I hardly recognized you when you jumped the wall. I thought you were a bat.”

  “I was a fish just now,” de Gier said. “What did you see?”

  “After you left—you and that doorman—and had given me the tape recorder,” the constable said, “I saw a man move in the garden opposite. A small man. He must have been there for some time.”

  “He is the Arab’s driver—the Arab we are after,” de Gier said. “He has a white Lincoln, which must be parked close by.”

  “Didn’t see it. But the driver must have seen you putting the recorder in the car. He waited and I pretended to be asleep in the car. Now he is in the house.”

  “I am going back,” de Gier said.

  “Will you be long?’

  “Perhaps. There is a beautiful girl in there taking her clothes off. On a stage. I am going to smoke a cigar while I watch her. A big cigar.”

  “Pfah!” the constable said.

  “You go back to sleep. Maybe you’ll see another Arab.”

  De Gier flitted back, as quickly as he had come. He was back at the bar when Sharif returned.

  Charlotte had unzipped her gown and a trumpet player had joined the combo. He wailed as the zip came down, shrieked as the whiteness of her breasts shimmered in the pale light of the stage, and pulsated as the gown dropped to the floor. Charlotte danced and the muted trumpet became sad. The combo went back into its shuffle and the lights went out and on. The stage was empty. The dance had been the same dance that she had shared with de Gier twenty minutes before, but now she had been alone, alone with all the men in the bar.

  “Very good,” Sharif said and clapped. “She is like a woman I saw in Port Said, long ago. I wasn’t supposed to watch her since I worked in the kitchen, but I always sneaked out when she was on stage.”

  “Where’s Schol?”

  “There,” the commissaris said and grinned. There were three leather chairs facing the small stage. De Gier was in the middle chair, smoking the butt of a large cigar that the doorman had given him. He was still looking at the stage.

  “Your assistant knows how to enjoy himself. He is sincere. The other men pretended they were not really watching. Those chairs are always empty. Why have I never seen you before?”

  “I have been here before,” the commissaris said, “but we must have missed each other.”

  “Possibly,” Sharif said.

  “They suspect something,” de Gier said as he stood next to the commissaris in the lavatory. “Sharif’s driver saw me take the tape recorder to the car. He may not have seen that it was a tape recorder since it is dark outside and he was watching us from the other side of the street. I had it under my jacket but he must have seen that I gave something to the constable. And he reported on it.”

  “Yes,” the commissaris said. “We’d better go. Or, rather, I will go. It’s a pity they suspect us but it can’t be helped. We may as well use the situation. Stay here and I’ll send two detectives. They’ll have to arrest the weakest of Sharif’s helpers. I was watching them at the bar. One of them wears a striped tie, dark blue and white. I think he is worried. He’s drinking a lot and he talks all the time—cracks jokes and laughs before the others laugh. He is the one who said that one of the wrong TV sets was left in his store. The detectives can play on that. I don’t think he’ll crack but the fact that he is arrested will shake Sharif. I’ll tell them to sit at the bar until you give them a sign. Point at the man with your cigar when Sharif isn’t watching.”

  “And then, sir?”

  “Catch a cab and come to Headquarters. I’ll see what I can find out about this Flyer they were talking about. The shadow who killed Tom Wernekink. We’ll have to find him quickly, tonight if possible. I’ll also get Grijpstra and Cardozo.”

  Someone came into the lavatory. The commissaris went to the washstand and made a fuss with the tap, screwing it into exactly the right position so that the hot water would make his hands foam. He dried his hands briskly.

  Sharif was still at the bar and the commissaris sat down next to him. The redhaired girl was on the stage now but Sharif was talking to Thsien-niu, who immediately moved away when she saw the commissaris and snuggled into his arm again.

  “The lady from the Far East likes you,” Sharif said. “It shows good taste.”

 
“Do you like me?” the commissaris asked.

  “Yes,” Thsien-niu said. “I would like to go upstairs with you.”

  Sharif smiled. “An invitation hard to refuse.”

  “I am an old man,” the commissaris said.

  “I will sing for you.”

  “In Chinese?” Sharif asked. He was leaning forward.

  “I can only sing in Chinese,” the girl said, “and all the songs I know are about the sea. My father used to say that he could hear the sea when I sang to him. My country consists of islands; the sea is close.”

  “Sometimes,” Sharif said, “I am glad I am no longer a young man. The mind of a young man is like the porno magazines mat stare at you from every sixth shop window nowadays. A young man’s thoughts, when he is with a woman he hasn’t made yet, make him see images of shrimps wriggling in a glass full of mayonnaise. He is so filled with the urge to make the human race continue that he can think of nothing but the desire to fill the hole, the moist mysterious hole that will suck him up and hold him. For a while. But the girl talks about singing and he doesn’t hear. Now that I am old I can hear.” Sharif drank a little more of his blackberry juice.

  * * *

  “Give,” de Gier said to the doorman.

  The doorman held the cigar box and de Gier grabbed.

  “Don’t grab,” the doorman said.

  “Stand on one foot again,” de Gier said.

  The doorman stood on one foot and lit a match.

  “Thanks. Soon two detectives will come and arrest one of your clients. Not Sharif, but one of his friends. They’ll be very polite and take him away.”

  “The boss won’t like it,” the doorman said.

  “No. But it can’t be helped. You better see to it that the combo is going and that there’s a girl on the stage when they make the arrest.”

  “You aren’t going to make a fuss about this place afterward, are you, sergeant?” the doorman said. “We’ve been in business for a long time and we’re used to it. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if this place is closed down. I am too old to start another one.”