The Corpse on the Dike

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  “No,” de Gier said, “at least not if 1 can help it. You have some sort of license, don’t you?”

  “We are a club; we have a license for liquor and dancing and all that…”

  “All that…?”

  The doorman had his hands on his back and was slowly moving backward and forward.

  “Yes, yes, you have a point,” the doorman said. De Gier began to move toward the bar.

  “Wait,” the doorman said. “Perhaps you would like to be a member. Come here once in a while. Get a few chips. Sit in the leather chair near the stage and watch the show. You were very decorative in there. The girls like a man to watch them with some concentration.”

  “No,” de Gier said.

  * * *

  “No, dear,” the commissaris said. “Perhaps some other time but tonight I go home early. I am expecting some foreign visitors tomorrow and I’ll have to be awake when they march into my office. But thank you for the invitation; I appreciate it.”

  “You are welcome,” Thsien-niu said.

  “A pity,” Sharif said. “I enjoyed your company. Especially the story about the porridge you ate when you were a child.”

  De Gier came in from the hall, the cigar between his teeth. Thsien-niu giggled.

  “That cigar is too big for you, Rinus,” the commissaris said.

  “It has a very nice taste, sir,” de Gier said and took the cigar out of his mouth.

  “Talk to Mr. Sharif and Thsien-niu,” the commissaris said. “I have to go home. See you tomorrow.”

  “Sir,” de Gier said.

  The detectives came in twenty minutes later. The combo went into a session with the trumpet. The pianist’s body was rigid, his head bent right down to the keyboard. The drums and the trumpet were in an orgy of sound and the bass thumped away while a tall slim Negress was back in the native jungle of her forefathers, moving around the stage in a trance of rhythmical lust. As de Gier’s cigar pointed to the man with the striped tie, the detectives standing next to the man touched his arm and showed their police cards. Sharif’s eyes followed the three men walking toward the hall.

  Outside an unmarked police car had found the white Lincoln. Sharif came out of the house and walked down the driveway. The young Arab opened the door. The white car turned a corner and the police car followed. De Gier telephoned for a cab.

  Within twenty minutes he reported at Headquarters. Grijpstra was telephoning and Cardozo listening in.

  “Where’s the commissaris?” de Gier asked.

  “He’ll be right back. He is in the cell block talking to the Cat. Grijpstra is talking to the computer people; they’re trying the computer’s memory with the word ‘Flyer.'”

  “That’s all we know,” de Gier said.

  “It may be enough,” Cardozo said. “There can’t be too many Flyers about.”

  “Thanks,” Grijpstra said, “I’ll wait. Phone Headquarters and ask for Adjutant Grijpstra. Don’t be too long.”

  Grijpstra turned round. “There you are. You were in a brothel.” His voice was full of reproach.

  “Yes,” de Gier said. “It was very nice. There was a naked Negress on the stage when I left and before her there were other women. I danced with one of them. She danced very well. And I have smoked two Cuban cigars and I have had a few drinks. And the music! Oh, Grijpstra, you should have heard the music.”

  “What music?”

  “Trumpet. And the piano! Blues, a blues that never stopped. Not too slow. But exact. None of this playing about. It all fitted. The place is a villa called Marshview and it’s run by a six-and-a-half-foot doorman. He oozes charm and he has trained the girls. Class. Real class.”

  “Did you play your flute?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was in the construction business. The commissaris too. Building. The commissaris had just come back from France and I was his right hand. We met by accident. Worked for the same company. He was one of the big bosses.”

  “And you?”

  “An executive. Promising material.”

  “It wasn’t like that, was it?” Cardozo asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you said. I have been to brothels too. Horrible. They make you drink sweet champagne and the curtains are red velvet. There are mirrors and the women hang about on settees and the place stinks of perfume.”

  “Yes,” Grijpstra said, “and the women call you ‘sweetie’ and ‘duckie’ and they talk to each other—right over your head—and they show porno films in a little room that smells of piss.”

  “No, no,” de Gier said. “Like I said. A good place. Ask the commissaris.”

  “Bull,” Cardozo said.

  “Class,” de Gier said stubbornly. “You should have seen that Negress dance. You could feel the jungle behind her. The moon. Palm trees. Drums throbbing. The round huts of the village behind you, and the warriors standing in a half circle, jingling the shells on their feet. Short sounds, you know. And when they jingle their shells the woman moves. Slowly. And her breasts are glistening and her hips shake a little—just a little. Her arms are stretched out and the moon is rising, a full white disc filling the sky.”

  “You saw all that?” Cardozo asked.

  “It was there,” de Gier said.

  17

  “MY LAWYER SEEMED PRETTY SURE THAT YOU WOULD have to let me go today,” the Cat said. He was sitting on his bunk and the commissaris was sitting opposite him on a low stool.

  “There isn’t much to do in these cells,” the Cat said. “Did you have a look at that stool before you sat down?”

  The commissaris got up and looked at the stool.

  “It looks worn,” the commissaris said.

  “Worn!” The Cat got up and stretched. His hands touched the ceiling. “Wooden stools don’t wear. That little bit of furniture was scratched, scratched by human hands. I have been studying it. It’s worth a fortune I tell you. It can be put up for display in the Municipal Museum and it’ll draw crowds. It’s a perfect work of art. A wooden surface scratched by ten thousand human nails, patiently, eight hours a day. It’s a work of harmony as well.”

  “Yes,” the commissaris said. “Very interesting. But to appreciate it properly I would have to spend some time in this cell.”

  The Cat crossed his arms on his chest and bowed. “Be my guest, commissaris.”

  “It’s an experience that isn’t altogether new to me,” the commissaris said.

  “You have been in jail?”

  “A little more than a year.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “A riddle for you to solve,” the commissaris said. “You’ll have something to do tomorrow.”

  The Cat frowned. “I’ve got it. The war! You were in the Resistance. You’re the right age.”

  “Right.”

  “You’ll have to give me a better riddle, commissaris.”

  “Why are we here?” the commissaris asked.

  “Here in jail, you mean? Why are we here together, just now? In this cell?”

  The commissaris smiled. The Cat smiled too. The commissaris looked very neat. He was sitting on the stool as if it had been specially made for him. His thin legs were neatly parallel, and the creases in his trousers were like two lines out of a geometrical drawing. The buttoned waistcoat, the thin chain of his watch, the narrow tie with its small knot, the wizened face with the two bright inquisitive but gentle eyes and the thin carefully combed hair, were all details that added up to an image inspiring confidence. A loving father, a teacher, an uncle, a friend of the family.

  “No,” the commissaris said. “The second riddle is more difficult.”

  “You mean why we are here, you and I, on Earth?”

  The commissaris smiled.

  “Do you read science fiction, commissaris?”

  “I do sometimes.”

  “Yes,” the Cat said. “It was only when I began to read science fiction that I understood something about the riddle. I di
dn’t solve it, of course, but I knew then that there is a riddle. What the hell is all this life doing on a little round ball, suspended in space? You and me, and the guards who feed me, and Tom Wernekink and those fools on the dike.”

  “And Sharif,” the commissaris said.

  “And Sharif.”

  “Listen here,” the commissaris said. “Sit down on your bunk and listen. You have to help me. I’ve got to get Wernekink’s killer.”

  The Cat took the pillow off his bunk, punched it into shape and sat down, propping it behind his back.

  “Yes, commissaris. I abhor violence. Tom Wernekink wanted to die, as you probably know, but I don’t think a man should have crept into his garden to hide and wait and fire a pistol. No, he shouldn’t have.”

  “You are a suspect, Cat, and anything you say can be used against you. Still I want you to tell me what you know.”

  The Cat laughed and his gaiety filled the small cell.

  “You have to say that now, don’t you?”

  “It’s the new law.”

  “Not a bad law. The suckers should be warned. It’s their good right. But I won’t tell you anything I shouldn’t tell you at this stage. So far you have little against me, except this idiotic half mustache, which you won’t let me shave off, and the fact that your detectives caught me while I was running about in my own garden.”

  “We have more now,” the commissaris said. “That’s why I could keep you in this cell for another two days. We checked the shops Sharif owns and found some nervous people there. They had been shifting the stolen merchandise but one of them slipped up and there’s a TV set on Sharif’s premises that came from your people on the dike. We are checking the lists now and the registration number of the TV will tally eventually. We have arrested the shop manager, who is being interrogated right now. He’ll crack and tell us where we’ll find the rest of the merchandise. And nine of your people are in the cells as well. A lot of fingers are pointing at you, Cat, and together they’ll make the hand that will grab you. You’ll be convicted of receiving. It’s your first offense, so you won’t be in jail long, but we’ll win the case.”

  “You will,” the Cat said, “but you haven’t won yet and why should I make it easy?”

  “No reason. Play the game as well as you can and we’ll play ours. But the killer is a different game; we’re on the same side. What do you know about the Flyer?”

  “The Flyer,” the Cat said. “You have a name. That’s something.”

  “It’s the name of a shadow. We need a real name.”

  “All right,” the Cat said. “It seems to me now that I had a vision one night while half-asleep in Ursula’s arms. It was after a dinner of snails and toast with some olives on the side. You want to hear about the vision?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “It seems,” the Cat said sleepily, “that a certain man with a feline name—a man who looks like me perhaps—was annoyed by a certain Arabic gentleman. He was doing business with the Arab and the Arab wanted more and more. So the man began to study the Arab and he sent out some spies, some little mice who ran about the Arab. And the mice heard that the Arab owned a dangerous tool—a human tool—a walking automatic pistol, that never misses. It was a strange tool, for it could also fly, on silent wings, like a moth.”

  “You mean it could glide,” the commissaris said.

  “Yes, glide.”

  “A glider,” the commissaris said. “And where does this tool have his wings?”

  “In Middelburg,” the Cat said.

  “The apparition has no name?”

  “It will have a name, but I don’t know it. It will eat three times a day and live in a house. It will also be sick, since a tool that kills for a price can’t be put together properly. It will be dangerous.”

  “When you had this vision that night after the meal of snails and olives,” the commissaris said, “didn’t it occur to you that you might try to catch this deadly moth?”

  “No, sir,” the Cat said. “I believe in cleverness, not in violence. Violence flies in a small circle and burns its own wings.”

  “So does cleverness, perhaps,” the commissaris said. “Is the vision completely described?”

  “I saw no more.”

  The commissaris got up. “Is there anything I can do for you, Cat?”

  “I have three wishes,” the Cat said and got up too.

  “Go ahead.”

  “First, I would like you to leave your tin of cigars behind with a box of matches.”

  The commissaris patted his pocket, produced the tin of cigars and the matches and put them on the Cat’s bunk.

  “Second, I would like to have the thick dark blue book that is on the floor next to my bed at home.”

  “I’ll ask one of my men to pick it up tomorrow and deliver it to you.”

  “Thank you. And third, I would like you to send a telegram to Ursula’s father in Australia. She is mentally disturbed. She has been treated for a while and is functioning again but with me locked up she’ll be alone and may get into all sorts of psychic trouble. I want her father to fly out here and pick her up. She should be at home with her family. Her father is rich and he loves her. He’ll come when you wire him. I’ll give you the address if you lend me your pen.

  The commissaris took out his pen. “All right, I’ll send the wire straightaway.”

  “Thank you. Good hunting.”

  The commissaris knocked on the cell door; they heard the shuffling footsteps of the guard in the narrow corridor outside.

  “We’ve got something, sir,” Grijpstra said when the commissaris returned to his office.

  “Tell me.”

  “The computer knows the Flyer. A hired gun who was employed at the beginning of last year in the case of the illegal distillers in the south. The police found out about the distilleries because one of the owners turned up dead in the forest, with a bullet between his eyes. The killer was never named but his nickname was: the Flyer. The theory was that one distiller tried to buy out another and the man refused, so he got shot. But nothing was proved; there are some men in jail now, but they were only charged with manufacturing spirits without a license. I have the name of the chief inspector who dealt with the case but he is retired now and lives in France. There is no telephone number. The files will be available in the morning. I telephoned the record office but the only man who knows his way about there isn’t on duty and isn’t at home either. They are short staffed, it seems. We’ll have to wait till tomorrow.”

  “No,” the commissaris said, “the Flyer is a glider pilot who lives in Middelburg. I want to go there now. What about Sharif? Did the car following him report?”

  “Yes, sir,” de Gier said, “Sharif went home. The police car left but there’s another one there now—a car from our shadow department—with a sergeant and a female constable in it. If Sharif leaves again they’ll follow him and report back to Headquarters if anything happens.”

  The commissaris grinned. “Right. That’s very nice. How did you get the shadow car?’

  “I spoke to their chief, sir. He had a car in town that had nothing special to do. It’s a very nice car too, a new Porsche.”

  The telephone buzzed and de Gier picked it up. “Radio room,” the voice said. “We’ve had a report from the Porsche. Your suspect left his house in a gray Jaguar and is now leaving the city, direction south; the Porsche is after him. Your suspect is accompanied by another man, a small dark-skinned man who is driving. Do you want me to give a message to the Porsche?”

  “Yes,” de Gier said. “Tell them to keep on reporting and to pass the messages to Detective-Constable Cardozo, who will be in this office.”

  “De Gier,” the commissaris said.

  “Sir.”

  “Tell them not to interfere with Sharif. Just follow and report.”

  De Gier passed the message and put the phone down.

  “Stay here, Cardozo,” the commissaris said. “We’ll phone you. The radio in the car
can’t cover a lot of distance. The Porsche will also be phoning. You’ll have to be the center of communication tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get the car, de Gier; it’s parked in the courtyard. My driver will go with us. If he gets too sleepy you or Grijpstra can take over for him. We are going to Middelburg.”

  “Sir,” de Gier said.

  18

  “GOOD EVENING,” THE COMMISSARIS SAID TO THE DESK sergeant at Middelburg’s small police station. “We are from the Amsterdam Municipal Police.” He showed his card.

  “Commissaris,” the desk sergeant said in an awed voice. “Please come in, sir. Can I get you some coffee? There’s a fresh pot. I always make one at four o’clock in the morning; keeps me awake. There’ll be enough for three cups.”

  Thank you, sergeant. Can you find us an officer? We have some work to do here and it would be nice if we could do it immediately.”

  “I’ll phone the inspector on standby duty.”

  “Please.”

  The commissaris took the other phone and dialed the telegraph office. He dictated the cable to Ursula’s father, spelling each word, and told the girl to charge the cost to the Amsterdam police. Then he phoned his own office.

  “Any news, Cardozo?”

  “Yes, sir; where are you, sir?”

  “Middelburg police station.”

  “Good. Sharif should be close to you. The Porsche followed him to the Zeeland bridge but lost him just after the bridge. They are in Goes now, waiting near a phone. They want further instructions.”

  “Tell them to go home and thank them. Do you have the number of that Jaguar?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll give it to you, and please give me your telephone number over there.”

  “Stay near that phone, Cardozo,” the commissaris said before he hung up. “It’ll be boring but we may need you again, although it’s unlikely. You can go to sleep if you like as long as you are close to the phone.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be here.”

  “Poor Cardozo,” de Gier said.

  “Half the life of a policeman,” Grijpstra said. “Hang around and wait.”