The Streetbird

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "Sir," Jurriaans affirmed.

  Karate and Ketchup came marching back and stood at attention.

  "Did you hit them?" Jurriaans asked.

  "They were Germans," Ketchup said.

  "You aren't allowed to hit Germans either."

  "You see?" Ketchup asked Karate.

  "You were right," Karate said sadly. "But it's hard to believe."

  "I'm often right." Ketchup smiled proudly.

  "You hit them too," Jurriaans said. "When you were out of sight. You shouldn't have."

  The commissaris turned away after saying good-bye. De Gier walked along toward an old but well-kept Citroen parked half on the sidewalk of the Seadike. "Shall I drive you home?" "No," the commissaris said. "It doesn't hurt so much once I sit down. It's getting worse, Rinus, and the pain is reaching my neck. I'll have to give in soon, my wife is right."

  The others were, watching the ill-matched pair—the tall, wide-shouldered detective sergeant, bouncing on his long legs, an example of virile awareness, and the little old chief, leaning on the arm of his protector, dragging his almost useless leg.

  "About to retire?" Jurriaans asked.

  Grijpstra frowned. "Never."

  Cardozo jumped up and down. "A murderer, a real murderer, haven't had one for years. A true killer, who has thought it all out, and he used a machine gun. Are we going to get him, adjutant, are we?"

  "Of course," Grijpstra said.

  Jurriaans removed his cap from under his arm and placed it carefully on his head. "I admire your optimism. Any idea what you're getting yourself into?" He adjusted the cap with both hands. "This is not your regular murder, politely planned by nice suburban types. Here everything is sick, rotten."

  "Good," Cardozo said.

  "A cup of coffee?" asked Jurriaans.

  "And an apartment," Grijpstra said. "Close by, available immediately so that we can move in at once." His lower lip protruded sadly. "Not that I want to. I have a nice house myself now."

  "You?" Cardozo asked. "Where? You always say you don't like your house. Did you move?"

  De Gier had come back. He smiled at Cardozo. "Things don't have to move to change, you know. They can stay where they are and be different."

  "So soon?" Cardozo flapped his hands. "The adjutant was still complaining last week." He puckered his nose. "About the smell." He covered his ears. 'The noise." He held his throat. "The lack of space."

  "Shshsh," Grijpstra said. An ambulance had arrived. The attendants placed the corpse on a stretcher. Obrian's long arms dangled and were tucked away. He was still smiling, in all directions now, as his head lolled about. The policemen followed, automatically falling into step, Jurriaans next to the adjutant, de Gier with Cardozo, Ketchup with Karate. They lined up, waiting for the attendants to close the doors of the ambulance.

  "Prince of the quarter," Jurriaans said. "I thought he would never leave."

  "We are the Crown."

  Jurriaans looked at Grijpstra. "What?"

  The adjutant reached up and took off the sergeant's cap. "Here, the crown, the supreme emblem, on your own hat."

  Jurriaans nodded. "One almost forgets here."

  De Gier talked to Cardozo. "A little while ago I saw three gentlemen roller-skating." He put one hand on his back and made his legs slide. He dangled his other hand in front of Cardozo's face. "Carrying briefcases. Can you imagine."

  "Do I have to?" asked Cardozo. He thumped de Gier on the arm. "Murder! I had almost forgotten. We've got a murder, sergeant. Hey ho!"

  "For five years," Ketchup said, "Obrian fucked us over. Made idiots out of us, had us by the neck, played with us like rag dolls. And now he's off forever." He shook his head. "Hard to believe."

  Karate was shaking his head too. "Can't believe it either, liberated illegally, we can't even thank the killer."

  The two constables ran up the stairs of the station together.

  "Stupid little buggers," Grijpstra said.

  "You think so?" Jurriaans asked.

  Grijpstra prodded the sergeant's stomach with his stubby finger. "Yes. They were right here, fifty paces away from the killing, and they didn't even bother to come out to see why someone might be firing a machine gun. Bubbles in pipes! Faulty exhaust!"

  "I was in there too," Jurriaans said. "It must have been a very short rattle. Machine pistols fire at a rate of five to six hundred rounds per minute, but they don't carry more than thirty or so. Six hundred rounds a minute, that's ten per second. Six rounds take about half a second. Bang." He flicked his fingers. "That was all."

  "Turrdm, you said just now. Not bang."

  "Adjutant," Jurriaans said pleasantly, "I often hear bangs. But they aren't shots. This is a bad district but it isn't a battlefield. There's bad sex here, and bad dope, and theft and blackmail and mugging. All bad. But hardly ever bad bullets."

  De Gier stepped up. "Coffee?"

  "Cake?" Grijpstra asked.

  "Be my guests."

  Jurriaans led the way. Grijpstra followed. Cardozo was still in the street, watching a lithe black cat, high on its legs, with a dainty small head.

  "Coming?" de Gier asked.

  "Yes."

  "What's with the cat?"

  Cardozo stroked the cat's back. "I saw her before, hanging around the corpse. Chased her away, as I thought she might lick the blood, but she came back and just sat there staring."

  "So?"

  "Bad luck."

  "Really," de Gier said. "Cats are never bad luck. Get into the station." He grabbed Cardozo by the arm and pushed him up the steps. A loud squeak made him look up. On a TV antenna poking out of the burned-out corner house's sagging roof sat a vulture. The bird wasn't particularly large but at least twice the size of a big crow. Its yellow claws were wrapped around the antenna's top bar and a sharply curved beak stuck out of its hairless gray head.

  Cardozo had gone. "I've lost my mind," the sergeant whispered. He waved at the bird. It rose slowly, flapping awkwardly. Gaining height, it flew easily, gliding low over the tiles, changing direction by effortlessly bending thin fingerlike feathers at the extreme ends of its wings.

  The ranks in the Amsterdam Municipal Police are constable, constable first class, sergeant, adjutant, inspector, chief inspector, commissaris, chief constable. An adjutant is a noncommissioned officer.

  \\ 2 ////

  "No," SAID THE COMMISSARIS' WIFE.

  The commissaris, holding his knife loosely and eyeing his boiled egg, looked up to smile. "The money, dear? You mean we lose the deposit at the travel agency? It isn't that much, and Austria will wait, its healing mud bubbling forever. I do think I will have another chance to soak my bones."

  "A waste."

  "You know," the commissaris said, "I don't really mind losing a bit of money now and then. Remember those mutual funds your brother talked us into? They've been going down ever since I bought them." He decapitated the egg fiercely and stabbed the contents with his spoon. "But what is money anyway? Paper printed with funny faces. One needs it, of course, for food and so on, but after a certain point one is done with it. Fortunately you never wanted fur coats or jewels, and the children are doing well. No, money ..."

  She got up and pushed the garden doors open. She turned. "Yes, money . . . It isn't that. I care about your health. Those baths have cured a lot of patients. If only you would take a rest and leave some work to others. The papers say that there are over three thousand policemen in the city. You're not really that important, are you, now?"

  "The chief inspector has a migraine."

  She arranged lettuce leaves on a dish. "Turtle?" The weeds below the steps moved and the small reptile showed its face. "Here, breakfast." She put the dish down and watched Turtle grab and chomp. "The chief inspector? I think he's faking again. And the inspector?"

  "He's learning Turkish. Now that we've caught all the unwanted Chinese and flown them back to Singapore and Hong Kong, we have Turks. Their heroin is even better, it seems. The inspector is doing good work."<
br />
  "And Grijpstra? I'm sure Grijpstra can deal with a pimp."

  He pushed his chair away from the table. "That was an excellent egg." He drained his cup. "And splendid tea." He stroked her back. "I'll have to go now, I think. Will you help me find suitable clothes?"

  She pushed silver hairs back into her bun. "No. You're trying to be smooth again. I know what you're up to. It's madness. I won't have any part of it." A tear dribbled down her cheek and she wiped at it impatiently. "You're old now, Jan, you've got to rest, the doctor keeps saying that. Do you really expect me to accept your getting into that filth? By yourself? How often have I sat up nights worrying about you, but then I knew that Grijpstra was with you, or de Gier, although he's crazy too. Where will you be? Floating around that lawless district? In a canal maybe?"

  He put his arm around her narrow shoulders and pushed his nose into her neck. "I'll phone you. This is Amsterdam, dear, I'll be nearby. I won't be in Beirut. I'll just walk about a bit, to see what's going on, and if anything goes wrong, I'll call a constable. There are hundreds of them in the district."

  "And if the pain bothers you? What if you fall, won't you be mugged?"

  "I won't be mugged, and I can call a cab."

  She took his hand in hers and followed a blue vein with a gentle finger. "You like going there, don't you? Those women? Some of them are beautiful."

  "Really, dear, at my age."

  "You haven't changed, Jan. On the outside, perhaps, a little. But not really."

  "I have been faithful."

  "Since when?"

  "Since a long time."

  Her hand slid up his sleeve and patted his shoulder. "Yes, because of lack of choice."

  "Because of much love. Will you help me now?"

  "No," she said in the bedroom. "That jacket is worn through the elbows. I don't even like to see you wear it in the garden. Can't you take the gray suit? That is worn too, but at least it hasn't got holes."

  "And this hat?"

  She had to laugh. "That used to belong to my father."

  "It fits." The commissaris looked at the mirror. "And it has a good wide brim, to hide my face. Do you know what happened to those round glasses I used to have?"

  "The spectacles for the retarded?"

  He found them in a drawer. "You do exaggerate. Not the retarded, the tough. I bought them when I was learning unarmed combat. I always got beaten up, but the spectacles didn't break."

  "Take this." She offered him his pistol, carefully, on the palm of her hand.

  "Too big," the commissaris said. "Why we had to change over to that monstrosity is still beyond me. The Walther P5, worth its weight in gold, bought in bulk without a discount, hits anything at two hundred meters, doesn't rust because most of it is plastic, is quite impossible to hide." He opened his jacket and held the gun under his armpit. "Even a long-gone junkie can see it from the other side of the street."

  She crossed her arms. "I won't let you go unarmed."

  The commissaris waved his cane. "But I am armed, dear. The handle is weighted with lead. The sergeant of the arms room has been teaching me. Watch this."

  He turned the cane around and swished it a few times. "See that ashtray?"

  "Don't, Jan."

  The cane struck. The ashtray exploded. The glass plate under the ashtray cracked. "Ha," the commissaris said. He looked at his wife. "I'm sorry, dear. More deadly than I thought."

  His wife left the room and came back with a dustpan and a brush. He helped her, by indicating shards with his cane. She got up, pressing the small of her back. He caressed her arm. "I beg forgiveness, dear. I know you shouldn't bend down, but my leg is so stiff."

  "And you shouldn't be fighting muggers with that silly stick. You really think they'll allow you to hit them? They'll throw a knife at you."

  The commissaris narrowed his eyes. "I'll catch it between my teeth. Now all I need is that bag. The bag I took fishing once and dropped into the lake. Grijpstra retrieved it hours later. Thank you, dear. It looks suitably disreputable."

  She helped him into a coat. "That was my father's too. It's too large for you, but it'll keep you warm."

  "But it's summer, dear."

  "The nights are chilly. Where do you think you'll sleep?"

  He examined himself in the corridor's mirror, bag in hand, leaning on his stick. "In a nice room. I'll find a hotel. I'll let you know where."

  "Can I come and see you?"

  "If you must." He peered at her from under the hat's turned-down brim. "But I'd rather you didn't. Grijpstra and de Gier will be about, they might see you. Cardozo too."

  "They won't recognize you?"

  The commissaris shuffled through the corridor, bent, prodding the rug with his cane. "Like this? They're not looking for me, they're looking for a despicable character who can mow down a brother in crime with automatic fire. Why should they look for me? I'm in Austria, with my bum in a bath."

  "Oh!" She stamped her foot.

  He pushed up his hat with his cane. "You said 'oh'?"

  "Oh, Jan. Why can't you behave like a normal police chief? Sit nicely behind your desk? Why sneak about?"

  He straightened up and presented his cane. "Because this is a sneaky case. It has too many sides."

  "You look ridiculous."

  He nodded. "Yes, a ridiculous case, too."

  She embraced him, cane and all. "Don't grin at me. Will you behave? You're a father figure now and young women will find you doubly attractive. They'll try to hold on to you, maybe they'll pull you over."

  "They will?" the commissaris asked.

  "You're giggling," she said.

  He liberated himself gently from her arms. "No, I was squeaking. I smoke too much, makes me wheezy at times."

  About an hour later, a small poorly dressed old man dragged himself through one of the side alleys of the Seadike. A worn and discolored leather bag dangled from his narrow dry hand. Round minute glasses glistened under the wide rim of his old-fashioned felt hat, protecting colorless eyes that studied an indifferent locality in a curious but somewhat sheepish manner. His cane tapped on the cobblestones energetically until he noticed the cheerful ticking and slowed down, dragging the stick.

  \\ 3 ////

  "THIS STATION," SERGEANT JURRIAANS SAID, "HAS BEEN recently restored and we have everything here, including a conference room for those with stars on their shoulders, who never arrive before eleven A.M., or later, because they are busy. Please come in."

  The room was vast, had a high ceiling and narrow old-fashioned windows. An antique table was surrounded by straight, leather-upholstered chairs. "You can sit at the head," Jurriaans said to Grijpstra, "seeing you're in charge."

  "I'm a guest," the adjutant said, and frowned at Karate and Ketchup, who were sitting down noisily. "Is this our work group?"

  A good-looking female constable brought coffee. De Gier studied her and smiled. "A woman," de Gier said, "and this is the whore's quarter. Shouldn't our group have a woman too?"

  The constable eyed him coldly. De Gier got up and bowed from the waist. His smile widened. The constable frowned.

  Jurriaans coughed. "Allow me to introduce these colleagues to you." He mentioned names. "And this lady is Constable Anne, but she hasn't been fully trained yet. Our regulations say that one-stripe constables may not be led into dangerous situations."

  "But to serve you with coffee is okay," the constable said, left the room, and closed the door behind her with too much force.

  "A woman," Grijpstra said. "Yes."

  Jurriaans pulled a telephone toward him. He leafed through his notebook and dialed a number. "Hello, adjutant. I know you were still asleep, but there has been a murder and we have initiated an investigation. Do you think you might assist?"

  He replaced the hook. "She'll be here, Adjutant Adèle, in fifteen minutes I would guess, since she lives around the corner. Do you know the adjutant?"

  "I have admired her looks," de Gier said.

  "I have been impres
sed by her brain," Grijpstra said, "the first female to rise from constable to adjutant, with straight A's and music on the lawn."

  "I have met her on the shooting range," Cardozo said. "She sort of passed, but I was excellent that day."

  "We know her very well," Karate and Ketchup said. "A splendid addition to our team," Karate added. "I often dream of her," Ketchup said.

  "Shall we begin or wait?" Jurriaans asked.

  "To wait shows better manners," Grijpstra said.

  The adjutant arrived, a stately woman with the face of a Madonna as painted by masters of the primitive school, but softened by freckles, subtly placed, to make her human. She shook hands and was given a chair. The constable brought more coffee, and cake, at Grijpstra's request and de Gier's expense.

  "What do we have here?" Jurriaans asked. "A dead pimp. Who? Luku Obrian, black, born in Paramaribo, Surinam, formerly Dutch Guiana on the South American east coast, thirty-eight years ago. Who his father was is unknown, but we may assume that his grandfather, in any case his great-grandfather, was a slave, originating in Africa. Our contemporary corpse arrived five years ago at Amsterdam airport, before independence, but not out of fear for the potentially shaky future of his country or because of small-minded greed, knowing that he could apply for social security and never work again, but because of spite. He wished to avenge the fate of his forefathers. He told me so the night of his arrival, when he was dragged into this station, accused of unruly behavior. Drunks do not always speak the truth, but Obrian wasn't lying when he predicted that he would disconcert us. The expression is his, for he spoke perfect Dutch, better than we do, and phrased his thoughts accurately, using excellent grammar. He did disconcert us, during five long and terrible years, us and the civilians, and last night he was finally taken away from our midst by means of six nine-millimeter bullets fired from an automatic weapon." Jurriaans looked at Adjutant Adèle. "Corner of Olofs-alley and Seadike. Did you hear anything?"

  "I was asleep," Adjutant Adèle said.

  Jurriaans telephoned. He thanked the other party and replaced the receiver. "That was headquarters. The sergeant of the arms room said that the weapon must have been a Schmeisser."