The Streetbird

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  Cardozo crooked a questioning finger. "I'm not familiar with the term."

  Jurriaans held his hands apart at a distance of sixty-five centimeters. "That long." He diminished the distance to twenty-five centimeters. "This is the size of the clip, perpendicularly inserted into the chamber. The clip holds thirty-two cartridges. An antique machine pistol, Second World War vintage, used by SS and Gestapo, well-known from concentration camps and street raids, reputed to work well and shoot accurately. When the German Army surrendered, its weapons were supposedly handed over, but we didn't get them all, every now and then another one pops up, and is used improperly, like last week when the Turks held up a bank."

  Adjutant Adèle got up. "The weapon is still in this station. I'll get it so that you can see what we are looking for."

  De Gier watched Adjutant Adèle leave the room. She wears the uniform well, the sergeant thought, which is surprising, since they usually look a trifle homely, our policewomen. I wonder why that would be? Because she has such long and slender legs? And wriggles a little in the hips when she moves? Does that make her so watchable?

  Cardozo was thinking too. He thought that he would like to put his hands on the adjutant's calves and move them up slowly to the point where stockings end and pink flesh starts. The pensive desire startled him. He looked at his watch. It was far too early for carnal lust. But it's her fault, Cardozo thought. She may be my superior and well respected, but she is also tall and lusciously shaped. Just the sort of woman to trip up and jump upon. Why do I think that? I'm not that way at all. I'm polite and thoughtful in female company. Why is she provoking me? Why isn't she dumpy and silly like other policewomen? What's getting into me anyway?

  Adjutant Adèle returned and placed a machine pistol on the table. She spoke softly but clearly. "This is a Japanese imitation of the German original. It doesn't fire and is meant as a model, for collectors. Sold to a Turkish migrant worker who bought the instrument in London. He smuggled it in because our law says that models like these look too real and can be misused. Said Turk misused it—he pointed it at a bank teller. The Turk is no longer with us. He was shot twice in the belly by a colleague who was in a hurry." She looked at Karate.

  "Yes," Karate said. He picked the model up and put it down. "Looks real enough, doesn't it?"

  "Our own weapon," the adjutant said, looking at the tabletop that hid Karate's pistol, "is meant as an instrument of prevention, not as a means of immediate destruction. A suspect, even a Turk who handles a toy, could possibly be warned first so that he has an opportunity to surrender and maybe answer some questions."

  "Luku Obrian," Jurriaans said, "was black and moved in black circles, hard to get into for us, but I do not think he was killed by a representative of his own race. Obrian was an example of a man who knows how to organize his resources, a rich and successful entrepreneur, owner of an expensive car and a luxurious apartment on the Emperor's Canal, of at least two local bars, of—"

  "Wait," Grijpstra said. "If you knew all that, you could have alerted the detectives of the Internal Revenue. Pimps are known not to declare their income. If a pimp is the owner of expensive property—such as a Porsche convertible and an apartment in the best area of the city—that fact is taken as proof of tax fraud. He could have been arrested and his property confiscated."

  "Besides, it's a good way to get suspects into debt," de Gier said.

  "Because," Cardozo said, "the fine is more than what their property will be worth."

  Grijpstra picked up his saucer, tipped it, watched the cake crumbs slide into his cupped hand, and poured the contents of his hand into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. "Well?"

  "How easy," Jurriaans said. "What a pity Obrian wasn't an easy man. The Porsche has a foreign registration and we can't trace its rightful owner. Officially, Obrian rented his apartment, but he didn't pay rent. The bars he owns are operated in the name of his employees, who gave him eighty percent of the profits in cash. Obrian declared what he couldn't hide, which was something, sufficient to pacify the tax hounds."

  Grijpstra produced a cigar from his waistcoat. "May I?"

  "Rather not," Adjutant Adèle said.

  "May I say something?" Ketchup asked.

  "Could I perhaps smoke a cigarette?" Grijpstra asked.

  The adjutant ducked a strand of hair back behind an ear. "If you blow the smoke the other way."

  "Listen," Ketchup said. "You know what Obrian did? There was a whore here by the name of Madeleine, a most extraordinarily beautiful woman who acted like a lady and worked for her own account, from the best-placed display window of the entire quarter. She could unlock her door electrically and would only push the button if the client looked well-heeled enough, and she earned a daily fortune."

  "With exaggerated but still aristocratic boobs," Karate said, "and legs like you see in private movies made for oil dealers."

  "Yes," Ketchup said, "and she kept all the dough she earned, right? No pimps dragging it from her, man, and the gents were bringing it in, a wheelbarrow a day. Cold frog, like the best of them, but with soft mysterious eyes and a smile that just begs a little, a comedian with character in her soul."

  Karate's small fists banged on the table. "And Obrian couldn't touch her, that's what we all thought."

  Ketchup's fists banged the table too. "Even if he had every hooker in the quarter, even if they all slaved for him and got the tremors when he happened to pass their windows, our Madeleine was made of steel, he would never get our Madeleine."

  "Never would get near her with his sooty grabbers." Ketchup was standing up.

  Karate was also on his feet. "You know how he got Madeleine?"

  "By glancing at her," Ketchup shouted, "sideways, when he passed her window."

  "And you know what he made her do?" yelled Karate, "on a beautiful Sunday morning, with the weather as bright and fresh as today? On a lovely summer day, when we were all out in the street, to keep a quiet eye out and make sure everything went the way we wanted it to go?"

  "He made her come to the small green bridge," whispered Ketchup, "the cast-iron bridge on the Oldside Canal, pedestrians only, with lions' heads on the railing, many centuries old, a cherished antiquity the tourists gape at."

  "They were gaping too," Karate whispered, "and so were we, and everybody else as well. Obrian looked too, but he was quiet, like a cucumber."

  "He wasn't doing anything in particular, Obrian wasn't."

  "Just standing there, high on the bridge."

  "In his linen tailor-made suit, worth a thousand or so, and under his panama hat, and with a Cuban cigar between his gold-rimmed teeth."

  "And with his silk handkerchief hanging from his pocket."

  "And unarmed, clean as a whistle."

  "Unseizable; a civilian is allowed to stand on whatever bridge he likes."

  "And there Luku Obrian stood, and there she came, our Madeleine, in her new lovely dress, with the skirt not too short and the cleavage not too visible. Our lady."

  "And she knelt for him."

  "And she opened his fly."

  "I don't want to hear it," Grijpstra said.

  "And then?" Cardozo asked.

  "Now, what do you think?" Karate asked. "Eh? At her leisure, softly and firmly, as if there was nothing she'd rather do. As if she were grateful for the favor he bestowed."

  It was quiet around the table. Adjutant Adèle looked at her nails, transparently lacquered, perfectly filed. Grijpstra killed his cigarette in the ashtray, slowly, ferociously. Karate and Ketchup sagged back into their chairs and sighed. Jurriaans drew a circle with a sharp pencil on a fresh page of his notebook. De Gier waited for his blush to fade away.

  "And Madeleine?" de Gier asked.

  "She continued to work," Jurriaans said, "but not for long, because Obrian soaked all her money out of her and the heroin he supplied her with was never enough. She hung herself from the lamp in her room. I still have her file, complete with photographs. I'll show it to you whenever you have
a spare minute."

  Grijpstra felt in his pocket, produced the cigar he had put away, made it crackle near his ear, smelled it, and put it on the table. He watched the cigar. He mumbled.

  De Gier mumbled too.

  "You two sound surprised," Adjutant Adèle said.

  "I'm always surprised," de Gier said, "if I don't pay attention. That's because I believe in certain limits, which I must have made myself, since reality makes fun of limits. Take this morning, for instance—three roller-skating gentlemen carrying new briefcases, and it wasn't four o'clock yet and now this Obrian again, on a cast-iron bridge, sucking his Communist straw while the lady whore sucks him, in full view of everybody."

  "Never mind," Grijpstra said. He took a deep breath. He scraped his throat. "Look here. The number of whores is not unlimited. If Obrian got more, others got less. It is a human habit to become angry when something is taken away. I have heard names; Gustav and Lennie. How angry did those pimps get, and what would they be likely to do once something made them angry?"

  Jurriaans smiled. "That's the way to go, adjutant. A cause deducted from its effect, via the relentless logic with which every policeman has been suitably equipped. I am glad you're with us." He drew two circles. "Who are our suspects? All criminal types out in these streets. How many remain once we have applied discernment to our thoughtful structure? Two." He pricked centers into his circles. "Who are our suspects now? Gustav and Lennie. The cheerful satisfaction of Obrian was the biting pain of his rivals. Do we acknowledge the right motivation in our suspects Gustav and Lennie? We do. Did they have the opportunity? They did. Do we grab them?" His pencil stabbed the circles. "We certainly do."

  Jurriaans bent over to Grijpstra. "This, adjutant, is our opportunity. We will clean out the quarter so thoroughly that our streets will be clean forever. We have the blessing of your commissaris, the chief of detectives who—could it be better?—has left on sick leave at once. In his name we will slash away in, under, and above. Thank you, Karate."

  He took the handkerchief that Karate was offering and dabbed at the spittle that was bubbling in the corners of his mouth. He leaned forward again and extended his hands. His index fingers became pistol barrels. Soundless bullets streaked past Grijpstra's ears. "Do you realize the power we have been given? Our power added to yours? Our station joined by the Murder Brigade? Without any restrictions from above?"

  "Attaboy," said Adjutant Adèle.

  "We will bust them all and kick them down the stairs," shouted Karate.

  "We'll pound them into the floor of our worst cell," shouted Ketchup, "and never feed their remains."

  "That's about how I would like to see it," said Jurriaans, wiping the sweat off his forehead. "With due regard for proportions and decency. We must try to remember that we have no skulls and bones on our caps and that even Gustav and Lennie belong to the shadow created by our own light. They have to be cut to slivers, of course, by the sword of justice, but with just a wee touch of love and kindness, as is our wont."

  De Gier got up. "I'm going home, my cat has to be fed. I'll be back."

  "In uniform," Grijpstra said, "and wait for me. I have to go home too."

  "Please, adjutant."

  "You object to my company?"

  "If you insist on my uniform."

  "I don't insist on anything," Grijpstra said, pushing himself out of his chair. "The commissaris insisted. Uniform, he said; uniform, it will be."

  "Take your time," Jurriaans said. "This is a reasonable station and it doesn't only accept the needs of its staff, it understands them too. Feed your cat, put on your uniform, and come back at once. There is work to do."

  "Got to pack a bag," Grijpstra said. "We are expected to work from the quarter itself. We even have to live here."

  "One apartment," said Jurriaans, "for our appreciated colleagues."

  Adjutant Adèle had left the table but turned. "It's available. A suspect, now in one of our cells, a burglar by the name of Kavel, resides on the Seadike but he won't be able to go home for a while. The owner of the property has asked if we'll keep an eye on the apartment because even burglars' homes are burglarized these days. I'll fetch the keys."

  "Ha," Cardozo said. "The three of us together, that'll be nice."

  "That'll be terrible," de Gier said, forcing the Volkswagen through thick traffic. "That'll be sickening. Why do we allow ourselves to be part of idiotic situations?"

  "Why shouldn't it be nice?" Grijpstra asked. "We'll do the best we can and keep at it until it's behind us so that we can get into the next situation, which'11 undoubtedly be better."

  De Gier drummed impatiently n the steering wheel. "And you won't even be allowed to smoke cigars during meetings."

  "Adjutant Adèle," Grijpstra murmured. "A handsome woman. I like working with handsome women."

  "And the number of suspects has been reduced to two. We can't even reason for ourselves."

  "We'll catch the two first and the others later."

  De Gier stamped on the gas pedal. "That Obrian must have been a most exceptional specimen. Imagine that prostitute on the bridge. I wouldn't have minded seeing that, although it's despicable. Revolting." He braked and swerved around a bus. "Amazing."

  "Whoa," Grijpstra said. "Park over there and let me go. I'll go home from here, and you don't have to fetch me either. I'll walk back to the station, once I have my bag."

  "But do you understand what happened there?"

  "I understand it in detail," Grijpstra said, "but I have learned to live with evil, which doesn't mean that I'm without a taste for battle. Now, will you park or won't you?"

  De Gier chopped liver for his cat and dissolved plant food for his geraniums. "Tabriz," the sergeant said, "Grijpstra doesn't realize the misery we got ourselves into. The quarter provides nothing but smut. Slimy muck up to our ears. We have been misplaced."

  Tabriz studied the contents of her dish and swept the floor with her short striped tail. She folded her chubby front legs and grunted while she ate.

  "Remember your manners."

  Tabriz looked up. "Maybe you're somewhat fat and ugly," the sergeant said, "but that's no reason to behave like a piglet."

  Tabriz slobbered on. The sergeant waited until the cat was done, picked her up, and carried her to his balcony. He sat down on a wicker chair and put his feet on the railing. The cat burped on his lap. De Gier opened his eyes. "Burp the other way."

  The cat purred and put a paw on each side of his neck. De Gier slept and dreamed that nothing mattered while he engaged himself in racing a Mercedes sports car through empty Amsterdam alleys, caressed Adjutant Adèle's milk-white limbs, and turned into a condor, flying above the English Channel. He woke up because Tabriz hooked a claw into his lower lip.

  "Easy, now." He pushed the claw out of his mouth. Tabriz jumped off his lap and began to butt her dish.

  De Gier got into his uniform and stood at attention in front of the mirror. Tabriz left her dish and stood next to him.

  "What's on display here," de Gier said, "is a madman, in the queen's coat, about to be released to wreak havoc amongst the perverted." He tightened his belt and rested his hand on the butt of his pistol. "A lunatic, armed to the teeth, who will slay the insane." He put on his cap and saluted. "A nut who sees roller-skating gentlemen in the small hours of the night, and a vulture on a TV antenna."

  Tabriz pushed herself against his leg. "Keep your multicolored hairs to yourself," de Gier said. "Sit on the balcony and catch insects until I come back." He pushed the cat with a polished boot. "To report on how I worsened a situation that was already hopeless to begin with."

  \\ 4 ////

  GRIJPSTRA SAT DOWN SUSPICIOUSLY ON A COUCH UPHOL-steredin red vinyl and tried to rest his eyes on fading wallpaper printed with a design of dead flowers. Cardozo ran into the small room holding an imitation bamboo tray on which two chipped mugs wobbled. "Tea, adjutant. Do you think we're about ready now, or do you want to clean out the loft too?"

  "As ready as
we'll ever be," Grijpstra said, "thank you." He stirred the pale fluid. "Is that real milk?"

  "Powder, adjutant. Just as good. Tastes the same."

  "Plastic milk," Grijpstra said. "Why do I bother walking around in a real body? Can't I have one molded, and swallow a tape recorder?"

  Cardozo sat on the windowsill next to a bowl filled with paper flowers. Grijpstra pointed. "Throw those out."

  "But I dusted them."

  "Away with the rags."

  Cardozo carried the torn bouquet out and came back with a sponge. He knelt and wiped tea drops off the cracked linoleum floor. "Please, adjutant. It took us eight hours to get this place clean."

  Grijpstra nodded. "Criminals are dirty buggers. We've got six bags of debris in the corridor; if that chap ever gets back here, he won't recognize his hole. What was it again that we have him for?"

  Cardozo arranged a set of polystyrene elephants on a shelf, ranging from the size of a large rabbit to the measurements of a small mouse. "Burglary."

  "Simple or complicated?"

  "Complicated. He crapped on the carpet too. Same suburb where de Gier lives. Hardly a professional, this Kavel. They've got new cars out there and he arrived in a junker. But he had telephoned first, to make sure that his mark wasn't home. Lugged all his tools into the elevator and was seen by a neighbor who was good enough to phone us. Kavel forced the door, filled his bag with plated silverware and the owner's worthless collection of Nigerian stamps and didn't forget the child's piggy bank. A curtain moved in the draft, and he took fright and crapped on the rug, just as the cops came in. A habitual offender, he'll get a few years this time."

  "Crapped, eh?"

  "That's what they do, adjutant. Part of the pattern. Always in the best room and always on the Persian rug."

  "Disgusting." Grijpstra bit into his cigar and spat. Cardozo glared. The adjutant groaned, bent down, and picked up the shreds of tobacco. "Now what?"

  Cardozo held out a paper. "Put it here, adjutant. Don't do it again." The bell rang and Cardozo pulled a rope. He greeted de Gier, who ran up the stairs.