The Streetbird

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "You got sick," Grijpstra said. "Unwell. Puked, I imagine."

  "No no no." De Gier grabbed his head. "I was hit. Beaked. By a bird." He knelt in front of the adjutant. "Feel my head."

  "Never," said Grijpstra, in the bathroom watching de Gier shower, trying to follow the sergeant's stuttered explanations. "All that happened is that someone knocked you on the noggin with a pot." He made a fist. "Clear case of assault. Shall I contact the station? We need a fingerprint man."

  "No."

  "And how is your head now? Want me to take you to a hospital?"

  De Gier dived into a clean shirt. "No." He followed the adjutant into the living room.

  "Let me clean up at least, before Cardozo comes back, or we'll have that again. Get a bucket with hot water and I'll handle the rag."

  Grijpstra mopped. De Gier sat at the table and tried to roll a cigarette. His hands trembled. "I must have been dreaming."

  "Yes, but the actual violence was no dream or you wouldn't have a lump on top of your head. Where did you get the vulture idea?"

  "It was a vulture."

  Grijpstra carried the bucket out and came back. He sat down next to the sergeant, placed his notebook on his knee, and drew a bird.

  "That's him," de Gier said. "How did you know?"

  "Because I saw a bird like this, in the Olofs-alley, just after the drunken seamen lost the war. I looked up and saw a vulture fly above the rooftops. But as there are no vultures in this country, and never have been any, I assumed I was mistaken. A falcon maybe—there are falcons in the city, hunting pigeons."

  "A vulture, with yellow legs and a yellow beak."

  "Quite. But vultures have never been seen here."

  "This one was seen," de Gier said. "Very much so, and he came after me too, and waited on the roof until I was asleep, and sneaked in and beaked into my head with his infested mouthpiece."

  "Why not?" Grijpstra said. "After all, anything is possible. I've seen camels in town too, advertising trips to North Africa, and elephants trumpeting about a circus. But why would the vulture be carrying a pot of spaghetti?"

  De Gier tried to roll another cigarette. Grijpstra took the paper and tobacco out of his hands. "Let me do it for you." He inserted the cigarette between de Gier's lips and flicked his lighter. "Here you are." De Gier inhaled and coughed. Grijpstra patted his back. "You're still not all there. Poor Rinus. Quietly asleep, minding your own business, and look what happens. How about a nice cup of nice coffee?"

  Grijpstra brought the mug. "Here, half a spoon of sugar, seven drops of milk, just as sir likes it. Stirred lightly from the wrist."

  De Gier stared at the coffee.

  "But you have to drink it yourself. Shall I steady your hand?"

  Cardozo came in. "Is the sergeant being fed?"

  "I always say hello when I enter a room," Grijpstra said.

  "Hello," Cardozo said. "I have news. I found Crazy Chris, pushing a cart filled with eels and radishes. Crazy Chris did see the suspect, but his memory is a bit faulty, due to intake of alcohol, which, as we know, does not stimulate the intelligence. I shook him a bit and he managed to remember."

  "What did he remember?"

  "That the suspect was large, black, shapeless, and creepy. He wore a black cape and a floppy hat. He walked west, following the Seadike, away from the station. Gait somewhat jumpy, and he almost stepped out of his shoes."

  De Gier lowered his mug.

  "You're spilling," Cardozo said. "Please. We try to keep it clean here."

  "Did the suspect resemble a bird?" de Gier asked.

  Cardozo looked at Grijpstra. "He must have carried the Schmeisser under his cape, and he certainly looked odd. I do think we should try to catch him. A mad murderer, in the possession of an automatic weapon." He nodded at de Gier. "What is the matter with the sergeant?"

  "The sergeant dreamed that he was attacked by a large bird, right here in the room, while he was napping on the couch."

  "Are you sure he didn't happen to be awake?" Cardozo asked. "Earlier on he saw three roller-skating gentlemen. I'm sure the psychiatrist can recommend suitable therapy."

  "Come here," de Gier said. "Feel my head."

  Cardozo felt. "A lump." He felt again. "Biggish."

  "Hit on the head," Grijpstra said, "with a potful of spaghetti and tomato sauce. Someone's hot dinner. I cleaned up the mess and you will find out who harassed the sergeant."

  Cardozo sat on the couch, elbows on knees, chin on hands. His head nodded violently. Grijpstra looked at Cardozo's bobbing curls. "What are you doing?"

  "I'm concentrating, adjutant. If the spaghetti was still warm, the perpetrator of the crime came from close by. He also had a key."

  "Very likely true."

  "Neighbor?"

  "Possible," Grijpstra said. "The previous occupant lived by himself. He could have given the neighbor a duplicate key."

  Cardozo pointed at the floor. "There are only neighbors downstairs. The house has cafes on each side, nobody lives above the cafes."

  "Think more."

  "Shall I visit the neighbor?"

  Grijpstra smiled encouragingly.

  Cardozo jumped off the couch.

  \\ 7 ////

  "AHA," GRUPSTRA SAID. HE STOOD ON A LARGE MOROCCAN rag, cream-colored between patterns of stylized flowers. The carpet covered a small part of a gleaming parquet floor. The room was furnished with a large leather couch and matching easy chairs and a low table with a top of brick-colored tiles. A slender alabaster vase filled with fresh lilacs stood on a table. An antique cylinder desk had been placed against a white plastered wall. The room occupied the entire second floor of a patrician house in the fashionable bend of the Emperor's Canal. Century-old elms could be seem through high curved windows of lightly stained glass in front and a well-kept garden through a glazed veranda in the rear. The porch contained man-high exotic potted plants growing from earthenware pots. A grand rosewood piano mirrored a bamboo bush in its raised lid.

  "Would simple good taste, refined by grandeur, make Obrian smart?" de Gier asked.

  Grijpstra strolled about, his hands on his back, his half-glasses on the tip of his nose. He interrupted his walk to look at a painting. The narrow silver frame held a dancing black couple; the man with his arms raised, jiggling his tight waist, the delicate woman tripping around her imposing lover. The figures weren't ornate and consisted merely of colored segments—bright red, tropical blue, white, and dark brown. The dance moved about the yard of a quickly sketched house, shadowed by trees with slightly bent trunks and joyfully waving leaves. "Good," Grijpstra said. "I always add too many details, but this fellow has learned how to avoid the spurious. To catch the essence only, not so easy."

  "How long did Obrian," De Gier asked, "owner of this extraordinary but tastefully arranged environment, live in our country?"

  "Five years."

  "And how much is the house and contents worth? Now add the Porsche, with all the options. A great wealth, don't you agree?"

  "I do, and collected without labor."

  "The labor of weak women," de Gier said. "If intelligence is the ability to react to ever-changing circumstances in such a way that the manipulator obtains optimal profit, I would say that Luku Obrian was a very clever fellow."

  Grijpstra had found the couch and rested both his head and his feet. "But he was shot and killed, which was kind of stupid."

  "A moment of unawareness?"

  "An unlucky moment," Grijpstra said. "Moments like that occur from time to time. Let's see. A criminal crosses our border five years ago, without a cent to his name. But he knows the language and has friends. The friends take him to a bar, the company becomes drunk and is disorderly in public. Patrolling cops arrest the merrymakers, and Obrian meets with his oppo- site, our Sergeant Jurriaans. Jurriaans represents the law and order of the fatherland, Obrian the rebellious chaos of the colony. We're on Jurriaans' side. What does Luku tell us? That he is about to disconcert us. He does, too. How?"
<
br />   De Gier's long arms swung, indicating all parts of the spacious room. "Theft," the sergeant said. "Everything here is stolen. We are disconcerted, because we have been robbed. He even took our women, enslaved the poor creatures we cherish." Grijpstra swung himself off the couch and faced the sergeant solidly, immovable on his heavy shoes sunk in the carpet. "I do not believe that colonials are stupid, but I do think that Obrian was lucky. And as luck has to originate somewhere, I would like to know where it came from. What else can we study in this house?"

  "Here," de Gier said, and opened an upstairs door. "What do we have here?"

  Together the detectives, hands in pockets, observed odd objects displayed on a trestle table of rough-sawn boards.

  "Rats' skulls," Grijpstra said. He counted. "Thirteen of them, in a half-circle of seven and a concentric half-circle of six. Both numbers and the way they are arranged should have meaning. And those are colored rags, also placed for a purpose. I mean, he wasn't showing samples of textiles, was he, now?"

  "And that little statue represents J. Christ," de Gier said. "Couldn't be anybody else, even if he is dressed in a skirt and his face painted pink."

  "A drum," Grijpstra said. The drum had been made out of flattened cans, tightly covered with skin. The adjutant hit it with his knuckles. "Don't," de Gier said. "Please."

  "Penetrating sound," the adjutant said, replacing the drum gingerly. "Bit high." He waved a finger to the right side of the table. "How would you describe that conglomeration?"

  De Gier stepped back. "Picture of a naked woman, obtaining sensuous pleasure by embracing a large bottle of tomato ketchup. Glued to a bit of driftwood found in a canal and framed with shells stuck into the edge. An altar, it seems to me, because what it all sits on is a slab of marble that looks like rubble taken out of a wrecked church. That penis and balls is a root, grown accidentally and now pointed at the performing woman. The bones came off a bird and form a complete skeleton, once holding up a vulture of the species known to us by now. That copper bowl filled with sand is an incense burner."

  "Religious?"

  "Sure," de Gier said. "Spiritual symbols, combined in a meaningful way, also tastefully arranged; the entire table would be a prime exhibit in a museum of modern art."

  Grijpstra picked the drum up again. "Don't," de Gier said. "I don't like the vibrations, they pierce my lump."

  "I won't hit it hard." Grijpstra scratched the skin. "Can you imagine how this room worked? Obrian, in ritual dress, at daybreak or sundown, or maybe at midnight with candles burning? His body swaying, enveloped in incense clouds? Evoking ..."

  "Luck?" de Gier asked.

  "Exactly. He manufactured his luck himself. A strong variety, but not quite bulletproof." Grijpstra put the drum down again. "And now I want to see his corpse."

  "I saw it already. In the alley."

  "There was too much going on then. Quiet-like, I mean, but you don't have to come along."

  The car got itself stuck behind a furniture van being unloaded. A new Mercedes was stuck too, between the truck and the detectives' Volkswagen. De Gier pulled the microphone from under the dashboard. "Headquarters? Car three-fourteen."

  "I'm listening, three-fourteen," a female voice said.

  "Could you find me the highest available member of the Drug Squad, please?"

  "I'll do my best. Is that you, Rinus?"

  "It is. I'm waiting."

  "Car three-fourteen? Ober here."

  "Mr. Ober," de Gier said. "A dark blue automatic fuel-injected Mercedes, I'll give you the registration number."

  "Got it."

  "A black man at the wheel, in his forties, wide-shouldered, Afro hair, gold earring on the left, accompanied by a young blonde woman, dyed hair, fur coat, jaguar."

  "I got that too."

  "Do we know them?"

  "Just a moment."

  "We'll be here awhile," Grijpstra said. "They've only just started. I would say there are just under ten thousand objects in that van, and they'll all have to be carried up several sets of stairs."

  "We don't know them," the radio said. "Do you want to arrest them?"

  "I'd rather not, sir. We're on a job."

  "I'll send out a car."

  "Emperor's Canal, sir, corner Bearstreet. The suspicious car is caught between us and a van."

  "Understood."

  The driver of the Mercedes got out and walked toward the Volkswagen. De Gier wound down his window and smiled. "Could you reverse, please?" the man asked. "Then you can get away too. If we wait here, it'll be forever."

  "No."

  The man raised his eyebrows. "Why not?"

  "I'm not good at reversing."

  "You want a fight?" the man asked.

  De Gier closed his window. The man knocked against the glass. De Gier stared straight ahead. The man tried to turn the Volkswagen's door handle. The door was locked. The man walked to the waterside, looked about, and picked up a brick. He showed de Gier the brick. De Gier got out.

  "Either you reverse," the man said, "or I wreck your car."

  Two young men dressed in faded jeans and leather jackets walked toward the man. "What's going on here?"

  "This gentleman," de Gier said, "is threatening me with this brick. He wants me to reverse, but I'd rather wait here."

  "You mind your own business," the man said.

  The young men showed their police cards.

  "So?" the man asked.

  "You're under arrest."

  "Watch it," de Gier said. "Sir is rather short tempered."

  The young men stared at the man until he dropped his brick. They grabbed his arms, turned him around, and handcuffed his wrists.

  "Watch it," de Gier said. "The lady is leaving us."

  One of the policemen ran after the woman and brought her back.

  "She dropped something," De Gier said. "I'll get it for you." He returned with a plastic envelope filled with white powder. The policeman weighed it on his hand. "Ten grams." He addressed the black man. "You're arrested because I suspect you of harassment of a civilian and trafficking in drugs." He looked at the woman. "You're also under arrest."

  The other policeman frisked the man. He showed his colleague a stiletto. "One more charge. We can confiscate his car." "Your car is confiscated. I'll drive it to headquarters. The key is in the ignition?"

  The man didn't answer.

  "All set?" de Gier asked.

  "Yes, sir. Thank you for your cooperation."

  De Gier reversed. "Do you know," Grijpstra asked, "that what you just did is discrimination? Since when do we suspect a black man, unknown to us, and driving a new Mercedes?"

  "I was jealous," de Gier said. "You see, that bum got here a few years ago, without a penny to his name, flown out of his hellhole in a government plane financed with my tax money, and look at him now, driving a brand new supercar and with a bit of juicy flesh leaning against his pock-marked skin. I mean, isn't it terrible?'

  "Exactly," Grijpstra said. "A textbook example of low-class discrimination. If the suspect had been white, he would still be free."

  "But he's no good, adjutant."

  "No, no, you can't reason that way."

  "No?" de Gier asked.

  "No."

  "And if I tell you that what I just said consisted of platitudes specially formulated to see if you'd go for it and that I saw that same suspect leave a house in the Fishhead-alley two days ago and that that house is known as a meeting place for junkies? And if I tell you too that the same suspect was dressed poorly at the time and riding a rusty bicycle?"

  De Gier parked. Grijpstra rang the bell.

  "Nobody home," de Gier said.

  The adjutant rang again. "They are home, but the trouble is they're dead." He looked about him. "That such a dainty-looking place, surrounded by blossoming bushes in which songbirds chant, can be a morgue is hard to believe."

  The door opened. "Hello, Jacobs," de Gier said.

  The old man pushed his skullcap to the back of hi
s head and peered over his steamed-up glasses. "Ah, sergeant. Welcome. Hello, adjutant."

  Jacobs shuffled ahead. He looked over his shoulder. You'd be after Obrian, I imagine."

  "We are," Grijpstra said.

  Jacobs pushed against a metal door. "Not a good corpse. Go ahead. Number eleven." The detectives shivered. "I know," Jacobs said. "Rather chilly in here, but with this heat they tend to smell and the cold slows their spooking."

  De Gier yanked a drawer. "Sticks a bit," Jacobs said. "Here, I'll give you a hand. One, two . . . Hop." The tin box slipped free and Obrian moved about within it, head nodding, arms flapping. De Gier looked away. Grijpstra bowed down to the grinning head. He frowned. "Nothing to laugh about, friend."

  De Gier touched Jacobs' arm. "Can I see what they took from his pockets?"

  Jacobs brought a bright-yellow plastic tray. Under his gray linen coat his folded trouser legs were visible, tucked into his socks and fastened with nickel-plated clasps. One sock was brown, the other blotched red. "Cigarettes," de Gier said. "Gold lighter, clean handkerchief, wallet." He looked at Jacobs. "The money went to headquarters, I suppose. How much was it?"

  "A lot. Big notes."

  "So no robbery," de Gier said. "Why not? Corpses are always robbed, even by well-meaning murderers. No time, maybe."

  Grijpstra pushed the drawer back into the wall. He felt his chin while he studied the tray. "Big notes? Still there? Curious."

  "Big holes in the chest," Jacobs said. "Must have been big bullets. What was it? An army revolver?"

  "A machine pistol. A Schmeisser. You know what that is?"

  "Wouldn't I know what a Schmeisser is?" Jacobs asked. "Didn't the gentlemen of the SS have Schmeissers strapped around their chests? Didn't I see them a hundred times a day in Dachau? Liquidation tools. Specially designed to do away with the lower type of humanity."

  Grijpstra shook his heavy head. "Can't say I approve of the term."

  "Aren't Negroes part of the lower humanity too? Or used to be?"

  "I wouldn't say that," de Gier said.

  "I can say it," Jacobs said, "because I belong to a minority myself. Didn't you guys use to catch them in the jungle? And didn't you use to chain them to each other, in the smelly holds of slave ships?" He nodded. "You certainly did, and six out of ten croaked on the way, but what did that matter? The loss was calculated in the price. Am I right?"