The Streetbird

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "Courageous?" the commissaris asked. "To mow a man down with an automatic weapon when he's out for a stroll?"

  "I think so," Cardozo said. "Not so much the deed itself as the idea that the sergeant did something that went against all the rules."

  "So I put up a good show," de Gier said. "Now, what if I tell you that I was peacefully asleep when Obrian reaped his reward? May Tabriz be my witness, for she was stretched out in my arm."

  "Who is Tabriz?" Adjutant Adèle asked. "Your girlfriend?"

  "His fat cat," Grijpstra said, "that was assembled from the remnants of worn-out Persian rugs. A miserable sod that likes to break glassware and sniggers when you cut your toes."

  "A very lovely animal," de Gier said.

  "You put up a good show," Cardozo said, "and you're now putting up another. You shot Obrian at night, with a weapon you weren't familiar with. Then you left the burned-out corner house, crossed the Seadike, and entered the police station through a side door. Jurriaans took your weapon and disguise and you left the station again. You drove home, which at that time you could have done in ten minutes. Jurriaans telephoned you. You telephoned Adjutant Grijpstra. You picked him up and drove back to the station."

  "And saw some roller-skating gentlemen on the way who would witness against me later on. But because I like to make real trouble for myself, I told you about those jokers so that you could find them and prove that Jurriaans and I had changed the time of my crime."

  "That's what you did," Cardozo said, "because you didn't care. I think that's great."

  "You do like to create chaos," Grijpstra said. "I've often noticed that tendency. And you often do the opposite of what circumstances seem to require."

  "You too?" de Gier asked. "You're also in this scheme?"

  "Adjutant Grijpstra plays no part in my theory," Cardozo said, "but Ketchup and Karate do. They contributed to the setup."

  "You're not getting personal now, are you, Simon?" asked Karate.

  "You wouldn't be slandering your closest friends, now, would you, Simon?" asked Karate.

  "Cardozo's quite clever," Jurriaans said, "but some of his theory's details aren't clear to me yet. Why didn't I shoot Obrian myself? Since when do I need others to take care of my problems? I'm a fairly good shot, I don't need movie heroes to take my place."

  "I thought we were friends," de Gier said.

  "No," Grijpstra said, "you had to make use of de Gier's talents because you were on duty. You had to be on duty so that you could find the corpse, once the crime had been reported."

  "And I'm a convenient weapon," de Gier said. "A robot anybody can switch on at the right time. I'll kill Obrian for you, and a day later I'll hunt Gustav down, at the request of the constables here. It's a good thing I managed to hold my temper or that fiend would be stored on ice too by now."

  "But what's wrong?" the commissaris asked. "If I listen to you, it seems that everything has been taken proper care of, according to the Argentine method."

  "The what method?" Adjutant Adèle asked.

  "The Argentine method. The police commandos who drag suspects out of their beds and shoot them at will. The courts do not seem to work very well out there, so the police like to arrange matters themselves. In other South American countries the routine is rather similar. In Colombia bums are hunted down and shot, and even stray children who live on offal and theft. And in Peru the PIP operates. That's also police. If they interrogate a suspect, they undress him first, pull a plastic bag over his head and shoulders, and keep hitting him with truncheons until he confesses."

  "I don't quite like that way of behavior," Cardozo said, "even if it does reestablish order. That's why I telephoned the commissaris."

  The room became quiet. The commissaries looked at his watch. "A break." He got up. "I would like to see all of you here again in half an hour's time."

  \\ 28 ////

  THE COMPANY GATHERED IN THE CORRIDOR, CALMED DOWN by visits to the canteen and rest rooms, and spread out so that Adjutant Adèle could reach the door. Grijpstra gave her the right-of-way out of everyday politeness, Cardozo because of respect for her rank, and de Gier in view of her beauty. Jurriaans stepped back too and made the delay profitable by watching noisy sparrows in a gutter. Ketchup and Karate joined him at the window.

  "That Cardozo, hey? Sergeant?"

  "Right," said Jurriaans.

  "Will this last very long, sergeant?"

  "Depends how strong the commissaris' strings are."

  "Which strings, sergeant?"

  Jurriaans touched Ketchup's shoulders with his fingertips. "The strings that have been attached to us."

  The commissaris had sat down already and was talking to Varé. He got up, nodded at Adjutant Adèle, and pointed at Varé "Our colleague has also come up with a suspect, and a theory in which this suspect may fit. He will now elaborate on his findings."

  "Ehhum," Varé said. "I appreciate your considering my ideas seriously. As a member of the reserve, I don't really belong to the scene and I often regret being outside, but sometimes I quite enjoy it too. To be able to observe from a distance may afford a better view."

  His audience stared.

  "Ehhum. Yes. It may also be good that I belong to a minority, since the Obrian case is black, and you're all white, so that you're looking down and I'm looking up. The case is black, yes, as black as Opete, our little angel of death, circling above the alley, and Tigri, the dark spy, sniffing at the corpse and at your legs."

  Adjutant Adèle giggled. "You're putting it well."

  "I'm glad you think so." Varé allowed a black hand to shoot from a white cuff. "And who are these somber powers, this Opete and this Tigri? They're the extensions of a magician." Varé' looked at the commissaris. "This is somewhat of a scientific lecture, sir, and if my expressions are too poetic, you're welcome to restrain me. I'm a sociologist and presently working on research regarding the culture of blacks in the Netherlands. The culture incorporates religion, and the black variety is called the winticult, which is magical, like all religions. We sociologists assume that Negroes are human too and therefore feel the need to tangle with the intangible. If this effort does not work out, an expert is hired. The expert in our case is the magician Uncle Wisi, who I now introduce as our suspect. Uncle Wisi is known to us. Adjutant Grijpstra has called on him. Uncle Wisi was Luku Obrian's teacher."

  "A very old man," Grijpstra said. "Neither senile nor crippled, but unable to fire an automatic weapon and make a fast getaway."

  Var6 nodded. "Indeed. His age makes him innocent of the crime, but he did know Jacobs and lived close to him. Uncle Wisi could therefore obtain the weapon, and anybody can disguise himself. However, I do admit that I don't see him as the actual killer."

  "He's still your suspect? You suspect him as the intellectual author of the crime?"

  "Yes," Varé said. "I'm familiar with the construction as it belongs to the material that I have to study for my inspector's examination. He who makes use of another to commit a crime."

  "Not an easy construction to present to court," the cornmissaris said.

  "Indeed, sir, but easy to incorporate into a hypothesis."

  "The motivation?" asked de Gier.

  "I'm getting to that, sergeant. I do hope that you won't be upset if I tell you that I did some sleuthing on my own. It wasn't difficult for me, as I speak the Surinam language and I'm a civilian when not in uniform, while you people are cops twenty-four hours a day. My civilian status makes me harmless."

  "Where were you?" Adjutant Adèle asked. "In the ladies' boudoirs?"

  "The quarter was designed to accommodate the lonely male."

  "Yes, yes," Adjutant Adèle said critically.

  "Where was I, now?" Varé asked.

  "At the winticult?" the commissaris asked.

  "Thank you," Varé" said. "The city blacks that emigrated from the West—and most of the Negroes now living in Amsterdam belong to that category—never rejected their original religion completely. They
may call themselves Christians, and even go to church, but often still rely on the services of their home altar. Sociologically seen, it's good that old habits die hard, since a separate culture often strengthens its practitioners. The cult traveled with the blacks in the slave ships that took them west and made them believe in one single God, the creator of the universe, Massa Gran-Gado, a power that's out of reach of worship, as it exists outside our dimensions. Blacks are practical. If something isn't necessary, they won't spend time on it, and they never built any temples in honor of the original mystery. The cult's sacred buildings are meant for the wintis, and the wintis are the projections of Him who will not let Himself be known—the spirits, or gods, of nature and later also of the cities. The cult worships the wintis that will separate, for our benefit, and also by our choice, into good and bad." Varé kept up a finger. "Originally, however, the wintis are neutral, and separate from any duality. We pray to the wintis and try to make them serve us."

  "We?" the commissaris asked.

  "They," Varé said, "but I identify with my subject now, to make my lecture easier to listen to."

  "I see," the commissaris said. "Carry on, sergeant."

  Varé" bowed. "I bow to my altar." He mumbled. "I utter sacred formulas." He poured from an imaginary bottle and spooned food onto an invisible plate. "I make offerings." He drummed. He blew a trumpet. He raised his arms and stamped his feet.

  "I do all this," Varé said, "to please the winti. If I do that for a good reason, let's say to make somebody else happier or less sad, then the winti will answer by producing positive power. We call that power opo. Opo may possess objects, or substances, that will change into obeah, which is medicine.

  "But," Varé said, "I can also make the winti work the other way, to enrich myself, for instance, and that way I manufacture wisi that can also turn into something which we also call wisi."

  "So you're a wisiman," Grijpstra said. "But don't tell me that Uncle Wisi serves the devil. I got to know the man a little, and I think I'm quite fond of the old fart."

  Varé clapped his hands. "I'm so glad you said that, adjutant, for I share your feelings. Uncle Wisi is an outstanding old chap, but he nevertheless calls himself Wisi. Now, how would you explain that quirk in his character?"

  "I'm not explaining anything," Grijpstra said.

  "Then I'll try," Varé said. "How about Uncle Wisi having been converted? And changed into an obeahman who kept his former name?"

  "Obrian was bad," De Gier said, "and he seemed connected to Uncle Wisi."

  "I do agree. But please remember that I said that the wintis are essentially neutral. The winti provides power, and it's up to us how that power will be directed."

  "One moment," the commissaris said. "Didn't you say just now that you made investigations of your own? What can you tell us about Obrian's background?"

  Varé frowned. "Luku was once employed by one of the Dutch international lumber dealers, a company that cuts the valuable trees of the jungle without bothering to plant seedlings. Obrian's mother was a whore and his father might have died while doing forced hard labor, but it's hard to believe that Luku knew who his father was, because the children of prostitutes usually do not know their fathers' names. Luku was by no means stupid and his successful thefts from his employer made him an authority among his friends. He was a dignitary of the cult. The company accused him of fraud and he escaped to this country. Luku brought Opete with him, a vulture chick incubated under his arm, of the species which we call streetbird or carrion crow. The streetbird also functions in the cult, for they're supposed to embody a winti, not always but certainly in a case of being born in close contact with an initiate."

  Karate and Ketchup scratched under their armpits and looked at each other.

  "Wow," said Karate.

  "Hup-ho," said Ketchup.

  "Silence," the commissaris said. "If you please."

  "Obrian arrived here," Varé" continued, "and became drunk at once. He stayed drunk for days on end. To be drunk is a form of heightened perception. After three or four days his mental state took its toll and his body began to become paralyzed and he foamed at the mouth. His friends took him to Uncle Wisi. One might say that Uncle Wisi cured his patient, but I prefer to think that Uncle Wisi recognized Obrian as a luku and made use of Obrian's condition to open him up a little further."

  "For a beneficial purpose?" the commissaris asked.

  "Absolutely," Varé said. "I'm convinced that Uncle Wisi wanted to strengthen Obrian's power so that he would be better able to guide and represent his people here."

  "Well, he failed," said Jurriaans. "Obrian became a superpimp, a drug dealer, a slimy sadist."

  Vare raised his hands to heaven. "The human being is free. We can always choose."

  "Wasn't Uncle Wisi ashamed of what he had brought about?" asked De Gier.

  "You've got it," Varé said. "That was his motivation."

  "But Uncle Wisi didn't shoot Obrian," Grijpstra said sullenly. "I'll never believe that. That friendly old clown wouldn't point a gun."

  "There are injunctions and prohibitions," Varé said. "No adept will pass his power without conditions. Uncle Wisi strengthened Luku Obrian's gift to handle the power, but he must have given him a taboo as well, and when a taboo is broken, the keenu, the curse, is triggered off. As soon as the keenu is released, the disciple dies."

  "Pointing the bone?" Karate asked. "I saw that on TV the other night. With the Papuans, somewhere in New Guinea I believe. There were a couple of dry old chaps huddled around a fire, grunting and grumbling away, and all of a sudden one of them grabs a bone and points it somewhere, and whoever is at the other end, no matter how far away, croaks for sure. He has an accident or gets sick or something."

  "You do carry on, you know," Ketchup said. "Obrian got shot. Not by accident. And he wasn't sick either."

  "He was, I think," Varé said. "When you're shot, you do have an accident in a way. I would assume that Uncle Wisi set off the keenu, weakened Obrian by doing so, and thereby surrendered him to his enemies."

  "So Uncle Wisi didn't point a bone," the commissaris said, "but a machine pistol, in someone else's hands."

  Varé sat down.

  "But what was the taboo that Obrian broke?" the commissaris asked.

  "Hmm," said Varé.

  "You have an idea?"

  "Didn't your female informers tell you?" asked Adjutant Adèle.

  "I think," Varé said, "but I only think so, aloud right now, that Obrian's taboo was somehow connected to this police station. Uncle Wisi is on good terms with us. He is, one might say, a special protege of Sergeant Jurriaans'. Today Uncle Wisi is a respected figure in the neighborhood, but his status was different when he first moved into the quarter. The inhabitants thought that he was some kind of monkey that had escaped from the jungle and could be teased. Sergeant Jurriaans wouldn't let them."

  "Aha," Cardozo said, "so Obrian was supposed to show respect to the station."

  "Respect?" Karate asked.

  "Will we be excused if we laugh softly?" Ketchup asked.

  "Interesting," the commissaris said. "Very. What do you think, Sergeant Jurriaans?"

  "I have been listening attentively, sir."

  "And there's nothing you could add?"

  "When Obrian was shot," Jurriaans said, "I was downstairs behind the counter."

  "I saw you there," said Karate.

  "So did I," said Ketchup. "And never mind the time, that carillon is always off."

  "A sergeant's official statement," said Grijpstra, "confirmed by two constables. Even the Supreme Court will bow in silence."

  The commissaris checked his watch and stretched. "It isn't getting any earlier. Perhaps we should terminate this pleasant gathering."

  His audience moved.

  "But even so," the commissaris said, "something still bothers me. There must have been some direct cause, I keep on thinking. Mr. Obrian was a disappointment to Uncle Wisi, but the old man cannot have given up hope qu
ickly. He must have warned his disciple on various occasions until something happened that made the master realize that the disciple had to be removed. At that time the keenu was raised by chanting and drumming, then the herbs burned, Opete flew over the alley, and Tigri sneaked through it, teeth bare, tail trembling, only then the rays of fire flashed and shot Obrian into damnation. But what was the direct cause that brought all that about? What could have been the specific reason?".

  The answering silence was oppressive and broken only by Adjutant Adèle's pink right hand, attempting to squash a black ball-point.

  "Adjutant Adèle," the commissaris asked. "Will you permit me to ask you a question?"

  The adjutant's lips trembled.

  "I have the impression," the commissaris said, "that you know Sergeant Varé well."

  "I do," Adjutant Adèle said.

  "An affair?"

  Adjutant Adèle nodded.

  The commissaris smiled helpfully.

  Adjutant Adèle unbuttoned the breast pocket of her tunic and inserted the ball point. "I'm fond of black."

  The commissaris nodded encouragingly.

  "Obrian was black too," the adjutant said, "and particularly attractive to me. I also detested him, especially after he made his request."

  "You met with him?"

  She smiled ruefully. "Yes, in the street. From then on he was in all my dreams. I knew I would have to give in."

  The commissaris' voice was toneless. "On the bridge?"

  "Yes, sir. He specified the place." She eyed the commissaris calmly while Jurriaans filled in the gap. "She would have to be in uniform, sir, in full view of everybody."

  "You knew?' the commissaris asked.

  "Oh, yes, sir. She confided in me. I was aware that something was very wrong. I took the adjutant to dinner."

  The ticking of the commissaris' wedding ring on the table broke the tension. Ketchup giggled. "That performance of Madeleine was peanuts compared to what we had coming." Karate crumpled the cigarette he had just rolled. "Imagine this, our very own Adjutant Adèle, in dress uniform, on her knees, on a sunny morning, heeheehee."