The Streetbird

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "But we would have shot him," Ketchup said.

  "And ourselves a little later," Karate said.

  "That wouldn't have been necessary," Adjutant Adèle said quietly. "I prevented the final showdown." Her eyes pleaded. "I couldn't have dishonored the service, could I, now? I knew I had to shoot Obrian myself. Without help, without implicating anyone. The weakness was mine, the victory would have to be mine too. It was easier than I thought. Jacobs never knew I borrowed his gun. The time was right, there were no witnesses. I live close by. All I had to do was remove those ridiculous clothes in a doorway afterward and walk home. When Jurriaans telephoned me, I was under the shower." Her mouth hardened as she tried to stare the commissaris down. "I'm sorry."

  "We're not playing games anymore, are we?" Grijpstra asked. "What's being said now is nothing but the truth?"

  De Gier brushed the left end of his mustache up and the right down. "Will you be arresting the adjutant, adjutant?"

  "Me?" Grijpstra asked. His eyelids dropped morosely. "On what charge? The possibility of an impossibility? On the strength of a single statement? Is there any proof? Is anyone stepping forward to provide evidence? All I can see is nothing at all. What sort of a court case would this turn out to be?"

  The commissaris waved his cigar. "We aren't quite done. The adjutant said she was sorry. Sorry about what, my dear?"

  "That she didn't shoot him." Sergeant Jurriaans had gotten up. His hands gripped the table's edge as he leaned toward the commissaris. "I wouldn't allow her to defend the station's honor, sir. I'm all for feminism and equal rights, but we should still defend the better sex. I stepped in before it was too late. She never fired the Schmeisser."

  "You?" Grijpstra asked. "You're sure, now?"

  "Who else?"

  "You confess to having committed the crime?" the commissaris asked.

  Jurriaans stretched his back and straightened his shoulders. His hands hit his thighs. "I certainly do."

  "One more question," the commissaris said. "I would like to have a verdict." His eyes traveled around the table before they settled on de Gier. "Sergeant?"

  "Sir?"

  "Would you care to let us have your tentative judgment on all of this?"

  De Gier looked away.

  "Sergeant?" the commissaris asked softly.

  "I have no comments, sir."

  The commissaris got up. "My thanks to all of you." He buttoned his jacket and walked to the door. Jurriaans opened it.

  "Thank you, Sergeant Jurriaans."

  Jurriaans followed the old man into the corridor. "Will you be continuing the investigation, sir?"

  "I?" The commissaris sucked smoke energetically before attempting to blow a ring. "No. I'm going home to a late supper."

  Jurriaans' hand clasped the commissaris' arm. The sergeant led his superior to the window.

  "What do you want me to do, sergeant? Watch the sparrows?"

  "Your comments," Jurriaans whispered. "I daresay you have some."

  The commissaris looked up. "You require my approval?"

  Jurriaans tried to smile.

  "You have my disapproval."

  Jurriaans let go of the commissaris' arm.

  "Good evening," the commissaris said.

  "Good evening, sir," said the sergeant.

  \\ 29 ////

  THE COMMISSARIS' ClTROEN WAS STUCK BETWEEN A PARKED truck and a bundle of bicycles chained to a lamppost. "Shall I get out again?" Grijpstra asked. "Then I can direct your maneuvering."

  "No need," the commissaris said. "This superior vehicle is equipped with power steering. Watch this, adjutant." He turned the wheel with one finger and flicked the automatic gear handle with the other. The car responded soundlessly. "Haha," the commissaris said when the Citroen jumped free and slid into the alley. "Modern science knows no restrictions." He braked because the alley was blocked by a van unloading drums, caught and pushed onto the sidewalk by quiet giants. The com-missaris switched the engine off and opened the sun roof. "Bit of fresh air, Grijpstra."

  Grijpstra looked up and saw a pitch black cloud shot through with red flames and tried to open his door, but the alley was too narrow. He stood on his seat and looked about, and dropped back. "Just a factory chimney, sir, throwing up soot."

  "There's no industry in the quarter."

  "Must be where they cremate old whores. I always wondered what happens to them in the end."

  The van finally pulled away and the Citroen followed. The commissaris grinned as he reached a main thoroughfare.

  "Another traffic jam," Grijpstra said, and held on while the commissaris drove the Citroen onto the stone ramp reserved for streetcars in the middle of the street. "It's illegal," the commissaris said, "but my wife is cooking Belgian endives tonight and I don't want to be late. Do you like Belgian endives?"

  "With an almost burned crust, sir?"

  "Of course."

  "Delicious," Grijpstra said, and covered his eyes because the car lurched forward and went through a red light.

  "Be my guest," the commissaris said. "I hear that your wife moved to the provinces. You can look now—I wasn't really going through red."

  "You're doing it again."

  "Never," the commissaris said. "And you should know more about the city's traffic lights. The lights aimed at streetcars have little white dots underneath, and when some of them are on one can still pass."

  "This is no streetcar," Grijpstra said. "Shit, sir, that's a gate ahead of us."

  "They open when they're pushed," the commissaris said as he slammed through the gate and turned right.

  "But, sir," Grijpstra said, "this street is for pedestrians only."

  "I know, and I'm driving slowly."

  Grijpstra looked back. "The cop over there wrote down your number."

  "They'll mail it to me and I'll pay it at once. We're making good time, adjutant, and we're almost there . . . Feel this?" the commissaris asked.

  "Feel what?"

  "The tickling? Don't you think it exciting? This is the only spot in the city where the sensation occurs. They've used a rough type of brick and it makes the car vibrate. I can feel it in my bones."

  "Quite stimulating," Grijpstra said.

  "I'll slow down a little, to make it last."

  A car behind sounded its klaxon.

  "Go ahead," the commissaris said. "You won't spoil my pleasure."

  Grijpstra had covered his eyes again.

  "I know the width of this car exactly," the commissaris said. "Why wear out the brakes if you can easily get through? Here we are. Home. Some cold genever in the garden. I hope we have some time for a quiet drink. I like to have a late supper, but one should have a peaceful half hour to work up an appetite."

  Grijpstra looked at the wicker chair that the commissaris indicated. "Too rickety?" the commissaris asked. "It'll hold my weight, but you're a little heavier maybe. Take the other chair, if you like. Thank you, dear." He held up his glass. "I think the adjutant is ready for a refreshening too. I hope you didn't mind that I brought an unexpected guest."

  "Not at all," said the commissaris' wife while she served Grijpstra, "because hospitality keeps you at home. I'm glad you did manage to turn up again." She brought a dish of nuts. "You'll have to wait awhile still. The oven is slow. I'll leave the jar here. Don't drink it all. I don't want you to slosh your speech at dinner."

  "Health," the commissaris said.

  "Your very good health, sir. Shall we drink to the closing of our case?"

  "The case was closed when it began." The commissaris looked at the weeds near his chair. "Turtle, do you have to stamp about like that?"

  The turtle plodded on and rubbed his shell against Grijpstra's shoe. Grijpstra scratched the hard skin of the reptile's neck.

  "Turtle does like you," the commissaris said. "He's the only one of his kind who'll invite petting."

  "He's also the only turtle of his kind who has that peculiar light green discoloration on his shell."

  "He has?"
the commissaris asked, and hung out of his chair. "I see. Maybe you're right. I thought they all came with that imprint."

  "They don't," Grijpstra said. "I've seen his species at the zoo and they're much darker all over."

  "Is that so?" The commissaris took hold of his glass but didn't drink.

  "And," Grijpstra said, "I did happen to meet a turtle, at Nellie's place to be precise, who did have the peculiar light green discoloration and who invited petting."

  The commissaris emptied his glass and refilled it. "Care for some more?"

  "Yes."

  "A good woman," the commissaris said, "Nellie is. Why don't you move in with her?"

  "Wouldn't everything be the same way again?"

  "She's not like your wife at all."

  Grijpstra thought.

  "Oh, nonsense," the commissaris said. "Nellie'11 never get fat."

  "Maybe I make them fat," Grijpstra said. "And make them watch TV all the time."

  "Aren't you a bit negative?"

  "Besides," Grijpstra said, "I've always wanted to live in an empty apartment. It'll give me space to paint. I have to start painting seriously. I've got the ideas, and a little of the technique. In an empty apartment I can work it all out."

  "You could visit Nellie more often. By staying away you'll make her unhappy. You may have an obligation."

  Grijpstra studied his glass. "You said just now, in the car, before we were vibrating on those rough bricks, that you knew that my wife lives in the provinces now."

  The commissaris massaged his cheek. "A slip. I think I'm really getting old."

  "Only Cardozo could have given you that information."

  "OrdeGier."

  Grijpstra shook his head. "Rinus never talks too much."

  "Cardozo does?"

  "Oh, yes. He also repeats what others have told him."

  "Don't underestimate Cardozo, adjutant. He's a most intelligent young fellow."

  "An intelligent young fellow does not accuse the innocent."

  The commissaris poured more drinks. "He was told to, adjutant, by me, at Nellie's hotel, earlier on today. Cardozo was so kind as to make use of his talent at my request. He had to pretend to be silly, and he managed that very well."

  "Good," Grijpstra said. "I'm glad you told me. Did he have to go that far?"

  The commissaris smiled innocently. "I only played the game, adjutant. You've been taught to play it yourself. Accuse the wrong person, and the guilty party feels safe. Then switch the attack."

  Grijpstra put his glass down, sighed pleasurably, and folded his hands on his stomach.

  "By the way, adjutant, when did you know?"

  Grijpstra didn't answer. The commissaris waited.

  "About the killing, sir?"

  The commissaris' silence persisted.

  "The possible impossibility, sir?"

  The commissaris sipped.

  Grijpstra smiled guiltily. "About straightaway, sir. The station was a prime suspect and Obrian was shot in the immediate vicinity. Nobody knew anything. It was quite impossible, sir."

  "And de Gier?"

  "I think Rinus caught on right away too. We never discussed the matter."

  "Too painful?"

  Grijpstra's pale blue eyes stared thoughtfully. "Yes."

  "Then what? You will admit you allowed yourselves to be misused. Why? To help the station with their spring cleaning?"

  "Misused," Grijpstra said. "I wouldn't quite call it that. Shouldn't the city be cleaned? Aren't we hired for that specific purpose? But de Gier did complain a bit. That we were only handed two suspects, for instance, and that they, Gustav and Lennie, hardly fitted the position. He did mention that point, as I recall. We didn't have to be too clear we have worked together for such a long time . . ." His hands waved forlornly. "It isn't always good to say it all."

  "You suspected Jurriaans in particular?"

  "Didn't you? Why did you leave so suddenly?"

  "Did you understand the reason for my disappearance?"

  "I thought you wanted nothing to do with the case."

  "You could have mentioned the matter to the Ministry of Justice. The ministry employs special detectives who can check on the police."

  Grijpstra's hands dropped back on his belly. "You can't be serious, sir."

  The commissaris grabbed the sides of his chair. "Let me have your verdict, adjutant. A colleague commits a murder. What's your opinion?

  "No."

  "Your verdict is negative?"

  "I have no verdict."

  The commissaris sighed. "De Gier refused too. I provided the opportunity, but we weren't alone then. Here we are together and Turtle isn't really interested."

  "Jurriaans may judge himself," Grijpstra almost whispered. "I refuse the choice. We serve the law, but the law may be wrong. Jurriaans chose to ignore the rules we made ourselves, didn't he, sir?"

  "Would you have shot Obrian?"

  "Hopefully not." Grijpstra watched the ground. "Good and bad, I may not be capable of defining the difference. I wasn't conscious of my stupidity, but this case made that clear." He looked up. "White and black, I may be somewhere in between myself, lost in the gray spaces. De Gier too, but he isn't quite as settled as I. He doesn't care so much. Yes. That's better." His hand rubbed his stomach. "It doesn't gnaw so much then."

  "And meanwhile evil is allowed to grow?"

  "No, no." Grijpstra's voice dropped even more. "We did do something, didn't we? De Gier found the weapon, he could have hidden it, but he brought it out, all of us fired it even. Cardozo pushed on, we hardly restrained him. I knew he would contact you eventually."

  "And if I hadn't come?"

  "I thought of that, sir. I planned to ask de Gier and Jurriaans to have a drink with me in that small cafe on the Prince's Island where you take us sometimes."

  "You would have made the proper small talk and driven the suspect into a corner? So that there's no way out except straight up?"

  Grijpstra tried to smile.

  "Good," the commissaris said. "The exercise goes on, it will provide new situations."

  The turtle was squashing weeds on his way to a cabbage. The commissaris' wife ran after him and picked him up.

  "You know you should stay away from the vegetables. Off to your crate, you monster."

  "Poor Turtle," the commissaris said.

  "Never mind poor Turtle, and you stop drinking right now. Dinner's ready."

  The commissaris got up. "Yes, dear."

  She pushed him inside. "Really, no discipline at all. Neither you nor the turtle can go visiting for a while."

  \\ 30 ////

  THE COMMISSARIS LOOKED OUT OF HIS OFFICE WINDOW. THE cars parked in front of police headquarters had changed into smoothly curved snow sculptures and a lone cyclist, tricked by the ice, was trying to pick himself up but lost his footing again. "Nasty weather," the commissaris said. "I'm surprised that you two managed to get here unscathed. I hit a lamppost on the way, but I was almost here by then so I just went on."

  "I've read the reports," de Gier said. "Nothing but traffic accidents. If the temperature stays this low, we may as well go on holiday."

  A constable brought in the morning mail. The commissaris flipped through the envelopes. "Do we know anyone in Colombia?" He turned the envelope over. "No return address. Marijuana smuggling? Cocaine maybe? Hardly my department, I would think."

  Grijpstra flashed his stiletto, turned the knife around, and offered it to the commissaris.

  "Do you still carry that weapon? I told you years ago you should surrender it to the arms room. A switchblade does not belong to a detective's official gear."

  "But I can throw it now, sir."

  De Gier watched as the knife slit through the envelope. "You might try something else, adjutant. Once you've mastered an art, there's nothing more to do. I can get you a blowpipe and some darts."

  The commissaris read the signature on the letter. "Erik Jurriaans. So he's come up once more. When did he resign again?
"

  "Some three months back," Grijpstra said.

  "And now residing in Barranquilla, isn't that a port in the Caribbean?" The commissaris scanned through the letter. "Interesting. You want me to read this to you? Are you pouring the coffee, Grijpstra?"

  Grijpstra sat on the easy chair for visitors and De Gier on the straight chair for suspects. The commissaris stirred his coffee while he pushed the letter to the middle of his blotter.

  The commissaris read:

  Gentlemen:

  Plural, for I always saw you as a multiple, sir, and Adjutant Grijpstra, and colleague—ex-colleague, I should say now--de Gier, as inseparable parts of your trinity. I still owe you some explanation, and perhaps a word of thanks, and will now try to formulate all that. I'm sitting on a balcony here, called a mezzanine in this country, that has been attached to the inside wall of a tannery, from where, protected by windows and cooled by air conditioning, I can supervise the activity in this huge hall. The tannery only has two walls and the rest is open so that the laborers may enter freely, as most of our workers aren't human but birds, chulos, the vultures that are called streetbirds in Surinam. They pick clean the skins that have been stretched on frames, and do their work so well that we can unfasten the skins within a day and pack and replace them. I can see palm trees outside the man-high grass, and my assistants are blacks, Spanish-speaking desperadoes, armed with machetes. I'm in Barranquilla, as you'll have seen from the postage stamp, and Amsterdam hardly exists now, but today I have to think of you and the reason that brought me here, and I think I shouldn 'tput the letter off any longer.

  You were right, sir, when you expressed your disapproval. I knew then that I would have to resign. You're the symbol of the service, a patriarch, esteemed by every colleague, admired for your clarity, and when you didn 't want to confirm that I saved the honor of the police by doing away with Luku Obrian, I knew that my work had come to an end.

  I couldn't disappear immediately because the Lennie and Gustav cases hadn't gone to court. As soon as those rascals had been judged, I left, without paying you a visit, and I regret that now. Hence this letter.