"Willem is the president, Adjutant. He probably doesn't handle the day-to-day business, because he's still an attorney with an office on Prince Hendrik Quay, quite an impressive building."
"With nasty-looking gargoyles sitting on the steps," de Gier said. "I pass that place often. The mansion has recently been restored. The gable was sandblasted and all the ornaments repaired."
"We could find out," the commissaris said. "Prince Hendrik Quay is only a stone's throw from the Binnenkant, where IJsbreker Junior lived and died. The Banque du Credit is also on the quay, two blocks east of Willem's office."
"A stone's throw away from a houseboat where Adjutant Guldemeester found three dead junkies," Grijpstra said.
"So you were saying." The commissaris shook the thermos flask. "Maybe we can squeeze three small cups out of this smart invention. Miss Antoinette has been improving things here. Oh, by the way, Sergeant, you find my secretary to your liking?"
"Sir?" de Gier asked.
The commissaris found two more cups. "Yes."
De Gier scratched his buttock. "Well. . . eh . . . sort of cool. Not very responsive."
"Ah," the commissaris said. "You're answering the question behind my question. So Cardozo actually met one of the junkies. Adjutant, when you have a minute, I'd like you to check the reports from ballistics and pathology on Martin IJsbreker. I don't imagine there has been a proper autopsy on the junkies, but you might find something there too. Pathology must have checked on the overdose supposition. And you, Sergeant, send a routine message to all personnel about the American student of Chinese, saying that we'd welcome any data at all. Subject interests me because of the information he didn't give after all."
"Would you like us to visit the premises where IJsbreker died?" de Gier asked.
"Yes, tonight, maybe." The commissaris rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. "I'd like to come along. We'll need a key. Maybe Guldemeester has the IJsbreker key."
"Adjutant Guldemeester won't like this, sir."
"No?" the commissaris asked. "No. Perhaps you're right. So you'd better see him straightaway. Sergeant. Yes, I think that would be best."
"He might refuse, sir."
"Then bring him in here, Sergeant."
Grijpstra laughed.
The commissaris frowned. "You're not enjoying the discomfort of a colleague, I hope."
"No," Grijsptra said. "I was thinking of Guldemeester's birthday party, earlier this year. De Gier and Cardozo were invited, too. Bit of a disaster that was."
"Ah?"
Grijpstra looked at de Gier. "Leave me out of it," de Gier said. "I had a terrible time."
"Let's hear this," the commissaris said. "Or shouldn't I?"
De Gier sat down on the edge of a chair. "May I tell it, sir? Grijpstra will exaggerate. Have you met Guldemeester's wife, Celine?"
"Perhaps I have, Sergeant. Pretty? Long blond hair?"
"A most attractive young lady," Grijpstra said.
"Guldemeester must be your age, Adjutant. Fifty or so?"
"Celine isaround thirty," deGiersaid. "They haven't been married long, and they won't be married long, either, I would guess. Guldemeester likes to drink— as we all do, of course—but I felt rather uncomfortable, so I only had a few."
The commissaris looked at Grijpstra. Grijpstra nodded.
"I hate birthday parties," de Gier said. "I don't particularly like Guldemeester, either. I should never have gone, but he invited me and I thought it would be rude to refuse."
"I always refuse," the commissaris said.
"Mrs. Guldemeester made a pass at me," de Gier said. "Everyone was quite drunk by then. Except me, as I mentioned."
"You got drunk?" the commissaris asked Grijpstra.
"Grijpstra threw up on the goats," de Gier said. "But that was afterward. Guldemeester keeps goats. Mini-goats, strange-looking specimens, from Mongolia, I believe."
"They all died," Grijpstra said.
"Probably a rare breed," the commissaris said. "Couldn't stand your treatment."
"No, no," Grijpstra said, "nothing to do with me. Some disease, it must have been. I got drunk because that household made me unhappy. De Gier and I are different that way. He won't drink when he's unhappy."
"So Mrs. Guldemeester made a pass at you, Sergeant?" the commissaris asked. "And that upset you? You should be used to that sort of thing by now."
"Our hero," Grijpstra said. "It's because of that ridiculous mustache. It makes women curious, they want to lift it up."
"It's my high cheekbones," de Gier said. "Anyway, I didn't respond, so Celine stripped on the table."
"She what?" asked the commissaris.
"She did, sir," Grijpstra said. "Cardozo liked that. He gave her the idea. He kept talking about how he would like to infiltrate that nightclub, or gambling joint, or whatever one would like to call it, that belongs to the Society for Help Abroad and gets written up in the papers a lot. Best striptease in town. Guldemeester said he'd been there several times in the line of duty and the the show was truly excellent. Meanwhile, his wife had been making up to the sergeant, who just sat there and called her 'ma'am' and—"
"Well, what did she expect?" de Gier asked. "She is Guldemeester's wife."
"More, probably," the commissaris said. "Perhaps she expected more. Go on, Adjutant, you've made me curious."
"Well, sir," Grijpstra said, "so Celine said that Cardozo could see a striptease right then and there, but she kept looking at de Gier."
"Then what happened?"
"We went home," de Gier said. "After Grijpstra threw up on the goats."
"Oh," the commissaris said, "so Mrs. Guldemeester didn't really perform?"
"She did," de Gier said. "It took forever, too. She must have practiced. She had special music for her act. 'Pyramid' by the Modern Jazz Quartet. You know the piece? It takes quite a while."
"Good composition," Grijpstra said. "We should try that sometime. Some very tricky passages, though; maybe you won't be able to follow."
"No," de Gier said. "I'll be thinking of that party again."
"From what I hear," the commissaris said, "the experience might have had some pleasant aspects. De Gier, you've been here from time to time while we were away. Have you heard anything about reorganization at Headquarters here?"
"I hope there won't be," Grijpstra said. "Reorganization makes the mess worse."
"There'll be an investigation, sir," de Gier said. "State detectives have been called in by the mayor. They're supposed to concentrate on corruption and on cases that have been recently handled in an unprofessional way."
"I hope they won't ask for my cooperation," the commissaris said. "I wouldn't like to intrigue against colleagues."
De Gier stared at the commissaris.
"Yes, Sergeant?"
"No, sir." De Gier shook his head. "I was just thinking. Anything else you have in mind? I'd like to send that message off and see what Halba and Guldemeester have done, exactly. Shall we meet here tonight?"
"I'll meet you at Martin IJsbreker's house," the commissaris said. "At seven. No, make that eight. I'd like to look around the area a bit first, I think."
\\ 5 /////
"VERY NICE," ADJUTANT GRIJPSTRA SAID. "BEAUtiful, in fact. Lovely example of Golden Age architecture." The adjutant stood solidly at the extreme edge of the quay, his head tilted to obtain an optimal view. De Gier leaned against a tree. Together they observed a slender four-story gable built up out of varnished bricks, holding tall windows in bright white frames. A seagull had just landed on the gable's tip and was silhouetted sharply against the sky, which was still sparkling blue, but tinged with the first hue of coming darkness.
"Got the key?" de Gier asked.
"Sure," Grijpstra said. "He wouldn't give it, of course. Wanted to know why and so forth. Colleague Guldemeester can be quite awkward when pressed."
"So you had to press him, eh?"
"Leaned on him with my full weight," Grijpstra said. "Threatened and cajoled.
Still had to find the key myself, in the end." Grijpstra lowered his head. "You know Guldemeester is a squirrel? He must keep a hundred ballpoints in his desk, filched from everywhere. He had a hundred keys, too."
"So how do you know you got the right one?"
Grijpstra held up the key. "Labeled. See? Guidemeester just stood there while I searched his desk. Wouldn't play at all."
"Did you see his notes, too?"
"No notes," Grijpstra said. "No gun. Remember that carton filled with weapons that disappeared from Ballistics, the one you told me about?"
"No," de Gier said. "Not our gun. You mean the Walther PPK that IJsbreker shot himself with went out in the missing carton?"
Grijpstra nodded. "Lifted by a Turkish charwoman, or so they claim at Ballistics. It's all hushed up. The chief constable doesn't want the papers to know. There was a dismantled machine pistol in that carton, too, and a couple of Magnums. Weapons taken from a Turkish drug-running gang. There's a thought that the Turks pushed some of their women into Headquarters to retrieve the guns."
De Gier was still admiring the gable. "Cops sell guns, too. My neighbor bought a pistol from a constable who stopped him for drunken driving. As it would be his second conviction, the sucker paid a small fortune in cash and the cop took pity and.threw in the gun. My neighbor told me about it when I asked him to take care of my cat. I had to stay overnight up north."
"Makes you proud of your profession," Grijpstra said. "So, no gun to check with the bullet in IJsbreker's head. Did you see the pathologists?"
"That was another negative," de Gier said. "Notice how the entire gable was rebuilt, not just patched up somehow, as you usually see in a restoration. Must have cost a pretty penny. I wonder if IJsbreker owned the house."
"We can check with the Registry of Deeds tomorrow." Grijpstra walked around parked cars. "The Banque du Credit may own the place. If IJsbreker has shares in the bank, he may have wanted to avoid property tax. No businessman in his right mind owns anything in his own name anymore. Personal property is mere weight these days. All you want is to have the use of the stuff."
"At no cost," de Gier agreed. "Borrowed interest-free wealth that will last until one's death. In IJsbreker's case, death came rather early. Want to hear something?"
De Gier produced a small cassette recorder and held it near Grijpstra's ear. He clicked its switch. "Hello," a rich baritone voice said, "this is Martin IJsbreker's answering machine. Please leave a message. I'd just love to have your message. I'll answer as soon as I can. Wait for the beep."
Grijpstra looked surprised. "When did you get this?"
De Gier pocketed the little machine. "Just now. IJsbreker's phone is still connected. Doesn't he sound jolly?"
"A good powerful voice," Grijpstra agreed. "Arrogant, strident, authoritative, I would say. Not depressed at all. Perhaps the tape is old. Maybe he has been using it for years."
"Old tapes are usually scratchy." De Gier turned away from the house. "I say there's a hint here that IJsbreker was in no way depressed. Let's cross the bridge and have a look at that houseboat where the junkies were found. I'll tell you about the pathologists on the way."
De Gier stopped on the bridge linking the two quays that framed the canal. Some little boys were paddling an old canoe along. They wore folded paper hats, and the boy in the bow waved a wooden sword, ordering his crew onward. His thin shouts were drowned in the rumble of a heavy diesel engine propelling a cargo vessel along. Its bow wave made the canoe bob jerkily. The boys screamed with joy. "I used to do that," de Gier said.
"You still do that," Grijpstra said. "That's your trouble. We aren't playing games, you know."
"That's your trouble." De Gier patted Grijpstra's shoulder. "You won't see the fun. Did you read that bit in the paper about a whole new cluster of galaxies that some wise-ass discovered? A billion new worlds to choose from? Anything you can imagine will be out there, any game you can possibly play."
"Can't get there," Grijpstra said, "and if I could, it would be serious too. Self-centered beings breaking reasonable rules. I don't care whether they're small and green. It'll be the same horror, endlessly repeated, with types like me running about forever, hopelessly trying to restore order."
"What's hopeless?" de Gier asked. He pointed down. "See that? A fish. Big fish."
Grijpstra peered. "You're putting me on. That water is polluted."
"Carp or something," de Gier shouted. "I saw him whopping his tail. Look! Another one."
"My fishing rod broke," Grijpstra said. "I won't get another one. They're too expensive now."
"And yesterday," de Gier said triumphantly, "there was a great crested grebe in front of the Hotel l'Europe. There used to be only garbage there. A grebe, I tell you."
"Bird?" Grijpstra asked.
"With a tuft on his head."
Grijpstra pushed his bulk off the bridge's railing and moved on slowly. "It's still shit, Sergeant. The whole thing is shit. We're losing."
"To lose," de Gier said cheerfully, striding along. "Not a bad idea either. Anarchy would be fun. With my back to the wall." De Gier stopped and gestured. "The enemy everywhere, in relentless pursuit of good guys like you and me. Superbly armed, they hunt us down, but you and I melt into the shadows. We live furtively on catfood."
"Why catfood?" Grijpstra asked.
"That's all we could find in the deserted supermarket," de Gier whispered.
"You've been going to the movies again."
"Okay," de Gier said. "The catfood came from a movie. Or was it dogfood? I forget now. But the lone warrior seemed to enjoy it, licking his fingers and all, and he had this great car, and some nice-looking woman got raped, they showed that quite well. I think he saved some others from the bad guys and then raced off again." De Gier prodded Grijpstra's belly. "You know, maybe you're right, you shouldn't be in on this. You're too slow and sad. We'll have you killed in the adventure's beginning. You're just dead weight, but I'm sorry to be rid of you. You can see it on my face." De Gier stared sadly, looking down at Grijpstra's corpse. He sat down on his haunches. His hands felt through the air.
"What're you doing?" Grijpstra asked. "Leave my body alone."
"You may have something of value," de Gier said. "Some shells for my shotgun. I'm alone now and could use your knife."
"You wouldn't last a minute on your own," Grijpstra said.
De Gier straightened up. "You sure you want to be in on this? I've a feeling the present situation doesn't agree with you. My fantasies aren't as far out as you think. The present may prove me right."
"Tell me the negative about the pathologists," Grijpstra said.
"Weird tale, Adjutant. There's no autopsy report at all, nor will there ever be. The doctor who did the job won't talk, and the other can't substantiate what he claims to have seen. There were two bullets in IJsbreker's head, against one cartridge found on the floor."
Grijpstra thought. He raised a hand and declaimed,
"The dead banker struggled to his feet and shot himself again."
"Two bullets," de Gier said. "But only one hole. The hole was in the middle of IJsbreker's forehead."
"That's against statistics," Grijpstra said. "People shoot themselves through the temple or the mouth or, once in a while, between the eyes. Not through the forehead as a rule."
"Two .22-caliber bullets."
"The missing gun was a .22," Grijpstra said. "The fellow at Ballistics remembered. The empty cartridge ejected by the pistol was .22, too. But if two bullets penetrated the same hole, an automatic weapon was used, capable of producing extremely rapid fire. A Walther PPK is only semiautomatic. Admittedly, the trigger is set finely so that shots can be fired at minimal intervals, but even so, the second bullet would cause a second hole. I say an assault rifle was used, either American or Russian, and IJsbreker was shot from there somewhere." He pointed at the north quay.
"From across the water, Adjutant?"
"Sure," Grijpstra said. "Remember the report? IJsbreker was
found in front of an open window on the third floor. From where we were standing just now, opposite from here, on the south quay, we had to tilt our heads back even to see the third floor. A shot from that position would have been too tricky. If two bullets made one hole, the weapon must have been extraordinarily steady. The rifle was set on a tripod, I say. You're sure there were two bullets?"
"One got lost," de Gier said. "That's why the chief pathologist is so upset. They gave him IJsbreker's corpse late in the day, and he rushed the job. Apparently everything went wrong. The other pathologist was bitching at him. The electric saw he uses for opening up skulls broke down. Our doctor threw up his hands in despair and went home, halfway through the job, leaving the two bullets he found in IJsbreker's head near the edge of the table. One of the illegal alien charwomen came in early the next day and cleaned the floor, perhaps inadvertently sweeping away one bullet that must have rolled off the table."
"The chief won't sign a report that states one bullet was lost."
"He won't even talk to me," de Gier said. "The other guy, the one who isn't paid as well and isn't responsible for the department, talked, but that's only because he likes to make trouble for his chief. He won't make a statement under oath either."
"Anarchy," Grijpstra said.
De Gier lifted a leg and skipped halfway around the adjutant. "See, lawlessness on both sides is already with us. Isn't this fun? We can perhaps imagine a solution, but we can never make it stick."
"So we give up," Grijpstra said, "because of foul play. I think both gun and bullet were lost on purpose."
De Gier skipped back. "If you give up, I'll go alone. I'll fight foul too. Now that the whole organization is in a shambles, new possibilities arise. There should be a good fight in here somewhere. It'll be a change. I've been trained too nicely. I'm tired of bowing and scraping on the judo mat. Let me kick them in the balls for once."
"No," Grijpstra said, "I'll keep you straight. Where are we so far?"
"You," de Gier said, "had just placed a crack shot behind a tripod bearing an assault rifle of American or Russian make. Why? Because of the caliber of the bullets?"
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