Hard Rain

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "Yes." Grijpstra looked around. "Modern rifles are small caliber. American rifles are stolen from army barracks, and Russian rifles are handed out free to terrorists. Where did our killer position himself? On the roof of that houseboat?"

  "That's the houseboat where the dead junkies were found," de Gier said. "Anyone standing on the boat's roof is in full view. It was bad weather that night. Raining cats and dogs. It's hard to make a good shot when you're being pelted with pets."

  "So the killer was indoors, maybe?" Grijpstra asked. "In the house behind the boat? At number 20, where the old lady is being drummed out by musicians? Hey!"

  Grijpstra scratched his short, stubby hair with both hands. "This is confusing. I don't want an old lady in my theory as yet. Didn't you say that you had read her complaint several times in the general file? I never saw the earlier versions."

  "That's because you always look for big stuff," de Gier said. "Little bits of information are interesting too. Here is this old lady who keeps dragging herself to the local police station because ruffians want her to vacate her home—"

  "The report didn't say that," Grijpstra said.

  "Reports don't present conclusions, Adjutant. They try to feed us facts. Why would musicians drum an old lady out of her upstairs apartment?"

  "They want the whole house?"

  "Of course," de Gier said patiently. "They live downstairs and want the upstairs too. This area still has a bit of controlled rents. That old lady will never move unless you drag her out by the hair. Anarchy is not yet complete. The citizens keep up appearances. They would object to old ladies being publicly abused."

  "So the ruffians drum." Grijpstra was still scratching his head. "Aren't we making this too complicated? We still have three dead junkies to fit into the theory. Forget the old lady."

  "You brought her up, remember? Her location is of interest because the killer may have placed his weapon in her building."

  "Hold it," Grijpstra said. "Some order here. Drumming goes all ways. Noise spreads sideways, too. Why didn't the other neighbors complain?"

  De Gier pushed Grijpstra ahead of him, and they walked off the bridge and along the northern quay. "Behold."

  "Yes," Grijpstra said thoughtfully. "Empty house on the left, empty house on the right. No one there to complain on either side. Now I see. This area is close to the growing red-light district. Aha."

  "Simple, right?" de Gier asked. "Happens all the time. This will be some new sex club or gambling joint, or a hotel for hanky-panky. The old lady is in the way. If she moves out, there will be three houses available, nicely arranged. Knock the inside walls out, call the interior decorators, install strobe lights and sunken whirlpool baths, bring in the band."

  "The band is already there." De Gier stepped up on the sidewalk and looked into the windows of the downstairs apartment. "Look at those drums."

  "Better than ours," Grijpstra said. "There's a good-quality guitar, too. See the staircase? The musicians have the second floor, too, which leaves the third and fourth floors for the old lady. There are two front doors, so each apartment has its own entrance."

  "So the rifle was fired from the second floor?" de Gier asked. "Drummer and guitar player are suspects. We're doing well, Adjutant. We've got this thing almost licked."

  "You sure?"

  "You don't think so?"

  "I'm not too bright," Grijpstra said. "What we've come up with is pure conjecture. I still have the missing pistol, and the bullet that maybe got swept away, and Halba's and Guldemeester's verdict of suicide, and Guldemeester refusing to hand over the key, and this small detail of the three dead junkies, and then one of them seeing Cardozo a while ago and babbling about murder before fading away."

  "It'll all fit in," de Gier said. "Care to check out the boat? We might need a warrant, but the door is probably open."

  Together they contemplated the houseboat's state of disrepair. Once a sturdy steel vessel used for transport of the city's waste, it had been topped by a superstructure built of discarded boards painted in a garish variety of colors. Broken furniture had been pushed up front, perhaps in an attempt to arrange a sun deck. Ripped plastic bags containing indefinable mush were heaped in the stern. A stovepipe, stained with soot, hung at an angle across the cabin's roof. The gangway consisted of overlapping strips hacked out of soggy particle board.

  "Palace of pipe dreams," Grijpstra said.

  De Gier read the boat's name. Rhinoceros of Doubt.

  "Don't get it," Grijpstra said. "Do you?"

  De Gier read the name again, stenciled fairly neatly on the vessel's side. "Not yet. Check the gangway. If it carries your weight, it may support mine, too."

  The boat's interior was damp and dark. "There you are," the commissaris said. "I thought you'd show up here." His old-fashioned shantung suit made a patch of light in the long narrow cabin. The commissaris sat on a rocking chair that creaked slightly as he moved.

  "Hello, sir." Grijpstra dropped his hand, which had gone halfway toward the gun in his armpit. De Gier, legs slightly apart, hands dangling, relaxed.

  "Just me," the commissaris said. "I've been here awhile, wondering a bit. Rather an unpleasant atmosphere here, don't you think? Can you feel it?"

  Grijpstra sniffed, and de Gier moved about slowly. "Yes," de Gier said. "Death. Decay. Fear, too, I imagine."

  Grijpstra cursed. His foot had kicked a doll's head that rolled about, staring in all directions with one curious eye, winking slyly with the other.

  "Evil?" the commissaris said. "The inhabitants sold their souls to the drug's genie?" He pointed at a low bed in the middle of the cabin, covered with rags. "That's where they must have been found—three promising young people who became shadows of themselves. Notice any inconsistencies? Not everything here is bad. There's still some live thought about, showing up as the remnants of a different activity, perhaps."

  "These?" de Gier asked, studying framed examples of Chinese calligraphy hanging on a wall, each representing a single character drawn in strong brushstrokes.

  Grijpstra mumbled, "Well done."

  "One black junkie, one female, and Mr. Jimmy Floyd, student of Chinese," de Gier said. "These must have belonged to him."

  "What's this?" Grijpstra asked. De Gier looked round. Grijpstra pointed out his find, a head of a rhinoceros, hung like a trophy above the commissaris's chair, an expressive shape assembled from odd bits of wood, fitted craftily together. De Gier went over to study the object close up.

  "Fascinating visualization," the commissaris said, still comfortable in his rocking chair. "A completed puzzle assembled from random parts. The artist had a good eye, don't you think?"

  De Gier's eyes had become more accustomed to the dim light filtering through the cabin's single small window. "The colors are good too, sir." He admired the long sharp horn, slightly curved upward, of a light orange color that contrasted strikingly with the various grays of the head's gnarled cheeks and forehead. "A rather strong image."

  "Of doubt?" the commissaris asked. He got up, holding on to the sergeant's arm. "Strange. A well-made piece of what I would classify as modern primitive art, dominating a miserable floating shack. Artful creativity suspended in terminal negativity. We'll have to figure out the contrast sometime soon. Shall we leave? All this moisture in the air makes me feel my legs."

  De Gier held his arm around the commissaris's shoulders while he steered the frail old man along the ramshackle gangway. "This boat is a danger to the city's health," the commissaris said. "You can alert the Water Police when you're near a phone. They should drag it away forthwith. Adjutant, would you mind bringing the rhino's head along? We'll hold on to the sculpture for the time being; maybe it'll turn out to be a clue. Lock it in the trunk of your car."

  While the commissaris and the sergeant waited for the adjutant to return from the car, parked in an alley farther along, de Gier reported. The commissaris looked at the giant carp below the bridge. "Amazing, Sergeant."

  "Alleged deliberate
loss of evidence," de Gier concluded brightly. "There may be witnesses, however, and we could still work on possible suspects. I daresay we can still find some."

  "It's the Japanese," the commissaris said. "I can't understand why they're getting such a bad press in the West. We should be grateful to those dexterous people."

  "Japanese suspects, sir?"

  "You too?" the commissaris asked. "Why should we blame their diligence for our woes?" He smiled as the mouth of a large fish broke the surface and smacked its shiny fat lips. "I'll have to bring some bread next time we're here. That carp wants to be fed. No, Sergeant, I think we should see the Japanese as our benefactors. Now that they're taking over the world's industry and our factories are slowly grinding to a stop, pollution here is bound to decrease dramatically. You see the signs everywhere. Nature is coming back. We can breathe fresh air and truly enjoy ourselves again."

  "Were you listening to me at all?" de Gier asked.

  "Yes," the commissaris said. "Most of what you said had come to me while I was indulging in a little reverie in that unfortunate floating coffin, but your old lady is new. Her presence may open up a new avenue, I think. And I'm glad you mentioned the musicians who have been bothering her. We're badly in need of suspects, don't you agree?"

  "You want Grijpstra and me to go after them, sir?"

  The commissaris was absorbed in the spectacle of the carp again. De Gier cleared his throat. "What?" the commissaris asked. "Right, no, Sergeant, just to go after them won't be good enough. Catch them at their infernal drumming. Trying to chase an old woman out of her home seems a fiendish offense. If you can catch them at that perfidious activity, you have a better hold. Don't even mention IJsbreker's death for now. With skillful treatment, our suspects might trip themselves up."

  "The downstairs apartment was empty just now, sir."

  "Try tomorrow." The commissaris looked at the alley. "There's the adjutant. That rhino's head inspired me, Sergeant, I spent a long time looking at it when I was in the boat. Odd to see such good work mixed up in such a foul mess."

  Grijpstra joined them and together the three men walked to IJsbreker's mansion. De Gier played his cassette recorder on the way. The commissaris nodded when the machine clicked off. "Why did you phone IJsbreker's number?"

  "I thought there might be someone in the house," de Gier said. "A girlfriend, perhaps. We could have questioned her."

  "Didn't you say IJsbreker was divorced, sir?" Grijpstra asked.

  "So my wife heard," the commissaris said. "I haven't seen Martin in years. We should talk with his ex-wife; perhaps she was still in contact with her husband."

  IJsbreker spoke again from de Gier's cassette.

  "Doesn't sound at all like the voice of a man who is about to shoot himself," the commissaris said. "The possibility of murder is shaping up nicely, I would say."

  "A multiple murder," Grijpstra said.

  The commissaris lightly touched the adjutant's arm. "But we have no indications yet that the bodies are connected. You're referring to the junkies, Adjutant?"

  Grijpstra pointed at the houseboat. "In sight of IJsbreker's house? Three simultaneous overdoses? It happened the same night?"

  "Nan," de Gier said. "The shots weren't fired from that boat. It's too low. IJsbreker got hit on the third story of his house. You mean that the junkies might have been witnesses and had to be removed?"

  "I don't know what I mean yet," Grijpstra said.

  "If we keep looking," the commissaris said, "we'll find some meaning soon, but perhaps we're not supposed to look. I do get that impression."

  \\ 6 /////

  "AH, CHIEF INSPECTOR," THE COMMISSARIS SAID the next morning. "Had a good press party? I haven't seen the Courier yet. Are the journalists pleased with your elimination of that German terrorist?"

  Halba, looking shabby even though his suit appeared to be brand new, stood uncomfortably on the commissaris's splendid Persian rug.

  "Please sit down." The commissaris dialed. "Miss Antoinette, could you bring in that elegant thermos flask? I have a visitor." He smiled at Halba. "If you please, Miss Antoinette?" The commissaris replaced his phone. "Got to say that now. The ladies around here are getting stronger on proper etiquette."

  "Bitches," Halba said, almost inaudibly. His thin lips curved. "Yes, quite. I'm sorry I didn't show up yesterday, but the mayor was in a rather boisterous mood. Took us to a pub close to City Hall and kept us there until the wee hours."

  Miss Antoinette came in and poured coffee. She passed Halba's cup. "Mr. Halba, the bank phoned again. Your wife called, too. Some trouble about your credit card, the man at the bank said. He insisted that you call him as soon as possible, and your wife seemed very upset. The problem is insufficient funds, I believe."

  The chief inspector's left eye twitched. "Yes, I will take care of the matter." Miss Antoinette swiveled her hips triumphantly as she swung her tight body through the door.

  The commissaris's eyebrows were still raised as he addressed his visitor again. "Uh. Yes. There was something that has escaped me for the moment." He stared at his hands, spread neatly on his desk. "Ah, I've got it again. Your colleague Rood telephoned just now. About his man in the hospital. Poor fellow isn't doing at all well. But how did that melee with the German go, exactly? It's still unclear to me. The terrorist was shot dead in a telephone booth?"

  "Very tricky," Halba said, "I'm still amazed we didn't have more trouble. Terrorists are really exceedingly hard to handle. We found him because a woman who rents rooms alerted us, saying she had a German-speaking guest who had dropped several cartridges between his bed and the wall. She let us in when the fellow was out. The woman said the German was always telephoning from a booth further along in the street, although there was a phone in her hall. We found several clips that fit an Uzi machine gun, hidden between the German's shirts in a drawer. Since we couldn't find the gun, we assumed that subject was carrying the weapon about. The short-barreled version of the Uzi can be easily hidden under a jacket. The woman's description of her guest fitted one sent to us by the West German police of a well-known terrorist."

  "Were you in charge of the initial investigation?" the commissaris asked.

  "No, Rood was," Halba said. "Rood located the suspect in the street, but hadn't made the arrest, so I took over. Rood is mostly Narcotics now, and since I was then in charge of the Murder Brigade—"

  "You murdered the suspect," the commissaris said, "and the investigation, according to Rood. Chief Inspector Rood had planned to follow the suspect to detect possible ramifications. We're after the entire terrorist organization, after all. Couldn't you have waited with the arrest?"

  Halba recrossed his legs, leaned his arms on the sides of his chair, and tried to make his fingertips meet in a self-contained gesture. His hands slipped apart. "I thought a delay would be too dangerous in this particular case. Terrorists plant bombs that go off in public places. The sooner we catch them, the better public order is served."

  "Just gun the fellow down?" the commissaris asked. "If the German had been followed, he might have led us to his friends. We could have tapped the phone in that booth. Wouldn't it have been better if you had placed your men in such a way that there was a minimal risk of hitting each other?"

  Halba shook his head. "The detective who was hurt had no business being behind the booth. Police activity often involves danger. We all take chances from time to time."

  "We do have arrest teams, Chief Inspector. Military Police squads that have been endlessly trained for just such occasions."

  "There was no time," Halba said. "One has to make quick decisions in a crisis." He lit a cigarette. "Are you initiating an inquiry into the matter?"

  "I might mention the matter to the chief constable," the commissaris said. "I never like it when one of our men is hurt."

  "The chief constable was at the party, too, last night," Halba said. "I was under the impression that Henri approved of the way I acted."

  The commissaris opened
a file. "Miss Antoinette gathered all available information relating to another matter I wanted to see you about, the IJsbreker case.

  I'm missing the pathology report. Ballistics hasn't come up with anything either, and it seems that important evidence has been mislaid."

  Halba sighed. "That matter has been fully discussed with the chief constable. The missing carton is the subject of a secret internal investigation. Have you seen the corpses yet?"

  The commissaris shook his head.

  "If you take the trouble to see IJsbreker's corpse," Halba said, "you'll note a discoloration of the face due to gunpowder, proving that the pistol's barrel was pressed against IJsbreker's head when the shot was fired. We definitely have a suicide here."

  "One hole in the forehead," the commissaris said, "and two bullets in the head. The pathologist is delaying handing in his report."

  "One bullet supposedly got lost." Halba scratched his chin. "That leaves one bullet again. The only real bullet, as far as I'm concerned. Perhaps you should ask Guldemeester what happened; it's really his case."

  "Adjutant Guldemeester called in today," the commissaris said. "He's taking the day off. You signed all the reports, I believe. You weren't at IJsbreker's house at all?"

  "Only briefly." Halba's fingers kneaded his chin furiously. "I have no reason to doubt Guldemeester's statements. The adjutant's a very experienced colleague. Everything fitted exactly. Powder burns on the head, a letter on the table, typed and signed. I've done this myself, things got to be too much, sorry if anyone is inconvenienced, that sort of thing. Guldemeester checked the signature with papers at the bank."

  The commissaris flicked his lighter and looked at the flame.

  "Cigarette?" Halba asked, offering his pack.

  "Hmm?" The commissaris put the lighter back in his pocket. "Oh no, thank you. I'm cutting down. No smoking in the morning. You know, Chief Inspector, I never trust typed suicide notes. People who work in offices are known to sign blank paper at times, because they're off somewhere and don't want to wait for the secretary to write what they dictate."