Hard Rain

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  The bell rang.

  De Gier opened the front door. "Why, hello," a young man in a leather jacket said, standing next to what appeared to be his twin brother. "Just as we thought. A little trouble? Got it all fixed?"

  "All fixed," de Gier said. "Your Camaro's double-parked. Better get the clunker out."

  "We thought we might be able to help," the twin said. "Supply some assistance to colleagues?"

  "We've got it all tied up."

  "What did you get, Sergeant?"

  "Two and a half ki's of hash, valuable musical instruments, partly damaged now, two suspects, harassment."

  "That's good. Busy night. We saw Cardozo calling on his clerkish friend. In Mad Nun's Alley. He's there now. Number 13, a boarded-up shack." The leather-jacketed young man kept his voice low. "Do you think he needs any help?"

  "No," de Gier said. "Not now."

  "You may not be able to hold the suspects," the twin whispered. "Better beat them up. You're fighting rough now. This is our district, we'll back you up."

  "Thanks," de Gier said. " 'Bye. Your car is double-parked."

  "It's all right," de Gier said when he got back into the room. "I'll get the van. Be right back."

  "Hold it." Fernandus waved his chained hands. "We'll find you some cash."

  De Gier softly thumped Fernandus's head while he looked at Heul. "I'll phone your dad myself tonight and raise a reporter. A councilman's son in big trouble looks nice in print. What else can we put in? Been making any kiddie movies lately?"

  "Good stuff," Fernandus said. "Care to see our specialties for celibate priests? We'll throw in some videos for voyeurs. Quit kidding, asshole. Let's make a deal."

  "Good." Grijpstra grinned. "We'll put in bribery too."

  De Gier backed up the van and opened the side door. Grijpstra pushed the suspects into the car. Fernandus stumbled over the toolbox and fell, dragging Heul down too.

  "Oops," Grijpstra said from behind the wheel.

  Heul whined and Fernandus cursed when de Gier lifted the electronic equipment into the van.

  "Could we have some quiet back there?" Grijpstra asked.

  De Gier threw in the remains of the guitar and the set of drums. The skin of the big drum broke.

  "Ooooh," Huip Fernandus moaned. "Ooooh."

  "What was that now?" De Gier asked.

  "Oooooh," Fernandus said, "we'll get you for this, cop.

  De Gier slid the side door forward and jumped on the passenger seat. Huip Fernandus climbed across what was left of the drums. He spoke into de Gier's ear. "We'll get old rattlehead too, plug up her leak."

  \\ 12 /////

  THE RAIN STRUCK AGAIN. THE COMMISSARIS, DRIVing to Headquarters, felt as though he were in a one-man submarine, looking out on an aquatic world. Streetcars glided past his car like gleaming whales, and hundreds of cyclists in their shining plastic coats darting about everywhere could be a shoal of herring. The Citroen's windshield wipers, set at double speed, swooshed helplessly as the rain drove against the windshield. Traffic lights flashed ahead, the eyes of some luminous water beast; telephone wires broken by the storm dangled like the tentacles of a giant jellyfish. The commissaris persisted, guessing at directions, and finally managed to slither through the gates of the police courtyard. He left the.car and splashed through puddles, in galoshes his wife had thoughtfully provided, and thankfully made his way through the building's revolving doors. A uniformed guard saluted inside. "Sir?"

  "And a merry morning to you too," the commissaris said kindly, trying to ignore the cold drops leaking into his collar.

  "Chief constable wants to see you, sir."

  "I think I'll have coffee first," the commissaris said, pressing the elevator's button.

  "And there's some other geezer too. Your rank, sir. State Detection."

  "Two geezers, meeting head on."

  "Didn't mean that, sir." The guard grinned. "If you need assistance, sir . . ."

  "What would you do?" the commissaris inquired.

  The guard considered possibilities, holding his hand against the elevator's electric eye. "Trip him up on the stairs? An accident?"

  The commissaris smiled. "We'll try diplomacy first."

  The guard stepped back. "Good luck, sir, enjoy your coffee. Take your time. I haven't seen you yet."

  Miss Antoinette served the coffee. "Well, what did you think of my old friend Fernandus, yesterday?" the commissaris asked. "Did his generous offer lead you into temptation?"

  Miss Antoinette blushed.

  "Ten times the pay?" the commissaris asked. "High-priced leisure supplied at irregular hours? A variety of interesting men?"

  "I'd like to see the Society's club," Miss Antoinette said. "It was designed by Flaubert, the famous interior architect. He's going to do the mayor's room too, in the new City Hall building."

  "You like Flaubert's work?"

  "Oh, yes," Miss Antoinette said. "I went to his exhibition in the Municipal Museum, they had all the photographs and some maquettes."

  "Of the Society's whorehouse too?" The commissaris studied, holding his head a little to the side, Miss Antoinette's figure. "You would look irresistible in a split skirt."

  "More coffee, sir?"

  The commissaris held out his cup. Miss Antoinette poured from the silver thermos flask. Their heads came close. "You mean up to the hairline, sir?"

  The commissaris dropped his cup. "Miss Antoinette!"

  She brought a sponge and cleaned up his desk.

  "Really, Miss Antoinette, what a disgusting thing to say."

  "I shocked you," Miss Antoinette said triumphantly. "Weren't you trying to shock me?"

  The commissaris cleared his throat.

  "You were," Miss Antoinette said, "but we have equality now. Women can be disgusting too. I've been practicing. I've thought of the most horrid things to say. You want to hear some?"

  "No." The commissaris carefully checked his cup for cracks.

  Miss Antoinette put her hands on her hips. "Maybe I'd like to be a whore sometimes. Whores have a lot of fun. Just a few evenings a week. Beats watching boring television."

  "But, Miss Antoinette . . ."

  "Yes? Here you are, sir, please don't drop your cup again."

  "But you're beautiful," the commissaris said. "We all hunger after you, you don't have to watch TV by yourself."

  "You too, sir?"

  The commissaris raised a protesting hand. "I don't watch TV."

  "No, hunger after me?"

  "Ah, well . . ."

  "So?"

  "Well ..." the commissaris said. "A figure of speech. I'm an old man, dear."

  "And unavailable. I would love to watch TV with you." Miss Antoinette noisily blew her nose.

  "Dear?" the commissaris asked softly.

  "Yes," she said through her handkerchief, "I know I'm blushing. So you don't watch TV and you have a lovely wife."

  "Sergeant de Gier hungers too," the commissaris said.

  The phone rang. Miss Antoinette picked it up. "Yes?" She handed it over. "The chief constable, sir."

  "Right," the commissaris said into the phone. "I'll be over in a minute."

  "You're in trouble," Miss Antoinette said when the commissaris broke the connection. "He phoned before. There are rumors all over the building. I didn't want to tell you before you had your coffee."

  The commissaris rubbed his hands.

  "You like trouble, don't you?" Miss Antoinette asked.

  "This sort of trouble I can deal with," the commissaris said.

  "You can't deal with mine?"

  He was about to walk past her, but turned and gently held her arm. "No, dear. I'm sorry. I've never understood women very well. You wouldn't really like to work in Fernandus's palace? Did you say that to annoy me?"

  "Yes." She was ready to dive behind her handkerchief again.

  The commissaris hesitated, then wandered off to the door. She walked ahead and held it open for him. "Good luck, sir."

  He shook hi
s head. "No. Maybe I want bad luck. Things have to turn against me now, dear. Maybe it'll be the only way I can work this."

  Her hand touched his. "Well, then, I wish you bad luck, sir."

  "Yes . . . yes. Thank you, dear." He tried to forget the uncomfortable interlude with Miss Antoinette as he painfully climbed the steps, choosing discomfort rather than the elevator's speed. He needed a little time to reflect. Did he know now what he was up to, or was he allowing subconscious urges to decide his course of action? He was shaking his head as he entered the chief constable's room.

  "There you are," the chief constable said. "Good. I was just beginning to worry. Please meet a colleague, Commissaris Voort of Central Detection's head office in The Hague, who has been looking forward to meeting you." The commissaris shook hands with a wide-chested man who bent over him. Voort wore a blue blazer and light gray slacks. A golden clip fastened his necktie to a spotless white shirt. The commissaris noted that the clip was shaped like an anchor. "How-dedo," Voort rumbled. The commissaris mumbled his response, "Vrawah," meaning, possibly, "very well."

  "Now then," the chief constable said. "How about some coffee first? No? In that case, let's come straight to the point."

  "Corruption," rumbled Voort. "Rumors. Unpleasant. Start straight at the top, called in by the mayor. You've heard, I'm sure."

  "Flattered," the commissaris said. "Very. I'm the top now? You've already dealt with the chief constable here?"

  "No," the chief constable said. "I'm of no interest to Paul Voort."

  Voort nodded invitingly at the commissaris. "Paul."

  "Aha," the commissaris said. He looked at the chief constable. "No interest in your doings, or non-doings, perhaps?"

  The chief constable shook his head, trying to hold on to his welcoming smile. "No, you see, I've only been recently transferred to Amsterdam, but you've served here all your life. A formality, of course. We all have to play the game, isn't that right, Paul?"

  "Absolutely, Henri," Commissaris Voort rumbled.

  "I see." The commissaris nodded helpfully. He began to get up. "Well, we met. Good luck with your investigation. I have some work to do."

  "No." Voort put both his hands up, palms toward the commissaris. "No. Sorry, old chap. Got to do this properly, you know? Full reports and whatnot." He thought. "And so forth. The whole caboodle. You're off duty for a while. Bit of a holiday." He closed his eyes and chuckled.

  "Is something funny?" the commissaris asked.

  "In a way," the chief constable said. "We all have to play the game. In your case, it shouldn't take more than a week or so. The first part of the investigation" —he looked at Voort—"is financial, am I right?"

  Voort nodded briskly. "Absolutely, that's the proper procedure, I always like to work this way. I have some pointed questions here." He brought out a notebook and poised his ballpoint. "Income?"

  The commissaris mentioned a figure.

  Voort wrote it down, then crossed it out. "Impossible, you should earn at least double that."

  "Twelve times my monthly check," the commissaris said.

  Voort nodded and wrote. "All right, you were deducting taxation."

  "Half my income is taxed away?" The commissaris shook his head. "Incredible, doesn't leave much, does it now?"

  "You do have a free car," Voort said accusingly. "What's it worth?"

  The commissaris shook his head. "The car is mine. The car the police bought had to be repaired after my recent investigations up north. I had some criticism from the administration about costs, so I replaced it at my own expense."

  "Hah," Voort said, noting the fact down. "A new Citroen, I believe. You paid cash? Where did you get the cash?"

  "I wrote a check," the commissaris said.

  "You can prove that?" Voort raised an eyebrow. "The car wasn't a present?"

  "Maybe my wife paid for the car," the commissaris said. "I don't remember now. Yes, perhaps she did. She has savings. Always investing in this and that. Likes to dabble in the stock market, Katrien does. Very clever, I'm always amazed. Wait a minute." He scratched his nose. "I may have used my own check after all, I can sign on both accounts. She too, of course. Or did Katrien pay now? Because I paid for her fur coat two years ago? Why do you ask?"

  "This is no good," Voort said, crossing out what he had written so far.

  The commissaris smiled. "Shall we try your next question?"

  Voort turned a page. "Mortgage. Do you have your house mortgaged?"

  The commissaris's smile widened. "You'll have to ask Katrien. The house is in her name. You see, that's because of my affairs."

  "Affairs?" Voort asked loudly. "With women, you mean? Other women?"

  "I could explain," the commissaris said.

  "Please." Voort narrowed his eyes. "Please do."

  "I could have affairs," the commissaris said. "My wife and I discussed that possibility many years ago. If I had these possible affairs, she would ask me to leave the house. I can't be asked to leave my own house, so I had the title transferred to her name." The commissaris crossed his legs and studied his well-polished shoe, which moved jerkily at knee height. "Of course, she could have affairs too, in which case I would not ask her to leave the house. Hmmm." He studied his shoe again, as if its rhythmical half-turns surprised him. "Couldn't ask her to leave her own house. Don't you find the ramifications within the concept of marriage complicated, Mr. . . . uh . . ."

  "Voort," Voort rumbled. "Paul, to you, if you like. I don't bother with marriage anymore."

  The commissaris's pale blue eyes concentrated on the copper buttons of Voort's blazer. He suddenly slapped his forehead. "Paul Voort, the yachtsman, how silly of me! You have this wealthy lady friend who keeps you in boats. Won a prize crossing the Channel, didn't you? And you lost it again because of foul play? What a shame. Poor fellow."

  The chief constable spoke loudly. "Now, please."

  "Just read it in the paper," the commissaris said to Voort. "I'm not professionally interested. You'd have to commit murder for that, and in Amsterdam, of course." He smiled. "You can operate nationwide? How very convenient for you."

  "Let's get back to what we're supposed to be doing here," the chief constable said, waving at Voort, who showed signs of wanting to say something. "So you don't have affairs."

  "No," the commissaris said. "But I could, maybe. You know what men are like, especially when they are a little older. How old are you now?"

  The chief constable shrugged impatiently. "My age is not under discussion here."

  The commissaris adjusted his glasses and peered intently at the chief constable's face. "Early fifties, I would say. That's when we lose confidence, but we gain it at the same time, if we do well in our careers. I know I was sorely tempted at your age. I was thinking, 'Suppose this beautiful blonde photo model comes along, in a Porsche . . .' " He took his spectacles off and pointed them at the chief constable. "You like Porsches, don't you?"

  "Just another type of car," the chief constable said.

  "Don't know that for sure," the commissaris said. "No, there's perhaps a special glamour there. To me, the Porsche has a female shape. Now suppose that type of car is driven by a luscious human female and I could ask her to ride me around town, do a few night spots, show her off a bit. Say she admits to a tendency to love older, powerful men—and we are powerful in a way, highly placed police officers do wield a certain clout—yes, I might be tempted. Wouldn't you?"

  "Excuse me," Voort said.

  "You're excused." The commissaris waved invitingly. "Next question, please."

  "Has your house been remodeled?" Voort asked in a threatening bass voice.

  "Oh boy," the commissaris said. "Oh boy. You got me there. I do believe it was. Windows painted, ceilings fixed up, water pipes ripped out of the walls and replaced, a new porch in the back. Katrien thought I didn't notice."

  "But you paid for the repairs?"

  "Not that I know of." The commissaris replaced his spectacles, taking his time. "N
o, sir. It was meant as a surprise, you see, so I think I was only supposed to notice when the job was done. Bills would surprise me ahead of time. But there won't be any bills, I'm sure."

  "Because someone is presenting you with surprises?" Voort rumbled.

  "I think it's Katrien again," the commissaris said, "paying in cash. You know that all—well, let's say most—workers in the building trades are unemployed these days. So they're on welfare. Welfare doesn't pay for their cars and other necessities. So they work anyway, for cash. You don't deal with these problems in The Hague?"

  "But where does your wife get the cash?"

  "I wonder," the commissaris said. "She has private investments, as I said. You could ask her. Can you ask her?"

  "I certainly can," Voort said, peering at his notebook.

  "Yes, but does she have to answer?" The commissaris shook his head. "I'm in murder myself, and you're now investigating fraud, but I rather think the same rules apply. You need a serious suspicion. Wouldn't you have to convince a public prosecutor first? You might possibly need some proof before I could be ordered to show my private papers. It isn't as if Katrien and I are flaunting our vast wealth. I do think I could afford to buy a car and have my house remodeled on my after-tax salary—once in a good while, of course, and it has been a while since I spent money on such necessities. And Katrien, well, she did inherit a bit from her parents. Only daughter, you know. Let's have the next question."

  "Second house," Voort rumbled.

  "Yes," the commissaris said, "I own a vacation home."

  "Where?"

  "Suppose I won't tell you," the commissaris said. "Do I have to tell you?"

  Voort poked his pen at a gold-capped front tooth.

  "I don't have to tell you," the commissaris said. "Same thing again. You need a serious suspicion, then you can drag me to a judge. If I still refuse, you could charge me with hiding evidence. This is a game, isn't it?" He looked at the chief constable. "You said that just now. Let's see if State Detection can locate my summer cottage. Might not be so easy. Houses are registered by town. There are a lot of towns in the country." The commissaris rearranged his legs and examined his other shoe. "I could give you a clue. It isn't really a house, it's more like a small trailer, or rather it was when I last saw it. I haven't been there for a while. Katrien wants to sell it. You could ask Katrien, of course, but there we go again—she doesn't have to answer you. May I use the phone?"