Hard Rain

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  The commissaris came down from his study, yawning and rubbing his eyes, Mrs. Jongs brought a chocolate cake from the oven, and Carl held up his image of Turtle. Turtle himself walked stiffly through the tall weeds in the rear garden on his way to fresh lettuce.

  "This is like New York," the commissaris said, sitting down on a cane chair, shielding his eyes from the late-afternoon sun that lit up the back porch. "In the thirties. The Mafia wars. The troops would hole up in safe houses, slobber spaghetti, and gurgle wine."

  "What troops?" his wife asked.

  "You're my troops," the commissaris said. "I need you all. Last night we won a battle. Now we rest, and later we challenge the enemy again."

  Mrs. Jongs tried to whistle, matching notes that could be the opening of a military march. Carl attempted a salute, but his hand missed his head. The commissar is's wife stamped her slippered feet and came to attention. "As you were," the commissaris barked.

  "Really, Jan," the commissaris's wife said. "Eat your cake. Did you deposit that money?"

  "I did," the commissaris said. "You should have seen the teller's face. She needed four colleagues to get it all sorted."

  "Jan." She pinched his cheek. "Carrying a suitcase full of banknotes around. The streets are alive with muggers. I should have gone with you."

  "I had my cane," the commissaris said. "Good cake." He held out his plate. "More? Please?"

  "Goohood cahake indeeheed," Carl said.

  The commissaris's wife rubbed Mrs. Jongs's shriveled shoulder. "You did a great job."

  "And did Grijpstra bring good news just now?" the commissaris's wife asked.

  The commissaris picked up Turtle's image. "Yes,, interesting information. I expect Fernandus to contact me soon. We could stop further trouble, he should see that by now. He'll just have to give in."

  "Oh, dear." She shook her head. "Fernandus will move too. He's got so much power. Look at you, Jan, bumbling about on your sore legs. Grijpstra is hurt, de Gier can't lift an arm without groaning. And look at us, we can't help you at all."

  "I made the cake," Mrs. Jongs said.

  The commissaris grinned at Carl. "And you made another work of most expressive art. The essential turtle. You must have watched my friend well. Let's see if Turtle will acknowledge his archetype."

  Carl took his construction and carried it into the garden. The commissaris, his wife, and Mrs. Jongs watched from the porch. Carl had squatted down when the shot cracked. The bullet knocked the wire-and-shingle turtle from Carl's hands. Carl staggered back. The commissaris stumbled down the garden steps and grabbed hold of Carl. His wife screamed. Mrs. Jongs pointed at a window of a building beyond the rear of the garden and past another garden behind it. "There. Up there."

  The commissaris and Carl, arms around each other, climbed the stairs back to the porch. The commissaris's wife pulled them both up. "Quickly, Jan, please."

  "Phoo," the commissaris said when he pushed Carl into the house. "No panic, Katrien. Why don't you phone de Gier? Tell him to take a cab. Which window was it, Mrs. Jongs? Could you point it out to me?"

  "Stay away from the windows!" the commissaris's wife shouted.

  "That's the third floor?" the commissaris asked. "Must be that hotel. There's a hotel there now, on Valerius Street. Do call de Gier, dear."

  "He's coming," his wife said, dropping the phone. "He was asleep. What can the sergeant do, Jan?"

  "Not too much, I hope," the commissaris said. "Maybe we should have called Grijpstra. Are you all right, Carl?"

  "Goohood shot," Carl said. "Meaheant to mihiss me."

  The doorbell rang. The commissaris's wife opened the door. "Yes?"

  "Voort," the man in the blue blazer and the gray slacks said. "State Detection. Could I see your husband, please?"

  "Someone was shooting at us just now," the commissaris's wife said.

  "I beg your pardon, ma'am?"

  The commissaris came to the door too. "Ah, Voort. Not a good time, I'm afraid. We're under fire here."

  Voort stepped back. "I don't quite understand."

  The commissaris lit a cigar. "Quite simple. It was a rifle, I'm sure, with a marksman at the trigger, as in the IJsbreker case."

  "Call the police," Voort said. "You want me to call them? I have a radio connection from my car."

  The commissaris waved the cigar under his nose and sniffed. "Ah, excellent. I don't smoke so much anymore. Rather increases the pleasure. Which police?"

  "Is he that stupid fellow who has been bothering you?" the commissaris's wife asked.

  "Yes, Katrien."

  "Away with you," the commissaris's wife said, poking a finger into Voort's blazer. "Silly man. Shoo." She pushed her husband back and banged the door.

  "Now, now, Katrien."

  "Really," she said, "shooting at us from the rear, bothering us up front. Won't this ever stop? Mrs. Jongs and I can make some sandbags. Why don't you get your gun? It's upstairs, on your shirts."

  "I'm not too good with guns," the commissaris said. "Can't we have more tea?"

  The doorbell rang again. The commissaris's wife marched to the door. "Easy now, Katrien," the commissaris said. "Voort is only trying to do a job. No good yelling at the chap."

  De Gier came in.

  "Ah," the commissaris said. "Very good of you, Rinus. We have a problem here. Someone fired a rifle from the hotel across the garden, third floor. That's on Valerius Street, a hotel. Could you go over there and make inquiries? Here, I'll give you some money."

  "Money, sir?"

  "Yes," the commissaris said. "Say you're a private detective. Private detectives use money, I believe. Let's see what you can come up with. Mrs. Jongs baked a cake, you can earn yourself a slice."

  De Gier looked at the commissaris's wife. "No one got hurt?"

  Carl held up his construction. "I was juhust puhutting it down. In the gaharden."

  De Gier felt the hole in the turtle's shell. "Would be nice to have the bullet."

  "Nobody goes into the garden now," the commissaris's wife said.

  "I see, ma'am. Til be as quick as I can." De Gier took the notes the commissaris was holding out to him. "How are your ribs?" the commissaris's wife asked.

  De Gier felt his chest. "I think they're okay now, ma'am, I can take on the foe."

  "Don't," the commissaris said.

  De Gier was back an hour and a half later. The commissaris's wife let him in. "My husband is upstairs, Rinus, napping again. He's awfully tired these days. I do think the strain is getting too much for him. His legs aren't doing too well, either."

  "Yes," de Gier said. "Maybe I should come back tonight?"

  "Rinus?" The commissaris stood at the top of the stairs. "Come up, dear fellow. Katrien, do you think we could have a drink?"

  Mrs. Jongs brought up a tray, with a tale about lizards. She held up the commissaris's glass against the light. "They lives in there, but I never sees them."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Jongs, we won't let them out." The commissaris waited until she had left before he raised his glass. "Here we go, into the unknown again. Exciting, don't you think? We seem to be short of guidelines these days." He drank. "You know, Rinus, I'm learning a lot. About what it's like to be on my own. There was always the State before, but she has left me now."

  De Gier replaced his glass. "The State is a she?"

  The commissaris nodded. "I think so. Well, Sergeant, what's new?"

  "The hotel owner," de Gier said, "let an upstairs room on the third floor in the rear to a couple, at about three o'clock this afternoon, just for a few hours. The man was tall, handsome, well dressed. He carried a suitcase. Suspect would have been about forty years old. He showed no identification and paid in cash. The lady was younger, attractive, blond hair, not the same class as the man. The hotel owner thought the man to be a company director and the lady a secretary."

  "Not a call girl?"

  "No," de Gier said. "She seemed unhappy. Call girls put up a show. Female suspect seemed to be in the pow
er of her male companion. A job relationship —she couldn't refuse. The hotel owner didn't hear the shot. There may have been a vacuum cleaner running at the time."

  "Ah," the commissaris said.

  "The couple arrived in a cab," de Gier said. "Taxi headquarters are close by, so I went over there and gave the radio operator money. He called all cabs, offering a reward to the driver who delivered the couple at the hotel. The man showed up promptly. Cab-drivers are good observers. He described suspects in detail."

  "Who?" the commissaris asked.

  "The baron and Celine," de Gier said. "I'm positive."

  "The baron I believe," the commissaris said. "Why Celine?"

  De Gier stretched his legs and looked at his glass.

  "Another drink, Sergeant?"

  "No, thank you, sir. By now the baron knows who I am. We had some moments together at his club. He had drugged himself then, and I expect that he had a very open mind." De Gier waved a hand. "Maybe this sounds silly, sir."

  "No, no. Not at all, Rinus. Let's explore the mystical side of our situation for a bit. Go ahead, if you please."

  "Hmmm," de Gier said.

  "Go on."

  "The baron would be worth fighting." De Gier pulled in his legs and sat up. "A splendid adversary. Did you notice he looks like me?"

  "Yes, Sergeant."

  "I feel I have prepared for this," de Gier said. "Don't you think the fight would be worthwhile?"

  "No," the commissaris said. "Not at all. Leave the baron be, he'll squash himself in the end."

  De Gier sat up straighter. "So why bother with Fernandus, sir? You're going all out too. The raid was your show of force. We robbed the club, pushed waiters over, brought the angel down ..."

  "Yes, yes," the commissaris said. "I've been considering that. Childish play, I did rather enjoy it."

  De Gier grinned.

  "But I wouldn't kill Fernandus," the commissaris said. "I intend to put him in jail, your approach is too medieval. Present society no longer condones death as a penalty; we must allow for our spiritual evolution."

  "I'm suspended," de Gier said. He put out his arms and flapped them. "Nice word. Suspension. I feel like I can fly. I'm above it now."

  "So was Icarus." The commissaris emptied his glass. "So is Fernandus, or rather, they both think they are. That's why Willem put that angel up in the club's hallway. Pay heed, Rinus. All these symbolic happenings don't come about to be ignored. I think I'll continue as planned. If the baron wants to shoot Carl's turtle, the feat won't impress us. Now why did he take Celine to that hotel?"

  "To show her what he's capable of," de Gier said. "To frighten her. The baron suspects that Celine is trying to slip from his grasp. She was with me that night and didn't tip him off, but she hasn't left Fernanda's little band, either."

  "We'll let today's assault go." The commissaris pushed his empty glass about. "Heul told Grijpstra and Cardozo today that the Society intends to do away with Ryder. Huip Fernandus will blow up Ryder's speedboat on the Vinker Lakes by making use of some electronic device. I intend to go out there and jump Huip before he can press the button. We'U link the bomb in the boat with the detonator Huip is using, call in the local police at the right time, and have Huip arrested. That way we get to Fernandus via his own son. We'll probably succeed in implicating Fernandus himself as well. Our attack is gaining momentum now, so don't go in for diversions in the meantime. Once we push Fernandus over, the baron will fall too."

  The phone rang downstairs. "Jan?" the commissaris's wife called. "It's Fernandus, are you coming down?"

  "See?" the commissaris asked.

  The commissaris came back. "He's at the café at the corner and wants to speak to me, I'm going over."

  De Gier got up. "I'll come along."

  "No," the commissaris said. "Go down and eat your cake and try to cheer up Katrien. She has her doubts about what I'm doing. Take my car home and report here tomorrow morning. Thanks for your help so far." He thumped de Gier's belly softly. "We'll win this thing, Rinus. If the gods aren't on our side, we'll manufacture our own and pray for their blessing."

  \\ 24 /////

  "WHAT WILL IT BE?" FERNANDUS ASKED.

  The commissaris looked around the old-fashioned cafS and greeted the waiter. "Just coffee, please. Separate checks."

  "Petty," Fernandus said, holding his index finger and thumb close together. "Real small-minded."

  "Yes," the commissaris said brightly, rubbing his hands. "I'm here, Willem. Let's hear the next temptation. Every time we meet, I feel like the protagonist in 'The Temptation of Saint Jan.' Your presence flatters me. I never thought that the denizens of the dark would seek me out—me, a petty official in a small-sized city on a minor planet in an unimportant solar system of a negligible galaxy ..."

  ". . . of a piddling universe," Fernandus said.

  The waiter brought the coffee, and a gin and tonic for Fernandus. He smiled at the commissaris. "Glad to see you, sir. I read about you in the paper. I wish you strength, we're all with you, sir."

  "Thank you," the commissaris said. "I'll survive, Tom. Do you know this man, Mr. Fernandus, the attorney?"

  The waiter frowned. "Yes. Friend of yours, sir?" He looked down at Fernandus. "You're not my friend. My useless son gets his dope from one of the canteens that your Society supports. The miserable monkey has to steal bicycles to support his habit. I kicked him out, but my wife feeds him behind my back." He turned back to the commissaris. "This damned welfare system, sir, and there's so much to do."

  "Mr. Fernandus is no friend of mine, Tom." The commissaris frowned too. "I met him here because I won't invite him to my home."

  "I see," the waiter said. "Anything else, sir? Piece of apple pie on the house?"

  "Why not?" the commissaris asked. "Shouldn't, really." He patted his stomach. "My wife'll have my scalp."

  The waiter brought the apple pie.

  Fernandus, in an impeccable dark suit and a red silk tie, watched the commissaris eat. "Still hobnobbing with the lower classes, eh? Amazing how habits stick. You used to do that when we were students. Such an unnecessary act, they despise us anyway. Jealousy is a fact of life. What do you think that waiter thinks when he bicycles home and you splash him with mud from your steel-belted radials whizzing under your luxury car? He'd like nothing better than to hang you from the nearest lamppost."

  "I like waiters," the commissaris said. "Wouldn't mind being one myself. The profession has possibilities, I think. I read an interesting novel once in which Christ was a waiter, in a railway station restaurant. He changed water into any wine the customer preferred."

  "You knocked some of my waiters over, I hear," Fernandus said. "Did that give you pleasure too? Another petty performance. Why go to so much trouble to dent my show? That's all you did." He held his finger close to his thumb again. "Just a little dent, easily repaired."

  "It wasn't a lot of trouble at all," the commissaris said. "Easy. Anyone can raid you. You have no defense."

  Fernandus waved his glass at the waiter. "No defense? Remember Newton? Every action produces a reaction? I could have popped you this afternoon, or Katrien, or any of those so-called witnesses you're sheltering in your ruin."

  "Yes?" the waiter asked.

  "Another, please."

  "The bar is closed," the waiter said, turning away.

  "Bring him a glass of water," the commissaris said. "Poor man is sweating." He ate his last crumbs. "Excellent apple pie, Tom. Your wife made this, I'll bet."

  "Yes, sir, she's in the kitchen. Still comes in most days."

  "Good," the commissaris said. "Good. Now . . ." He swallowed. "... now, Willem, you wouldn't do that. You can't shoot up the home of a chief of detectives, even if I'm not functioning on an official level just now. You could arrange an accident, as you did with Grijpstra and de Gier, but accidents don't fly from the barrel of a rifle. That little incident this afternoon I'll accept as a sick joke. Don't do that again. It upset Katrien."

  "
'It upset Katrien,' " Willem said, mimicking the commissaris's high voice. "Do I care about Katrien? I love to play pranks on Katrien. What did she do? Cry? Beg you to give in?"

  "No," the commissaris said. "So let's have it, Willem."

  "Lay off," Willem said. "I'm tired of this game, you're like a gadfly buzzing about. Buzz off."

  The commissaris's eyes twinkled. "What if I do?"

  "I talked to your chief," Fernandus said. "He's prepared to reinstate you, not in Homicide, but in something else. I forget what he said now—internal reorganization, I believe. You can keep your rank. Just a few more years and you'll retire anyway."

  "And the investigation of Commissaris Voort?"

  Fernandus drank his water. "That'll be terminated, of course. Voort came up with a few items that might bother you a bit, but we'll forget about that too."

  "We?" the commissaris asked. "You and the Queen?"

  "I'm a member of the ruling party," Fernandus said. "I preside over several committees. I whisper into the mayor's ear."

  The commissaris brought out a folded handkerchief and shook it out. He carefully blew his nose. "You know what Voort found? Voort found absolutely nothing. He's going back to The Hague. I've produced a lot of nothing during my career, I have no wealth and no important connections. I collect nothing. I'm transparent, you can look right through me. I fade away. Prod me and you stick your finger in thin air. Voort overreached himself constantly. That whole investigation was a mere tumble through clouds. How can he get me if there's nothing there?"

  "So now we boast?" Fernandus asked. "Are we starting up our old argument about negativity again? The infinite enters the finite and ultimately there's nothing there and in nothingness everything exists? Wasn't that David Hume? You kept reading those passages to me. But you forgot his conclusions." Fernandus raised a finger. "David Hume, renowned eighteenth-century philosopher who started out as a lawyer and should never have slithered into the unanswerable questions. What did our brilliant thinker come up with in the end?" Fernandus's fist thumped the table. "That he'd rather play backgammon any day than waste any more time on his undeniable conclusion that this creation is empty. He preferred a good time to a logical analysis pointing to the senselessness of life. I quite agree. I'm a better follower of Hume than you are. I provide good times."