Hard Rain

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  Grijpstra stripped a cigar out of its plastic cover, bit off its end, spat, and missed the ashtray. "Yagh," said Miss Antoinette.

  Grijpstra grinned and lit his cigar. "Very well. You were de Gier's example, sir. He saw you as a teacher. They call that a guru these days. You were out of reach. You lived on your cloud. In de Gier's eyes, you were—"

  "Detached?" the commissaris said. "I don't like that word."

  "But why don't you like it?" Grijpstra asked. "Because you'd like to be detached, right? Who wouldn't? But who is?" Grijpstra made wavy movements with his hands and feet, lost his balance, and flopped back in his chair. Cardozo laughed. "Right," Grijpstra said. "We fall back. De Gier claimed you never fell back, sir, that you somehow managed to stay aloft, high up, so high that you could choose your angles from which to swoop down on suspects—or on us."

  "But he does that," Cardozo said. "The commissaris does that."

  "You still have some faith in me?" the commissaris asked. "That's nice, Cardozo. The adjutant evidently doesn't."

  "No," Grijpstra said. "I do."

  "You still have faith in me?"

  "Some," Grijpstra said. "Some reasonable faith. De Gier's faith was more. Unreasonable, I always thought. I told him that many a time. I said you would disappoint him. And that he wouldn't be able to stand the disappointment. It would break him, I said. He would go crazy."

  "Carl is crazy," Miss Antoinette said. "But not all the way. He's also responsible. Do you know that Carl has no debts? I thought all men had debts, that's why they're so boring. They're stuck, having to pay off their debts."

  "I see," the commissaris said. He shook his head. "Would you mind blowing your smoke a bit more to the side, Adjutant, please? It isn't twelve o'clock yet." He touched the tin of cigars on his desk.

  "Yes." Grijpstra blew smoke at the ceiling. "So then you came down to fight your private enemy, Willem Fernandus. You came down rather heavily. De Gier saw that. You were personally involved. Gurus are never involved. I told de Gier that would happen."

  "Willem hates you too," Miss Antoinette said. "You hate Willem, don't you sir?"

  "Ah," Cardozo said. "So that's what it was. I was wondering too. I even dreamed about it. One of my horrible insect dreams, they always tear away at each other and their legs are stuck in glue. They sometimes fight in my mouth, and I can't spit them out."

  The commissaris started to pick up his coffee cup, but it slipped from his hand and rattled back on the saucer. "I see."

  "You do?" Grijpstra asked. "You see foolish de Gier racing his silly tin roller skate up a molehill to challenge a useless moron to a dumb duel?"

  "Unfor ..." The commissaris cleared his throat. "Excuse me. Unfortunate, very. We have to stop him. De Gier'U probably beat the baron, in spite of his sore ribs. He's clever enough."

  "And sneaky," Cardozo said.

  "Which he learned from me," the commissaris said. "But de Gier still has sore ribs. I hope he took his gun."

  "No," Grijpstra said. "I checked. The sergeant-at-arms has de Gier's gun."

  "Oh, dear," the commissaris said. "Just when things were going well. What do you suggest we do, Adjutant? Fly out to Marbella? We may be too late. De Gier's driving a fast car, and there are no speed limits on the Belgian and French freeways."

  "No, I don't think we can stop de Gier," Grijpstra said, picking up the ragged end of his cigar and placing it carefully in the ashtray. "I'm sneaky too, sir"—he grinned—"but on my own. My sneakiness is mine. I didn't pick it up anywhere. A phone is quicker than a plane. Miss Antoinette? Could you find out the number of the Ten Haaf estate in Marbella?"

  Miss Antoinette picked up the telephone.

  "I don't quite see . . ." the commissaris said. "Isn't that dangerous, Grijpstra? Warning them off?"

  "Yes," Grijpstra said. "I wouldn't do that." He got up, picked up the silver thermos flask, and refilled everybody's cup. Miss Antoinette gave him a slip of paper. Grijpstra grinned. "That's the number? Very well. Please dial it and ask for Guldemeester."

  "Oh, dear," the commissaris said. "I hope you know what you're doing, Adjutant."

  Grijpstra took over the phone. "Hello? Grijpstra here. Can you hear me? What's all the noise?"

  "You have a cordless phone? I can hardly hear you. Could you phone back? Yes, I'm at my office." He put the phone down. "Miss Antoinette? Could you ask the girls downstairs to pass the call here when Guidemeester phones back?"

  They waited. In a few moments the telephone rang.

  "Yes," Grijpstra said. "That's better. You're at the house now? Very well. Listen, I'm phoning about Celine. You've heard, haven't you? Read it in the papers? Right. But it wasn't an accident. Listen, I'm sorry about Celine, just wanted to tell you." Grijpstra held his hand over the mouthpiece. "You see, Guldemeester still loves her, de Gier told me that. Thinks he loves her, anyway. Celine said—" He took off his hand. "What's that? Yes. No accident. Sure I'm sure."

  "Yes. I could tell you, but perhaps you don't want to know. Listen, something else. You know about the changes here? Chief constable and Halba gone? You get the Courier there? Okay, then you know . ..

  "Yes. Quite a bit of change. The commissaris is in charge now for the time being . . .

  "You don't like it there?

  "I see. I could ask the commissaris. Can't guarantee anything, of course."

  Grijpstra coughed. "Sorry. My cigar. Terrible weather here. AH the windows closed. Yeah, I'm alone. Why?

  "Celine's accident? You sure you want to know? You may not like it. . .

  "Okay. It's like this. The Society—you were wrong there, you know—bunch of assholes, they abused Celine. She didn't like it there . . . Abused how?

  "Well, I don't have the details, but that's what she said. No, not to me, but we've got ways of hearing things . . .

  "Yes, we had someone there. Anyway, your wife didn't like her job at the club. Wanted out, but they wouldn't let her, see. Bunch of killers too, you should have known that. . .

  "Of course. The junkies, IJsbreker and so forth, and now this Ronnie Ryder too, you must have seen that in the paper. And Heul. Remember Heul? They shot him full of smack and dumped him in the commissaris's car...

  "Yes. A mess. Celine found out, and she was going to tell us . . .

  "Sure. They ran her down. Twice. Hit her from the side and then reversed the car and ran over her. She was still alive when we found her. Lots of internal damage . . .

  "Yes. she told us who . . .

  "Want to know? I can tell you . . .

  "You're ready? Okay, but listen, be careful. The baron ...

  Grijpstra waited, holding the phone.

  "Yes. Absolutely. No doubt in my mind . . .

  "You'll get him?

  "Yes, I thought he was with you in Marbella now. Wanted to warn you ...

  "Well, listen. I heard that you wanted to come back to us, and if the baron finds out, you'll be in danger. . .

  "Don't mention it. Want some advice?

  "Okay, here's what you do. Take him for a walk. I know Marbella, spent a holiday there. Didn't like it. Bad place. There are paths there with steep cliffs . . .

  "Okay, now remember. The baron fell. Slipped. You didn't see him slip. He was there, and then he wasn't. Stick to that. Just tell one story. Keep it short. I don't have to tell you that. You've been in the business a long time yourself. . .

  "Right. Good luck ... No, that's all right. My pleasure. We've worked together for years. Just thought I'd let you know. 'Bye now. 'Bye."

  Grijpstra replaced the receiver.

  "Shit," Cardozo said. "Grijpstra . . ."

  The commissaris checked his watch. "Eleven-fifty." He took a cigar from his tin and lit it.

  "Good for you," Miss Antoinette said, touching Grijpstra's arm.

  "Yes," the commissaris said. "Good for you, Grijpstra. I don't think I could have done that."

  Grijpstra got up. "Yes, sir, you could."

  "Maybe . . . but it would have taken me some ti
me."

  Grijpstra stood near the door. "It took me some time too, sir. I've thought about it ever since de Gier said good-bye at nine o'clock this morning. By the way, he sends his best wishes to all of you. I was only supposed to tell you tomorrow, to give him a bit of a start."

  "And he'll go from there to New Guinea?" the commissaris asked.

  "From Barcelona, sir, by freighter. He's not in a hurry. The trip will give him time to reflect on his future."

  "Oh, dear," the commissaris said. "I hope he'll make it. Ten Haaf may have a bunch of bodyguards up there."

  "He'll make it, sir. I'll be in my office if you need me." Grijpstra closed the door with some force. The bang made the commissaris shiver.

  \\ 33 /////

  THE LARGE LIGHT-GRAY ROOM OVERLOOKING THE arrival hall of Amsterdam Airport, set off with glass walls that allowed the inhabitants to look out but no one to look in, became tense with suppressed emotion. A high-ranking customs officer in a pale green uniform paced up and down. A State Police colonel, resplendent in his sky blue tunic decorated with silver braid, walked from window to window, peering out. Grijpstra and Cardozo watched TV screens that kept flashing off and on, showing different parts of another hall where the public milled about, waiting for arriving passengers. Portable two-way radios murmured terse messages. Blown-up color photographs of a young Indian woman in an orange sari, smiling innocently into the camera, lay on the room's tables and desks. The commissaris, hands behind his back, stood quietly in a corner.

  "Could you describe suspect again?" the State Police colonel asked, looking over his shoulder. "Pity we don't have a photograph. Sly fellow indeed. Quite a feat, shying away from cameras all his life. You are sure suspect really exists?"

  "My size," the commissaris said. "My age. Silver curly hair, a fringe, shiny bald in the center. Sideburns, silvery too, thick. Sunburned. Likes to wear flashy rings. Dresses well. Spectacles like mine."

  "A neat elderly gent?" the colonel asked. "Like yourself?"

  "Yes," the commissaris said. "But Fernandus wears darker suits and he has more hair. He's fatter too."

  "And you're sure he's around?" the customs officer asked.

  "I don't know anything for sure," the commissaris said. "I've never been able to grasp the absolute. It's very likely that he's here."

  "Fernandus is here," Grijpstra said. "What was her name again? Suyuki? Brings in five ki's of the finest Nepalese heroin on Fernandus's orders. Fernandus is broke and a fugitive from justice. We're told that suspect has an insane need of money. We've carefully set this up. Suspect's got to be here."

  "Where?". Cardozo asked, peering at his TV screen. "If he's here, he should be visible by now."

  "He'll probably appear at the very last moment," the commissaris said.

  The Air India flight's arrival was announced on the PA system. There was a flutter of bright-colored saris in the welcomers' section of the hall. Men with very white eyeballs and dark mustaches ran about, children pressed themselves against the barriers.

  "You better go down, sir," the colonel said to the commissaris. "You're the only one who can properly identify suspect."

  The commissaris left. "The commissaris will be visible enough," Grijpstra said to Cardozo. "Good thing he always wears those light shantung suits. His white hair will shine too, and his skull."

  "Hello?" the colonel said into his radio. "The commissaris has gone down. Watch him. Also watch out for a young Indian woman in a bright orange long dress. She carries a maroon bag. Whoever takes the bag from her is the suspect. Over and out." He turned to the customs officer. "Your people have been instructed?"

  "They'll let her through," the customs officer said. He pointed. "There she is."

  "The Indian lady is coming through," the colonel whispered into his radio. "Attention. Coming through now."

  "Wow!" Cardozo shouted. "Look. Who is who? Two of them!"

  "What?" the colonel asked.

  "Where?" the customs officer shouted.

  "Here," Grijpstra said, tapping his screen. "Two of them. One of them just came out of the toilet. I spotted him."

  "Where?"

  "What?"

  "Two commissarises," Cardozo said.

  "Goddamn," the colonel muttered. "And there are my men, all confused, of course. Why wasn't I told they were twins? What is this nonsense?"

  "They are both approaching the gate," Grijpstra said.

  "Goddamn twins," the colonel said. "Where are these silvery curls? The dark suit? The sideburns? They're both about bald, both in shantung suits."

  Grijpstra and Cardozo rushed off. One of the two look-alikes grabbed Sayukta's bag and was immediately lost in the crowd. The commissaris was seen to pursue Fernandus, not too successfully; people kept getting in his way, Cardozo and Grijpstra appeared on the screens, running toward the hall's exits.

  "We'd better go down too," the colonel said.

  They found the commissaris standing in the hall, deep in thought.

  "Suspect got away?" the colonel asked. "Why didn't you tell me you and suspect are twins?"

  "Cousins," the commissaris said. "Twice removed."

  "Very smart," the customs officer said. "Suspect dressed up like you. But he still carries the bag." The colonel called over his plain-clothes assistants. "A maroon bag, damn it. Man carrying a maroon bag. Looks like the commissaris here. Go on. Off with you." He spoke into his portophone. "Suspect in shantung suit, sparse gray hair, small build, carrying a maroon bag, probably has left the building by now. On his way to the parking lot."

  "No," the commissaris said. "No, I don't think Fernandus has a car. Probably wants a taxi now. Let's go outside. There will be a line."

  They walked outside. An orderly line of passengers had formed near the taxi stand. "Indian," the commissaris said. "Maybe he is that Indian. I lost Willem near the toilets. He could be an Indian now. An Indian with a large suitcase, big enough to hold the bag. That man over there, maybe. Apprehend him."

  "Now really, sir," the colonel said. "The man in the black coat, with the long dark hair?"

  The commissaris went back into the hall and reappeared, accompanied by Grijpstra and Cardozo.

  "But that's an Indian," the colonel said. "Suspect isn't a magician, is he? Where did he get the wig and the coat?"

  "And the large suitcase?" the customs officer asked.

  "In the toilets somewhere," the commissaris muttered. "Grijpstra, grab him from the left. Cardozo, take him from the right. That's Fernandus. Quickly now, he's getting to the front of the line."

  "Impossible," the colonel said.

  The Indian gentleman glanced over his shoulder. The commissaris waved. "Willem, hello." The Indian stepped out of the line, ran to the front, pushed an old lady aside, and tried to scramble into a cab. Grijpstra and Cardozo ran after him and pulled him back, pointed guns at his head, yanked at his wrists. The suitcase fell. Handcuffs clicked shut.

  "This way," the colonel shouted, sprinting toward the struggling suspect, who was protesting his rough treatment in singsong English.

  "That's an Indian," the customs officer said. "I know Indians, I see them all the time. We've made a dreadful mistake."

  The commissaris lifted off the Indian's hair. "Nice try, Willem."

  Bystanders gaped. "On your way," the colonel shouted. "On your way. Nothing to see here. Move along, move along, your taxis are waiting." The customs officer picked up Fernandus's suitcase. "The bag is in there," the commissaris said. The colonel bent over and lifted packages wrapped in transparent plastic from the bag inside the suitcase.

  The commissaris prodded Fernandus's stomach. "You lost weight. You look better now. Trying to imitate me, Willem. Too late for that now."

  "The hell," Fernandus hissed. "The hell."

  "Shall we go?" the commissaris asked. "You've lost, Willem, can't think of all the reasons now. We'll do that later."

  \\ 34 /////

  HARD RAIN HIT THE CITY AGAIN ON THE DAY MISS Antoinette and Carl
got married, beating down on the shiny tarmac of the long narrow Overtoom, splashing up against buildings and cars, trying to drench the commissaris's wife and Mrs. Jongs, who shared the same umbrella. Cardozo pushed the commissaris up the long steep stairs. "That's all right, Sergeant," the commissaris kept saying. "I'm not totally decrepit yet." "Easy now, sir," Cardozo kept saying. Grijpstra walked behind them, holding a large parcel. Ketchup and Karate carried clinking bottles in brown paper bags.

  "Very nice," everyone said when they finally reached the top floor. The front part of Carl's loft had been changed into a semblance of a normal apartment, but behind a row of man-sized rubber trees, Carl's wonderland started, and the commissaris wandered about, studying the profusion of Carl's thoughts, realized in different materials in a number of odd styles. Carl's father still read the Financial Times and his mother swooped down from the ceiling, pointing her long beak filled with double rows of fanglike teeth. "I didn't invihite them," Carl said. "They're tohoo buhusy." He served as a guide, explaining the various objects.

  "You'll have your exhibition soon," the commissaris said. "You may sell a lot of these. Don't you mind?"

  "We'll have some room," Antoinette said. "And you'll make more, won't you, Carl? Will you make me too?"

  "Another bihird of preyhey," Carl said, putting his arm around his wife, "that gohobbles me up."

  "Presents," said the commissaris's wife. The presents were practical, in accordance with a list of useful household items provided by the bride. "Ah, a parsley mill," Antoinette said, clapping her hands. "Just what we need Carl, for your salads. Ah, freezer trays, look Carl, for your soup. You know," she said to Mrs. Jongs, "Carl lives on soup. He used to make a bucket of soup a week, he'd throw in anything that he found on sale. Dreadful taste."

  "Alwahays different," Carl said.

  "I'm making gourmet soups now," Antoinette said.

  "Bob eats soup too," Mrs. Jongs said. "But then the lizards gets into the pot and he chokes." She had brought an electric coffee grinder. Ketchup and Karate opened bottles.

  They all drank to the happy couple and then to Grijpstra's painting. "What a striking green background," the commissaris said. "Makes your ducks come out very well. Just like they're swimming out of the weeds. Are those real weeds?"